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APPLETONS' NEW HANDY-VOLUME SERIES. 
 
 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAURICE MAURIS, 
 
 (marchese di calenzano). 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 1, 3, AND 5 BOND STEEET. 
 
 1880. 
 
COPYRIGHT BY 
 
 D. APPLET ON AND COMPANY. 
 
 1880. 
 
 

 TO 
 
 C HARLE S A. DANA 
 
 WITH GRATEFUL HEABT 
 BY THE AUTHOR. 
 
 N6 che poco io ti dia da Imputar sono, 
 Sc tutto quel che ho tutto ti dono. 
 
 Tasso. 
 
 395937 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Arcinive 
 
 in 2007 witii funding fcom 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.arcliive.org/details/frenclimenofletteOOmaurricli 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Victor Hugo ...... 5 
 
 Alfred de Musset ..... 85 
 
 Theophile Gautier . . . . .65 
 
 Henri Murger .... 89 
 
 Sainte-Beuve ...... 108 
 
 Gerard de Nerval ... .129 
 
 Alexandre Dumas, fils ..... 161 
 
 Emile Augier ...... 172 
 
 Octave Feuillet . . . . . .187 
 
 Victorien Sardou . . • . .199 
 
 Alphonse Daudet . . . • . .219 
 
 ^MiLE Zola ...... 244 
 
FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 I. 
 
 GUERNSEY. 
 
 " Par votre ange envol6 ainsi qu'une colombe ! 
 Par CO royal enfant, doux et fr61e roseau I 
 Gr^ce encore une fois — grdce au nom de la tombe, 
 
 Grdce au nom du berceau." 
 
 I FIRST read these lines by Victor Hugo when a 
 mere boy. They fixed themselves on my memory, 
 and for many days I unconsciously repeated them 
 as though they were the burden of a song which 
 I had learned in the nursery. Although I was 
 ignorant of the historical events to which they 
 owed their origin, I was struck with their sublim- 
 ity, and it seemed to me impossible that any 
 one could say in a hundred lines more than Vic- 
 tor Hugo had here said in four. My father then 
 explained to me that the poet was a strong advo- 
 cate of the abolition of capital punishment, and 
 
6 'f^KEiNOH JtfEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ' 'h'avi ' dddrefe'sed thfe' stanza to Louis Philippe as a 
 plea for the life of Barbes, wlio had been con- 
 demned to death as the leader of the Paris insur- 
 rection of May 12, 1830. From that day I loved 
 Victor Hugo with all my heart. In my boyish 
 imagination I lent to him the countenance of the 
 guardian angel of life. 
 
 As I grew older I gave days and nights to the 
 great master's novels and poems. The new, deep, 
 never-to-be-forgotten emotions which I experi- 
 enced can not be conveyed by words ; yet my 
 mind was far too narrow to receive the wealth of 
 his. This man, now as sweet and candid as a 
 child, and then as tremendous as Satan in Milton's 
 epic ; as loving as a woman, and at once as fan- 
 tastic and profound as Goethe ; now insensate, 
 and then sublime ; now a high priest, and then an 
 iconoclast — ^identifying in short the most varied 
 phases of nature — this man was a mystery to me. 
 I next read of his exile and misfortunes, and 
 learned to worship him as a hero. " I felt a hand 
 that made me bow my head in reverent admira- 
 tion," and to see him became one of the most ar- 
 dent desires of my youth. 
 
 At the end of the year 1866, I went to Paris. 
 It was my first journey abroad. Victor Hugo 
 then lived in the hospitable island of Guernsey. 
 Having procured an introduction, I started for 
 the island before I had caught more than a glimpse 
 at the metropolis of the world. I need not dwell 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 7 
 
 upon the hesitation which I felt in approaching 
 Haute ville House, nor upon my lingering about 
 the mansion before I could muster sufficient cour- 
 age to pass the garden gate. The poet was seated 
 in a corner of the garden under an aloe-tree 
 about ten feet in height, attentively perusing a 
 newspaper. I remained on the spot from which I 
 had discovered him, as though rooted in the soil. 
 Noticing the presence of a stranger, he arose and 
 stepped toward me. I could hardly take off my 
 hat, and my tongue refused me its usual service. 
 Hugo, perceiving that I could not speak, smiled 
 and kindly said : " Well, what is it ? Whom are 
 you looking for ? Can I do anything for you ? " 
 I recovered from my embarrassment sufficiently 
 to draw from my pocket and hand him the letter 
 of introduction. While he perused it, he nodded 
 his head in sign of satisfaction, his countenance 
 brightened as if the note brought him good tid- 
 ings, and, still keeping his eyes fastened on the 
 paper, he slowly stretched out to me his right 
 hand, which I eagerly seized, muttering his name 
 with an agitation that I could not control. 
 
 A pause followed, as though the great man 
 intended to afford me time to subdue my emo- 
 tion ; and then, in a grave sweet voice, such as I 
 had never heard before, he welcomed me to the 
 house of his exile and invited me to enter. 
 
 I was led into a parlor called the " Oak Gal- 
 lery," from its being all decorated with oak panels 
 
8 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 and old furniture of the same wood handsomely 
 carved. Among other curiosities in this room 
 there was a stall carved with the coat of arms of 
 the Bourbons, whichj as he explained to me, was 
 originally placed in the cathedral at Chartres, and 
 was reserved for the "Daughters of France" 
 when they went thither on a pilgrimage. But 
 my attention was too much engrossed with the 
 man before me to give heed to any other object. 
 He compelled me to seat myself beside him on a 
 sofa, and the conversation was resumed ; I was, 
 however, disappointed ; I had gone to listen and 
 I was forced instead to do most of the talking. 
 As the letter of which I was the bearer informed 
 him that I had followed Garibaldi in his last cam- 
 paign against the Austrians, the great Italian was 
 the subject of his first inquiries. He wanted me 
 to tell him whether I was personally acquainted 
 with " the hero of the two worlds " ; how many 
 times I had seen him ; what he had told me; how 
 he was, and how he felt about the retreat from 
 Tyrol, after he had conquered its most impregna- 
 ble passes with the sacrifice of the most generous 
 youth of Italy. Then he begged me to describe 
 those defiles and mountains which we had taken, 
 and from which a handful of men could by throw- 
 ing stones keep at bay a powerful army ; and to 
 describe, in all their details, the battles I had wit- 
 nessed, with the assistance of diagrams, which he 
 asked me to draw for him, and which he wished 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 9 
 
 to preserve. He next questioned me as to the 
 political condition of Italy, and its feelings toward 
 Napoleon IIL, and many other kindred subjects, 
 which always led me a long way off. !N"early 
 three hours were spent in this way and I was 
 about leaving, when he insisted on my remaining 
 to take dinner with him. " I can not offer you 
 very much," he said : " English cooking affords 
 no variety, but enfin^ on pent se contenter. Good 
 roast beef and good potatoes are sufficient to keep 
 any one alive. Remain, and you will make the 
 acquaintance of my family. My sons have gone 
 fishing, but will be back for dinner." I re- 
 mained the more willingly as I had, so far, seen 
 nothing of the poet but his inexhaustible inquisi- 
 tiveness, which, though it bespoke the interest 
 he felt in the welfare of Italy, could in no way 
 content my desire to gather a few souvenirs of his 
 genius. 
 
 Charles and Fran9ois Victor Hugo having re- 
 turned, the poet went into the garden, picked a 
 few flowers, disposed them on the plates reserved 
 for the wives of his two beloved sons and the 
 faithful companion of his exile, and the ladies 
 were called. The dinner was served, the guests 
 being Hennet de Kesler and myself. Hennet de 
 Kesler was a talented journalist who had been 
 exiled in 1851. He resided at Guernsey, giving 
 lessons in French and Latin. Every morning go- 
 ing to pupils, Kesler would pass by the poet's 
 
10 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 house, and, whether the latter saw him or not, he 
 would reverently lift his hat to him. Victor 
 Hugo, learning who he was and that his income 
 was scarcely sufficient for his support, so earnestly 
 begged him to become his daily guest that Kes- 
 ler could not decline the offer. In the dining- 
 room, itself as large as many an American house, 
 the objects that most commanded attention were 
 the dinner-table, capable of accommodating at least 
 twenty persons, and a huge arm-chair placed at 
 the head of the table and fastened with an iron 
 chain in such a way that nobody could sit upon 
 it. I learned afterward that this chair was the 
 sella defunct oriirriy or " the ancestors' seat," the 
 poet having thus revived a custom of the golden 
 age of the Roman Republic, when the spirits of 
 the dead were called to preside over the daily re- 
 pasts. To-day the poet's fancy would perhaps 
 force a skeptic smile to my lips ; at the time it 
 appeared sublime to me and enhanced my venera- 
 tion for him. Was I wrong then, or am I so to- 
 day ? 
 
 Victor Hugo's manners were, toward every 
 one, the servant included, so simple, unassuming, 
 and friendly that I wondered whether he had 
 no consciousness whatever of his own greatness. 
 He had asked me from what part of Italy I came, 
 and on hearing that I was born at Nice he impul- 
 sively replied, " Why, then you are a French- 
 man ! " I gazed at him in amazement. Was the 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 11 
 
 apostle of freedom and progress, he who had writ- 
 ten " Les Miserables," now sanctioning a robbery, 
 or, at best, a fraudulent bargain that Napoleon 
 had imposed upon a nation which could not help 
 itself? My astonishment did not admit of two 
 interpretations. " Come ! " said Victor Hugo, 
 laughing quite loudly ; " do not get angry, young 
 man. My remark was thrown there into the con- 
 versation as an experiment I desired to make upon 
 your patriotism. Here, let us shake hands, and 
 tell your Italian friends that I am the first to re- 
 gret that the home of Garibaldi was given to us ; 
 that I detest usurpations of all kinds, and espe- 
 cially those which are carried on under the mask 
 of sham plebiscites, though they may be perpe- 
 trated for the material aggrandizement of my own 
 country." Then, bringing the glass to his lips, 
 he concluded : " To the restitution of Nice, if 
 Nice prove herself Italian." " To the integrity 
 of France," I replied ; " may your country never 
 lose a foot of the ground that is really French." 
 A cloud seemed to spread over the brow of the 
 poet, who rejoined : " Alas ! whither France will 
 be driven by the Empire no one can foresee ! " 
 Was his insight forecasting the loss of Alsace and 
 Lorraine ? 
 
 Little by little Victor Hugo's countenance 
 brightened again, as one who ever had faith in 
 the destinies of his country. The conversation 
 turned to literature, and every sentence of his was 
 
12 FREXCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 marked by the loftiness, incisiveness, and origi- 
 nality that are characteristic of his writings. 
 Would that I had the power to record, however 
 imperfectly, the noble thoughts with which his 
 amiable communications were filled ; his touching 
 narratives, his graphic and poetic descriptions, and 
 his Rabelaisian witticisms ! 
 
 I do not recollect how I was driven to it by 
 the conversation : it is, at all events, a fact that I 
 related to Victor Hugo under what circumstances 
 I had first become acquainted with his poetry, 
 and the origin of my love for him. He seemed 
 deeply moved by the narrative, and at its conclu- 
 sion he enthusiastically exclaimed, grasping my 
 hand : " Tenez^ Monsieur ; I am prouder of the 
 effect I produced upon you by those four lines 
 than of the triumph I achieved from the first 
 representation of *Lucretia Borgia.' So I have 
 made of you an opponent to capital punishment, 
 have I ? Well, I am, for this reason, prouder to 
 make your acquaintance than if you had built the 
 Pyramids. I wish I could convert the whole of 
 mankind. That has been the aim of my life ; un- 
 fortunately, my talent is too limited and a man's 
 life too short for the purpose." I took good 
 care to keep up the conversation on this topic. 
 Knowing how much it engrossed Victor Hugo's 
 mind, I felt sure that it would bring forth some 
 noteworthy sayings from his lips. I find the fol- 
 lowing registered in my diary : " A machine to 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 13 
 
 cut heads off is actually de trop in a society that 
 is governed by the Gospel." " A law which dips 
 its finger in human blood to write the command- 
 ment, ' Thou shalt not murder,' is naught but an 
 example of legal transgression against the precept 
 itself." Then, gazing into the future, with the 
 accent that only faith can impart to the utterance, 
 he continued : " The scaffold will fall some day 
 into the abyss of execration into which have fallen 
 already the hot iron, the cleaving knife, the tor- 
 ture, and the inquisition. The sinister figure of 
 the hangman must disappear sooner or later from 
 the luminous sanctuary of justice. The puppet 
 that men call justice may tolerate him, but real 
 eternal justice can not. Mankind will understand 
 it at an early date, for progress is hastening its 
 step at a wonderful rate." 
 
 In leaving Haute ville House I felt myself hap- 
 pier and stronger. How fortifying were his fiery 
 words, uttered, as they were, with such an earnest, 
 vibrating voice, and such an accent of profound 
 conviction. What an imperishable souvenir was 
 left by those hours spent in listening to the great- 
 est poet of our time, while he spoke of his coun- 
 try and of the constant improvement of the human 
 race ! How near, then, seemed the far-distant era 
 which he, like a prophet, summoned from the 
 clouds of the future, when the triumph of free- 
 dom will be complete, and universal brotherhood 
 an accomplished fact. That night I understood 
 
14 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 why the parish priest of Dordrecht, Zeland, kept 
 " Les Miserables " on the altar by the side of the 
 Gospel, and why he was wont to say that 'Hhe 
 former was naught but a practical comment upon 
 the latter." 
 
 I had gone to Guernsey with the intention of 
 remaining a day or two, and instead staid two 
 weeks, passing most of my time at Hauteville 
 House. That which was exile for the author of 
 " Les Chatiments " was for me a paradise. Haute- 
 ville must be considered as the poet's home more 
 than any other house which he had previously or 
 has since inhabited. Everything there had been 
 transfonned by his inventive genius. There were 
 all the objects of art, the thousand curiosities he 
 had gathered in his travels, his family portraits, 
 and the relics of his many friends who had fallen 
 victims to monarchical or imperial tyranny. 
 
 My curiosity was not a little stirred by a small 
 stand in which were set four inkstands. Charles 
 Hugo explained to me that those were the ink- 
 stands of his father, of George Sand, Lamartine, 
 and Alexandre Dumas pere. They had been 
 bought by Victor Hugo at a charity fair, to which 
 he had previously presented them, the poet having 
 been asked not only to offer his own, but to obtain 
 the others from his fellow writers and friends. 
 Under a glass cover on a shelf there was a lead 
 pencil, and I inquired why it was thus sacredly 
 preserved. " It is a relic," the poet said. " On De- 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 15 
 
 cember 2, 1851, at the moment when the people's 
 representatives constituted themselves into a com- 
 mittee of resistance, and distributed among them- 
 selves the various missions they had to fulfill in 
 the different districts of Paris, I had a proclama- 
 tion to write. I borrowed that pencil from Bau- 
 din, and, as usually, when I was through I stuck 
 the pencil in my pocket. On the morrow Bau- 
 din was shot at the barricade of Ste. Marguerite, 
 after fighting most gallantly against the troops of 
 Monsieur * Deux Decembre,' and I have kept his 
 lead pencil as the relic of a hero." 
 
 But more interesting is the gallery where are 
 exhibited the pen-and-ink sketches by the poet. 
 The "Album" that the engraver Chenay pub- 
 lished, about 1860, made the world acquainted 
 with Victor Hugo's genius as a draughtsman ; 
 but to appreciate it fully is impossible to any one 
 who has not visited the gallery of Hauteville 
 House. Executed with quill pens, matches, or 
 rolled paper, these drawings are marked by the 
 most intense contrasts of light and shade. As the 
 poet is, so is the draughtsman. " The strokes of 
 his pencil, like his phrases," a critic says, "be- 
 speak the paws of the lion." Victor Hugo does 
 not portray the beautiful, but the great, the ter- 
 rible, and the sublime. He delights in drawing 
 falling walls, ruined turrets, dark-pointed arcades, 
 huge rocks, rough, many-pointed peaks, endless 
 desert-plains — in short, landscapes as imposing as 
 2 
 
16 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 those which Vertunni's color and brush are wont 
 to produce. Like Michael Angelo, he is fond of 
 allegorical representations, of which I saw two 
 fine specimens. A very impressive one, of large 
 proportions, showed a split, disabled ship, rolling 
 at the mercy of the billows, which bore the motto, 
 ^^ Fracta sed Invicta.^^ E-ivet, in his recent book, 
 " Victor Hugo chez Lui," seems to believe that it 
 was intended to represent the poet's soul. I have, 
 however, an idea that the latter told me it was an 
 allegory of France, which is the more probable, 
 as another design, "My Destiny," showing an 
 enormous black and foaming wave in a stormy 
 sea, would seem sufficiently personal. Moreover, 
 the similitude of the disabled ship has by Victor 
 Hugo been applied to France in some of his 
 poems. 
 
 The sanctuary of Hauteville House is, how- 
 ever, the poet's studio, or " The Glass Room," so 
 called from its walls being on three sides of win- 
 dows, so as to lose none of the beauties of the sur- 
 rounding landscape, which its owner is never tired 
 of admiring. There the poet used to work many 
 hours every day. At the time of my visit all the 
 furniture in the room was buried under masses of 
 books, journals, and papers of all descriptions; a 
 few vases of flowers in a corner being, in fact, the 
 sole objects that were not wholly hidden from 
 sight in this way. It was the privilege of a very 
 few friends to enter this room, but, by the kind- 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 17 
 
 ness of Fran9ois Victor Hugo I was permitted to 
 inspect it during tlie poet's absence. Nor did I 
 regret that I could remain there but a few min- 
 utes; the room filled me with awe. Only an eagle 
 like its regular occupant could breathe freely in 
 an atmosphere so heavy with thought. It seemed 
 as though it was pervaded with all of Victor 
 Hugo's greatness without its being tempered by 
 his kindness. As regards the poet's manner of 
 working, it may be said that it is the mode most 
 consistent with nature. He follows the inspiration 
 of the moment. He generally has many works in 
 hand, for his mind is never at rest, and he passes 
 from one to the other according to impulse. " Of- 
 ten," he told me, " I will write on the same day a 
 piece of poetry, a chapter of a novel, a scene of a 
 drama, and a few pages of some historical work. 
 * Notre Dame de Paris ' and * Napoleon le Petit ' 
 are the only books which I have actually written 
 without interruption." It is curious to recall that 
 Victor Hugo, on each of these occasions, bought 
 a bottle of ink, which was emptied just when the 
 word "End" was appended to each of the books. 
 The manuscript of " Notre Dame de Paris " had 
 been sold before a single word of it was written. 
 Events, and above all the distractions that his 
 engagements with the managers of the Parisian 
 theatres wrought constantly upon him, had pre- 
 vented his attending to the work. Only three or 
 four months separated him from the date when 
 
18 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 the manuscript had to be delivered to the publisher. 
 The poet was to forfeit one thousand francs for 
 every week's delay. He bought a bottle of ink 
 and a knitted robe that enveloped him from head 
 to foot, locked up all his other clothes, gave the 
 key to his wife, and " entered his novel as if it 
 were a prison." For a moment he entertained the 
 idea of entitling the book " What Came Out of A 
 Bottle of Ink." A few years later he was speak- 
 ing of the coincidence with Alphonse Karr, who, 
 charmed with the idea, borrowed the title from 
 the poet and gave it to a series of stories, of 
 which " Genevieve " is the well-known gem. " Na- 
 poleon le Petit " was begun June 12, 1852, and 
 finished July 14. With the last drops of ink he 
 wrote on the ticket of the bottle the following 
 inscription : 
 
 " De cette bouteille sortit 
 Napoleon le Petit.— V. H." 
 
 Victor Hugo, however, works more in the open 
 air, when he seems to do nothing but walk, than 
 when he is at his desk. It is only the mechanical 
 part of his labor that he performs while sitting at 
 the latter. Even in his room he often walks up 
 and down, like a caged lion, making occasional 
 halts either before his desk to wi'ite the thoughts 
 that have occurred to his mind, or before the win- 
 dows, which are always open, despite hot, cold, or 
 rainy weather. He usually writes with a quill, on 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 19 
 
 paper of very large size. His handwriting is bold 
 and strong, the letters being generally long and 
 thin in form. Some pages of his manuscripts are 
 as neat as though they had been copied by a lady; 
 some contain hardly anything but erasures. The 
 former are ordinarily those which he writes either 
 on his return from a long walk, during which they 
 have undergone a careful process of mental eras- 
 ing, or those he has conceived in moments of 
 great excitement; and in both cases they are often 
 his best. 
 
 Victor Hugo is hy no means an egotist; but 
 when a man has been, as it were, the center to 
 which converge all the radii of a circle, he can not 
 hide his personality whenever the men and events 
 of his time are spoken of. He very seldom 
 speaks of himself if he is not compelled to do so, 
 and if it is not in connection with others, never 
 assigning the most prominent place to his own 
 person, though he might in many cases do so con- 
 sistently with truth. As may be readily imagined, 
 his life affords a series of anecdotes of the most 
 varied nature, selection from which becomes a 
 puzzling problem. The most amusing are, per- 
 haps, those relating to his career as a playwright, 
 and to the numberless criticisms by which every 
 one of his works has been assailed. Though clev- 
 i erly told by his beloved wife, in her book " Vic- 
 f tor Hugo E-aconte," the piques of Mile. Mars, the 
 great actres,s become uninteresting to him who 
 
20 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 has had the good fortune to listen to the glowing 
 style and humor of the poet himself. 
 
 One evening, when A. Vacquerie and the dra- 
 matist Paul Meurice were visiting their "master," 
 as they were wont to call Victor Hugo, I had 
 perhaps the greatest satisfaction of my whole life. 
 Victor Hugo read for us a part of his poem, 
 " Entre Geants et Dieux," which was, later on, to 
 become a leaf of his great epic, " La Legende des 
 Siecles." I have heard many readers, but no one 
 has ever produced so profound an impression upon 
 my mind. His strong, resonant voice imparted 
 life to every line, until little by little it sounded 
 like the thundering voice of a prophet. When I 
 think that I was the first to hear that poem, like 
 Rivet, I feel as proud as though I were the author 
 of it. Many times since its publication I have at- 
 tempted to read it through, but have always closed 
 the book in despair, as I never can forbear think- 
 ing of the voice, the glance, and the gesture of the 
 poet from whose lips I first heard it read, with- 
 out which it seems to lose much of its sublime 
 beauty. 
 
 Unfortunately, I was obliged to return to 
 Paris. On my arrival, I wrote a letter to the poet, 
 to thank him for the kindness with which he had 
 received me. As I knew how large was the num- 
 ber of letters he had to write daily, though I longed 
 for one of his as I have for no other, my note was 
 so conceived as to demand no reply. Fancy my 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 21 
 
 happiness when the unexpected answer came ! 
 The envelope, as a challenge to the Government of 
 the Emperor, that had on several occasions violat- 
 ed the secrecy of the poet's correspondence, bore 
 in print Article 187 of the French Code, which 
 determines the penalties incurred by the violators 
 of private letters. As for the note, I regret to say 
 that, the original being no longer in my posses- 
 sion, I am unable to publish its contents. 
 
 n. 
 
 PABIS. 
 
 Before proceeding further with my personal 
 recollections of Victor Hugo, it will not be amiss 
 to give a brief insight into his earlier history. 
 Victor Hugo was born at Besan9on, February 28, 
 1802. He was the third son of General Count 
 Joseph Leopold Hugo, so thoroughly hated by 
 Napoleon I., and so greatly loved by the latter's 
 brother Joseph, King of Naples, and afterward of 
 Spain. At his birth, Victor Hugo was no taller 
 than a fork. From his earliest childhood he 
 showed an extraordinary inclination toward study, 
 and by himself he learned how to read before he 
 was five years old. He spoke little ; his remarks, 
 which were always striking, were generally ques- 
 tions. He had a sweet countenance and a most 
 loving disposition, though occasionally very noisy, 
 lively, and fond of playing soldiers with his elder 
 
22 FRENCH MEX OF LETTERS. 
 
 brothers. His favorite amusements were swing- 
 ing and gardening. 
 
 His mother was ever at a loss how to prevent 
 him from tearing his trousers. On one occasion 
 she told him that she would condemn him to wear 
 a*pair of dragoon's breeches if he did not take 
 better care of his. Two or three days later the 
 little Victor was returning from school when he 
 happened to meet with a detachment of cavalry, 
 whose uniform glittering in the sun appeared un- 
 usually handsome. " What soldiers are those ? " 
 asked the boy of his nurse. "Dragoons," she 
 replied. Victor stared at her in amazement, but 
 added not a word. He returned home, and, when 
 Madame Hugo missed the usual noise, she proceed- 
 ed to see what the boy was doing. She found him 
 concealed behind a rock in a corner of the garden, 
 busy tearing his trousers. " What are you doing 
 there?" angrily asked his mother. "I want to 
 have a pair of dragoon's breeches," was the little 
 fellow's cool reply. 
 
 Once, when he was about five years old, being 
 severely scolded by his mother, he burst into bit- 
 ter sobbing. His father, overhearing his cries, 
 scoffingly called him a " little girl," and ordered 
 him to be dressed as such and taken to the gardens 
 of the Tuileries. " I was so humiliated by this 
 kind of punishment," says Victor Hugo, " that I 
 never cried afterward." 
 
 General Hugo having followed Joseph Bona- 
 
 i 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 23 
 
 parte to Italy and Spain, his wife joined him there 
 with her children. A short while after their ar- 
 rival at Madrid (1811), the two youngest children 
 of Count Hugo, Eugene and Victor, were placed 
 in the College of the Nobility, and the eldest, Abel, 
 entered the Court as a page to the King. Don 
 Bazil, the principal of the school, was not a little 
 embarrassed when he perceived that the two boys 
 translated Yirgil as well as he himself could. 
 Being admitted to the senior class, their fellows, 
 who had at first looked upon them with contempt, 
 could not forbear admiring their talent and treat- 
 ing them on a footing of equality. Their stay at 
 the Nobles' College was, however, short. At the 
 beginning of 1812 the condition of the French in 
 Spain becoming more and more precarious. Gen- 
 eral Hugo determined to send his wife and chil- 
 dren back to France. During the last two years 
 of the Empire, the education of Eugene and Vic- 
 tor Hugo was continued at home, as consistently 
 as could be done considering the unsettled state of 
 affairs. After the Restoration they entered the 
 Cordier Institute, and soon won among their com- 
 rades that consideration to which their talents 
 and winning manners entitled them. Under the 
 leadership respectively of the brothers Hugo two 
 parties were formed, which were distinguished by 
 the singular names of Dogs and Calves. The two 
 boys reigned over their subjects with a tyranny 
 that in no way foreshadowed the republican prin- 
 
24 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ciples they professed later in life. The Dogs and 
 Calves were often engaged in regular pitched bat- 
 tles — handkerchiefs with solid knots at one end 
 being their weapons. In one of these battles a 
 member of the Calves, exasperated with the defeat 
 his party had suffered, put a stone in his handker- 
 chief, and began to distribute desperate blows on 
 all sides. Victor received one of these blows, and 
 was severely wounded in his right knee. Carried 
 to the institution, he was seized with a fever, and 
 the physician was called. Questioned on the sub- 
 ject, he admitted that he had been hit with a 
 stone, but not only did he refuse to confess by 
 whom, but he exacted from his followers as well 
 as his enemies an oath of secrecy, which was scru- 
 pulously kept. 
 
 This accident determined his career as a poet. 
 Far from complaining of his painful wound, he 
 welcomed it, as it delivered him from the study 
 of mathematics and permitted him to abandon 
 himself to his taste for poetry, which his teacher, 
 the Abbe Decotte, was endeavoring to check. 
 Victor Hugo has still in his possession some copy- 
 books filled with poems which belong to this 
 epoch. One of them closes with the following 
 stanza : 
 
 "Ami lecteor, en lisant cet 6crit 
 N"'exerce pas sur moi ta satirique rage, 
 Et que la faiblesse de I'age 
 Excuse oelle de Tesprit." 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 25 
 
 He has entitled the collection of these writings 
 " The Nonsense I Wrote before I was Born," and 
 on the cover in which they are preserved there is 
 a drawing representing an egg showing inside the 
 embryo of a bird. In 1817, the subject proposed 
 by the Academy for the prize of poetry was " The 
 Happiness Derived from Study in all Situations 
 in Life." Victor was mastered by the idea of 
 competing, and could take no rest until he had 
 written his poem. Aided by Biscarrat, the Prefect 
 of Discipline of the institution and Victor Hugo's 
 early critic, his poem was delivered into the hands 
 of Cardot, the Secretary of the Academy. His 
 age — fifteen — was alluded to in the poem. The 
 majority of the Academicians thought it was a 
 trick employed to mystify them, and granted its 
 author an honorable mention instead of the prize. 
 When the truth was known it was too late to 
 change the verdict ; but the President, Fran9ois 
 Neufchateau, and Chateaubriand himself, sought 
 Victor's acquaintance. It was the latter who 
 gave to the precocious boy the name of " L'En- 
 fant Sublime." A few months later, subsequently 
 to a wager which occurred at a literary dinner of 
 young people, the future author of "Ninety- 
 three " wrote, in two weeks, " Bug Jargal." 
 
 In August, 1818, the two brothers left the 
 Cordier Institute and returned to live with their 
 mother. She was wont to spend her evenings at 
 a friend's, and her sons regularly accompanied 
 
26 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 her. The hours passed very quietly at Mme. 
 Foucher's ; indeed, the most of the time, owing 
 to the nervous irritability of M. Foucher, was 
 passed in silence. Yet Victor seemed to care for 
 nothing but paying his nightly visit. The attrac- 
 tion for him w^as Mile. Adele Foucher. Though 
 he rarely exchanged more than a few words with 
 her, he was happy provided he could feast his eyes 
 on the charming countenance of the young lady, 
 who apparently did not disdain the young poet's 
 attentions. But the parents, who had betrothed 
 them at their birth, now objected to the growth 
 of their affection, on account of their extreme 
 youth and poverty, and it was resolved that the 
 Hugo family should inteiTupt their visits. Vic- 
 tor was devoted to his mother, and silently obeyed. 
 On June 27, 1821, Eugene and his brother 
 stood at their mother's bedside. She had been 
 for some time ill with congestion of the lungs. 
 " See how much better mamma is," said Eugene 
 to his brother. " She has never slept so quietly 
 for a long time." " Yes," replied Victor, " she 
 will be soon well again." He leaned to kiss her ; 
 her brow was cold. She was dead ! The event 
 was kept secret from Mile. Foucher. After his 
 mother's burial, Victor Hugo, half crazy with 
 grief, almost unconsciously made his way to the 
 house of Mme. Foucher. He found Adele in the 
 garden. His presence, and more than that, his 
 pale, distorted countenance, warned the young 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 27 
 
 lady that something very sad had occurred. She 
 rushed to him and anxiously asked what was the 
 matter. " Yesterday I buried my mother," Vic- 
 tor replied. " Buried ! and yesterday I was danc- 
 ing ! " was Adele's reply. They both burst into 
 tears, and this was their betrothal. The marriage 
 was, however, indefinitely postponed until Hugo's 
 finances would bear the luxury of giving one's 
 self a family. 
 
 By this time, through the publication of some 
 poems and his novel, he had gathered a capital of 
 700 francs, on which he lived one year. The 
 budget of Marius in " Les Miserables " is but a 
 reproduction of his own at the time. Shortly 
 after were published his "Odes and Ballads." 
 Severely criticised by the classicists, they were 
 enthusiastically received by the community at 
 large. The King bestowed a pension upon him, 
 and the marriage he longed for was finally cele- 
 brated. With the money he derived from " Han 
 d'Islande " — about eight hundred francs — he 
 bought an Indian shawl as a wedding present to 
 his wife. But a terrible misfortune came at once 
 to darken his happiness. On the very night of 
 the wedding, his brother Eugene, the companion 
 of his whole life, became incurably insane. Later 
 on he lost his father, and shortly his first-bom 
 child, just at the age when children are most 
 charming and interesting. The following epi- 
 taph is read on George's gravestone : 
 
28 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 " Oh dans ce monde auguste oh rien n'est gph^mere/ 
 Dans ce flot de bonheur que ne trouble aucun fiel, 
 Enfant ! loin des sourires et des pleurs de ta mere, 
 N'est tu pas orphelin au ciel ? " 
 
 Victor Hugo was then a j^ale, thin, and gentle 
 youth, whose appearance deceived every one. 
 Publishers and theatrical managers could not 
 make up their mind to believe that he was the 
 author of so many masterpieces. After the enor- 
 mous success of "Hernani," the director of a 
 theatre called upon him, desirous to have a drama 
 from his pen. Hugo happening to open the door 
 himself, the stranger mistook him for the author's 
 son, and requested him to announce to his father 
 that a visitor wished to see him on business. 
 
 It would exceed the space allotted to this 
 sketch, were I to follow Victor Hugo in his lit- 
 erary career during the fifty-seven years that have 
 elapsed since the success he achieved by his " Odes 
 and Ballads." No man was perhaps ever more 
 discussed and criticised, but the flood of his repu- 
 tation has triumphed over the prejudices of 
 schools and parties. The Academy rose to their 
 feet when he was received in 1841 — the great- 
 est honor ever paid by that body to a new 
 member. 
 
 Victor Hugo's exile and political life belong to 
 history, and are sufficiently known ; I shall, there- 
 fore, again restrict my narrative to the field of 
 my personal experiences. On hearing of the first 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 29 
 
 disasters which the French troops had suffered in 
 1870, in order to be nearer to his country in those 
 hours of supreme struggle, he removed from 
 Guernsey to Brussels. As soon as the cowardice 
 of the Emperor determined the fall of the Empire, 
 Victor Hugo prepared to return to " the nest of 
 his loves." I happened to be on the same train 
 that carried him to Paris. All the horrors of the 
 war surrounded us. The country around Landre- 
 cies was covered with the bodies of soldiers who 
 had died of fatigue and starvation. Some tattered 
 and ghastly figures, who had succeeded in gaining 
 the track, raised their arms, imploring assistance, 
 soon to drop them again, utterly exhausted. Some, 
 running like lunatics, were crying for bread ; 
 they had eaten nothing for three days. Victor 
 Hugo fought in vain against the emotion that 
 threatened to overcome him ; his heart seemed to 
 break, and finally he burst into tears. I have 
 never witnessed a more solemn grief. Stepping 
 down at the first station, he organized all the as- 
 sistance that was possible under the circumstances, 
 and then resumed his journey. 
 
 On the evening of September 5th, all Paris was 
 in attendance at the Northern Railroad Station 
 to hail its poet. Though Paris had so many rea- 
 sons for mourning, the enthusiasm of the recep- 
 tion tendered to him surpasses description. His 
 carriage could hardly move on, and no less than two 
 hours were needed to reach the house of Paul Meu- 
 
30 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 rice, in the Avenue Frochot, where he was tempo- 
 rarily to put up. During the siege of Paris he 
 resided at the Rohan Pavilion, Rue de Rivoli, 
 tireless in his efforts to organize resistance, and to 
 better the condition and enliven the courage of his 
 fellow citizens. The greatness of his soul revealed 
 itself in his constant effort to conceal his anx- 
 iety and instill hope and courage into others. 
 While his heart was bleeding, he would, for the 
 benefit of his family and friends, make a show 
 of good humor which would have seemed out of 
 place to any one unacquainted with him. The 
 strange food upon which he, like all the Parisians, 
 was obliged to live, was often rendered very pala- 
 table by a joke or an epigram. I partook twice 
 of his poor dinners. It was on one of those occa- 
 sions that the happy phrase was uttered which af- 
 terward figured in " L'Annee Terrible," namely : 
 " Our stomach has become the ark of Noah." At 
 the end of the winter of 1871, when the problem 
 of feeding so large a population had attained its 
 most difficult point, and some philanthropists had 
 proposed the use of human flesh, Victor Hugo, at 
 a dinner in which no meat of any kind was to 
 be seen, improvised the following characteristic 
 stanza : 
 
 " Je 16gue au pays, non baa cendre, 
 Mais mon bifteck, morceau de roi I 
 Femmes, si vous mangez de moi, 
 Vous verrez comme je suis tendre." 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 31 
 
 Every one remembers the memorable words 
 Victor Hugo pronounced (March 8, 1871) in favor 
 of the election of Garibaldi before the Assembly 
 at Bordeaux, and his noble resignation in con- 
 sequence of the ungrateful vote rendered by that 
 body. He was then struck by one of the greatest 
 misfortunes of his life. On March 18th he was 
 escorting to Paris the coffined body of his son 
 Charles, who but a few days previous had accom- 
 panied him to Bordeaux full of life and hope. 
 The Commune had just broken into open rebel- 
 lion ; yet at the poet's arrival the revolution was 
 suspended for a few hours. The funeral crossed 
 half the city amid crowds of spectators whose si- 
 lence bespoke the highest respect and the sincerest 
 grief. This was not, alas ! the poet's last sorrow. 
 In December, 1873, he lost his son Fran9ois Vic- 
 tor. How lonely has the poet been since ! How of- 
 ten have his eyes moistened with tears in speaking 
 of the faithful companions of his exile! "I see 
 around me a nation that worships me," he said to 
 me, when I paid him my last visit ; " I see a young 
 generation which is thrilled by my word. I have 
 had the fortune few men have ever had, that 
 is, to assist, as it were, at my own apotheosis. But 
 what does it all amount to? My sons are here 
 no more ! " Fond as he is of his grandchildren, 
 George and Jeanne, who have already won an en- 
 viable celebrity, and though happy in their love, 
 his countenance, formerly so calm and serene, is 
 3 
 
32 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 often darkened with a profound sorrow, as though 
 everything was over with him. Though they 
 have been so much talked of, it is next to impos- 
 sible to realize how much Victor Hugo loves those 
 two children. They are his real masters. George 
 is a handsome boy with large black eyes, a cameo- 
 like profile, thoughtful countenance, and a lov- 
 ing disposition. Jeanne is a little girl with curly 
 golden hair, waggish and merry, whose eyes be- 
 speak sprightliness and coquetry. In gazing at 
 them the poet once exclaimed : " Do you wish to 
 hear my definition of paradise? — The parents 
 always young, and the children always small." 
 Victor Hugo spends many hours playing with or 
 working for them. I have seen him build a toy 
 carriage which the painter Lefevre did not dis- 
 dain to paint. He tells them stories which would 
 form the pride of " St. IS'icholas." I heard him 
 tell them one of the good dog transformed into 
 an angel after his death, to reward him for his 
 devotion to the little girl whom he was charged 
 to protect, which might be considered unortho- 
 dox by some people, but which I could not forbear 
 admiring for the broad conception of morals by 
 which it was evidently inspired. He often draws 
 pictures for them, and these are usually represen- 
 tations of either fine or ugly things, according as 
 the children have been good or naughty. If they 
 have studied and behaved well, he will draw a 
 bird, a flower, a horse, a steamboat, and so on ; an 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 33 
 
 owl, a donkey with very long ears, a snake, the 
 sun in tears, and the like, if they have not learned 
 their lessons. 
 
 There is hardly a subject of which Victor 
 Hugo likes so much to speak as of his children, 
 and he often speaks of them with just poetical feel- 
 ing. He likes to repeat their sayings and tell of 
 their doings ; and, if these reveal any talent, he 
 feels prouder than he would of his best drama. 
 Self-satisfaction has rarely asserted itself on the 
 poet's countenance so strongly as when he related 
 the following questions that his son Fran9ois had 
 in his infancy put to him : " Papa, why are men, 
 when they are dead, placed under ground, and 
 why are trees, on the contrary, taken out of the 
 ground ? " " Why is it that men write so large 
 when they are children, and so small when they 
 are grown ? " As it is known, one of the favorite 
 means by which Victor Hugo amuses his children 
 is the toy theatre. I found him on two occasions 
 working puppets and improvising a comedy for 
 their entertainment ; and in his house, Rue Le 
 Rochefoucauld, a huge toy theatre, of his own 
 making, was seen in the parlor by the side of 
 a beautiful marble statue representing France 
 wounded and reclining, under which the follow- 
 ing inscription from " Napoleon le Petit " was en- 
 graved : " If she sleep, silence and uncovered 
 heads ; if she be dead, to your knees." 
 
 Victor Hugo has changed his residence fre- 
 
34 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 quently. He has lately lived in Rue de Clichy, 
 No. 20, in a modest hotel, near the house in which 
 he passed his boyhood. He seldom pays any visits, 
 but his friends and acquaintances are always wel- 
 comed by him in the evening. They are general- 
 ly received in a large parlor decorated with yel- 
 low and red tapestry. On a pedestal in the cen- 
 ter of the room rises a masterpiece of Japanese 
 art, an elephant raising its threatening proboscis 
 and carrying a war-turret on its back. A Vene- 
 tian luster hangs over it, the arms of which, of 
 variously colored lists twisted into spirals, are dec- 
 orated with bright delicate flowers. A huge cab- 
 inet, inlaid with pure tin, stands by the fireplace, 
 its design handsomely executed, representing some 
 fabulous scenes of the " Roman de Renart." The 
 life-sized portraits of Victor Hugo and his dead 
 wife by Boulanger — two masterpieces — hang from 
 the opposite wall. An admirable clock of the Louis 
 XV. style, representing Time, stands on the man- 
 telpiece, to the right of which is situated a green 
 velvet sofa, the poet's ordinary and favorite seat. 
 There he passes his evenings, attired in his daily 
 working suit, chatting with his visitors as though 
 they were all his comrades. When a lady is an- 
 nounced, he rises and goes, gallantly but unostenta- 
 tiously, to meet her, kisses her hand, welcomes her 
 with a charming phrase, escorts her to a seat, in- 
 forms her in a few words of the topic on which the 
 conversation turns, and then the latter is generally 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 35 
 
 resumed. About 11 o'clock a luncheon is served 
 in the dining-room, to which the company ad- 
 journs, Victor Hugo often escorting thither sev- 
 eral ladies in succession. The conversation is 
 generally at an end a little after 12, when Victor 
 Hugo sees his visitors as far as the vestibule, and 
 occasionly helps the ladies to their cloaks. These 
 informal receptions are attended by the most illus- 
 trious men in Paris. I have there met Theophile 
 Gautier, Edmond About, Louis Blanc, Jules Si- 
 mon, Gambetta, Emile Augier, Renan, Daudet, 
 Ars5ne Houssaye, Dumas, Boulanger, Lefevre, 
 and others. All these people hail their host 
 " Master." 
 
 ALFRED DE MUSSET, 
 
 The life of this eminently subjective poet has 
 been written for the French public by his brother, 
 Paul de Musset, and for the Germans by Paul 
 Lindau. The first has produced a bright, racy^ 
 but probably not impartial narrative. Lindau is 
 as minute, exhaustive, and critical as becomes a 
 German biographer ; but his book is too heavy 
 for ordinary digestion. Beyond an essay by 
 Henry James, Jr., in his "French Poets and 
 Novelists," English literature possesses hardly 
 anything of value concerning the career and work 
 of De Musset ; and even this is critical rather 
 than biographical, and it seems to me superficial. 
 
36 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 The author, though profound in matters concern- 
 ing the human heart, has clearly failed to appre- 
 ciate the poet's character and the influences which 
 shaped it. Had Mr. James had ever so slight an 
 acquaintance with the life of his subject, he would 
 never have affirmed that " De Musset's life offers 
 little material for narrative," that " he did nothing 
 in the sterner sense of the word." Merely on 
 account of De Musset's refusal to accept the posi- 
 tion of attache to the French Embassy at Madrid, 
 he has been characterized by the American critic 
 as "inactive, indolent, idle." 
 
 It is, indeed, not every Saxon who can appre- 
 ciate " that fineness of feeling which is the pleas- 
 ure and the pain " of a poetic nature ; who can at 
 once sympathize with delicate susceptibility, ex- 
 quisite tenderness, nervous emotion, and wild pas- 
 sion : to ordinary natures all of these mental con- 
 ditions appear morbid. It is my opinion that 
 only a poet of the highest order can grasp the 
 reality of De Musset, penetrate the sinuosities of 
 liis manifold nature, and set down in fitting terms 
 the romance of his life. Nor can a good likeness 
 of him be drawn in a few pages. I therefore, 
 disclaim all pretensions toward a critical study 
 or a complete biography of De Musset — tasks in 
 every way beyond my power — and aim only to 
 present a few rationally linked facts and anec- 
 dotes relating to his life. 
 
