“‘Sir:—I have read your “Three Musketeers,” being well to do, and having plenty of spare time on my hands—’“(‘Lucky fellow!’ said I; and I continued reading.)“‘I admit that I found it fairly amusing; but, having plenty of time before me, I was curious enough to wish to know if you really did find them in the “Memoirs of M. de La Fère.” As I was living in Carcassonne, I wrote to one of my friends in Paris to go to the Bibliothèque Royale, and ask for these memoirs, and to write and let me know if you had really and truly borrowed your facts from them. My friend, whom I can trust, replied that you had copied them word for word, and that it is what you authors always do. So I give you fair notice, sir, that I have told people all about itat Carcassonne, and, if it occurs again, we shall cease subscribing to theSiècle.“‘Yours sincerely,“‘——.’
“‘Sir:—I have read your “Three Musketeers,” being well to do, and having plenty of spare time on my hands—’
“(‘Lucky fellow!’ said I; and I continued reading.)
“‘I admit that I found it fairly amusing; but, having plenty of time before me, I was curious enough to wish to know if you really did find them in the “Memoirs of M. de La Fère.” As I was living in Carcassonne, I wrote to one of my friends in Paris to go to the Bibliothèque Royale, and ask for these memoirs, and to write and let me know if you had really and truly borrowed your facts from them. My friend, whom I can trust, replied that you had copied them word for word, and that it is what you authors always do. So I give you fair notice, sir, that I have told people all about itat Carcassonne, and, if it occurs again, we shall cease subscribing to theSiècle.
“‘Yours sincerely,“‘——.’
“I rang the bell.
“‘If any more letters come for me to-day,’ said I to the servant, ‘you will keep them back, and only give them to me sometime when I seem a bit too happy.’
“‘Manuscripts as well, sir?’
“‘Why do you ask that question?’
“‘Because some one has brought one this very moment.’
“‘Good! that is the last straw! Put it somewhere where it won’t be lost, but don’t tell me where.’
“He put it on the mantelpiece, which proved that my servant was decidedly a man of intelligence.
“It was half-past ten; I went to the window. As I have said, it was a beautiful day. It appeared as if the sun had won a permanent victory over the clouds. The passers-by all looked happy, or, at least, contented.
“Like everybody else, I experienced a desire to take the air elsewhere than at my window, so I dressed, and went out.
“As chance would have it—for when I go outfor a walk I don’t care whether it is in one street or another—as chance would have it, I say, I passed the Bibliothèque Royale.
“I went in, and, as usual, found Pâris, who came up to me with a charming smile.
“‘Give me,’ said I, ‘the “Memoirs of La Fère.”’
“He looked at me for a moment as if he thought I was crazy; then, with the utmost gravity, he said, ‘You know very well they don’t exist, because you said yourself they did!’
“His speech, though brief, was decidedly pithy.
“By way of thanks I made Pâris a gift of the autograph I had received from Carcassonne.
“When he had finished reading it, he said, ‘If it is any consolation to you to know it, you are not the first who has come to ask for the “Memoirs of La Fère”; I have already seen at least thirty people who came solely for that purpose, and no doubt they hate you for sending them on a fool’s errand.’
“As I was in search of material for a novel, and as there are people who declare novels are to be found ready-made, I asked for the catalogue.
“Of course, I did not discover anything.”
Every one knows of Dumas’ great fame as a gastronome and epicure; some recall, also, that he himself was acuisinierof no mean abilities. Howfar his capacities went in this direction, and how wide was his knowledge of the subject, can only be gleaned by a careful reading of his great “Dictionnaire de Cuisine.” Still further into the subject he may be supposed to have gone from the fact that he also published an inquiry, or an open letter, addressed to thegourmandsof all countries, on the subject of mustard.
It is an interesting subject, to be sure, but a trifling one for one of the world’s greatest writers to spend his time upon; say you, dear reader? Well! perhaps! But it is a most fascinating contribution to the literature of epicurism, and quite worth looking up and into. The history of the subtle spice is traced down through Biblical and Roman times to our own day, chronologically, etymologically, botanically, and practically. It will be, and doubtless has been, useful to other compilers of essays on good cheer.
Whatever may be the subtle abilities which make the true romancer, or rather those which make his romances things of life and blood, they were possessed by Alexandre Dumas.
Perhaps it is the more easy to construct a romantic play than it is to erect, from matter-of-fact components, a really engrossing romantic novel. Dumas’ abilities seem to fit in with both varietiesalike, and if he did build to order, the result was in most cases no less successful than if evolved laboriously.
It is a curious fact that many serial contributions—if we are to believe the literary gossip of the time—are only produced as the printer is waiting for copy. The formula is manifestly not a good one upon which to build, but it has been done, and successfully, by more writers than one, and with scarce a gap unbridged.
Dickens did it,—if it is allowable to mention him here,—and Dumas himself did it,—many times,—and with a wonderful and, one may say, inspired facility, but then his facility, none the less than his vitality, made possible much that was not granted to the laborious Zola.
Dumas was untiring to the very last. His was a case of being literally worked out—not worked to death, which is quite a different thing.
It has been said by Dumasfilsthat in the latter years of the elder’s life he would sit for length upon length of time, pen in hand, and not a word would flow therefrom, ere the ink had dried.
An interesting article on Dumas’ last days appeared inLa Revuein 1903. It dealt with the sadness and disappointments of Dumas’ later days, in spite of which the impression conveyed of the greatnovelist’s personality is very vivid, and he emerges from it much as his books would lead one to expect—a hearty, vigorous creature, surcharged with vitality, with desire to live and let live, a man possessed of almost equally prominent faults and virtues, and generous to a fault.
Alexandre Dumas, fils
Money he had never been able to keep. He had said himself, at a time when he was earning a fortune, “I can keep everything but money. Money unfortunately always slips through my fingers.” The close of his life was a horrible struggle to make ends meet. When matters came to a crisis Dumas would pawn some of the valuableobjets d’arthe had collected in the opulent past, or ask his son for assistance. But, though the sum asked was always given, there were probably few things which the old man would not have preferred to this appeal to the younger author.
