"Why should I make Mélesville's acquaintance?" I ventured to ask timidly.
"Why, to work along with him, to be sure. If you worked with Mélesville, your future would be assured."
I looked at Porcher.
"Listen, monsieur," I said; "lam awfully afraid that what I am going to say to you may displease you."
"Oh! oh!" Porcher began. "You are not going to say anything against M. Mélesville to me, are you?"
"Heaven forbid, monsieur; no! I have only seen M. Mélesville once or twice, I believe, at the most: he is a man of about thirty-five, is he not?"
"Yes."
"Dark and thin?"
"Yes."
"Always laughing?"
"Yes."
"With a splendid set of teeth?"
"That is he."
"Well, M. Mélesville is a man of infinite genius."
"He is indeed!"
"But I have an ambition."
"What is it?"
"To succeed by my own efforts in a year or two's time."
"At what house?"
"At the Théâtre-Français."
"Ah! ah!—that would be a bad job."
"At the Théâtre-Français?"
"Yes."
"For whom?"
"For me."
"Why?"
"Ah! you have no idea of the difficulties they make over their tickets at that deuced theatre. Never mind! Authors' rights are good, and if you manage to get in there, why! you will do very well ... only, I warn you, it won't be an easy matter."
"I know that well enough; but I know M. Talma slightly."
"Oh! all right, then; that is equivalent to the Roman saying, I know the pope.' Good, excellent, magnificent! Go ahead ... but don't forget that your first transactions were with Porcher."
"I will remember."
"Have a good memory; people with good memories are generally good-hearted."
"Monsieur, I think you are a living proof of your own statement."
"Why so?"
"Because you have mentioned the name of Mélesville three times."
"Mélesville! Why, monsieur, I would kill myself for his sake."
"I will not be so inquisitive as to inquire the reason of this devotion."
"Oh, it is easily explained. I was a hairdresser and used to cut M. Mélesville's hair; he was in Fortune's good books, but that didn't matter! he wrote plays. Ten or twelve years ago that was, and then authors did not sell their tickets, they gave them away."
"Monsieur Porcher, believe me, if I were richer I would give you mine with the greatest pleasure."
"You do not understand: tickets, in those times, were given away, not sold. M. Mélesville, then, gave me his tickets; I went to see his plays with friends, and I applauded. He produced so many plays, and gave me so many tickets, that an idea came into my head; namely, instead of taking them and giving them away for nothing, to buy them from him, and sell them, so I proposed the business to him. 'You are a simpleton, Porcher,' he said to me. 'What the deuce could you make out of that?' 'Let me try.' 'Oh, try if you like, my dear fellow.' I tried it, monsieur, and it succeeded. From that time, I have carried on my little business, and if I ever acquire a fortune, it will be to M. Mélesville I shall owe it. Come home with me, and I will show you his portrait along with those of my wife and children."
I have been several times to Porcher's home since then,—probably a hundred times to ask his help, once only to give him assistance,—and every time I have been there I have looked at Mélesville's portrait, raised by the gratitude of thatworthy man to the level of those of his wife and children. Once, Porcher had something or other to ask of Cavé, when Cavé was Director of the Beaux-Arts. I took Porcher to Cavé's house, and I said to the latter—
"Look here, I am bringing you a man who has done more for literature during the past five-and-twenty years than you and your predecessors and successors have done, or will do, in a century."
And I only said what was true. It never enters the head of any literary struggler to apply to the Minister of the Interior or to the Director of the Beaux-Arts in his pecuniary difficulties. But it does occur to him to apply to Porcher, and he will be aided. He will find a cheerful face and open bank at Porcher's—two things he will certainly not find at the Home Office. Théaulon, Soulié and Balzac among the dead, and all authors now alive, will bear me out.
During the past five-and-twenty years Porcher has probably lent to literary men 500,000 francs. I am as grateful on my own account to Porcher, as Porcher was to Mélesville, and when I visit him nowadays I feel both proud and delighted to see my own portrait, in bust, pastel and medallion, hanging up beside the portraits of his own children. But I am the most grateful of all for those first fifty francs he gave me, which I carried to my mother, and which revived in her heart the heavenly flower of hope that had begun to fade! And ask Madame Porcher, who has known all the finest minds in France, to let you see some of the charming letters she has received. She certainly ought to publish a selection from them. They would not yield in interest to those of Madame de Sévigné, although they would be of a somewhat different nature. We will select one at haphazard, sent her by an author of our acquaintance; it is not one of mine, though the signature is extraordinarily like mine. He had asked for the modest loan of a hundred francs, and had received the reply that he must wait for a few days, after which the transaction could in all probability be carried out. This is the letter:—
"'Wait a few days,'madame! Why, that is the same as telling a man whose head is to be cut off to dance a jig—or make a pun; why, in a few days I shall be a millionaire! I shall have got five hundred francs! If I apply to you, if I bother you, it is because I am reduced to such a state of wretchedness that I could even give points to Job—the most unfortunate hero of times past. If you do not send the hundred francs by my slave, I shall squander my last remaining sous in procuring a clarionette and a poodle-dog, and I shall come and perform with them in front of your door, with the inscription writ large on my stomach: 'Have pity on a literary man whom Madame Porcher has deserted.' Would you have me come and ask you for the hundred francs on my head, or cry, 'Vive la république,' or marry Mademoiselle Moralès?—Would you rather I went to l'Odéon, or unearthed talentà Cachardy, or worechapeaux gibus? I will do exactly what you command me, if only you will send me the hundred francs. Send it me ten times over rather than not at all! With deepest and reiterated devotion,X——"P. S.—It does not matter to me whether the hundred francs are in silver, in gold or in notes—send whichever is convenient to you."
"'Wait a few days,'madame! Why, that is the same as telling a man whose head is to be cut off to dance a jig—or make a pun; why, in a few days I shall be a millionaire! I shall have got five hundred francs! If I apply to you, if I bother you, it is because I am reduced to such a state of wretchedness that I could even give points to Job—the most unfortunate hero of times past. If you do not send the hundred francs by my slave, I shall squander my last remaining sous in procuring a clarionette and a poodle-dog, and I shall come and perform with them in front of your door, with the inscription writ large on my stomach: 'Have pity on a literary man whom Madame Porcher has deserted.' Would you have me come and ask you for the hundred francs on my head, or cry, 'Vive la république,' or marry Mademoiselle Moralès?—Would you rather I went to l'Odéon, or unearthed talentà Cachardy, or worechapeaux gibus? I will do exactly what you command me, if only you will send me the hundred francs. Send it me ten times over rather than not at all! With deepest and reiterated devotion,
X——
"P. S.—It does not matter to me whether the hundred francs are in silver, in gold or in notes—send whichever is convenient to you."
[1]"A couplet written for effect and especially notable for the wealth of its rhymes."—LITTRÉ.
[1]"A couplet written for effect and especially notable for the wealth of its rhymes."—LITTRÉ.