 The De Musset family has a place in the 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 37 
 
 "Livre d'Or" of the old French nobility ; but a 
 taste for literature elevated many of its members 
 to a rank that surpasses mere aristocratic distinc- 
 tion. The poet's father was the author of several 
 pamphlets and books of far more importance than 
 the majority of brochures issued in the pamphlet- 
 publishing eighteenth century. 
 
 Alfred was born in 1810, in the center of Paris, 
 near the historical museum of Cluny. When 
 questioned as to his childhood, he was wont to 
 deny all claim to precocity, saying that he was as 
 stupid as the general run of children. The truth, 
 however, is that he early displayed remarkable 
 talents. On returning one Sunday morning from 
 church, to which his mother had taken him, he 
 confidently asked her to be taken again on the 
 following Sabbath, to see "the comedy of the 
 mass." This certainly was a notable saying for 
 a child, who, being but three years old, could 
 presumably have had no acquaintance with Vol- 
 taire. His brother relates that about this time 
 Alfred was presented with a pair of little red 
 shoes, which greatly gratified his vanity, and 
 which he burned to exhibit in the streets. While 
 his mother was arranging his long, light curls, 
 he exclaimed petulantly : " Oh ! do make haste, 
 mamma, and let me go out ; else, my new shoes 
 will become old ! " Here was an early exhibition 
 of the ruling passion of his life — ^to enjoy exist- 
 ence as fast as possible. 
 
38 FREN^Cn MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 The precocity of his perceptions is sufficiently 
 evidenced by the following anecdote : Having 
 been guilty of some misdemeanor, his favorite 
 aunt, Nanina, declared that on a repetition of the 
 offense she would cease to care anything for him. 
 
 " You think so," he replied, " but you couldn't 
 do it." 
 
 "Yery well, sir," said the aunt, assuming as 
 serious a mien as she could command, " you will 
 see whether I can." The little fellow closely 
 studied her face for some moments, and perceiving 
 the ghost of a smile steal around her lips, he threw 
 his arms about her neck and exclaimed : 
 
 " Didn't I tell you so ? Deny if you can that 
 you love me as well as before ? " 
 
 That Dante could, at the age of nine, know 
 what love is, has been to many a matter of skepti- 
 cal astonishment. Yet the passionate disposition 
 of Alfred de Musset revealed itself at an even 
 earlier period. His affection for a cousin several 
 years his senior bore all the marks that distin- 
 guish love in the prime of youth. He asked her 
 parents' consent to their marriage ; and, on their 
 refusing, he exacted from her a promise to marry 
 him in spite of all obstacles, as soon as his age 
 would permit of his appearing before a priest. The 
 girl was compelled shortly afterward to follow 
 her parents to their native place ; the parting be- 
 tween the lovers was heart-rending. 
 
 " Do not forget me," entreated Clelia. 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 39 
 
 " Forget you ? " echoed the boy ; " do you not 
 know that your name is engraved, as with a knife, 
 upon my heart ? " 
 
 Alfred was then five years old. Though he 
 had in many ways evinced remarkable aptitude, 
 he had been too restless to devote himself consis- 
 tently to study. In order, however, to be able to 
 correspond with his " future wife," as he called 
 his cousin, he all at once displayed wonderful 
 assiduity in learning to write. When, some years 
 afterward, the young lady was married, it was 
 deemed prudent to keep the news from him, so 
 strong his love had grown for her ; and, when he 
 accidentally discovered the fact, it took him a con- 
 siderable time to become reconciled to his fate. In 
 1836 the friendly relations between the De Mus- 
 set family and the husband of Mme. Moulin — the 
 Clelia of Alfred's boyhood — were disturbed by the 
 prospect of a lawsuit growing out of a business 
 difficulty. Alfred started for Clermont and un- 
 expectedly presented himself at his cousin's home 
 to plead for peace between the two families. At 
 sight of Clelia he could do nothing but burst into 
 tears. The recollections of his childhood quite 
 overcame his emotional nature, and his tears ef- 
 fectually healed the breach between the two 
 families. 
 
 That which did most to soothe his juvenile 
 heart-ache was the perusal of the "Arabian 
 Nights " and legends of chivalry. And then 
 
40 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 about this time, together with his brother Paul 
 and his playmates, he used to organize scenic 
 representations of the legends he had read ; and 
 with such fidelity were the battles and reconnoi- 
 ters rendered that black eyes and bruised limbs 
 were common enough among the actors. 
 
 Alfred's education began at home, under the 
 tuition of one M. Bouvrain, who, besides being a 
 scholarly teacher, was a person of great tact. He 
 had the gift of imparting knowledge without 
 seeming to do so, and his lessons to his young 
 pupils were often given while walking or romp- 
 ing. In two years Alfred had learned enough to 
 enter the College Henri IV., where, though the 
 youngest among them, De Musset distinguished 
 himself from the outset above all his fellow stu- 
 dents. Failing on one occasion to win the first 
 place of honor, the intervention of his mother 
 was necessary to console him. His successes 
 tended to make the college an uncomfortable 
 place for him, the other pupils enviously forming 
 a league against the " frail little blond " who 
 so easily carried off the prizes for which they so 
 ardently competed. On leaving school he was 
 every day subjected to gibes and sometimes even 
 to blows, a treatment that would have vitiated 
 the meekest boy in the world. It was through 
 the mediation of Leon Gobert, a stout boy whose 
 life had once been saved by the De Musset 
 brothers, that the conspiracy was broken up. The 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 41 
 
 first time he saw the crowd bullying Alfred, he 
 threw himself into the midst of the tormentors 
 and, with a few skillful blows, made such an im- 
 pression that the " little cherub " was never again 
 molested by his fellow pupils. 
 
 Alfred was so conscientious, so anxious to do 
 his work well, that at every fresh step he hesi- 
 tated and trembled. His yearning after success 
 and his despair of ever attaining it were frequent- 
 ly the cause of a gloominess which seemed unac- 
 countable in a youth of his age. His nervousness 
 was not to be cured by habit nor by success. He 
 became timid, excitable, diffident to a degree 
 which appears to have influenced bis after-life. 
 The slightest emotion would frequently drive 
 him into a nervous fit. Once, when fourteen 
 years of age, he was following his brother in a 
 hunting excursion. Alfred carried an old shot- 
 gun, which exploded and he came near lodging the 
 entire charge in the limbs of his brother. Such 
 was the effect of this accident that he was seized 
 with a fever which could not be subdued for sev- 
 eral days. Of his great love for the chase little 
 was now left, and the year 1824 was ever after- 
 ward mentioned by him as " the year in which he 
 just missed killing his brother." 
 
 It will be curious to follow De Musset in the 
 philosophical studies which he began in his six- 
 teenth year. His reasoning faculties had already 
 attained a wonderful expansion. No demonstra- 
 
42 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 tions which his professors could offer were for 
 him sufficient, and he sought far and wide for 
 fresh books of philosophy. While studying such 
 works, he would begin, as his brother tells us, by 
 conscientiously playing the role of a disciple, in 
 order to master the doctrine of the authors. Not 
 content with studying each system, he would 
 adopt it, and, if possible, practice it. Suddenly, 
 however, his reason would object to some tenet. 
 Doubt would enter his mind, and he would be- 
 come successively a critic and a contradictor. " I 
 have seen him pass," Paul de Musset says, " from 
 Descartes to Spinoza, from Kant to the new phi- 
 losophies of Cabanis and Maine de Biran. In his 
 search for the beautiful he followed the same 
 method ; in the commencement always enjoying 
 heartily that which pleased him, growing enthu- 
 siastic in his devotion to the objects of his admira- 
 tion, and finally examining and criticising them." 
 It was to him a sad necessity, that of deter- 
 mining upon a profession. Law he found too 
 dry, and, as for medicine, the practical study of 
 anatomy inspired him with an unconquerable dis- 
 gust. For many days he remained closeted, alone 
 with his meditations. To his brother, who in- 
 quired the cause of his depression, he answered, 
 " Alas ! I feel that I shall never amount to any- 
 thing. I shall never bring myself to practice any 
 profession. Man is too narrow as he is for me to 
 consent to become a specialist." His talent for 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 43 
 
 drawing, however, suggested to him the idea of 
 becoming a painter. His family meanwhile had 
 moved into the neighborhood of Paris. Alfred 
 used then to go to the city every morning to 
 spend the day studying in the atelier of a great 
 artist — Delaroche, if our memory does not fail us 
 — returning in the evening to Auteuil by the love- 
 ly paths of the Bois de Boulogne. A book was 
 his usual companion. One day he carried with 
 him a copy of Andre Chenier's poems. That day 
 seemingly determined his career. Charmed by 
 the melancholy numbers of the unfortunate poet 
 of the Revolution, he forgot everything until it 
 became too dark for him to see to read. When 
 he reached home he wrote his first poem. 
 
 It is needless to observe that, in thought and 
 form, the first efforts of the youthful singer re- 
 flected the influence of the romanticists, of whom 
 Hugo was the leader, and among whom De Mus- 
 set shortly made his appearance. Sainte-Beuve 
 was the first to call the attention of his fellow 
 innovators to "the youngster full of genius." 
 Some poems which he read at their meetings 
 quickly won their applause. The " Ballad to the 
 Moon " created quite a sensation among them and 
 their opponents. The poet displayed a marked 
 originality, whatever may be the opinion of critics 
 who maintain that there is nothing new under the 
 sun. 
 
 From the period of feverish exaltation induced 
 
44 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 by his early literary successes dates the poet's first 
 love affair, if his boyish passion for Clelia is not 
 recognized as such. But he was forced to acknowl- 
 edge ere long that his devotion was anything but 
 reciprocated. He had been used as a means to 
 divert the attention of society from another in- 
 trigue in which the lady was involved. The ad- 
 venture furnished him with the materials for "Le 
 Chandelier," a play which appeared seven years 
 afterward. I do not think I am far from the truth 
 in looking upon this cruel deception as having been 
 the chief cause of his abandoning himself to every 
 species of excess. Drinking, gambling, living in 
 great style, with its kindred dissipations, became 
 now the order of his life, though he continued to 
 study and to write. His morals fell to a low grade. 
 His father, alarmed, sought to turn him from his 
 evil ways by finding him employment in the oflice 
 of a commission-merchant. Not daring to disobey, 
 the young man entered a servitude so galling that 
 he determined to try to realize something by sell- 
 ing his poetry. He took the manuscript of his 
 " Contes d'Espagne," his first volume of verse, to 
 the publisher XJrbain Canel, who signified his will- 
 ingness to enter into negotiations, but said that 
 the collection offered would not make a volume 
 of the ordinary size. At least five hundred lines 
 more were deemed necessary. Two weeks later 
 De Musset had completed " Mardoche," one of his 
 best efforts. When the " Contes d'Espagne " were 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 45 
 
 published, it was surprising to note the sensation 
 produced by their advent as compared to the di- 
 mensions of the volume. Crucified by the classi- 
 cists, glorified by the romanticists, De Musset be- 
 came as popular almost as Hugo, and was the 
 acknowledged poet of ladies. 
 
 His freedom once regained, he felt himself 
 bound to prove to his father that he could sup- 
 port himself while he gratified his literary tastes. 
 But poetry has rarely been a source of wealth. 
 This De Musset understood, and, consequently, 
 he tried the stage. His " Venetian Night " was, 
 however, a failure. An incident foreign to the 
 intrinsic merit of the piece contributed in no 
 small degree to wreck his hopes. The success of 
 a first performance hangs by a thread. Mile. B6- 
 ranger, who played the leading r51e, in a scene in 
 which she was to appear in a beautiful costume 
 of white satin, thoughtlessly leaned against a lat- 
 tice upon which the green paint had not yet had 
 time to dry. Fancy the effect upon the audience, 
 when she appeared with the whole back of her 
 dress striped with irregular cross-lines of green. 
 The noise deepened into a storm, and the play 
 was doomed. " I would not have believed," De 
 Musset exclaimed, " that a Parisian audience con- 
 tained so many idiots " ; and, to a friend who 
 asked whether he would not write further for the 
 stage, he replied, " No ; I have bidden the mena- 
 gerie farewell." And none of the plays and prov- 
 
46 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 erbs which he afterward wrote were intended for 
 dramatic representation, although in the last years 
 of his life they were, without his active interven- 
 tion, produced on the stage with the most flatter- 
 ing success. Ceasing to wi'ite plays, De Musset 
 devoted himself to the composing of those stories 
 which were the delight of the readers of the " Re- 
 vue des Deux Mondes." 
 
 The turning-point in De Musset's career was 
 the affair with George Sand. It i§ our purpose to 
 revert only to such circumstances as are necessary 
 to the regular continuation of our narrative, and 
 without unearthing the scandals which have asso- 
 ciated themselves with this portion of the poet's 
 history. "Rolla" had just convulsed Paris. 
 George Sand and De Musset met at a dinner 
 which was given to the contributors to the " Re- 
 vue des Deux Mondes." Their acquaintance speed- 
 ily ripened into a love worthy of two such great 
 souls. For a short time their existence was a gay 
 and happy dream. Who has ever loved well and 
 not longed for solitude ? They first sought refuge 
 in the historical shades of the forest of Fontaine- 
 bleau ; but George Sand had made arrangements 
 to visit Italy during the approaching winter, and 
 could not dream of a separation from De Musset. 
 His mother was much opposed to his departure, 
 but so eloquently did the great Frenchwoman plead 
 his cause that she was enabled to leave Paris with 
 the young poet attached to her as her private sec- 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 47 
 
 retary. The first few letters which De Musset 
 wrote to his relatives showed that his extraordi- 
 nary intelligence had received a wonderful impulse 
 from the grand sights which he daily witnessed. 
 A silence of nearly two months ensued, which was 
 finally broken by the arrival of a letter, " of which 
 the wavering handwriting," says Paul De Musset, 
 " and the tone of profound sadness," told but too 
 well the deplorable tidings. Hardly recovered 
 from a brain-fever, the poor fellow announced his 
 resolution to leave Venice as soon as his health 
 would permit. " I will bring home," he wrote, 
 "a diseased body, a wasted soul, and a bleeding 
 heart which yet loves you evermore. For Heav- 
 en's sake, prepare for me some room other than 
 my own. I could not again behold it without 
 thinking what weariness and grief live within its 
 four walls." 
 
 He reached home a mere wreck. When he 
 first attempted to relate to his brother the story 
 of his illness and the true cause of his return, his 
 face turned white and he fell in a syncope, the 
 nervous attack being so strong that for a month 
 he did not dare again to approach the subject. 
 For many months he acted like one demented. 
 He would often exclude his own people from his 
 room, suspecting them of treason and accusing 
 them of indifference, then passionately reproach 
 himself a moment afterward for his ingratitude. 
 His sister's playing upon the piano alone seemed 
 4 
 
48 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 to have the power of soothing him, especially 
 when she played the concertos of Hummel. He 
 would on such occasions silently steal into the 
 parlor, sit in a corner, and listen calmly to the 
 music. Sometimes, by conversing with him upon 
 the subject of music, he was made to prolong 
 these visits ; but, did a single word remind him of 
 his grief, he would rush almost frantically to his 
 seclusion, which nothing could induce him to leave 
 again that day. His endeavors to overcome his 
 grief by an effort of the will were unavailing. 
 Time alone could heal — and at best imperfectly — 
 his almost mortal wound. 
 
 It is easy to imagine what had at Venice 
 changed his bright dreams into the somber night 
 of disease and despair. The love of two great 
 beings is seldom crowned by a happy end. It may 
 live in the breast of each, but deserts a pair. At 
 whose door the principal blame of the rupture lies 
 is an open question. After a careful study of 
 both characters, I have come to the conclusion 
 that the double life, which in the beginning was 
 by De Musset rendered exceedingly hard, was in 
 the end made impossible by George Sand. De 
 Musset's over-sensitive temperament must have 
 sorely tried the patience of his companion. He 
 was as petulant and unreasonable as he was high- 
 ly endowed. One single remark which I heard 
 from the lips of George Sand in the last years of 
 her life will throw some light on the matter. 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 49 
 
 Speaking of jealous people, while doing justice to 
 the other qualities of the poet, she said she had 
 never met a man who could be half so jealous as 
 Alfred de Musset. That he was exceedingly sus- 
 picious and egotistic can scarcely be doubted. 
 Like Othello, he loved not wisely but too well. 
 He was as tyrannical, exacting, and uncompromis- 
 ing in his wild loves as he was meek and yielding 
 in his friendships. Previous associations had un- 
 fortunately given him an unfavorable opinion of 
 women. 
 
 No one, moreover, can love as De Musset did, 
 without thinking, perhaps, that his love is only 
 partially returned. If the " Confessions d'un En- 
 fant du Si6cle" is in any measure — as it undoubt- 
 edly is — an autobiography, it will easily be under- 
 stood how impossible it was for a woman like 
 Mme. Dudevant to endure for any length of time 
 a life which was made so uniformly miserable by 
 De Musset. With no woman whom he loved 
 could De Musset long remain at peace : the two 
 were compelled at last to renounce all dignity or 
 to separate. If there was any treason on the part 
 of George Sand, it certainly occurred when the 
 poet had to the best of his ability alienated her 
 affection from him. 
 
 Twenty years later, relates Paul de Musset, 
 when one evening the conversation turned upon di- 
 vorce, which, as is known, does not exist in France, 
 the poet sadly remarked : " Our marriage laws 
 
50 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 are not so bad as they seem. There has been a 
 moment in my life when I would gladly have 
 given up ten years of my mortal span to have 
 seen divorce inscribed in our law, in order that I 
 might have married a woman who was separated 
 from her husband. Had my desire been gratified, 
 six months later I should have blown my brains 
 out." 
 
 The facility with which De Musset passed 
 from one love to another is severely censured by 
 the hypercritical. Are these people sure that the 
 poet's loves were not all worthy the name ? Can 
 they understand the longing need of a great 
 wounded heart to drown its soitow in the billows 
 of new emotions ? Can they realize the wider 
 expansion that is necessary for a heart and a soul 
 wider than their own ? The heart of a favorite 
 child of nature never grows old : the more love 
 fails it, the more it yearns for sympathy. Such a 
 heart grasps at the very shadow of love as a 
 drowning man grasps at a straw ; like the way- 
 farer in the desert, it searches life's sands for the 
 oasis whence it may quench its thirst. Can not 
 the narrow-minded critics of De Musset compre- 
 hend that a man of the loftiest mold may love 
 not a woman, but the woman — not a passing love, 
 but love itself ? 
 
 But, to resume my narrative. After a year's 
 surrender to sorrow, De Musset again began 
 to address himself to work. Naturally enough, 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 51 
 
 the first offspring of his renewed activity was 
 the child of his grief. " La Nuit de Mai " is a 
 production of genuine feeling, grand enough to 
 rank beside the profoundest effort of Leopardi. 
 The passage where the pelican bares its breast to 
 give life to its young, which is intended as an 
 image of the poet's relation to his readers, is one 
 of De Musset's noblest conceptions. 
 
 The " Night of May " was written on a night 
 in the spring of 1835. As was frequently his 
 habit whenever he afterward wrote poetry, his 
 room was ablaze with light ; he donned his best 
 clothes, and had supper for two served in his 
 room, as though his muse were actually about to 
 pay him a visit. On the following day he slept 
 till evening. On awakening, he examined his 
 poem, and, Ending nothing to alter, he again 
 passed into a state of morbid apathy from which 
 all the pleasures of Sardanapalian Paris could not 
 arouse him. We agree with Paul Lindau, that 
 the blight of De Musset's life was the unfortunate 
 deno4ment of his intimacy with George Sand ; 
 but we can not countenance his further assertion 
 that the remainder of the poet's life was devoted 
 to erratic efforts to drown the recollections of his 
 misfortune. He afterward loved as sincerely as 
 he did the first time. 
 
 In the month of August, in the same year, De 
 Musset began to write his celebrated " Confes- 
 sions d'un Enfant du Siecle." Although his 
 
52 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 brother Paul warns us against regarding this as 
 a personal revelation, we have it from some inti- 
 mate friends of the poet, suclt as the Princess 
 Belgiojoso and £mile Augier, that the book is not 
 only the expression of the poet's private feelings, 
 but contains^ under the cover of well-disguised 
 events, clear allusions to his youth. It would be 
 wrong, however, to regard it as nothing more 
 than a personal narrative. All here is not remi- 
 niscence. The author has studied everybody and 
 everything that moved about, and in the "Con- 
 fessions " has most philosophically condensed his 
 impressions as a diagnosis of the moral diseases of 
 our age. 
 
 Like all men of boundless feeling, De Musset 
 was essentially the creature of impressions. He 
 could not live on books alone. Fortunio again 
 bravely trusted himself to the heart of a woman. 
 For him, to love and be loved was the apotheosis 
 of life — ay, life itself. A second passion sprang 
 phcenix-like from the ashes of the first. But his 
 new happiness was doomed to short duration. 
 The poem, " La Nuit de Decembre," so gloomy 
 and mournful in tone, is linked with this episode. 
 The lady could not but be touched by the elo- 
 quent appeal of his poetry. In a chance meeting 
 he was forgiven, and she again consented to see 
 the poet, provided he would henceforward regard 
 her as simply a friend. De Musset kept his 
 promise for an unexpected length of time ; but 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 53 
 
 he sought relief in poetry for the passion which 
 he could not control. The stanzas " A Ninon " 
 roused the lady to the dangers of playing at 
 friendship. In a moment of forgetfulness she 
 acknowledged her love for De Musset, when her 
 duty to another should for ever have sealed her 
 lips. After many days of struggle, they both 
 heroically determined to sacrifice all personal feel- 
 ing to the happiness of the man who was most 
 entitled to their consideration and respect. This 
 romance found echo in De Musset's novel " Em- 
 meline " and in his " Lettre a Lamartine " — the 
 latter assuredly one of the most enduring monu- 
 ments of his fame. After the publication of this 
 poem, the poet received a beautiful Sevres vase 
 with a note which contained the following para- 
 graph : 
 
 " Did you know into what state the perusal of 
 your * Lettre ' has thrown me, you would regret 
 ever having said that your heart was stolen by a 
 woman's caprice. It is from true love, not from 
 caprice, that we both have suffered. Never offend 
 me by doubting it. At this very moment learn 
 that, did I think only of myself, I should gladly 
 dry the tears that blind my eyes, and leave every- 
 thing to lose myself with you. I can well tell 
 you this now, for, if you love me, you will spare 
 me remorse." 
 
 During the years 1837 and 1838 De Musset 
 led a peaceful life. His acquaintance with a cer-- 
 
54 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 tain aged lady, whom he called " godmother," as 
 she was indeed a second mother to him, con- 
 tributed largely to impart a certain order to his 
 otherwise irregular instincts. He worked calmly 
 and constantly. He bore with unusual patience 
 the disappointments and petty miseries of life, 
 and derived immense relief from study and com- 
 position. To this epoch belongs the " Nuit d'Oc- 
 tobre." He now resumed his series of short novels 
 for the " Revue des Deux Mondes," as well as his 
 comical proverbs. While writing an ideal story, 
 " Les Deux Mattresses," he happened to gamble, 
 and lost a considerable sum of money. Thought- 
 ful and sad, he returned home to closet himself in 
 his room. The next day, as he was severely re- 
 proaching himself for this escapade, his mother 
 entered, placed a glass filled with loose flowers 
 upon his desk, and said jestingly, "You owe me 
 for these four sous." He had not a sou left. 
 Tears filled his eyes as she retired. " Ah ! " he 
 exclaimed, " I have at last something true to write 
 upon. I shall not deceive myself by relating what 
 I feel." And he set himself to the writing of the 
 exquisite pages on the joys of a poor man, which 
 are perhaps the most eloquent he ever conceived. 
 In January, 1839, as he was preparing for 
 press his novel " Le Chevalier de Croiselles," he ex- 
 claimed in his brother's presence, " Finis Prosae," 
 meaning that he would never again write any- 
 thing in prose. Such, however, was his embar- 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 55 
 
 rassed condition that he was persuaded by his 
 brother to sign with M. Buloz a contract by which 
 he bound himself to write three new novels. This 
 engagement weighed upon him like the mountains 
 upon the fabled Titan. He would frequently fly 
 into a passion, and utter the most terrible invec- 
 tives that his imagination could frame against 
 M. Buloz and the other parties to the agreement. 
 " You have made me a mere thinking machine," 
 said he to his brother, " a convict condemned to 
 hard labor. Give me back my creditors and my 
 embarrassments. I want debts. I prefer starving 
 to this hack work." In his moments of calm he 
 willingly acknowledged the benefits which he had 
 received from M. Buloz, but could never bring 
 himself to commence the stipulated work. His 
 conduct in this instance was certainly inexcusable. 
 As a substitute for the obnoxious fictions, he un- 
 dertook to write a species of autobiography. He 
 seemingly had made up his mind to kill himself 
 upon the adjustment of his contract with Buloz. 
 It is greatly to be regretted that the "Fallen 
 Poet," as he had called his autobiography, was de- 
 stroyed by De Musset before his death. The few 
 pages which escaped destruction are quoted from 
 by Paul, and are sublime in their wildness. Here 
 is the introduction : 
 
 " Although the motive by which you are ani- 
 mated be a paltry one — that of mere curiosity — 
 you shall know about me all you desire. You are 
 
56 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 almost unknown to me. Your pity or your sym- 
 .pathy is to me entirely useless. For your com- 
 ments I care even less, as I shall not hear them. 
 I will nevertheless bare my heart to you as 
 frankly and as willingly as though you were my 
 bosom friends. Be neither surprised nor flattered 
 by my candor. I carry a burden that crushes me, 
 and in talking to you I shake the load before free- 
 ing myself of it. 
 
 " Were I a poet, what a recital could I offer 
 you ! Had Byron to depict my sufferings, here 
 in these solitudes, face to face with these moun- 
 tains, what would not such a man as he tell you ? 
 What sobbings would you hear ! These very gla- 
 ciers would thrill with them ! The valleys around 
 would be filled with them, and from these eternal 
 peaks their echo would roll through the universe. 
 But Byron would tell you all this in the open air, 
 from the ridge of an abyss ; I, gentlemen — ^it is 
 from the window of a room in a miserable hotel 
 that I am compelled to speak to you. I have to 
 use the rude stringless instrument by every one so 
 much abused. My business is to write prose, to 
 utter my unspeakable grief in a style suited to a 
 feuilleton, seated on a stump-bed, before a fire 
 dying in the stove. But be it so. I like to clothe 
 in rags the sorrowful romance that is the history 
 of my life, and to throw the fragment of the 
 sword that clove my heart into the comer of a 
 hovel. 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 57 
 
 " Do not fancy that my misfortunes have been 
 of an extraordinary kind. They have not been 
 those of a hero, and are unfit for epic treatment. 
 They would only furnish good material for a 
 novel or a melodrama. You hear the wind that 
 whistles without and the rain that patters at your 
 window. Listen to me as you do to the wind and 
 rain ; I ask no more. I have been a poet, a painter, 
 and a musician. My sorrows are those of a man. 
 Read them as you would a newspaper." 
 
 Beyond a second volume of poems, published 
 under the title of "Un Spectacle dans un Fau- 
 teuil," Alfred de Musset produced comparatively 
 little in the later years of his life. It was not 
 that the verve of Fantasio had deserted him. De- 
 spite all that has been said to the contrary, his 
 talent was not exhausted. The little he did proves 
 the reverse. His last productions were the most 
 perfect. The true reason of his silence was the 
 unconquerable griefs which new disappointments 
 had brought upon him. Many of his dearest 
 friends were dead, and others were far away. 
 The public did not greet his productions with 
 the enthusiasm of former times. Sainte-Beuve, 
 his former friend and patron, had deserted him. 
 Lamartine had broken his promise, and for six 
 years had neglected to answer his famous letter. 
 The literature of fiction he saw defiled by a horde 
 of sensational scribblers, who ministered to a cor- 
 rupted public taste. Rachel, he fancied, ill- 
 
58 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 treated him ; wliat more was wanted to render 
 him indifferent to praise or blame ? Disenchanted 
 and disgusted, he would exclaim with a sigh, " I 
 am doomed to see nothing but the wrong side of 
 all my medals." A pulmonary disease, contracted 
 in 1842, had left its traces upon his constitution, 
 seriously affecting his nervous system, and pro- 
 ducing in the end a disease of the heart which 
 resulted in his death. We can see how unjust 
 was the charge of voluntary idleness preferred 
 against him by certain of his contemporaries. No 
 one ever dared to reproach Goethe with having 
 laid aside the poet's pen, and amusing himself for 
 several years with scientific studies which certain- 
 ly yielded no striking discoveries. Though writ- 
 ing little up to the time of his death, Alfred de 
 Musset never neglected study, giving to it an at- 
 tention more serious than was consistent with his 
 impaired health. 
 
 Having mentioned the name of Rachel, we 
 can not forbear recalling a few facts concerning 
 her intimacy with De Musset. From her very 
 debut he had been struck with her wonderful 
 talent, and he became her defender against those 
 who upheld the stale conventionalities of the 
 classic school as well as against the apostles of 
 the so-called " Drama of the Future," who spoke 
 of tragedy as an outworn form of art. The 
 two were created seemingly for the perfect 
 comprehension of each other. The poet was to 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 59 
 
 write tragedies and dramas for tlie actress ; he 
 indeed began this work ; but disagreements and 
 misunderstandings again interfered with a har- 
 mony from which, in all likelihood, some wonder- 
 ful performances would have resulted. Peace 
 was several times made and broken. One day in 
 April, 1848, Rachel invited De Musset to dine 
 with herself and some guests of high social posi- 
 tion, both by wealth and rank. The actress wore 
 a superb ring, the exquisite carving of which 
 doubled the value of the gem set in it. In an- 
 swer to the endless praises which the ring called 
 forth, Rachel then and there put it up at auction. 
 In a few moments the bids rose from five hundred 
 to three thousand francs. De Musset said not a 
 word : his slender purse forbade his competing 
 with the wealthy gentlemen about him. 
 
 "And you, monsieur; don't you bid?" said 
 the actress to De Musset. "Let us see — how 
 much do you offer ? " 
 
 " My heart," he replied. 
 
 " The ring is yours," replied Rachel, laying it 
 on his plate. The dinner over, De Musset, think- 
 ing the joke had gone far enough, offered the 
 ring back to Rachel. " By no means ! " she ex- 
 claimed. " It was no joke. You have given me 
 your heart. I would not give it back for a mil- 
 lion. The bargain has been concluded, and con- 
 cluded it must remain." 
 
 De Musset, however, urged the restitution of 
 
60 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 the jewel so persistently that Rachel at last could 
 induce him to retain it only as an earnest of the 
 tragedy which he was to write for her. " If ever, 
 through my fault or yours, you abandon the pro- 
 ject," she said, " bring me back the ring and I 
 will accept it." 
 
 Rachel went to England, and Rose Ch6ri made 
 her appearance as Clarissa Harlowe at the The- 
 atre Fran9ais. De Musset, who was never tired of 
 reading Richardson's novel, witnessed thirty suc- 
 cessive perfoiTuances of that emotional drama. 
 His enthusiastic notices of the acting of Rose 
 Cheri reached the eyes of Rachel, and provoked 
 her jealousy. On her return the latter never al- 
 luded to the tragedy stipulated for. The poet 
 returned the ring, which she permitted him to 
 place upon her finger without the slightest remon- 
 strance. 
 
 Four years later Rachel was giving a dinner 
 to inaugurate her entry into a new mansion in the 
 Rue Tendon. De Musset was among the guests, 
 and as the company proceeded to the dining-room 
 the artiste took his arm. As they together as- 
 cended a narrow staircase the poet accidentally 
 stepped upon her train. 
 
 " When you give your arm to a lady," Ra- 
 chel remarked, " you should mind where you put 
 your feet." 
 
 **When a lady becomes a princess," retorted 
 Alfred, "and builds a palace, she should instruct 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 61 
 
 her architect to build a wider staircase than 
 this." 
 
 The raillery of the day was, however, followed 
 by a reconciliation in the evening. De Musset 
 was again to be Rachel's poet ; but jealousy again 
 cut the thread of their intimacy. Rose Cheri and 
 a highly successful play, " Bettine," which the 
 poet had written for her, were this time the causes 
 of the rupture — the final estrangement. Any man 
 other than De Musset, whose singular organiza- 
 tion palliated all his offenses, and made him the 
 exquisite poet that he was, might deserve severe 
 blame for having made art and glory subservient 
 to the petty jealousies of a woman. 
 
 The heart-disease with which De Musset was 
 afflicted made rapid progress during the last four 
 years of his life, especially as he persistently re- 
 fused regular medical treatment. In March, 1857, 
 Augier had presented himself as a candidate at 
 the Academy. De Musset, who dearly loved Au- 
 gier, could not be induced to miss the sitting. 
 Rain poured in torrents, and a cab was not to be 
 found. De Musset started on foot, but was obliged 
 to stop every few moments to breathe. He ar- 
 rived just in time to cast his vote, which decided 
 the election. This was the last time that he at- 
 tended a session of the Academy. A month later, 
 on his return from a dinner at the house of Prince 
 Jerome Bonaparte, he felt unusually ill. He went 
 to his bed, from which he was to rise no more. 
 
62 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 Like Byron, lie suifered from sleeplessness as he 
 neared the closing scene. On May 1st, having 
 followed his physician's prescriptions, he became 
 serene, as if about to improve. " How sweet is 
 this calm," he said ; " how wrong are we to fear 
 death, which is naught but the highest expression 
 of calm." He spoke of all his friends, not one of 
 whom he forgot. At midnight, near one o'clock, 
 he sat up in his bed, placed his hand upon his 
 breast, reclined again upon the pillow, and ex- 
 pired, after whispering, " To sleep ! At last I am 
 going to sleep." 
 
 De Musset was as handsome as Byron. He 
 was a blond Torquato Tasso. His dark-blue eyes 
 were full of meaning. His whole countenance 
 plainly expressed the emotions of his soul. His 
 manner was wonderfully fascinating. When I 
 was a boy I saw De Musset once ; and I can to- 
 day readily understand the subtle power which he 
 wielded over all who knew him, especially over 
 the women. Few men were so thoroughly frank. 
 He could forgive any fault but lying. That he was 
 most generous, even to those who wronged him, is 
 proved by the fact that he was never known to 
 utter a single word against George Sand ; nay, he 
 even accused his own temper of being the cause 
 of all the misery that grew out of his acquain- 
 tance with her. That he was in the highest de- 
 gree charitable, the following anecdote will show : 
 Late one night, as he was returning from the The- 
 
ALFRED DE MUSSET. 63 
 
 atre Fran9ais, he came across an old beggar who 
 was obstinately turning the crank of an organ. 
 The snow was falling in heavy flakes upon the 
 slippery sidewalk. De Musset passed the organ- 
 grinder without noticing him ; but on reaching 
 his door there came to him a sharp realization of 
 the aged pauper playing in the bitter night, in 
 want of money, perhaps, wherewith to procure a 
 lodging. He hurried back and gave the man a 
 five-franc piece on condition that he would go to 
 bed. To his brother, who had tried to detain him, 
 he replied, " Unless I go back and give him some- 
 thing, his d d music will haunt me all night 
 
 like the demon of remorse." 
 
 De Musset was as fond of paintings and ob- 
 jects of vertu as Theophile Gautier. He was once 
 offered an opportunity to purchase a beautiful 
 copy of a canvas by Giorgione. He had no mon- 
 ey. The dealer suggested that he might pay for 
 it in four monthly installments. He yielded to the 
 temptation. The painting was placed in his dining- 
 room, and he bade his housekeeper place his cover 
 opposite to the picture, saying : " For four months 
 you will economize by one dish. By gazing at 
 that picture the dinner will taste just as good to 
 me." 
 
 One of his strongest passions was to play 
 
 chess. Usually so impatient and restless, he would 
 
 pore for hours in perfect silence over a chess 
 
 table. After his breaking with George Sand, 
 
 5 
 
64 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 when almost nothing else could lessen his grief, a 
 game of chess would afford him great temporary- 
 relief. He who was often incapable of writing a 
 line unless under the exhilarating influence of ab- 
 sinthe, after intoxicating himself in the giddy 
 round of Parisian pleasures, would play as strong 
 a game of chess as his staid and sedate uncle Des- 
 herbieres, forgetting even his eternal cigarette. 
 
 Besides being a great chess-player, he was a 
 clever prestidigitateur. One evening, while visiting 
 an aunt in Lorraine, he was urged to read, accord- 
 ing to promise, one of his poems before a small 
 and highly appreciative audience. He preferred, 
 hoAvever, to show himself as a rival of Heller and 
 Hermann. He cut the handkerchief of one of the 
 ladies into a hundred pieces, and afterward re- 
 turned it to her in its integrity, and caused his 
 aunt's ring to pass into his uncle's snuff-box. Of 
 poetry not a single line could be extracted from 
 him. One of his favorite amusements was to try 
 to make an egg stand upon the convexity of an 
 old-fashioned globular watch-glass. His patience 
 was in these experiments often severely tried. It 
 is to be remarked also that at De Musset's table 
 omelettes were a staple article of diet. Once, at 
 Plombi^res, the mayor and prefect, wishing to 
 do him honor, visited him in state attire. They 
 found the author of "Namouna" surrounded 
 with pairs of tongs, chairs standing upside down, 
 broom-sticks, and other objects which he had 
 
TH^OPHILE GAUTIER. 65 
 
 skillfully contrived to make stand unsupported. 
 " Not another step, gentlemen ! " he wildly ex- 
 claimed, " or you will upset every tiling." The 
 two gentlemen were obliged to retire, and leave 
 the poet to his legerdemain. 
 
 De Musset was a fatalist. To him the un- 
 known and the unforeseen were irresistible at- 
 tractions. He once came near marrying a young 
 lady with whom he was not acquainted even by 
 sight. His firm belief in chance he has well ex- 
 pressed in the following line : 
 
 " La poussi^re est a Dieu ; la reste est au hazard." 
 
 THilOPHILE GAUTIER. 
 
 Some thirty years ago Parisians occasionally 
 saw, pacing the Faubourg Montmartre, a man 
 whose strange behavior excited general curiosity. 
 He stared into all the shop-windows, and stopped 
 every now and then to chat in a friendly way 
 with the gossips of the quarter. A cigar was 
 always in his mouth, a fez on his head, and a 
 loose, rakish jacket of velvet hung in folds from 
 his broad shoulders. Of unusually high stature, 
 he walked with a grand stride, his feet cased in 
 yellow slippers of a Turkish pattern. He paid no 
 more attention to the comments which his sin- 
 gular appearance occasionally provoked than if 
 
66 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 he had been a Turk strayed into the Western 
 world. Indeed, he was fond of pretending to be 
 a Turk. His face was framed in flowing black 
 curls and a beard of the same hue. About his 
 firmly shaped mouth there was, however, nothing 
 hard, and his exquisitely carved nose evidenced, 
 like the masterpieces of Greek statuary, a con- 
 tempt for the petty and the vile. His beautiful 
 almond-shaped eyes were mild yet full of fire. 
 The ensemble was that of an extraordinary per- 
 son who contemptuously cast from him all that 
 was commonplace in men and things — a brave, 
 independent individuality, which repelled the 
 bad and attracted the good among men and 
 women. 
 
 This was Theophile Gautier— " Theo," as his 
 intimes used to call him — as a man or as a writer 
 truly one of the most original and gifted of the 
 sons of France. " Completeness on his own scale," 
 says Henry James, Jr., " is to our mind the idea 
 he most instantly suggests. Such as his finished 
 task now presents him, he is almost sole of his 
 kind. We doubt whether the literature of our 
 age presents so naturally perfect a genius. . . . 
 The artificer of ' £maux et Camees ' was pre- 
 sumably of the opinion that it is idle at all times 
 to point a moral. But, if there are sermons in 
 stones, there -are profitable reflections to be made 
 even on Theophile Gautier ; notably this one — 
 that a man's supreme use in the world is to mas- 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 67 
 
 ter his intellectual instrument and play it in per- 
 fection." 
 
 To follow this great poet through the manifold 
 phases of his literary and private life would be an 
 undertaking which might challenge the brevity of 
 a Tacitus. His collected works fill some twenty- 
 five volumes, and his miscellaneous contributions 
 to the press would fill many more. The poet's 
 own son-in-law, Bergerat, in a recent memoir, could 
 not present more than a comparatively small num- 
 ber of facts concerning the last years of the poet's 
 life. We can offer, therefore, in these few pages 
 barely enough to enable the reader to form a 
 fair idea of the famous author of " Le Capitaine 
 Fracasse." 
 
 Gautier was born in the historical city of 
 Tarbes, in the Hautes-Pyrenees, on the 31st day 
 of August, 1811, and died at Paris on the 22d of 
 October, 1872. He came to Paris with his family 
 when very young, and completed his studies at 
 the College Charlemagne. He was always at the 
 bottom of his class, and became celebrated amid 
 his schoolmates for his fearful blunders. "He 
 was," a biographer says, " in very truth a de- 
 plorable scapegrace, who hated Homer and Cicero 
 with a malignant hatred, and would have jumped 
 for joy if he could have made a bonfire of every 
 classical volume in existence." 
 
 Theophile Gautier must be considered as a 
 self-made man. He used to say that in his youth 
 
68 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 it cost him more time to unlearn that which he 
 had been taught than to acquire new knowledge. 
 How beneficial would it be for the advance of 
 civilization if many of us would similarly shake 
 off the prejudices of early education ! The first 
 years of his literary career were devoted to expe- 
 dients and experiments. Though one of the most 
 active of the romanticists, he was far ahead of the 
 romantic school. He may be regarded as the foun- 
 der of realism in poetry. At the age of nineteen 
 he published a small volume of poems bearing the 
 characteristic inscription, " Ah ! si je pouvais un 
 jour!" ("Ah! if some day I could"), and he 
 proved that he could dare anything. The touch 
 of his pen beautified everything. His poetry was 
 not, and could not be, at once popular ; but Vic- 
 tor Hugo looked upon him as the coming man, 
 and Balzac, the elder Dumas, Jules Janin, Sainte- 
 Beuve, and many more who have since become 
 famous, styled him simply " the poet," or " Young 
 France." 
 
 It was Sainte-Beuve, by the way, who had the 
 privilege of being selected by Gautier as judge of 
 his capabilities as a poet. Theophile introduced 
 himself to the great critic, and begged the latter's 
 permission to read to him a poem bearing the 
 rather somber title "La Fete de Moit." Sainte- 
 Beuve was known for anything but indulgence 
 toward young authors, and out of mere politeness 
 consented to endure "the punishment inflicted 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 69 
 
 upon him." But at the third stanza he could not 
 forbear exclaiming : " Who has been your model ? 
 It is not by studying Lamartine that you may 
 have written these verses. You must have read 
 Clement, Marat, Saint-Gelais, and Ronsard." 
 
 " Yes," replied the young man, " and you may 
 add to them Baif, Desportes, Passerat, Bertaut, 
 Duperron, and Malherbe." 
 
 " The whole pleiad ? Conclude, I beg you," 
 earnestly rejoined Sainte-Beuve, becoming more 
 and more interested. 
 
 Gautier continued to read his poem to the end. 
 As he concluded, Sainte-Beuve in an outburst of 
 enthusiasm cried ; " At last I have found a man 
 who carves in granite and not in smoke I To-mor- 
 row I shall introduce you to Victor Hugo." 
 
 The romantic outpourings of Theophile highly 
 pleased his family. He found great encourage- 
 ment at home. Pierre Gautier was the first to ad- 
 mire the literary and artistic ideas of his son. As 
 for the mother, " she lived in a continual state of 
 dumb ecstasy in the contemplation of this hand- 
 some young man with waving hair, who was 
 steadily gaining success. Never was child more 
 spoiled, more petted. Paternal authority never 
 interfered but to remind the idle writer of the 
 page begun and the end to be attained." 
 