As he grew old, Dumaspèrebecame almost timid in his attitude toward the son, whose disapproval had frequently found expression in advice and warning. But Dumas could not settle down, and he could not become careful. Neither of these things was in his nature, and there was consequently always some little undercurrent of friction between them. To the end of his days his money was anybody’s who liked to come and ask for it,and nothing but the final clouding of his intellectual capacity could reduce his optimism. Then, it is true, he fell into a state of sustained depression. The idea that his reputation would not last haunted him.
In 1870, when Dumas was already very ill, his son, anxious that he should not be in Paris during its investment by the Germans, took him to a house he had at Puys, near Dieppe. Here the great man rapidly sank, and, except at meal-times, passed his time in a state of heavy sleep, until a sudden attack of apoplexy finally seized him. He never rallied after it, and died upon the day the Prussian soldiers took possession of Dieppe.
Many stories are rife of Dumas the prodigal. Some doubtless are true, many are not. Those which he fathers himself, we might well accept as being true. Surely he himself should know.
The following incident which happened in the last days of his life certainly has the ring of truth about it.
When in his last illness he left Paris for his son’s country house near Dieppe, he had but twenty francs, the total fortune of the man who had earned millions.
On arriving at Puys, Dumas placed the coin onhis bedroom chimneypiece, and there it remained all through his illness.
One day he was seated in his chair near the window, chatting with his son, when his eye fell on the gold piece.
A recollection of the past crossed his mind.
“Fifty years ago, when I went to Paris,” he said, “I had a louis. Why have people accused me of prodigality? I have always kept that louis. See—there it is.”
And he showed his son the coin, smiling feebly as he did so.
Amongthose of the world’s great names in literature contemporary with Dumas, but who knew Paris ere he first descended upon it to try his fortune in its arena of letters, were Lamartine, who already, in 1820, had charmed his public with his “Meditations;” Hugo, who could claim but twenty years himself, but who had already sung his “Odes et Ballades,” and Chateaubriand.
Soulié and De Vigny won their fame with poems and plays in the early twenties, De Musset and Chénier followed before a decade had passed, and Gautier was still serving his apprenticeship.
It was the proud Goethe who said of these young men of the twenties, “They all come from Chateaubriand.” Béranger, too, “the little man,” even though he was drawing on toward the prime of life, was also singing melodiously: it was hischansons, it is said, that upset the Bourbon throne and made way for the “citizen-king.” Nodier, of fanciful and fantastic rhyme, was already at work, and Mérimée had not yet taken up the administrative duties of overseeing the preserving process which at his instigation was, at the hands of a paternal government, being applied to the historical architectural monuments throughout France; a glory which it is to be feared has never been wholly granted to Mérimée, as was his due.
TWO FAMOUS CARICATURES OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
Guizot, thebête noireof the later Louis-Philippe, was actively writing from 1825 to 1830, and his antagonist, Thiers, was at the same period producing what Carlyle called the “voluminous and untrustworthy labours of a brisk little man in his way;” which recalls to mind the fact that Carlylean rant—like most of his prose—is a well-nigh insufferable thing.
At this time Mignet, the historian, was hard at work, and St. Beauve had just desertedmateria medicafor literature. Michelet’s juvenile histories were a production of the time, while poor, unhonoured, and then unsung, Balzac was grinding out his pittance—in after years to grow into a monumental literary legacy—in a garret.
Eugène Sue had not yet taken to literary pathways, and was scouring the seas as a naval surgeon.
The drama was prolific in names which we have since known as masters, Scribe, Halévy, and others.
George Sand, too, was just beginning that grand literary life which opened with “Indiana” in 1832, and lasted until 1876. She, like so many of the great, whose name and fame, like Dumas’ own, has been perpetuated by a monument in stone, the statue which was unveiled in the little town of her birth on the Indre, La Châtre, in 1903.
Like Dumas, too, hers was a cyclopean industry, and so it followed that in the present twentieth century (in the year 1904), another and a more glorious memorial to France’s greatest woman writer was unveiled in the Garden of the Luxembourg.
Among the women famous in themondeof Paris at the time of Dumas’ arrival were Mesdames Desbordes-Valmore, Amable Tastu, and Delphine Gay.
“For more than half a century this brilliant group of men and women sustained the world of ideas and poetry,” said Dumas, in his “Mémoires,” “and I, too,” he continued, “have reached the same plane ... unaided by intrigue or coterie, and using none other than my own work as the stepping-stone in my pathway.”
Dumas cannot be said to have been niggardly with his praise of the work of others. He said of a sonnet of Arnault’s—“La Feuille”—that it was a masterpiece which an André Chénier, a Lamartine, or a Hugo might have envied, and that for himself, not knowing what his “literary brothers” might have done, he would have given for it “any one of his dramas.”
It was into the office of Arnault, who was chief of a department in the Université, that Béranger took up his labours as a copying-clerk,—as did Dumas in later years,—and it was while here that Béranger produced his first ballad, the “Roi d’Yvetot.”
In 1851 Millet was at his height, if one considers what he had already achieved by his “great agrarian poems,” as they have been called. Gautier called them “Georgics in paint,” and such they undoubtedly were. Millet would hardly be called a Parisian; he was not of the life of the city, but rather of that of the countryside, by his having settled down at Barbizon in 1849, and practically never left it except to go to Paris on business.
His life has been referred to as one of “sublime monotony,” but it was hardly that. It was a life devoted to the telling of a splendid story, that ofthe land as contrasted with that of the paved city streets.