The success of my first play—My three stories—M. Marie and his orthography—Madame Setier—A bad speculation—ThePâtre, by Montvoisin—TheOreiller—Madame Desbordes-Valmore—How she became a poetess—Madame Amable Tastu—TheDernier jour de l'année—Zéphire
The success of my first play—My three stories—M. Marie and his orthography—Madame Setier—A bad speculation—ThePâtre, by Montvoisin—TheOreiller—Madame Desbordes-Valmore—How she became a poetess—Madame Amable Tastu—TheDernier jour de l'année—Zéphire
La Chasse et l'Amourwas played at a special performance on 22 September 1825. It was an immense success. Dubourjal took the principal part; I entirely forget who were the other actors. I should certainly have forgotten the title of the play as well as the names of the actors, if I had not wished to indicate the starting-point of the hundred dramas I shall probably compose, as I shall presently indicate the starting-point of the six hundred volumes I have written. This success inspired Porcher with sufficient confidence to lend me a hundred crowns in addition to what I had already had, and on the strength of my future tickets. Now you shall hear what became of the hundred crowns. Whilstla Chasse et l'Amourwas in rehearsal, and whilst I was looking about me for a subject to start work upon with Lassagne, I had written a little book of tales that I wished to publish. It was the period of great successes in small matters; I have previously made the same remark with reference to Soumet'sPauvre Filleand M. Guirand'sSavoyards, and I repeat it. It was the same with regard to two or three stories just published by Madame de Duras and Madame de Salm, though not with regard to mine. I did not thoroughly understand the nature of these successes, or, more correctly, of the sensation they produced. I did not realise the part played by the social position of illustrious authors, and I did not see why Ishould not have the same reputation and the same success with respect to my stories that Mesdames de Duras and de Salm (Ourika, etc.) had had with theirs. I had written three tales, which formed a small volume, and I offered this little volume to six publishers who refused it at the first glance, and, to give them their due, without the least hesitation. These three tales were calledLaurette,Blanche de Beaulieuand—but I have totally forgotten the title of the third. But ofBlanche de BeaulieuI have since made theRose rouge; and from the third, the title of which I have forgotten, I constructed theCocher de Cabriolet.After encountering refusal after refusal at the publishers, and being convinced that the appearance of my book would produce quite as great a sensation in the literary world asOurika, I made up my mind to print the volume at my own expense.
There lived somewhere, at that time, a man who put forth a most peculiar claim. He claimed to upset all the rules of orthography, and to substitute for them an orthography without any rule. According to his notion, each word ought to be written as it was pronounced, and he did not trouble his head whether it were derived from Greek or Celtic, Latin, Arabic or Spanish. Thus he would write the adverbaucunement, of which we have just made use,oqunemen.
It was difficult enough to read, but he considered it much easier to write. His name was M. Marle. M. Marle hunted far and wide for recruits for his orthography; he realised that he could not bring about any revolution unless, Attila-like, he could muster a force of a million or so of followers.
Now, having doubtless made up his mind that men of letters, and vaudevillists in particular, would be the most likely of all to disregard correct orthography, he made special efforts to raise recruits among us, and, worthy man, he published a journal written in the strange tongue we have above referred to. He published the journal at a printing-office owned by Setier, who lived in the cour des Fontaines. When I made M. Marie's acquaintance, I also made that of M. and Madame Setier. Madame Setier was a remarkablewoman. She was English, or, at any rate, she knew the language perfectly. She offered to translate some English plays for me, which she made out I could easily get taken up on the French stage. As the cour des Fontaines was close to my office, to which, as I have said, I was obliged to go back every evening, and also close to the passage Véro-Dodat where my friend Thibaut lived, to whom I went every day, I frequently called in at the establishment in the cour des Fontaines.
When my three stories were finished, I gave them to Madame Setier to read. Madame Setier, being a woman, had an indulgent nature; she thought my stories charming, and got her husband to print them at half his usual prices. A thousand copies of the tales—I thought we couldn't print too many—would cost 600 francs, and M. Setier agreed to print them for 300. He would stand the remaining 300 francs. After he had repaid himself the 300 francs, we were to divide the profits in equal shares between us. That was why I asked Porcher to lend me 300 francs upon my next tickets as author. I took my 300 francs to M. Setier, handed him my MS. and, two days later, I experienced the delight of correcting my first proofs. Who would have thought that what at that time gave me great joy would, in after life, become a weariness to the flesh?
At the end of a month, during whichla Chasse et l'Amourhad a triumphant run, bringing me in 180 francs in author's royalties and in the sale of my tickets, my volume of stories appeared under my name, with the titleNouvelles contemporaines.
Four copies of it were sold, and an article on it was written in theFigaro.The article was by Étienne Arago. When this chapter appears, I hope he will have returned to France. In any case, should it come under his notice, in his exile, great will be his surprise, no doubt, to find that I recollect, after a lapse of twenty-five years, an article which he will have forgotten. The four copies sold brought in ten francs to M. Setier's till. Thus, M. Setier was out of pocket to the tune of 290 francs forhaving printed theNouvelles contemporaines, and I 300 francs for having written them. It was an unlucky speculation for both of us. I then remembered the advice given me by a very shrewd publisher, M. Bossange—
"Make a name for yourself, and then I will publish your works."
That was just the very difficulty!To make a name for oneself!It is the condition laid down for every man who sets forth to carve his own career. When it is first put to him, he asks himself, in despair, how the condition is ever to be fulfilled; and, nevertheless, he fulfils it.
I do not believe in the existence of ignored talent, or in genius that remains unknown. There must have been reasons why Gilbert and Hégésippe Moreau died in the hospitals. There must have been reasons why Escousse and Lebras committed suicide. It is a hard thing to say, but neither of these two poor foolish fellows, if they had lived, would have earned by the end of twenty years' work the reputation that Béranger's epitaph gave them.