 Admitted to the literary receptions of Mme. 
 de Girardin, then at the height of her beauty and 
 repute, he soon became her private secretary. 
 
70 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 With all her talents she was as poor a hand at 
 spelling as Lord Macaulay. She could learn 
 everything but orthography. While copying one 
 of her poems, Theophile saw fit to correct cer- 
 tain words. The lady haughtily demanded his 
 reason for the change. To hir mild explanation 
 she indignantly replied : 
 
 "Mme. de Girardin, monsieur, can spell just 
 as she pleases. All Paris will adopt whatever 
 way I prefer." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that, madame ; for if the 
 romanticists follow you, I, Theophile Gautier, shall 
 for the occasion become the most arrant of classi- 
 cists." 
 
 It is, however, but fair to state that in the 
 matter of punctuation Gautier was as culpable as 
 Mme. de Girardin. lie used to say that this was 
 properly the work of compositors and proof- 
 readers. 
 
 This little storm passed away, and, even after 
 he relinquished the secretaryship, Theophile was 
 a constant and welcome visitor at the salon of 
 Mme. de Girardin, albeit his Bohemian habits 
 used seriously to disturb the equanimity of her 
 husband. 
 
 Gautier's celebrity dates from the publication 
 of his "Mademoiselle de Maupin." Theophile 
 wrote it in his room in his father's house in the 
 Place E-oyale. It wearied him extremely. The 
 young man lived as a Bohemian lion, and pre- 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 71 
 
 ferred displaying " his gorgeous waistcoats and 
 marvelous pantaloons " on the boulevards to shut- 
 ting himself up and blackening sheets of paper. 
 His father was frequently compelled to turn the 
 key on him and cry through the keyhole, " You 
 shall not come out until you have written ten 
 pages of *Maupin.'" But even this proceeding 
 would occasionally prove unavailing. Sometimes 
 Theophile would sleep the whole day or climb 
 out through the window ; sometimes his mother 
 would let him out by stealth. 
 
 It fell like a thunderbolt in the midst of Pa- 
 risian society. But the shock experienced was 
 a trifle in comparison with the delight that the 
 book yielded, and everybody wanted to read it. 
 In this curious book Gautier tells the story of a 
 woman whose beauty arouses the sensual love of 
 men, as well as that of her fellow- women. It is the 
 apotheosis of plastic perfection. All the ideas, 
 dreams, and aspirations, awakened in his mind by 
 the masterpieces of sculpture and painting in the 
 Paris museums, seemingly narrowed themselves 
 into one groove — the adoration of the beautiful. 
 As a critic has it : " Good, evil, vice, virtue, re- 
 ligion, impiety — these were comprised in and esti- 
 mated by the possession of a perfect outward and 
 visible shape, a perfection which was material and 
 palpable, which could be seen and touched. He 
 saw nothing beyond corporeal loveliness, and that 
 alone was the mother of all the virtues. Venus, 
 
72 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 in Gautier's opinion, was a greater saint than St. 
 Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins, missals 
 and all." 
 
 Its publication procured for Gautier the friend- 
 ship of Balzac, and " Theo " became his collabora- 
 tor, writing meanwhile " Fortunio " and other nov- 
 els. For many days, persuaded by Balzac that 
 lamp-light was, for literary labor, superior to sun- 
 light, Gautier lived like an anchorite, in absolute 
 darkness but for the light of the lamp. The author 
 of " !!fimaux et Camees " says that he thought he 
 had experienced resurrection from the tomb the 
 day he resumed his former mode of life and work. 
 It was then that he associated himself with Gerard 
 de Nerval, from whom he became almost insepa- 
 rable. 
 
 The following anecdote illustrates the rela- 
 tion between Balzac and Gautier : Curmer, when 
 he conceived the idea of publishing his series, 
 " Frenchmen painted by Themselves," asked some 
 sketches of Balzac. The great novelist consented, 
 stipulating only that the series should include an 
 essay upon himself from the pen of Gautier. The 
 bargain was concluded, and ^ve hundred francs 
 was fixed upon as the price of Gautier's contri- 
 bution. Theophile, eager to fill his empty purse, 
 brought to the publisher the required sketch in a 
 few days, but his timidity prevented him from 
 asking payment. Two weeks passed, but no 
 money was forthcoming. Finally, Balzac one 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 73 
 
 day made his appearance. " I am at a loss how 
 adequately to thank you," the novelist said ; 
 "your essay is a masterpiece. Thinking you 
 might be in need of money, I have brought you 
 the price agreed upon." He placed two hundred 
 and fifty francs upon the table. 
 
 " Two hundred and fifty ! " said Gautier ; " I 
 think you said five hundred." 
 
 " So I did ; but please reflect. Had I not ex- 
 isted, you could never have had the opportunity of 
 writing so much good about me. That is clear. 
 Half the sum, therefore, comes to me as subject, 
 the remainder goes to you as author. We are 
 collaborators. Am I not right ? " 
 
 "As right as Solomon himself," rejoined Gau- 
 tier. The most astonishing part of it is, that even 
 in later years he persisted in approving of Balzac's 
 conduct. 
 
 Like Richelieu, who more coveted the title of 
 great playwright than that of great statesman — 
 like Ingres, who fancied himself a greater violinist 
 than painter — Gautier imagined that he could 
 wield the brush to better purpose than the pen. 
 Had he carried out his first intention, we might 
 to-day have on canvas such masterpieces as 
 " Constantinople " and " Spain " are on paper. 
 Except patience, he possessed every quality of a 
 great painter. A collection of his sketches brought 
 after his death about one hundred thousand francs. 
 Victor Hugo, Auguste Perault, Henry Houssaye, 
 
74 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 and Eugene Plot, possess very fine specimens of 
 his painting. The reason why he gave up the 
 easel for the writing-desk has been given in va- 
 rious ways. The following version I hold from 
 Ars^ne Houssaye : On a certain day Gautier car- 
 ried a small historical painting to an art-dealer, 
 whose admiration for the production was as great 
 as his knowledge of history was small, and who 
 consequently requested the seller to provide him 
 with a short explanatory sketch. The painter 
 shortly found himself in a " vasty deep " of rhet- 
 oric and historical philosophy. The notice as- 
 sumed the proportions of an essay. Gavarni and 
 Gerard de Nerval entered his room while he was 
 writing and asked the nature of his work. He 
 read it to them, and they told him that, however 
 good his pictures, he could paint far better with 
 his pen than with his brush. " Now that I have 
 read what I have written, I think so myself," said 
 Theophile ; " I will try my hand further and see 
 what I can do." 
 
 His painter's eye, I think, invested his style 
 with not a little of that vivid picturesqueness 
 which places it so far above that of most contem- 
 porary writers. Had not his gift of visual discrim- 
 ination been so extraordinary, and his observation 
 so penetrative, I doubt whether his descriptions 
 would have attained such an unerring excellence. 
 " One might fancy," well remarks Mr. James, 
 " that grave Nature, in a fit of coquetry, or tired 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 75 
 
 of receiving but half justice, had determined to 
 construct a genius with senses of a finer strain 
 than the mass of the human family." 
 
 Many of Gautier's productions evidence the 
 haste which necessarily characterizes the contri- 
 butions to the daily press. Mouselet has well 
 styled him " the martyr of copy." But, whenever 
 it was possible, he was as fastidious as Thack- 
 eray. His " ]fimaux et Cam6es," as the title indi- 
 cates, received the most studied care, and resembles 
 goldsmith's work. " Le Capitaine Fracasse " was 
 the result of years of diligent labor, but not of 
 twenty-five, as has been frequently claimed. It 
 is true, however, that it was announced twenty- 
 five years previous to its appearance, because the 
 author had taken a fancy to the title, and had pro- 
 posed to write " up " to it. One of his favorite 
 recreations was the study of the dictionary, to 
 which is due his marvelous knowledge of the ca- 
 pacity of a word or a phrase. Indeed, as he ever 
 sought to create a style of his own, dictionaries 
 multiplied upon his book-shelves. With this ob- 
 ject, he rescued from oblivion all the obsolete 
 words he could hit upon. In this way he filled 
 his vocabulary with hundreds of quaint, bizarre 
 expressions which, manipulated with peculiar skill, 
 gave to his outpoured thoughts the original un- 
 hackneyed turn for which he will ever be fa- 
 mous. 
 
 Gautier was, during forty years, a dramatic and 
 
76 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 an art critic as well as a novelist and a poet. The 
 whole history of the art and literature of the last 
 forty years is contained in his criticisms. These 
 would have made any man's fame. When advised 
 of the appropriateness of publishing his critiques in 
 a collected form, he would object, saying, " What 
 is the good of changing a tomb into a necrop- 
 olis ! " It was, indeed, only after his death that 
 some of them were published. His sense of re- 
 finement was so great that he could discover in 
 a work of art an excellence which hitherto had 
 escaped the greatest artists. For beginners he 
 was almost a prophet. He predicted the success 
 of Jerome from his debut, French artists regarded 
 him as a supreme judge, and dreaded his silence. 
 He was, in my opinion, an ideal critic — a man who 
 knew and sympathized with all the varied forms 
 of beauty. He was, however, too prone to be 
 good-natured, and to distribute his praises too 
 freely — a peculiarity which grew seemingly from 
 the desire to be at peace with everybody. Apro- 
 pos of this dislike of making enemies, Bergerat 
 relates an amusing story which he heard from his 
 father-in-law's own lips : 
 
 " Had the desire of being wicked in my re- 
 marks seized me," " Young France " would say, 
 " the recollection of my dealer in notions would 
 have sufficiently warned me against yielding." 
 
 " Your dealer in notions ? How is that ? " 
 asked the son-in-law. 
 
TH^OPEILE GAUTIER. 77 
 
 "Why, don't you know the story? In de- 
 scribing an idiot, I had once used a phrase like 
 this : * As stupid as a merchant in notions.' Quite 
 inoffensive, you think, and so thought I. But a 
 member of the abused craft who happened to 
 read the article thought that the whole trade had 
 been outraged, and determined upon a terrible 
 vengeance. He clandestinely bought from all my 
 creditors — and I had a considerable number of 
 them — their bills against me. Thus armed, he 
 announced his purpose to sell me out. I offered 
 to pay him by installments. He refused. By 
 dint of superhuman efforts I gathered the whole 
 sum and placed it at his disposal. He bluntly 
 declined to take it, and even offered to lend mo 
 money if I so desired. His object, he said, was 
 to sell me out, and sell me out he would. I was 
 at last obliged to go to the courts to make him 
 accept the amount of my indebtedness to him. 
 Think of that ! — I, Th^ophile Gautier, obliged to 
 go to court to make a creditor take my money. 
 Ah ! my dear boy, if you want to save yourself 
 trouble, weigh well the words that you write." 
 
 He had another reason for being lenient in his 
 criticisms. During the last twenty years of his 
 life he wrote his artistic reviews in the " Journal 
 Officiel," which, being the organ of the Imperial 
 Government, afforded a limited freedom of speech. 
 Hindered from expressing his unbiased opinion, he 
 would often deal out wholesale praise, which at 
 
78 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 times was cleverly disguised satire. Among his 
 friends, however, he would mercilessly criticise 
 what he had been obliged to praise, and even cut 
 to pieces his own articles. Edmond Goncourt 
 tells the following story in this regard : One 
 evening, during a conversation at the Princesse 
 Mathilde's, Theophile ferociously handled a dra- 
 matic production which he had very mildly cen- 
 sured in the paper of that same day. Some one 
 bluntly asked why had he not expressed in the 
 morning the views of the evening. 
 
 "I have an anecdote to tell you," rejoined 
 Theophile, smiling calmly. " Count Walewski 
 once told me to be no longer indulgent to any 
 one. He declared that thereafter I could express 
 my free opinion upon all plays. * But, your Ex- 
 cellency,' I whispered in his ear, * Monsieur X 
 
 will have a piece represented at the Theatre Fran- 
 9ais.' * Indeed ! ' vivaciously rejoined the Min- 
 ister of the Interior ; * well, then, wait until next 
 week.' * May I begin now ? ' I asked at the end 
 of the week. * Wait until next week,' was the re- 
 ply, which I had the opportunity to hear repeated 
 many times more. That famous week has yet to 
 come." 
 
 Only once did Theophile dare to disobey the 
 Secretary's injunctions. It 'was in 1867, on the 
 occasion of the revival of "Hernani." Gautier, 
 always the enthusiastic admirer and bosom friend 
 of Victor Hugo, had spoken of the drama with 
 
TH^OPHILE GAUTIER. 79 
 
 unmeasured praise and solemnity. Hugo was of 
 course one of those to whom Walewski's formula 
 of indiscriminate praise did not apply ; the article 
 was withheld from the press as too enthusiastic. 
 Gautier was asked to moderate the eulogy. With- 
 out making the slightest reply, he took up a sheet 
 of blank paper and wrote on it his resignation. 
 Then he laid it before the Minister of the Inte- 
 rior, with his article. "Choose," he said. The 
 article was printed as originally written. 
 
 To Hugo, Gautier never ceased to offer signs 
 of his veneration. An aristocrat and a Bona- 
 partist as he was, he held fast to the people by 
 his love for the great poet. When, having taken 
 refuge in Belgium, Victor Hugo was obliged by 
 need to sell his furniture, Gautier announced the 
 coming sale in 2^feuilleton of the "Presse," which 
 contained pathetic descriptions of several objects 
 of his brother poet's household. " Let us hope," 
 he concluded, " that the numerous admirers of the 
 great exile will attend this sale, which they should 
 have prevented by buying by subscription his fur- 
 niture, so that the poet might have all that be- 
 longed to him when he should again be with us. 
 Let them, at all events, think that they are pur- 
 chasing, not mere pieces of furniture, but precious 
 relics." He purchased many articles particularly 
 dear to their owner, and when, after twenty years, 
 Hugo came back from exile, he returned to him 
 all that the latter could be induced \^ accept. It 
 6 
 
80 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 was Gautier who, being questioned by a friend as 
 to certain verses of Victor Hugo, replied, " Had 
 I the misfortune to believe that a line of the 
 maitre is bad, I should not acknowledge it to my- 
 self, were I all alone, in a pit, without a light." 
 
 Gautier traveled extensively in Italy, Spain, 
 Russia, the East, etc. ; and the accounts of his 
 sojourns in these lands revolutionized the preva- 
 lent style of travel- writing, which was notoriously 
 heavy and dull. His " Constantinople " is so per- 
 fect that, but for Gerard de Nerval, Lamartine, 
 and De Amicis, I should deem it presumptuous 
 for any other man to attempt describing Eastern 
 scenery and costumes. With a book by Gautier 
 in the hand, one really travels without stirring 
 from the fireside. His descriptions are less pen- 
 paintings than stereoscopic views enlivened by 
 the sparkling color of Fortuny, though, like the 
 latter, he painted only the surface of things. He 
 seizes the imagination with more striking effect 
 than reality, as he casts upon truth all the glow 
 of art. " The author's manner," says Mr. James, 
 " is so light and true, so really creative, his fancy 
 so alert, his taste so happy, his humor so genial, 
 that he makes illusion almost as contagious as 
 laughter : the image, the object, the scene stands 
 arrested by his phrase, with the wholesome glow 
 of truth overtaken." Renan, the learned philos- 
 opher who, for the purpose of rebuilding the 
 primitive history of Christianity, lived many 
 
TH^OPHILE GAUTIER. 81 
 
 years in the East, is wont to say that but for 
 Gautier's book he could never have accomplished 
 the herculean task. 
 
 However vivid and graphic may be his writing, 
 Gautier's speech was even more rich and pictu- 
 resque. He was a most famous talker : the most 
 commonplace incident assumed from his lips the 
 brightness of a comical adventure. He had a pe- 
 culiarly fascinating mode of viewing and saying 
 things. His conversation was either a constant 
 Pindaric flight in the highest regions of poetry 
 or a continual fusillade of wit and humor. Had 
 it been possible to report some of his chats, this 
 Bohemian would appear even a more interesting 
 character than he is. 
 
 The dream of Gautier's life was to become a 
 member of the Academy ; but it was never real- 
 ized. He belongs to that eminent group — Moliere, 
 Pascal, Balzac, Beranger, Dumas phre^ Murger, 
 etc. — " who came near making it the supreme lit- 
 erary honor in France not to be numbered among 
 the Forty Immortals." His eccentricity and his 
 early Bohemianism were the cause of his exclusion 
 from that honorable body. " The Academy," says 
 Charles Bigot, " wants regularity as much as tal- 
 ent." Gautier used to say that the " bourgeois " 
 of the Academy were afraid of his famous red 
 waistcoat, which he wore on the evening of the 
 premiere of " Hernani." " I wore it only once, 
 and have worn it during my whole life," he would 
 
82 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 say of that garment. He always alluded to his 
 academical failure in terms of fatalistic disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " If you are destined to be one of the Acad- 
 emy," he would say to a friend, " be preoccupied 
 with nothing. You will become a member. Don't 
 go to the bother of writing a good book — that is 
 perfectly useless. Throwing libelous pamphlets 
 in the faces of that august company will not pre- 
 vent your election, if the latter is written on the 
 book of fate. If it is not, three hundred vol- 
 umes recognized by the kneeling universe, by the 
 Academy itself, as so many masterpieces, will not 
 open to you the doors of the Institute. One is 
 born academician, as he may be born bishop, cook, 
 or policeman. Death will wait for him who is 
 destined to fill one of those much-coveted chairs. 
 See what has happened to me. When last I of- 
 fered myself as a candidate, I had apparently 
 secured all the votes. Guizot and Sainte-Beuve 
 stood by me. Politicians, litterateurs^ old and 
 young, were on my side. I had a formal prom- 
 ise ; the Academy, forsooth, was going to liqui- 
 date a debt long due to me. On the day of the 
 election the members voted for me to a man. I 
 firmly believe that each of the thirty-nine ballots 
 bore my name. My opponent was elected, never- 
 theless, almost unanimously ! " 
 
 As he kept aloof from all the convulsions 
 which agitated France during his lifetime, and 
 
THEOPHILB GAUTIER. 83 
 
 accepted the office of librarian in the household 
 of the Princess Mathilde, he has been accused of 
 lacking patriotism — an outrageous calumny. The 
 house of the Princess was a literary, not a political 
 circle. Gautier surely may have been a Platonic 
 Bonapartist, but he loved his country better than 
 many republicans who have convulsed it with 
 party strife. Already an old man, and unmindful 
 of ill health, he did his duty at the siege like a 
 Frenchman. At that time he contracted by ex- 
 posure a disease of the lungs which hastened his 
 death. His last work, " Tableaux du Siege," is 
 not merely the product of imagination. It is 
 the cry of a great soul witnessing the hourly 
 disaster and humiliation of his fatherland. He 
 viewed the catastrophe as well with the reflec- 
 tions of a philosopher as the feelings of a patriot. 
 If the doctrine of general disarmament did not 
 originate with him, it found in him at least a 
 powerful exponent. " During many years," he 
 wrote, "we have been styled the first nation in 
 war. A poor glory, forsooth ! We could boast 
 of frightening everybody — the glory of Medusa. 
 But the supremacy of civilization is made up of 
 far different elements. Let us be the apostles of 
 peace, by sending our soldiers back to their shops 
 and their fields. By so doing, and not otherwise, 
 will we righteously proclaim that we are in ad- 
 vance of other peoples." This policy, perhaps, 
 was that of a dreamer, but it certainly was 
 
 k 
 
84 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 broader and nobler than that of all his contem- 
 poraries. 
 
 One of Gautier's peculiarities was his love for 
 cats. As soon as he could conveniently do so, he 
 afforded himself the luxury of twelve of the hand- 
 somest felines that money could purchase. It was 
 an interesting sight to behold this Hercules in his 
 writing-room, playing with his regiment of cats, 
 whom he had taught to love one another as they 
 did himself. When some of them broke a val- 
 uable object of art — ^his study, by the way, was a 
 curiosity-shop — he seriously deliberated upon get- 
 ting rid of them ; but, when the man he had en- 
 gaged came to remove the obnoxious pets, he re- 
 lented and sent him away. He named each one 
 of them after some well-known person to whom 
 he fancied it bore some resemblance, physical or 
 otherwise. He seldom wrote anything without a 
 cat or two in his lap. 
 
 A desk is religiously preserved in the town 
 school at Tarbes, before which tourists stand in 
 admiration as soon as they hear that upon it Th6- 
 ophile leaned to learn his first lessons. Theophile, 
 hearing the story, resolved to form the acquaint- 
 ance of this desk. He went to Tarbes, presented 
 himself incognito to the principal of the school, 
 and, announcing himself as an enthusiastic ad- 
 mirer of Gautier's writings, begged to see the 
 desk. " It was assuredly the first time," Gautier 
 said afterward, " that I and it had ever been face 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 85 
 
 to face with each other ; but still, though it was 
 not my desk, it might easily have been. I sat 
 down on the bench which belonged to it, and 
 which, if fate had so willed, would have been my 
 bench. Having placed myself in the attitude of 
 a studious scholar, I tried to imagine myself as 
 once again in my own proper position. The prin- 
 cipal seeing me thus absorbed, could not restrain 
 a smile softened by emotion ; he showed me on 
 the desk sundry scratches and cuts made by The- 
 ophile Gautier in class, procuring for him, no 
 doubt, many a punishment. ... A Philistine would 
 have taken a foolish pleasure in robbing the good 
 man of his illusions. I quitted him without re- 
 vealing who I really was, and told no one there 
 of my visit." 
 
 The faults of genius, it is said, should be viewed 
 only as the wrong side of its good qualities. As 
 such we shall now mention some of Gautier's short- 
 comings. He lacked chiefly character. So brave 
 against the Prussians, so bold against the classi- 
 cists, he was in his private life almost a coward. 
 He had superstitions such as would have shamed 
 a peasant of the lower Apennines. He would 
 rather starve than dine at a table where thirteen 
 were seated. Attached to his watch-chain he 
 carried coins and coral charms, with which he 
 would toy like a Neapolitan lazzarone whenever he 
 met any one who, as he fancied, had the jettatura. 
 He believed that Offenbach possessed above all 
 
86 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 men this wicked fairy's gift of the evil-eye, and 
 could not be forced to pronounce his name. When 
 he was obliged to criticise any work of the cele- 
 brated composer, he always enlisted the services 
 of a friend, carefully avoiding, however, to pro- 
 nounce the former's name. 
 
 "Th^ophile Gautier," writes a biographer, 
 "was a strangely impressionable being. All 
 those who have known him are aware of his hor- 
 ror of diseases, patients, hospitals, and the like. 
 Superstitious as an Oriental, he saw in everything 
 a cause of death, and divinity was to him only a 
 malevolent power planning our destruction. The 
 slightest indisposition assumed in his mind the 
 aspect of a domestic catastrophe, and mental pros- 
 tration would then overwhelm him. On the day 
 that he fell ill with congestion of the lungs, he 
 thought he was lost, and his family had serious 
 difficulty in destroying the deadly impression 
 which this belief wrought upon his mind." 
 
 When his heart-disease manifested itself with 
 alarming symptoms, the first precaution of his 
 family was to examine all the newspapers which 
 entered the house, and suppress such — and they 
 were not a few — as anxiously commented upon 
 his case. It was next most important to conceal 
 from him the nature of his malady, as in his mind 
 it would mean nothing short of death. After 
 some time he ceased to ask for newspapers, say- 
 ing that they were devoid of interest. His rela- 
 
THEOPHILE GAUTIER. 87 
 
 tives relaxed their surveillance, and the poet, who 
 had purposely simulated indifference, shortly man- 
 aged to secure all the newspapers of the day. He 
 appeared next morning at breakfast, his face pale 
 and distorted. 
 
 " So I have heart-disease ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Heart-disease ? What an idea, dear papa ! '* 
 said one of his daughters. 
 
 " After all, I imagined it was so," he rejoined, 
 and left the room with a bitter laugh. 
 
 From that day he gave himself up as a dead 
 man. 
 
 Of Gautier it may be most truly said that he 
 never harmed any one. Amiable to all, he has, 
 however, been severely accused of even the slight- 
 est involuntary offenses against the code of polite- 
 ness by evil-minded fault-finders. Being very 
 near-sighted, he frequently confused identities in 
 a way that entailed upon him some very disagree- 
 able consequences. He therefore resolved to rec- 
 ognize nobody in the street, so that his nearest 
 friends were obliged to elbow him to obtain a 
 salute. His physical infirmity was denied by his 
 detractors, and his failing was explained as pride 
 and self-conceit. One day Sainte-Beuve entered 
 the office of " Figaro," his hat seemingly glued 
 to his head. 
 
 " Are you wearing Gautier's hat ? " asked Yil- 
 lemessant sarcastically. 
 
 The sarcasm was so clever that it became a 
 
88 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 by-word for impoliteness, despite the great love 
 that the Parisians entertained for their poet. 
 
 Theophile Gautier left two daughters and a 
 son, Theophile, Jr., a clever newspaper writer 
 and a worthy functionary of the republic. Es- 
 telle Gautier married Bergerat, the poet's biogra- 
 pher. The other daughter, Mme. Judith, who is 
 quite famous for her knowledge of the Chinese 
 tongue and her curious Chinese novels, married 
 the poet Catulle Mendes, but is now legally sep- 
 arated from him. She is one of Victor Hugo's 
 dearest and most esteemed friends, and the critic 
 to whose judgment the " Eagle of Parnassus " 
 pays the most deference. She is also known in 
 the literary world as Judith Walter. 
 
 Gautier died at Neuilly, and sleeps in the cem- 
 etery of Montmartre. A monument to his memory 
 was raised by national subscription, and is the 
 work of the sculptor Godebski, one of the poet's 
 friends. The muse of song is represented weep- 
 ing while glancing at the medallion portrait of 
 the great poet. Under the title, "The Tomb 
 of Theophile Gautier," was printed a book of 
 poems in his memory. The list of living poets 
 who paid their tributes to their dead brother is 
 headed by Victor Hugo. But what souvenir do 
 coming generations need, more powerful to recall 
 Theophile Gautier, than " Le Roman de la Momie," 
 " La Larme du Diable," and " La Comedie de la 
 Mort"? 
 
HENRI MURGER. 89 
 
 HENRI MURGEE. 
 
 " Bohemia is the stage of art life ; the ante- 
 room to the Academy or to the Morgue. Every 
 man who enters the realm of art, with no means 
 of existence other than art itself, will be forced 
 to tread the paths of Bohemia. Every way is 
 practicable for Bohemians. They always know 
 how to avail themselves of the accidents of the 
 road ; neither rain nor dust, neither sunshine nor 
 shadows — nothing arrests these bold adventurers 
 whose every vice is double-lined with a virtue. 
 Their existence is in itself a Avork of genius, a 
 daily problem which they solve by the aid of the 
 most audacious mathematics. They could bor- 
 row money from Harpagon, and dig truffles out 
 of the head of Medusa. When compelled to do 
 so, they know how to practice abstinence with 
 all the virtue of an anchorite. Should fortune, 
 however, smile never so faintly upon them, they at 
 once mount the most ruinous fancies, and can not 
 find windows enough out of which to throw away 
 their money. The last franc being gone, they be- 
 gin again to dine at the table d'hote of chance. 
 From morning to night they are compelled to 
 chase that wary animal called the five-franc piece. 
 The associations of the Bohemian depend almost 
 entirely upon the condition of his wardrobe and 
 the state of his finances. You meet them one 
 
90 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 day leaning against the mantelpiece of a fashion- 
 able salon, and on the morrow sitting around the 
 tables of the lowest cafe-concerts. They can not 
 walk a dozen steps on the Boulevard without 
 meeting an acquaintance, and not thirty steps 
 anywhere without meeting a creditor. Theirs is 
 a life of watching and waiting in which struggling 
 is of no avail without a breastplate of indiffer- 
 ence which is proof against the blows of envy 
 and malice ; a life which has its charms and its 
 terrors, which reckons its victors and its martyrs, 
 and which no one should enter who is not ready 
 in advance to subject himself to the pitiless law 
 of VsB Yictis." 
 
 In this way did Henri Murger address himself 
 to the writing of his " Vie de Boheme," of which 
 he was himself the type and the incarnation. He 
 was, however, a martyr rather than a victor. He 
 was one of those sympathetic figures which for a 
 brief period shine with a brilliancy that dazzles 
 and then suddenly disappear before fulfilling their 
 whole destiny. Murger not only deserves to be 
 treated with loving leniency, but with respect and 
 almost admiration. He is endued vath the charm 
 of those flowers which open in the bright light 
 of morning and close before the hours of sun- 
 set. Poets who have no time to grow old are 
 like children who die in the cradle and of whom 
 we know but the unconscious tears and smiles. 
 When such men hasten, by their own doing, 
 
HENRI MURGER. 91 
 
 the catastrophe of their deaths ; when they do 
 not heed friendly admonitions, but persist in out- 
 raging every physical law, this error of theirs 
 should excite compassion rather than blame. 
 Reasons are not wanting for bestowing a gener- 
 ous pardon upon those who, unwittingly losing 
 the right path, harm nobody but themselves. We 
 should question ourselves as to whether genius is 
 not, after all, among the elect, a sort of brilliant 
 infirmity which forces them to squander the gifts 
 of nature. We should examine whether the fault 
 lies not with our age, with their education, with 
 flattery, with the atmosphere in which they breathe, 
 and with ourselves who have made of them spoiled 
 children. 
 
 From the standpoint of public curiosity no 
 life, I think, is so deserving of illustration as that 
 of this King of Bohemia. Both Mirecourt and 
 Larousse say he was born in Paris, but Armand 
 de Pontmartin, who was a life-long friend of Mur- 
 ger, claims that he was bom in Savoy (1822) 
 whence his father removed to Paris and pursued 
 the calling of a tailor and a janitor. It is cer- 
 tain, however, that Murger's boyhood was passed 
 in an atmosphere of art. His brightness made 
 him the pet of Malibran and Lablache, the play- 
 mate of Pauline Garcia, and the little protege of 
 Jouy, an academician, who had written some bad 
 tragedies, and whose library was composed of 
 bottles of rare wines, hidden behind book-covers 
 
92 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 bearing the names of the classics of every litera- 
 ture. Murger's mother, although by no means a 
 literary woman, opposed with all her might the 
 idea of educating her son to hard manual labor, 
 and especially against his spending his life on a 
 tailor's bench. The altercations between herself 
 and her husband, who held opposite views, would 
 make good material for a comedy. As usual, the 
 better half conquered, and the boy received such 
 a literary education as their limited means could 
 compass. He displayed so much aptitude that 
 his mother had good reason to congratulate herself 
 on her triumph. Through Monsieur Jouy, Henri, 
 at the age of sixteen, secured the position of sec- 
 retary to Count Tolstoy, a Russian nobleman, 
 who filled at Paris the double mission of keeping 
 the Russian Secretary of Public Instruction in- 
 formed of all that occurred at the French capital 
 in connection with that officer's department and 
 of informing the Czar of current political events. 
 The young secretary was employed in transmit- 
 ting the private dispatches to the Emperor at the 
 princely remuneration of forty francs a month. 
 But he soon displayed an intelligence too high to 
 suit the purpose of a diplomatic spy, and his posi- 
 tion became a sinecure. But for the fear of ex- 
 posures, he would doubtless have been discharged 
 at an early date. At the end of the third year 
 of his secretaryship Murger entered the house of 
 Count Tolstoy only to receive his salary. 
 
HENRI MURGER. 93 
 
 The leisure thus afforded him had been em- 
 ployed in studying the French poets, particularly 
 Victor Hugo.. His first poetical effort was a sat- 
 ire against the self-styled poet Barthelemi, the 
 man who, in his " Nemesis," maintained that — 
 
 " L'homme absurd est celui qui ne change jamais." 
 
 Murger thought that he changed too often, 
 and fulminated with all the youthful wrath of his 
 nature against his apostasies. Murger and Bar- 
 thelemi, who did not know each other, eventually 
 met at the office of the printer who was to issue 
 the satire. Barthelemi was just perusing the sat- 
 ire alluded to, when Murger entered the shop. 
 " What do you think of the poem, monsieur ? " 
 asked the youth. " Frankly, I think it is a piece 
 of nonsense. The meter is wrong," replied Bar- 
 thelemi, who directly launched into a stricture of 
 Murger's book. The remarks of the critic struck 
 the author so forcibly that the latter immediately 
 took steps to prevent the issue of the satire, and 
 thanked the gentleman for enlightening him. 
 Fancy Murger's astonishment when he learned 
 who his critic was ! 
 
 The nominal secretary devoted most of his 
 time to preparing articles for " L' Artiste " and 
 " Le Corsaire," a couple of humorous journals fed 
 by a host of young writers who strove for fame 
 by indulging in every manner of eccentricity. 
 Murger was daily to furnish " Le Corsaire " with 
 
94 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 copy for a f euilleton which bore the title of " Or- 
 bassan le Confident," when suddenly the revolu- 
 tion of 1848 came to overthrow the government 
 of Louis Philippe. In such extraordinary cir- 
 cumstances, after ten years of conge. Count Tol- 
 stoy required the assistance of his secretary. 
 Murger was thus obliged to alternate copying 
 dispatches with furnishing matter to the jour- 
 nals. In a moment of distraction he addressed 
 his feuilleton to the Czar, and the dispatch in- 
 tended for the latter to the editor of the paper. 
 Plis mistake naturally enough assumed the propor- 
 tion of a crime against his employer. This, to- 
 gether with some other aggravating circumstances, 
 resulted in Murger shortly ceasing to present him- 
 self at the doors of Count Tolstoy, even on the 
 agreeable pretext of drawing his salary. Forty 
 francs a month is by no means a princely income, 
 but it is doubtless better than nothing, and Mur- 
 ger now found himself at a loss how to provide 
 for his sustenance. To make matters worse, his 
 loving mother had died. The tailor, his father, 
 now feeling himself free, treated the young man 
 with a long pent-up severity. IN'ot forgiving his 
 son for preferring the quill to the goose, the old 
 barbarian drove him out of the apartments in 
 which they lodged. 
 
 From this time begins Murger's life as a thor- 
 ough Bohemian. His existence became actually 
 a tour de force. Probably, outside of the regu- 
 
HENRI MURGER. 95 
 
 lar tramp, there is not on this side of the Atlan- 
 tic such an example of want and endurance as 
 that afforded by Murger. 
 
 Too earnestly loving art, he could not create fast 
 enough to produce comfort. He felt so strongly 
 inclined toward poetry that he seldom would yield 
 to necessity and write prose. For no considera- 
 tion would he hasten to write anything. His 
 articles, elaborated as they were with the utmost 
 care, cost him as much time and pains as the 
 production of a fine cameo would an engraver. 
 Murger would frequently live for weeks on dry 
 bread rather than, as he said, prostitute art. 
 With his good friend Champfleury, he lived in a 
 garret, often from want of fire unable to work 
 otherwise than in bed. 
 
 The quiet of the night he found particularly 
 favorable for labor. All that he needed was a 
 number of cups of coffee such as would have ruined 
 the health of Balzac. He frequently used as many 
 as six ounces in a single night. A disease, con- 
 tracted by leading for many years a life like this, 
 made him a frequent inmate of the hospital of St. 
 Louis. To understand how far the struggle may 
 be carried between talent and misery, one must read 
 the correspondence between Murger and his Bohe- 
 mian friends. And yet how quickly could his 
 poetic soul forget wretchedness and grief when- 
 ever a five-franc piece entered his pocket. " My 
 patron (the editor of * L' Artiste ') has advanced 
 7 
 
96 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 me three hundred and fifty francs," he once "wrote 
 to a confrere^ " and he assures me that I shall have 
 a hundred and fifty more in a few months. Fancy 
 my bewilderment when I received this astound- 
 ing news. I rushed at once to Rothschild's to 
 have the check cashed ; thence I proceeded to my 
 bookseller, thence to my tailor, from the tailor to 
 the restaurant — and I tell you I was fearfully hun- 
 gry. From there I went to the theatre, and thence 
 to the cafe, I returned home quite early, and 
 there is no saying how happy I was when I 
 plunged into my bed covered with new linen 
 sheets, in an atmosphere of perfumed smoke such 
 as • I had not inhaled in a long while. What a 
 glorious night's sleep I have had ! I dreamt that 
 I was the Emperor of Morocco, and that I had 
 married the bank of France. But, alas ! a great 
 portion of the sum which I had pocketed is al- 
 ready gone." 
 
 A letter of Champfleury to him, published in 
 the " Contes d'Automne," further illustrates the 
 'singular life they led at the time. It will, per- 
 haps, be interesting to our readers to reproduce 
 a few paragraphs therefrom. 
 
 "It is nine years since we lived together. 
 Our income was seventy francs a month. Full of 
 confidence in the future, we rented a small apart- 
 ment in the Rue Yaugirard, which cost us three 
 hundred francs. Youth does not calculate. You 
 were so gentlemanly in appearance, and you had 
 
HENRI MURGER. 97 
 
 spoken to the housekeeper of such a sumptuous 
 set of furniture, that the good soul rented you 
 the apartments without asking for any reference. 
 You brought in six plates, three of which were 
 porcelain, a Shakespeare, the works of Victor 
 Hugo, a bureau of incalculable age, and a Phry- 
 gian cap" (the Bohemian's emblem). "By the 
 greatest chance I was the owner of two mattresses, 
 a bedstead, one hundred and eighty volumes, an 
 arm-chair, two small chairs, a table, and a human 
 skull. We scarcely ever went out, we worked a 
 good deal, and smoked continually. I find among 
 my papers a leaf upon which the following words 
 are written : 
 
 BEATRIX : 
 
 A Drama in Five Acts 
 
 BY 
 
 Henri Mueger. 
 
 Represented at the Theatre 
 
 On , 18—. 
 
 " This page was torn from an enormous copy- 
 book, as you had the bad habit of using all the 
 paper to write the titles of your dramas on. You 
 seriously added the word * represented,' in order 
 to better judge of the effect of the whole title. 
 The days of our greatest misery came. After a 
 long discussion, in which we severely reproached 
 each other for the extravagance that characterized 
 all our outlays, we determined that, as soon as our 
 
98 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 income was drawn, we would note down our ex- 
 penditures in a memorandum-book. I find this 
 book, also, among my papers. It is simple, touch- 
 ing, and, despite its brevity, full of souvenirs. 
 We were wonderfully honest at the beginning of 
 every month. Under the date of November 1, 
 1843, I read : ' Paid to Mme. Bastien for tobac- 
 co, two francs.' We used also to pay our grocer, 
 the coalman, and the restaurant (will you believe 
 it ? it is there written restaurant). The first day 
 of the month was seemingly a revel. I find : 
 * Spent at the cafe five sous ' — a foolish expense 
 which, I am sure, must have entailed upon me 
 many scoldings. On that day — I am frightened 
 while saying it — you bought fifteen sous worth of 
 pipes. 
 
 " On November 2d, you pay a considerable 
 sum (five francs) to the washerwoman. . . . On 
 the 3d, you determine that as long as the sev- 
 enty francs last we shall do our own cooking. 
 Accordingly, you buy a soup-pot (fifteen sous), 
 some vegetables, and some laurel leaves. In your 
 capacity of poet you cherished laurel very much 
 — our soup was constantly afflicted with it. We 
 made also a provision of potatoes, tobacco, sugar, 
 and coffee. Gnashing of teeth, and some swear- 
 ing, marked the inscribing in our book of the ex- 
 penses of November 4th. 
 
 " Why did you let me go out with so much 
 money in my pockets ? . . . Under the pretext 
 
 i 
 
HENRI MURGER. 99 
 
 of going to hear a drama at Belleville, for which 
 I had a complimentary ticket, I twice took the 
 stage — to go and to come. Two stages ! I was 
 rigorously punished for my lavishness. Through 
 a hole in my pocket, three francs and seventy cen- 
 times disappeared. How was I to enter the house 
 and meet your wrath? The two stages would 
 alone call for a reprimand ; but the three francs 
 and seventy centimes ! Had I not disarmed your 
 anger in advance by telling you all about the 
 drama at Belleville, I would have been actually 
 lost. 
 
 " And yet, on the morrow, heedless of our ter- 
 rible loss, we lent an enormous sum, thirty-five 
 
 sous, to G , who seemingly had decided upon 
 
 us as his regular bankers (the house of Murger 
 & Co.). . . . 
 
 " Up to November 8th we dutifully make the 
 addition at the foot of the pages of our ledger. 
 By that time forty francs, sixty-one centimes had 
 disappeared. We thenceforward gave up the pro- 
 cess of finding sum totals. We undoubtedly did 
 not relish shivering at the sight of the totals. . . . 
 Under date of the 14th we are compelled to call 
 on Mr. Credit. Mr. Credit goes to the grocer's, 
 the tobacconist's, and the coalman's. He is not 
 very badly received : assuming your form, he 
 has a very great success with the grocer's daugh- 
 ter. Is Mr. Credit dead on the 17th? I find 
 registered : * From Prince Albert, three francs.' 
 
100 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 This sum came from the Mont-de-Pike, which, by 
 the way, should be called Mont- sans- PietL Has 
 not this institution dreadfully humiliated us 
 through its clerks ? Three francs for my unique 
 Prince Albert, and half this sum, too, to be lent 
 
 to our tireless persecutor G . On I^Tovember 
 
 19th we sold some books. Fortune having smiled 
 upon us, we had a boiled chicken, with much laurel, 
 for our dinner. Mr. Credit continues with aston- 
 ishing sang-froid to go to market for us. He 
 presents himself everywhere up to December 1st, 
 when he pays in full all his debts. 
 
 " I have only one regret — to see that our ledger 
 closes with the new month. It is not enough. Had 
 we continued, it would have afforded us many 
 landmarks that could have enabled us to recall 
 our youth — the glorious time when, from our little 
 balcony, of all the gardens of the Luxembourg 
 we could see but a single tree, and this, too, only 
 by stretching ourselves out of the window ! " 
 
 But their term having expired, the friends 
 were compelled to move from their paradise in the 
 Rue Yaugirard, and to return to the old garret 
 in the Rue Doyenne, common to all the band of 
 Bohemians who had their headquarters at the 
 Cafe "Momus." The singular life which this 
 tribe led at the coffee-house would, were it fully 
 described, read like a fancy sketch. I can but 
 refer the reader to Murger's own "Yie de Bo- 
 heme," which has immortalized Bohemianism. Be 
 
HENRI MURGEH. ,,101 
 
 it sufficient to say that their' presence drove all 
 the other patrons from the place and the proprie- 
 tor to the verge of ruin. 
 
 The king of the Bohemians and his viceroy 
 Champfleury were, however, too good-hearted not 
 to repair, as far as they could, the injuries which 
 their brethren had inflicted upon Mons. Louvet, 
 the proprietor of the cafe. Champfleury, in the 
 "Evenement" and the "Corsaire," to which he 
 was an occasional contributor, and Murger in the 
 two precarious sheets " Le Moniteur de la Mode " 
 and "Le Castor," of which he was the editor, 
 published the news that in the cellar of the " Caf 6 
 Momus" two old trunks had been discovered 
 which were literally crammed with MSS. by the 
 author of " Le Chevalier de Faublas." All the 
 other papers in Paris reproduced the paragraph. 
 The result was that for many days a throng of 
 visitors continually poured into the cafe anxious 
 to see the famous manuscripts. It is needless to 
 say that, in order to establish themselves in the 
 good graces of Mons. Louvet, they ate and drank 
 freely and paid handsomely, and that the worthy 
 proprietor was in no hurry to undeceive them. 
 