Corot was a real Parisian, and it was only in his early life in the provinces that he felt the bitterness of life and longed for the flagstones of the quais, for the Tuileries, the Seine, and his beloved Rue de Bac, where he was born on 10th Thermidor, Year IV. (July 28, 1796). Corot early took to painting the scenes of the metropolis, as we learn from his biography, notably at the point along the river bank where the London steamer moors to-day. But these have disappeared; few or none of his juvenile efforts have come down to us.
Corot returned to Paris, after many years spent in Rome, during the reign of Louis-Philippe, when affairs were beginning to stir themselves in literature and art. In 1839 his “Site d’Italie” and a “Soir” were shown at the annual Salon,—though, of course, he had already been an exhibitor there,—and inspired a sonnet of Théophile Gautier, which concludes:
“Corot, ton nom modest, écrit dans un coin noir.”
Corot’s pictureswereunfortunately hung in the darkest corners—for fifteen years. As he himself has said, it was as if he were in the catacombs.In 1855 Corot figured as one of the thirty-four judges appointed by Napoleon III. to make the awards for paintings exhibited in the world’s first Universal Exhibition. It is not remarked that Corot had any acquaintance or friendships with Dumas or with Victor Hugo, of whom he remarked, “This Victor Hugo seems to be pretty famous in literature.” He knew little of his contemporaries, and the hurly-burly knew less of him. He was devoted, however, to the genius of his superiors—as he doubtless thought them. Of Delacroix he said one day, “He is an eagle, and I am only a lark singing little songs in gray clouds.”
A literary event of prime importance during the latter years of Dumas’ life in Paris, when his own purse was growing thin, was the publication of the “Histoire de Jules César,” written by Napoleon III.
Nobody ever seems to have taken the second emperor seriously in any of his finer expressions of sentiment, and, as may be supposed, the publication of this immortal literary effort was the occasion of much sarcasm, banter, violent philippic, and sardonic criticism.
Possibly the world was not waiting for this work, but royalty, no less than other great men, have their hobbies and their fads; Nero fiddled, and thefirst Napoleon read novels and threw them forthwith out of the carriage window, so it was quite permissible that Napoleon III. should have perpetuated this life history of an emperor whom he may justly and truly have admired—perhaps envied, in a sort of impossible way.
Already Louis Napoleon’s collection of writings was rather voluminous, so this came as no great surprise, and his literary reputation was really greater than that which had come to him since fate made him the master of one of the foremost nations of Europe.
From his critics we learn that “he lacked the grace of a popular author; that he was quite incapable of interesting the reader by a charm of manner; and that hisstylewas meagre, harsh, and grating, but epigrammatic.” No Frenchman could possibly be otherwise.
Dumas relates, again, the story of Sir Walter Scott’s visit to Paris, seeking documents which should bear upon the reign of Napoleon. Dining with friends one evening, he was invited the next day to dine with Barras. But Scott shook his head. “I cannot dine with that man,” he replied. “I shall write evil of him, and people in Scotland would say that I have flung the dishes from his own table at his head.”
It is not recorded that Dumas’ knowledge of swordsmanship was based on practical experience, but certainly no more scientific sword-play ofpasseandtouchehas been put into words than that wonderful attack and counter-attack in the opening pages of “Les Trois Mousquetaires.”
Of theduel d’honneurthere is less to be said, though Dumas more than once sought to reconcile estranged and impetuous spirits who would have run each other through, either by leaden bullet or the sword. A notable instance of this was in the memorableaffairebetween Louis Blanc ofL’Homme-Libreand Dujarrier-Beauvallon ofLa Presse. The latter told Dumas that he had no alternative but to fight, though he went like a lamb to the slaughter, and had no knowledge of thecodenor any skill with weapons.
Dumaspèrewas implored by the younger Dumas—both of whom took Dujarrier’s interests much to heart—to go and see Grisier and claim his intervention. “I cannot do it,” said the elder; “the first and foremost thing to do is to safeguard his reputation, which is the more precious because it is his first duel.” The Grisier referred to was the great master of fence of the time who was immortalized by Dumas in his “Maître d’Armes.”
Dumas himself is acknowledged, however, on oneoccasion, at least, to have acted as second—co-jointly with General Fleury—in anaffairewhich, happily, never came off.
It was this Blanc-Dujarrier duel which brought into further prominent notice that most remarkable and quasi-wonderful woman, Lola Montez; that daughter of a Spaniard and a Creole, a native of Limerick, pupil of a boarding-school at Bath, and one-time resident of Seville; to which may be added, on the account of Lord Malmesbury, “The woman who in Munich set fire to the magazine of revolution which was ready to burst forth all over Europe.”
She herself said that she had also lived in Calcutta as the wife of an officer in the employ of the East India Company; had at one time been reduced to singing in the streets at Brussels; had danced at the Italian Opera in London,—“not much, but as well as half the ugly wooden women who were there,”—and had failed as a dancer in Warsaw.
“This illiterate schemer,” says Vandam, “who probably knew nothing of geography or history, had pretty well the Almanach de Gotha by heart.” “Why did I not come earlier to Paris?” she once said. “What was the good? There was a king there bourgeois to his finger-nails, tight-fistedbesides, and notoriously the most moral and the best father in all the world.”
This woman, it seems, was a beneficiary in the testament of Dujarrier, who died as a result of his duel, to the extent of eighteen shares in the Théâtre du Palais Royal, and in the trial which followed at Rouen, at which were present all shades and degrees of literary and professional people, Dumas, Gustave Flaubert, and others, she insisted upon appearing as a witness, for no reason whatever, apparently, than that of further notoriety. “Six months from this time,” as one learns from Vandam, “her name was almost forgotten by all of us except Alexandre Dumas, who once and again alluded to her.” “Though far from superstitious, Dumas, who had been as much smitten with her as most of her admirers, avowed that he was glad that she had disappeared. ‘She has the evil eye,’ said he, ‘and is sure to bring bad luck to any one who closely links his destiny with hers.’”