So I set to work very earnestly to make a name sufficient to sell my books, in order that I should no longer have to pay half the cost of printing them. And, moreover, that name, short and humble though it was, had already begun to be known in the land. Vatout had read myOde au général Foyand myNouvelles contemporaines(for it will be realised that the sale of only four copies had given a wide field to my generosity in the matter of presentation copies), and one day he sent me three or four lithographs, asking me to take one, and compose some lines to go under it. This requires explanation. Vatout published theGalerie du Palais-Royal.It was a sumptuously printed work and appeared under the patronage of the Duc d'Orléans. It was a lithographic reproduction of all the pictures in the gallery of the Palais-Royal, with notices, information or lines composed in their honour by all the literary men of the day. It would therefore seem that I was included among these literary personages, since Vatout asked me for some lines. My reasoning thus wasmore in the nature of sophistry than a dilemma; but, as I had no one with whom to discuss the matter, it presented itself to me as a dilemma and became an encouragement to me. Oh! there was nothing I needed then more than encouragement from all sides. I selected a print depicting a Roman shepherd lad, after a picture by Montvoisin. The boy was lying down asleep in the shade of a clump of vines. I do not reproduce the verses I made on this subject for their merit, but rather as an interesting study of my progress in poetical diction:—
"Il est une heure plus brûlanteOù le char du soleil, au zénith arrêté,Suspend sa course dévorante,Et verse des torrents de flamme et de clarté.Alors, un ciel d'airain pèse au loin sur la terre,Les monts sont désertés, la plaine est solitaire,L'oiseau n'a plus de voix pour chanter ses amours,Et, sur la rive desséchée,La fleur implore en vain, immobile et penchée,Le ruisseau tari dans son cours.Il est une place au bocageOù, s'arrondissant en berceaux,Le lierre et la vigne sauvageSe prolongent en verts arceaux.C'est là qu'étendu sous l'ombrage,Un berger du prochain villageTrouve un sommeil réparateur;Et près de lui son chien fidèleVeille, attentive sentinelle,Sur les troupeaux et le pasteur.Tu dors! jeune fils des montagnes,Et mon œil, aux débris épars autour de toi,Reconnaît ces vastes campagnes,Où florissait le peuple roi!Tu dors! et, des mortels ignorant le délire,Nul souvenir de gloire à ton cœur ne vient direQue tes membres lasses ont trouvé le reposSur la poussière d'un empireEt sur la cendre des héros.Ces grands noms, qu'aux siècles qui naissentLèguent les siècles expirants,Et qui toujours nous apparaissentDebout sur les débris des ans,De nos cœurs sublimes idoles,Sont pour toi de vaines paroles,Dont les sons ne t'ont rien appris;Et, si ta bouche les répète,C'est comme l'écho qui rejetteDes accents qu'il n'a pas compris.Conserve donc cette ignorance,Gage d'un paisible avenir,Et qu'une molle indifférenceT'épargne même un souvenir.Que de tes jours le flot limpideCoule comme un ruisseau timideQui murmure parmi des fleurs,Et, loin des palais de la terre,Voit dans son onde solitaireLe ciel réfléchir ses couleurs.Si du fleuve orageux des âgesTu voulais remonter les bords,Que verrais-tu, sur ces rivages?Du sang, des débris et des morts;Les lâches clameurs de l'envieLa vertu toujours poursuivie,Aux yeux des rois indifférents;Et, profanant les jours antiques,Sur la cendre des républiques,Des autels dressés aux tyrans.Que dirais-tu, lorsque l'histoireViendrait dérouler à tes yeuxSes fastes sanglants, où la gloireRecueille les erreurs des cieux?Ici, les fils de Cornélie,Que tour à tour la tyrannieÉcrase, en passant, sous son char;Là, trahi du dieu des batailles,Caton déchirant ses entraillesPour fuir le pardon de César!Près de ces illustres victimes,Que pleure encor la liberté,Tu verrais, puissants de leurs crimes,Les grands fonder l'impunité:Lorsque sa rage est assouvie,Un Sylla terminant sa vie,Tranquille au toit de ses aïeux;Un Tibère que l'on encense,Et qu'à sa mort un peuple immensOse placer au rang des dieux.Alors, à cette heure voilée,Où l'ombre remplace le jour,Quand les échos de la valléeRedisent de doux chants d'amour,Seul peut-être, au pied des collines,D'où Rome sort de ses ruines,Viendrais-tu sans chiens, sans troupeaux,Et, regrettant ton ignorance,Fuirais-tu les jeux et la danse,Pour soupirer sur des tombeaux!"
Meanwhile, M. Marle had been obliged to give up his journal, and Adolphe and I proposed to turn his two or three hundred subscribers to account by making of these good folk a nucleus for a monthly publication. After a great deal of discussion as to whether the publication had better be in prose or verse, we decided it should be both in verse and prose and should be styledPsyché.This was an admirable way for me to publish all I had previously written both in prose and verse without having to pay half the expense. Neither prose nor poetry inserted inPsychéwould bring us in anything, but at the same time it would not cost us anything. We published, at this period, some delightful verses by Madame Desbordes-Valmore and by Madame Amable Tastu. Here are those by Madame Desbordes-Valmore:—
"Cher petit oreiller, doux et chaud sous ma tête,Plein de plume choisie, et blanc, et fait pour moi,Quand on a peur du vent, des loups, de la tempête,Cher petit oreiller, que l'on dort bien sur toi!Beaucoup, beaucoup d'enfants pauvres et nus, sans mère,Sans maison, n'ont jamais d'oreiller pour dormir;Ils ont toujours sommeil.... O destinée amère!Cela, douce maman, cela me fait gémir....Et, quand j'ai prié Dieu pour tous ces petits angesQui n'ont point d'oreiller, moi, j'embrasse le mien,Et, seul en mon doux nid, qu'à tes pieds tu m'arranges,Je te bénis, ma mère, et je touche le tien!Je ne m'éveillerai qu'à la lueur premièreDe l'aube au rideau bleu; c'est si beau de la voir!Je vais faire, tout has, ma plus tendre prière;Donne encore un baiser, douce maman; bonsoir!
PRIÈRE"Dieu des enfants! le cœur d'une petite fille,Plein de prière, écoute, est ici dans tes mains.Hélas! on m'a parlé d'orphelins sans famille;Dans l'avenir, mon Dieu, ne fais plus d'orphelins!Laisse descendre, au soir, un ange qui pardonne,Pour répondre à des voix que l'on entend gémir;Mets, sous l'enfant perdu que sa mère abandonne,Un petit oreiller qui le fera dormir!"
Madame Desbordes-Valmore was born at Douai.
"I was my mother's last born, and her only fair child," she wrote to me once, "and I was christened with special honours on account of the colour of my hair, which was much admired in my mother's case. She was as beautiful as a Madonna, and everybody hoped I should be like her in everything; but I only resembled her slightly, and if I have ever been loved, it has certainly been for other attractions than great beauty. My father was a heraldic painter; he also painted arms on carriages and church decorations. His house was close to the cemetery of the lowly parish of Notre-Dame de Douai. I thought the dear old house very big when I quitted it at the age of seven; but I have since seen it, and it is oneof the smallest and meanest in the town. All the same, I love it better than any other place in the whole world, for I have never really had such peace and happiness as there. Then, suddenly, came great and overwhelming misery, when my father could get no more carriages to paint or coats of arms to design.... I was four when France was going through the period of its greatest troubles. My father's great-uncles, who had been previously exiled to Holland, at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, offered their immense inheritance to us if we would renounce the Catholic faith for Protestantism. These two uncles were centenarians and lived in Amsterdam, unmarried, where they had established a publishing-house. I possess some books printed by them in my poor little library. A family council was called. My mother wept sorely; my father was in a state of vacillation and kissed us. Finally, the inheritance was declined from fear of selling our souls, and we remained in our miserable state of poverty, which grew worse and worse as the months passed by, leaving an impression of unhappiness on me which has never been obliterated. My mother was brave and daring, and she made up her mind to go to America to look for a wealthy relative there, in the hope of re-establishing the fortunes of her family. Her four children shuddered at the prospect of the voyage, so she only took me with her. I was willing enough to go with her, but the sacrifice cost me all my lightness of heart, for I worshipped my father as one worships God Himself. That long journey, the seaports, the great ocean filled me with terror, and I sheltered against my mother's garments as my only harbour of refuge. When we reached America, my mother found her cousin a widow, driven from her estate by the negroes. The colony had risen in revolt, and the yellow fever was raging in all its horror. Awakened thus rudely from her cherished dream, she could not bear up under the fresh blow that had overtaken us. It killed her, and she died at the age of forty-one. I nearly died by her side when they took me in my mourning dress from the rapidly depopulating isle and shipped me fromvessel to vessel, until I was restored again to my relatives, who were now poorer than ever. Then it was that the theatre offered us a harbour of refuge. I was taught to sing; I tried hard to recover my cheerfulness of disposition but it was of no use; I managed better in melancholy or passion-fraught parts. That is practically the whole of my life-story. I was taken on at the Théâtre Feydeau, and everybody predicted a brilliant future before me. I was made a member before I was sixteen, without either hoping or asking for it; but at that time my insignificant part only brought me in eighty francs per month, and the poverty with which I struggled passes description. I was obliged to sacrifice the future for the sake of the present, and for my father's sake I returned to the provinces. At twenty, a great sorrow compelled me to give up singing. The very sound of my voice would set me weeping; but the music still rang in my unhappy head, and the measured rhythms unwittingly forced my thoughts to keep pace with them. I felt compelled to commit my fevered ideas to paper, and when it was done I was told I had written an elegy. M. Alibert, who looked after my very frail health, recommended me to write as a curative, for he knew nought else that would be of any avail. I followed his advice without any knowledge or study of my subject. And this gave me much extra trouble, because I could never find the right words to express my thoughts. My first volume was published in 1822. You asked, dear friend, how I came to be a poet. I can only answer you by telling you how I came to write."