 " La Vie de Boh^me " was first published as 
 feuilletons in the "Corsaire," Murger receiving 
 but fifteen francs for each installment. It is not 
 my purpose to analyze this strange book, but I 
 can not refrain from saying that it contains pages 
 unsurpassed by any poet or prose-writer. All the 
 
102 FRENCH M;EN OF LETTERS. 
 
 struggles and heartaches of the life he portrays are 
 described with a vividness and a touch of melan- 
 choly such as might have filled the heart of one who 
 was never to grow old. The two types of women 
 who are the heroines of the romance — Musette 
 and Mimi Pinson — will ever remain as models to 
 any one who aims to depict character with a life- 
 like glow and truth. Jules Janin, who was any- 
 thing but partial to Bohemianism and its adepts, 
 thus expressed himself regarding this book : 
 "Criticising is of no use. This volume is on 
 every table. It has already charmed the youth 
 of two generations ; and the third, which is hard- 
 ly rising, knows it by heart. 'La Vie de Bo- 
 heme ' and ' Les Chansons de Beranger ' are the 
 first chapter of the code of life. Do and de- 
 claim as you will, the book will remain. It is 
 adopted, and nothing can distract from it the 
 generation that is passing, and still less the men 
 of coming generations." 
 
 The success which he thus achieved intro- 
 duced some changes into Murger's style of living. 
 He was no longer obliged to subsist on a meal a 
 day, or perhaps a meal in two days. He took 
 lodging in Rue Mazarine, in the same house 
 where lived Proudhon, the socialist. Mirecouii; 
 relates an anecdote which touches upon both of 
 these men. "The author of the *Vie de Bo- 
 heme ' used occasionally to meet, in the dark hall- 
 way upon which his room opened, a man who 
 
HENRI MURGER. 103 
 
 habitually carried a loaf of bread and a bottle of 
 wine in his arms. No one certainly would have 
 recognized in him the destroyer who was shortly 
 to attempt the reduction of society to a heap of 
 ruins. Frequently noticing a light burning in 
 this man's room at a late hour, Murger mistook 
 him for an industrious workman who sacriificed 
 some hours' rest to labor. Great was his surprise 
 when, in 1848, he learned that his fellow-lodger 
 had suddenly risen to a prominent place. Proud- 
 hon had founded his notorious journal *Le Re- 
 presentant du Peuple.' Reading this sheet one 
 evening, Murger happened to fall upon a fero- 
 cious article against letters and learning. His 
 neighbor declared that a boatman of the Tiber 
 was a more useful man than the author of the 
 * Orientales.' Murger's indignation knew no 
 bounds. Determined to answer this blasphemous 
 article on the spot, he looked for a pen, but could 
 not find any. Neither could his landlord. 
 
 " * Wait a moment ! ' cried the latter. * I will 
 go to M. Proudhon, who always has a host of 
 them.' 
 
 " ' Good ! ' replied Murger, * the affair will be 
 all the droller.' 
 
 " And the pen of the terrible socialist served 
 for the scathing refutation which next day ap- 
 peared in the * Dix Decembre. ' " 
 
 His entry at the " Revue des Deux Mondes " 
 was the most decisive point in the career of Mur- 
 
 k 
 
104 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ger. Having to write for a public more intel- 
 lectual and sober than the usual readers of popu- 
 lar newspapers, he elevated the standard of his 
 style and conceptions. His heroes, it is true, did 
 not widely differ from those of his previous per- 
 formances, but his analytic power became deeper 
 and stronger, his idea of the aim of art broader 
 and higher. His hand was steadier now when 
 he dealt with character. To the " Revue " he gave 
 *'Le Pays Latin," "Adeline Protat,""Les Bu-- 
 veurs d'Eau," and other stories, which together 
 with his lyrics, " Les Nuits d'Hiver," display a 
 notable advance upon his former productions. 
 
 To the beneficial influence which his connec- 
 tion with the " Revue " exercised over the ex-Bo- 
 hemian, another must be added. He loved nature 
 with all his heart, and his longing to live in the 
 midst of a beautiful landscape caused him to quit 
 Paris and settle at Marlotte, near the forest of 
 Fontainebleau, where the latter has most pre- 
 served the traces of its old grandeur. In this 
 picturesque village he passed the last years of his 
 life. If anything could restore health to his 
 body and serenity to his soul, it was certainly 
 this open-air life, amid rural yet domestic scenery, 
 the calm and wholesome perfume of which he has 
 so well depicted in " Adeline Protat." 
 
 But the torrid zones of Paris, in which he 
 had so long existed, had scourged him, physically 
 and morally, beyond radical cure. Unfortunately, 
 
HENRI MURGER. 105 
 
 he had imitated those patients who defer treat- 
 ment until their maladies are incurable. Paris, 
 and its associations, too, haunted him like a mer- 
 ciless creditor, who can not be avoided by run- 
 ning away. The improvement which he experi- 
 enced did not long continue ; but he profited by 
 his leisure and freedom from care to give form 
 to his noblest conceptions. The traces of his bet- 
 tered condition are particularly found in the " Bu- 
 veurs d'Eau." The type of a grandmother who, 
 in order to be of help to her grandchildren in 
 their artistic careers, does not hesitate to become 
 their servant, was drawn with a vigor that might 
 have challenged the pen of Balzac. The episode 
 of Hel^ne is full of ideal beauty. The progress 
 of her love for Antoine is drawn in a most exqui- 
 site and affecting manner. The scene of the 
 promenade on the rocky beach when Antoine, 
 seized by dizziness, is saved by Helene, strength- 
 ened tenfold by love, from falling into the abyss, 
 can, in point of elevated description and pathos, 
 sustain comparison with any like situation in the 
 whole realm of fiction. 
 
 If it be true, as Lessing has said, that when 
 the devil holds a man by a hair, he owns his whole 
 body, it might be added that in modern life there 
 are many devils who unceasingly persecute us if 
 we but once listen to their suggestions. Three of 
 these demons always shadowed the path of Mur- 
 ger — the small press, the theatre, and the Louis 
 
106 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 d'or. The effects which his early connection with 
 insignificant papers had on Murger's life has al- 
 ready been sufficiently told. To write for the 
 stage was the dream of his soul. What novel- 
 ist has not longed for dramatic success? — and, 
 though these two sorts of literature are widely dif- 
 ferent, what writer of fiction has not been enticed 
 by the greater profits which the stage affords? 
 Murger, by temperament, was fitted to be anything 
 but a playwright. He was a refined artist, nervous, 
 indolent, fantastic, and dreamy, in every way ill 
 adapted to attempt the work of play- writing. He 
 did not, however, escape the general contagion. 
 The success achieved by the dramatization of the 
 " Vie de Boheme " should, I am inclined to be- 
 lieve, be credited to his collaborator Theodore Bar- 
 ri^re rather than to himself. It deeply grieved 
 him to behold the good luck of others in this line, 
 who he knew had less talent than himself. Armand 
 de Pontmartin relates that during his closing years 
 Murger, whenever he met a friend, would converse 
 of nothing but skeletons of plays, scenic effects, sit- 
 uations, and already finished and accepted dramas 
 — the latter, however, existing only in his imagi- 
 nation. He was frequently seen in the vestibules 
 of theatres on first nights, sad and thoughtful, un- 
 dergoing the torments of Tantalus. The feeling 
 of his superiority, and the consciousness of his 
 special inaptitude, formed for him a perpetual 
 nightmare that engendered in him such a disgust 
 
HENRI MURGER. 107 
 
 for work that he could conquer it but for a short 
 interval. Everything thus conspired to fatigue 
 his brain and trouble his peace. 
 
 It has been said that Murger had a great 
 contempt for money. This is probably not true. 
 Contempt for worldly wealth is, since Diogenes 
 and Seneca, a very creditable feeling, provided it 
 be sincere and practical. To do without and not 
 think of it, is well ; but to fret over its absence is 
 by no means a mark of virtue. This latter was 
 the mode in which Murger, like nearly all Bohe- 
 mians, despised money. His poverty was not such 
 as to command respect. It was due tosuperfluous 
 wants, to satisfy which no amount of money would 
 have sufficed. 
 
 On seeing him, however, it would have been 
 difficult to pass upon him so severe a judgment. 
 That brow, already wasted ; that visage whose re- 
 fined features bore the stamp of mental fatigue, 
 of privation, to say nothing of excesses ; that 
 sweet, mocking, sad physiognomy, upon which 
 comedy and elegy in turn depicted themselves — 
 this ensemble profoundly impressed the beholder, 
 drew forth sympathy, excited mingled emotions 
 of astonishment and inquietude. While beholding 
 this man, still young, bald-headed, attired in a 
 black coat of many seasons, one could not help 
 feeling for him a kind curiosity and a melancholy 
 presentiment. He recalled one of those Shake- 
 spearean creations in which the burst of laughter 
 
108 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 blends with the wail of sorrow, in which tragedy- 
 plays with the skull of poor Yorick. 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1861, Murger 
 seems to have been forewarned that the closing 
 scene was at hand. His " Testament " is the song 
 of the dying swan. 
 
 He died suddenly on the 28th of January, 1861. 
 All the Parisian celebrities followed his funeral. 
 The Government took to itself the honor of de- 
 fraying all the outlay incident to consigning the 
 remains of the poet to their last resting-place. 
 His tomb, by the sculptor Millet, is one of the 
 masterpieces in the cemetery of Montmartre. 
 
 ^Bohemia consigned him neither to the Acade- 
 my nor to the Morgue, but to Posterity. 
 
 SAMTE-BEUYE. 
 
 Satxte-Beuve may be styled the prince of 
 modern critics, although his judgments are fre- 
 quently worthless. His life was a series of con- 
 tradictions, but he always offered some good rea- 
 son to support his changes of opinion. He pos- 
 sessed a marvelous power of analysis, united with 
 an involved and perplexing vagueness of decision. 
 His writings are sprinkled with fine thoughts, 
 with characterizations most direct and telling, 
 but the whole resembles a ragged coat patched 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 109 
 
 with pieces of cloth of the most varied materials 
 and colors. He possessed, of all his contempora- 
 ries, the greatest skill in pen delineations, and 
 yet none of his literary portraits at all resemble 
 the originals. Envy and enthusiasm, rancor and 
 generosity, in turn guided his pen and warped 
 his judgment. He often amused himself by de- 
 stroying reputations which he had toiled to es- 
 tablish. Under his treatment De Musset was, 
 while living, now good and now bad, but on the 
 death of the poet the critic placed him in the 
 brightest constellation of song. Chateaubriand 
 alive he lauded to the skies, and even boasted of 
 the patronage of that great writer ; but Chateau- 
 briand dead he pursued with a malignant, uncom- 
 promising bitterness. Hugo was to him first a 
 demigod, and last a demagogue and a barbarian. 
 He was the apostle of the greatness of George 
 Sand when she was yet a neophyte in the literary 
 domain, and did not hesitate in the heyday of her 
 fame to tear both the author and the woman to 
 pieces. His letters to the Abbe Barbe bear wit- 
 ness to his piety, and then he became the support- 
 er of Renan. His first productions were written 
 in the idiom common to all his countrymen ; but 
 in his desire to resemble none of his contempora- 
 ries or his ancestors he created the strange, dis- 
 torted, tenebrous style which renders the compre- 
 hension of his books as difficult as the reading of 
 Dante without a glossary. Well might he ex- 
 
110 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 claim, " Je suis I'esprit le plus rompu aux meta- 
 morplioses." 
 
 Sainte-Beuve used so little discretion when he 
 invaded the private lives of others that his mem- 
 ory can not complain of the criticisms to which it 
 must fall a prey. I hope to avoid the injustice 
 which has frequently characterized the estimates 
 of his character, but can not forbear stating that 
 as a private man he was no more consistent than 
 as a writer. He was alternately a coward and a 
 lion ; now weak and wavering, and now bold, 
 strong, and uncompromising ; now full of feel- 
 ing, and now heartless and selfish in the highest 
 degree ; now ambitious beyond expression, and 
 now careless of honors to which he was entitled. 
 Well was he characterized by Buloz, the founder 
 and editor of the "Revue des Deux Mondes," 
 when he called him " a sheep crazy with rancor, 
 but lacking strength for revenge." 
 
 Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve was bom, un- 
 der extraordinary circumstances, on the 22d of 
 December, 1804. The love of his father for Au- 
 gustine Coillot is in itself a strange story. The 
 couple were lovers for twenty years before their 
 maiTiage. Mile. Coillot was forty-two years old 
 and Charles Fran9ois Sainte-Beuve fifty-six when 
 the wedding ceremony took place. The husband 
 died eight months afterward, without having the 
 happiness of pressing to his bosom a son who was, 
 like himself, to be a bibliomaniac, a poet, and a > 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. . HI 
 
 critic. It is strange to note how much the boy 
 took from his father, whom he never knew, and 
 how little from his mother, who lived with him 
 till she was eighty-six years old. Not only had 
 he his father's taste for old books, the same pro- 
 clivity for filling the margins of leaves with notes 
 and comments, but his handwriting so resembled 
 that of his father that in his old age Charles Au- 
 gustin could not distinguish between the two. 
 His reverence for the memory of his father 
 ceased only with his life. Mme. Sainte-Beuve, 
 though she struggled against all sorts of difficul- 
 ties for his support, and was wholly devoted to 
 him, was but poorly repaid by her son. He would 
 treat her most rudely whenever the kind-hearted, 
 intellectual woman ventured to express any of her 
 literary opinions. 
 
 Educated by his mother and his aunt, Sainte- 
 Beuve resembled in his boyhood a sort of earthly 
 cherub. He passed half his time in prayers, served 
 mass with great fervor, rose in the night to per- 
 form pious exercises, and, as Mirecom^t says, "he 
 seemed to be on the direct road to heaven." All 
 this, however, was to be changed, in accordance 
 with the nature of his whole life. Having ad- 
 vanced to the class in philosophy, in the College 
 Charlemagne, he not only devoured the works of 
 the encyclopaedists, but embraced with enthusi- 
 asm the atheistical principles preached and fos- 
 tered by Baron d'Holbach. In his first book, 
 
112 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 " Joseph Delorme," Sainte-Beuve asserts, however, 
 that, in spite of the new theories which he had im- 
 bibed, he had not ceased to venerate the true and 
 the good. Prompted by a curious feeling of mys- 
 ticism and a desire to benefit his fellow men, he 
 resolved to study medicine. Anatomy and physi- 
 ology possessed for him a peculiar fascination. 
 He strove at the dissecting-table to surprise the 
 secret affinity of soul and body. His inquisitive 
 mind was ever busy with the unknown limit which 
 separates the visible from the invisible world. 
 From his medical studies he formed his peculiar 
 method of literary criticism. From that source 
 undoubtedly arose his system of studying with 
 the deepest care the influence of external phenom- 
 ena upon the human mind, and of measuring a 
 literary performance by the physical constitution 
 and surroundings of its author. He dissected 
 books as he dissected bodies. He defined criti- 
 cism, in fact, to be a veritable course of moral 
 physiology. The passion for anatomizing books 
 soon overcame his humanitarian purposes, and he 
 abandoned the scalpel for the stylus. One day M. 
 Dubois, Sainte-Beuve's old teacher in rhetoric, and 
 afterward editor of the "Globe," found himself 
 confronted by his young student of eighteen, who 
 offered for his inspection a manuscript so marked 
 by ability that the old gentleman had it imme- 
 diately sent to press. The next day the article 
 was greatly praised by the readers of the " Globe," 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 113 
 
 and Sainte-Beuve was directly attached to the staff 
 of that journal, which included such celebrities 
 as Jouffroy, Remusat, Yitet, Ampere, Merimee, 
 Guizot, Cousin, and Villemain. His literary re- 
 views soon began to command considerable at- 
 tention. 
 
 The great war between the classicists and ro- 
 manticists was about to break out. Some anxiety 
 was manifested as to which cause Sainte-Beuve 
 would espouse, and either side contended for his 
 service under its peculiar flag. He soon decided 
 all doubts by a sharp attack upon Victor Hugo, 
 whereupon the romanticists, by a skillful manoeu- 
 vre, which consisted in flattering his vanity as a 
 poet, attached him in triumph to their own stan- 
 dard. He became the intimate friend of De Vig- 
 ny, Lamartine, fimile and Antony Deschamps, and 
 the daily guest of Victor Hugo. Whenever, at the 
 literary meetings of the romanticists, which took 
 place at Hugo's house, Sainte-Beuve was requested 
 to recite some of his poetry, he would, out of mod- 
 esty, " declare that he was about to execute him- 
 self," and would request the young sons of the host 
 to make as much noise as possible for the purpose 
 of drowning his voice. He was, indeed, unassum- 
 ing. His first book was a volume of poems pur- 
 porting to have been written by one Joseph De- 
 lorme, and only edited by Sainte-Beuve. In his 
 preface the latter gave a biography of the fictitious 
 Delorme, announcing his recent death from a pul- 
 
114 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 monary ailment ; a proceeding which not long since 
 was paralleled by the Italian poet Stecchetti* 
 This preface is rather superior as a literary per- 
 formance to the poems, some of which are, how- 
 ever, marked by a delicious frankness and simpli- 
 city. They were, in many cases, clever imitations 
 of Wordsworth and Cowper, and sometimes direct 
 translations from those poets. " Le Calme," " Oh ! 
 Laissez-vous Aimer, " and " Mes Reves " are 
 pieces of verse which sufficiently justify the suc- 
 cess of " Joseph Delorme." This first collection 
 was certainly superior to the "Rayons Jaunes" 
 which followed, and brought upon their author 
 such a shower of sarcasms and epigrams as for a 
 time cured him of his weakness for versifying. 
 The poet was so stung by their reception that he 
 actually became jaundiced, a most amusing fact 
 if we consider the title of his unfortunate book. 
 A certain infringement upon the domestic code, 
 perpetrated by Sainte-Beuve in the bosom of 
 Hugo's family some time later, for ever closed 
 against him the doors of the poet's house — an 
 event which aroused the critic's spite, and speed- 
 ily brought about his alienation from the ranks of 
 the romanticists. 
 
 To describe Sainte-Beuve as capable of deep, 
 powerful feelings would be to idealize him beyond 
 the bounds of truth. He gave to women, and to 
 the transient sentiments by them prompted, a large 
 share of his life. His heart was a sanctuary open 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 115 
 
 to all, and the publicans and sinners did not halt 
 at the vestibule. He was of a loving disposition; 
 but his ugliness — a species of ugliness, too, which 
 especially repels women — prevented his reaping in 
 due form the reciprocation so necessary to almost 
 all hearts. He was small and wizen-faced. His 
 head was pyramidal, like that of Thersites, the fa- 
 mous ugly man of Homer. His brow was broad 
 and receding. His eyes were blue, globular, and 
 round as those of an ox. His cheek-bones were 
 prominent as those of an Indian, and his cheeks dis- 
 played two small spots that looked like abrasions. 
 It is impossible to conceive how a man so ill-fa- 
 vored could dream continually of female conquests. 
 He had, indeed, few successes, and railed against 
 the more prosperous amorous enterprises of his fel- 
 lows. " Women," he used bitterly to say, " have 
 always offered me their friendship." His attitude 
 toward the fair sex was a perpetual conflict be- 
 tween the aspirations of the soul and those of the 
 senses. His refined and subtile mind inclined 
 toward feelings of the highest order; but his tem- 
 perament was weighted down as if by a ton of Hol- 
 land cheese. Mme. D'Arbouville was perhaps the 
 only woman who ever loved him ; and it must be 
 said that, having found a congenial and apprecia- 
 tive soul, Sainte-Beuve showed himself endued 
 with emotions as truly noble as any that inspired 
 the delicate Leopardi. 
 
 On approaching his fortieth year, Sainte-Beuve, 
 
116 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 who had several times seriously contemplated mar- 
 riage, decided to remain a bachelor. He thought 
 then of linking his life with some distinguished 
 and intellectual woman, who might be for him 
 what Mile. Lespinasse had been for D'Alembert. 
 He, however, failed. M. Pons, who has recently 
 published, under the title of " Sainte-Beuve et Ses 
 Inconnues," a rather indiscreet book on the cele- 
 brated critic's love affairs, says, concerning the wo- 
 man upon whom Sainte-Beuve finally set his choice: 
 "She was a brunette, about thirty-five years of 
 age, who wished to be called Mme. de Yaquez, 
 and said that she was born in Spain. What was 
 her real name ? Whence did she come ? Sainte- 
 Beuve, when questioned on these points, answered 
 evasively, and confined himself to praising the good 
 qualities of his conquest. Elegant stature, mag- 
 nificent black hair, pale complexion — such were 
 the charms which had seduced the author of the 
 ^ Rayons Jaunes.' He installed her as mistress of 
 his house. Perhaps, notwithstanding his decision 
 against marriage, he would have consented to 
 have the relation legalized by the mayor, had the 
 lady, who was originally from a village of Picar- 
 dy, not feared the revelations which her birth 
 certificate would have disclosed. She did not, 
 however, fail to assume the authority of a despot 
 in the household. She removed the initial of 
 Sainte-Beuve from all his silver-plate and lingerie^ 
 and substituted her own. She ruled the critic 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 117 
 
 with a rod of iron, keeping away from him by 
 her rough demeanor all his old friends and clients. 
 How far she might have gone with her tyranny it 
 is difficult to foresee. Death put a stop to her 
 ambition. 
 
 " In the course of her malady, an old peasant 
 asked to see her, styling himself her father. In 
 the first impulse of shame, she refused to recog- 
 nize him, and only yielded to the entreaties of 
 Sainte-Beuve, who was curious to learn all about 
 her origin. The source was pure, but very hum- 
 ble. Thomas Devaquez, without much urging, 
 said that he was a journeyman from the village 
 of Montauban, and the father of a numerous fam- 
 ily. He had not every day bread enough to sup- 
 ply them. Thomas, vexed at seeing the future of 
 his daughter uncertain, had dispatched her to 
 Paris, where, it was said, she could not fail to 
 make a fortune. Thank Heaven, she had met with 
 a good protector. Monsieur Sainte-Beuve ; but 
 that was no reason for disowning her parentage. 
 Sainte-Beuve pacified the old man with presents, 
 and promised to assist him. This was just what 
 Thomas wanted, and he went away satisfied. As 
 soon as the daughter had passed away, he rushed 
 to claim a part of her inheritance — her carpets, 
 furniture, etc. — under the plea that she had placed 
 her personal property in common with that of 
 Sainte-Beuve. By threatening the latter with a 
 lawsuit, which he knew would bring many inter- 
 
118 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 esting disclosures before the public gaze, the 
 peasant extorted from him the sum of twelve 
 thousand francs, by no means a small portion of 
 the slender purse of Sainte-Beuve." 
 
 Simultaneously with joining the staff of the 
 " Revue des Deux Mondes," during the editorship 
 of Buloz, Sainte-Beuve commenced publishing 
 his famous "Critiques and Literary Portraits." 
 These were endless and elaborate studies of the 
 poets and prose writers of the seventeenth, eigh- 
 teenth, and nineteenth centuries. His new meth- 
 od of criticism is displayed to full advantage in 
 the eight huge volumes of this series. He finds 
 out how a writer comported himself in this or 
 that circumstance, no matter how trivial. Hav- 
 ing found this fact, he proceeds to construct from 
 it his whole web of arguments. He judges the 
 work of an author from the manner, for example, 
 in which the latter dressed, or his mode of eating 
 soup. Despite the occasional absurdity of thus 
 arriving at conclusions, these reviews form an 
 interesting work. The author gives his own im- 
 pressions, and does not browse upon the labors of 
 others. He frequently took back his manuscripts 
 from the printer rather than submit to the 
 changes which M. Buloz exacted. His criticisms 
 were not always impartial. One day he brought 
 to the " Revue " the " portrait " of Janin. Bu- 
 loz, who had quarreled with Janin, then the feuil- 
 letonist of the " Debats," desired a most tren- 
 
SAINTE-BEUYE. 119 
 
 chant criticism. Finding the article full of marked 
 deference, he grew angry. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, " this is not what I want. 
 Janin merits something sharper than this." 
 
 "I agree with you," replied Sainte-Beuve, 
 " but it is so much to my interest to remain on 
 good terms with him that I shall not change a 
 word." 
 
 When Sainte-Beuve had attained the height of 
 his reputation as a critic, and, in a great measure 
 as an elegant writer, some publisher insisted upon 
 his writing a novel. The author of " Joseph De- 
 lorme " could not resist the temptation of drawing 
 upon his imagination, and accepted the offer. The 
 publisher immediately asked Sainte-Beuve for a 
 suitable title. "I don't know of any," said the 
 latter, indifferently ; " choose any you please. I 
 shall always be able to accommodate myself to 
 your suggestion." " Volupte " was in consequence 
 announced for speedy publication ; but over two 
 years elapsed before the publisher received any 
 copy. Owing to the delay, public expectation 
 had reached an extreme pitch, and, dying away, 
 caused Sainte-Beuve's novel to be treated as a 
 synonyme for the Greek Calends — something that 
 would never come. " Yolupte," however, finally 
 appeared in 1834. It proved a tame production 
 when compared to the fictions with which Hugo, 
 Chateaubriand, Balzac, Dumas, Gerard de Nerval, 
 Gautier, De Musset, George Sand, and many oth- 
 
120 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ers had familiarized the public. It possessed no 
 striking plot, no dramatic movement, no well- 
 planned development, and was written in a style 
 from which it was impossible to disentangle ideas, 
 though here and there interspersed with some fine 
 thoughts and descriptions. The hero is Sainte- 
 Beuve himself, under the name of Amaury, who 
 is represented as in love with a marquise. The 
 book is a medley of sensuality and romanticism, 
 of sensibility and selfishness, of vulgar sins and 
 mystic remorses — such, indeed, as well portrayed 
 the author's state of mind. Sainte-Beuve was 
 clearly no greater as a novelist than as a poet, 
 and had good reason to regret his having ventured 
 into the domain of fiction. His intellect was ana- 
 lytic, not synthetic. The only positive advantages 
 he derived from the publication of "Yolupte" 
 were the friendship of Mme. d'Arbouville and the 
 patronage of the Count de Mole. 
 
 Under the guidance of the powerful mind of 
 Armand Carrel, then editor of the liberal journal 
 " Le National," Sainte-Beuve next tried his lance 
 in the arena of republicanism, and to such pur- 
 pose that he found himself speedily embroiled in 
 a duel with £mile de Girardin, in which he came 
 out second best. That which Sainte-Beuve pro- 
 duced during this " new departure " is perhaps 
 his best work. The broad ideas of Carrel had 
 seemingly expanded his own, and a more liberal 
 spirit and a higher conception of the critic's mis- 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 121 
 
 sion now began to pervade his writings. But La- 
 mennais dragged him down to the level of reli- 
 gious discussion, and again Sainte-Beuve lost his 
 bearings. Timid as ever, he was seemingly awed 
 by the consequences of the principles which he 
 had espoused, and he dared not go to the end. 
 He deserted the flag of republicanism, and threw 
 himself into the arms of reaction. 
 
 On his admission to the salon of the Count de 
 M0I6, Sainte-Beuve entered upon a period which 
 he could style one of aristocratic tendencies. The 
 inclination of his mind may have been toward the 
 philosophy of Lamennais, or again toward that of 
 Jansenius, but his heart was ever with counts and 
 princes. He regarded as below himself any unti- 
 tled person until the Revolution of 1848 sudden- 
 ly awoke him from his aristocratic dreams. He 
 had, it is true, refused the Cross of the Legion of 
 Honor (1837), but from its having been offered 
 in terms not sufficiently flattering rather than out 
 of genuine modesty. He was nothing loath, 
 however, to accept (1840) the position of libra- 
 rian in the Mazarin Library ; an appointment 
 which was received in good time to repair his 
 dwindled finances. Mirecourt exclaims that M. 
 de Remusat, then Minister of the Interior, intend- 
 ed to pay by this appointment a debt of gratitude 
 long due to Sainte-Beuve. It is known that the 
 Minister was an indefatigable and pretentious ver- 
 sifier, though he did not publish his poems — a 
 
122 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 most commendable example ; and Sainte-Beuve 
 conceived the happy idea of calling his friend the 
 "unedited Remusat" — whence his nomination. 
 However unsympathetic the personality of the 
 critic may be, one can not but accept cutu grano 
 salts this statement from his brilliant but often- 
 times questionable biographer. The choice of 
 Remusat could not have been more wisely direct- 
 ed. No one was better qualified than Sainte-Beuve 
 to fill the position ; no one possessed more erudi- 
 tion ; his " Critiques and Portraits " would alone 
 have established his preeminent capacity to guard 
 the treasures of the Mazarin. 
 
 Having, in 1837, offered to the public his last 
 and his worst volume of poems, " Pensees d'Aoilt," 
 Sainte-Beuve was invited to Lausanne to deliver 
 a course of historical lectures. He treated of the 
 dispute between Port Royal and Sorbonne, be- 
 tween the Jansenists and the Church of Rome. 
 The tableau was surely worthy of his brush. The 
 course of lectures was afterward published in three 
 volumes under the title "Port Royal." The work 
 is perhaps too analytic, and the historical princi- 
 ples deduced are not unfrequently lame and incor- 
 rect ; but the erudition displayed is simply vast, 
 the composition worthy of a great historian. 
 There are in this book pages — particularly those 
 in which he points out how from the mists of 
 the Jansenistic theories arose the new gospels of 
 Mirabeau, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, Royer-Col- 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 123 
 
 lard, etc. — which must be declared wonderfully 
 eloquent. Unfavorable to Catholics, " Port Roy- 
 al " had a contested success, and drew upon its 
 author not a few satires. Many of his historical 
 views were ridiculed as burlesques. The Duchess 
 d'Abrant^s henceforth called him " Sainte-Bevue," 
 a clever nickname, which long persecuted the hap- 
 less chronicler. It was painted in huge letters upon 
 walls in many a street of Paris by the students of 
 the Quartier Latin, who in this way were pleased 
 to signify their contempt for him who had writ- 
 ten three large volumes against their ancestral seat 
 of learning. 
 
 In 1844 he presented himself as a candidate at 
 the Academy. As is the custom, Sainte-Beuve had 
 to pay a visit to every member, and solicit the 
 honor of his support. He was obliged accordingly 
 to call upon Victor Hugo. The great poet, who 
 bad so much reason to revenge himself upon the 
 critic, did so in a manner entirely worthy of his 
 genius. He spared Sainte-Beuve the humiliation 
 of asking a favor, and not only gave his own vote, 
 but secured those of fifteen others. And it was 
 Victor Hugo who, a year later, received him at 
 the Academy with a noble speech, in which all 
 personal animosity was completely forgotten. 
 Sainte-Beuve met with small sympathy among the 
 Academicians. He used to say that in their whole 
 number he possessed but three friends : " Ampere, 
 Merimee, and that poor old imbecile, Monsieur X." 
 
124 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 He next published his " Causeries du Lundi." 
 These were simple variations of the " Critiques and 
 Portraits." Eugene Pelletan said with much wit 
 that Sainte-Beuve, having in the latter work 
 vainly sought for a needle in a thousand bales of 
 hay, had in the former renewed his search with 
 equal success. The " Causeries " were printed 
 mostly in the " Constitutionnel," some of them in 
 the " Moniteur." So heavy was his prose that a 
 wit who used to read the former journal said, 
 " His article makes me find the rest of the paper 
 most amusing." 
 
 He was about this time deputed to report upon 
 the distribution of dramatic prizes, d projyos of 
 which the following anecdote is related by Mire- 
 court. Mme. de Girardin had given " La Joie fait 
 Peur" at the Theatre Richelieu. Sainte-Beuve 
 shortly paid her a visit. 
 
 "In truth, madame," said he, in an insin- 
 uating tone, "the commission of which I am 
 the reporter is not satisfied : we expect your 
 play." 
 
 " Indeed ? " replied Delphine. 
 
 " Yes, madame, the prize was decreed to you 
 in advance." 
 
 " Pardon me. Monsieur Sainte-Beuve," smiling- 
 ly said the " tenth muse," " you will excuse my 
 vanity, as I am a woman. Frankly, I think I am 
 one of those who distribute but do not receive 
 rewards." 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 125 
 
 With the coup d?itat of Napoleon III. honors 
 began to shower upon Sainte-Beuve. He received 
 the cross, which he previously had refused, and 
 was elected to the chair of poetry in the College 
 of France, in the place of M. Tissaud, deceased. 
 The students of the institution did not, however, 
 sympathize with the professor, and greeted his 
 first lecture with an uproar of hisses. In vain did 
 he strive to subdue the tumult. He was obliged 
 to abandon the chair without reading a page of 
 his manuscript. At the second meeting he was no 
 better received ; but the presence of Ampere and 
 Octave Delacroix, and the sang-froid of the pro- 
 fessor, finally succeeded in securing for him a 
 hearing. Unfortunately, he mistook one leaf of 
 his manuscript for another, and the spell was bro- 
 ken. A noise greater than that of the first day 
 compelled him to give up the idea of lecturing. 
 
 " Gentlemen," he thundered, " you dishonor 
 the name of French youth ! " 
 
 " You dishonor French literature ! " the stu- 
 dents thundered back. 
 
 " I shall be compelled to resign," stammered 
 Sainte-Beuve. 
 
 " Yes ! go, go, by all means ! There is the 
 door ! " was the response. 
 
 Octave Delacroix protested in the name of the 
 better element in the University against this con- 
 duct, and invited such as did not care to listen to 
 retire. Only five persons remained on the bench- 
 
126 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 es of the hall. The professor stepped from his 
 chair, never to mount it again. 
 
 One of the most beautiful pages in the life of 
 Sainte-Beuve is undoubtedly his defense of Renan 
 in the Senate, to which he was appointed in 1865. 
 Senator Count De Segur d'Aguesseau was treat- 
 ing the question of working on Sunday, and im- 
 proved the opportunity to censure the Govern- 
 ment for its nomination of Renan to a seat in 
 the Senate. Canrobert, the great soldier, spoke 
 like a monk. Every one was against the great 
 thinker. Sainte-Beuve alone arose to defend the 
 cause of free thought before the whole assem- 
 bly pitted against him. M. Veuillot challenged 
 Sainte-Beuve to a duel, which he had the good 
 sense to refuse. A general cry of cowardice 
 was raised against him, and unjustly so. Sainte- 
 Beuve had on a former occasion shown that, 
 though by no means a professional fire-eater, he 
 lacked neither courage nor sang-froid on the 
 proper occasion. A difficulty having arisen be- 
 tween himself and one of the owners of the 
 " Globe," a duel became inevitable. On the ap- 
 pointed day rain fell in torrents. Sainte-Beuve 
 made his appearance with an umbrella as huge and 
 as old as that of the late lamented Horace Gree- 
 ley, and a pair of ancient pistols that might have 
 done honor to the Museum of Cluny. At the mo- 
 ment of firing, they urged upon him the necessity 
 of laying aside the umbrella, which he persisted 
 
SAINTE-BEUVE. 127 
 
 in holding open above his head. All entreaties 
 were of no avail. Sainte-Beuve settled the ques- 
 tion by angrily exclaiming, "I am willing to be 
 killed, but I don't want to catch cold ! " Four 
 shots were exchanged, happily without result, and 
 the honor of the principals was declared to be sat- 
 isfied. 
 
 There have been few harder or more conscien- 
 tious workers than Sainte-Beuve. He was the 
 nightmare of compositors and proof-readers. He 
 would have a man hanged, says Mirecourt, for 
 the omission of a comma or the misplacing of a 
 period. He would lean for hours on the case of a 
 compositor to follow with scrutiny the changes 
 he might suggest, and would spend hours in 
 orthographical discussions with his proof-read- 
 ers. As soon as he had to write an article, the 
 employees of the Mazarin Library were all set 
 in motion. They were compelled to disinter all 
 parchments and old books, to go through every 
 imaginable catalogue and manuscript. He rare- 
 ly, however, did his assistants the honor of men- 
 tioning their names for all the work they had 
 done for him. Any author upon whom he had 
 once written he considered as his own property. 
 He allotted to each author a box containing his 
 works, letters in any way concerning him — every 
 species, in short, of information respecting him 
 and his works. Before writing, he would live for 
 a fortnight in sole communion with his subject, 
 9 
 
128 FREXCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 and endeavor thus to enter into his habits, pas- 
 sions, and prejudices. After fully consulting men 
 and books, he would shut his door upon everybody, 
 and set himself to work. Finally, in one single 
 day, he would produce his article on small, square 
 leaves of paper, in a very flowing hand, but so 
 delicate and close that his copyist was scarcely 
 able to read it. He would then read over and 
 most carefully correct his manuscript. The at- 
 tention which he devoted to his manuscripts 
 verged on a mania. Always ready to sacrifice 
 syntax to effect and to what he styled iiaturalness, 
 he ever strove to make his writings as supple as 
 his speech. 
 
 Among the persons whom he most frequently 
 saw during the last years of his life was the Prin- 
 cess Julia Bonaparte, who devoted much of her 
 time to composing short stories, being ambitious 
 for the fame of a literary woman. Once, being 
 desirous to obtain the opinion of the eminent crit- 
 ic, she forwarded to him a heavy portfolio con- 
 taining her productions. While perusing her 
 manuscripts he found a loose leaf containing a 
 sketch of himself, which was by no means flatter- 
 ing. "Old monkey" was the greatest compli- 
 ment paid to his physique ; " debauchee " that 
 paid to his morals. The rage of Sainte-Beuve 
 may more easily be imagined than described. He 
 placed his portrait in an envelope, accompanied 
 by the following cutting communication : " Please 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 129 
 
 accept, Princess, the definitive homage of a re- 
 spect which a debaiiche old monkey is pleased to 
 express. — Sainte-Beuve." These words seem 
 greatly to have preyed upon his mind. He sor- 
 rowfully repeated them on his death-bed. 
 
 GSEABD DE NERVAL. 
 
 Gerard de Nerval is an author as yet almost 
 unknown in this country. The future, however, 
 will assuredly make due amends for this contem- 
 porary ignorance. When the majority of the now 
 popular French authors shall have passed into ob- 
 livion, he will survive among the purest and most 
 elegant writers that have graced the annals of 
 French literature. 
 
 His biography has been so inimitably written 
 by Eugene de Mirecourt, that, in following the 
 narrative as given by that brilliant biographer, 
 we feel that we are doing the reader higher ser- 
 vice than might have been the result of indepen- 
 dent research. The real name of this writer was 
 Gerard Labrunie. He was born on the 21st of 
 May, 1808, in one of the streets adjoining the 
 Palais Royal of Paris. His father was an officer 
 under the First Empire, who, as was common 
 with the soldiers of Napoleon, took his wife with 
 him during his campaigns. Gerard knew little of 
 
130 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 a mother's care. He was taken at an early ago 
 into the environs of Paris, in the pleasant wood- 
 lands of Ermenonville, where he lived in the 
 household of one of his uncles. At the close of 
 one fine day in April, when he had returned from 
 one of his daily romps in the fields, and was play- 
 ing at the door of the chateau, he perceived ap- 
 proaching him a man of bronzed features, who 
 stopped before him, threw off the cloak which hid 
 his uniform, and, opening his arms, simply said : 
 
 " Do you know me ? " 
 
 "Yes," unhesitatingly replied the child; "you 
 are my papa." 
 
 Gerard was only eighteen months old when he 
 had last seen his parents, and consequently could 
 not have recalled more than a vague image of two 
 people he had seen bending over his cradle. 
 
 " And my mamma ? " he asked, " where is my 
 mamma ? " 
 
 Without replying, the officer strained Gerard 
 to his heart, and two large tears rolled slowly 
 down his cheeks. He pointed to heaven. Gerard 
 understood, and wept. The mother had died in 
 Silesia. 
 
 Condemned to repose by the exile of Napo- 
 leon at St. Helena, the officer applied himself to 
 the education of his son. A long series of cam- 
 paigns in the countries that lie between the Dan- 
 ube and the Rhine had familiarized him with the 
 German tongue, and he possessed some knowledge 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 131 
 
 also of the Oriental languages. Gerard, in less 
 than two years after his father's return, and almost 
 without study, had become an accomplished lin- 
 guist. He was sent at a suitable age to the Col- 
 lege Charlemagne, where his progress was such as 
 to warrant high hopes for his future. 
 
 Gerard passed his vacations with his uncle. 
 At the fetes of Ermenonville he invited the young 
 peasant-girls to dance, on a wide green lawn bor- 
 dered with oaks and elms. We give in his own 
 language the account of an authentic incident, 
 memorable in that it is the prelude to the sinister 
 drama of his life. 
 
 " I was," he says, " the only boy in that round, 
 whither I had brought as company a still very 
 young girl, Sylvia, the daughter of a neighboring 
 peasant. I loved only her ; to that day she had 
 been to me all the world. 
 
 "Suddenly, in obedience to the movement of 
 the dance, a blonde girl, tall and beautiful, who 
 was called Adrienne, found herself alone with me 
 in the middle of the circle. They told us to em- 
 brace ; and the music and the dance continued 
 more gayly than ever. 
 
 "In giving her the kiss I could not forbear 
 pressing her hand. Her long, thick, golden curls 
 blew about my cheeks. At that moment I felt a 
 nameless tremor seize me. The girl was obliged 
 to sing before being permitted to reenter the cir- 
 cle. We sat down around her, and immediately, 
 
132 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 in a fresh, ringing voice, she began to sing one of 
 those ancient ballads so full of melancholy, which 
 told of the woes of a princess imprisoned by the 
 tyranny of her father. 
 
 " The shadows of evening gathered in the great 
 trees as she sang, and the white disk of the moon 
 rose over her head while she sat isolated in the 
 midst of our attentive circle. 
 
 " When she had concluded, no one dared to 
 speak. I rose at last, and ran to the garden-plot 
 of the chateau, where there were laurels growing 
 in immense vases of faience, painted in camaieu. 
 I brought back two branches shaped into a gar- 
 land, and placed them upon the head of that sing- 
 er, the lustrous leaves making in the pale moon- 
 light a singular contrast against her refulgent hair 
 and fair temples. She resembled the Beatrice of 
 Dante when she smiled to the poet wandering 
 along the borders of Paradise. 
 
 " Adrienne rose to her feet ; bending her slen- 
 der figure, she made us a graceful salute, and re- 
 tired to the chateau. 
 
 " ' That,' said some one, * is one of the youngest 
 daughters of the descendants of a family allied to 
 the ancient kings of France. The blood of Yalois 
 runs in her veins. For this one fete-day she has 
 been allowed to take part in our games. To-mor- 
 row she will return to the convent in which she 
 is a boarder.' " 
 
 Gerard betook himself again to his studies at 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 133 
 
 the College Charlemagne, bearing in his heart the 
 memory of her whom for the present we shall 
 call Adrienne. At his desk in the class of philos- 
 ophy he dreamed of her sweet, shining face, and 
 mingled the reveries of a lover with his meta- 
 physical disquisitions. All the science of reason- 
 ing focused upon Adrienne. His vacation was 
 approaching ; he would return to the chateau, and 
 again have it in his power to see her. 
 
 Adrienne, alas ! had that year no vacation. 
 Gerard learned that she was destined to a religious 
 life. The young man saw his hopes on the wing. 
 
 To overcome his disappointment, he had re- 
 course to his books. The German poets then com- 
 prised the scope of his reading. The idea oc- 
 curred to him of translating the drama of " Faust," 
 partly in verse, partly in prose ; and to the fulfill- 
 ment of his partially formed design the world owes 
 to-day the best French translation of Goethe. 
 
 One evening, near the middle of the year 1827, 
 Goethe, while dining with Eckermann, read from 
 time to time from a book at his hand, praising the 
 passages the while with unusual warmth. 
 
 " What are you reading there, maitre ? " asked 
 his host. 
 
 " A translation of my * Faust ' into the French 
 language, by one Gerard de Nerval." 
 
 " Oh yes, I know," replied Eckermann, with an 
 easy disdain — " a young man of eighteen years, 
 It must smack of the College," 
 
134 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 " Eighteen years ! " echoed Goethe ; " do you 
 tell me that my translator is only eighteen years 
 of age ? " 
 
 "Exactly eighteen; I have undeniable infor- 
 mation.". 
 
 " Very well ; mark what I say : This transla- 
 tion is simply a prodigy. Its author will be one 
 of the greatest writers of France. I no longer 
 like * Faust' in German. This French transla- 
 tion has invested my original words with a new 
 fire. I am proud to find such an interpreter." 
 
 The most glowing praise falls short of this 
 anecdote. None of his acquaintances, however, 
 heard from Gerard's own lips the report of 
 Goethe's words. The translator of " Faust," and 
 the author of so many works which have enriched 
 whatever is wholesome in the literature of his 
 land, did not, like the great majority of the writ- 
 ers of his day, blow his own trumpet and attitudi- 
 nize before the public. Modest and retiring in his 
 manners, Gerard, if ever man did, permitted the 
 individual to wither. He blushed whenever in 
 his presence any one rendered to his performances 
 their richly deserved eulogy. 
 
 The choice things of every literature fell to 
 Gerard's inheritance. Everything that was pure, 
 beautiful, and good was appropriated and assimi- 
 lated in his nature. He pinned his faith to no po- 
 litical creed, shunning a life from which only dis- 
 appointments are gathered. 
 
GlfiRARD DE NERVAL. 135 
 
 He closely identified himself with the band of 
 writers who were arrayed against the classical 
 school, and became the esteemed follower of Vic- 
 tor Hugo. He profited by the suspension now 
 and then of hostilities between the classicists and 
 the romanticists to slip in an occasional piece for 
 the theatre. He produced " Tartuf e chez Moliere," 
 a charming comedietta in three acts, and subse- 
 quently presented at the Odeon another thorough- 
 ly original comedy, "Le Prince des Sots," which 
 the committee received with acclamation. This 
 piece was in verse. Harel, the manager of the 
 theatre, had a profound hatred for poetry. He 
 ridiculed the enthusiasm of the society, consigned 
 the " Prince des Sots " to a pigeon-hole, and left 
 it there so long that Gerard, the mildest and least 
 aggressive of men, was obliged to have recourse 
 to a warrant in order to save his play from an 
 arbitrary sequestration. Seeing a prospective 
 judgment against him, Harel approached the au- 
 thor. 
 
 " Mafoi^ my dear sir," gaid he, "I considered 
 you a man of some sense." 
 
 " Ah," said Gerard, " do you change your 
 opinion ? " 
 
 " Yes, if you persist in neglecting your own 
 interests." 
 
 " I understand them best, I think. My piece 
 has been accepted these eighteen months. All 
 the courts will compel you to represent it." 
 
136 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 " Good ! I understand your reply. Fool, 
 double fool that you are ! " cried the director, 
 clasping his hands with a desperate air. " If I rep- 
 resent your piece, you are as good as dead ! " 
 
 " Diable ! " exclaimed Gerard. 
 
 " I would not give a sou for your future." 
 
 "No? Why?" 
 
 "Because your first comedy has three acts, 
 while your second comedy has two acts ; because, 
 instead of a crescendo^ you follow a degringolando 
 movement — if you will pardon me the language. 
 You march on a false route, moii cher. Should 
 men of your talents offer to the public comedies 
 in two acts ? Out upon it ! Take your pen, go 
 to work ; write me five acts, ^yq long acts, with 
 strong situations. Belong to your century, to 
 your school— 5'we diable ! " 
 
 " Humph ! five acts ! " stammered Gerard. 
 " That is not so easy, especially for one who knows 
 nothing about constructing a plot." 
 
 " Come, then ; here is a splendid subject if 
 you want one." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Gerard, falling into the 
 trap. 
 
 "Charles YL," said Harel. "Make me this 
 hour a Charles YI. Magnificent epoch — old Paris 
 in all its splendor — long live the Burgundians ! 
 — down with the Armagnacs ! — Tete-Dieu ! — 
 Sang-Dieu ! — potence et mort ! — Damnation ! — 
 enfer — and the grand figure of Isabeau looming 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 137 
 
 over everything and everybody. Well, what do 
 you think of it ? " 
 
 " I think it will be magnificent." 
 
 " Very good. Set yourself to work, and bring 
 me the drama. I will play it with the stars of my 
 company." 
 
 Gerard went forth, and hastened to issue coun- 
 ter-orders to advocate and sheriff. Harel had 
 carefully reckoned. He foresaw that in his haste 
 and inexperience the youth would produce some- 
 thing impossible, which would relieve him of 
 the engagement. Gerard, in high hopes, planned 
 his work upon gigantic proportions, and made 
 nothing short of a huge chapter of history, in- 
 troducing innumerable characters and intrigues, 
 and not omitting the slightest authentic details. 
 This monstrous piece, which he composed in the 
 space of six weeks, might perhaps have been act- 
 ed in the space of three successive evenings. 
 
 Art had not yet arrived at such a pitch of prog- 
 ress. Gerard de Nerval avowed, laughingly, that 
 he had produced another ship.« la Robinson, which 
 he could by no possibility cause to float. His only 
 subsequent dramatic productions were the "Al- 
 chimiste," the "Chariot d'Enfant," "L'Imagier de 
 Harlem," and the "Misanthropic et Repentir," 
 which were represented in the principal theatres 
 of Paris. " In the midst of that tangled web of 
 dramatic incidents which marks our theatre of to- 
 day," says he, " I have not yet found mjfiat lux.^^ 
 
138 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 In spite, however, of his ignorance of scenic con- 
 struction, his plays were never hissed, nor was he 
 dismayed by failure or criticism. His style was 
 faultless. By education a romanticist, Gerard de 
 Nerval is classic as regards purity. 
 
 He returned to his favorite work of translat- 
 ing. In the beginning of the year 1830 he pub- 
 lished a collection of translations from German 
 poetry, and an edition of the works of Ron sard. 
 About the same time the " Cabinet de Lecture " 
 printed over his signature a comic story of the 
 most novel and startling nature, entitled "La 
 Main de Gloire." 
 
 During the following four years of his life 
 Gerard displayed a prodigious activity with the 
 pen. Those who knew him at this epoch under- 
 stood how necessary some distraction was to him 
 from the work of composing. In his moments of 
 rest the most somber reflections took possession of 
 his mind. There was still always before his eyes 
 the sweet young girl, so graceful, so slender — the 
 fair singer of the park at Ermenonville, now hid- 
 den away in the weary solitudes of a cloister. 
 
 One evening, while seated in the Theatre Co- 
 mique, and as the young man was indifferently sur- 
 veying the mise-en-schie, he saw that which caused 
 his whole frame to thrill. On the stage, directly j 
 fronting him, stood an actress. Her figure, her | 
 height, her long golden hair, her mien, her whole I 
 person, proclaimed Adrienne. She sang. It was 
 
Gl^RARD DE NERVAL. 139 
 
 the voice of tlie young girl heard long ago in the 
 pleasaunce of Ermenonville. 
 
 " No ! no ! " said Gerard to himself ; " I am 
 the plaything of a dream." 
 
 He hurried from the theatre, his brain on fire, 
 and his imagination in a delirum. At the end of 
 a quarter of an hour he returned, to experience 
 the same sensations. He profited by the entre- 
 acte, made his way to the green-room, and found 
 the cause of his trouble surrounded by a host of 
 admirers. Gerard tremblingly approached her. 
 The more he regarded her, the more was he im- 
 pressed with the miraculous resemblance. It was 
 Adrienne — she only ! Seeing her smile at the ca- 
 joleries and insipid compliments which were ad- 
 dressed to her, he felt a cold perspiration start 
 from his temples, and he hurried away without 
 addressing a word to her. On the morrow he be- 
 gan to doubt anew. Adrienne at the theatre? 
 what an idea ! A daughter of Valois, a child of 
 royal blood, bred in the shadow of a sanctuary — 
 was such to pass to the green-room ? 
 
 " By Heaven ! " he cried at last, "I will free 
 my heart from this thralldom." 
 
 He hastily jumped into a cab, and three hours 
 later found himself at Ermenonville. He fruit- 
 lessly questioned everybody. Finally Sylvia, that 
 same young girl whom he had as if but yesterday 
 conducted to the ball at the chateau, in answer to 
 his reiterated inquiries, cried, in an annoyed tone : 
 
140 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 " Oh, you are in a terrible way over your nov- 
 ice ! Well, she has turned out badly." 
 
 From various reports it was evident that his 
 heroine had saved herself from a convent life ; 
 that she had broken with her family and with 
 prejudice ; that, in fine, the charming singer of 
 the park and the brilliant diva of the Op6ra Co- 
 mique were one and the same person. He reen- 
 tered the cab, and at eight o'clock found himself 
 as usual in an orchestra-chair at the Op6ra. He 
 made up his mind to enter the waiting-room and 
 speak to her. But, when he again beheld the 
 beautiful singer among the same circle of admi- 
 rers, he felt his soul grow weak and tears gath- 
 ering in his eyes. He quitted the theatre, no fur- 
 ther advanced than before. On the morrow he 
 knocked at the door of Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 " Will you," he asked, somewhat abruptly, 
 " write in company with me a comic opera ? " 
 
 "A comic opera? I should prefer a drama," 
 answered the author of " Henry III." 
 
 " No ; it is a comic opera and nothing else 
 that we must compose. Here are the title and 
 the plot. I wrote the latter last night." 
 
 "I will see," said Dumas, taking the manu- 
 script. Then, after glancing over the pages, he ex- 
 claimed, " ' The Queen of Sheba ! ' Peste ! but that 
 is a good title. Agreed ! I dine to-day with Meyer- 
 beer, and will engage him to write the music." 
 
 As he left Dumas, the young man congratu- 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 141 
 
 lated himself. ^ Here," he soliloquized, " is my dif- 
 ficulty at an end. Nothing could be more simple. 
 I can't help speaking to her at the rehearsals." 
 
 A week afterward the libretto was in the hands 
 of Meyerbeer. While waiting for the music, 
 Gerard passed his evenings at the Opera Comique, 
 contemplating Adrienne. He thus speaks of her 
 in the "Filles du Feu": "Beautiful as the day 
 when the footlights shone full upon her, pale as the 
 night when they were lowered and the light of the 
 chandelier alone fell upon her, shining with her 
 own beauty in the shadow, like the divine figure 
 of the houris which stand forth with stars in their 
 foreheads from the brown background of the fres- 
 coes of Herculaneum." 
 
 " While investing this story with a strongly 
 romantic character," says Mirecourt, " we do but 
 truthfully relate the life of De Nerval. We add 
 nothing to the portrait of that tender, melancholy, 
 and reflective soul. It is impossible to write his 
 life without dealing with the love which traversed 
 it from beginning to end." 
 
 But why, one will ask, did he not speak to 
 Adrienne ? An actress, remarks De Mirecourt with 
 true Gallic flavor, is always accessible. Yes, with- 
 out doubt ; and that precisely was the secret of the 
 poet. Reality frightened him. He sought un- 
 ceasingly for a pretext to remain in the domain of 
 illusion, and that instinctively, without accounting 
 for his course, with a naive frankness, thinking 
 
142 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 himself unhappy on account of chimerical obsta- 
 cles. He thought that a unique means of ap- 
 proaching her would be to offer her a role in a 
 drama of his composition. 
 
 Unhappily, at the moment when he believed 
 success was at hand, the illustrious Meyerbeer 
 quaiTeled with Dumas, and returned the libretto. 
 
 Made desperate by this contretemps, the poet 
 wrote a long letter full of passion to the actress, 
 and sent it by one of the attendants of the theatre 
 in the heart of a bouquet. Then, taking a post- 
 chaise, he did not stop till he reached Naples. He 
 had taken from Dumas the manuscript of the 
 " Reine de Saba," and, in order to lose nothing of 
 his work, he converted the drama into one of the 
 exquisite tales in his collection called the " Nights 
 of Rhamazan." 
 
 To flee from a painful preoccupation, to save 
 himseK by a post-chaise from an unhappy love, 
 was a good way of ministering to a mind diseased. 
 He did not, however, succeed. At Marseilles he 
 met a young English lady, who displayed a marked 
 partiality for him. Had he not loved Adrienne, 
 our poet would now be living, and the son-in-law 
 of an English baronet of untold wealth. 
 
 From Genoa and Civita Yecchia he wrote two 
 brilliant letters to his actress. He arrived at 
 Naples without money, and could hardly secure 
 a fourth-class berth in the steamboat in which he 
 returned to France to seek a response to his letters. 
 
GERARD DE NERVAL. 143 
 
 At Paris he accepted the editorship of the 
 " Presse," a theatrical journal, in which his labors 
 were shared by Th6ophile Gautier, his old com- 
 panion on the " Mercure," and afterward his bosom 
 friend. We may be sure that he now published 
 the praises of his bieii-aimee like a true lover. 
 
 Those who knew him at this time relate fan- 
 tastic stories about him. At his majority he had 
 come into possession of his mother's fortune. In 
 two or three years he had squandered this patri- 
 mony, not as young scions ordinarily do, in orgies 
 and debauches, but upon objects of art, paintings, 
 old porcelains, and every species of curiosity that 
 the bric-^-brac dealers could exchange for his 
 gold. He neglected the commonest personal com- 
 forts, and at the same time would pay eight hun- 
 dred francs for an antique bedstead of carved oak 
 in which Marguerite de Yalois slept, in 1519, at 
 the Chateau of Tours. In order to install it in his 
 apartments, he was obliged to widen his doorway, 
 in much the same fashion as did Louis XIY. when 
 the gates of the cities were too narrow. Gerard 
 slept on the floor by its side, on a coarse mattress, 
 from a feeling of respect — a conservative opinion 
 that only the descendants of kings should sleep in 
 the beds of their ancestors. Of the poor-devil 
 sort of existence which Jules Janin has attributed 
 to Gerard, even in his moments of opulence, the 
 poet really knew little. He led, it is true, the life 
 of a Bohemian. His sensitive nature deterred 
 10 
 
144 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 him from hurting the feelings of his fellows by a 
 vain or even a comfortable display. Theophile 
 Gautier, Arsene Houssaye, Ourliac, and Alphonse 
 Karr knew this by experience. This illustrious 
 band lived in common in a mansion two centuries 
 old, which stood in the Rue du Doyenne. There 
 were also a number of musicians, painters, and ar- 
 tists of every sort. It was a veritable pandemo- 
 nium, a cercle dj la Collot, a noisy, grotesque, inde- 
 scribable assemblage, into whose midst the land- 
 lord never dared to enter bill in hand. On the 
 occasion when, for the first and last time, he was 
 guilty of that indiscretion, the dwellers solemnly 
 exhibited to him a number of freshly and gor- 
 geously decorated panels, the work of the paint- 
 ers. 
 
 " Behold, unhappy man ! " they said. " It is 
 you who owe tis money." 
 
 " You are right," replied the brave fellow, as 
 he retired for ever. 
 
 While the painters were at their easels and 
 the musicians at the piano, De Nerval, Gautier, 
 Houssaye, and Karr wrote score after score of 
 brilliant articles for the " Yert- Veit." 
 
 Some twenty-five years ago, during the de- 
 molition of the Place du Carrousel, a man of ner- 
 vous mien was observed examining the debris, es- 
 pecially the ruins of doorways and the woodwork. 
 He at last uttered a cry of satisfaction. In a few 
 moments he showed the contractor of the work to 
 
GISRARD DE nerval. 145 
 
 a spot where lay five panels, very much dam- 
 aged. 
 
 " How much will you take for these ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Humph ! " said the contractor ; " they are 
 paintings." 
 
 " I don't want to purchase them for kindling- 
 wood." 
 
 "They are paintings by great masters, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 "Confound the masters ! I want your price." 
 
 " Five hundred francs." 
 
 " Very well. I shall return in half an hour " ; 
 and Gerard hurried to the office of the " Revue des 
 Deux Mondes," drew the money for three articles, 
 returned to the contractor, and paid him five hun- 
 dred francs for the works of his former compan- 
 ions of the Rue du Doyenne, which, in truth, were 
 not worth more than fifty cents each — a bargain 
 worthy of Glaucus. 
 
 It is curious to note that, enthusiastic as he 
 was in gathering objects of vertu, Gerard never 
 attempted to give to his immense collection any 
 classification whatever. He stored them topsy- 
 turvy in a couple of garrets far from his lodg- 
 ings — if he could be said ever to have possessed 
 such. The unforeseen was his delight. He ate 
 and slept anywhere. He wrote articles — ay, vol- 
 umes — as he passed through the thoroughfares of 
 Paris, pencil and paper in hand, jostled and el- 
 
146 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 bowed by the cold, careless, hurrying stream of 
 wayfarers. 
 
 In collaboration with Dumas he wrote the 
 highly successful drama of "Piquillo," which 
 Mompon set to music. Dumas, as was his habit, 
 alone signed the libretto. Gerard took out his 
 share in gazing upon and applauding Adrienne, 
 who acted one of the principal roles. But when 
 " Leo Burckart " was composed under similar cir- 
 cumstances, Gerard did not hesitate to say, " It is 
 now my turn to sign alone"; and Dumas was con- 
 strained to forego his ordinary noble habit. 
 
 We now arrive at the somber epoch in which 
 death came between Gerard and the object of his 
 adoration. Almost in the midst of her triumphs, 
 in the fullest bloom of her beauty, Adrienne passed 
 away. Gerard's grief was intense. He had never 
 had the pleasure even of speaking a single word 
 to her. " Now that death has claimed the lover 
 and the loved," says Mirecourt, " we are permitted 
 to reveal the identity of Adrienne. She was none 
 other than the celebrated Jenny Colon." 
 
 Henceforward Paris became intolerable to De 
 Nerval. Unable to rest in any spot, he wandered 
 with feverish haste from west to east, from north 
 to south, from Rome to Venice, from Vienna to 
 Berlin, from Constantinople to Cairo — to-day in 
 Europe, to-morrow in Asia or Africa. He frequent- 
 ly found himself with an empty purse ; he con- 
 fided, like the birds, in the winds of Providence. 
 
Gl^RARD DE NERVAL. 147 
 
 Either from fatigue or from failure to overcome 
 his persistent memories, he returned to Paris in a 
 condition which became with his friends the source 
 of serious inquietude. The materialism of this 
 century, which too often parades itself as science, 
 had thrown upon a false road the delicate and 
 mystic soul of Gerard de Nerval. His tempera- 
 ment revolted powerfully against every gross in- 
 stinct. It was said — and with an unpardonable 
 sneer — that he never really descended to the earth 
 of his fellows. 
 
 Gerard profited by a return to health to seek 
 for an extended sojourn in the East, in order to 
 escape the prescriptions of his doctors — a measure 
 which argued more good sense than many would 
 then allow. Certain foreign bonds, which he had 
 purchased when apparently worthless, had sudden- 
 ly risen to a high premium, and their sale afforded 
 him the means of living for some time free from 
 pecuniary pressure. 
 
 Could I do them anything like justice, I should 
 willingly follow him through his wonderful ad- 
 ventures. The " Voyage in the East " is one of 
 the most beautiful books in any literature, and 
 by no means inferior to Gautier's " Constan- 
 tinople." 
 
 The poet had traversed Austria anew, embarked 
 upon the Adriatic, visited the Cyclades, Turkey, 
 Greece, and Egypt, returning to Paris early in 
 1841. Convinced that enough had already been 
 
148 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 written of the East, our poet did not at first dream 
 of publishing the record of his travels. The abun- 
 dant interest evinced by his friends for his narra- 
 tions induced him, however, to contribute to 
 "L' Artiste" the "Voyage en Grece," and to the 
 "Revue des Deux Mondes," in 1848, the "Voyage 
 en Orient." 
 
 Gerard was subject to a sort of mystical exal- 
 tation which was commonly looked upon as a harm- 
 less lunacy. After a third attack of this affection 
 he was taken to Bicetre, the Bloomingdale of 
 Paris. On his release he published a series of tales, 
 in which, with amazing truth and effect, he por- 
 trayed life in an asylum. His book was planned 
 to destroy the impression that he was a lunatic, by 
 proving that not only during his confinement, but 
 during his strange reveries, he retained the full 
 power of his analytic and logical faculties ! The 
 mysticism of certain men, he affirmed, and their 
 tendency to penetrate a transcendental world, do 
 not argue mental aberration, but a fixed idea. 
 His arguments triumphed. Another strange pe- 
 culiarity in his character was his belief that the 
 spirits of the dead are ever around us, hearing 
 what we say and seeing what we do. To one who 
 would speak of Jenny Colon, he would say, " Be 
 silent ; she is dead, and I am convinced that her 
 spirit is here to see and listen to us." 
 
 After the publication of " Les Illumines," a 
 paper of socialistic tendencies, he wrote for the 
 
giSrard de nerval. 149 
 
 " Revue " an elaborate series of studies of Hein- 
 rich Heine. His ruling passion was now to return 
 to the East, but bis slender means rendered such 
 an indulgence this time impossible. There was 
 always some drain upon his scanty funds. He had 
 always to buy a Chinese screen for Houssaye, a 
 coffer for Gautier, an old book for Janin, a Flem- 
 ish painting for Stadler. He never seemed to 
 realize the necessity of clothes : to induce him to 
 buy a new coat was always a difficult task for his 
 friends. 
 
 His friend Stadler, who regarded him as a 
 brother, thinking that Gerard needed distraction, 
 gave him one day five hundred francs, to enable 
 him to attend the anniversary of Goethe's birth- 
 day, at Weimar. The translator of "Faust" 
 was received with most magnificent hospitalities, 
 and the hereditary Grand Duke personally hon- 
 ored him with marked attentions. It was shortly 
 after this that his health began rapidly to fail. 
 He was at the time struggling hard against pov- 
 erty, something common enough among his con- 
 temporary litterateurs. His friends placed him at 
 intervals under the care of Dr. Blanche. They 
 mistook for a mental failing that which was a 
 deep-rooted affection of the heart. His sadness 
 and his discouragement grew worse. Shortly be- 
 fore he died, he disappeared, and for several weeks 
 baffled the search of his friends. Whither had 
 he betaken himself ? In what passion, in what 
 
150 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 excesses, did he seek surcease of his suffering ? 
 His mode of life became a mystery. 
 
 On the 26th of January, 1855, he was found 
 dead in the Rue de la Yieille Lanterne, a street of 
 frightful aspect, since destroyed to make way for 
 the Hotel de Yille. Had he been the victim of a 
 nocturnal assault ? Had he found in suicide the 
 end of his grief and misery ? No one has solved 
 this enigma. 
 
 On the day before his death he asked of Gau- 
 tier a sou — " a "single sou," he iterated to his fellow 
 poet, who, thinking him in need of money, was 
 about to offer him a much larger sum. On receiv- 
 ing the coin he cut with his knife two cross lines 
 upon its surface, made a hole in the disk, and 
 hung it about his neck. So it was found upon 
 his dead body, and was reclaimed by Gautier. 
 This relic has since passed into the hands, I be- 
 lieve, of Victor Hugo. 
 
 A few anecdotes and bons-mots will appropri- 
 ately close this sketch. While breakfasting in a 
 fashionable coffee-house, he observed a wood-louse 
 in his plate of sauce. " Here, gar9on," he called 
 to the attendant, " I wish you would serve wood- 
 lige.on a separate dish." During his cerebral dis- 
 ease; *8ome one 'asked . him the nature of his ail- 
 ment. " A hot fever, ; monsieur," was his answer 
 — "a hot fever, complicated-^^by. physicians." 
 
 Two of his mostK£^m6us*6o»&-mo/s are likely 
 to yet attain a world-wide reputation. One is. 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 151 
 
 " The highest expression of liberty is selfishness " ; 
 the other, " The only vice of which man does 
 not boast is ingratitude." 
 
 ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 
 
 To account for my desire to become acquainted 
 with this great romancer, I must retrace a period 
 of nearly twenty years and go back to my earliest 
 youth — ^to the happy time when my bigoted tutor, 
 by banishing Dumas's novels from my table, im- 
 parted to them all the flavor of forbidden fruit. 
 The effect of perusing his fictions was to insepa- 
 rably associate the author's personality with my 
 first awakening to the depth and variety of human 
 character. 
 
 Once in Paris, it is needless to say that I used 
 all my efforts to become personally acquainted 
 with a man with whom, through his writings, I 
 had long lived on terms of the closest intimacy. 
 When I presented myself at his house, in the Rue 
 de Villers, the ringing of his door-bell was outdone 
 by the beating of my heart. His servants were 
 moving about amid masses of trunks of all kinds, 
 sizes, and shapes, which were scattered throughout 
 the vestibule. 
 
 "Is Monsieur Dumas in?" I hesitatingly 
 asked the servant who opened the door. From 
 
152 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 his answer I learned that Dumas had left for Puys, 
 where he habitually spends his summers, after pass- 
 ing a month at La Bourboule, a watering-place 
 dear to all who have faith in the efficacy of arsen- 
 ical springs. His attendants were to follow him 
 that evening. The master being away, that rigor 
 was relaxed by which strangers are generally ex- 
 cluded from his house. To judge from the smile 
 of pity which played upon their lips, Dumas's ser- 
 vants were accustomed to the spectacle of young 
 men presenting themselves in hopeless embarrass- 
 ment at their master's door. They now seemed 
 fully alive to the importance of their positions as 
 servants of a great man, and in the humor, too, 
 to indulge in chat and to regard me from a pedes- 
 tal to which Monsieur Dumas's absence lent a tem- 
 porary but supreme elevation. 
 
 " When will Monsieur Dumas return ? " I stam- 
 mered. 
 
 " We never return from the country before 
 September," was the reply. 
 
 " I am quite disappointed. I should have been 
 so pleased to see him." 
 
 " That is not an easy thing. We are generally 
 so busy, and the number of visitors is daily so 
 great, that we are obliged to be very strict in re- 
 fusing admission to strangers." 
 
 I could not, however, make up my mind to 
 leave the house without having obtained some re- 
 sult from an errand which had cost me so much 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 153 
 
 hesitation ; and so, plucking up courage, I dis- 
 played a Louis d'or and ventured to ask again, 
 " May I at least solicit the honor of a glance at 
 your master's study ? " 
 
 In the house of so keen an analyst of human 
 nature, the gold piece could not be refused. In 
 taking it the valet who opened the door seeming- 
 ly wished to prove to me that he was as good a 
 physiognomist as his master, and, with a knowing 
 air, suggested : " Monsieur is evidently a jour- 
 nalist ? " 
 
 " No, I am a man of leisure, and an occasional 
 writer." 
 
 " And monsieur would be contented — " 
 
 "To catch but a glimpse of your master's 
 house." 
 
 " We are going to show it you ; " and, after a 
 moment's hesitation, he added : " Pray, come this 
 way." 
 
 Dumas's house stands in a garden inclosed by 
 a wrought-iron fence which presents at intervals 
 the monogram of the novelist. The ivy which 
 covers the house invests it with a charming sem- 
 blance of old age, while the garden is always 
 filled with fresh and choice flowers, which impart 
 to the whole an air of youth and gay picturesque- 
 ness. Everything is arranged with that exquisite 
 taste which bespeaks the artist and the poet, and 
 reflects his happiness. In visiting this house one 
 feels as though he were passing through a sun- 
 
154 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 beam. The vestibule communicates with the par- 
 lor, chiefly reserved for Madame Dumas, with the 
 dining-room, the billiard-room, a small library, 
 and the novelist's study. A wide staircase, with 
 banisters of wood carved in Flemish style, leads 
 to the upper floor. The most striking objects in 
 this anteroom are a bust of Moli^re casting a 
 melancholy smile upon a handsome bust of the 
 elder Dumas. 
 
 The walls of the parlor are covered with 
 striped satin in red and gold, framed with a nar- 
 row border of gray wood, revealing a very deli- 
 cate taste. Old lackers and china vases, Venice 
 mirrors and chandeliers, furniture in the Louis 
 XV. style, together with an unusual provision of 
 cut flowers, fill the room with perfumes and sug- 
 gestive images of the past. The gems of the par- 
 lor are, however, the mantel-piece, supported by 
 two caryatides in gilded wood exquisitely carved, 
 and a painting by Jacquet representing the first 
 arrival at a ball. 
 
 The dining-room, in Cordova leather, with its 
 huge clock " de Boule " and its high and square 
 chairs, recalls the style of the Louis XIV. epoch. 
 Many people have seated themselves around that 
 mahogany table who could . get a dinner nowhere 
 else ; for the skeptic who so frequently rails at 
 the world's failings has a heart always open to its 
 miseries. 
 
 As a matter of course the room that I was 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 155 
 
 most desirous to see was the novelist's study. It 
 is unusually large, has three windows opening upon 
 the garden, and is covered all around with Cor- 
 dova leather. A low book-case in carved rose- 
 wood, containing a collection of books such as 
 the most refined bibliophile might be charmed 
 to possess, extends around the entire apartment. 
 His father's works, exquisitely bound, and his 
 own, occupy separate shelves. In the center of 
 the room stands the writing-desk, the largest, per- 
 haps, that I have ever seen. One side is sur- 
 mounted by narrow, vertical pigeon-holes stocked 
 with fine English writing paper of every sort. 
 Dumas can not and will not write on ordinary 
 paper. The floor about his arm-chair is strewn 
 with dictionaries and encyclopaedias which bear 
 the marks of having been much handled. He 
 calls these his " aides-de-camp." The walls above 
 the library are enriched with a priceless collection 
 of paintings, modern and antique. Diaz, Fortuny, 
 Marchal, Yernet, Delacroix are there seen at their 
 best. Dumas generally presents himself with a 
 new painting after he has presented a new book 
 to the public. Those paintings he styles "the 
 prizes of encouragement he has won." Under a 
 rare yataghan is suspended the likeness of his 
 father, by Marchal. The elder Dumas is here 
 represented from the waist up, in a white shirt 
 lavishly open at the neck, displaying the broad 
 chest of an athlete. As a pendant to his father's 
 
156 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 portrait hangs Ms own, a masterly work by Du- 
 bufe. His bust by Carpeaux, a splendid repro- 
 duction of the Laocoon, and a terra-cotta model 
 of the monument to Regnault, occupy the panels 
 between the windows. All available corners are 
 devoted to a number of costly presents and prizes, 
 souvenirs and the like. Every day Madame Du- 
 mas — formerly a Countess Narishkine — places on 
 his desk a vase filled with fresh flowers of the 
 season, which, together with three framed pho- 
 tographs, representing Madame Dumas, and his 
 children Jeannine and Colette, and an army of 
 pens and inkstands, are the objects which alone 
 have the honor of occupying the great novelist's 
 writing-desk. I experienced a delicious expan- 
 sion of the lungs, a thorough satisfaction, in gaz- 
 ing about me. The atmosphere seemed still per- 
 vaded with the presence of a superior being. His 
 thoughts and feelings seemed to throng around 
 me. I know not how long I remained in contem- 
 plation of the scene. The valet who was my 
 guide regarded me at last with an expression at 
 once satirical and disconcerting. I thought I had 
 remained too long, so I thanked him and left. 
 
 A few days later found me at Puys. This 
 place is a village on the shore of Brittany, situat- 
 ed about twenty-five minutes' ride from Dieppe. 
 It was George Sand who, in 1858, pointed out 
 the spot to Dumas, then longing for solitude. At 
 that time there were in this locality but twelve 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 157 
 
 houses, mostly those of fishermen. Dumas was 
 pleased with the picturesque loneliness of the 
 place and purchased an old mansion, together 
 with thirty thousand square metres of surround- 
 ing land, the better to preclude the intrusion of 
 neighbors. But his presence soon rendered Puys 
 a fashionable resort. Many men of note wished 
 to have cottages there, and applications to pur- 
 chase portions of his ground poured in upon the 
 novelist from all sides. Though in most cases 
 declining such offers, he could not refrain from 
 yielding to the desires of a few friends like 
 Montigny, the director of the Gymnase Theatre, 
 Madame Carvalho, the celebrated opera-singer, 
 Lord Salisbury, and certain others. These peo- 
 ple now usually pass their summers in the imme- 
 diate neighborhood of Alexandre Dumas. The 
 man who has most contributed, however, toward 
 transforming and civilizing Puys is Yazili, the 
 Circassian whom Dumas pere brought with him 
 from the East. He has built a hotel there and 
 aims at nothing less than converting Puys into 
 another Trouville. At this Dumas grieves, but 
 out of love for his father's old servant he places no 
 obstacles in his path. The fishermen of Puys found 
 it impossible to pronounce " Vazili," and changed 
 it first to '' Basilic," and finally to " Pacific." I 
 recommend this fact to the notice of philologists. 
 Whenever the present condition of Puys is alluded 
 to, Dumas will say, with a sigh : " Yes ; it is im- 
 
158 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 proving wonderfully. It becomes very beautiful, 
 but alas ! inhabitable." Puys is the last resting- 
 place of Dumas pere. This endears the spot to 
 the son, who wishes to die in the summer, that is, 
 at Puys. Close upon the sea Dumas has had a 
 pavilion constructed, the chief use of which is to 
 serve as a studio for his artist friends, whose so- 
 ciety he enjoys more than that of any other class. 
 There, amid cruel sufferings which death has mer- 
 cifully ended, Carpeaux, in 1875, modeled his last 
 work, that charming fisherwoman, so popular un- 
 der the name of "La Fee aux Monies." Here, 
 also, the great and unfortunate painter, Charles 
 Marchal, who a few years ago committed suicide, 
 painted his best pictures. 
 
 Dumas's cottage at Puys, though he likens its 
 architecture to that of a railway station, is very 
 attractive. It is built in the English style, with 
 a lofty flight of steps and a commodious veran- 
 da running around all four walls. Hammocks, 
 suspended fans, and heavy creepers impart to the 
 house an air of Oriental coolness and comfort, 
 such as may be seen perhaps at their best on the 
 Bosporus. The first floor is divided into a study 
 for the novelist, a dining-room, and a billiard- 
 room. Billiards are one of Dumas's favorite pas- 
 times. 
 
 As I was ascending the stoop of the house, 
 Dumas, clad in a white linen suit, came out escort- 
 ing Mademoiselle Desclees. She had been consult- 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 159 
 
 ing with him in regard to some points in his play, 
 *' Princesse George." 
 
 Dumas impresses one with an overwhelming 
 sense of superiority. He seems like a prophet in 
 a frock-coat. His countenance is characterized 
 by an extraordinary power of attraction. To 
 women he offers the enticement of a mystery, 
 and this is probably the reason why they are so 
 fascinated with him. Wherever he goes, ladies 
 forget any one else for him. He seems, too, so 
 fond of their society that he has been styled 
 "L'ami des Femmes." But whether he loves 
 them or not, whether he burns or worships his 
 idols, is an open question. I have heard many 
 lady friends of his say that he was to them a per- 
 fect enigma. Dumas is tall, broad-shouldered, and 
 otherwise strongly built, and he needs to be to 
 carry his immense literary baggage. He has blue 
 eyes, and eyebrows as light as his long, dishev- 
 eled, crispy mustache. Fancy, if you can, a 
 blonde Creole, and you will gather an idea of the 
 appearance of his hair, which contrasts singularly 
 with his brownish complexion, but is not at all 
 disagreeable. When he frowns, as he frequently 
 does, two deep vertical wrinkles appear above his 
 nose, which suggest the strength and breadth of 
 his thinking faculties. His ever-recurring and 
 skeptical smile serves to display his thick red lips 
 and beautiful white teeth. Dumas shows, almost 
 uncovered, those bones, which, in his father's face, 
 11 
 
160 FRE!\^CH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 were hidden by a thick stratum of flesh, just as 
 his epicurean philosophy was concealed in vain, 
 bombastic prose. 
 
 From my manner Dumas doubtless inferred 
 that he had in me an admirer, and one who knew 
 him well through his writings. He advanced and 
 gave me his hand, and, thanks to his kindly man- 
 ner, I was soon comparatively at ease, and we were 
 engaged in animated conversation. I do not think 
 that4! have ever met a more entertaining talker. 
 At the moment it seemed as though his novels 
 and plays, upon which I had spent days and nights 
 in a sort of rapture, would ever after seem tame if 
 compared with the verve of his conversation. The 
 gravity and severity which I had expected seemed 
 wholly uncharacteristic of the man ; he even ex- 
 pressed the loftiest philosophical ideas in a laugh- 
 ing, racy fashion, for which I can find no parallel. 
 I can not tell how it happened, but our conversa- 
 tion turned upon the Gospel as a code of morals. 
 His views in this regard were to me a revelation. 
 Never did theologian more completely illustrate 
 the beauty and greatness of the Gospel than did 
 Dumas in a few phrases. The author of " La 
 Dame aux Camelias" induced me to study the 
 ISTew Testament — "the book," said he, "from 
 which I have derived all my inspiration." 
 
 When among his iiitimes the author of "Le 
 Demi-Monde" bears no likeness to any portrait 
 that may be formed of him by speculating over 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 161 
 
 his books. He is very simple and gay. But for 
 the startling theories and dazzling witticisms that 
 now and then betray him, he could not be distin- 
 guished from any amiable bourgeois who heartily 
 detests etiquette. His coat seems to be a heavy 
 burden for his shoulders, and he will gladly take 
 it off whenever he can induce his friends to do 
 likewise. However surprising and fascinating his 
 conversation, his keen perception of other peo- 
 ple's character is still more astonishing. He is 
 the greatest mind-reader with whom I have come 
 in contact. No man can conceal his thoughts 
 from him. He reads them on the countenance, 
 as though it were an open book. I should, how- 
 ever, have said no woman — for he seldom takes 
 the trouble to scrutinize the face of a person of 
 his own sex. 
 
 What a strange, romantic life Dumas's has 
 been ! He was born on the 24th of July, 1824. 
 His mother was a beautiful young seamstress with 
 whom his father fell in love. Her intellectual 
 qualities were as high as her social position was 
 low. She died in giving birth to the subject of 
 the present sketch. Dumas p^re has written in 
 his " Memoires " : " As the Duke of Montpensicr 
 entered the world, a Duke of Chartres was born 
 to me." Young Dumas pursued his studies at the 
 private school of Monsieur Goubaux, a collabora- 
 tor of his father, and afterward the founder of 
 the now famous College Chaptal in Paris. The 
 
162 FREiXCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ignominy of his illegitimate birth preyed con- 
 stantly upon young Dumas's mind. He grew 
 thoughtful and sad. During the school vacations 
 he was yearly taken by his father from the insti- 
 tution, but it was understood that he should call 
 him " Monsieur Dumas." The youth was one day 
 seen by his father to hide a book under his coat. 
 " What are you hiding ? " Dumas asked. 
 
 " Nothing," replied his son. 
 
 " No falsehoods, my boy ; let me see what you 
 have there." 
 
 " ^fimile," by Girardin, was produced. A close 
 analogy existed between the boy's condition and 
 that of "£mile." "If you must read such a 
 book," said Dumas pere, " I wish that, instead of 
 hiding it, you would give me your honest opinion 
 of it." 
 
 " I approve of * ifimile,' " the boy haughtily re- 
 plied. " I think he did well to boldly assume the 
 name of which he had been unjustly deprived by 
 his father. I shall do likewise." 
 
 Tears stood in the father's eyes. He embraced 
 the boy. " Take my name, and God bless you ! " 
 he said, and there was legally a Dumas the 
 younger. A radical .change now took place in 
 his character. Happiness made him as amiable 
 and good-natured as he had previously been in- 
 tractable and morose. 
 
 At the age of eighteen he was introduced by 
 his father as " his best work " to a party which 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 163 
 
 had gathered at Madame Yaldor's. Young Dumas 
 charmed every one by his wit and talent. While 
 the entertainment was at its height, his absence 
 from the ballroom was noticed. He was found at 
 last in the most remote room of the suite, making 
 a burning declaration of love to Mademoiselle 
 Melaine Yaldor, a daughter of the hostess. " Nat- 
 urally enough," exclaims Eugene de Mirecourt, 
 who relates the anecdote, "his father took him 
 from college. He had nothing more to learn." 
 
 The name of Mirecourt recalls another anec- 
 dote of Dumas's early life. So outspoken a man 
 as Mirecourt could always find something to criti- 
 cise in the elder Dumas, either as a man or as an 
 author. Dumas fils, who loved his father very 
 devotedly, at last became so incensed by the in- 
 sulting strictures of Mirecourt, that he sent him a 
 formal challenge. Owing to an awkward mistake 
 of the seconds, M. Mirecourt thought he had to 
 deal with Dumas p5re, and immediately accept- 
 ed. Subsequently, on learning the truth, he sum- 
 moned his son Edward, a boy of fifteen, and thus 
 addressed the seconds : " Gentlemen, you must 
 have made a mistake. A message from young 
 Dumas must certainly be for young Mirecourt. 
 Dumas p^re is healthy and strong enough to set- 
 tle his own quarrels. Please report my answer to 
 the young man. If he insists, I will let my son 
 Edward meet him." Young Dumas saw the jus- 
 tice of Mirecourt's reply, received it good-na- 
 
164 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 turedly, and laughed at his own folly. He con- 
 tented himself with saying : " I will show this 
 old Giboyer that, young as I am, I am as much of 
 a man as he is." He set himself to work, and 
 produced in quick succession, " Sins of Youth," 
 and "The Adventures of Four Women and a 
 Parrot." These novels certainly abound in the 
 inherent faults of a young writer ; but, even in 
 these crude productions, the genius of Dumas so 
 unmistakably asserted itself that it was confi- 
 dently predicted that he would in time excel his 
 father. 
 
 The great secret of the excellence of Dumas 
 is that he himself lives through all his romances 
 and plays. He has analyzed not only the weak- 
 nesses and passions of the outer world, but his own 
 likewise. He succeeds because he is true ; be- 
 cause his heart throbs in his works ; because he 
 serves up the tears of his own eyes, and drops of 
 his own blood. " L' Affaire Clemenceau " is only 
 the story of his childhood corrected, and revised 
 for public use. In " La Vie a Vingt Ans " we get 
 an insight into the mysteries of his youth. In 
 " La Dame aux Camelias " he is Armand arrested 
 in his reckless path to perdition by the death of 
 the woman he loves. 
 
 Dumas fils frequently soars high in the realms 
 of paradox and transcendentalism. While he has 
 touched upon all the great problems which oc- 
 cupy the thought of this age, he prefers to deal 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 165 
 
 with those which more closely concern out-of-the- 
 way characters developed, like his own, under pe- 
 culiar influences. He falls upon the exceptional 
 products of society like an eagle upon its prey, in 
 turn soothing their griefs with loving tenderness 
 and defending their virtues with a lion's courage. 
 Abnormal circumstances having presided over his 
 birth and life, he was naturally interested in the 
 strange and the abnormal. " La Dame aux Ca- 
 melias " must be accepted, with some restrictions, 
 as an interesting isolated fact. It was written in 
 less than two weeks, in one of the uncomfortable 
 apartments of a country inn at St. Germain-en- 
 Laye, when the author was scarcely twenty-five 
 years old. In those days Monseigneur Dupanloup 
 was an intimate friend of Dumas. Well-informed 
 people assert that the prelate was the first to read 
 and approve the production, and term it " a re- 
 demption." 
 
 Antony Beraud, Dumas pore's bosom friend, 
 was one evening discussing with the young lit- 
 terateur the merits of " La Cigue," by Augier, of 
 which the latter was a decided admirer. " Why 
 do you not try to dramatize one of your own nov- 
 els ? " asked Beraud. "If you wish, I will sketch 
 upon paper for you the skeleton of such a drama." 
 " Very well," replied Dumas, " bring it, and I will 
 see what I can do." Beraud brought the skele- 
 ton, but it was far from meeting the views of the 
 young man. He addressed himself to the task 
 
166 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 and wrote his first play, which, as every one 
 knows, was an unprecedented success. He did 
 not preserve a single situation of the skeleton 
 furnished him by Beraud. Dumas, nevertheless, 
 divided the royalty he derived from his drama 
 equally with him, saying that the suggestion had 
 been to him of great value. 
 
 The story of Dumas's eventful life can hardly 
 be told in a few pages. Instead of his complete 
 biography, I intended to offer my reminiscences of 
 him, and a few anecdotes illustrative of his char- 
 acter as a man and a writer. One of his most 
 marked characteristics was, as I have intimated, 
 his love for his father. This attachment verged 
 almost upon idolatry, and was characterized, with- 
 al, by a freedom and camaraderie seldom observed 
 in the relations between father and son. Gifted 
 with the faculty of keen observation, Dumas fils 
 could not help being occasionally shocked at the 
 eccentricities of his father, or from giving them the 
 full benefit of his ridicule. Many of his sayings 
 in this regard are still fresh in the minds of Pari- 
 sians. It is known that Dumas p5re, though his 
 income was perhaps regularly above that of any 
 other literary man in France, was frequently em- 
 barrassed in his finances. His son has spent more 
 money for his father than for himself. Alluding 
 to the care which he was often obliged to devote 
 to the affairs of his father, the younger novelist 
 used to say : " My father is a big baby, that I 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 167 
 
 had on my hands when I was still a child." 
 Speaking of old Dumas's vanity, which in truth 
 had no parallel, he once exclaimed : " My father 
 is so vain that he would take his footman's seat 
 on his carriage to make people believe he keeps a 
 negro ! " On another occasion, in reply to a state- 
 ment that his father was called to account for 
 having done something ungentlemanly, he said : 
 " It is not true ; else he would have mentioned 
 the fact in his ' Memoires.' " All this, however, is 
 far from disproving his worship of his father. I 
 well remember seeing tears gather to his eyes, 
 when my glance, full of admiration, rested on the 
 portrait of Dumas p5re. " Ah ! " he exclaimed, 
 " you would have but little love for me, had you 
 known my father, so much am I in every way 
 his inferior." 
 
 His friendship, whenever he bestows it upon 
 any one, is not less genuine than his filial love. 
 Marchal and Dr. Favre were his bosom friends. 
 The latter is Dumas's living technical dictionary 
 in regard to physiological and psychological ques- 
 tions. It was he who first initiated the young 
 writer into the mysteries of pathological influ- 
 ences in the development of character, a subject 
 which no other novelist, except Zola, has dared to 
 handle boldly. Marchal used to be his opponent 
 in the daily game of billiards, of which Dumas is 
 fond. The stakes were generally a picture against 
 the price thereof. Dumas lost more frequently 
 
168 FKENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 than he won ; but he was wont to say : "I am 
 always the gainer, especially when I lose." And 
 he spoke truly, for Marchal always used his best 
 efforts to cancel his indebtedness. This artist's 
 suicide was attributed to financial reverses. On 
 the day of his death Dumas exclaimed : " Poor 
 Marchal ! it is not true that poverty killed him. 
 He knew full well that I should have been de- 
 lighted to lose a game of billiards every day." 
 
 Marie Duplessis, or Alphonsine Plessis, as she 
 was really named, the original of the heroine of the 
 " Dame aux Camillas," died of consumption in 1847 
 at the age of twenty -three years. If at the Mont- 
 martre Cemetery you ask to be shown the grave of 
 the Dame aux Camelias, the guide will take you 
 to a small, square tombstone bearing the inscrip- 
 tion "Alphonsine Plessis." A wreath of artificial 
 white camelias, cased in glass, is hung upon the 
 tomb. For years after her death it was the 
 fashion for Parisian women of all classes to bring 
 camelias to her grave. In time, however, the 
 grave was decked with but few of the flowers 
 loved so well by the sleeper below. One single 
 person has never ceased to pay his tribute to her 
 memory, and this person is Alexandre Dumas. 
 
 The dramatization of the novel in which Ma- 
 demoiselle Plessis was immortalized has a history of 
 its own. Written in 1849, it was not represented 
 until February 2, 1852, though accepted in suc- 
 cession by various theatres. The censor's office 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 169 
 
 of the French Republic prohibited its perform- 
 ance, although Jules Janin, Leon Gozlan, and 
 Emile Augier solemnly vouched for the morality 
 of the piece. It was not until the Dukes of Mor- 
 ny and Persigny came into power that the pro- 
 hibition was removed. Everywhere enthusiasti- 
 cally received, it was not until 1872, twenty years 
 after its first performance, that it was admitted 
 to the repertory of the Theatre Fran9ais. It was 
 Madame Doche who created the role of Marguerite, 
 and Dumas thinks that her rendering has never 
 been and never will be surpassed. " She was not 
 an interpreter," says he, "but a collaborator." 
 
 Dumas has a peculiar mode of writing his plays. 
 While pondering over a subject, he will not be seen; 
 but, having once determined upon the subject, not 
 only IS his door open to almost every one, but he 
 himself actually seeks society. This process saves 
 him immense expenditure of energy. " It is rare- 
 ly," says he, " that I do not find some one playing 
 my drama. It is by picking up impressions here 
 and there that my work is done. The atoms yield 
 to the law of combination, group around each 
 other, and gradually a definite body is produced." 
 He never writes the skeleton of a play. His 
 dramas are turned fully wrought from his brain. 
 Before writing the words " Act I., Scene I.," the 
 action is wholly developed in his mind. He then 
 takes exactly ninety-seven leaves of his favorite 
 blue paper, twenty of which he invariably devotes 
 
170 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 to each of the first four acts, and seventeen to the 
 last, cutting down and condensing his work dur- 
 ing its progress and at its close so as to keep the 
 play within the assigned limits. 
 
 After the success achieved by the "Dani- 
 eheffs," Dumas amused himself in misleading 
 public opinion as to its paternity. The notion 
 prevailed that the piece had been written by him 
 in collaboration with a Russian, Pierre Newski 
 by name. For a long while afterward, Dumas's 
 house was constantly besieged by a host of au- 
 thors, who came each for the purpose of pro- 
 posing to him a similar conjunction. All the 
 men of Paris, it seemed, had turned litterateurs. 
 There were Russian, Turkish, Egyptian, and 
 Indian plays without number. Dumas was obliged 
 to shut the door upon every stranger. But certain 
 obstinate people were not so easily to be put off, and 
 resorted to every manner of expedient that might 
 secure them an interview with the playwright. I 
 fancy, at this moment, I see a litterateur disguised 
 as a chimney cleaner peep forth from his fireplace 
 and present Monsieur Dumas with a manuscript 
 — which actually happened. 
 
 As it is easily perceived in his " Prefaces," 
 Dumas is perhaps a greater philosopher than dra- 
 matist. His merciless logic strikes at the object 
 in view with the bluntness of a cannon ball. In 
 the mind of this dramatic author there are many 
 of the elements of a Descartes and a Blaise Pas- 
 
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS. 171 
 
 cal. " Monsieur Dumas," a critic says, " would be 
 grievously hurt if he suspected that he were re- 
 garded as a homme de tMdtre alone, and not as 
 a professor of philosophy also. The consequence 
 is that his pieces are, most of them, sermons in 
 action. It is, therefore, not surprising to find that 
 Dumas thinks no social problem beneath his no- 
 tice. That he would have something to say on 
 the question of divorce now agitating France was 
 a foregone conclusion. He has said it, and it has 
 taken him some four hundred large octavo pages 
 to say it in." 
 
 At the beginning of this sketch I have men- 
 tioned a small library adjoining the novelist's 
 working-room. That library is his daughter's 
 study. Visitors may have frequently noticed the 
 charming face of a little blonde peeping through 
 the half -open door and inquisitively gazing at 
 them. That little blonde is Jeannine, the junior 
 of the two girls, now about eleven years of age, 
 and still called Beb6 by her family, of which 
 she is the pet. As regards wit, she is the worthy 
 rival of Victor Hugo's little niece. 
 
 A lady visitor recently asked Colette what kind 
 of a husband she would like to have. Colette, 
 who regarded the question as impertinent, saucily 
 replied : " I shall marry an idiot ; and the trouble 
 is that, some day or other, I may meet a greater 
 idiot than my husband, and then regret that I 
 have been too hasty in my choice." 
 
172 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, sister," rejoined Beb6, 
 " you will never meet a greater imbecile than the 
 man wbo will marry you." 
 
 Colette is now fifteen years of age. She has 
 the golden hair and the blue eyes of a Psyche. 
 She is an angel of goodness, with a good deal 
 of Parisian coquetry about her. Well could her 
 father introduce her into society, uttering the 
 same words as Dumas pere when the latter pre- 
 sented his son to his friends. 
 
 iJMILE A UGIER. 
 
 The lives of great artists and distinguished 
 writers offer to the curiosity of the public that 
 most enticing literary pabulum, namely, anecdotes 
 in which personality imparts a fresh and attractive 
 feature to the plainest facts. There are always 
 certain eminent men, however, who escape the 
 inquisitiveness of their contemporaries. To this 
 class ]fimile Augier seems to belong. In France 
 he is considered the finest dramatist of our age. 
 Dumas, Feuillet, and Sardou may be severally his 
 superiors in some special quality ; but, all things 
 considered, it must be conceded that he is the 
 most complete and perfect of the three. Euro- 
 peans generally are acquainted with his works, of 
 which they are wont to speak most enthusiasti- 
 
^MILE AUGIER. 173 
 
 cally. In the streets of Paris neariy anybody can 
 point him out, as the Veronese mothers were wont 
 to point out to their children the great Florentine 
 exile, who, as they said, " was master of hell and 
 paradise." Augier is known, by sight at least, to 
 every one ; but rarely can you find one who is able 
 to throw any light upon his private life. Were 
 he the denizen of another world, he could hardly 
 in this regard be less known. 
 
 I had witnessed with ever-increasing admira- 
 tion some twenty representations of " Le Fils de 
 Giboyer." I became anxious, naturally, to gain 
 some information respecting the author's life. All 
 that I could presently learn was that he was a 
 family man, and lived at Croissy. My curiosity 
 was increased by the difficulties I encountered in 
 my endeavors to satisfy it. I finally met him at 
 one of Victor Hugo's informal receptions, where 
 one may see the cream of the political, literary, 
 and art life of France. The poet-host himself cut 
 short my inquiries concerning Augier with the la- 
 conic remark, " He is a patriarch." 
 
 Though finely molded, the head of £mile Au- 
 gier is that of a witty, good-natured bourgeois. 
 He was born in 1820, but looks as though he were 
 not yet fifty. His hair, and his full curly beard, at 
 which his left hand is ever tugging, were, when I 
 last saw him, still black. His forehead is broad 
 and intellectual. His whole countenance bespeaks 
 physical as well as moral strength. The dominat- 
 
174 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ing feature is the nose, which is of the most pro- 
 nounced Roman type, and which apparently less- 
 ens the size of its neighbors, a pair of small 
 piercing black eyes shining with Rabelaisian hu- 
 mor. Far from betraying the favored child of 
 fame, his manners are still those of the clerk of 
 Monsieur Mason, the celebrated lawyer, in whose 
 office he passed his early youth, before his poetic 
 and dramatic talent had pointed out to him where 
 his destiny lay. 
 
 On his mother's side, Augier is the grandson 
 of Pigault Lebrun. He studied at the College of 
 Henri IV. Here he became the intimate friend 
 of the Due d'Aumale, to whom he afterward acted 
 as librarian, never concealing the while his strong 
 liberal sympathies. Few young men have ever 
 left college with a more useful stock of learning 
 than did Augier. He began the study of law at 
 the University of Paris ; but his tastes tended to 
 the lyre rather than the bench, and his family of- 
 fering no hindrance, he embraced a literary career. 
 At the age of twenty-thi^ee he was already favor- 
 ably known as a poet. When Ponsard's "Lu- 
 crece" was produced, Augier was twenty-four 
 years old. Its success seems greatly to have 
 stimulated the talent of the young man. Pon- 
 sard was at the time the leader of that school 
 which aimed at the revival of classic tragedy, and 
 fancied itself all-powerful to crush the new-born 
 romanticism. Augier in a short time brought 
 
fiMILE AUGIER. 175 
 
 forth "La Cigue." The coterie, of which Ponsard 
 was the ruling spirit, perceiving in the play the 
 tokens of a superior talent not inspired by Victor 
 Hugo, courted the young author, received him 
 with open arms, and in a short time he became 
 Ponsard's intimate friend. " La Cigue " was first 
 read by the Society of the Theatre Fran9ais, and 
 unanimously rejected. Produced subsequently at 
 the Odeon, its success was so complete as to elicit 
 an unprecedented apology from the theatre which 
 had at first refused it. The Society of the Thea- 
 tre Frangais so earnestly besought Augier to with- 
 draw the piece from the Odeon, and place it in 
 their own hands, that the young dramatist was 
 finally constrained to yield to their desire. It is 
 but fair to add that the intrigues of the Classicists 
 were not foreign to the contrition which marked 
 the behavior of the Society of the Theatre Fran- 
 9ais. 
 
 " La Cigue," however, only partially fulfilled 
 the hopes of the Classicists. It is true that the 
 poet, by laying the scene in the house of a young 
 Greek libertine, in the time of Pericles, seemed to 
 have taken sides against the Romanticists. But 
 it was not difficult to discover that, under its clas- 
 sic form, the piece was pervaded by a strong spir- 
 it of independence and progress. The Romantic 
 school readily perceived that all the grace, piquan- 
 cy, and imagery of the play were in every sense 
 original and unconventional, and accordingly took 
 12 
 
176 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 good care not to treat as an enemy the admirer of 
 Ponsard. They divined from this first dramatic 
 essay that Augier would never become a mere 
 pedant, although the Academy might use all its 
 available means to emasculate his fresh and vigor- 
 ous talents ; and, in consequence, Theophile Gau- 
 tier celebrated his triumph with as much loyalty 
 and ability as if Augier had been a duly proved 
 member of his own phalanstery. 
 
 The object of this sketch not being to criticise, 
 I shall not attempt exhaustively to analyze the 
 works of Augier. For my purpose it will suffice 
 to say that he is a humanitarian, whose constant 
 aim is the improvement of his fellow creatures. 
 There is not in his plays a single idea which is 
 not highly moral. He is a psychologist of the 
 first order. Though he has touched upon all the 
 important problems with which our time is occu- 
 pied, he deals more especially with those which 
 affect the organization of the family and the life 
 of the middle classes. The society which he most 
 frequently analyzes is a peculiar world, which is 
 not bourgeois nor yet the old noblesse. It is the 
 frontier upon which these castes meet ; the salons 
 where bankers and counts, journalists and barons, 
 intermingle or join battle ; the true stage where 
 the combat between honor and gold is uncompro- 
 misingly portrayed. Indeed, we know not how a 
 more salient feature of the age could have been 
 hit upon by any dramatist. This world with 
 
iSmile AUGIER. 177 
 
 which he concerns himself is not so narrow as 
 might at first sight be imagined. The same 
 struggle is waging in every sphere of life, and 
 the contest has never been so earnest as in these 
 times when all grades of society are gravitating 
 toward a common point. And the varied phases 
 of this mighty problem he faces with an iron 
 resolve to hide nothing. With a pitiless eye he 
 has scanned every scandal that had money for its 
 cause or its object. He has looked about him, 
 and, seeing that extraordinary beings are but ex- 
 ceptions, he has dissected the heart of the average 
 man, laid bare whatever of good or bad it con- 
 tains, and brought into bold relief all the chaste 
 poetry that hovers around the family fireside. 
 His training in the midst of a virtuous family has 
 made him an apostle of the family virtues. His 
 ideal man is the honest paterfamilias. In a fa- 
 mous line he celebrates the apotheosis of the 
 father : 
 
 "Oh! Pere de famille; oh poetel je t'aime." 
 
 One of the most remarkable incidents in the 
 life of Augier is his duel with Charles Monselet, 
 which grew out of certain strictures uttered by 
 the latter upon " Philiberte." Monselet, it is well 
 known, seldom crosses the threshold of a theatre. 
 Yet his dramatic criticisms have in Paris great 
 weight. To the just reproaches which his method 
 justifies, he, like Lireux, coolly replies : " I never 
 
178 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 go to see a play, you know, lest it should influence 
 my judgment." After a first representation, Mon- 
 selet examines with scrupulous attention all that 
 has been said by other critics. He compares the 
 favorable with the unfavorable, the black with the 
 white, and by dint of shrewd eclecticism he often 
 attains that impartiality after which his fellows 
 strive in vain. His criticism upon '* Philiberte " 
 happened to be very trenchant. Augier deter- 
 mined to prevent his humbugging the public, and 
 replied in language every whit as cutting as that 
 used by his critic, and insisted uj)on his confessing 
 that he had never seen the play in question. Mon- 
 selet refused absolutely, and a challenge quick- 
 ly followed. Pistols were the weapons chosen. 
 Augier is a splendid shot, and Monselet's priestly 
 embonpoint offered a very large target to his an- 
 tagonist. When the principals had arrived at the 
 spot selected for the encounter, Augier's anger 
 was considerably abated. His generous instincts 
 overcame his thirst for revenge, and he purposely 
 missed hitting his man. As for Monselet, it would 
 have been only by a prodigy of chance that he 
 could have done otherwise. The end of the 
 affair was that the malcontents separated ami- 
 cably, which relation they have ever since main- 
 tained. 
 
 Before he was thirty years old, Augier had by 
 a few plays attained the height of celebrity. His 
 verdicts in literary matters were everywhere re- 
 
fiMILE AUGIER. 179 
 
 ceived with the humblest deference. When, in 
 1849, the Government by every means opposed the 
 representation of Dumas's " La Dame aux Came- 
 lias," on account of its "immorality," Augier 
 took sides with Dumas, and used all his influence 
 to have the prohibition revoked. But, faithful to 
 his respect and love for the family, he deemed it 
 incumbent on him to counteract the unwholesome 
 effects the play might produce, by showing that, 
 though interesting as an isolated fact, the case of 
 Marguerite Gautier would by generalization be- 
 come paradoxical. Admitting the possibility of 
 exceptions with which every honest heart ought 
 to sympathize, he demonstrated by his "Mariage 
 d'Olympe " that to idealize a courtesan is folly ; 
 that, in general, she will remain such, no matter 
 how wholesome her surroundings after marriage. 
 This play may be considered as the continuation 
 of "La Dame aux Camelias," regarding that hete- 
 rogeneous being from the standpoint of the con- 
 sequences which her presence would ordinarily pro- 
 duce in the family. When Augier read his play 
 before the Society of the Comedie Fran9aise, he 
 was requested to change the catastrophe, which 
 represents the husband in the act of shooting his 
 wife, who, failing to reform, had rendered family 
 life unbearable. Such an issue was as inexorable 
 as the Divine vengeance ; it grew out of the fun- 
 damental idea upon which the play was grounded. 
 Augier refused to make the alteration. "That 
 
180 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 woman is seized with hydrophobia," he exclaimed; 
 " I can not see why she should be dealt with other- 
 wise than a dog affected by the same disease." 
 The public at first confirmed the judgment of the 
 Society ; but, when the play was revived, the spell 
 cast by " La Dame aux Camelias " having then 
 died away, Augier's production was as warmly 
 applauded as the famous piece to which it was a 
 rejoinder. Augier never panders to the public 
 taste. Earnestly believing in the sanctity of his 
 mission, he would not for a world depart from that 
 which he deems right and consistent. When he 
 writes a play, he is wholly oblivious to the tastes 
 and caprices of the public. He has an idea ; he 
 molds it entirely after his own fashion. His in- 
 timate friends warned him of certain objections 
 which would be raised against " Gabrielle." "I 
 am aware of all that," he replied, " but I will not 
 compromise with my audience. Such as I am, 
 they must take me, or not take me at all." He 
 has generally triumphed, and has frequently led 
 the public to applaud plays which in the begin- 
 ning had been dealt with as cheap works. " Ga- 
 brielle," coolly received at first, was afterward 
 reckoned one of the best pieces of the French 
 theatre. 
 
 £mile Augier has written some thirty dramas. 
 A third of these are written in blank verse, and 
 form the most natural and yet the most exquisite 
 dramatic poetry that French literature possesses. 
 
EMILE AUGIER. 181 
 
 Not a few of his plays are so thoroughly French 
 that, in a foreign dress, they lose much of their 
 original interest. "Le Gendre de Monsieur de 
 Poirier," "Les Effrontes," "Lions et Renards," 
 " La Pierre de Touche," " Les Lionnes Pauvres," 
 and " Le Fils de Giboyer," are each wonderful 
 conceptions. Dumas does not hesitate to say that 
 the last is the finest play on the French stage. 
 Giboyer, the hero's father, coins his heart to nur- 
 ture his son. Besides being an idealization of pa- 
 ternal and filial love, the play mercilessly satirizes 
 the intrigues and makeshifts of the Clericals and 
 Legitimists in France. Its first representation 
 occurred under the Second Empire, and provoked 
 such a storm of disapprobation in aristocratic cir- 
 cles that the piece was prohibited. The Repub- 
 lican principles, sanctioned by the Revolution as 
 the true base of society, were never more bril- 
 liantly and forcibly enunciated than in " Le Fils 
 de Giboyer." To this effort he mainly owed his 
 election to the French Academy in 1858, to fill 
 the seat from which death had removed M. de Sal- 
 vandy. 
 
 Augier is a hard and conscientious worker. 
 Almost all his plays were written over three or 
 four times. His motto is " perfection," and he ia 
 never wholly satisfied with his performances. He 
 has a numerous family, and, for the most part, 
 lives like a patriarch among his children and 
 grandchildren in his country-house at Croissy, 
 
182 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 near Paris. His habits and tastes are simple : 
 beyond writing, his greatest passion would seem 
 to be gardening. He is a thorough botanist and 
 agriculturist, and an inspection in his company of 
 his fruit, flower, and vegetable gardens proves 
 one of the greatest pleasures he can offer to his 
 friends. I once surprised him planting cabbage, 
 his head covered with a large straw hat, his shoul- 
 ders with the gray blouse of a French laborer, 
 and his feet incased in sabots, after the manner of 
 a Breton peasant. I could not forbear halting to 
 contemplate him, and to speculate upon the vaga- 
 ries of human character. To write a play like 
 " Le Fils de Giboyer " and to plant turnips and 
 cabbages are widely different occupations. 
 
 When in Paris, Augier is literally besieged 
 with callers who represent the most distinguished 
 circles of literary and scientific people in the city. 
 He generally puts up at a modest hotel in the Rue 
 St. Honor6, near the old house of Moli^re. He at- 
 tends and enjoys festivals and receptions in great 
 numbers, the " Bals Masques de FOpera " includ- 
 ed. It was while present at one of these that he 
 defined masked balls to be " charitable institu- 
 tions for homely women." 
 
 At Croissy he may frequently be seen sitting 
 before the door of his house, thinking, and smok- 
 ing a pipe, the stem of which is long and singular- 
 ly twisted. Jules Sandeau, the early collabora- 
 teur of George Sand, has one like it, and both 
 
fiMILE AUGIEll. 183 
 
 these smoking implements are called by their 
 owners " les pipes de la collaboration," from their 
 being chiefly used when the two playwrights work 
 together upon some drama. It occasionally hap- 
 pens that either puffs his smoke into the other's 
 eyes, when it is amusing to hear them quarrel and 
 accuse each other of malign intent. 
 
 Augier has a very sympathetic heart. No one 
 is kinder toward young or unknown authors, or 
 more charitable toward struggling litterateurs. 
 He never refuses to read a manuscript, and, if the 
 production be at all worth publication, he recom- 
 mends it to the publishers as warmly as he can 
 conscientiously. He once had an experience very 
 like an incident in the editorial career of Murat 
 Halstead. A young poet wished to have a poem 
 published in Mr. Halstead's paper. As the poem 
 was a piece of sickening sentimentalism, the edi- 
 tor declined it. The poet remonstrated as though 
 the refusal were little less that an insult. "Very 
 well," said Halstead, " since you insist, I will pub- 
 lish it ; but in ten years from now you will regret 
 that I ever aided you to make a fool of yourself." 
 The young man was sensible enough to withdraw 
 his verses, and a few years afterward he thanked 
 Halstead for teaching him that poetry and senti- 
 mentalism are quite different things. 
 
 On another occasion, Augier became accident- 
 ally aware of the fact that a talented young au- 
 thor who had brought a manuscript for him to 
 
184 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 read was in distress. Augier not only kindly 
 took it upon himself to find a publisher for him, 
 but also inserted three bank-notes of one hundred 
 francs each between the leaves of the manuscript, 
 which he returned, saying that he had taken the 
 liberty to make some corrections on such and such 
 pages. The corrections proved to be the bank- 
 notes. The young author has since attained a 
 high reputation, and enjoys a yearly income of 
 many thousands ; but, whether he has paid his 
 debt or not, we should dislike to state. 
 
 Augier's generosity was lately proved by his 
 behavior toward his old schoolmate Deslandes, the 
 manager of the " Theatre de la Renaissance." Au- 
 gier had sent one of his last plays, " Madame Ca- 
 verlet," to the Theatre Fran9ais. The Society was 
 perplexed to know what to do, as they had pre- 
 viously engaged themselves to play Dumas's 
 " L'^fitrangere " and other dramas, and disliked to 
 tell the author of " Gabrielle " that he must wait. 
 Augier saw their dilemma, and, out of respect to 
 his fellow playwrights, as well as to the Society, 
 withdrew the piece under the plea of its needing 
 some alteration. On his leaving the theatre with 
 his manuscript under his arm, Augier met Des- 
 landes, and the conversation fell upon the con- 
 dition of the Renaissance Theatre. Deslandes 
 sorrowfully hinted at the poor business he had 
 recently done, and at his financial embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
ifiMILE AUGIER. 185 
 
 " Suppose I were to give you a play of mine," 
 said Augier, " do you think it would help you out 
 of your difficulties ? " 
 
 " Help me out ! It would make my fortune ! " 
 cried the manager. 
 
 " Then take it," replied the dramatist, hand- 
 ing to him the manuscript of " Madame Caverlet " 
 — " take it ; I make you a present of it." 
 
 When Augier's name was seen in the an- 
 nouncements of a third-rate theatre, some of his 
 fellow academicians complained that it lowered 
 their dignity. " Let them grumble," said Augier 
 to his informant ; " Deslandes is making plenty 
 of money, and that is to me of more importance 
 than the approval or disapproval of a few bigoted 
 people." 
 
 Full of respect and love for his art, more con- 
 scientious, perhaps, than his brother dramatists, 
 he has spent thirty-five years in building up a 
 dramatic edifice, at once the healthiest and the 
 most graceful that France may boast. He has 
 placed his ideal very high. He perhaps lacks the 
 superior originality of those artists and thinkers 
 who invent new forms in the domain of art. He 
 is not the high priest who at one blow of his wand 
 can lay bare the springs of new life and light, not 
 one of those resolute souls who put a whole gen- 
 eration in commotion, and turn upon themselves 
 the hatred and enthusiasm which are characteris- 
 tic of the struggle between the fanaticism of the 
 
186 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 past and that of the future. He has made his 
 way slowly and quietly, keeping his mind always 
 open to the nobler passions, following the tradi- 
 tions of the old masters, and avoiding the excesses 
 of revolution as well as the slavery of accepted 
 dogmas. I am aware that to the majority Dumas 
 and Sardou are more attractive, both on account 
 of their merits and their faults. Our generation 
 is inclined toward excesses. The melodrama and 
 burlesque suit our hlase senses better than the 
 more truthful stage. The bitterness, the deep 
 restlessness, the contradictions of thought and 
 feeling, the misanthropic outbursts against social 
 injustice, and the mystical effusions which charac- 
 terize the works of Dumas, move us more deeply 
 than the calm development of Augier's dramas. 
 The feverish movement, the sparkling wit, the 
 unforeseen resources in the action, the violence 
 and the refinement of passion peculiar to our age, 
 so delicate yet so rough, so heroic yet so timid, 
 which are painted in such a masterly manner by 
 Sardou, are not to be met with in Augier's pro- 
 ductions. The latter, although thoroughly a man 
 of the nineteenth century, has many traits in com- 
 mon with the writers of classic times. His simple 
 and manly style moves calmly on, always grace- 
 ful and correct. His knowledge of dramatic com- 
 position, the logic and precision of his concep- 
 tions, the care which he bestows upon the analy- 
 sis of character, his high morals, his disdain for 
 
OCTAVE FEUILLET. 187 
 
 clap-trap and sensational effects, may not awake 
 the enthusiasm of the multitude, but will always 
 command the admiration of taste and intellect. 
 
 OCTAVE FEUILLET. 
 
 I WAS a little over twenty years of age, but 
 that epoch, rose-tinged for most men, had for me 
 assumed the aspect of funereal woe. I had re- 
 cently buried my dearest friend. I was aimlessly 
 wandering through France and Switzerland in 
 search of the sun and the cheerfulness that had 
 hitherto brightened my youth. Low-spirited, 
 broken-hearted, I had arrived at the village of 
 Divonne, on the extreme frontier between the 
 two countries. With my dear friend I had there 
 passed a few days, the memory of which was 
 fresh in my mind. With her I had climbed the 
 mountain to its summit, and, from Nion, I had 
 contemplated the Lake of Geneva, a sight never 
 to be forgotten. With her I had visited the fa- 
 mous chateau of Prangins, the summer residence 
 of Prince Jerome Bonaparte, and that of Liers, 
 whose charms are indicated by saying that it be- 
 longs to the Rothschild family. Divonne is a 
 watering-place, celebrated for its ice-cold springs 
 which come from the mountain, and for its shower- 
 bath establishments, which are well attended by 
 
188 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 quiet, fashionable, and aristocratic people. The 
 scenery is most picturesque, and the air balsamic. 
 However weak or suffering one who visits Di- 
 vonne may be, he is sure to leave it with vigorous 
 health and strength and renewed good spirits. 
 
 There is a bitter pleasure in revisiting the 
 spots where we have been happy. Obeying the 
 mysterious impulse which prompts sorrow to seek 
 seclusion, I had determined to remain a few days 
 at Divonne and visit alone the places which I had 
 previously visited with my friend. As they are 
 wont to do, many people were walking rapidly up 
 and down in front of the hotel, in order to hasten 
 a reaction after the bath that had almost frozen 
 them. Seated beneath a huge poplar I noticed a 
 gentleman in the prime of manhood, who was be- 
 ing made the object of marked courtesy and def- 
 erential consideration by three of the most aristo- 
 cratic ladies of Paris — Madame de Pourtales, the 
 Princess de Sagan, and the Duchess de Ludre. 
 Place in a group of women a man who has writ- 
 ten about them, and he may be recognized by their 
 manner toward him. I immediately suspected 
 that the man before me was an author ; perhaps 
 a poet, who had in some way or other celebrated 
 the charms or pictured the frailties of women. 
 My curiosity was heightened by his noble bearing, 
 the simplicity and elegance of his attire, the regu- 
 larity of his features, and the beauty of his eyes. 
 His raven black beard was trimmed after the 
 
OCTAVE FEUILLET. 189 
 
 fashion of Henri IV. ; his long, curly hair fell 
 beneath a narrow-brimmed hat, such as the Span- 
 ish toreros wear. He was attired in a brown-and- 
 gray walking suit ; but his demeanor was that of 
 a man in evening dress, not in the country, under 
 a poplar-tree, but in an aristocratic salon. 
 
 At the moment I was standing on the balcony 
 of the hotel with a young and sympathetic Alsa- 
 tian, who had been my neighbor at breakfast. 
 Similarity of age had at onc^ rendered us almost 
 friends. Observing that my attention was drawn 
 toward the gentleman surrounded by the three 
 ladies, he asked : 
 
 "Would you like to be introduced to my 
 uncle?" 
 
 " Your uncle ? Who is he ? " 
 
 " Why, the gentleman you are looking at, and 
 who seems to puzzle you so — my uncle. Octave 
 Feuillet." 
 
 I was almost startled by the announcement. 
 It was a singular coincidence, for, before leaving 
 for Divonne, I had bought at Geneva Feuillet's 
 " Julie de TreccBur," to re-read it during the trip. 
 
 I naturally hastened to profit by my compan- 
 ion's proposition. Who would not be delighted to 
 make the acquaintance of the author of " Sabine " 
 and the " Romance of a Poor Young Man " ? 
 Feuillet, after a courteous salutation, separated 
 from the ladies, and, taking my arm, thus ad- 
 dressed me : " I well remember having seen you 
 
190 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 here two years ago with the prettiest gazelle that 
 ever climbed these mountains. Do you know, she 
 came near suggesting to me the subject for a 
 novel ? What has become of her ? " 
 
 " She is dead ! " 
 
 A long pause ensued. He appeared saddened 
 as though with some personal grief, and for some 
 time he seemed to have nothing to say. Finally, 
 he spoke of art and Italy in the charming way 
 peculiar to a Frenchman and a poet ; but his 
 thoughts evidently were only partially given to 
 the subject of our conversation. They were fol- 
 lowing my own, through which still echoed the 
 fatal word " Dead ! " I noticed that he repeated- 
 ly knit his brows, as if to overcome some emotion. 
 He grew restless and impatient, and abruptly held 
 his hand out to me as if about to take leave of 
 me. " Courage ! " said he, shaking my hand. 
 
 " I should easily have courage, could I per- 
 suade myself that I shall see her again." 
 
 " Do you not believe in the immortality of the 
 soul ? " he asked, halting, as if with the view of 
 destroying in me any skeptical tendency. 
 
 I dared not reply, save by a shrug of the 
 shoulders. 
 
 "I shall not give you a lecture on philoso- 
 phy, " he continued ; " but can you not see how 
 absurd your materialistic doctrine is ? Material- 
 ism can not stand save that the eternity of matter 
 be placed as its foothold. Suppose that thought 
 
OCTAVE FEUILLET. 191 
 
 and feeling are but the offspring of matter, that 
 they are produced by friction, like light from a 
 match, you must concede that the thinking mat- 
 ter is undoubtedly of a more refined quality 
 than any other. Call it soul or what you will, 
 that privileged something in our being which is 
 gifted with these wonderful faculties can not logi- 
 cally meet with a fate worse than inferior mat- 
 ter." 
 
 " A burned match remains. Monsieur Feuillet," 
 I replied, " but the light is gone for ever." 
 
 " No — not for ever. To our eyes it is lost ; but 
 it lives in the air, modified, transformed, becom- 
 ing a part of the infinite, and divided among a 
 million of beings of the most varied nature." 
 
 " Then I am right. I shall not survive as an 
 individual being, and can not again see my friend's 
 spirit in all its integrity." 
 
 " I see you are a better logician than philoso- 
 pher. I am tired now," he said, passing his hand 
 over his forehead. " Come and see me soon, and 
 we will resume the discussion. I shall be happy 
 if I can instill into your heart some of my faith 
 in eternity. You can not imagine how many 
 griefs are soothed by the idea that points to the 
 dawning of a beautiful day after a dark night — 
 ay, as the very consequence of it ; which prom- 
 ises happiness as the offspring of griefs, and turns 
 sorrow into hope. Oh, do try to believe in an 
 after life ! " 
 
 13 
 
192 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 During the foregoing conversation his atten- 
 tion seemed to be divided, and every now and then 
 he would knit his brows, as though he woidd es- 
 cape some unpleasant thought. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of my uncle ? " asked 
 my companion, whom I immediately rejoined. 
 
 "What shall I say — that he is as good and 
 kind-hearted as he is great ? that he tried to make 
 himself small, so that I might not feel my own in- 
 feriority? There is, at times, something in his 
 expression that it has almost pained me to see. 
 His frown is like that of a sufferer." 
 
 His nephew then told me that Feuillet was fa- 
 tigued by unremitting work ; that he was ever in 
 communion with the personages of his dramas and 
 novels, and that this constant strain on his faculties 
 was the cause of the peculiarity which I had noted. 
 His physician has forbidden him to think for a long 
 time on the same subject ; hence the jerks and 
 sudden interruptions in his conversation. His 
 health is far from being as strong as his frame 
 would indicate. As Dumas is yearly obliged to 
 repair to La Bourboule, to restore his overworked 
 constitution by arsenical treatment, so Feuillet is 
 compelled to pass the summers in great part at 
 Divonne, to improve his health by shower-baths of 
 the wholesome ferruginous water of that locality. 
 Every morning he takes a long walk up the moun- 
 tain side to a spot where he can contemplate for 
 hours the beautiful scenery about him, which he 
 
OCTAVE FEUILLET. 193 
 
 delights to people with the creatures of his imag- 
 ination. It was while sitting on the ridge of a 
 dreadfully beautiful precipice that he conceived 
 the idea of writing his " Julie de Trecoeur," which, 
 in dramatic form, has made the tour of all the prin- 
 cipal cities of Europe and America under the name 
 of the " Sphynx." A trifling circumstance some- 
 times suggests to Feuillet, as it might to any great 
 man, the theme for a work which challenges ob- 
 livion. In imagination he saw a woman on horse- 
 back plunge into a ravine — a woman worthy of 
 the landscape — and the events of his romance 
 naturally grouped around this act. 
 
 This precipice has remained a favorite resort 
 of the author. One morning I found him there, 
 and, after telling me of the origin of " Julie de 
 Trecoeur," as above described, he reverted to my 
 late friend. "I saw you here once before," said 
 he ; "I was seated on that rock below. I saw that 
 haughty beauty — she could not have been more 
 than eighteen — proudly refusing your aid when 
 climbing from rock to rock, robust as a cedar of 
 the mountain, fresh and graceful as a lily of the 
 valley. I saw her on reaching the summit stretch 
 out her arms as though she had been irresistibly 
 attracted toward the ravine, while her long light 
 hair floated over her shoulders at the mercy of 
 the wind. I felt that my critics were wrong, and 
 that the sad end of my Julie was consistent with 
 human nature." 
 
194 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 I have not related these particulars to bring 
 into relief the personality of one who was dear to 
 me ; but because they seem to me to illustrate, in 
 some measure, a part of the character of the sub- 
 ject of this sketch. 
 
 During my stay at Divonne, I had the good 
 fortune to meet the great dramatist four or five 
 times at his own house. He lived in a pretty little 
 cottage with his nephew, who was also his secre- 
 tary, and his wife, who is his conjugal misery. 
 She is talented and good-natured enough, but has 
 never furnished her husband with a character for 
 one of his plays or romances. She is too homely 
 to satisfy the wants of a heart so enamored as 
 Feuillet's of ideal beauty. She seldom leaves him. 
 She impressed me with the idea of a parasite feed- 
 ing upon a goodly tree. At the Casino, Feuillet 
 was in his element — among the charming women 
 of the aristocracy who are, in their turn, always 
 eager to enjoy his conversation. He was the lion 
 at Divonne. Every lady was anxious to gather a 
 stray hon-mot or sentimental gem from his bril- 
 liant chats. !N'o person ever reminded me so for- 
 cibly of Tasso at the Court of Ferrara. 
 
 Octave Feuillet was born at St. Lo, in the De- 
 partment of La Manche, and, though he looks much 
 younger, he is now sixty-eight years of age. His 
 studies were pursued at the College Louis le Grand, 
 which he left with the title of " Laureate Perpetu- 
 el," the highest honor conferred by that institution. 
 
OCTAVE FEUILLET. 195 
 
 As he was the son of a Government official in good 
 circumstances, he could afford to return home after 
 his graduation and continue his studies, instead of 
 rashly undertaking to make a living by writing. 
 For several years he patiently studied, until he 
 felt sure that he possessed the key to all literatures, 
 ancient as well as modern, and the secret of the 
 style of every celebrated author. His classical at- 
 tainments are perhaps superior even to those of 
 Augier. The consequence of this severe training 
 was that his debut as a writer was a remarkable 
 triumph. Naturally modest and reserved, he con- 
 cealed himself, although in his thirty-third year, 
 under the cover of a nom-de-plume. His first 
 work was a novel, entitled " The Romance of a 
 Great Old Man," which appeared in the feuilletons 
 of " Le National." In the following year he was 
 engaged by Buloz as a permanent contributor to 
 the " Revue des Deux Mondes." All the French 
 newspapers sought the honor of publishing some- 
 thing from his pen — ^tales, sketches, anything he 
 would give them. The publishers of Paris disput- 
 ed for the privilege of giving his books to the 
 world. Translations of his productions quickly 
 appeared in all the languages of Europe. The 
 most authoritative critics of Germany and Italy 
 pronounced him a star of the first magnitude in 
 the literary firmament, whose light was constant- 
 ly increasing in brilliancy. His books are each a 
 masterpiece. Mirecourt, a man by no means prod- 
 
196 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 igal of praise, has gone so far as to say that Feuil- 
 let's works will be read with avidity by our latest 
 descendants, when the volumes of the Sues, the 
 Dumas, and the Sands will have long been forgot- 
 ten. This pure and true author, so full of delicate 
 feeling, he calls the counterpoise of all his contem- 
 poraries in the same field. He is indeed the only 
 writer of whom George Sand was ever jealous. 
 He had less trouble, perhaps, than any other author 
 in obtaining a seat in the French Academy ; the 
 honor was almost offered to him. " He was carried 
 thither," says one writer, " by the voice of public 
 admiration." His colleagues, in 1864, appointed 
 him Chancellor of the Academy, an office which 
 should be understood to compliment the recipient 
 rather than to impose duties upon him. 
 
 Feuillet lives a most intellectual life. He is 
 constantly employed upon the improvement of his 
 works, which rarely in his opinion come up to the 
 standard of his ideal. He makes no effort to at- 
 tract public attention, heartily detesting the idea 
 of advertising one's self. Being at one time more 
 than usually dissatisfied with a story which his 
 publishers pronounced simply admirable, he could 
 scarcely be induced to have it issued under his 
 name. He could never be persuaded to witness 
 the first performance of any of his plays. I have 
 been told that when "Montjoie" was acted, the 
 enthusiasm of the audience knowing no bounds, 
 the manager of the theatre sent for him, saying 
 
OCTAVE FEUILLET. 197 
 
 that tlie people would not quit the building with- 
 out seeing the author. Feuillet replied that should 
 they remain all night he would pay for the gas ; 
 but no entreaties could move him to accede to 
 their wishes, and next morning he left Paris. His 
 first dramatic effort was "Le Bourgeois de 
 Rome " ; but the comedians who were intrusted 
 with the acting were so far below the level of the 
 play that it met with little or no success. He ex- 
 perienced so much trouble with manager and ac- 
 tors that he became disgusted, and resolved never 
 again to become the dupe of theatrical sharks. He 
 published his second and third plays in the " Re- 
 vue des Deux Mondes." Hardly had his come- 
 dies " La Crise " and " Le Pour et le Contre " been 
 printed, when the Parisian theatres began to con- 
 tend for the honor of representing them. The 
 Gymnase won the preference (1854) at the au- 
 thor's own terms. The following year La Come- 
 die Fran9aise obtained from him " Peril en la De- 
 meure." Since then the author of the " Sphynx " 
 has had no other trouble than the embarrassment 
 which attends a selection from the various the- 
 atres of Paris for the purpose of having his drama 
 produced. There has been a time when the three 
 leading theatres of Paris temporarily presented 
 each a different play of Feuillet's. 
 
 During the Second Empire, Feuillet was ap- 
 pointed romancer to the Empress, a fact which 
 speaks volumes in his praise, as he never had 
 
198 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 made any concessions at variance with his avowed 
 liberalism. The late King George of Hanover 
 selected him as his reader, and the afflicted mon- 
 arch was wont to say that he was never so uncon- 
 scious of his blindness and troubles as when he 
 listened to the sympathetic voice of the distin- 
 guished Frenchman. The throneless King pre- 
 ferred Feuillet's reading to the acting at the 
 Com^die Fran9aise. 
 
 Feuillet lives; most of his time, at St. Lo and 
 in the country. He takes but short trips to Paris, 
 when he usually puts up at the modest " Hotel de 
 la Rue de Rivoli." He takes apartments on the 
 first floor, but hires also a room on the top story, 
 which he uses as a study. In the city more than 
 in the country, his imagination, in order to be 
 free, must have plenty of air and a broad view of 
 the sky. It was in such a lodging that he wrote 
 the " Romance of a Poor Young Man." How- 
 ever strange it may appear, the character which 
 in the writing of this play gave him most trouble 
 was that of the old sea-captain, who has not more 
 than twenty words to say. 
 
 An anecdote will perhaps most fittingly con- 
 clude this sketch. Octave Feuillet one day re- 
 ceived from an unknown woman a letter in the 
 following strain : " Sir, if you do not send me 
 fifty francs to-day, I shall kill myself." Feuillet 
 did not at the time happen to have the amount in 
 ready money. He called therefore upon an inti- 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 199 
 
 mate friend who lived near by, borrowed fifty- 
 francs, and immediately sent the sum to his 
 strange correspondent. As a curiosity, the letter 
 was afterward shown to his wife. 
 
 " You are a goose ! " said she to the novelist ; 
 " the woman is a fraud, and you should have sent 
 her nothing." 
 
 "I thought so, too," replied Feuillet, "but I 
 had rather be duped a hundred times than to re- 
 fuse ; for, you know, the story of her misery may 
 not have been a falsehood." 
 
 VICTORIEN SARDOU. 
 
 Few have been privileged to produce such ef- 
 fective works of dramatic art as Sardou. Critics 
 may say that he is not very original, that his 
 psychological studies are not deep, that his char- 
 acters are frequently vulgar and overdrawn. But 
 they must withal admit that he is gifted with a 
 genuine dramatic talent. No man can for twenty 
 years command the stage unless he possess real 
 merit. " Dora " and his last performance " Dan- 
 iel Rochat" are far from proving that he will 
 soon yield his place to other dramatists. His 
 career has been almost a continued success. His 
 plays have been translated into all languages and 
 everywhere enthusiastically received. Within a 
 
200 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 comparatively recent period the "Bourgeois de 
 Pont d'Arcy " was simultaneously represented at 
 St. Petersburg, Vienna, New York, and the prin- 
 cipal cities of France and Italy. With Americans 
 he is a greater favorite than any of his contem- 
 porary playwrights in France, not excepting Du- 
 mas, Augier, and Feuillet. 
 
 To what qualities does he owe his success ? 
 Chiefly, I think, to his knowledge of the public 
 wants, and the fine and supple intelligence with 
 which he responds to them ; to the tact, in other 
 words, with which he identifies himself with pop- 
 ular tastes. He full well knows that the public 
 do not wish to be shocked at ideas largely at va- 
 riance with their own ; and he, accordingly, does 
 not impose upon them any paradoxes of his mak- 
 ing. He is aware that the theatre is to be a play- 
 ful representation of human life ; that the specta- 
 tor enjoys illusion, provided he is not the dupe 
 thereof. The latter seeks emotion — does not even 
 object to shedding tears — ^but does not like whol- 
 ly to forget that all he beholds is actually un- 
 real. He will have, as it were, a free retreat to 
 realize that all is not tragedy in this world. Were 
 he questioned, he would say that he wishes to be 
 amused, moved, consoled, and to leave the theatre 
 without disagreeable reflections. Sardou happily 
 fulfills these requisitions, amusing sufficiently, 
 moving powerfully for a short time, and, by an 
 unexpected pleasant dinoiXment^ sending the spec- 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 201 
 
 tator away at the close in a genial frame of mind. 
 In a conversation which the writer once enjoyed 
 with him, Sardou fully accounted for his success. 
 " I am an eclectic in playwriting," said he. " I 
 have borrowed my resources from every style that 
 is consistent with our age. My method resembles 
 one of those chimeras, in creating which the old 
 poets amused themselves — those chimeras which 
 have the face of a woman, the wings of an eagle, 
 the body of a lion, and the tail of a serpent. I 
 take a good deal of comedy, a dramatic scene 
 after the manner of Dumas, a conclusion like 
 that of a sentimental vaudeville, and the trick is 
 done." 
 
 When young, Victorien Sardou in an astonish- 
 ing degree resembled Napoleon I. His hair, how- 
 ever, which falls upon his shoulder, now gives 
 him the appearance of an aristocratic clergyman. 
 His face is extremely mobile. His mouth sug- 
 gests infinite wit and humor. His eyes, fiery and 
 satirical, seem constantly to search the heart of 
 the beholder. For fear of cold draughts, he al- 
 ways wears a traditional coat of chestnut color, 
 the collar of which is always turned up, and which 
 is in its way quite as famous as the overcoat of 
 Mr. Greeley. He now lives at Marly, in an old 
 historic chateau, which he purchased out of the 
 profits accruing from " La Famille Benoiton," and 
 here he works, " sewing together " the scenes of 
 modern life which compose his dramas. I pur- 
 
202 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 posely say sewing together, because strict unity is 
 not a feature of Sardou's plays. He constructs 
 his plays, in fact, with the purpose of developing 
 a capital scene, before which the drama can not 
 be said to exist, and after which it must be re- 
 garded as over. The first two or three acts are 
 in fact nothing but a heap of incidents which hide 
 the principal action, and which may possibly lead 
 to its evolution, but which have no strict connec- 
 tion with it. He generally prefers the tortuous 
 path of the labyrinth, and seems to detest any 
 direct progression to a denollment 
 
 Sardou is wonderfully popular, knowing and 
 known by everybody. He is the Banquo's ghost 
 of antiquarians and bric-a-brac dealers. His ar- 
 chaeological learning is simply astonishing, and is 
 much feared, as he often enjoys himself among the 
 class of people mentioned by destroying their il- 
 lusions respecting alleged curios and antiquities 
 for which fancy prices have been paid. In 1873, 
 when he produced at the Theatre des Yarietes his 
 play "Les Merveilleuses," his knowledge of old 
 costumes and manners was most useful to him, 
 and never, indeed, was a drama produced with such 
 fidelity to history. For his " Patrie," if I remem- 
 ber aright, he pushed his fanaticism for historical 
 truth to the extreme of taking a trip to Siena, 
 Italy, where is laid the scene of the play. Had 
 he to write a nihilistic drama, he would in all 
 probability take a trip to Siberia. 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 203 
 
 One should see Sardou at work. This nervous 
 little man, who perpetually complains of having a 
 cold, from the moment he has determined upon a 
 subject is no longer master of himself. He not 
 only writes his plays, but performs them in his 
 room with an enthusiasm and precision worthy 
 the envy of many a great actor. At the rehearsals 
 his appearance is itself a comedy. It is generally 
 in winter that his plays are performed, as he de- 
 tests having them represented in summer. He 
 comes on the stage generally in an immense over- 
 coat, as a matter of course of chestnut color, cov- 
 ered to his eyes by a huge white muffler, and a 
 heavy traveling rug on his arm. He seats himself, 
 and envelops his limbs in the latter. One would 
 fancy him an invalid unable to stir from his chair, 
 to whom the flight of a fly is a matter of vexation. 
 But, so soon as the rehearsal begins, he forgets 
 his cold, throws off hissuperfluous clothing, and 
 springs to his feet with the agility of a clown. 
 When a performer does not suit him, he will shout, 
 " Not that way ! not that way ! " and, taking the 
 actor's place, will himself impersonate the role in a 
 manner truly astonishing. He frankly forewarns 
 the actors that he is going to be rough, that he will 
 tolerate no nonsense, and always keeps his word. 
 If, as is generally the case, the play reaches its 
 one hundredth night, he then begins to be ex- 
 tremely charming to all of them. After the per- 
 formance, he provides them with a stage supper 
 
204 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 such as the famous Brebant knows how to serve. 
 These banquets are the most enjoyable I have 
 ever witnessed. Sardou generally answers the 
 poetical congratulations addressed to him by an 
 improvised speech of the most humorous charac- 
 ter, which is to his play what the preface is to 
 that of Dumas. Were not his plays sufficient to 
 w^arrant his wit, the following anecdotes would 
 dispel all doubts : 
 
 He was once invited to dinner by a friend who 
 was a banker. At the appointed hour, Sardou 
 failed to appear. The company waited half an 
 hour, three quarters, and finally, yielding to their 
 appetites, sat down without him. He entered at 
 last when the dinner was half completed. The 
 host, quite vexed, asked whether he took his house 
 for a hotel. " By no means," cried Sardou, calm- 
 ly seating himseK ; " I should not in that case be 
 at this table." " Why so ? " " Because I never 
 accept invitations from hotel-keepers." 
 
 On one occasion a terrible storm had flooded 
 certain streets of Paris, and rendered the crossings 
 almost impassable. Sardou saw a lady standing 
 disconsolately at a corner, evidently at a loss how 
 to reach the other side. The playwright quietly 
 lifted her in his arms and triumphantly transport- 
 ed her to the (as he thought) desired goal. 
 
 " You are an impudent fellow ! " said the lady, 
 in acknowledgment of her thanks. 
 
 Sardou, who had expected something differ- 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 205 
 
 ent, stared at her for a moment, took her again in 
 his arms, recrossed, and silently deposited the lady 
 in her former position. This anecdote has been 
 related of Rocqueplan, but I have it from the 
 most legitimate sources that Sardou was the real 
 hero. 
 
 Sardou looks much older than he actually is. 
 He was bora at Paris in 1831. His father, An- 
 toine-Leandre Sardou, was a distinguished lexi- 
 cographer and philologist from Cannet, on the 
 Mediterranean Sea. Victorien at first resolved 
 to become a physician, but, his moderate financial 
 resources precluding the continuation of his stu- 
 dies, he taught mathematics, history, literature — 
 anything — for a living. Later on he addressed 
 himself to writing, and for nominal remuneration 
 contributed articles, as if it were by the yard, to 
 periodicals and encyclopaedias, and, when he had 
 earned his bread for the day, he devoted the rest 
 of his time to favorite studies. The earnestness 
 with which he worked bordered upon mania. A 
 mysterious instinct attracted him toward the thea- 
 tre ; but he had no less ambition to become a great 
 savant than a great playwright. History and phy- 
 siology occupied a large share of his attention, and 
 concerning these subjects he collected enormous 
 volumes of notes, which may some time, if pub- 
 lished, reveal him in a new light worthy of the 
 laurels he has won in another domain. One of his 
 passions was to hunt second-hand book-shops and 
 
206 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 discover the unknown treasures in which such 
 places abound, although the pursuit beset his path 
 with many pangs, for his empty purse did not 
 bear with his satisfying his laudable craving. In 
 his youth Sardou was a fervent believer in the 
 doctrines of animal magnetism and spiritualism — 
 a trait of his which has not yet wholly disappeared 
 in spite of the antagonism of his skeptical philoso- 
 phy. In connection with this tendency the Paris 
 correspondent for the "Whitehall Review" re- 
 lates the following incident, which he claims to 
 have often heard repeated by Sardou himself. Be 
 its authenticity what it may, it is amusing enough 
 to be quoted : 
 
 " His familiar spirit was that of Beaumar- 
 chais — naturally enough — and on one occasion 
 the author of *Les Pattes de Mouche' asked 
 his invisible friend in what part of infinite space 
 dwelt the spirit of the great Mozart — Sardou's 
 favorite composer. * Take a pencil,' rapped Beau- 
 marchais. Sardou obeyed, and began, under the 
 influence of the author of the 'Marriage of Fi- 
 garo,' to draw shapes and lines on the paper be- 
 fore him. Suddenly he came to the end of his 
 paper. What was to be done ? * Go to the Boule- 
 vard St. Michel, such and such a number,' rapped 
 Beaumarchais ; ' you will find there the paper you 
 need.' Sardou jumped into a cab, and was at the 
 given address in the twinkling of an eye, but, 
 alas ! to his disappointment there was nothing 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 207 
 
 like a stationer's shop to be found in the house 
 indicated by the defunct Beaumarchais. 
 
 " On his return home he again put himself in 
 communication with the deceitful spirit. * Re- 
 turn,' rapped the invisible tyrant, laconically. 
 Back went Sardou, and, after making many in- 
 quiries, he found that there did live a wholesale 
 paper merchant in the house indicated by the 
 spirit. To buy the necessary quantity of paper, 
 return home, and seat himself once more at his 
 table, pencil in hand, was the work of but a few 
 minutes, and then — oh, wonder of wonders ! — he 
 began involuntarily, and without any impulse of 
 his own, to draw the most extraordinary and fan- 
 tastic palace, without doors, and of an unknown 
 style of architecture. It was there the spirit of 
 Mozart dwelt ! 
 
 "The drawing was so extraordinary and so 
 marvelously well done that Sardou was anxious 
 to have it engraved, but no engraver could be 
 found in Paris who would undertake it, so com- 
 plex and subtle were the lines and in such a grand 
 chaos of confusion, although forming an artistic 
 unity. The spirit of Beaumarchais rapped Sar- 
 dou out of this dilemma by instructing him to be- 
 gin the sketch over again, but this time on litho- 
 graphic paper. Sardou did the work within the 
 space of a few hours, and it is this marvelous lith- 
 ograph, known as * La Maison de Mozart,' which 
 the brother of the author of ' Dora ' — the well- 
 14 
 
208 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 known bookseller in Brussels — sells to a few 
 privileged amateurs ! " 
 
 His first play was "La Taveme des ifitudiants," 
 produced, I believe, at the Odeon in 1854. But 
 the piece was by no means a success. Disappoint- 
 ed, he did not yield. Still smarting from de- 
 feat, he gave himself up to studying its causes, 
 and soon began again to work with characteristic 
 ardor. He eagerly perused the great masters of 
 dramatic art, especially Moli^re and Scribe. He 
 analyzed the mechanism of their plays, as a watch- 
 maker might take apart a watch. He felt that the 
 art of the playwright includes a great deal that is 
 pure mechanism, and which must be mastered be- 
 fore success can be attained. This, called in 
 French, metier^ he determined to acquire before 
 reappearing on the stage ; and he finished by 
 learning it better than any of his peers. But, if 
 it be difficult for a debutant to find a manager 
 willing to produce his play, it is doubly so for one 
 who has failed in his debut. The unhappy author 
 of " La Taverne des ifitudiants " found every door 
 barred against him, and frequently met with worse 
 treatment than a dog might expect. He had to 
 suffer no little at the hands of feuilletonists and 
 newspaper critics. Paul Feval, above all, so 
 rudely handled him that Sardou could not forbear 
 resenting the insult. A scandal and a duel were 
 the result of the affair, the termination of which 
 was maliciously reported by F^val to the intended 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 209 
 
 discredit of his adversary. But Sardou soon had 
 his revenge. Barriere acknowledged his abilities. 
 " That young man," said he, pointing him out to 
 a friend as Sardou stood shivering in a shabby 
 overcoat, "that young man — make no mistake — 
 he is the theatre personified." 
 
 This opposition rendered Sardou's means of 
 existence still more precarious. He struggled 
 gallantly against want, but, being not so strong 
 in physique as in will, he at last fell ill with a 
 broken constitution. The year 1857 found him 
 in the garret of a tenement-house in the Quartier 
 Montraartre, actually starving, without clothes, 
 without medicines, and the prey of typhoid fever. 
 A woman saved his life. Mile, de Brecourt, who 
 dwelt on the second floor of the house, and who 
 had a few times met him in the hall- way, on learn- 
 ing of his plight, came to his side, nursed him like 
 a sister, and provided for all his necessities. Nat- 
 urally enough, a love sprang up between the two, 
 and shortly after Sardou's recovery they were 
 married. Mile, de Brecourt did more than save 
 his life. She opened to him the path of fame. 
 Convinced of his talents, she introduced him to 
 Mile. Dejazet, who, in the prime of her glory, was 
 then building the theatre which afterward bore 
 her name. As Mile. Dejazet realized the value of 
 his gifts, so did Sardou appreciate the qualities of 
 the great actress. He created the rdles which 
 were named after her. His first play, " Les Pre- 
 
210- FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 mitres Armes de Figaro," and still more his sec- 
 ond, " Garat," introduced him to public favor. 
 When the first-named play was produced, Mon- 
 tigny, the late manager of the Gymnase, had 
 " Pattes de Mouche " in his pigeon-hole for two 
 years, and there it would probably have remained 
 unread for many more, had it not been for the 
 success which greeted the last efforts* of Sardou's 
 talent. Montigny then carefully perused " Pattes 
 de Mouche," and was much pleased with it. He 
 hesitated, however, to trust his own judgment, 
 and requested Scribe to read the piece and give 
 him his opinion. Scribe reported that the play 
 was good, but that the author would never be a 
 great dramatist. " He eminently lacks dramatic 
 genius," said Scribe to Montigny ; " you should 
 advise Sardou to write novels, poems — anything 
 but plays." But Scribe proved to be as bad a 
 prophet and critic as he was a good playwright. 
 In a short time Sardou was generally acknowl- 
 edged one of the great dramatists of our time. 
 
 In a single year (1861) Sardou had five new 
 plays performing in the first theatres of Paris — 
 "Pattes de Mouche" and "Piccolino" at the 
 Gymnase, and "Les Femmes Fortes," "L'Ecu- 
 reuil," and " Nos Intimes " at the Vaudeville. At 
 the fourth act of " Nos Intimes," when first repre- 
 sented, the applause of the audience was tremen- 
 dous, and the theatre shook with repeated calls for 
 Sardou, who, however, overcome by emotion, had 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 211 
 
 retired. MeetiDg Franeisque Sarcey at the actor's 
 door, he cried : " There are no feelings that move 
 us like the passions of the stage ! " and fell, almost 
 fainting, into his arms. It is well known that since 
 that time he has produced, besides other plays, 
 "La Perle Noire," "La Famille Benolton," "Nos 
 Bons Villageois," " Maison Neuve," " S6raphine," 
 "Patrie," "Fernande," "Rabagas," "Andrea," 
 "L'Oncle Sam," "Haine," and "Dora." Most of 
 these are familiar acquaintances of the American 
 community. 
 
 Glory did not, however, bring him happiness. 
 He was no longer poor ; but he lost, before many 
 years, the generous woman who had been his ele- 
 vation. The friendship of Dejazet sustained him. 
 She treated him with maternal attention, and he 
 certainly was more devoted to her than her own 
 son, who wasted her money faster than she could 
 earn it. Sardou assisted her to the end of her 
 life, and, if memory does not deceive me, she died 
 in his house at Cannot. On the day of her burial 
 his behavior was sublime. He pronounced on her 
 grave a eulogy, ever broken by tears, like Dumas 
 at the tomb of Desclee, like Hugo at the bourne 
 of George Sand. In 1872 Sardou had seemingly 
 recovered from the loss of his wife and the death 
 of Dejazet. He married the daughter of the 
 Conservator of the Museum at Versailles, and 
 certainly he has no reason to regret having tempt- 
 ed twice the fortunes of married life. 
 
212 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 Sardou was recently received at the Academy. 
 Tickets of admission to the reception were sought 
 for by an exceedingly large number of representa- 
 tives of all classes of French society. Sardou took 
 the seat of Autran, and read one of the most bril- 
 liant speeches ever heard within the walls of that 
 ancient and famous institute. So perfect was his 
 delivery that he probably astonished all of the 
 members save Dumas. Charles Blanc answered 
 him, according to custom, and, in a gentle man- 
 ner, uttered some political views which tended to 
 reproach Sardou for having written " Rabagas." 
 Sardou, who is in a degree an undemonstrative 
 Bonapartist, smiled, and is said to have remarked, 
 "that he only regretted the closing up of the 
 Tuileries, because it used to afford him splendid 
 chances for actors and subjects." But he need 
 not to have been vexed in this regard ; the public 
 palaces of the democracy have provided him with 
 material quite as good. To do full justice to his 
 position as an academician, he has written a new 
 play, " Daniel Rochat," which, as is known, offers 
 a debatable solution of the vexed questions affect- 
 ing the religious and social relations of man and 
 wife, and which has aroused a storm of criticism, 
 particularly in republican quarters. So far as can 
 be judged from perusal, Sardou, despite the mar- 
 velous beauty of many portions, seems here to 
 have unduly given himself to philosophizing. It 
 is not true, however, as is commonly believed, that 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 213 
 
 this is the first play offered by him to the Theatre 
 Fran9ais. " La Papillone " was produced on the 
 stage of the latter as far back as 1862. Sardou 
 has preferred to work for the Vaudeville and the 
 Gymnase merely because the audiences at these 
 theatres were better identified with the spirit of 
 his plays. 
 
 Sardou has been reproached with being the 
 Boucicault of France ; that is, with ignorance as 
 to the proper construction of meum and tuum in 
 the matter of characters and plots drawn from 
 older playwrights and novelists. This charge is, 
 in the main, well founded. " Pattes de Mouche," 
 for instance, owes its origin to a tale of Edgar 
 Poe. The whole first act of " Nos Intimes " is 
 taken from an old vaudeville. " L'Oncle Sam " is 
 little more than an adaptation of a novel of M. 
 Assolant. "Fernande" is a very adroit rejuve- 
 nescence of the celebrated episode concerning 
 Mme. de la Pommeraye and the Marquis des Ar- 
 cis in " Jacques le Fataliste " of Diderot. Sardou, 
 hovever, does not disown his great assimilative 
 power. He wittily answers his critics : " Yes ; I 
 have hatched the eggs which other birds have 
 only laid " ; or, " Do you really believe that there 
 is anything new under the sun ? If there is any- 
 thing new and veritably prodigious in the Chris- 
 tian history, it is the resurrection of Lazarus or 
 the healing of the leper." He surely has more 
 than once called to a new and lasting life goodly 
 
214 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ideas and situations which, for want of skill on 
 the part of former laborers, had else been doomed 
 to eternal oblivion. As regards "Fernande," as 
 £mile Montagut well remarks, he has failed to 
 improve as much as might be desired upon the 
 work of Diderot. " The modification introduced 
 in the revenge of the lady, who pretends to be 
 outraged by the self -provoked abandonment of 
 her lover, is excellent and admirably suited to 
 dramatic conditions. But in the following scene 
 Diderot rises superior to Sardou, both in eloquence 
 of passion and knowledge of human character. 
 In Sardou 's play, the Marquis, on learning the 
 horrible truth of the deception of which he is the 
 victim, first abandons himself to a natural despair, 
 then suddenly grows calm, though none of the 
 few words uttered by Fernande can account for 
 such an unexpected change. The reader will not 
 admit that a husband so perfidiously duped would 
 so meekly bear with the outrage done his honor. 
 How much more logical is Diderot, when he rep- 
 resents Mile. d'Ainson falling at the feet of her 
 husband, supplicating, promising to be his faith- 
 ful, loving spouse. Her eloquence springs from 
 her heart, and is far different from the plea of 
 Sardou's lawyer, Pomerol. The scene of the hus- 
 band's despair should have its complement in a 
 scene of supplication on the part of the wife, 
 which could restir feelings of pity in the soul of 
 the Marquis. The dmoHment would then have 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 215 
 
 been not only happy, but also as pathetic as the 
 situation from which it springs." 
 
 The freedom with which he draws upon the 
 labors of others has entailed upon Sardou some 
 disagreeable adventures. He is frequently be- 
 sieged by authors or heirs of authors, who, strong 
 in their rights of literary property, insist upon a 
 share of his profits. He has had from this source 
 more than one lawsuit ; but the courts have gener- 
 ally found that in each case Sardou had incorpo- 
 rated so much original matter as to render a verdict 
 in his favor a mere matter of course. He has been 
 prosecuted by people who complained that them- 
 selves were too fully satirized in his plays, and by 
 some whose names he had unwittingly adopted 
 in certain rdles. It was a druggist who once per- 
 secuted him with such pertinacity for some short- 
 coming of this nature, that, in order to secure 
 peace, the dramatist was forced to part with many 
 thousand francs. The worthy tradesman had dis- 
 covered a close family resemblance between him- 
 self and a certain character in " Nos Bons Yil- 
 lageois." 
 
 Objections have now and then been made 
 against Sardou's plays on the ground of immor- 
 ality. It is the illusion of scandal, however, 
 rather than scandal itself, that appears in them. 
 Only a person so strait-laced as my Lord Cham- 
 berlain of London would object to their repre- 
 sentation. It is a mark of Sardou's art that he 
 
216 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 can proceed to the utmost verge of immorality 
 without falling into the pool of depravity and 
 filth. Some of his situations appear to us im- 
 moral, in much the same fashion as we might, 
 under suitable circumstances, be frightened into 
 the delusion that a large watch-dog is a bear 
 about to destroy us. If he introduce an old lover 
 into the apartment of a married woman, it is that 
 she may return him certain letters, and the lover 
 will bravely jump out of the window whenever 
 her honor is in danger. 
 
 Sardou has neither the noble indignation of 
 Augier, nor the misanthropy of Dumas, nor the 
 sentimentalism of Feuillet, nor yet the skeptical 
 raillery of Scribe. But, probably better than any 
 one of these, he knows how to avail himself of the 
 opportunities offered by the passing moment, and 
 to invest this passing moment with powerful 
 claims upon futurity. When the luxury of the 
 Second Empire had attained to its culmination, he 
 produced the "Famille Benoiton," a splendid 
 satire upon the extravagance of women. When 
 the admiration for the new Paris of Baron 
 Haussemann was bringing ruin upon many an 
 honest bourgeois, he strove to stem the tide of 
 calamity by his "Maison Neuve." "Rabagas" 
 owes its origin to circumstances too well known 
 to need comment. With " Patrie " and " Haine " 
 he rose still higher, in patriotic motives, by show- 
 ing, just when France was most threatened by 
 
VICTORIEN SARDOU. 217 
 
 civil discord, how national feeling should be su- 
 perior to party spirit. We believe that this same 
 skill in catching and perpetuating the spirit of 
 the moment is one of the prime factors of his 
 wonderful success. 
 
 Many of Sardou's plays have been acted in 
 this country. " Le Roi Garotte " was given by Mr. 
 Daly at the Grand Opera House. The mise en sc^ne 
 cost him $45,000, Sardou having himself directed 
 at Paris the selection of costumes and the general 
 outfit of the American performance. " Andrea," 
 which is by some critics accounted the most per- 
 fect of Sardou's works, was written originally for 
 the American stage, its name having been at first 
 " Agnes," and for it Agnes Ethel paid to the au- 
 thor 50,000 francs. With this play was inaugu- 
 rated the Union Square Theatre. Fechter made 
 the translation, and assumed charge of the mise en 
 sc^ne, "Nos Intimes" was produced at Wal- 
 lack's as " Bosom Friends " in the elegant transla- 
 tion of Mr. Young. "La Famille Benoiton" was 
 produced at the same theatre under the title of 
 "The Fast Family." "Nos Bons Villageois " was 
 also performed at this theatre under the title of 
 " A Dangerous Game " ; and it is not long since 
 " Dora " was making the tour of the country 
 under the name of "Diplomacy," and "Pattes de 
 Mouche " under that of " A Scrap of Paper." At 
 the Union Square Theatre " Seraphine " was per- 
 formed as " The Mother's Secret," and " Les Bour- 
 
218 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 geois de Pont d'Arcy" as "Mother and Son," 
 Monsieur Cazauran being in both cases the clever 
 adaptator. 
 
 Despite their brilliancy, Sardou's dramas do 
 not so well bear with reading as those of his fel- 
 low playwrights of the present day. To be fully 
 appreciated, they need the glare of the footlights. 
 This is probably because the reader, more than the 
 beholder, expects a deno'dment in keeping with 
 the logic of events and the necessities of character. 
 In comedies of character, such as Moliere's, the 
 dmoiXment may be a secondary matter ; but in 
 comedies of intrigue, to which class mainly belong 
 those of Sardou, this should be the inevitable con- 
 sequence of all that precedes — which surely can 
 not be affirmed of his works. 
 
 The commotion which has attended the pro- 
 duction of " Daniel Rochat " has caused Sardou 
 to vow that he will never again %vrite a play ; and 
 he has, indeed, striven to release himself from 
 many engagements formed before its representa- 
 tion. Such oaths, however, are akin to those of 
 a sailor, and the stage is as inseparable from Sar- 
 dou's nature as the sea from a well-tried tar. 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 219 
 
 ALPHOJSrSE DAUDET. 
 
 It is the general notion that as is the book so is 
 the nian ; that no author can wholly conceal his per- 
 sonality. Nature, they say, driven away through 
 the door, will enter by the window. On this prin- 
 ciple one would imagine that Zola had been bred 
 and his character formed amid the vilest dregs of 
 the Parisian canaille. Yet, in fact, his life has 
 been blameless and pure. 
 
 Alphonse Daudet, on the other hand, is emphat- 
 ically the novelist of elegant, aristocratic society, 
 the favorite of the ladies of the drawing room, the 
 depicter of all that is of the highest culture in the 
 social system. Judging him by his writings, one 
 would imagine that he had spent his whole life 
 leaning in full dress against the mantelpiece of the 
 most recherchk salon in the capital. His actual 
 career, on the contrary, has been one of remarkable 
 ups and downs. The society with which he min- 
 gled, especially during his youth, was by no means 
 refined. He has lived like a thorough Bohemi- 
 an. His breakfast has varied from nothing at all 
 to truffled partridges at Bignon's, graced by sau- 
 terne half a century old. He has lodged in the 
 Rue Muffetard — the lowest of all the low alleys in 
 Paris — and again he has dwelt in the Avenue de 
 riraperatrice. He has played for beans at Fev- 
 
220 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 reux's, in the Quartier du Temple, and has broken 
 the bank at Hombourg. He has drank rivers of 
 champagne with the most gilded specimens of the 
 demi-monde at the Cafe Anglais, and, but for his 
 brother, he would have passed many a night in 
 the open air for lack of a penny with which to 
 procure a lodging. 
 
 His novels, however, are not tainted with the 
 fumes of the absinthe which has too often defiled 
 his breath and deranged his brain. Idyls as sweet 
 as those of Balzac, passions as ideal as those of 
 George Sand, conceptions as pure as those of Feuil- 
 let grace his pages. His books are moral, even 
 from an English standpoint. He is happy in the 
 choice of his subjects, and well understands how 
 to sugar the bitterest pills of unsavory realism to 
 suit the palate of the most poetical idealist. The 
 fact that he attacks vice with gloves does not at 
 all neutralize the vigor of his blows. He excites 
 without becoming sensational. Few authors, too, 
 can, like him, make the reader feel a sympathy with 
 his characters. He can hardly be called a realist ; 
 yet his dearest friends are Zola, Flaubert, and the 
 brothers Goncourt. His engaging manners have 
 won for him the title of " the lion tamer " ; and 
 he has conciliated Zola, the merciless critical ad- 
 versary of all who do not pin their faith on his 
 realistic gospel, into a marked deference. 
 
 Daudet's method of working is as desultory as 
 his former mode of life. " Fromont Jeune and Ris- 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 221 
 
 ler Aine " * was begun, if I am not misinformed, 
 without the slightest preconceived idea of how it 
 was to turn out. Unless compelled by want of 
 money, he will remain idle for months without 
 writing a line. Of a sudden he will plunge, soul 
 and body, into his work, and injure his health by 
 remaining for weeks closeted in his study. He 
 works in a state of intense excitement, and it is 
 related that he once threw an inkstand at his valet, 
 who had been rash enough to interrupt him with 
 a question. There are months in which it is im- 
 possible to get a glimpse of him anywhere, and 
 again he will be met with at every public assem- 
 blage or center of attraction. 
 
 Alphonse was born at Nimes, May 13th, 1840. 
 The father of Elysee Meraut in " Les Rois en Exil " 
 is a faithful picture of Daudet's father. One day 
 the Duke de Levis-Mirepoix, passing by Nimes, 
 visited the factory of the elder Daudet. " How 
 many children have you ? " asked the Duke. The 
 good old gentleman had four children, three boys 
 and a girl ; but, as he was a Legitimist, he took 
 the female into no consideration, and replied, " I 
 have three — Henry, Ernest, and Alphonse." The 
 Duke de Mirepoix wrote their names in his note- 
 book, and promised that he would think of them 
 when they should be a little older. Since that 
 visit, the affairs of M. Daudet growing worse, his 
 good wife would frequently worry about the fu- 
 
 * Published here under the title of " Sidonie." 
 
222 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ture of her two sons, Ernest and Alphonse — Hen- 
 ry was dead — "Be at ease," her husband used 
 to say ; " the Duke of Levis will not forget his 
 promise." 
 
 All this is related in " Les Rois en Exil." The 
 Duke d'Athis of the novel is no one else than the 
 Duke de Levis ; and, like Elys^e Meraut, Alphonse 
 Daudet bears still on his brow the marks of the 
 blows he received in the many battles the boyish 
 Legitimist fought with his Protestant antagonists. 
 
 The promise of the Duke depended chiefly on 
 the elevation of the Count de Chambord to the 
 throne. It is, therefore, needless to say that he 
 did nothing in behalf of young Daudet and his 
 brother. A fire which destroyed the factory, and 
 subsequently a lawsuit unsuccessfully carried on 
 for several years, reduced the family to poverty. 
 Alphonse was about ten years of age when his 
 parents were obliged to quit Nimes, and take up 
 their residence at Lyons, where Daudet could 
 more easily find employment. 
 
 Young Daudet prosecuted his studies in the 
 public schools at Lyons. Although he had scarce- 
 ly sufficient books to study with, he soon distin- 
 guished himself among his fellow students by his 
 gift of elegant diction and his turn for satire. The 
 latter was far from pleasing his teachers, who were 
 frequently made the victims of his wit. He was 
 an enthusiastic admirer of Victor Hugo, and, un- 
 like many others, has never ceased to feel the 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 223 
 
 warmest friendship and veneration for that poet. 
 But other misfortunes overcame his family. At 
 an age when most young men who are looking 
 forward to a professional life have nothing to do 
 save study, Daudet was compelled to leave his 
 books and earn his own living. He secured a posi- 
 tion as teacher in a college at Allais — very little 
 more than a gossipy village — where he remained 
 for nearly two years, chafing against the narrow- 
 mindedness of the people with whom he had to 
 deal. At last, his patience having become ex- 
 hausted, he renounced a living procured at the ex- 
 pense of his independence, and twenty-four hours 
 later entered Paris, where he had been preceded 
 by his brother Ernest. 
 
 Ernest Daudet, who since has also made his 
 way in the literary world, then lived in a small 
 room on the top floor of a house in the Rue Tour- 
 non, and earned his living by acting as amanuensis 
 to an old gentleman who was dictating his mem- 
 oirs. The pair had to live on a hundred francs a 
 month. Alphonse would frequently remain in bed 
 two or three days in succession, to dream and work, 
 feeding on a small provision of bread and sausage 
 he had made in advance. Notwithstanding that 
 his loving brother abandoned to him the greater 
 part of his income, Alphonse passed through or- 
 deals and privations that would have driven many 
 men to crime or despair. In the morning he fre- 
 quently knew not where he should get a meal, and 
 15 
 
224 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 dreamed at night of the dinner he had not eaten. 
 Yet he was writing poetry ! He had a vohime of 
 poems ready for publication, but could not find a 
 publisher. His brother, called by Alphonse "La 
 M^re Jacque " in " Le Petit Chose, " came again 
 to his aid. He borrowed a thousand francs from 
 a friend, and "Les Amoureuses" was published 
 at the author's — or, rather, at his brother's — ex- 
 pense. The volume was well received by critics 
 and connoisseurs ; but financially was a failure. 
 
 One of the most charming little things that 
 Daudet has ever written is undoubtedly " Premier 
 Habit." The story refers to the first evening 
 suit that the author of " Les Amoureuses " pos- 
 sessed, and to his debut in society. It was at a 
 reception offered by Augustine Brohan, the cele- 
 brated actress. "My book of poems had just 
 blossomed, " says Daudet, " fresh and virgin-like, 
 beneath a pink cover. Several newspapers had 
 * praised my rhymes. The 'Journal Ofiiciel' itself 
 had given a whole column to them. I was a poet 
 — ^not only in my garret but in the show-windows of 
 the booksellers. Wandering through the streets, 
 I wondered that the throng of passers-by did not 
 turn their heads to gaze in astonishment at the 
 poet of eighteen. I positively felt upon my brow 
 the sweet pressure of a paper wreath made of 
 newspaper clippings. 
 
 " Some one procured for me an invitation to 
 the soirees of Augustine Brohan. To be invited 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 225 
 
 to the receptions of Augustine, the illustrious co- 
 medienne — fancy if I accepted ! . . . How I as- 
 cended the steps, how I entered and introduced 
 myself, I know not. A valet announced my name ; 
 but my name, sputtered as it was by that idiot, 
 had no effect whatever upon the assemblage. I 
 only remember that a lady whispered, ' A dancer 1 
 So much the better.' It seems that dancers were 
 scarce. A triumphal entry indeed for a poet ! 
 
 "Humiliated and disgusted, I endeavored to 
 hide myself in the crowd. But to no purpose ; 
 my dress coat, too large for my body, my long 
 hair, my restless, mocking eyes, seemingly attracted 
 the curiosity of the throng. Such whisperings as 
 
 * Who is he ? ' — * Look at that young man ! ' — 
 
 * What a strange being ! ' — reached my ears, to- 
 gether with laughters that were anything but en- 
 couraging. Finally some one said : * He is the Wal- 
 lachian prince ! ' The Wallachian prince ? It 
 seems that that evening a Wallachian prince was 
 expected. From that moment I was classified, 
 and no longer bothered by the inquisitiveness of 
 the company. But it made no difference ; you can 
 not imagine how the usurped crown weighed upon 
 my brow. First a dancer, then a Wallachian 
 prince ! All those people did not see my lyre ! 
 
 " Luckily for me, a startling piece of news, rap- 
 idly making the tour of the apartment, caused the 
 little dancer and the Wallachian prince to be for- 
 gotten. Gustave Fould, the son of the Minister 
 
226 k FREN^Cn MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 of the Interior, had married Valerie, the charming 
 actress. Emotion controlled everybody. The 
 gentlemen, most of them high officials of the 
 state, nodded in disgust, and rounded their 
 mouths into big Ohs ! saying, ' It is a serious af- 
 fair — very serious, indeed. No more respect for 
 anything. The Emperor should have interfered 
 — sacred rights — paternal authority ! ' and similar 
 phrases. The ladies, on the other hand, boldly 
 and merrily took sides with the two lovers, who 
 had just repaired to London. Their tongues — 
 well, you may imagine what the tongues of fifty 
 excited women are capable of. 
 
 "Finally, the excitement subsided, and danc- 
 ing commenced. I, too, was compelled to dance. 
 I danced very poorly for a Wallachian prince. 
 The quadrille being over, I — restrained by my 
 awful short-sightedness, too timid to wear an 
 eye-glass, and too poetical to put on spectacles, 
 and fearing always to hurt my knee against a 
 piece of furniture, or to entangle my feet amidst 
 the heaps of filmy trails that covered the carpet 
 — I sat for a long while in a corner, as still as a 
 statue. Soon, however, hunger and thirst inter- 
 fered with my comfort ; but, for an empire, I 
 would not have dared to approach the refresh- 
 ment-table simultaneously with the other guests. 
 I resolved to wait till the room should be empty. 
 Meanwhile I joined a group of politicians, not 
 without assuming a grave mien and simulating to 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 227 
 
 disdain the pleasures of the room whence, with 
 the ring of laughter, and the noise of forks and 
 spoons, came to me the tantalizing savors of hot 
 tea, Spanish wines, cakes, and truffles. 
 
 " At last the company again invaded the ball- 
 room. My time had come. I entered the dining- 
 saloon. I was dazzled with the setting of the ta- 
 ble. In the glaring light of a thousand wax-can- 
 dles, the huge pyramid of glasses and bottles of 
 cut-crystal that arose before my eyes amid a gar- 
 den of flowers, bonbons, and exquisite delicacies, 
 presented a fairy-like spectacle. I took a glass as 
 frail as a flower ; I took good care not to squeeze 
 it too hard for fear of breaking the stem. What 
 was I to pour into my glass ? I was embarrassed 
 as to choice. I seized the first decanter at hand, 
 and began to pour out a portion of its contents as 
 slowly as a gourmet would do. It was like liquid 
 diamond. I thought it was kirsch. I like kirsch ; 
 its flavor reminds me of the forest. I raised the 
 glass, put out my lips. Horror ! ' 'Tis water ! ' I 
 exclaimed. Suddenly a double peal of laughter 
 echoed through the room. A dress coat and a 
 pink robe which I had not noticed before, and 
 which were flirting in a corner, had been greatly 
 amused by my mistake. I wanted to put the 
 glass back to its place ; but, troubled as I was, my 
 hand trembled, my sleeve caught upon I know not 
 what. Two, three, ten glasses fell. I turned my- 
 self ; the tails of my coat also interfered, and the 
 
228 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 glittering pyramid tumbled to the floor witli tlie 
 flasli and crash of a crumbling iceberg. 
 
 " The hostess rushed in at the noise. Happily, 
 she was as short-sighted as the Wallachian prince, 
 and the latter was enabled to leave the room un- 
 recognized. My evening, however, was spoiled. 
 That massacre of glasses and decanters weighed 
 upon my conscience like a crime. I thought only 
 of going. But Madame Dubois, dazzled by the 
 splendor of my principality, clung to me, and ob- 
 jected to my departure before I had danced with 
 her daughter — ay, with her two daughters. I 
 excused myself as well as I could, and was about 
 to escape her persecution, when Dr. Ricord, a 
 tall old gentleman having the head of a bishop 
 and the smile of a diplomat, with whom I had 
 previously exchanged a few words, and who, like 
 the other guests, believed I was a Wallachian 
 prince, arrested me to offer me a seat in his car- 
 riage. I would gladly have accepted, but I was 
 without an overcoat. 'What would Dr. Ricord 
 think,' I said to myself, * of a Wallachian prince 
 shivering in his dress suit, instead of being wrapped 
 in furs ? Let us avoid him, return home on foot 
 through fog and snow, rather than let him perceive 
 our poverty.' Thus, more troubled than ever, I 
 gained the door, and glided down the staircase. 
 My humiliations were not yet at an end. In the 
 vestibule a valet cried to me, 'Monsieur, don't 
 you take your overcoat ? ' 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 229 
 
 " There I was, at two o'clock in the morning, 
 at a great distance from my lodging, wandering 
 through muddy streets, hungry, frozen, and with 
 the tail of the devil in my pocket [almost penni- 
 less]. Hunger inspired me. * Suppose I were go- 
 ing to the Halles ? ' said I. I had frequently heard 
 about one Monsieur G who kept a night res- 
 taurant there, and who, for three cents, gave a 
 huge dish of excellent cabbage-soup. *Yes, de- 
 cidedly, I will go to the Halles,' I rejoined, pock- 
 eting my pride, as the icy wind was blowing into 
 my face, and hunger tormented my stomach. * My 
 kingdom for a horse ! ' some one has said ; * My 
 Wallachian principality,' I was saying as I was 
 going at a jog-trot toward the market, ' for a good 
 dish of soup and a warm room.' 
 
 " And a dirty hole it was, M. G h estab- 
 lishment ! Very often since, when it was the fash- 
 ion to turn night into day, I have passed there 
 entire nights, among future great men, my elbows 
 on the greasy tables, smoking, and talking about 
 literature. But the first time that I entered that 
 restaurant, I confess it, I flinched, in spite of hun- 
 ger, before its black walls and its smoky atmos- 
 phere, before all that crowd of ghostly people 
 seated before the tables, either snoring, with their 
 backs leaning against the walls, or licking up their 
 soup in dog-like style. I entered, however, and 
 must say that my dress coat was not alone. Even- 
 ing suits without overcoats are by no means rare 
 
230 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 things at Paris during the winter nights, nor those 
 people who hunger after cabbage soup at three 
 cents — soup otherwise excellent, smelling like a 
 garden and fuming like a crater. I partook of it 
 twice, although the necessary practice of chain- 
 ing forks and spoons to the table vexed me con- 
 siderably. Finally I paid, and, warmed up by my 
 solid repast, I resumed my journey to the Quartier 
 Latin. Fancy my return — the return of the poet, 
 trotting along the Rue Toumon, the collar of his 
 dress coat turned up, tapping his thin shoes against 
 the rail of the house to shake off the snow, while 
 on the other side of the way Dr. Ricord was just 
 alighting from his comfortable coupe ! 
 
 " * An evening lost,' my brother said, next 
 morning ; ' you have passed for a Wallachian 
 prince ; it is all very well, but you have not ad- 
 vertised your volume. You need not despair, 
 however. You will recover from your loss on the 
 visite de la digestio?!.^ The digestion of a glass 
 of water ! It took me two months to resolve 
 upon a second visit. One day, at length, I deter- 
 mined upon going. Besides her official recep- 
 tions on Wednesday evenings, Augustine Brohan 
 every Sunday morning received her most intimate 
 friends. It was to one of those matinees that I 
 boldly went. 
 
 " I presented myself at one o'clock. I was two 
 hours too early. The lady was making her toilet. 
 I had to wait over half an hour. At last she en- 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 231 
 
 tered ; she winked and recognized her Wallachian 
 prince, and with the manner of one who must say- 
 something, and does not know what to say, she 
 commenced, * Why, Prince, have you not gone 
 to the Marche to-day ? ' To the Marche ! I, who 
 had never seen a race or a jockey ? I felt ashamed 
 of this deception ; the blood rushed to my face. 
 The bright sun and the perfumes of flowers which 
 from the garden, through the open windows, en- 
 tered the room, the absence of all solemnity, the 
 good-natured and smiling countenance of my host- 
 ess — all this, and a thousand other things, gave 
 me courage, and I opened my soul to her — I made 
 a clean breast of everything. I confessed how I 
 was neither a Wallachian nor a prince ; told her 
 the story of the glass of kirsch, and the damage 
 I had done ; of my supper at the Halles, and of 
 my distressing journey homeward ; of my provin- 
 cial timidity, of my short-sightedness and poverty; 
 of my volume and my hopes — and all this so rap- 
 idly and earnestly that Augustine laughed like an 
 insane woman. Suddenly we were startled by a 
 violent pull of the door-bell. * Ah ! they must be 
 my cuirassiers,' exclaimed Augustine. 
 
 " ' What cuirassiers ? ' 
 
 " ^ Two cuirassiers who are to come from the 
 Camp of Chalons, in order that I may judge if 
 they are fit for the stage. They have the reputa- 
 tion of being excellent comedians.' 
 
 " I thought it advisable to retire, but ' Re- 
 
232 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 main,' said Augustine, ' we are going to rehearse 
 "Le Lait d'Anesse" — you will act as dramatic 
 critic. Sit there on that sofa.' I installed myself, 
 and the performance began. *They are pretty 
 good,' Augustine Brohan was telling me, in a sub- 
 dued tone, ^but their boots — do you smell any- 
 thing ? ' 
 
 " This intimacy with the wittiest comedienne 
 in Paris elevated me, as it were, to the seventh 
 heaven. I nodded, and smiled knowingly. I 
 felt so happy that I could scarcely keep my 
 seat. 
 
 "The most insignificant of these details ap- 
 pears, even to-day, very important to me. See, 
 however, how two persons may view things in a 
 different light. I had told Sarcey the comical 
 story of my debut in society. Sarcey, one day, 
 repeated it to Augustine Brohan. Well ! the un- 
 grateful Augustine — whom, after all, I have not 
 seen these last twenty years — swore in good faith 
 that she knew me only through my books. She 
 had forgotten the broken glasses, the Wallachian 
 prince, the rehearsal of the ' Lait d'Anesse,' the 
 boots of the cuirassiers — everything concerning 
 this affair that has occupied so much place in my 
 life." 
 
 As the reader will easily infer from the fore- 
 going story, Daudet shortly became a thorough 
 type of Pai'isian Bohemianism. For a living he 
 did a little of everything, and finally devoted him- 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 233 
 
 self to the profession of journalism, writing end- 
 less articles at the princely remuneration of five 
 francs each. 
 
 It was in 1858 that he presented himself at the 
 editorial rooms of the " Figaro." The office of this 
 paper was at that time situated in the Hotel Fras- 
 cati, at the corner of the Rue Yivienne and the 
 Boulevard Montmartre — in the same rooms where 
 the barber Lespes has since made a fortune by 
 shaving a whole host of litterateurs^ journalists, 
 actors, and gentlemen of leisure. Daudet, a man- 
 uscript under his arm, asked for M. Villemessant. 
 He was told to wait, and he did so patiently, hold- 
 ing the child of his imagination the while with a 
 truly paternal solicitude. Villemessant finally 
 entered, but a storm was brewing on his brow. 
 He inquired for Paul D'lvoy, one of the most hu- 
 morous writers on his staff, and, simply because he 
 had been told by some ignoramus, while at break- 
 fast, that the articles of that contributor were be- 
 coming stale and insipid, he peremptorily dis- 
 charged him. Poor Daudet, who has often re- 
 lated the story, was discouraged by the editor's 
 angry face, and was seriously considering the ex- 
 pediency of deferring his interview, when a clerk 
 called Yillemessant's attention to him. The mag- 
 nate approached him, and, finding it too late to 
 retreat, Daudet mustered up his best courage, and 
 handed his manuscript to Villemessant, after a 
 few explanatory words. Villemessant scrutinized 
 
234 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 him from head to foot, and then questioned him, 
 as follows : 
 
 " Let me see, young man, are you really per- 
 suaded that you have a talent for writing ? " 
 
 " I honestly do not know whether I have. I 
 think, however, I can write as well as a great 
 many newspaper men." 
 
 Yillemessant had been attentively examining 
 the manuscript, while Daudet with equal care 
 studied his face, endeavoring to divine the deci- 
 sion upon which his fate seemed to hang. 
 
 " I think I shall take your copy," said Yille- 
 messant, finally, having a quick perception for 
 whatever was meritorious. 
 
 Daudet soon after this incident became a tol- 
 erably well known, if not a famous author, Yille- 
 messant printing and paying handsomely for all 
 his work. But his Bohemian instincts overpow- 
 ered him again and again, and, although in receipt 
 of an income which would have been comfort to 
 any sensible man, he was frequently as badly off 
 as before. 
 
 His talents and perhaps his recklessness had 
 won for him many friends among the artists and 
 litterateurs of the day. A celebrated sculptor 
 had made a life-size bronze bust of Daudet, which 
 was pronounced superb. The artist even gained 
 by it an honorable mention at the Exhibition of the 
 Fine Arts. This work of art afterward ornamented 
 the mantelpiece of the journalist's room, and in 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 235 
 
 days of distress it was Daudet's fashion to gaze 
 ruefully at it, and say to himself, " Well, after 
 all, I have still my bust." In the language of 
 Bohemia this meant that he had still some pecun- 
 iary resource ; that when everything else had 
 been disposed of by sale or by pawn, the bronze 
 bust yet remained to save him from starving. 
 Misery one day knocked harder than usual at 
 Daudet's door. He looked around his room, and 
 saw that everything that might move the breast 
 of a pawnbroker had gone ; the dies tree of the 
 bust had arrived. Without a penny in the world, 
 Daudet hired a cab, placed the bust caftfully in- 
 side, and having given the coachman the address 
 of a certain art dealer, drove off — sad with the 
 thought of giving up the gift of his friend, but 
 none the less pleased with the prospect of shortly 
 again handling the money of the realm. He made 
 a tour of all the shops, asking at each one : 
 
 " Will you buy a handsome bust in bronze ? " 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "Myself." 
 
 " Yourself ! And will you kindly say who you 
 are ? Are you a celebrity ? " 
 
 "Not yet ; but I hope to be one some day." 
 
 " Call again at that time, and we will see." 
 
 After several repetitions of this dialogue, Dau- 
 det began offering the bust as that of Balzac in 
 his early youth. Finally, he succeeded in selling 
 it for old bronze to a junk-dealer at the rate, we 
 
236 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 believe, of five cents per pound. At the outset 
 Daudet had mentally resolved to buy it back 
 again at the earliest opportunity; but his re- 
 peated failures to dispose of it had so angered 
 him that he compelled the purchaser to break it 
 into small fragments in his presence. 
 
 Out of the price, twenty-two francs, he was 
 obliged to pay ten to the cab-driver. "Twelve 
 francs for the image of my glory ! " he exclaimed, 
 almost sobbing, on again entering his room. He 
 buried his face in the pillow of his couch, and so 
 remained until the imperious demand of nature 
 sent him forth to quench his grief with a bottle 
 of wine and suffocate it with a hearty meal. 
 They who know him would wager that on return- 
 ing home he did not possess a sou. 
 
 He first began to win celebrity by the publi- 
 cation of the " Gueux de Provence " as feuilleton 
 in the " Figaro." This novel and " Le Petit Chose," 
 which he wrote a few years later, are perhaps the 
 books in which he himself plays a prominent part. 
 In both he pleads the cause of the employees of 
 the provincial order and the tribe of schoolmas- 
 ters, and eloquently depicts the sorrows and disa- 
 bilities of country life. The success of his first 
 works won for him the appointment of dramatic 
 critic to the " Journal Officiel," a position which 
 even Th^ophile Gautier had not disdained to fill. 
 But, under the Empire, even a dramatic critic was 
 required to measure his words, particularly in the 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 237 
 
 recognized organ of the Government. Napoleon 
 III., in his anxiety to conciliate all the writers of 
 France, could not permit the least successful of 
 authors to be castigated under circumstances that 
 might reflect upon himself. This fact will ac- 
 count for Daudet's resignation after a few months. 
 It may be that he had been induced to accept the 
 honor under the same assurances of freedom of 
 speech which had been offered to Gautier. 
 
 In 1861, at the request of the Duke of Morny, 
 Daudet was introduced to him. " The poet," says 
 F61icien Champsaur, " wore his hair very long, a 
 slouch hat, a huge jacket, and lace cuffs. He was 
 at once timid and independent. He would in no 
 way dress according to the common fashion, and 
 at the same time he would blush when some one 
 gazed at him in the street. While listening to the 
 Duke of Morny, he held his hat by the lining, and 
 rolled it on his fingers. Suddenly the hat fell, the 
 lining remaining in his hand. The Duke smiled, 
 and offered the poet a place in his household as 
 one of his private secretaries." 
 
 Daudet had learned in the nursery to be a Le- 
 gitimist. He feared to sell himself by accepting, 
 and frankly avowed his political opinions to the 
 Duke. "Be whatever you like," rejoined the 
 Duke; " the Empress is a more thorough Legitimist 
 than you are." This declaration eased the poet's 
 mind, and he accepted. He was Morny's secretary 
 for five years. The position, however, was almost 
 
238 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 a sinecure. He had only to read the newest books, 
 and point out to his master those that were worth 
 reading. His main occupation was to obtain leaves 
 of absence, which were never refused. He visited 
 Corsica, Sardinia, and Provence. During his so- 
 journ on the coast of the latter, he lived in a light- 
 house, the same that he has so beautifully de- 
 scribed in his " Lettres de Mon Moulin." 
 
 The new position raised the poet beyond the 
 pressure of poverty ; but his aristocratic surround- 
 ings did not cure him of his Bohemianism. The 
 efforts of the Duke's chef de cabinet^ who took 
 great interest in the new secretary, could not 
 wholly reform him. He was evidently out of 
 place among the nobility, and he even frequently 
 failed to keep his appointments at the gilded bou- 
 doirs of the Faubourg St. Germain in order to 
 share in the orgies of the Rue Breda, or to pass 
 the evening at his lodgings in the Rue Majorine, 
 in tete-d'tete with some hieroglyphic of the demi- 
 monde. The Duke, however, who was a thorough 
 man of the world, set a high value upon the intel- 
 lectual gifts of his secretary, and, knowing that 
 despite his shortcomings he could not easily re- 
 place him, bore with his eccentricities. 
 
 The reasons that brought about Daudet's res- 
 ignation, some time before the Duke's death, have 
 been variously reported. That the fault, howev- 
 er, was on the Duke's side is doubtful. Such was 
 his generosity that, at one time, when Daudet 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 239 
 
 was severely ill, he sent him at his own expense 
 to Algiers and to Egypt, and maintained him 
 there until his sickness had yielded to the benefi- 
 cial effects of the new climate. Daudet, it must 
 be confessed, rewarded his patron's kindness with 
 the ingratitude of a vulgar soul. He made him 
 the hero of his novel, the "N^abab," with which 
 our readers are familiar. The Duke of Morny, 
 certainly a pronounced type of the corrupt aristo- 
 crat of the Second Empire, deserved the cutting 
 satire of the " Nabab " ; but Daudet, who had ex- 
 perienced his liberality in many ways, was the last 
 man to sit in judgment on his errors and misdeeds. 
 Daudet, however, as if to display another strange 
 contradiction in his character, has not been un- 
 grateful to every one. When Villemessant died, 
 he devoted to his memory a few pages which are 
 the highest utterances of gratitude, as his " Let- 
 tres de Mon Moulin " are the last words of patri- 
 otism. 
 
 Daudet's novels speak for themselves, but his 
 dramas are not so well known here. " L'Idole," 
 " L'Oeillet Bleu," " Les Absents," and, finally, the 
 adaptation of " Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine," 
 which was concocted in collaboration with Adolphe 
 Belot, although scarcely worthy of the high rep- 
 utation they enjoy, are undoubtedly characterized 
 by qualities which can not but charm the reader. 
 The "Masque de Fer," a pseudonym for the 
 dramatic critic of "Figaro," tells an amusing 
 16 
 
240 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 Story in connection with the dramatization of 
 "Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine." When pro- 
 duced at the Vaudeville, the latter attracted more 
 attention than any other recent drama, the novel 
 having previously popularized the play. Every- 
 body had some favorite episode which it was 
 hoped would receive scenic representation. All 
 that was known was that the catastrophe of the 
 novel had been altered, and expectation was raised 
 to the highest pitch. The authors were for a long 
 time uncertain whether to offer the public that 
 which in stage language is termed a " happy " 
 ending, or to follow the story through its natural 
 development. They were observed walking in 
 the park of the " Maisons Lafitte," where Belot 
 possesses a charming cottage, and discussing with 
 earnestness the as yet doubtful death of the hero- 
 ine. 
 
 " I don't want her to die ! " Belot exclaimed, 
 excitedly. 
 
 "But why not?" Daudet rejoined. "She 
 
 "Her death is far from suiting our purposes." 
 
 "I can not agree with you." 
 
 This intrinsically innocent dialogue was over- 
 heard by some dilettante in espionage, who did 
 not know the playwi'ights, and who betook him- 
 self straightway to the police with the informa- 
 tion that a murder was under discussion. Gen- 
 darmes were sent for the supposed assassins, who 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 241 
 
 heartily enjoyed the blank amazement of the ac- 
 cuser and the police when the situation was ex- 
 plained. 
 
 Belot at last triumphed. Sidonie lived, much 
 to the disgust of Daudet, who, like all good nov- 
 elists, likes to have a catastrophe as the natural 
 sequence of his plot. We are here reminded of 
 a similar anecdote in which Xavier de Montepin 
 figures. When his " Mari de Marguerite " was 
 drawing to a close in " Figaro," the readers fore- 
 saw that the heroine was doomed to death, and the 
 novelist daily received some letter entreating him 
 not to kill her. This vexed Montepin beyond 
 measure, and after reading each successive appeal, 
 he would exclaim, " The idiots — do they fancy 
 that killing her is not painful to me also ? But 
 there is no other issue. She must die." And she 
 did die. 
 
 When the piece of Messrs. Daudet and Belot 
 was produced, it was greeted with enthusiastic 
 applause. The authors, who had unconcernedly 
 passed their time listening to the music of "La 
 Petite Marine," did not drop into the theatre un- 
 til near the close of the performance. 
 
 With the production of "La Dernier Idole" 
 is connected an anecdote which reveals Daudet's 
 modesty and severity in regard to his own per- 
 formances, as well as his eccentricity. While Dau- 
 det was in Egypt, the play was announced for a 
 certain evening at the Odeon. A fancy seized 
 
242 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 him to witness it, and in spite of the infirmities 
 which a Bohemian life had entailed upon him, he 
 started for Paris, where he arrived in the nick of 
 time. While the audience gave way to successive 
 outbursts of approval, he felt ashamed that he had 
 done no better, and left the theatre, exclaiming, 
 "What a fool I was to come all the way from 
 Egypt to witness such a piece of nonsense ! Hence- 
 forward I will be contented with hearing what 
 other people say of my productions." 
 
 Daudet is one of Gambetta's oldest friends, 
 their intimacy dating from the time when the 
 statesman was only an excitable lawyer of some 
 promise. The friendship sprang up in a modest 
 hotel where, like Gambetta, Daudet lived many 
 months after fortune began to smile upon him, 
 and where he used to entertain a crowd of future 
 celebrities who delighted in the name of Bohe- 
 mians. Here met his brother Ernest, Rochefort, 
 and others, to discuss politics over a repast and 
 a couple of glasses of absinthe. Although not 
 wholly above blame, these dinners must be le- 
 niently remembered as the trysting-place of the 
 future apostles of the third Republic. In 1877, 
 at a dinner at Ville D'Avray, Gambetta and Dau- 
 det, after many years of separation, met again. 
 They recalled the old days, and the result of their 
 interview was that Gambetta purchased a cottage 
 not far distant from that of his friend. 
 
 Daudet is as singular a man physically as he 
 
ALPHONSE DAUDET. 243 
 
 is morally. He is slim, rather undersized, and his 
 peculiarly shaped head everywhere rivets atten- 
 tion. Large of itself, it is rendered still larger by 
 a heavy mass of raven locks which fall upon his 
 shoulders. His complexion is of bronze, and his 
 scanty, silky beard, which he wears in the Mau- 
 giron style, gives his face a strange Moorish aspect. 
 Regnault has called him the "Arabian Christ." 
 His sight is so wretchedly short as to have be- 
 come a by-word among his friends. They say 
 that Daudet could not even sleep without having 
 an eye-glass inserted in the cavity of his eye. He 
 once followed a priest, because some of his friends 
 had told him that it was a widow with whom he 
 was very much in love. On another occasion, at 
 the Jardin des Plantes, he threw pieces of bread 
 to a gentleman wrapped in heavy furs, mistaking 
 him for a bear. He is, however, the first to laugh 
 whenever a friend plays upon him some practical 
 joke, the cause of which is his shortcoming. He 
 merely retaliates by a free use of his satirical gifts. 
 His wit cuts, indeed, like a razor. He is bitter 
 against all mere pretenders to talent. He is, how- 
 ever, kind to every one he meets, and has never 
 been known to turn his back upon a friend in dis- 
 tress. While no longer a Bohemian, he has pre- 
 served the best quality of the Bohemians, the 
 camaraderie for all that suffer and are needy. 
 
 Up to last year Alphonse Daudet lived in the 
 Rue des Yosges, in a house which owed its celeb- 
 
244 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 rity to its having been formerly the residence of 
 the great jurist Lamoignon. Its description may 
 be found in " Un Reveillon dans le Marais," one 
 of Daudet's short stories, collected in his " Contes 
 du Lundi." He now resides in the Avenue de 
 I'Observatoire, and from the windows of his house 
 he enjoys a magnificent sight of the Gardens of 
 the Luxemburg. His summers he spends at Cham- 
 prosay, a coquettish little village overlooking the 
 Seine on one side and the historical forest of Senart 
 on the other. A day spent with him at Champro- 
 say can never be forgotten by any one who is a 
 lover of high art and literature. 
 
 tMILE ZOLA. 
 
 I WELL remember a modest house, bearing the 
 number 35, in "Via della Pescheria" (Fishmar- 
 ket Street), at Trieste. Although it had no strik- 
 ing peculiarities, I could not forbear looking at 
 it whenever I passed by on my way to the mag- 
 nificent harbor. It was pointed out to me as 
 the former residence of the engineer Zola, who 
 had long lived abroad, successfully practicing 
 his profession in various countries. Francesco 
 Zola was called to Paris to assist in directing the 
 work being done on the fortifications around the 
 city. Here he married, and here Emile was bom, 
 in 1840. Three years later, the city of Aix se- 
 
l^MILE ZOLA. 245 
 
 cured the services of the engineer Zola, and the 
 family removed thither. There his name is still 
 linked with some important hydraulic works, such 
 as the Aix Canal, for example. The drawings 
 thereof now ornament the walls of the realistic 
 novelist's study. The ability of the engineer may 
 have been acknowledged, but his right to be paid 
 for his labor was not. Emile was only seven years 
 old when his father died of grief, caused by the 
 financial embarrassment in which his lawsuits had 
 involved him. His wife, being then at Paris, 
 placed her fatherless child in the College of Louis 
 le Grand. The boy was making a golden record 
 for diligence, industry, and proficiency in his 
 studies when the widow's last hope — the favor- 
 able issue of a lawsuit — vanished, and she was 
 obliged to take him from college. The poor 
 woman, however, worked night and day, and con- 
 tinued to educate her son as well as she could. 
 Whoever has an idea how poorly needlework is 
 paid in Paris will appreciate the struggles of that 
 noble mother. ^iSmile understood them well, and, 
 though still but a lad, he so earnestly endeavored 
 to get something to do that he finally secured a 
 position in the Custom-house, with a salary of 
 seventeen dollars per month. 
 
 As was the case with many young men at that 
 time, Victor Hugo was Zola's ideal. He knew all 
 his poems by heart. There was not a more thor- 
 ough romancer than ^fimile. His liking for Hugo 
 
246 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 bordered on veneration, and he was never as hap- 
 py as when, in the evening, he read for his mother 
 from the " Odes and Ballads " or the " Orientales," 
 which, despite all that may be said in praise of 
 his subsequent works, will be considered by many 
 as the poet's masterpieces. Later in life, when 
 Zola began to read meditatively, his favorite 
 authors were Musset, Balzac, Fluabert, and Taine. 
 From the latter he derived that quiet, firm, and 
 methodical analysis which constitutes his power. 
 But owing to some change in the Custom-house 
 administration, the unfortunate ^iSmile was dis- 
 missed. He wandered through Paris aimlessly, 
 and unmindful of all that was going on around 
 him. He would often pass a whole day sitting 
 on a bench in the Garden of the Luxembourg, 
 writing verses, while his pocket and stomach were 
 empty. One winter day, as he was seated in the 
 Pantheon square, a girl with whom he was ac- 
 quainted approached him. Her teeth were chat- 
 tering with cold. 
 
 " I haven't a sou." said she, " and have eaten 
 nothing for the last twenty-four hours." 
 
 "Neither have I," replied Zola. He thought 
 a while, and then, taking off his coat, and handing 
 it to her, he added : " Take this to the Mont de 
 Piet6. You will at least be able to get enough 
 on it to buy something for dinner." 
 
 He returned to his garret in his shirt-sleeves. 
 He had parted with his only winter coat. 
 
Mile zola. 247 
 
 Some time afterward, thanks to the exertion 
 of his father's friends, he obtained a situation as 
 a shipping clerk and packer in Hachette's pub- 
 lishing house, at a salary of twelve hundred 
 francs a year, which seemed to him almost a 
 princely income. Meanwhile the sight of books 
 again awakened his literary aspirations. He made 
 packages during the day, and devoted the greater 
 part of the night to writing poetry. Once he ven- 
 tured to speak of his literary productions to the 
 head of the firm. M. Hachette had uncommon 
 learning, and was generally unprejudiced, but he 
 had his own opinion of the possibility of being at 
 once a good packer and a poet, and bade Zola take 
 his choice between keeping his place and worship- 
 ing the muses. Hunger had rendered Zola a 
 practical man ; he gave up poetry, and was soon 
 advanced to the position of advertising clerk of 
 the house, with a salary of three thousand francs. 
 But by being brought into contact with advertis- 
 ing agents and journalists, his literary longings 
 asserted their sway upon his mind with greater 
 strength than ever. He wrote and published 
 " Les Contes de Ninon." It is hardly necessary 
 to state that his publisher was not Hachette. The 
 book brought him at once into public notice. He 
 improved the opportunity, and sought employment 
 on the staff of the " Figaro." Editor Villemes- 
 sant, ever ready to recognize and encourage tal- 
 ent, made him book reviewer. The event was 
 
248 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 celebrated by Zola witli a banquet, which will 
 long occupy a place in the annals of Yaugirard 
 Street, where he lived. In a brilliant speech he 
 said that he considered his entry into journalism 
 as his " deliverance from bureaucratic servitude "; 
 and he might have added," from romance." Trans- 
 formation was never more complete. Zola threw 
 himself into the fight against all manner of ideal- 
 ism, with the fire of a Southerner and the stubborn- 
 ness of a Northerner. Never has a man been more 
 consistent in battling for what he believed to be 
 the truth. There is not a single word in all he 
 has written that is at variance with the most dar- 
 ing realism, or, as he calls it, naturalism. 
 
 " Here is his greatest merit," De Amicis says. 
 " He has dashed to the ground with one blow all 
 the toilet articles of literature, and has washed 
 with a cloth of unbleached linen the bedizened 
 face of Truth. He has written the first popular 
 novel in which the people are pictured as they 
 really are. If, in accomplishing his object, he has 
 perhaps overstepped the limits of true art, he has 
 nevertheless sho\\ai us much that is new — new 
 forms, new colors, new shadings — much, in short, 
 from which others may profit, though they have 
 very different aims in view." 
 
 It will not be amiss to investigate under what 
 circumstances this radical change came about. 
 Flaubert had already obtained an enormous suc- 
 cess by his " Mademoiselle Bovary." Those Sia- 
 
EMILE ZOLA. 249 
 
 mese twins of French literature, the brothers 
 Goncourt, with their " Germinie Lacerteux," had 
 gone a step further toward the theory that every- 
 thing in nature is worth artistic representation, 
 and that the improvement of the human race does 
 not depend on the idealization of life, but on its 
 faithful reproduction, especially as regards its 
 lowest and more disgusting features. Their books 
 were read with avidity. Realism made every day 
 new adepts in all branches of art. Cezanne, a 
 painter whose daring surpassed even Courbet's, 
 attracted public attention, though his paintings 
 were invariably rejected by the Salon, chiefly on 
 account of their obscenity. Cezanne painted any- 
 thing that happened to fall under his eyes. Ma- 
 net, who has since attained the reputation of a 
 clever artist, pushed naturalism in painting to its 
 utmost limits, ridiculing the ideal, scoffing at the 
 great masters, slavishly copying nature, and dis- 
 daining to admit within the compass of art any- 
 thing but the materialistic surface of things. All 
 these men were Zola's intimate friends, to the list 
 of which should be added Courbet, Duranty, and 
 Alphonse Daudet. Although the latter belonged 
 to another school, he sympathized with the new 
 impulse that all these hot-headed young men im- 
 pressed upon art. He saw no reason why the 
 lower strata of society should not have their poet 
 and novelist, and why they should be beautified 
 with an idealism that they were far from possess- 
 
250 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 ing. !fimile Zola had actually lived among the 
 poorer classes of Paris. He had more than one 
 opportunity to perceive that the other novelists, 
 even the truest, had not painted life such as it is. 
 Prejudice and imagination had thrown a veil be- 
 tween the writer and reality. " Between their rep- 
 resentations of human character and reality there 
 was the same difference as between a portrait on 
 canvas and the reflection of a human face in a 
 mirror." He thought that the time had come to 
 tell the truth — the naked truth. What else was 
 required to render Zola a thorough realist ? He 
 became the standard-bearer of this school. His 
 friends fought their battles by writing novels and 
 painting — Zola by writing for the daily press. 
 Being the most exposed to blows, he became the 
 most violent of the band. He hacked and hewed 
 as Cassagnac has done in behalf of Bonapartism, 
 and Rochefort in defense of Socialism and Com- 
 munism. In 1867 Zola was charged with writing 
 the review of the Salon for " Figaro." His first 
 article aroused a regular storm. The battle in- 
 toxicated him, and he made a butchery of all the 
 idols of the French artistic world. Even the " Fi- 
 garo," which has ever been open to the boldest 
 assertions, was obliged to bow to public opinion, 
 and Zola was ordered to suspend his " Salon " af- 
 ter the appearance of his fourth article. 
 
 Discharged by Villemessant, he had a great 
 deal of trouble to get anything to do. This was 
 
fiMILE ZOLA. 251 
 
 the most trying period of his life. It was then 
 that he had the opportunity to make those deep 
 and sad studies of the lower Parisian classes 
 which figure in " L'Assommoir " and in " Ventre 
 de Paris." There he studied vice and hunger, 
 worked, suffered, lost heart, and struggled on 
 bravely. Zola next wrote for other newspapers ; 
 but the violence of his attacks upon any literary 
 man or artist who did not side with him rendered 
 a long connection with any of them impossible. 
 His article, " The Morrow After the Crisis," pub- 
 lished in " Le Corsaire," caused the paper to be 
 suppressed. Zola perceived that the day was 
 drawing near when his articles would be declined 
 by almost every paper in Paris. The success he 
 had obtained by a few novels, such as " Le Yoeu 
 d'une Morte" (1866), and "The Mysteries of 
 Marseilles," in the style of the famous "Mys- 
 teries of Paris," by Sue (1869), encouraged him 
 to seek a source of revenue that would insure him 
 against want for years to come, and enable him 
 to carry out a plan which he had long contem- 
 plated. The idea of writing a series of physio- 
 logical romances first suggested itself to his mind 
 while he was writing " Madeleine Ferat," a novel 
 which hinges upon an incident in the life of a girl 
 of which the author had been a witness. Being 
 abandoned by the man she loves, the girl, after 
 some time, marries another, and has, later on, a 
 child who is a likeness of her first lover. From 
 
252 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 that moment the plan of a vast work of fiction 
 illustrating physiological problems flashed through 
 his mind, and he traced at once the genealogical 
 tree that he has called " Page d' Amour." Accord- 
 ingly, he went to see the publisher Lacroix, and 
 offered to wi'ite for him a series of twenty novels 
 illustrating the life of the Second Empire. The bar- 
 gain was concluded upon the following basis : Zola 
 was to receive five hundred francs a month for 
 ten years, and was yearly to deliver the copy for 
 two novels, which were to become the publisher's 
 absolute property for ten years from publication. 
 Zola was thus enabled to realize the dream of his 
 life — to retire to the country, and live like a peace- 
 ful farmer in a cottage surrounded by chickens 
 and rabbits. The warlike novelist, who, like a 
 raving iconoclast, is never tired of breaking the 
 images of the old beliefs, abhors noise, and is a 
 hermit by temperament. The life of his predi- 
 lection was seriously endangered by the dissolu- 
 tion of the Lacroix firm when only two volumes 
 of the now famous series, "Les Rougon-Mac- 
 quart," had been issued ; but the enterprising 
 young Charpentier had succeeded his father in 
 the management of his well-known publishing 
 house, and he offered to carry out the treaty that 
 Zola had signed with Lacroix. At the end of 
 three years, however, Zola owed his publisher ten 
 thousand francs. He had regularly drawn his 
 salary, but, habitually working very slowly, had 
 
ifiMILE ZOLA. 253 
 
 failed to deliver tlie required number of volumes. 
 He was requested to call upon the publisher, and 
 expected a rebuke, but was greeted with the fol- 
 lowing words : " I make a good deal of money- 
 out of your novels. I will not take advantage of 
 a contract that you were compelled to sign by 
 necessity. Let us sign a new one, to which I will 
 give a retroactive effect. Not only you owe me 
 nothing, but it is I who owe you ten thousand 
 francs. Here is the money." According to the 
 new contract, Zola receives a royalty upon the 
 sale of his books. His yearly income, taking into 
 consideration his pay for articles that he sends to 
 a Russian review, now averages twenty thousand 
 francs. It was Turguenieff who procured for 
 him the place as literary correspondent for the 
 Russian review. 
 
 Notwithstanding his fierce way of writing, 
 Zola is eminently good-natured, ever ready to 
 render service to his friends, steadfast and loving, 
 and, above all, orderly in his habits. As regards 
 his private life, he has been compared to a saintly 
 country priest. "His existence," writes Albert 
 Wolff, " glides on, even, monotonous, unvaried. 
 He rises always at the same hour, installs himself 
 before his writing desk, takes up the novel he has 
 in hand, and writes every morning the same num- 
 ber of pages, just as a clerk would do his busi- 
 ness correspondence. He is never overwhelmed 
 by fits of laziness or by an unusual desire to work. 
 
254 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 This Southerner is as cold as a Laplander. He 
 never leaves anything to chance. Inspii-ation 
 obeys him at the needed moment. He never 
 overworks her, but she owes him a certain num- 
 ber of lines every day, and he must have them. 
 His day's work is divided into two parts. The 
 morning belongs to the novelist, and the after- 
 noon to the journalist. When the clock strikes 
 twelve, he goes to his luncheon, the eating of 
 which is one of his grave occupations. He is a 
 great eater. Luncheon being over, he invariably 
 takes a nap. He awakes a journalist, and pro- 
 ceeds just as methodically to write either his dra- 
 matic criticisms, in which he tears to pieces all 
 the plays that have been produced during the 
 week, or the critical essays that he monthly sends 
 to the Russian review. The one on French nov- 
 elists is not yet forgotten. When he is reproached 
 for the violence of his attacks, he wonders that 
 people can get angry at him, and coolly answers, 
 *They may write anything they wish about my 
 works, and I have a right to say of others all that 
 I think.'" I can not understand, in fact, why 
 the majority of critics should be so bitter against 
 him, his right to build up a new order of fiction 
 being granted. His principles may be faulty ; 
 perhaps his talent might have shone more bril- 
 liantly had he dealt with subjects less revolting, 
 but it is doubtful whether he would have attained 
 his professed object, which is the reform of the 
 
^MILE ZOLA. 255 
 
 lowest classes of French society, had he stopped 
 short of that vivid and thorough picture which 
 he presents of their vices. 
 
 !lSmile Zola, in the opinion of many critics, so far 
 from being immoral, is the most moral of French 
 novelists. " He makes us smell the odor of vice, not 
 its perfume," Edmondo De Amicis says of him. 
 "His nude figures are those of the anatomical 
 table, which do not inspire the slightest immoral 
 thought. There is not one of his books, not even 
 the crudest, that does not leave in the soul, pure, 
 firm, and immutable, the aversion or scorn for the 
 base passions of which he treats. Brutally, piti- 
 lessly, and without hypocrisy he exposes vice, and 
 holds it up to ridicule, standing so far off from 
 it that he does not touch it with his garments. 
 Forced by his hand, it is vice itself that says, 
 * Detest me, and pass by.' The scandal which 
 comes from his novels is only for the eyes and 
 ears. . . . All who take up for the first time the 
 novels of Zola must conquer a feeling of repug- 
 nance. Then, whatever be the final judgment 
 pronounced upon the writer, one is glad that he 
 has read his works, and arrives at the conclusion 
 that he ought to have done so. . . . It is like 
 finding truth for the first time. Certain it is that, 
 no matter how strong one is, or whether he has le 
 nez solide, like Gervaise at the hospital, some- 
 times he must spring back as if from a sudden 
 whiff of foul air. But even at these points, 
 17 
 
256 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 though in the act of protesting violently, ^ This is 
 too much ! ' there is a devil in us which laughs 
 and frolics and enjoys itself hugely at our dis- 
 comfiture." 
 
 Zola, for two or three weeks at a time, will 
 never pass the threshold of the garden that envi- 
 rons his house in the Rue de Boulogne, where he 
 lives with his mother, his wife, and his two little 
 girls. He seldom goes into society, malicious peo- 
 ple say, on account of his ugliness and conversa- 
 tional dullness, which expose him to unfavorable 
 comparison with many literary men not half so 
 clever as he. The true reason probably is that he 
 considers it an intolerable drudgery to conform 
 his mind and manners to the conventionality by 
 which society is governed. He accepts no invi- 
 tation to dinner but from his friend Charpentier. 
 When the conversation grows lively, he becomes 
 restless. As soon as he can leave the table, he re- 
 tires to some lonely room, stretches himself in an 
 arm-chair, and soon sleeps his epicurean nap. He 
 must have at least twelve hours of sleep every 
 day, or he does not feel- like himself. If he pays 
 no visits, he loves to have his friends at his house. 
 His dearest friend was the late Gustave Flau- 
 bert. His most assiduous visitors are Daudet, 
 Goncourt, Manet, and a few young men of his 
 school. Once a month Turguenieff, Flaubert, Zola, 
 and Goncourt used to take breakfast together. 
 Every time they did so, a discussion on the lit- 
 
l^MILE ZOLA. 257 
 
 erary merit of some Frencli classic author arose, 
 which " kept them chained to the table for half 
 the day." Zola has a sort of veneration for 
 Flaubert, whom he recognizes as his master. He 
 claims for himself only the secondary rdle of 
 standard-bearer, and surely no one is more apt 
 to defend it than he. If he has sowed death 
 around him, it has been rather to bring into re- 
 lief the figures of his friends than his own. He 
 had been accused of vanity and presumption, 
 and of building his reputation on the ruins of 
 others. He refuted the charge, in a letter to 
 Albert Wolff of the " Figaro," from the columns 
 of which the attack was directed against him, in 
 an article entitled " The Dream of M. Zola." 
 
 " Medan, December 23, 1878. 
 
 "Then, my fellow brother of the press, you 
 think that I am extremely vain ? That it is my 
 vanity which dictates my pages, and that I ex- 
 terminate my fellow writers in order to make a 
 tabula rasa around myself ? A fine insinuation 
 this that you throw before the public. 
 
 " Let us reason a little. 
 
 " Is my frankness that of an ambitious man ? 
 Do you think I am so na'ive as not to foresee that, 
 by saying aloud what others are content to 
 whisper, I shut all doors against myself ? To fol- 
 low such a business one must have wholly re- 
 
258 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 nounced recompenses and honors. If one wants 
 to reign, he must have more suppleness. 
 
 "You have described the dream of Victor 
 Hugo, or the dream of Courbet, but not the 
 dream of Zola. Victor Hugo and Courbet are 
 the two types of the hypertrophied personality of 
 the man who, for lack of criticism, has passed 
 into a god. As for me, I am but the soldier of 
 an idea — of a fixed idea, if you will. I judge 
 painters, dramatic authors, romancers, always 
 from the same standpoint ; hence all this scream- 
 ing. 
 
 " I, alas ! am not so strong as you seem to think 
 me. I pass whole weeks in the belief that I am an 
 idiot, and in the desire of tearing up my manu- 
 scripts. No man is more harassed by doubt of 
 himself. I work, but in a fever, and in continual 
 fear that I shall not satisfy myself. Devotedly 
 yours, ]S. Zola." 
 
 No authors have been more roughly handled 
 by Zola than the luminous stars of the French 
 stage — Dumas, Feuillet, and Sardou. Sara Bern- 
 hardt, an earnest admirer of his works, once intro- 
 duced him to Perrin, the amiable director of the 
 Comedie Fran9aise. 
 
 " Well, my dear Zola," said Perrin, tapping 
 the novelist's shoulder, "I read your dramatic 
 criticisms with great interest, and perhaps you 
 are sometimes right when you bury your teeth in 
 
EMILE ZOLA. 259 
 
 the flesh of our dramatists ; but how can I help 
 it ? Until you bring me a play better than theirs, 
 I am bound to offer to my public the works of 
 Augier, Dumas, Feuillet, and Sardou." 
 
 Thus it came that Zola, after writing " The- 
 rese Roquin," which had a disputed success at 
 the Theatre de la Renaissance in 1873, and " Les 
 Heritiers Rabourdin," a humorous play, which was 
 represented in 1874 at the Theatre Cluny, is now 
 trying his hand for the first theatre in the world. 
 It is said that " Nana " will furnish the subject 
 for it. Let the reader speculate at will upon the 
 subject. As for me, I am ready to wager that it 
 will prove revolting to many a delicate mind, but 
 surely it will not harm half as many women as has 
 Dumas's idealistic conception of " La Dame aux 
 Camelias." 
 
 Zola once lived at the end of Avenue de Cli- 
 chy. From his windows he could see the heroes 
 of " L'Assommoir " move in the street below. He 
 now lives in more aristocratic quarters — Rue de 
 Boulogne, near the house of Yictorien Sardou. 
 The Rue de Boulogne is one of the most charm- 
 ing country-like suburbs of Paris. The house in- 
 dicates the elegant ease that a popular Parisian 
 writer always enjoys, and the fine artistic taste of 
 its owner. His study is a large, comfortable, 
 well-lighted room, decorated with such care as 
 bespeaks the home - loving man. Emile Zola 
 passes most of his life in this room, be it either in 
 
260 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 writing, studying, conversing, or sleeping. He 
 has himself described his way of writing a novel 
 in a conversation he had with E. de Amicis, from 
 which we extract and condense a few passages. 
 " I commence to work on a novel," says the author 
 of ''My Hatreds," "without either knowing the 
 events that will occur, the personages who will 
 take part in it, or what will be the beginning or 
 the end. I know only my leading character, my 
 Rongon or Macquart, man or woman, who is al- 
 ways an old acquaintance. I meditate upon his 
 temperament, the family in which he was born, 
 the first impressions he may have received, and 
 upon the social class to which I have determined he 
 shall belong. I study next from nature the peo- 
 ple with whom this personage will have to deal, 
 their haunts, the air they will have to breathe, 
 their professions and habits, even to the most in- 
 significant occupations to which they will devote 
 the different portions of the day. While study- 
 ing out these things, there suddenly occurs to my 
 mind a series of descriptions which can find place 
 in the story, and will be like milestones on the 
 road that my hero must travel. Have I to describe 
 a first representation in one of our most elegant 
 theatres, a supper at one of our great restaurants, 
 and the like, I frequent these places for some time, 
 notice everything, ask questions, take notes, and 
 divine the rest. After two or three months of 
 this study, I become acquainted with that sort of 
 
]fiMILE ZOLA, 261 
 
 life. I see, feel, and live it in my mind, so that I 
 am sure of giving to my novel the color and real 
 perfume of that world. Besides this, living for 
 some time, as I have done, in that circle of soci- 
 ety, I have known the people belonging to it ; I 
 have h^ard real facts related, have known many 
 things that really happened there, have learned 
 the language spoken there, and have in my re- 
 membrance a quantity of types, scenes, fragments 
 of dialogues, and episodes that form a confused 
 novel consisting of a thousand loose and scattered 
 fragments. Then comes what is most difficult to 
 do, namely, to bind with one thread all these rem- 
 iniscences. But I set myself at it quite phlegmat- 
 ically, and instead of employing imagination, I 
 employ logic. I reason with myself, and write 
 down my soliloquies word for word. I seek the 
 immediate consequences of the smallest event ; 
 that which arises logically, naturally, and inevita- 
 bly from the character and situation of the per- 
 sonages represented. I do the work of a detec- 
 tive who, from a clew he has obtained, proceeds to 
 the discovery of some mysterious crime. Some- 
 times I do not succeed in finding a connecting 
 link for the event. Then I cease thinking, be- 
 cause I know it is time lost. Two, three, or four 
 days pass. One fine morning at last, while I am 
 at breakfast and thinking of something else, sud- 
 denly the thread I was looking for is found, and 
 all the difficulty is at an end. My peace of mind 
 
262 FRENCH MEN OF LETTERS. 
 
 being restored, I set myself to the most agreea- 
 ble portion of my work — the writing, which is 
 done almost without correction. A page is hardly 
 written when I put it aside, and never read it 
 again until it is printed. I write three printed 
 pages every day, and I can calculate to a certain- 
 ty the day on which I shall finish my story. I 
 spent six months in writing * line Page d' Amour,' 
 a year in writing * L'Assommoir.' " 
 
 ]Smile Zola is strongly built, slightly resem- 
 bling Victor Hugo, though rather stouter than 
 he, and not quite so tall. He walks as straight 
 as an arrow. His face is framed by very black 
 and thick beard and hair, which, by contrast, in- 
 tensifies the paleness of his countenance. He 
 has a beautiful broad forehead, stamped by a 
 straight and deep furrow, and the mien of a man 
 who, having been offended by the world, is agi- 
 tated by thoughts of noble revenge. A tinge of 
 sadness, too, spreads over his countenance, which 
 bespeaks the pain that severity costs his good na- 
 ture. De Amicis completes his portrait by say- 
 ing that when he saw him in his study he was 
 in slippers, without cravat or collar, and wore a 
 loose unbuttoned jacket, which allowed one to see 
 his full, protruding figure, well adapted for breast- 
 ing the waves of literary hatred and ire. 
 
 Such is the man whom, after the "Assom- 
 moir " appeared, some Parisian critics represented 
 as a bundle of vice, a half brute, like Lantier, a 
 
iSMILE ZOLA. 263 
 
 beast like Bee-Sale, and as ugly a specimen of the 
 human race as Bezougue, the grave-digger. Zola 
 himself is, however, responsible in great part for 
 the charge. A book such as "Nana" can not 
 be written with impunity. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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