There is no question but that Dumas was right, for she afterward—to mention but two instances of her remarkably active career—brought disaster “most unkind” upon Louis I. of Bavaria; committed bigamy with an English officer who was drowned at Lisbon; and, whether in the guise oflovers or husbands, all, truly, who became connected with her met with almost immediate disaster.
The mere mention of Lola Montez brings to mind another woman of the same category, though different in character, Alphonsine Plessis, more popularly known as La Dame aux Camélias. She died in 1847, and her name was not Marie or Marguérite Duplessis, but as above written.
Dumasfilsin his play did not idealize Alphonsine Plessis’ character; indeed, Dumaspèresaid that he did not even enlarge or exaggerate any incident—all of which was common property in thedemi-monde—“save that he ascribed her death to any cause but the right one.” “I know he made use of it,” said the father, “but he showed the malady aggravated by Duval’s desertion.”
We learn that the elder Dumas “wept like a baby” over the reading of his son’s play. But his tears did not drown his critical faculty. “At the beginning of the third act,” said Dumaspère, “I was wondering how Alexandre would get his Marguérite back to town, ... but the way Alexandre got out of the difficulty proves that he is my son, every inch of him, and at the very outset of his career he is a better dramatist than I am ever likely to be.”
“Alphonsine Plessis was decidedly a realpersonage, but not an ordinary one in her walk of life,” said Doctor Véron. “A woman of her refinement might not have been impossible in a former day, because the grisette—and subsequently thefemme entretenue—was not then even surmised. She interests me much; she is the best dressed woman in Paris, she neither conceals nor hides her vices, and she does not continually hint about money; in short, she is wonderful.”
“La Dame aux Camélias” appeared within eighteen months of the actual death of the heroine, and went into every one’s hands, interest being whetted meanwhile by the recent event, and yet more by much gossip—scandal if you will—which universally appeared in the Paris press. Her pedigree was evolved and diagnosed by Count G. de Contades in a French bibliographical journal,Le Livre, which showed that she was descended from a “guénuchetonne” (slattern) of Longé, in the canton of Brionze, near Alençon; a predilection which the elder Dumas himself had previously put forth when he stated that, “I am certain that one might find taint either on the father’s side, or on the mother’s, probably on the former’s, but more probably still on both.”
The following eulogy, extracted from a letter written to Dumasfilsby Victor Hugo upon theoccasion of the inhumation of the ashes of Alexandre Dumas at Villers-Cotterets, whither they were removed from Puits, shows plainly the esteem in which his literary abilities were held by the more sober-minded of his compeers:
“Mon cher Confrère:—I learn from the papers of the funeral of Alexandre Dumas at Villers-Cotterets.... It is with regret that I am unable to attend.... But I am with you in my heart.... What I would say, let me write.... No popularity of the past century has equalled that of Alexandre Dumas. His successes were more than successes: they were triumphs.... The name of Alexandre Dumas is more than ‘Français, il est Européen;’ and it is more than European, it is universal. His theatre has been given publicity in all lands, and his romances have been translated into all tongues. Alexandre Dumas was one of those men we can call the sowers of civilization.... Alexandre Dumas is seducing, fascinating, interesting, amusing, and informing.... All the emotions, the most pathetic, all the irony, all the comedy, all the analysis of romance, and all the intuition of history are found in the supreme works constructed by this great and vigorous architect.“... His spirit was capable of all the miracleshe performed; this he bequeathed and this survives.... Your renown but continues his glory.“... Your father and I were young together.... He was a grand and good friend.... I had not seen him since 1857.... As I entered Paris Alexandre Dumas was leaving. I did not have even a parting shake of the hand.“The visit which he made me in my exile I will some day return to his tomb.“Cher confrère, fils de mon ami, je vous embrasse.“Victor Hugo.”
“Mon cher Confrère:—I learn from the papers of the funeral of Alexandre Dumas at Villers-Cotterets.... It is with regret that I am unable to attend.... But I am with you in my heart.... What I would say, let me write.... No popularity of the past century has equalled that of Alexandre Dumas. His successes were more than successes: they were triumphs.... The name of Alexandre Dumas is more than ‘Français, il est Européen;’ and it is more than European, it is universal. His theatre has been given publicity in all lands, and his romances have been translated into all tongues. Alexandre Dumas was one of those men we can call the sowers of civilization.... Alexandre Dumas is seducing, fascinating, interesting, amusing, and informing.... All the emotions, the most pathetic, all the irony, all the comedy, all the analysis of romance, and all the intuition of history are found in the supreme works constructed by this great and vigorous architect.
“... His spirit was capable of all the miracleshe performed; this he bequeathed and this survives.... Your renown but continues his glory.
“... Your father and I were young together.... He was a grand and good friend.... I had not seen him since 1857.... As I entered Paris Alexandre Dumas was leaving. I did not have even a parting shake of the hand.
“The visit which he made me in my exile I will some day return to his tomb.
“Cher confrère, fils de mon ami, je vous embrasse.
“Victor Hugo.”
Of Dumas, Charles Reade said: “He has never been properly appreciated; he is the prince of dramatists, the king of romancists, and the emperor of good fellows.”
Dumasfilshe thought a “vinegar-blooded iconoclast—shrewd, clever, audacious, introspective, and mathematically logical.”
The Cimetière du Père La Chaise has a contemporary interest with the names of many who were contemporaries of Dumas in the life and letters of his day.
Of course, sentimental interest first attaches itself to the Gothic canopy—built from the fragments of the convent of Paraclet—which enshrines theremains of Abelard and Heloïse (1142-64), and this perhaps is as it should be, but for those who are conversant with the life of Paris of Dumas’ day, this most “famous resting-place” has far more interest because of its shelter given to so many of Dumas’ contemporaries and friends.
Scribe, who was buried here 1861; Michelet, d. 1874; Delphine Cambacérès, 1867; Lachambeaudie, 1872; Soulie, 1847; Balzac, 1850; Ch. Nodier, 1844; C. Delavigne, 1843; Delacroix, the painter, 1865; Talma, the tragedian, 1826; Boieldieu, the composer, 1834; Chopin, 1849; Herold, 1833; General Foy, 1825; David d’Angers, 1856; Hugo, 1828 (the father of Victor Hugo); David, the painter, 1825; Alfred de Musset, 1857; Rossini, 1868.