Madame Tastu had had a less troublous and unhappy life, and one discerns it in the calm pulsations of her lines. She had quite simply accepted, her position as a woman, and given her life to her mother, to her husband, to her children.
She had lived her life in the light of these three loves, desiring nothing beyond them, regretting nothing, pouring forth poetry from her heart when it became too full to containitself, as water overflows from a too full vessel. The following example will give some idea of her gentle, melancholy style:—
"Déjà la rapide journéeFait place aux heures du sommeil,Et du dernier fils de l'annéeS'est enfui le dernier soleil.Près du foyer, seule, inactive,Livrée aux souvenirs puissants,Ma pensée erre, fugitive,Des jours passés aux jours présents.Ma vue, au hasard arrêtée,Longtemps de la flamme agitéeSuit les caprices éclatants,Ou s'attache à l'acier mobileQui compte sur l'émail fragileLes pas silencieux du Temps.Encore un pas, encore une heure,Et l'année aura, sans retour,Atteint sa dernière demeure,L'aiguille aura fini son tour!Pourquoi de mon regard avideLa poursuivre ainsi tristement,Quand je ne puis, d'un seul moment,Retarder sa marche rapide?Du temps qui vient de s'écoulerSi quelques jours pouvaient renaître,Il n'en est pas un seul, peut-être,Que ma voix daignât rappeler ...Mais des ans la fuite m'étonne;Leurs adieux oppressent mon cœur.Je dis: 'C'est encore une fleurQue l'âge enlève à ma couronne,Et livre au torrent destructeur;C'est une ombre ajoutée à l'ombreQui déjà s'étend sur mes jours,Un printemps retranché du nombreDe ceux dont je verrai le cours!'Écoutons ... le timbre sonoreLentement frémit douze fois;Il se tait ... je l'écoute encore,Et l'année expire à sa voix.C'en est fait! en vain je l'appelle!Adieu!... Salut, sa sœur nouvelle!Salut!... quels dons chargent ta main?Quel bien nous apporte ton aile?Quels beaux jours dorment dans ton sein?Que dis-je! à mon âme tremblanteNe révèle pas tes secrets!D'espoir, de jeunesse et d'attraits,Aujourd'hui tu parais brillante;Et ta course, insensible et lente,Peut-être amène les regrets.Ainsi chaque soleil se lèveTémoin de nos vœux insensés,Et, chaque jour, son cours s'achèveEn emportant, comme un vain rêve,Nos vœux déçus et dispersés ...Mais l'espérance fantastique,Répandant sa clarté magiqueDans la nuit du sombre avenir,Nous guide, d'année en d'année,Jusqu'à l'aurore fortunéeDu jour qui ne doit point finir!"
There was still another poet at this time, a most charming poet, whose very name is now, perhaps, forgotten save by myself, and I registered a vow never to forget him. He was called Denne-Baron. We published a poem by him calledZéphire, that Prudhon's picture had inspired him to write.
Here it is. Tell me if you have ever read smoother lines:—
"Il est un demi-dieu, charmant, léger, volage;Il devance l'aurore, et, d'ombrage en ombrage,Il fuit devant le char du jour;Sur son dos éclatant, où frémissent deux ailes,S'il portait un carquois et des flèches cruelles,Vos yeux le prendraient pour l'Amour.C'est lui qu'on voit, le soir, quand les heures voiléesEntr'ouvrent du couchant les portes étoilées,Glisser dans l'air à petit bruit;C'est lui qui donne encore une voix aux Naïades,Des soupirs à Syrinx, des concerts aux DryadesEt de doux parfums à la nuit.Zéphire est son doux nom; sa légère origine,Pure comme l'éther, trompa l'œil de Lucine,Et n'eut pour témoins que les airs;D'un souffle du printemps, d'un soupir de l'aurore,Dans son liquide azur, le ciel le vit écloreComme un alcyon sur les mers.Ce n'est point un enfant, mais il sort de l'enfance;Entre deux myrtes verts, tantôt il se balance;Tantôt il joue au bord des eaux,Ou glisse sur un lac, ou promène sur l'ondeLes filets d'Arachné, la feuille vagabonde,Et le nid léger des oiseaux.Souvent sur les hauteurs du Cynthe ou d'Érymanthe,Sous les abris voûtés d'une source écumanteIl lutine Diane au bain;Ou, quand, aux bras de Mars, Vénus s'est endormie,Sur leur couche effeuillant un rosier d'Idalie,Il les cache aux yeux de Vulcain.Parfois, aux antres creux,—palais bizarre et sombreDe la sauvage Écho, du sommeil et de l'ombre,—Du Lion il fuit les ardeurs;Parfois, dans un vieux chêne, aux forêts de Cybèle,Dans le calme des nuits il berce Philomèle,Son nid, ses chants et ses malheurs.O puisses-tu, Zéphire, auprès de ton poëte,Pour seul prix de mes vers, au fond de ma retraiteCaresser un jour mes vieux ans!Et, si le sort le veut, puisse un jour ton haleineSur les bords fortunés de mon petit domaineBercer mes épis jaunissants!"
