Part 1

MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN

_VOLUME ONE_

BY

THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

THE REALISTS

PRINTED BY

GEORGE BARRIE & SONS, PHILADELPHIA

1897

THIS EDITION OF

MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN

HAS BEEN COMPLETELY TRANSLATED

BY

I. G. BURNHAM

THE ETCHINGS ARE BY

FRANÇOIS-XAVIER LE SUEUR

AND DRAWINGS BY

ÉDOUARD TOUDOUZE

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN--VOLUME I

MADEMOISELLE DE MAUPIN Front. THE IMAGINARY MISTRESS FIRST MEETING WITH ROSETTE EPISODE OF THE "TOILETTE DE BAL" D'ALBERT AND ROSETTE THE ARRIVAL OF THÉODORE THÉODORE AND THE PAGE ROSETTE'S MORNING AUDIENCE THE ACCIDENTAL DISCOVERY

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE

This celebrated novel, the celebrity of which has not been lessened by the very numerous editions that have been published, had a very modest beginning which in no way foreshadowed the great success which it was to obtain later.

The title: _Mademoiselle de Maupin--Double Love_ appeared, we believe, for the first time in Renduel's catalogue in connection with _The Life of Hoffman_, by Lœve-Weimars, which appeared in October, 1833, announcing the new work of Théophile Gautier as being in press. Renduel had made the acquaintance of the author at Victor Hugo's; he had published in August, 1833, his first volume of prose, _Young France_, and now it was a question of launching a work in two volumes, a truly daring undertaking for a publisher of that day; especially in the case of the work of an author but little known and only twenty-two years old.

_Mademoiselle de Maupin_ was not, however, destined to see the light so soon. For two years Théophile Gautier, more enamored of freedom than of work, or preferring the task of making two harmonious rhymes to all the beauties of his learned and rhythmic prose, incessantly abandoned and resumed the promised work. A tradition preserved in the family of the poet tells how his father often shut him up in his room at that time, forbidding him to leave it until he had completed a certain number of pages of the _Grotesques_ or of _Mademoiselle de Maupin._ When the maternal kindness did not come to his aid, the frolicsome author, who then lived with his parents on Place Royale, often found the means of getting away by the window and so escaping a paternal task. Such escapades being frequently renewed, it may well be believed that the novel made but little progress; 1834 was drawing to a close; only the first of the two volumes was finished; the publisher complained, and the author tried to pacify him by notes similar to the following:

"I have just discovered at a bric-à-brac dealer's a charming picture of Boucher in a splendid state of preservation; it is an opportunity that I do not wish to miss, and not having money enough, I take the liberty of asking you for my balance.[1] You will confer on me a real pleasure in sending it to me.

"I am harnessed to _La Maupin_, and that prevents me from prowling about and calling on you.

"With cordial wishes, I am, yours,

"THÉOPHILE GAUTIER."

Finally, in 1835, the second volume was written in six weeks on Rue du Doyenné, where the poet, having left the paternal nest, had installed himself; the manuscript was delivered to Renduel and we read the following note in _Le Monde Dramatique_, of September 20th, concerning the biography of the strange person who really bore the name of Maupin, a biography signed by Rochefort and published in that number under the title: _Mademoiselle d'Aubigny-Maupin_: "One of our collaborators, Monsieur Théophile Gautier, has been busy for a long time on a romance entitled: _Mademoiselle (de) Maupin._"

The work was now soon to appear; it was issued in November, 1835, in two octavo volumes, printed by Madame Poussin under the title: _Mademoiselle de Maupin--Double Love._ The first volume bears the date 1835, the second 1836, while the preface is dated May, 1834.