TOMB OF ABELARD AND HÉLOÏSE
Dumas’real descent upon the Paris of letters and art was in 1823, when he had given up his situation in the notary’s office at Crépy, and after the eventful holiday journey of a few weeks before. His own account of this, his fourth entrance into the city, states that he was “landed from the coach at fiveA. M.in the Rue Bouloi, No. 9. It was Sunday morning, and Bourbon Paris was very gloomy on a Sunday.”
Within a short time of his arrival the young romancer was making calls, of a nature which he hoped would provide him some sort of employment until he should make his way in letters, upon many bearers of famous Bourbon names who lived in the Faubourgs St. Germain and St. Honoré—all friends and compatriots of his father.
He had brought with him letters formerly written to his father, and hoped to use them as a meansof introduction. He approached Marshal Jourdain, General Sebastiani, the Duc de Bellune, and others, but it was not until he presented himself to General Foy, at 64 Rue du Mont Blanc,—the deputy for his department,—that anything to his benefit resulted.
Finally, through the kindly aid of General Foy, Dumas—son of a republican general though he was—found himself seated upon a clerk’s stool, quill in hand, writing out dictation at the secretary’s bureau of the Duc d’Orleans.
“I then set about to look for lodgings,” said Dumas, “and, after going up and down many staircases, I came to a halt in a little room on a fourth story, which belonged to that immense pile known as the ‘Pâté des Italiens.’ The room looked out on the courtyard, and I was to have it for one hundred and twenty francs per annum.”
From that time on Dumas may be said to have known Paris intimately—its life, its letters, its hotels and restaurants, its theatres, its salons, and its boulevards.
So well did he know it that he became a part and parcel of it.
His literary affairs and relations are dealt with elsewhere, but the various aspects of the social and economic life of Paris at the time Dumas knewits very pulse-beats must be gleaned from various contemporary sources.
General Foy's Residence
The real Paris which Dumas knew—the Paris of the Second Empire—exists no more. The order of things changeth in all but the conduct of the stars, and Paris, more than any other centre of activity, scintillates and fluctuates like the changings of the money-markets.
The life that Dumas lived, so far as it has no bearing on his literary labours or the evolving of his characters, is quite another affair from that of his yearly round of work.
He knew intimately all the gay world of Paris, and fresh echoes of the part he played therein are being continually presented to us.
He knew, also, quite as intimately, certain political and social movements which took place around about him, in which he himself had no part.
It was in the fifties of the nineteenth century that Paris first became what one might call a coherent mass. This was before the days of the application of the adjective “Greater” to the areas of municipalities. Since then we have had, of course, a “Greater Paris” as we have a “Greater London” and a “Greater New York,” but at the commencement of the Second Empire (1852) there sprang into being,—“jumped at one’s eyes,” as the Frenchsay,—when viewed from the heights of the towers of Notre Dame, an immense panorama, which showed the results of a prodigious development, radiating far into the distance, from the common centre of theIle de la Citéand the still more ancientLutèce.
Up to the construction of the present fortifications,—under Louis-Philippe,—Paris had been surrounded, at its outer confines, by a simpleoctroibarrier of about twenty-five kilometres in circumference, and pierced by fifty-four entrances. Since 1860 this wall has been raised and the limits of what might be called Paris proper have been extended up to the fortified lines.
This fortification wall was thirty-four kilometres in length; was strengthened by ninety-four bastions, and surrounded and supported by thirteen detached forts. Sixty-five openings gave access to the inner city, by which the roadways, waterways, and railways entered. These were further distinguished by classification as follows:portes—of which there were fifty;poternes—of which there were five; andpassages—of which there were ten. Nine railways entered the city, and the “Ceinture” or girdle railway, which was to bind the variousgares, was already conceived.
At this time, too, the Quais received markedattention and development; trees were planted along the streets which bordered upon them, and a vast system of sewerage was planned which became—and endures until to-day—one of the sights of Paris, for those who take pleasure in such unsavoury amusements.
Lighting by gas was greatly improved, and street-lamps were largely multiplied, with the result that Paris became known for the first time as “La Ville Lumière.”
A score or more of villages, orbourgs, before 1860, were between the limits of these two barriers, but were at that time united by theloi d’annexion, and so “Greater Paris” came into being.
The principlebourgswhich lost their identity, which, at the same time is, in a way, yet preserved, were Auteuil, Passy, les Ternes, Batignolles, Montmartre, la Chapelle, la Villette, Belleville, Ménilmontant, Charenton, and Bercy; and thus the population of Paris grew, as in the twinkling of an eye, from twelve hundred thousand to sixteen hundred thousand; and its superficial area from thirty-four hundredhectaresto more than eight thousand—ahectarebeing about the equivalent of two and a half acres.
During the period of the “Restoration,” which extended from the end of the reign of the greatNapoleon to the coming of Louis-Philippe (1814-30), Paris may be said to have been in, or at least was at the beginning of, its golden age of prosperity.
In a way the era was somewhat inglorious, but in spite of liberal and commonplace opinion, there was made an earnest effort to again secure the pride of place for French letters and arts; and it was then that the romantic school, with Dumas at its very head, attained its first importance.
It was not, however, until Louis-Philippe came into power that civic improvements made any notable progress, though the Pont des Invalides had been built, and gas-lamps, omnibuses, and sidewalks, had been introduced just previously.
Under Louis-Philippe were completed the Église de la Madeleine and the Arc de Triomphe d’Etoile. The Obelisk,—a gift from Mohammed Ali, Viceroy of Egypt, to Louis-Philippe,—the Colonne de Juillet, and the Ponts Louis-Philippe and du Carrousel were built, as well as the modern fortifications of Paris, with their detached forts of Mont Valerien, Ivry, Charenton, Nogent, etc.