Talma's illness—How he would have actedTasso—His nephews—He receives a visit from M. de Quélen—Why his children renounced his faith—His death—La Noce et l'Enterrement—Oudard lectures me on my fondness for theatre-going—The capital reply that put the Palais-Royal in a gay humour—I still keep the confidence of Lassagne and de la Ponce—I obtain a success anonymously at the Porte-Saint-Martin
Talma's illness—How he would have actedTasso—His nephews—He receives a visit from M. de Quélen—Why his children renounced his faith—His death—La Noce et l'Enterrement—Oudard lectures me on my fondness for theatre-going—The capital reply that put the Palais-Royal in a gay humour—I still keep the confidence of Lassagne and de la Ponce—I obtain a success anonymously at the Porte-Saint-Martin
In the midst of these first literary labours, into which we had flung ourselves with all the ardour of youth, terrible news for the cause of art spread throughout Paris. Talma was attacked with a fatal disease. He had just reached the zenith of his talent, perhaps, in his last creation of theDémence de Charles VI.The reader will recollect the call Adolphe and I paid him, and how, as he was feeling better, he was hoping to return to the theatre to playTibère, and his pointing to his lean cheeks which would serve him admirably in taking upon himself the rôle of the aged emperor. But Talma was struck with a mortal disease. Charles VI. was to be his last appearance—an appearance finer than any of the creations of his youth or of his mature years—and Michelot was destined to take the part of Tiberius. We were not the only people, for that matter, to have similar recollections. Towards the close of Talma's life he made a short stay at Enghien, where Firmin went to see him. Firmin was just going to actTasso, which had been allotted to Talma, but which he had been obliged to renounce. Talma was very fond of Firmin; his enthusiasm enchanted him, and he had often given him advice.
"Well, my dear friend," he said to him, "so you are going to playTasso?"
"To my infinite regret," was Firmin's reply. "I would much rather have seen you play it; it would have been a study for me and I should have learnt a lesson from it."
"It is but a poor play," said Talma, "although there is a fine scene in the fifth act, where, in the hope of restoring reason to the poor madman, people tell him of the honours that are being prepared for him and of the crown awaiting him. And, as you are aware, Firmin, at the wordcouronnehe seems to realise what is being said to him. 'A crown for me!' he exclaims. 'If that be so, Alphonse will no longer refuse me his sister!... Where is this crown? Where is it?' Then, when they show it him, he looks at it and says sorrowfully, 'It is not a golden crown, only a laurel wreath ... the brother will never give his consent!' Listen, Firmin," said Talma; "this is how I should play it...."
And, sitting half up in his bed, he went through the scene in such telling accents, and with such pathetic and dejected expression, filled throughout with both despair and insanity, that Firmin, who knew nothing but what he had just seen, felt inclined to throw up the part.
Towards the beginning of October, the improvement which had somewhat restored hope disappeared, and the disease made such rapid progress that Talma himself expressed a desire to see those whom he loved best, whose occupations placed them at a distance from him. Among these was his nephew, Amédée Talma, a surgeon-dentist at Brussels. He arrived on 9 October, and never left his uncle till the end. After the sick man had been prepared for this visitor, Amédée Talma entered the room and went up to his uncle's bedside. Talma held out his hand, drew him close and kissed him. It was dark, but the young man saw by the dampness of his uncle's cheek that he was weeping. The sick man, however, soon recovered himself, and, after a moment's pause, he said—
"You must not stay here more than two or three days. Your business will not admit of longer absence. I sent for you because you have known for a long time the disease I amsuffering from, and my doctors wish to learn what you can tell them about it before they were called in."
A fresh consultation was therefore held on the 12th, at which the young doctor was present. Only two or three out of the eleven medical men present thought there was any hope. Still, the new remedies suggested allayed the attacks of vomiting, and these ceased altogether towards the end. When the doctors came to his bedside, Talma said to them—
"Well, is it all up? I will do anything you desire ... but I doubt if you can pull me through, and I have reconciled myself to the inevitable. But the thing that troubles me most and what I want you to care for most is my eyesight: I am afraid I am going to lose my sight."
Another of Talma's nephews, named Charles Jeannin, arrived from Brussels on the 16th. The greatest precautions were necessary in breaking the news of this fresh visitor to Talma. Nothing that went on round him escaped his notice. MM. Dupuytren, Biett and Begin were standing by the fireplace talking in low voices, when Talma caught a word or two of their conversation.
"What are you talking about?" he asked.
M. Dupuytren did not answer him, but went up to Amédée Talma. "I was asking these gentlemen," he said to the young man, "whether Talma had been told of the archbishop's visits."
As a matter of fact, the archbishop called almost daily, but they had not allowed him to see the patient.
"The archbishop?" repeated Talma. "What are you saying about the archbishop?"
Amédée hastened to reply—
"M. Dupuytren was telling these gentlemen, uncle, that the Archbishop of Paris has called every day to ask after you."
"Oh! what good a fellow the archbishop is!" Talma exclaimed. "I am much touched by his remembering me.... I used to meet him at the house of the Princesse de Wagram: he is a very excellent man."
"Yes," Amédée reiterated,—"yes, he has called nearly every day."
"Here?" Talma asked.
"Here; I have spoken to him myself twice; I have even promised him that, when you are better, you will see him."
"Oh! no, no," said Talma quickly; "but when I am better he shall be the first on whom I will call. I remember once he was good enough to send an ecclesiastic to me to tell me that he had nothing to do with the insult put on my children in the matter of the distribution of prizes and that the whole blame should fall on the headmaster of the school."
I will give the story of what had happened: the event wounded Talma to the quick, for he adored his two children.
The Archbishop of Paris was asked to preside at a prize distribution at the College Morin. Now it seems that the authorities did not dare to ask the ecclesiastic to reward the two sons of the great actor, so the names of the two lads were omitted, and it was not until after M. de Quélen's departure that the prizes they had earned were handed to them privately. Talma instantly caused his two children to renounce the Catholic faith, and from that time they belonged to the Reformed religion.
The doctors withdrew, and, as they were leaving, M. Dupuytren said to Amédée—
"I am going to the château: if I meet the archbishop what shall I say to him?"
"Why, monsieur," the young man replied, "I do not think you can do better than tell him what we have just heard and my uncle's answer to what I said; if, later, my uncle asks for him, I shall have much pleasure in sending for him at once."
But, instead of following out these instructions, M. Dupuytren, who did not meet the archbishop, took upon himself to write to him and tell him he could go and see Talma. The archbishop made haste to attend to the request, which he had no idea came only from M. Dupuytren; but, as on previous occasions, he was received by Amédée Talma. On18 October M. Charles Jeannin was obliged to leave his uncle and return to keep an engagement in Brussels for the 20th. On 19 October, at six in the morning, seeing Amédée by his bedside, Talma said—
"What, my dear boy, have you not gone yet?"
"There was only one vacant seat in the diligence, uncle, and I gave it up to Charles, who was urgently wanted in Brussels."
"When do you go?"
"To-morrow morning."
"At what time?"
"Six o'clock ... if I can get a seat."
Talma gently shook his head.
"You are deceiving me," he said; "you have not been able to save me, and you wish to stay with me to the end.... If I had been a peasant from Brunoy, I could have been cured; but they have bungled over me.... However, my death will enable them to learn how they ought to treat someone else. So much for doctoring! Now go and fetch MM. Nicod and Jacquet."
These were his lawyers. The gardener was called and sent on this errand. Talma recognised him.
"Ah! is that you, Louette?" he said.
Then, turning to his nephew, he added—
"I have not paid him for the last two months; you must tell Madame it is most essential.... But, by the bye, where is Caroline?"
"She is asleep."
"Which means she is crying."
Madame Talma heard, and she came up to the bedside.
"What time is it?" Talma continued, not seeing her.
"Six o'clock, uncle."
"It is always six o'clock with you."
He tried to set going the repeater of his watch.
"I cannot any longer hear my watch," he said.
"Would you like a timepiece?"
"Yes; go and fetch me the one out of my bedroom."
His nephew went, and Madame Talma was exposed to view.
"Ah! there you are, Caroline," he said; "we must now put matters right for you."
His nephew brought the clock and put it on the night table.
"I am very unsightly, am I not, my good Amédée?" Talma remarked. "My beard is so long...."
"You shall have it trimmed to-day."
"Give me a looking-glass."
He took it and looked at himself.
"I tell you, Amédée, I am losing my sight; for pity's sake, have something done for my eyes. Oh! I shall lose them—I cannot see at all to-day."
The lawyers arrived and, with them, M. Davilliers. But Talma tried in vain to discuss business matters—he was past all that; he could only speak in whispers, although he believed he was speaking very loudly, and his speech grew more and more indistinct. MM. Arnault and de Jouy were announced. Talma signed for them to be brought to him. M. Arnault embraced Talma, to whom he was tenderly attached, and, as he did so, the word "Adieu" escaped from his lips.
"Are you going away, then?" asked Talma.
"Yes," Amédée answered hastily, "these gentlemen are going to Brussels."
Both men embraced him and, to hide their sobs, rushed quickly from the room; as Talma saw them go out he said—
"Quite right, be quick and go, then I shall hope to see you again soon; the sooner you go, the sooner you will come back."
When MM. de Jouy and Arnault had gone away, his two children were brought him, and Talma held out his hands to them, to be kissed. A few minutes later, he uttered three words—
"Voltaire!... like Voltaire!..."
Then, immediately afterwards, he murmured—
"The cruellest thing of all is to lose one's sight."
The next moment, some piece of furniture cracked very loudly, and Talma turned his head in the direction of the sound. A lady who had just arrived took advantage of this movement to say—
"Talma, it is I, Mademoiselle Menocq."
The dying man made a slight token of acknowledgment and pressed her hand. It struck half-past eleven. Talma took his handkerchief in both hands, lifted it up slowly to his mouth, wiped his lips and then put it behind his head, still holding it in both hands. After the lapse of a few seconds, his hands released their hold and fell down by his sides. His nephew took hold of the hand nearest him, and felt that his pressure was returned feebly. At eleven thirty-five, without any convulsion or muscular contraction of the face, one sigh escaped his lips—it was his last breath.
When Garrick died, four peers of England claimed it as an honour to bear the four corners of his pall, and to follow their English Roscius to his resting-place among the tombs of kings.
One hundred thousand persons followed Talma's funeral procession, but not a single representative from those in high places in the State were among the number.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lassagne had told me to think of a subject for a vaudeville. I had done so, and believed I had found one. It was in theArabian Nights, one of the episodes in the travels of Sinbad the sailor, I believe. I say "I believe," for I am not quite sure, and the matter is not really worth the trouble of ransacking my desk to find out. Sinbad, the indefatigable traveller, reaches a country where they bury wives with their husbands, and husbands with their wives. He imprudently marries; his wife dies, and he has a narrow escape of being buried with her. A mere trifle. But the episode suggested a vague plan, which I took to Lassagne.
Lassagne read it, and, if that were possible he was more kindly disposed towards me even than at the first, when hesaw how determined I was to succeed. With the exception of a few corrections, which he undertook to make, he decided that the scheme would serve. He therefore communicated with a clever young fellow named Vulpian, a friend of his, who was also later to become one of mine. Vulpian is one more name to be marked with a cross in these recollections; for he is dead. We met together two or three times and shared the task. This time I had to do with collaborators who were more punctilious in keeping their promises than poor Rousseau had been. At the first meeting, each of us had his part ready. We joined the three pieces together and made them into something like a harmonious whole. Lassagne undertook to put the polishing touches to the work, which took him three or four days. When this was done, the three authors, pronouncing it to be perfect, decided it should be read under the title ofla Noce et l'Enterrementat the Vaudeville, where Lassagne and Vulpian knew Désaugiers. Unluckily, Désaugiers, who was already affected with the disease that eventually killed him, was at home undergoing a second or third operation, and could not be present at the reading. The upshot of his absence was thatla Noce et l'Enterrementreceived almost as abrupt a refusal at the Vaudeville asla Chasse et l'Amourhad at the Gymnase. It seemed I was not to be favoured with good luck while I shared my work with others. I felt terribly discouraged. But I felt worse still the day after the reading, when Lassagne put in an appearance with an expression of gloom on his face. It was so rarely he was depressed that I rose from my seat feeling sure something was wrong.
"What is the matter now?" I asked.
"Matter enough, my poor friend; for somehow or other it has leaked out, although your name was not breathed at the reading, that I have written a play with you; and, in consequence, Oudard has just sent for me."
"Well?"
"Well, he made out I had given you a taste for literature;he says this taste will ruin your future career and he has made me pass my word of honour not only to cease helping you in any other play, but also to cast aside the one already finished."
"And did you promise?" I asked.
"I felt obliged to do so for your sake, Dumas. You haven't General Foy any longer to uphold your interests here. I don't know who has done you a bad turn by speaking to M. de Broval, but they do not at all look upon your literary propensities with friendly eyes."
I do not think my heart ever felt heavier. The two or three hundred francs whichla Chasse et l'Amourhad brought in had so sensibly lightened our circumstances, that I had been looking forward to the time when I should be drawing not merely twenty to twenty-five francs more per month, but earning four times that amount by literary work. Moreover, a portion of whatla Noce et l'Enterrementwas to bring me in was hypothecated to Porcher, who had lent me 300 francs. What Lassagne had just told me pretty well overthrew all my castles in Spain. It seemed to me most cruel to forbid me working for the drama out of office hours, and to insist that my mother, my son and I should be compelled to live on 125 francs per month. This feeling was so strong that it fired me with courage to go straight to Oudard. I entered his office with tears in my eyes but my voice under control.
"Is it true, monsieur," I asked, "that you have forbidden Lassagne to work with me?"
"Yes," was his reply. "Why do you ask me that?"
"Because I should not have thought you would have had the courage to do so."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, it seems to me a man needs courage to condemn three persons to live on a hundred and twenty-five francs a month."
"And it seems to me you ought to think yourself very fortunate to have the hundred and twenty-five francs per month, instead of despising them."
"I do not despise them, monsieur; on the contrary, I am very grateful to those who give them to me; only, I repeat that the sum is not sufficient and that I think I ought to be allowed the right to add to it so long as it does not interfere with attention to my office work."
"It may not interfere with your office work now, but it very soon will."
"That will be the time, then, for you to be anxious."
"It is really no affair of mine," said M. Oudard. "I simply and solely convey the views of the chief director."
"Of M. de Broval?"
"Yes, of M. de Broval."
"I thought M. de Broval pretended to foster literature."
"Literature? Perhaps he does ... but do you callla Chasse et l'Amourandla Noce et l'Enterrementliterature?"
"Most surely not, monsieur. But my name was not put on the bills at the Ambigu, wherela Chasse et l'Amourwas played, and it will not be put on the bills of the theatre, whatever it may be, which may acceptla Noce et l'Enterrement."
"Still, if you are ashamed to own those productions, why make them?"
"First, monsieur, because at present I do not feel myself able to do better, and because, such as they are, they bring comfort to our poverty ... yes, monsieur, to our poverty—I do not shrink from the truth. One day, you somehow learnt that I had sat up several nights to copy some stage plays which brought in four francs an act, and that, under the same conditions, I copied out M. Théaulon's comedy, theIndiscret,—well, you complimented me then on my pluck."
"Quite true."
"How then, may I ask, am I more guilty in making my own plays than in copying out those of others? You must, of course, be aware that Adolphe also writes plays?"
"Which Adolphe?"
"Adolphe de Leuven."
"What then?"
"Why, I heard you speak to M. de Broval the other day in support of Adolphe's request for a post in the offices of the Duc d'Orléans."
"M. Adolphe de Leuven was highly recommended to me."
"And I, monsieur, was not I also highly recommended to you? True, de Leuven was highly recommended to you by Benjamin Constant, General Gérard and Madame de Valence, whilst I was only recommended to you by General Foy."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means that Adolphe de Leuven's patrons are alive while my supporter is dead."
"M. Dumas!..."
"Oh! do not be put out. I see I have hit the right nail on the head."
"Then you absolutely insist on continuing your writing?"
"Yes, monsieur; I desire to do so both from inclination, and from necessity."
"Very well, produce literature like Casimir Delavigne's and instead of blaming you, we will give you encouragement."
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am not M. Casimir Delavigne's age, who has been poet laureate since 1811; neither have I received the education M. Casimir Delavigne had at one of the best colleges in Paris. No, I am only twenty-two; I am busy educating myself every day, probably at the cost of my health, for all I learn—and I assure you I am studying many subjects—I learn when other people are fast asleep or amusing themselves. So I cannot, just at this moment, produce work like M. Casimir Delavigne's. But, M. Oudard, I would ask you, in conclusion, to listen carefully to what I am about to say, strange though it may sound to your ears: if I did not believe I could do different work in days to come than M. Casimir Delavigne's, well, monsieur, I should meet you and M. de Broval more than half-way in your wishes, and at this very instant I would give you my sacred promise, I would take a solemn oath, never to touch literature again."
Oudard looked at me with expressionless eyes; for my pride took his breath away. I bowed to him and went out. Five minutes later, he went to M. Deviolaine to tell him of my insane carryings on. M. Deviolaine inquired if it were really in his presence, if it were really to him, that I had said such monstrous things.
"Yes, it was in my presence and to me," said Oudard.
"I will tell his mother about it," said M. Deviolaine; "and if he continues possessed with this madness, send him to me. I will take him into my office and see that he doesn't go altogether stark staring mad."
And, indeed, my mother was told that very same night. When I returned from making up the portfolio, I found her in tears. M. Deviolaine had sent for her, and told her of all that had passed between M. Oudard and me that morning. Next day, the crime of which I had been guilty was public property throughout the offices. The sixty-three clerks of His Royal Highness never lost an opportunity of saying to each other as they met, "Have you heard what Dumas said to M. Oudard yesterday?"
And the clerk to whom the question was addressed would reply with either a Yes or a No. If he replied in the negative, the story was related with corrections, embellishments and exaggerations, that did the greatest credit to the imagination of my colleagues. During the whole day and for several days to follow, homeric laughter could be heard throughout the corridors of the Maison de la rue Saint-Honoré No. 216. There was one solitary book-keeping clerk who had only been engaged the previous day, and whom no one as yet knew, who did not laugh.
"Why," said the others to him, "you aren't laughing."
"No."
"Why don't you laugh?"
"Because it doesn't seem to me a laughing matter."
"What! Don't you think it a huge joke that Dumas said he would do better things than Casimir Delavigne?"
"In the first place, he did not say he would do better, he said he would do something different."
"It is all the same."
"No, it is quite different."
"But do you know Dumas?"
"Yes, and because I know him I tell you he will do something; I don't know what it will be, but I tell you that that something will astonish everybody, save myself."
This employé, who had just joined the office, in the book-keeping department, was my old German and Italian master, Amédeé de la Ponce.
So there were two people out of the seventy-two persons, heads and employés, who composed His Royal Highness's official staff, who did not despair of me! Lassagne and he.
From this time began the warfare of which Lassagne had warned me when I first entered the office. But, no matter what the war was going to be like, or how long it was going to last, I made up my mind to fight to the end.
A week later, a ray of comfort came to me. Vulpian came to tell Lassagne and me that our play had been accepted by the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin for Serres' début.
So it will be seen I was gently drawing nearer to the Théâtre-Français, but I had learnt Italian enough to understand the 1 proverb, "Che va piano va sano."
The author's rights were also higher. The theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin paid eighteen francs for a vaudeville, and allowed twelve francs' worth of tickets.
So this meant for me eight francs per night instead of six;—exactly double, this time, what my office work brought me in.
La Noce et l'Enterrementwas played on 21 November 1826. My mother and I saw my play from the orchestra. As my name did not transpire, and as I was totally unknown, I experienced no inconvenience from allowing myself the satisfaction of being present. The play succeeded admirably; but, even as the Roman emperors, in their days of triumph, were reminded by a slave that they were mortal, so, lest my success should intoxicate me, Providence placed a neighbour on my left who remarked, as he rose at the fall of the curtain—
"Come, come, it isn't such stuff as this that will uphold the theatre."
My neighbour was right, and he knew what he was talking about all the more in that he was a fellow-writer.
The play was acted some forty times, and, as Porcher generously left me half my rights, claiming only the remaining half to liquidate previous advances, the four francs per night that I received from the tickets helped us to get over the winter of 1826 to 1827.
Soulié at the mechanical saw-mill—His platonic love of gold—I desire to write a drama with him—I translateFiesque—Death of Auguste Lafarge—My pay is increased and my position lowered—Félix Deviolaine, condemned by the medical faculty, is saved by illness—Louis XI. à Péronne—Talma's theatrical wardrobe—Theloi de justice et d'amour—The disbanding of the National Guard
Soulié at the mechanical saw-mill—His platonic love of gold—I desire to write a drama with him—I translateFiesque—Death of Auguste Lafarge—My pay is increased and my position lowered—Félix Deviolaine, condemned by the medical faculty, is saved by illness—Louis XI. à Péronne—Talma's theatrical wardrobe—Theloi de justice et d'amour—The disbanding of the National Guard
From that moment I made up my mind firmly; like Ferdinand Cortez, I had burnt my boats, and I had either to succeed or to hang myself. Unfortunately, I was not staking for myself alone; my poor mother was also equally involved in the game.
Although Soulié had been less fortunate than we had been, in not yet having had anything of his acted, I had divined what strength of imagination lay in his work, and I had decided to attempt a work of some importance in collaboration with him. At heart, I really agreed with M. Oudard's estimate of my first two productions, and I had shown it by not wishing my name to appear in connection with either of them, while, by some instinct that did not lead me far astray, I had signed theOde sur la mort du général Foy, theNouvelles contemporainesandPâtre romain.But I quite decided not to sign my name to any theatrical work until I could do something that would make a great sensation. Soulié had moved; he lodged near La Gare. By some means or other, he had become head of a saw-mill, in which upwards of a hundred workpeople were employed. In comparison with us, Soulié was wealthy. He had a small allowance from his father, plus his salary as manager of this industrial establishment; so he could jingle a little gold in his pockets, which was quite out of thequestion in our case. Soulié had a real passion for gold, and he liked to look at it and to handle it. Towards the close of his life, he was earning between forty and fifty thousand francs per annum; and, when he had contracts to pay by the end of the month, he would often keep the two or three thousand francs thus hypothecated, in his drawer, from the 15th to the 20th. Then, in order to procure the joy which the sight of gold gave him, he would change his five-francs piece or his bank-notes for napoleons, asking that the newest and most glittering coins should be sent him, even at the expense of four or five sous per napoleon,—for Soulié had not the good fortune to live in the happy period of the depreciation of gold,—then, when the end of the month came, it cost him such anguish to part from his gold, that, although the sum owing lay there in his drawer, he seldom settled his account when it was due, preferring to pay twenty, thirty, fifty or a hundred francs extra, in order to feast his eyes upon the rich metal for a few days longer. And yet nobody could be more generous or liberal-handed or lavish than Soulié. He loved gold; but do not misunderstand us, it was not after the fashion of a miser that he loved it, but as the representative of luxury, as the surest means to procure all the pleasures of life: he loved gold for the power it bestows. So he had a very special predilection for the romance ofMonte-Cristo.I hope I may be forgiven if I dwell at too great length on Soulié; he was one of the most interesting personalities I ever met, and I say of him, as Michelet once said of me, "he was one of the forces of nature." I could picture Soulié poaching in the forests of America, a pirate in the Indian Seas or in the Arctic Ocean, an explorer along the shores of Lake Tchad or Senegal, far better than as a romance-writer or a dramatist.
He was consummate, too, in the midst of his hundred workmen at the saw-mill, as he directed them by a nod of the head, by a wave of the hand, giving his orders in a tone of voice at once gentle and firm, kindly yet full of power. He had just finished his imitation of Shakespeare'sRomeo and Juliet.There were some fine lines in that piece of work, well conceived,some great thoughts vigorously handled; but, in the main, it was a mediocre production. He had started it two years too late, and had not attempted anything fresh at a time when to be original was one of the conditions of success.
I told Soulié frankly that I had come to ask him to write a drama with me; but, as neither of us felt at all strong enough to attempt anything in the way of original creation, we decided to take a subject from Walter Scott. Walter Scott was all the rage; hisKenilworth Castlehad just been played with great success at the Porte-Saint-Martin, and a version ofQuentin Durwardwas to be acted at the Théâtre-Français. Talma was allotted the part of Louis XI., and he had intended it to follow his Tiberius. What a glorious thing it would have been for the drama for Talma to have personated a character from Walter Scott! We settled uponOld Mortality.There were two characters inOld Mortality—John Balfour of Burley and Bothwell—that completely fascinated Soulié.
When our subject was chosen, we set to work with great zest; but in vain did we put our heads together, the plan did not go well. To put it baldly, we each of us had too much individuality, and we were continually knocking against each other's angles. At the end of two or three months of fruitless labour, after five or six useless meetings, we had made no headway at all, and were scarcely farther advanced than at our first meeting. But I had gained enormously by my struggle with this rough champion; I felt all kinds of new forces springing up in me, and, like a blind man whose sight has been restored, each day, little by little, my range of vision seemed to widen.
Meantime, I was practising how to handle dramatic poetry by translating Schiller'sFiesqueinto verse. I undertook the task in order to teach myself, and not in hope of payment; and, although it was not to bring me in a penny, and we stood in the greatest need of work that would pay me, I had the courage to finish it from end to end.
About this time, my poor mother, who was always in fear of my losing my place, and who, I must confess, was quitejustified in her fears, had a fresh instance of deceived hopes to bring before my notice. My compatriot, Auguste Lafarge, the stylish lawyer's clerk who had momentarily revolutionised the whole town of Villers-Cotterets, and who had been obliged to sell his business to pay his debts, because he could not find a rich wife to save the situation, had flung himself into literature for want of other means of livelihood, and had just died after two or three years' struggle against horrible poverty. It was in vain I said to my mother that Lafarge never had the making of a dramatic poet in him; in vain I told her he had never struggled, but, on the contrary, had given in without a fight; in vain I urged that Lafarge never possessed a fraction of my energy and perseverance; the material fact was that he had suffered hunger and misery and had died in consequence of his privations.
Another fact that ought to have set her fears to rest only gave her fresh anxiety. Betz had been promoted. The reader will recollect that Betz was the nice lad who had been my second in the duel with M. B. He had been made chief clerk at a salary of 2400 francs, and his post as order clerk at 2000 francs was given to Ernest, who, in his turn, left his place of 1800 francs vacant. As I had attended to my office work with a regularity that not even my worst enemy could have found fault with, and as, although they may have been unjust towards me, they were not really ill-intentioned, they could hardly refuse to give me Ernest's place, which I asked of Oudard as though it were my due. My request was acceded to, but they changed me from the Secretarial Department to the Relieving Offices. TheBureau des secourswas really a branch of the Secretariat, but it was looked upon as a subordinate department. I should most of all have regretted leaving Lassagne, but a change had been made some time before in the arrangement of the offices, and a room had been given him to himself, in consideration of his position as deputy head-clerk. So it came about that I was quite as near him in the Relief Office as I had been under the new arrangements at the Secretariat. I gained two things by this change: first, an increase of salary; secondly, a greater freedom ofaction; since, having to obtain information concerning the unfortunate people who asked for help, I spent whole days in going about from one end of Paris to the other. I should have been well pleased, as compensation for the two advantages thus gained, to have given up my portfolio making, but there was no way out of this.
In spite of my increase of salary, and the greater freedom I gained, my mother looked upon this change in my position as in the nature of a disgrace. She was not deceived; and, if she had been, M. Deviolaine would have taken care to put her right on this head.
In addition to this, a very real calamity was threatening to strike at that household with which we were closely connected. For some time past, Félix Deviolaine, who looked the very picture of health, had been troubled with a cough, and was losing flesh. He grew uneasy at the weakness he felt to be growing on him, and one day he sought me out and begged me to take him to Thibaut, whose medical skill he had often heard me praise. I hastened to do him this service, and took him to Thibaut, begging him to examine Félix very carefully. Thibaut made him strip to the waist, tapped his chest, listened to his breathing both with his ear and with the stethoscope; and, after ten minutes' examination, told him plainly that he was suffering from a serious lung complaint, although he was in no danger. But to me he whispered—