The work produced no very great sensation. A few journals spoke of it, but publicity was not then systematized as it is to-day, and except by some few literary men and the small romantic group of the author's friends, _Mademoiselle de Maupin_ was soon forgotten. Let us remark, nevertheless, that immediately the book appeared, Honoré de Balzac wrote Renduel a note, asking for a copy, this note we have seen ourselves; from this moment dates the admiration that he always professed thereafter for Théophile Gautier. We learn from Monsieur Arsène Houssaye, the old and faithful friend of the poet, that owing to the failure to sell the work, Renduel determined not to publish anything more for his author; _La Comédie de la Mort_, already announced upon the covers of the work (as well as _Capitaine Fracasse)_, was, in fact, returned to the author, and only appeared in 1838, when it was published by Desessart, at that time one of Arsène Houssaye's publishers; it was the author of _La Couronne de Bleuets_, who introduced his friend to him and secured a favorable consideration for his collection of verses.

How strange to us and unlikely, even, all this seems, when one recalls the exorbitant prices obtained for some years past for rare, stitched copies in good condition of the first edition of the work that we are now considering. Many have realized one thousand five hundred francs, that is to say, the total sums received by the author as royalty on the first issue of his work. This sum is verified by his receipts to Renduel, which are in our hands.

A curious incident occurred as to _Mademoiselle de Maupin._ After its appearance, all the opening of the eleventh chapter was inserted in _Le Monde Dramatique_ of January 4, 1836, without mentioning its source, under the title of: _La Comédie Romanesque._ Since that time, those pages have been frequently reprinted, but not a single one of these reproductions gives any indication of their origin. It must be admitted that Théophile Gautier himself gave rise to this error in _La Presse_ of December 17, 1838, in again quoting these lines, inserted in an unpublished commentary, as an isolated article which had come under his notice by chance. He had forgotten this extract, and believed in good faith to have found in _La Monde Dramatique_ only a newspaper improvisation. This first mistake was the starting-point of all that succeeded, the most striking of which is the insertion in 1858 of this fragment from _Mademoiselle de Maupin_ in the first volume of Théophile Gautier's work: _Histoire de l'Art Dramatique in France._ It is useless to add that no one noticed this fact.

Time, however, rolled on, and the renown of the poet continued to increase; his appearance in _La Presse_ in 1836, and his critical work, had made a circle of new readers. Then, _Fortunio, La Comédie de la Mort, Une Larme du Diable, Tra Los Montès, Les Grotesques_, etc., etc., had considerably increased his literary _impedimenta._ So, when Monsieur Charpentier, the father of the present publisher of Théophile Gautier's complete works, had founded the collection to which he gave his name, he soon thought of reprinting our author's principal works. Monsieur Charpentier, who succeeded in grouping in his catalogue the most select of the remarkable works of his age, was of refined literary taste and held among the publishers of his day a place similar to that then held by Monsieur Buloz in his capacity of director of _La Revue des Deux Mondes_: it was difficult to obtain an interview with either, and to appear in print in their collections was regarded as a kind of consecration.

It was in 1845 when four of Théophile Gautier's volumes appeared in the Charpentier catalogue; they were _Poésies Complètes, Nouvelles, Voyage en Espagne_, and _Mademoiselle de Maupin._ For this reprint, the first since the original edition[2], the author modified, but very slightly, some phrases of his work, the text of which, from that time, has never been changed.

Here ends, in reality, the history of this work. Since 1845, the number of editions has continued to increase; we will only quote two that appeared in 1878: one in two volumes, 24mo, illustrated with four designs by Eugèn Giraud, and another in a large 12mo volume, upon Holland paper, embellished with a portrait of the heroine by Théophile Gautier himself, the portrait dated 1834. Finally, in 1880, there was added to a reprint of this edition, a reproduction of the medallion of the author by David d'Anger; this reproduction is erroneously dated 1834, instead of 1835, which is the actual year of its execution.

Is it possible, as has often been asserted, that this work, whose incomparable style should have warranted the opening of the doors of the Académie Française to the author, was in part the cause of their remaining stubbornly closed against him?--We do not know; but from another tradition preserved in the poet's family, it would appear that the father himself, when he knew of the completion of the work (only the first volume, as we have seen, was written under his eyes), could not have been without apprehension as to the part which the book would play in the life of his son, and, notwithstanding his admiration for the style of the work, he would often have expressed the fear that the second volume would at times influence the future of the author.