There existed also the encircling boulevards just within the fortifications, and yet another parallel series on the north, beginning at the Madeleine and extending to the Colonne de Juillet.
It was not, however, until the Second Republic and the Second Empire of Napoleon III. that a hitherto unparallelled transformation was undertaken, and there sprung into existence still more broad boulevards and spacious squares, and many palatial civic and private establishments, the Bourse, the New Opera, and several theatres, the Ceinture Railway, and the Bois de Boulogne and the Bois de Vincennes.
By this time Dumas’ activities were so great, or at least the product thereof was so great, that even his intimate knowledge of French life of a more heroic day could not furnish him all the material which he desired.
It was then that he produced those essentially modern stories of life in Paris of that day, which, slight though they are as compared with the longer romances, are best represented by the “Corsican Brothers,” “Captain Pamphile,” and “Gabriel Lambert.”
Among the buildings at this time pulled down, on the Place du Carrousel, preparatory to the termination of the Louvre, was the Hôtel Longueville, the residence of the beautiful duchess of that name, celebrated for her support of the Fronde and her gallantries, as much as for her beauty. Dumaswould have revelled in the following incident as the basis of a tale. In the arched roof of one of the cellars of the duchess’ hôtel two skeletons of a very large size and in a perfect state of preservation were discovered, which have since been the object of many discussions on the part of the antiquarians, butadhuc sub judice lis est. Another discovery was made close by the skeletons, which is more interesting from a literary point of view; namely, that of a box, in carved steel, embellished with gilded brass knobs, and containing several papers. Among them was an amatory epistle in verse, from the Prince de Marsillac to the fair duchess. The other papers were letters relating to the state of affairs at that time; some from the hand of the celebrated Turenne, with memorandums, and of the Prince de Conti, “of great value to autograph collectors,” said the newspaper accounts of the time, but assuredly of still more value to historians, or even novelists.
At this time Paris was peopled with many hundreds—perhaps thousands—ofmauvais sujets, and frequent robberies and nightly outrages were more numerous than ever. The government at last hit on the plan of sending to thebagnesof Toulon and Brest for several of the turnkeys and gaolers of those great convictdépôts, to whom the featuresof all their former prisoners were perfectly known. These functionaries, accompanied by a policeman in plain clothes, perambulated every part of Paris by day, and by night frequented all the theatres, from the Grand Opéra downward, the lowcafésand wine-shops. It appears that more than four hundred of these desperadoes were recognized and retransferred to their old quarters at Toulon. Some of these worthies had been carrying on schemes of swindling on a colossal scale, and more than one is described as having entered into large speculations on the Bourse. Perhaps it was from some such circumstance as this that Dumas evolved that wonderful narrative of the life of a forger, “Gabriel Lambert.” One of the most noted in the craft was known by thesoubriquetof Pierre Mandrin, the name of thatcélébrébeing conferred on account of his superiority and skill in assuming disguises. When arrested he was figuring as a Polish count, and covered with expensive rings and jewelry. The career of this ruffian is interesting. In 1839, while undergoing an imprisonment of two years for robbery, he attempted to make his escape by murdering the gaoler, but failed, however, and was sent to the galleys at Toulon for twenty years. In 1848 he did escape from Brest, and, notwithstanding the greatest exertions on the part of the police,he succeeded in crossing the whole of France and gaining Belgium, where he remained for some time. Owing to the persecutions of the Belgian police, he subsequently returned to France. He was so unfortunate as to be captured in the very act of breaking into a house at Besançon, but his prodigious activity enabled him once again to escape while on his way to prison, and he came to Paris. Being possessed of some money, he resolved to abandon his evil courses, and set up a greengrocer’s shop in the Rue Rambuteau, which went on thrivingly for some time. But such an inactive life was insupportable to him, and he soon resumed his former exciting pursuits. Several robberies committed with consummate skill soon informed the police of the presence in Paris of some great master of the art of Mercury. The most experienced officers were accordingly sent out, but they made no capture until one of the Toulon gaolers fancied he recollected the convict under the features of an elegantly attiredlionon the Boulevard des Italiens. A few hours afterward the lucklesséchappéwas safely lodged at the Conciergerie. At his lodgings, besides the usual housebreaking implements, a complete assortment of costumes of every kind was discovered—from that of the dandy of the first water to the blouse of the artisan.
There is something more than a morbid interest which attaches itself to the former homes and haunts of a great author or artist. The emotion is something akin to sentiment, to be sure, but it is pardonable; far more so than the contemplation of many more popular and notorious places.
He who would follow the footsteps of Alexandre Dumas about Paris must either be fleet of foot, or one who can sustain a long march. At any rate, the progress will take a considerable time.
It is impossible to say in how many places he lived, though one gathers from the “Mémoires,” and from contemporary information, that they numbered many score, and the uncharitable have further said that he found it more economical to move than to pay his rents. Reprehensible as this practice may be, Dumas was no single exponent of it—among artists and authors; and above all in his case, as we know, it resulted from imprudence and ofttimes misplaced confidence and generosity.
One of Dumas’ early homes in Paris, jocularly called by him “La Pâté d’Italie,” was situated in that famous centre of unconventionality, the Boulevard des Italiens, a typical tree-shaded and café-lined boulevard.
Its name was obviously acquired from its resemblance to, or suggestion of being constructed of,that mastic which is known in Germany as noodles, in Italy as macaroni, and in English-speaking countries as dough.
To-day the structure, as it then was, exists no more, though the present edifice at the corner of the Rue Louis le Grand, opposite the vaudeville theatre, has been assuredly stated as in no wise differing in general appearance from its prototype, and, as it is after the same ginger-cake style of architecture, it will serve its purpose.
