From that time dated Madame Dorval's first successes. Alas! from that time dated also her first sorrows. Her mother fell ill of a long and painful disease. The engagements which Madame Delaunay found as first singer became fewer as her voice grew weaker. Then the young girl redoubled her labours; she knew that talent was not only a question of art, but still more one of necessity. Thanks to her efforts, her engagements brought in eighty francs to a hundred francs; and those of her' mother diminished, at the same time, from three hundred francs to one hundred and fifty francs, and from one hundred and fifty francs they fell to nothing. From that time began the young girl's life of devotion which continued on into womanhood.
For a year Amélie Delaunay did everything for her mother: she was servant, nurse, comforter; then, at the end of a year, the mother died, and all those nights of watching and weeping, all her careful tendings, were lost, except in the sight of God.
When her mother died the young girl was left alone in the world. She could never afterwards remember what she did during the two years after her mother's death: memory was drowned in grief! The company moved on from Lorient to Strassbourg, from Strassbourg to Bayonne, always travelling in the same wicker carriage with the same horses, which belonged to the company. However, one great event came about:
Amélie Delaunay married a poor boy of fifteen, out of loneliness.She had no love for him: he was one of her fellow-actors, who played the rôle ofles Martins;his name was Allan-Dorval. He died at St. Petersburg. Where he lived nobody ever knew. This marriage had no other influence on the actress's life beyond giving her the name by which she became known; her other name, that of Marie, was given her by us. Antony was her godfather and Adèle d'Hervey her godmother.
Their journeyings were continued and, as they wereen routefor Bayonne, they came close to Paris. I do not know in what village, upon what road, at what inn, Potier, the great actor whom Talma admired, met Madame Allan-Dorval, in what theatre he saw her play or what part she was taking, when she uttered one of those heartfelt phrases, one of those outbursts of fraternal affection by which great artistes recognise each other's talents. I know nothing of all this, for poor Marie forgot it herself; but, in a trice he described to her Paris—that is to say, splendour, fame, suffering!
The young wife came to Paris with a letter of introduction from Potier to M. de Saint-Romain, manager of the Porte-Saint-Martin. M. de Saint-Romain engaged Madame Allan-Dorval on this recommendation, and from that day her name became part of the recollections of Parisians, her life became interwoven with the literary life of Paris. This was in 1818.
What had this poor talented young woman played ere Potier's encouragement had made a path for her genius? She had acted in theCabane du Montagnard,theCatacombes, thePandoursyand, finally, in theVampire, at which my neighbour had hooted so shamelessly. Poor Marie! only she herself could relate the sufferings of those early days. There was, I remember, one special costume on which she had to sew some lace trimming every evening before the performance, and it had to be unsewn every evening after the play.—O Frétillon! Frétillon! thy cotillion never saw half what that dress did!
She whom I now saw for the first time was the Eve from whose womb a new dramatic world was to spring. As for Philippe, who eclipsed her at that time, with the dignity and majesty of his steps and gestures, his was the acting of the pureold-fashioned melodrama of Pixérécourt and Caignez. No one could wear yellow top boots, a buff tunic embroidered in black, a plumed toque and a cross-handled sword like Philippe. This attire, at that period, went by the name of the costume of a cavalier. Lafont carried it off perfectly inTancrèdeand inAdélaïde Duguesclin.
Philippe died the first. His death made almost as much stir as his life. As I shall not have occasion to speak of him again, and as, had he lived, he would not have had anything to do with contemporary art, we will finish his story here. Philippe died on 16 October 1824—that is to say, one month, to the day, after the death of Louis XVIII. On the 18th, they brought his body to the church of Saint-Laurent, his own parish church; but the clergy refused to take it in. The same thing happened with regard to Mademoiselle Raucourt. But Philippe's comrades and all his public admirers decided to go forward with stout hearts, to proceed without uproar, or violent acts, or rebellious deeds. They drew the shell from the hearse: six actors from the different Paris theatres bore it on their shoulders, and, followed by over three thousand people, they took it to the Tuileries. They meant to deposit the coffin in the Castle courtyard, to demand justice, and not to withdraw until they had received it. The resolution was all the more impressive as it was accomplished with composure and solemnity. The cortège was moving along the boulevards, and had reached the top of the rue Montmartre, when a squadron of police rushed out at full gallop, swords in hand, and barred the entire width of the boulevard. Then a council of deliberation was held over the bier, and, still with the same calmness and the same composure, a deputation of five was elected to go to the Tuileries and to ask for the prayers of the Church and a Christian burial for the body of poor Philippe. These five deputies were: MM. Étienne, Jourdan, Colombeau, Ménessier and Crosnier. Charles X. refused to receive them, and sent them back to M. de Corbières, the Minister for the Interior. M. de Corbières, very brutal by nature, replied roughly that the clergy had their laws, that it was not his business to transgress them,although he was in charge of the police of the realm. The five deputies brought back this reply to the three thousand Parisians camped in the boulevard, round the coffin that was craving burial. The bearers then took the body up again on their shoulders and pursued their course with it along the road to Père-Lachaise. Victory remained on the side of authority, as the saying is; only, it is by such kinds of victories that authority cuts its own throat. "Another victory like that," said Pyrrhus, after the battle of Heracles, "and we shall be lost!"
From that moment the generous promises made by Charles x. on his accession to the throne were valued at their true worth: and who shall say that one of the clouds that caused the storm of 27 July 1830, was not whirled into being on 18 October 1824?
[1]Seeles Morts vont vite, vol. ii. pp. 241 ff.
[1]Seeles Morts vont vite, vol. ii. pp. 241 ff.
My beginning at the office—Ernest Basset—Lassagne—M. Oudard—I see M. Deviolaine—M. le Chevalier de Broval—His portrait—Folded letters and oblong letters—How I acquire a splendid reputation for sealing letters—I learn who was my neighbour the bibliomaniac and whistler
My beginning at the office—Ernest Basset—Lassagne—M. Oudard—I see M. Deviolaine—M. le Chevalier de Broval—His portrait—Folded letters and oblong letters—How I acquire a splendid reputation for sealing letters—I learn who was my neighbour the bibliomaniac and whistler
The next day I waited from eight o'clock in the morning until ten o'clock; but, as my neighbour in the orchestra had predicted, nobody came to demand satisfaction for the blow I had dealt on the previous evening. However, I had now arrived at two convictions—namely, that there must be something extravagant about my appearance and about some portion of my clothing. For fear of falling out egregiously with everybody I met abroad, I ought to cut my locks and to shorten the length of my coat. My hair was fully two inches too long; my coat certainly a foot beyond regulation length. I called in a barber and a tailor. The barber asked me for ten minutes; the tailor for a day. I gave up my coat to the tailor and my head to the barber. I intended to go to the office in a morning coat: it should be understood that my first visit to the office was almost in the nature of a call upon my chiefs. A morning coat would not be out of place.
My face was completely changed by the cropping of my hair: when it was too long, I looked like one of the sellers of "Lion Pomade," who make their own heads their principal prospectuses; when my hair was too short, I looked like a seal. Of course the barber cut my hair too short; unfortunately, there was thenno remedy left me but to wait until it grew again. When I had breakfasted fairly well at my hotel, and given notice that I should settle my account and leave the establishment that evening, I made my way towards the office.
As a quarter-past ten struck, I made inquiries of the porter in the hall and he told me which staircase led to M. Oudard's offices, otherwise the Secretariat. They were situated at the right angle of the second court of the Palais-Royal, looking upon the square from the side of the garden. I went towards this staircase and I furnished myself with fresh instructions from a second porter: the offices were on the third floor, so I climbed up. My heart was beating violently: I was entering upon another life—one which I had desired and chosen for myself this time. This staircase was leading me to my future office. Where would my future office lead me?... No one had arrived. I waited with the office-boys. The first employé who appeared was a fine big fair youth; he came singing up the stairs, and took down the office door key from a nail. I rose.
"Monsieur Ernest," said one of the office-boys, the eldest of them, a lad called Raulot, "this young man wants to speak to M. Oudard."
The person addressed as Ernest looked at me for a moment with his keen, clear blue eyes.
"Monsieur," I said to him, "I am one of the supernumeraries, of whom you may perhaps have heard."
"Ah yes! M. Alexandre Dumas," he exclaimed; "the son of General Alexandre Dumas, recommended by General Foy?"
I saw he knew all about me.
"I am the same," I said.
"Come in," he said, going in before me and opening the door of a small room, with one window in it and three desks. "See," he continued, "you are expected; here is your seat. Everything is ready—paper, pens, ink; you have but to sit down and to draw up your chair to your desk."
"Have I the pleasure of talking to one of those with whom I am destined to spend my days?" I asked.
"Yes.... I have just been promoted as ordinary clerk at eighteen hundred francs; I am giving up my place as copying-clerk, and that place will be yours, after a longer or shorter probationary period."
"And who is our third companion?"
"He is our deputy head clerk, Lassagne."
The door opened.
"Hullo! who is talking about Lassagne?" asked a young man of twenty-eight to thirty, as he came in.
Ernest turned round.
"Ah! it is you," he replied. "I was just saying to M. Dumas,"—he pointed to me, I bowed,—"I was just telling M. Dumas that this was your place, that his, and the other mine."
"Are you our new colleague?" Lassagne asked me.
"Yes, monsieur."
"You are welcome." And he held out his hand to me.
I took it. It was one of those warm and trembling hands that it is a pleasure to shake from the first touch—a loyal hand, revealing the nature of him to whom it belonged.
"Good!" I said to myself: "this man will be friendly to me, I am sure."
"Listen," he said: "a word of advice. It is rumoured that you have come here with the idea of entering upon a literary career: do not talk too loudly of such a project; it will only do you harm.... Hush! that is Oudard entering his room."
And I heard in the neighbouring room the self-possessed, measured tread of a man accustomed to rule an office. A moment later, the door of our office opened and Raulot appeared.
"M. Oudard wants M. Alexandre Dumas," he said.
I rose and cast a glance at Lassagne: he understood what I felt like.
"Go along," he said; "he is a capital fellow, but you have to become acquainted with him: however, you will soon do that."
This was not altogether reassuring; so it was with my heart beating very rapidly that I proceeded along the corridor and entered M. Oudard's office.
I found him standing before the fireplace. He was a manof five feet six inches high, with a brown complexion, black hair and an impassive face, gentle although firm. His black eyes had that direct look to be found in men who have risen from a lower class to a high position; its expression was almost stonily hard when it was fixed on you; you would have said he had ridden rough-shod over everything and everybody that had come in his way, as so many obstacles on the road towards that goal, known only to himself, which he had made up his mind to reach. He had fine teeth; but, contrary to the habit of those who possess this advantage, he rarely smiled: one could see that nothing—not even the most insignificant event—was indifferent to him; a pebble under the foot of an ambitious man will raise him higher by the size of that pebble. Oudard was very ambitious; but as he was also essentially honest, I doubt whether his ambition had ever, I will not say inspired him with an evil thought—what man is master of his thoughts?—but caused him to commit a mean action. Later, it will be seen that he was hard on me, almost pitiless. He was, I am sure, well intentioned in being so; he did not think of the future I wanted to carve for myself, and he feared I should only lose the position I had made—the position which he had helped me to make. Oudard, unlike other upstarts (and let us admit, he was really more a man who had achieved success than a mere parvenu), talked a great deal of the village where he was born, of the home in which he had been brought up, of his old mother, who came to see him, dressed in her peasant's costume, with whom he would walk out in the Palais-Royal or whom he would take to the play, just as she was: perhaps all this talk was only another form of pride, but it is a pride I like. He was devoted to his mother—a sentiment sufficiently rare in ambitious men to be noted here as out of the common. Oudard must have been thirty-two at that period; he was head of the Secretarial Department, and private secretary to the Duchesse d'Orléans. These two posts combined must have been worth about twelve thousand francs a year to him, perquisites included. He was clad in black trousers, a white piqué waistcoat and a black coat and cravat. He worevery fine cotton stockings and slippers. Such was the get-up of a man who was not merely chief clerk of an office, but one who might be called into the presence of a prince or princess at any moment.
"Come in, Monsieur Dumas," he said.
I went up to him and bowed.
"You have been very especially commended to me by two persons, one of whom I greatly respect and the other of whom I love dearly."
"Is not General Foy one of these, monsieur?"
"Yes, he is the man I respect. But how is it you do not guess the name of the other?"
"I confess, monsieur, I should be puzzled to name anyone else in whom I can have inspired sufficient interest to cause him to take the trouble to recommend me to you."
"It was M. Deviolaine."
"M. Deviolaine?" I repeated, in considerable surprise.
"Yes, M. Deviolaine.... Is he not related to you?"
"Certainly, monsieur; but when my mother begged M. Deviolaine to have the goodness to recommend me to Monseigneur le Duc d'Orléans, M. Deviolaine met the request so coldly...."
"Oh, you know, brusqueness is almost the leading trait in the character of our worthy Conservator.... You must not pay any heed to that."
"I fear, monsieur, that if my good cousin spoke much of me to you, in recommending me to you, he has not flattered me."
"That would not be bad for you, since it would but give you a chance to surprise me agreeably."
"He has probably told you I was idle?"
"He told me you had never done much work; but you are young, and you can make up for lost time."
"He told you I cared for nothing but shooting?"
"He confessed you were something of a poacher."
"He told you I was wayward and changeable in my ideas and fancies?"
"He said you had been under all the solicitors in Villers-Cotteretsand Crespy and had not been able to stop with any of them."
"He exaggerated somewhat.... But if I did not remain with either of the two solicitors under whom I worked, it was on account of my unalterable, intense desire to come to Paris."
"Very well, here you are, and your desire is fulfilled."
"Was that all M. Deviolaine told you about me?"
"Well, no; ... he said, too, that you were a good son, and that, although you constantly made your mother miserable, you adored her; that you had never really wished to learn anything, but more from over-quickness, than from want of intelligence; he told me, besides, that you had certainly a poor head, but that he also believed you were good-hearted.... Go and thank him, go and thank him."
"Where shall I find him?"
"One of the office-boys will take you to him."
He rang.
"Take M. Dumas to M. Deviolaine's rooms," he said.
Then, addressing me—
"You have already met Lassagne?" he said.
"Yes, I have just had five minutes' talk with him."
"He is a very good fellow with but one failing: he will be too weak with you; luckily I shall be at hand. Lassagne and Ernest Basset will tell you what your work will be."
"And M. de Broval?" I asked.
M. de Broval was the general manager.
"M. de Broval will be told you have come, and will probably ask for you. You know that your whole future depends on him?"
"And on you, monsieur, yes."
"I hope, so far as I am concerned, that that will not cause you much uneasiness.... But go and thank M. Deviolaine; go! You have already delayed too long."
I bowed to M. Oudard and I went out. Five minutes afterwards, I was at M. Deviolaine's. He worked in a large room by himself, and at a desk which stood alone in the middle ofthe room. As I was preceded by an office-boy, and as it was presumed that I had been sent by M. Oudard, they let me enter unannounced. M. Deviolaine heard the door open and he waited an instant for someone to speak; then, as I also was waiting, he looked up and asked—
"Who is there?"
"It is I, M. Deviolaine."
"Who, you? (toi)"
"I see you recognise me, by the way you speak."
"Yes, I recognise you.... So there you are! Well, you are a fine lad!"
"Why, if you please?"
"Well! you have been to Paris three times without paying me a single call."
"I did not know you would care to see me."
"It was not for you to question whether it would please me or not; it was your duty to come."
"Well, here I am; better late than never."
"What have you come for now?"
"I have come to thank you."
"What for?"
"For what you said about me to M. Oudard."
"You are not difficult to please, then."
"Why?"
"Do you know what I did say?"
"Certainly: you told him I was an idle lad; that I was no good except for copying deeds; that I had tired out the patience of every solicitor in Villers-Cotterets and in Crespy."
"Well, is there much thanks due to me for all that?"
"No, it was not for that I came to thank you; it was for what you added."
"I did not add anything."
"But you did!... you went on to say...."
"I tell you I added nothing; but I will add something now you are here: that is, that if you are so ill-advised as to write filthy plays and trashy verses here, as you did in Villers-Cotterets, I will report you, I will carry you off with me, I willconfine you in one of my offices and I will lead you a dog's life ... see if I don't!"
"Let me say, cousin...."
"What?"
"While I am here...."
"Well?"
"Even if you do not let me go back."
"Well?"
"Because that,—A cause que, a grammatical error, I know quite well; but Corneille and Bossuet made use of it,—because that I have only come to Paris to write filthy plays and trashy verses, whether I am in the Secretarial Department or here, I must still continue to write them."
"Ah, is that so? Do you seriously imagine you can become a Corneille, a Racine or a Voltaire after an education of three francs a month?"
"If I were to become such a man as any one of those three, I should be only what another man has been, and that would not be worth while."
"You mean, then, that you would do better than they?"
"I would do something different."
"Come a little nearer me, so that I can give you a good kick, you conceited lad."
I went nearer to him.
"Here I am!"
"I believe the impudent boy has actually come closer!"
"Yes.... My mother told me to give you her love."
"Is your poor mother quite well?"
"I hope she is."
"She is a good creature! How the devil did you happen to come into the world by such a mother? Come, shake hands and be off with you!"
"Good-bye, cousin."
He kept hold of my hand.
"Do you want any money, you rogue?"
"Thanks.... I have some."
"Where did you get it?"
"I will tell you that some other time; it would take too long now."
"You are right; I have no time to lose. Be off with you!"
"Good-bye, cousin."
"Come and dine with me when you like."
"Oh! thanks, yes, for your people to look down on me." "To look down on you! I would like to see them do that. My wife dined often enough with your grandfather and your grandmother to justify you in coming to dine with me as often as you like.... But now be off, cub! you are making me waste all my time."
M. Deviolaine's office-boy came in. His name was Féresse. We shall see more of him later.
"M. Deviolaine," he said, "M. de Broval wishes to know if the report on the management of the forest of Villers-Cotterets is finished?"
"No, not yet ... in a quarter of an hour."
Then, turning to me—
"You see?... you see?"
"I will make myself scarce, M. Deviolaine."
And off I went, while M. Deviolaine buried his nose in the report, growling as usual.
I returned to our common office, and I sat down at my desk. My desk was next to Lassagne's, so we were only separated from one another by the width of our tables and by the little black set of pigeon-holes in which the current work was usually put. Ernest had gone out, I know not why. I asked Lassagne to tell me what to do. Lassagne got up, leant over my desk and told me. I always took a great interest in studying people around me, and especially the man whose position in the office was that of my immediate superior; for, although Ernest was now a full-fledged clerk and I only destined to be a simple copying-clerk, he was more my comrade than my superior.
Lassagne, as I think I have already said, was at that time a man of twenty-eight or thirty, with an attractive face, enshrined in beautiful black hair, animated by black eyes full of intelligenceand cleverness, and lighted up (if the phrase may be permitted) by teeth so white and so regular that the vainest of women might have envied them. The only defect in his face was his aquiline nose, which was a little more inclined to one side than the other; but this very irregularity gave an original touch to his face that it would not have had without it. Add to these things a sympathetic voice which seemed gently to vibrate in one's ear, and at the sound of which it was impossible not to turn round and smile. In short, a delightful person whose like I have rarely met; well informed; a brilliant song-writer; the intimate friend of Désaugiers, Théaulon, Armand Gouffé, Brazier, Rougemont and all the opera-writers of the time; so that he refreshed himself after his official work, which he loathed, by entering into the literary world, which he adored, and his daily labour alternated with desultory work, consisting partly of articles for theDrapeau blancand theFoudreand partly of contributions to some of the most delightful plays of the operatic theatres. It will be admitted that here was the very superior I needed, and I could not have asked Providence for anything that would have seemed to me better for me.
Well, during the five years that we spent in the same office there was never a cloud, or a quarrel, or a feeling of cross purposes between Lassagne and me. He made me like the hour at which I began my daily work, because I knew he would come in immediately after me; he made me love the time I spent at my desk, because he was always ready there to help me with an explanation, to teach me something fresh about life, which had as yet, for me, scarcely opened, about the world of which I was totally ignorant, and finally about foreign or national literature, of which in 1823 I knew practically nothing, either of the one or of the other.
Lassagne arranged my daily work; it was entirely mechanical, and consisted in copying out, in the finest handwriting possible, the largest possible number of letters: these, according to their importance, had to be signed by M. Oudard, M. de Broval, or even by the Duc d'Orléans. In the midstof this correspondence, which concerned the whole range of administration and which often, when addressed to princes or foreign kings, passed from matters of administration to politics, there occurred reports connected with the contentious affairs of M. le Duc d'Orléans; for the Duc d'Orléans himself prepared his litigious business for his counsel, doing himself the work that solicitors do for barristers—that is to say, preparing the briefs. These were nearly always entirely in the handwriting of the Duc d'Orléans, or at all events corrected and annotated in his large thick writing, in which every letter was fastened to its neighbouring letter by a solid stroke, after the fashion of the arguments of a logical dialectician, bound together, entwined, succeeding each other.
I was attacking my first letter, and, by the advice of Lassagne, who had laid great stress on this point, I was despatching it in my very best handwriting, when I heard the door of communication between Oudard's office and ours open. I pretended, with the hypocrisy of an old hand, to be so deeply absorbed in my work that no noise could distract my attention, when I heard the creak of steps advancing towards my desk and then they stopped by me.
"Dumas!" called out Lassagne to me.
I raised my head and I saw, standing close to me on my left, a person who was totally unknown to me.
"M. le Chevalier de Broval," added Lassagne, adding information to his exclamation.
I rose from my seat.
"Do not disturb yourself," he said. And he took the letter I was copying, which was nearly finished, and read it.
I took advantage of this respite to examine him.
M. le Chevalier de Broval, as everyone knows, had been one of the faithful followers of M. le Duc d'Orléans. He had never left him during the last portion of his exile, serving him sometimes as secretary, at other times as diplomatist; in this latter capacity he had been mixed up in all the lengthy discussions over the marriage of the Duc d'Orléans with Princess Marie-Amélie, daughter of Ferdinand and Caroline, King andQueen of Naples; and in connection with this marriage he had gained the Order of Saint-Janvier, which he wore on a braided coat on high festivals, next to the cross of the Legion of Honour. He was a little old man of about sixty years of age, with short stubbly hair; he was slightly lame, walked crookedly on his left side, had a big red nose, which told its own tale, and small grey eyes, that expressed nothing; he looked a typical courtier, polite, obsequious, fawning to his master, kind by fits and starts, but generally capricious with his subordinates; he thought a great deal of trifles, attaching supreme importance to the manner in which a letter was folded or a seal was fastened; he really imbibed these notions from the Duc d'Orléans himself, who was even more particular over little details than perhaps was M. de Broval.
M. de Broval read the letter, took my pen, added an apostrophe or a comma here and there; then, replacing it in front of me: "Finish it," he said.
I finished it.
He waited behind me, literally pressing on my shoulders.
Every fresh face I saw in turn had its effect on me. I finished with a very shaky hand.
"There it is, M. le chevalier," I said.
"Good!" he exclaimed.
He took a pen, signed, threw sand over my writing and over his; then, giving me back the epistle, which was for a simple inspector,—as, at first, they did not risk confiding more than that to my inexperienced hand,—he said—
"Do you know how to fold a letter?"
I looked at him with astonishment.
"I ask you if you know how to fold a letter. Answer me!"
"Yes, yes ... at least, I believe so," I replied, astonished at the fixed stare his little grey eyes had assumed.
"You believe? Is that all? You are not sure?"
"Monsieur, I am not yet sure about anything, as you see, not even about the folding of a letter."
"And there you are right, for there are ten ways of folding aletter, according to the rank of the person to whom it is addressed. Fold this one."
I began to fold the letter in four.
"Oh! what are you about?" he said.
I stopped short. "Pardon, monsieur," I said, "but youorderedme to fold the letter, and I am folding it."
M. de Broval bit his lip. I had laid emphasis on the word "ordered" in the spoken phrase as I have just underlined it in the written phrase.
"Yes," he said; "but you are folding it square—that is all right for high functionaries. If you give square-folded letters to inspectors and sub-inspectors, what will you do for ministers, princes and kings?"
"Quite so, M. le chevalier," I replied; "will you tell me what is the correct way for inspectors and sub-inspectors?"
"Oblong, monsieur, oblong."
"You will pardon my ignorance, monsieur; I know what an oblong is in theory, but I do not yet know what it is in practice."
"See...."
And M. de Broval condescended willingly to give me the lesson in things oblong I had asked of him.
"There!" he said, when the letter was folded.
"Thank you, monsieur," I replied.
"Now, monsieur, the envelope?" he said.
I had never made envelopes, except for the rare petitions I had written for my mother, and once on my own account in General Foy's office, so I was still more ignorant about the making of envelopes than about the folding. I took a half-sheet of paper in my left hand, a pair of scissors in my right hand, and I began to cut the sheet.
M. le Chevalier de Broval uttered a mingled cry of surprise and terror.
"Oh! good Lord!" he said, "what are you going to do?"
"Why, M. le chevalier, I am going to make the envelope you asked me to make."
"With scissors?"
"Yes."
"First learn this, monsieur: paper should not be cut, it should be torn."
I listened with all attention.
"Oh!" I exclaimed.
"It should be torn," repeated M. de Broval; "and then in this case there is no need even to tear the paper, which perhaps you do not realise either?"
"No, monsieur, I do not."
"You will learn.... It only wants an English envelope."
"Ah! an English envelope?"
"You do not know how to make an English envelope?"
"I do not even know what it is, M. le chevalier."
"I will show you. As a general rule, monsieur, square letters and square envelopes are for ministers, for princes and for kings."
"Right, M. le chevalier; I will remember."
"You are sure?"
"Yes."
"Good.... And for heads of departments, chief assistants, inspectors and sub-inspectors, oblong letters and English envelopes."
I repeated, "Oblong letters and English envelopes."
"Yes, yes, of course.... There, that is what we call an English envelope."
"Thank you, monsieur."
"Now the seal.... Ernest, will you light me a taper?" Ernest hastened to bring us the lighted taper; and now, I confess to my shame, my confusion increased: I had never hitherto sealed my letters except with wafers—that is to say, when I had sealed them.
I took the wax in so awkward a fashion, I heated it in such a queer way, I blew it out so quickly, for fear of burning the paper, that this time I excited pity rather than impatience in the breast of M. de Broval.
"Oh! my friend," he said, "have you really never even sealed a letter?"
"Never, monsieur," I replied. "Who was there for me to write to, buried away as I have been in a little country town?"
This humble confession touched M. de Broval.
"See," he said, heating the wax, "this is how one seals a letter."
And, believe me, he sealed the letter at arm's length, with as steady a hand as though he had been twenty-five years of age. Then, taking a large silver seal, he pressed it on the lake of burning wax, and did not withdraw it until the impress was clearly defined and I could see the escutcheon with the three heraldic fleurs-de-lis of Orléans, surmounted by the ducal coronet.
I was disheartened, I must confess.
"Write the address," M. le Chevalier de Broval said imperiously.
I wrote the address with a trembling hand.
"Good, good!" said M. le Chevalier de Broval; "don't be discouraged, my boy.... It is all right; now countersign it."
I stopped, completely ignorant of what a countersign was.
M. de Broval began to realise, as General Foy had done, how ignorant I was. He pointed with a finger to the corner of the letter.
"There," he said, "write thereDuc d'Orléans.That is to frank the letter. You hear?"
I heard well enough; but I was so profoundly upset that I hardly understood what was said.
"There!" said M. de Broval, taking up the letter and looking at it with a satisfied air, "that is all right; but you must learn all these things.... Ernest,"—Ernest was M. de Broval's favourite, and in his genial moments the old courtier called him by his Christian name,—"Ernest, teach M. Dumas to fold letters, to make envelopes and to seal packets." And at these words he took himself off.
The door had scarcely shut before I was begging my comrade Ernest to begin his lessons, and he gave himself up to the task at once with hearty goodwill. Ernest was a first-rate hand at folding, making envelopes and sealing; but I put my wholewill into it, and it was not long before I equalled and surpassed my master's skill.
When I gave in my resignation, in 1831, to the Duc d'Orléans, who had become Louis-Philippe I., I had attained to such perfection in the third accomplishment, especially, that the only regret he expressed was this—
"The devil! that is a pity! You are the best sealer of letters I have ever seen."
While I was taking my lesson in folding and sealing under Ernest, Lassagne was reading the papers.
"Oh!" he suddenly exclaimed, "I well recollect that!"
"What is it?" I asked.
Instead of answering me, Lassagne read aloud:—"A scene which recalls that of la Fontaine at the first representation ofFlorentintook place, yesterday evening, at the third performance of the revival of theVampire.Our learned bibliophile, Charles Nodier, was expelled from Porte-Saint-Martin theatre for disturbing the play by whistling. Charles Nodier is one of the anonymous authors of theVampire."
"So!" I cried, "my neighbour of the orchestra was Charles Nodier!"
"Did you have any talk with him?" asked Lassagne.
"I did nothing else during the intervals."
"You were fortunate," continued Lassagne: "had I been in your place, I should have greatly preferred the intervals to the play."
I knew Charles Nodier by name, but I was in complete ignorance as to what he had done.
As I left the office, I entered a bookshop and asked for a novel by Nodier. They gave meJean Sbogar.
The reading of that book began to shake my faith in Pigault-Lebrun.
Illustrious contemporaries—The sentence written on my foundation stone—My reply—I settle down in the place des Italiens—M. de Leuven's table—M. Louis-Bonaparte's witty saying—Lassagne gives me my first lesson in literature and history
Illustrious contemporaries—The sentence written on my foundation stone—My reply—I settle down in the place des Italiens—M. de Leuven's table—M. Louis-Bonaparte's witty saying—Lassagne gives me my first lesson in literature and history
When I came up to Paris, the men who held illustrious rank in literature, among whom I sought a place, were—MM. de Chateaubriand, Jouy, Lemercier, Arnault, Étienne, Baour-Lormian, de Béranger, Ch. Nodier, Viennet, Scribe, Théaulon, Soumet, Casimir Delavigne, Lucien Arnault, Ancelot, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Désaugiers and Alfred de Vigny. It will, of course, be understood that I do not rank them in the order I have written down their names. Then follow men whose interests were half literary half political, such as—MM. Cousin, Salvandy, Villemain, Thiers, Augustin Thierry, Michelet, Mignet, Vitet, Cavé, Mérimée and Guizot. Then, finally, those who were not yet famous, but were gradually coming forward, such as Balzac, Soulié, de Musset, Sainte-Beuve, Auguste Barbier, Alphonse Karr, Théophile Gautier.
The three women of the day were all poets—Mesdames Desbordes-Valmore, Amable Tastu, Delphine Gay. Madame Sand was still unknown, and did not reveal her powers until the production ofIndiana, in 1828 or 1829, I believe.
I knew the whole of thispléiade, who entertained the world with their wit and poetry for over half a century—some as friends and supporters, others as enemies and adversaries. Neither the benefits I have received from the former, nor the harm the latter sought to do me, shall influence in the slightest degree the judgments I shall pass on them. The first, in supporting me, have not caused me to climb higher by one step; the second,in trying to hinder me, have not kept me back one step. Through all the friendships, hatreds, jealousies of a life that has been harassed in its minor details, but ever calm and serene in its progress, I reached the position God had assigned me; I attained it without the aid of intrigues or cliques, and advanced only by my own endeavours. I have reached the summit which every man mounts half-way through life, and I ask for nothing, I desire nothing, I covet nothing. I have many friendships, I have not a single enmity. If, at the starting-point of my life, God had said to me, "Young man, what do you desire?" I should not have dared to demand from His infinite greatness that which He has condescended to grant me out of His fatherly goodness. So I will say all I have to say of the men I have named, according as they have appeared to me on my path through life: if I conceal anything, it will be the evil I know about them. Why should I be unjust to them? Not one among them possessed a single honour or good fortune in exchange for which I ever had any desire to barter my reputation or my purse.
Yesterday I read the following words, written by an unknown hand on the foundation stone of a house which I had caused to be built for me, and which, until I or someone else can inhabit it, as yet shelters only sparrows and swallows:—
"O Dumas! tu n'as pas su jouir, et pourtant tu regretteras! E. L."
I wrote underneath:—
"Niais!... si tu es un homme. Menteuse!... si tu es une femme. A. D."
But I took good care to obliterate the sentence.
Let us return to my contemporaries, and add to the list of famous names that led me to these reflections.
Among musical composers, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Auber, Donizetti, Bellini, Liszt, Thalberg. Among dramatic artists, Talma, Lafont, Mars, Duchesnois, Georges, Leverd, Frédérick (Lemaître), Dorval, Potier, Monrose père, Déjazet, Smithson,Lablache, Macready, Karatikin, Miss Faucit, Schroeder-Devrient, la Malibran, la Hungher.
I have had the honour to know several kings and princes,—they will have their place,—but my kings in the realms of art come before all, my princes in imagination have first place. To each sovereign his due honour.
When I came out of my office, or rather from the bookshop where I had boughtJean Sbogar, I made haste to the place des Italiens. My waggon load of furniture was waiting at the door; it took but an hour to settle my household arrangements, and at the end of that time all was finished.
Of a poet's usual equipment I now had the attic; of the possessions of the happy man, I now had a loft under the tiles. Better than all these things, I was only twenty! I cleared the distance between the place des Italiens and the rue Pigale in no time. I was longing to tell Adolphe that I was installed at the Duc d'Orléans'; that I possessed a desk, paper, pens, ink, sealing-wax, in the Palais-Royal; four chairs, a table, a bed and a room papered yellow in the place des Italiens.
Adolphe very sincerely shared my delight. M. de Leuven, chewing his tooth-pick, gently ridiculed my enthusiasm. Madame de Leuven, the most perfect of women, rejoiced in the joy my mother would feel.
I was invited to fix a regular day on which I should dine at M. de Leuven's. On that day my place should always be laid: it should be an institution in perpetuity. In perpetuity! What a great word!—one so often uttered in life, but one which really exists only in death!
"You are condemned to perpetual imprisonment, monseigneur," said my dear and good friend Nogent Saint-Laurent to Prince Louis-Bonaparte.
"How long does perpetuity last in France, Monsieur Saint-Laurent?" asked the prince.
His perpetuity, as a matter of fact, lasted at Ham for five years—two years less than the perpetuity of M. de Peyronnet and M. de Polignac.
My perpetuity at M. de Leuven's table lasted exactly as longas that of Prince Louis at Ham. I will tell how it came to cease, and I might as well admit at once that the fault was not M. de Leuven's, nor Madame de Leuven's, nor Adolphe's. It was arranged that I should dine there on the following day to make the acquaintance of the Arnault family: this was to be an extra dinner.
It can be realised how preoccupied I was, throughout the twenty-two hours that had to elapse before we sat down to the table, with the thought of dining with the author ofMarius à Minturnes, the man who had writtenRégulus.
I announced the great news to Ernest and to Lassagne. Ernest seemed quite unmoved by it, and Lassagne was only indifferently interested. I badgered Lassagne to know why he was so cold in matters concerning such celebrities.
He answered simply, "I am not of the same political views as those gentlemen, and I do not think much of their literary value either."
I stood astounded.
"But," I asked, "have you not readGermanicus?"
"Yes; but it is very bad!"
"Have you not readRégulus?"
"Yes; but it is very poor!"
I lowered my head, more astonished than ever.
Then, finally, I struggled to rise from under the weight of the anathema.
"But why are these plays so successful?"
"Talma acts in them ..."
"The reputation of these men ..."
"They bring that about themselves through their newspapers!... When M. de Jouy, M. Arnault or M. Lemercier produces a play in which Talma takes no part, you will see it will only run ten nights."
Again I hung down my head.
"Listen, my dear boy," Lassagne went on, with that wonderful sweetness of his in eyes and voice, and above all with that almost fatherly kindliness that I still noticed in him, when I met him by chance twenty-five years later and had the happiness to greet him,—"listen: you want to become a literary man?"
"Oh yes!" I exclaimed.
"Not so loud!" he said, laughing; "you know I told you not to talk so loud about that ... here, at any rate. Well, when you do write, do not take the literature of the Empire as your model: that is my advice."
"But what shall I take?"
"Well, upon my word, I should be much puzzled to tell you. Our young dramatic authors, Soumet, Guiraud, Casimir Delavigne, Ancelot, certainly possess talent; Lamartine and Hugo are poets—I therefore leave them out of the question; they have not done theatrical work, and I do not know if they are likely to, though if they ever do, I doubt whether they would succeed...."
"Why not?"
"Because the one is too much of a visionary, and the other too much of a thinker. Neither the one nor the other lives in the actual world, and the theatre, you see, my lad, is humanity. I say, then, that our young dramatic authors—Soumet, Guiraud, Casimir Delavigne, Ancelot—have talent; but take particular notice of what I am telling you: they belong purely and solely to a period of transition; they are links which connect the chain of the past to the chain of the future, bridges which lead from what has been to what shall be."
"And what is that which shall be ...?"
"Ah! there, my young friend, you ask me more than I can tell you. The public has not made up its mind; it knows already what it does not want any longer, but it does not yet know what it wants."
"In poetry, in drama or in fiction?"
"In drama and in fiction ... there, nothing is settled; in poetry we need not look farther than to Lamartine and Hugo, who represent the spirit of the age quite sufficiently."
"But Casimir Delavigne ...?"
"Ah! he is different. Casimir Delavigne is the poet of the people: we must leave him his circle; he does not enter into competition."
"Well, in comedy, tragedy, drama, whom ought one to follow?"
"In the first place, you should never imitate anybody; you should study: the man who follows a guide is obliged to walk behind. Will you be content to walk behind?"
"No."
"Then you must study. Do not attempt to produce either comedy, or tragedy, or drama; take passions, events, characters, smelt them all down in the furnace of your imagination, and raise statues of Corinthian bronze."
"What is Corinthian bronze?"
"Don't you know?"
"I know nothing."
"What a happy state to be in!"
"Why?"
"Because then you can find things out for yourself: you need only measure things by the standard of your own intelligence: you need no other rule than that of your own capacity. Corinthian bronze?... have you heard that once upon a time Mummius burnt Corinth?"
"Yes; I think I translated that once somewhere, in theDe Viris."
"Then you will remember that the heat of the fire melted the gold, silver and brass, which ran down the streets in streams. Now, the mingling of these three, the most valuable of all metals, made one single metal; and they gave to this metal the name of Corinthian bronze. Well, then, the man who will be endowed with the genius to do for comedy, tragedy and the drama that which Mummius, in his ignorance, in his vandalism, in his barbarity, did for gold, silver and brass, who will smelt by aid of the fire of inspiration, and who will melt into one single mould Æschylus, Shakespeare and Molière, he, my dear friend, will have discovered a bronze as precious as the bronze of Corinth."
I pondered for a moment over what Lassagne had said to me. "What you say sounds very beautiful, monsieur," I replied; "and, because it is beautiful, it ought to be true."
"Are you acquainted with Æschylus?"
"No."
"Do you know Shakespeare?"
"No."
"Have you read Molière?"
"Hardly at all."
"Well, read all that those three men have written. When you have read them, re-read them; when you have re-read them, learn them by heart."
"And next?"
"Oh! next?... You will pass from them to those who preceded them—from Æschylus to Sophocles, from Sophocles to Euripides, from Euripides to Seneca, from Seneca to Racine, from Racine to Voltaire, and from Voltaire to Chénier, in the realms of tragedy. Thus you will understand the transformation that altered a race of eagles into a race of parroquets."
"And from Shakespeare to whom shall I turn?"
"From Shakespeare to Schiller."
"And from Schiller?"
"To no one."
"But Ducis?"
"Oh, don't confound Schiller with Ducis. Schiller is inspired, Ducis imitates; Schiller remains original, Ducis became a copyist, and a poor copyist."
"And what about Molière?"
"As to Molière, if you want to study something that is worth taking trouble over, you must ascend, not descend."
"From Molière to whom?"
"From Molière to Terence, from Terence to Plautus, from Plautus to Aristophanes."
"But it seems to me you are forgetting Corneille?"
"I am not forgetting him: I have put him on one side." "Why?"
"Because he is neither an ancient Greek nor an old Roman."
"What is Corneille, then?"
"He is a Cordouan, like Lucan; you will see, when you compare them, that his verse has striking resemblance to the metre of thePharsalia."
"May I write down all you have told me?"
"What for?"
"To act as a guide to my studies."
"You need not trouble, seeing you have me at hand."
"But perhaps I shall not always have you."
"If you have not me, you will have someone else."
"But he might not perhaps know what you do?"
Lassagne shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear lad," he said, "I only know what all the world knows; I only tell you what the first person you met might tell you."
"Then I must be ignorant indeed!" I murmured, letting my head fall into my hands.
"The fact is, you have much to learn; but you are young, you will learn."
"Tell me what needs to be done in fiction?"
"Everything, just as in the drama."
"But I thought we had some excellent novels."
"What have you read in the way of novels?"
"Those of Lesage, Madame Cottin and Pigault-Lebrun."
"What effect did they have on you?"
"Lesage's novels amused me; Madame Cottin's made me cry; Pigault-Lebrun's made me laugh."
"Then you have not read either Goethe, or Walter Scott, or Cooper?"
"I have not read either Goethe, or Walter Scott, or Cooper."
"Well, read them."
"And when I have read them, what shall I do?"
"Make Corinthian bronze all the time; only, try to put in a slight ingredient they all lack."
"What is that?"
"Passion.... Goethe gives us poetry; Walter Scott character studies; Cooper the mysterious grandeur of prairies, forests and oceans; but you will look in vain for passion among them."
"So, a man who could be a poet like Goethe, an observer like Walter Scott, clever at description like Cooper, with the addition of a touch of passion ...?"
"Ah! such a man would be almost perfect."
"Which are the first three works I ought to read of those three masters?"
"Goethe'sWilhelm Meister, Walter Scott'sIvanhoeand Cooper'sSpy."
"I readJean Sbogarthrough last night."
"Oh, that is another story altogether."
"What kind is it?"
"It belongs to thegenrestyle of novel. But France is not waiting for that."
"What is she waiting for?"
"She is waiting for the historical novel."
"But the history of France is so dull!"
Lassagne raised his head and looked at me.
"What!" he exclaimed.
"The history of France is so dull!" I repeated.
"How do you know that?"
I blushed.
"People have told me it is."
"Poor boy! People have told you!... Read for yourself and then you will have an opinion."
"What must I read?"
"Why, there is a whole world of it: Joinville, Froissart, Monstrelet, Châtelain, Juvénal des Ursins, Montluc, Saulx-Tavannes, l'Estoile, Cardinal de Retz, Saint-Simon, Villars, Madame de la Fayette, Richelieu ... and so I could go on."
"How many volumes do those make?"
"Probably between two and three hundred."
"And you have read them?"
"Certainly."
"And I must read them?"
"If you wish to write novels, you must not only read them, you must get them off by heart."
"Why, you frighten me! I should not be able to write a word for two or three years!"
"Oh! longer than that, or you will write ignorantly."
"Oh, my God! what a lot of time I have lost!"
"You must retrieve it."
"You will aid me, will you not?"
"What about the office?"
"Oh! I will read and study at night; I will work at the office, and we can have a chat from time to time...."
"Yes, like to-day's; but we have talked too much."
"One word more. You have told me what I ought to study in the drama?"
"Yes."
"In romance?"
"Yes."
"In history?"
"Yes."
"Well, now, in poetry, what ought I to study?"
"First, what have you read?"
"Voltaire, Parny, Bertin, Demoustier, Legouvé, Colardeau."
"Good! forget the lot."
"Really?"
"Read Homer as representative of antiquity; Virgil among the Latin poets; Dante in the Middle Ages. I am giving you giants' marrow to feed on."
"And among the moderns?"
"Ronsard, Mathurin, Régnier, Milton, Goethe, Uhland, Byron, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, and especially a little volume which has just been published by Latouche."
"What is the name of it?"
"André Chénier."
"I have read it...."
"You have read Marie-Joseph.... Do not confuse Marie-Joseph with André."
"But how am I to read foreign authors when I do not know either Greek or English or German?"
"The deuce! Why, that is simple enough: you must learn those languages."
"How?"
"I do not know; but remember this: one can always learn what one wants to learn. And now I think it is time we gave our attention to business. One more piece of advice."
"What is it?"
"If you mean to follow the instructions I give you...."
"Indeed I do!"
"You must not say a word to M. Arnault of this little scheme of study."
"Why?"
"Because you would not be a friend of his for long."
"You think not?"
"I am certain of it."
"Thanks.... I will keep my mouth shut."
"You will do well. Now, a second word of advice."
"I am listening."
"You must not repeat a word of our conversation either to Oudard or to M. de Broval."
"Why?"
"Because they would not leave us long in the same office."
"The devil! I want to stay in it dreadfully."
"Then it depends on yourself."
"Oh, if it depends on me, we shall be together for many years."
"So be it."
At this point M. Oudard entered, and I set to my task with an avidity that won me many compliments from him at the end of the day.
I made a splendid discovery—which was that I could copy without thinking of what I was copying, and consequently I was able to think of other things whilst copying.
By the second day I had advanced as far as others who had been at work for four or five years.
As will be seen, I was making rapid progress.
Adolphe reads a play at the Gymnase—M. Dormeuil—Kenilworth Castle—M. Warez and Soulié—Mademoiselle Lévesque—The Arnault family—TheFeuille—Marius à Minturnes—Danton's epigram—The reversed passport—Three fables—Germanicus—Inscriptions and epigrams—Ramponneau—The young man and the tilbury-Extra ecclesiam nulla est salus—Madame Arnault
Adolphe reads a play at the Gymnase—M. Dormeuil—Kenilworth Castle—M. Warez and Soulié—Mademoiselle Lévesque—The Arnault family—TheFeuille—Marius à Minturnes—Danton's epigram—The reversed passport—Three fables—Germanicus—Inscriptions and epigrams—Ramponneau—The young man and the tilbury-Extra ecclesiam nulla est salus—Madame Arnault
It was well I could copy without taking in what I was doing; for Lassagne's conversation, as may be imagined, gave me much to think about. Every day showed me my deplorable ignorance more and more, and, like a traveller lost in a marshy, unstable bog, I did not know whereon to place my feet in order to find that solid ground which would lead me to the end I was trying to reach.
How was it Adolphe had never spoken to me of all these matters? So far reaching were the vistas that opened before me every moment, that I was bewildered. Did Adolphe think all this of little use in connection with the art and practice of literature? Or was it that the kind of literature he wanted me to produce could dispense with all such knowledge? I had often noticed his father shrug his shoulders at our theatrical schemes; was it not perchance that his father, who knew so many things, laughed in his sleeve at me for being so ignorant? And M. Deviolaine, who instinctively (for, except as a valuer and in questions of forestry, he hardly knew more than I did) called my attempts filth and my efforts at poetry mere rubbish, could he by chance be right?
Of course, one could read, work and study, but how was it possible to keep all the things I had heard about since the previous evening in my mind without revealingthem? I resolved to have an open talk about it all with Adolphe.
At half-past five I reached M. de Leuven's house, but Adolphe had not yet returned: he was reading at the Gymnase a play he had written in collaboration with Frédéric Soulié. He put in an appearance at a quarter to six, looking more melancholy and more thoughtful than Hippolytus on the road to Mycenæ.
"Well, my poor friend," said I, "refused again?"
"No," he replied; "but only accepted subject to correction."
"Then all hope is not lost?"
"True. Dormeuil made us go into his office, after the reading, and as he thought there were tedious passages in the piece, he said to us,'My dear fellows, my dear fellows, it must be cut down to the quick.' At these words Soulié snatched the play out of his hands, crying, 'Monsieur Dormeuil, not a hand must be laid on it.' So, you will understand, Dormeuil is furious."
"Who is Dormeuil?"
"One of the managers of the Gymnase."
"And that means...."
"And that means that Soulié has vowed the piece shall be played as it is or not at all."
"The deuce! Then Soulié doesn't mind if his things get played or not?"
"You do not know that fellow's obstinacy; there is no way of turning him. Did you hear what he said to Warez?"
"Who is Warez?"
"Warez is manager to Madame Oudinot, proprietor of the Ambigu."
"Well, what did he say to Warez?"
"We took him a melodrama to read, calledKenilworth Castle;Warez read it. He was not very much struck with the work. When we went, yesterday, for his answer, 'Gentlemen,' he said to us, 'will you allow me to read your play to M. Picard?' 'Ah!' replies Soulié, 'in order that he can steal the idea from us. 'What! Monsieur Soulié,' exclaims Warez, 'steal your playfrom you—an Academician!' 'Well,' says Soulié, 'three-fourths of the Academicians certainly steal their places, why should they stick at stealing other people's work?' I need not tell you, my dear friend, that that meant another closed door! I had some sort of an idea of going to Mademoiselle Lévesque, who is all powerful at the theatre, to offer her the part of Marie Stuart, which is magnificent...."
"Well?"
"You know what happened to Casimir Delavigne, at the reading of theVêpres siciliennes, at the Théâtre-Français?"