In any case, the renown of Théophile Gautier, like that of his illustrious friend, Honoré de Balzac, who, likewise, was never a member of the Académie, has only increased since his death, and the names of these two rare talents are in truth missed among those of the members of that illustrious body. For Théophile Gautier at least, the Académie itself expressed one day, by the mouth of one of its members, its regret at not having received him. On October 25, 1872, at its public session and at the very hour of the obsequies of the great writer, Monsieur Camille Doucet pronounced the following words which do honor to their author, and we are happy to reproduce them here: "Permit me to digress a moment. When I speak of the fraternity of Letters, I should fail, messieurs, if I appeared longer to forget that at this very hour, upon the threshold of a tomb, which I have left only with regret to come here to fulfil another duty, Letters mourning, weep for a true poet dear to all, a brilliant writer whose wit was thoroughly French and whose heart was still more French. Very many votes have proved to him that his place was indicated among us, and so we deplore the more the sudden stroke to which Théophile Gautier succumbs."

We will add nothing to these touching lines and will close this notice by saying a few words as to the present edition of _Mademoiselle de Maupin._ It is the first reprint, absolutely conforming to the original text. The work appears in two volumes, divided like those of 1835, and the publishers have exerted every effort to satisfy bibliophiles desirous of possessing as perfect an edition as possible, both as regards the exactness of the text and the technical execution of the work.

Finally, let us say that the designs of E. Toudouze, made especially for this work, will render this edition still more complete. It will rank, we hope, among the most treasured editions of the book.

CHARLES DE LOVENJOUL.

NOTES

[Footnote 1: Of his royalties as author of _Young France._]

[Footnote 2: _Figaro_, of May 26, 1837, and some other journals, announced the sale, at Renduel's, of a second edition of this book. It was only the first edition that the publisher was trying to get rid of by this means.]

PREFACE

One of the most burlesque incidents of the glorious epoch in which we have the good fortune to live side by side with Deutz and General Bugeaud, is, beyond question, the rehabilitation of virtue undertaken by all the newspapers, of whatever color they may be, red, green, or tri-colored.

Virtue is most assuredly a very respectable thing, and we have no wish to fail in our devotion to the excellent, worthy creature--God forbid!--We consider that her eyes shine with sufficient brilliancy through her spectacles, that her stockings are reasonably well put on, that she takes snuff from her gold snuff-box with all imaginable grace, that her little dog courtesies like a dancing-master.--We agree to all that.--We are even willing to admit that her figure is not bad for her age, and that she carries her years as well as any one could. She is a very agreeable grandmother, but she is a grandmother. It seems to me to be natural to prefer to her, especially when one is twenty years old, some little immorality, very pert, very coquettish, very wanton, with the hair a little out of curl, the skirt rather short than long, the foot and eye alluring, the cheek slightly flushed, a smile on the lips and the heart in the hand.--The most horribly virtuous journalists can hardly be of a different opinion; and, if they say the contrary, it is very probable that they do not think it. To think one thing and write another is something that happens every day, especially among virtuous folk.

I remember the epigrams uttered before the Revolution--I refer to the Revolution of July--against the ill-fated and virginal Vicomte Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld, who lengthened the skirts of the dancers at the Opéra and applied with his own patrician hands a chaste plaster around the middle of all the statues.--Monsieur le Vicomte Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld is far surpassed.--Modesty has been greatly perfected since his day, and we go into refinements that he would never have imagined.

I, who am not accustomed to look at statues in certain places, considered, as others did, the vine-leaf cut by the scissors of Monsieur le Chargé des Beaux-Arts, the most absurd thing in the world. It seems that I was wrong, and that the vine-leaf is one of the most meritorious of institutions.

I have been told, but I refused to believe it, it seemed to me so extraordinary, that there were people who, when looking at Michael Angelo's fresco of the _Last Judgment_, had seen nothing therein but the episode of the lewd priests, and had veiled their faces, crying out at the abomination of desolation!

Such people know nothing of the romance of Rodrigue except the couplet of the snake.--If there is any nudity in a book or a picture, they go straight to it as the swine to the mire, and pay no attention to the blooming flowers or the golden fruit that hang within reach on all sides.

I confess that I am not virtuous enough for that. Dorine, the brazen-faced soubrette, may display before me her swelling bosom, I certainly will not draw my handkerchief to cover it so that it cannot be seen.--I will look at her bosom as at her face, and if it is fair and well-shaped I will take pleasure in it.--But I will not touch Elmire's dress to see if it is soft, nor will I push her reverently upon the table as that poor devil of a Tartuffe did.

This great affectation of morality that reigns to-day would be very laughable if it were not very tiresome.--Every _feuilleton_ becomes a pulpit; every journalist a preacher; only the tonsure and the little neckband are wanting. The weather is rainy and homiletic; one can defend one's self against both by going out only in a carriage and reading Pantagruel between one's bottle and one's pipe.

Blessed Jesus! what an outcry! what a frenzy!--Who bit you? who pricked you? what the devil's the matter with you that you cry so loud, and what has poor vice done to you that you should bear him such a grudge, he is such a good fellow, so easy to live with, and asks nothing except to be allowed to amuse himself and not bore others, if such a thing can be? Act with vice like Serre with the gendarme: embrace and have done with it all.--Believe me, you will be the better for it.--Eh! _Mon Dieu_! my worthy preachers, what would you do without vice? You would be reduced to beggary to-morrow, if the world should become virtuous to-day.

The theatres would be closed to-night.--What would you take for the subject of your _feuilleton_?--No more Opéra balls to fill your columns,--no more novels to dissect; for balls, novels, plays, are the real pomps of Satan, if we are to believe our holy Mother Church.--The actress would dismiss her protector and could no longer pay you for puffing her.--Nobody would subscribe to your newspapers; people would read Saint Augustine, they would go to church, they would tell their beads. That would be very praiseworthy, perhaps, but you would gain nothing by it. If people were virtuous, what would you do with your articles on the immorality of the age? You see plainly that vice is good for something.

But it is the fashion nowadays to be virtuous and Christ-like, it is an attitude people affect; they pose as Saint Jeromes just as they used to pose as Don Juans; they are pale and wasted, they wear their hair as the apostles did, they walk with folded hands and eyes glued to the ground, they assume an expression sugared to perfection; they have an open Bible on the mantel, a crucifix and consecrated box-wood above their beds; they never swear, they smoke but little, and they chew almost not at all.--With that they become Christians, they talk about the sanctity of art, the lofty mission of the artist, the poesy of Catholicism, about Monsieur de La Mennais, about the painters of the angelic school, about the Council of Trent, about progressive humanity, and about a thousand other fine things.--Some infuse a little republicanism into their religion, they are not the least interesting. They couple Robespierre and Jesus Christ in the most cheerful way and amalgamate with praiseworthy gravity the Acts of the Apostles and the decrees of the _Holy_ Convention--that is the sacramental title; others add, for a final ingredient, some Saint-Simonian ideas.--These latter are complete, they rest upon a square foundation; after them we can look for nothing better. Human absurdity can go no farther,--_has ultra metas_--etc. They are the Hercules Pillars of Burlesque.

Christianity is so in vogue by reason of the prevailing hypocrisy, that even Neo-Christianity enjoys a certain amount of favor. They say that it can boast thus far one recruit, Monsieur Drouineau included.

An extremely interesting variety of the moral journalist, properly so-called, is the journalist with a female family.

He carries his modest sensitiveness to the point of anthropophagy, or very nearly that.

His mode of procedure, although it seems at the first glance simple and easy, is none the less clownish and superlatively entertaining, and in my opinion it deserves to be handed down to posterity--to our last nephews, as the old fogies of the so-called _Grand Siècle_ used to say.

In the first place, to pose as a journalist of this variety, you need some few preliminary utensils--such as two or three legitimate wives, a few mothers, as many sisters as possible, a full assortment of daughters, and cousins innumerable.--The second requisite is a play or novel of some sort, a pen, ink, paper, and a printer. Perhaps it would be as well to have an idea or two and several subscribers; but you can do without them, if you have a large stock of philosophy and the shareholders' money.

When you have all these things you can set up as a moral journalist. The two following recipes, varied to suit the occasion, will suffice for the editorial part.

_Models of Virtuous Articles Concerning a First Performance._

"After the literature of blood, the literature of mud; after the morgue and the galleys, the alcove and the brothel; after the rags stained by murder, the rags stained by debauchery; after," etc. (according to the necessity of the occasion and the available space, you can continue in this vein from six lines to fifty or more),--"this is as it should be.--This is where neglect of sacred doctrines and romantic licentiousness lead: the stage has become a school of prostitution where one dares not venture, save with fear and trembling, with a woman one respects. You come upon the faith of an illustrious name, and you are obliged to retire at the third act with your young daughter all confused and abashed. Your wife hides her blushes behind her fan; your sister, your cousin," etc. (The degrees of relationship may be diversified at pleasure; it is enough that they be all females.)

NOTE.--There is one man who has carried morality so far as to say: "I will not go to see that play with my mistress."--That man I admire and love; I carry him in my heart, as Louis XVIII. carried all France in his; for he has conceived the most triumphant, the most monumental, the most insane, the most extravagant idea that has passed through the brain of man in this blessed nineteenth century, which has seen the birth of so many and such amusing ideas.

The method of dealing with a book is very expeditious and within the range of every intellect:

"If you choose to read this book, lock yourself securely into your own room; do not leave it lying on the table. If your wife and your daughter should open it, they would be lost.--This is a dangerous book, it advises vicious habits. It would have made a great success, perhaps, in the time of Crébillon, in the houses of kept mistresses, at a duchess's select supper-parties; but now that morals are purified, now that the hand of the people has razed the rotten edifice of aristocracy, and that,--etc., etc.--there must be in every work an idea--an idea--yes, a moral and religious idea which--an exalted and profound aim, answering to the needs of humanity; for it is a deplorable thing that young writers should sacrifice the most sacred things to success, and should expend their talent--a notable talent by the way--in lewd descriptions that would make a captain of dragoons blush."--(The virginity of the captain of dragoons is, after the discovery of America, the most delightful discovery that has been made for a long while.)--"The novel we are considering recalls Justine, the philosophic Thérèse, Félicia, Compère Matthieu, the Contes de Grécourt, the Priapées of the Marquis de Sade." The virtuous journalist is immensely erudite in the matter of filthy novels;--I am very curious to know why.

It may be obtained at Eugène Renduel's, Rue des Grands-Augustins, No. 22. A handsome volume in 8vo. with vignette. Price 7 francs 50 centimes.

_Eccò_,--_ecce_,--see it.

It is frightful to think that, through the fault of the newspapers, there are many honest manufacturers who have only these two recipes to live upon, they and the numerous families they employ.

Apparently I am the most monumentally immoral personage to be found in Europe or elsewhere; for I can see nothing more licentious in the novels and plays of the present day than in the novels and plays of an earlier time, and I find it difficult to understand why the ears of the gentlemen of the journals have suddenly become so Jansenically ticklish.

I do not believe that the most innocent newspaper man will dare to say that Pigault-Lebrun, Crébillon Fils, Louvet, Voisenon, Marmontel, and all other writers of novels and tales do not surpass in immorality, since there is such a thing as immorality, the most dissolute and licentious productions of Messieurs Such-an-one and So-and-so, whom I do not name out of regard for their modesty.

One must be most notoriously false to his convictions not to agree to that.

Let not the objection be made that I have cited names little known or unfavorably known. If I have not mentioned the brilliant, imperishable names, it is not because they will not support my assertion with the weight of their great authority.

The novels and tales of Voltaire, aside from the question of merit, are most assuredly no more suitable to be given as prizes to little slips of boarding-school misses than are the immoral tales of our friend the lycanthropist, or even the moral tales of the insipid Marmontel.