Albert Vandam, in “An Englishman in Paris,” that remarkable book of reminiscence whose authorship was so much in doubt when the work was first published, devoted a whole chapter to the intimacies of Dumaspère; indeed, nearly every feature and character of prominence in the great world of Paris—at the time of which he writes—strides through the pages of this remarkably illuminating book, in a manner which is unequalled by any conventional volume of “Reminiscence,” “Observations,” or “Memoirs” yet written in the English language, dealing with the life of Paris—or, for that matter, of any other capital.
His account, also, of a “literary café” of the Paris of the forties could only have been written by one who knew the life intimately, and, so far as Dumas’ acquaintances and contemporaries areconcerned, Vandam’s book throws many additional side-lights on an aspect which of itself lies in no perceptible shadow.
Even in those days the “boulevards”—the popular resort of the men of letters, artists, and musical folk—meant, as it does to-day, a somewhat restricted area in the immediate neighbourhood of the present Opera. At the corner of the Rue Lafitte was a tobacconist’s shop, whose genius was a “splendid creature,” of whom Alfred de Musset became so enamoured that his friends feared for an “imprudence on his part.” The various elements of society and cliques had their favourite resorts and rendezvous; the actors under the trees in the courtyard of the Palais Royal; theouvrierand his family meandered in the Champs Elysées or journeyed countryward to Grenelle; while the soldiery mostly repaired to La Plaine de St. Denis.
A sister to Thiers kept a small dining establishment in the Rue Drouet, and many journalistic and political gatherings were held at hertables d’hôte. When asked whether her delicious pheasants were of her illustrious brother’s shooting, she shook her head, and replied: “No, M. the President of the Council has not the honour to supply my establishment.”
Bohemia, as Paris best knew it in the fifties, wasnot that pleasant land which lies between the Moravian and the Giant Mountains; neither were the Bohemians of Paris a Slavonic or Teutonic people of a strange, nomad race.
But the history of the Bohemia of arts and letters—which rose to its greatest and most prophetic heights in the Paris of the nineteenth century—would no doubt prove to be as extensive a work as Buckle’s “History of Civilization,” though the recitation of tenets and principles of one would be the inevitable reverse of the other.
The intellectual Bohemian—the artist, or the man of letters—has something in his make-up of the gipsy’s love of the open road; the vagabond who instinctively rebels against the established rules of society, more because they are established than for any other reason.
Henri Mürger is commonly supposed to have popularized the “Bohemia” of arts and letters, and it is to him we owe perhaps the most graphic pictures of the life which held forth in theQuartier Latin, notorious for centuries for its lack of discipline and its defiance of the laws of Church, state, and society. It was the very nursery of open thought and liberty against absolutism and the conventional proprieties.
Gustave Nadaud described this “unknown land”in subtle verse, which loses not a little in attempted paraphrase:
“There stands behind Ste. Geneviève,A city where no fancy pavesWith gold the narrow streets,But jovial youth, the landladyOn gloomy stairs, in attic high,Gay hope, her tenant, meets.·····’Twas there that the Pays Latin stood,’Twas there the world wasreallygood,’Twas there that she was gay.”
Of the freedom and the unconventionally of the life of the Bohemian world of Paris, where the lives of literature and art blended in an almost imperceptible manner, and the gay indifference of its inhabitants, one has but to recall the incident where George Sand went to the studio of the painter Delacroix to tell him that she had sad news for him; that she could never love him; and more of the same sort. “Indeed,” said Delacroix, who kept on painting.—“You are angry with me, are you not? You will never forgive me?”—“Certainly I will,” said the painter, who was still at his work, “but I’ve got a bit of sky here that has caused me a deal of trouble and is just coming right. Go away, or sit down, and I will be throughin ten minutes.” She went, and of course did not return, and so theaffaireclosed.
Dumas was hardly of the Pays Latin. He had little in common with the Bohemianism of theposeur, and the Bohemia of letters and art has been largely made up of that sort of thing.
More particularly Dumas’ life was that of the boulevards, of the journalist, of tremendous energy and output rather than that of thedilettante, and so he has but little interest in the south bank of the Seine.
Michelet, while proclaiming loudly for French literature and life inLe Peuple, published in 1846, desponds somewhat of his country from the fact that the overwhelming genius of the popular novelists of that day—and who shall not say since then, as well—have sought their models, too often, in dingy cabarets, vile dens of iniquity, or even in the prisons themselves.
He said: “This mania of slandering oneself, of exhibiting one’s sores, and going, as it were, to look for shame, will be mortal in the course of time.”
This may, to a great extent, have been true then—and is true to-day—manifestly, but no lover of the beautiful ought to condemn a noisome flower if but its buds were beautiful, and Paris—the Parisof the Restoration, the Empire, or the Republic—is none the worse in the eyes of the world because of the iniquities which exist in every large centre of population, where creeds and intellects of all shades and capacities are herded together.
The French novelist, it is true, can be very sordid and banal, but he can be as childlike and bland as an unsophisticated young girl—when he has a mind to.
Dumas’ novels were not lacking in vigour, valour, or action, and he wrote mostly of romantic times; so Michelet could not have referred to him. Perhaps he had the “Mysteries of Paris” or “The Wandering Jew” in mind, whose author certainly did give full measure of sordid detail; but then, Sue has been accused before now as not presenting a strictly truthful picture.
So much for the presentation of thetableaux. But what about the actual condition of the people at the time?
Michelet’s interest in Europe was centred on France and confined tole peuple; a term in which he ofttimes included thebourgeois, as well he might, though he more often regarded those who worked with their hands. He repeatedly says: “I myself have been one of those workmen, and, although Ihave risen to a different class, I retain the sympathies of my early conditions.”
Michelet’s judgment was quite independent and original when he compared the different classes; and he had a decided preference for that section which cultivates the soil, though by no means did he neglect those engaged in trade and manufacture. Theouvrier industrielwas as much entitled to respect as the labourer in the fields, or even the small tenant-farmer. He regretted, of course, the competition which turnedindustrialismeinto a cut-throat policy. He furthermore had this to say concerning foreign trade:
“Alsace and Lyons have conquered art and science to achieve beauty for others.... The ‘fairy of Paris’ (themodiste) meets, from minute to minute, the most unexpected flights of fancy—and sheor hedoes to-day, be it recalled.Les étrangerscome in spite of themselves, and they buy of her (France);ils achètent—but what?—patterns, and then go basely home and copy them, to the loss,but to the glory, of France.
“The Englishman or the German buys a few pieces of goods at Paris or Lyons; just as in letters France writes and Belgium sells.”
On the whole, Michelet thought that the population was more successful in tilling the soil thanin the marts of the world; and there is this to be said, there is no question but what France is a self-contained country, though its arts have gone forth into the world and influenced all nations.
Paris is, ever has been, and proudly—perhaps rightly—thinks that it ever will be, the artistic capital of the world.
Georges Avenel has recently delivered himself of a screed on the “Mechanism of Modern Life,” wherein are many pertinent, if sometimes trite, observations on the more or less automatic processes by which we are lodged, fed, and clothed to-day.
He gives rather a quaint, but unquestionably true, reason for the alleged falling-off in the cookery of French—of course he means Parisian—restaurants. It is, he says, that modern patrons will no longer pay the prices, or, rather, will not spend the money that they once did. In the first half of the last century—the time of Dumas’ activities and achievements—he tells us that many Parisian lovers of good fare were accustomed to “eat a napoleon” daily for their dinner. Nowadays, the same persons dine sufficiently at their club for eight and a half francs. Perhaps the abatement of modern appetites has something to say to this, as many folk seldom take more than thirty-five or forty minutes over their evening meal. How wouldthis compare with the Gargantuan feasts described by Brillat-Savarin and others, or the gastronomic exploits of those who ate two turkeys at a sitting?
Clearly, for comfort, and perhaps luxury, the Parisian hotels and restaurants of a former day compare agreeably with those of our own time; not so much, perhaps, with regard to time and labour-saving machinery, which is the equipment of the modernbatterie de cuisine, but with the results achieved by more simple, if more laborious, means, and the appointments and surroundings amid which they were put upon the board. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating” is still applicable, whether its components be beaten or kneaded by clockwork or the cook’s boy.
With the hotels himself, Avenel is less concerned, though he reminds us again that Madame de Sevigné had often to lie upon straw in the inns she met with in travelling, and looked upon a bed in a hotel, which would allow one to undress, as a luxury. We also learn that the travellers of those days had to carry their own knives, the innkeeper thinking that he did enough in providing spoons and forks. Nor were hotels particularly cheap, a small suite of rooms in a hotel of the Rue Richelieu costing 480 francs a week. It was Napoleon III. who, by his creation of the Hôtel de Louvre,—notthe present establishment of the same name, but a much larger structure,—first set the fashion of monster hostelries. But what was this compared with the Elysées Palace, which M. d’Avenel chooses as his type of modern luxury, with its forty-three cooks, divided into seven brigades, each commanded by an officer drawing 3,750 francs a year, and its thirty-five hundred pairs of sheets and fifty thousand towels, valued together at little short of 250,000 francs? Yet, as we well know, even these totals pale before some of the hotels of America, in which M. d’Avenel sees thene plus ultraof organization and saving of labour by the ingenious use of machinery, and incidentally a great deal of the sentiment of good cheer, which was as much an ingredient of former hospitality as was the salt and pepper of a repast.
It is pleasant to read of Alexandre Dumas’ culinary skill, though the repetition of the fact has appeared in the works of well-nigh every writer who has written of the Paris of the fifties and sixties. The dinners at his apartments in the Boulevard Malesherbes were worthy of Soyer or even of Brillat-Savarin himself in his best days. In his last “Causeries Culinaires,” the author of “Monte Cristo” tells us that the Bourbon kings were specially fond of soup. “The family,” he writes,“from Louis XIV. to the last of their race who reigned in France, have been great eaters. The Grand Monarque commenced his dinner by two and sometimes three different kinds of soup; Louis-Philippe by four plates of various species of this comestible; in the fifth plate his Majesty usually mixed portions of the four varieties he had eaten, and appeared to enjoy this singular culinary combination.”
Dumas’ reputation as an epicure must have been formed early; he describes in his “Mémoires” how, on a certain occasion, when he had first become installed in Paris, he met a gentleman, Charles Nodier, in the stalls of the Porte St. Martin, who was reading a well-worn Elzevir entitled “La Pastissier Française.” He says, “I address him.... ‘Pardon my impertinence, but are you very fond of eggs?’ ‘Why so?’ ‘That book you are reading, does it not give recipes for cooking eggs in sixty different ways?’ ‘It does.’ ‘If I could but procure a copy.’ ‘But this is an Elzevir,’ says my neighbour.”
The Parisian is without a rival as an epicure and agastronome, and he associates no stigma with the epithet. In Anglo-Saxon lands the reverse is the case, though why it is hard to see.
“Frog-legs” came to be a tidbit in thetablesd’hôteof New York and London many years ago, but sympathy has been withheld from the lusciousescargot. There be those fearless individuals who by reason of theentente cordialehave tasted of him and found him good, but learning that in the cookshops of Paris they have at last learned to fabricate them to equal the native grown article of Bourgogne, have tabooed them once for all, and threaten to withdraw their liking for that other succulent dainty, the frog.
At any rate, the schoolboy idea that the Parisian’s staple fare is snails and frogs is quite exploded, and small wonder it is that Anglo-Saxon palates never became wholly inured to them. But what about England’s peculiar dishes? Marrow-bones and stewed eels, for instance?
Dumas’ familiarity with the good things of the table is nowhere more strongly advanced than in the opening chapter of “The Queen’s Necklace,” wherein the author recounts the incident of “the nobleman and hismaître d’hôtel.”
The scene was laid in 1784, and runs as follows: