CHAPTER II

Illustrious contemporaries--The sentence written on my foundation stone--My reply--I settle down in the place des Italiens--M. de Leuven's table--M. Louis-Bonaparte's witty saying--Lassagne gives me my first lesson in literature and history

When I came up to Paris, the men who held illustrious rank in literature, among whom I sought a place, were--MM. de Chateaubriand, Jouy, Lemercier, Arnault, Étienne, Baour-Lormian, de Béranger, Ch. Nodier, Viennet, Scribe, Théaulon, Soumet, Casimir Delavigne, Lucien Arnault, Ancelot, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Désaugiers and Alfred de Vigny. It will, of course, be understood that I do not rank them in the order I have written down their names. Then follow men whose interests were half literary half political, such as--MM. Cousin, Salvandy, Villemain, Thiers, Augustin Thierry, Michelet, Mignet, Vitet, Cavé, Mérimée and Guizot. Then, finally, those who were not yet famous, but were gradually coming forward, such as Balzac, Soulié, de Musset, Sainte-Beuve, Auguste Barbier, Alphonse Karr, Théophile Gautier.

The three women of the day were all poets--Mesdames Desbordes-Valmore, Amable Tastu, Delphine Gay. Madame Sand was still unknown, and did not reveal her powers until the production of _Indiana_, in 1828 or 1829, I believe.

I knew the whole of this _pléiade_, who entertained the world with their wit and poetry for over half a century--some as friends and supporters, others as enemies and adversaries. Neither the benefits I have received from the former, nor the harm the latter sought to do me, shall influence in the slightest degree the judgments I shall pass on them. The first, in supporting me, have not caused me to climb higher by one step; the second, in trying to hinder me, have not kept me back one step. Through all the friendships, hatreds, jealousies of a life that has been harassed in its minor details, but ever calm and serene in its progress, I reached the position God had assigned me; I attained it without the aid of intrigues or cliques, and advanced only by my own endeavours. I have reached the summit which every man mounts half-way through life, and I ask for nothing, I desire nothing, I covet nothing. I have many friendships, I have not a single enmity. If, at the starting-point of my life, God had said to me, "Young man, what do you desire?" I should not have dared to demand from His infinite greatness that which He has condescended to grant me out of His fatherly goodness. So I will say all I have to say of the men I have named, according as they have appeared to me on my path through life: if I conceal anything, it will be the evil I know about them. Why should I be unjust to them? Not one among them possessed a single honour or good fortune in exchange for which I ever had any desire to barter my reputation or my purse.

Yesterday I read the following words, written by an unknown hand on the foundation stone of a house which I had caused to be built for me, and which, until I or someone else can inhabit it, as yet shelters only sparrows and swallows:--

"O Dumas! tu n'as pas su jouir, et pourtant tu regretteras! E. L."

I wrote underneath:--

"Niais!... si tu es un homme. Menteuse!... si tu es une femme. A. D."

But I took good care to obliterate the sentence.

Let us return to my contemporaries, and add to the list of famous names that led me to these reflections.

Among musical composers, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Auber, Donizetti, Bellini, Liszt, Thalberg. Among dramatic artists, Talma, Lafont, Mars, Duchesnois, Georges, Leverd, Frédérick (Lemaître), Dorval, Potier, Monrose père, Déjazet, Smithson, Lablache, Macready, Karatikin, Miss Faucit, Schroeder-Devrient, la Malibran, la Hungher.

I have had the honour to know several kings and princes,--they will have their place,--but my kings in the realms of art come before all, my princes in imagination have first place. To each sovereign his due honour.

When I came out of my office, or rather from the bookshop where I had bought _Jean Sbogar_, I made haste to the place des Italiens. My waggon load of furniture was waiting at the door; it took but an hour to settle my household arrangements, and at the end of that time all was finished.

Of a poet's usual equipment I now had the attic; of the possessions of the happy man, I now had a loft under the tiles. Better than all these things, I was only twenty! I cleared the distance between the place des Italiens and the rue Pigale in no time. I was longing to tell Adolphe that I was installed at the Duc d'Orléans'; that I possessed a desk, paper, pens, ink, sealing-wax, in the Palais-Royal; four chairs, a table, a bed and a room papered yellow in the place des Italiens.

Adolphe very sincerely shared my delight. M. de Leuven, chewing his tooth-pick, gently ridiculed my enthusiasm. Madame de Leuven, the most perfect of women, rejoiced in the joy my mother would feel.

I was invited to fix a regular day on which I should dine at M. de Leuven's. On that day my place should always be laid: it should be an institution in perpetuity. In perpetuity! What a great word!--one so often uttered in life, but one which really exists only in death!

"You are condemned to perpetual imprisonment, monseigneur," said my dear and good friend Nogent Saint-Laurent to Prince Louis-Bonaparte.

"How long does perpetuity last in France, Monsieur Saint-Laurent?" asked the prince.

His perpetuity, as a matter of fact, lasted at Ham for five years--two years less than the perpetuity of M. de Peyronnet and M. de Polignac.

My perpetuity at M. de Leuven's table lasted exactly as long as that of Prince Louis at Ham. I will tell how it came to cease, and I might as well admit at once that the fault was not M. de Leuven's, nor Madame de Leuven's, nor Adolphe's. It was arranged that I should dine there on the following day to make the acquaintance of the Arnault family: this was to be an extra dinner.

It can be realised how preoccupied I was, throughout the twenty-two hours that had to elapse before we sat down to the table, with the thought of dining with the author of _Marius à Minturnes_, the man who had written _Régulus._

I announced the great news to Ernest and to Lassagne. Ernest seemed quite unmoved by it, and Lassagne was only indifferently interested. I badgered Lassagne to know why he was so cold in matters concerning such celebrities.

He answered simply, "I am not of the same political views as those gentlemen, and I do not think much of their literary value either."

I stood astounded.

"But," I asked, "have you not read _Germanicus_?"

"Yes; but it is very bad!"

"Have you not read _Régulus_?"

"Yes; but it is very poor!"

I lowered my head, more astonished than ever.

Then, finally, I struggled to rise from under the weight of the anathema.

"But why are these plays so successful?"

"Talma acts in them ..."

"The reputation of these men ..."

"They bring that about themselves through their newspapers!... When M. de Jouy, M. Arnault or M. Lemercier produces a play in which Talma takes no part, you will see it will only run ten nights."

Again I hung down my head.

"Listen, my dear boy," Lassagne went on, with that wonderful sweetness of his in eyes and voice, and above all with that almost fatherly kindliness that I still noticed in him, when I met him by chance twenty-five years later and had the happiness to greet him,--"listen: you want to become a literary man?"

"Oh yes!" I exclaimed.

"Not so loud!" he said, laughing; "you know I told you not to talk so loud about that ... here, at any rate. Well, when you do write, do not take the literature of the Empire as your model: that is my advice."

"But what shall I take?"

"Well, upon my word, I should be much puzzled to tell you. Our young dramatic authors, Soumet, Guiraud, Casimir Delavigne, Ancelot, certainly possess talent; Lamartine and Hugo are poets--I therefore leave them out of the question; they have not done theatrical work, and I do not know if they are likely to, though if they ever do, I doubt whether they would succeed...."

"Why not?"

"Because the one is too much of a visionary, and the other too much of a thinker. Neither the one nor the other lives in the actual world, and the theatre, you see, my lad, is humanity. I say, then, that our young dramatic authors--Soumet, Guiraud, Casimir Delavigne, Ancelot--have talent; but take particular notice of what I am telling you: they belong purely and solely to a period of transition; they are links which connect the chain of the past to the chain of the future, bridges which lead from what has been to what shall be."

"And what is that which shall be ...?"

"Ah! there, my young friend, you ask me more than I can tell you. The public has not made up its mind; it knows already what it does not want any longer, but it does not yet know what it wants."

"In poetry, in drama or in fiction?"

"In drama and in fiction ... there, nothing is settled; in poetry we need not look farther than to Lamartine and Hugo, who represent the spirit of the age quite sufficiently."

"But Casimir Delavigne ...?"

"Ah! he is different. Casimir Delavigne is the poet of the people: we must leave him his circle; he does not enter into competition."

"Well, in comedy, tragedy, drama, whom ought one to follow?"

"In the first place, you should never imitate anybody; you should study: the man who follows a guide is obliged to walk behind. Will you be content to walk behind?"

"No."

"Then you must study. Do not attempt to produce either comedy, or tragedy, or drama; take passions, events, characters, smelt them all down in the furnace of your imagination, and raise statues of Corinthian bronze."

"What is Corinthian bronze?"

"Don't you know?"

"I know nothing."

"What a happy state to be in!"

"Why?"

"Because then you can find things out for yourself: you need only measure things by the standard of your own intelligence: you need no other rule than that of your own capacity. Corinthian bronze?... have you heard that once upon a time Mummius burnt Corinth?"

"Yes; I think I translated that once somewhere, in the _De Viris._"

"Then you will remember that the heat of the fire melted the gold, silver and brass, which ran down the streets in streams. Now, the mingling of these three, the most valuable of all metals, made one single metal; and they gave to this metal the name of Corinthian bronze. Well, then, the man who will be endowed with the genius to do for comedy, tragedy and the drama that which Mummius, in his ignorance, in his vandalism, in his barbarity, did for gold, silver and brass, who will smelt by aid of the fire of inspiration, and who will melt into one single mould Æschylus, Shakespeare and Molière, he, my dear friend, will have discovered a bronze as precious as the bronze of Corinth."

I pondered for a moment over what Lassagne had said to me. "What you say sounds very beautiful, monsieur," I replied; "and, because it is beautiful, it ought to be true."

"Are you acquainted with Æschylus?"

"No."

"Do you know Shakespeare?"

"No."

"Have you read Molière?"

"Hardly at all."

"Well, read all that those three men have written. When you have read them, re-read them; when you have re-read them, learn them by heart."

"And next?"

"Oh! next?... You will pass from them to those who preceded them--from Æschylus to Sophocles, from Sophocles to Euripides, from Euripides to Seneca, from Seneca to Racine, from Racine to Voltaire, and from Voltaire to Chénier, in the realms of tragedy. Thus you will understand the transformation that altered a race of eagles into a race of parroquets."

"And from Shakespeare to whom shall I turn?"

"From Shakespeare to Schiller."

"And from Schiller?"

"To no one."

"But Ducis?"

"Oh, don't confound Schiller with Ducis. Schiller is inspired, Ducis imitates; Schiller remains original, Ducis became a copyist, and a poor copyist."

"And what about Molière?"

"As to Molière, if you want to study something that is worth taking trouble over, you must ascend, not descend."

"From Molière to whom?"

"From Molière to Terence, from Terence to Plautus, from Plautus to Aristophanes."

"But it seems to me you are forgetting Corneille?"

"I am not forgetting him: I have put him on one side." "Why?"

"Because he is neither an ancient Greek nor an old Roman."

"What is Corneille, then?"

"He is a Cordouan, like Lucan; you will see, when you compare them, that his verse has striking resemblance to the metre of the _Pharsalia_."

"May I write down all you have told me?"

"What for?"

"To act as a guide to my studies."

"You need not trouble, seeing you have me at hand."

"But perhaps I shall not always have you."

"If you have not me, you will have someone else."

"But he might not perhaps know what you do?"

Lassagne shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear lad," he said, "I only know what all the world knows; I only tell you what the first person you met might tell you."

"Then I must be ignorant indeed!" I murmured, letting my head fall into my hands.

"The fact is, you have much to learn; but you are young, you will learn."

"Tell me what needs to be done in fiction?"

"Everything, just as in the drama."

"But I thought we had some excellent novels."

"What have you read in the way of novels?"

"Those of Lesage, Madame Cottin and Pigault-Lebrun."

"What effect did they have on you?"

"Lesage's novels amused me; Madame Cottin's made me cry; Pigault-Lebrun's made me laugh."

"Then you have not read either Goethe, or Walter Scott, or Cooper?"

"I have not read either Goethe, or Walter Scott, or Cooper."

"Well, read them."

"And when I have read them, what shall I do?"

"Make Corinthian bronze all the time; only, try to put in a slight ingredient they all lack."

"What is that?"

"Passion.... Goethe gives us poetry; Walter Scott character studies; Cooper the mysterious grandeur of prairies, forests and oceans; but you will look in vain for passion among them."

"So, a man who could be a poet like Goethe, an observer like Walter Scott, clever at description like Cooper, with the addition of a touch of passion ...?"

"Ah! such a man would be almost perfect."

"Which are the first three works I ought to read of those three masters?"

"Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_, Walter Scott's _Ivanhoe_ and Cooper's _Spy."_

"I read _Jean Sbogar_ through last night."

"Oh, that is another story altogether."

"What kind is it?"

"It belongs to the _genre_ style of novel. But France is not waiting for that."

"What is she waiting for?"

"She is waiting for the historical novel."

"But the history of France is so dull!"

Lassagne raised his head and looked at me.

"What!" he exclaimed.

"The history of France is so dull!" I repeated.

"How do you know that?"

I blushed.

"People have told me it is."

"Poor boy! People have told you!... Read for yourself and then you will have an opinion."

"What must I read?"

"Why, there is a whole world of it: Joinville, Froissart, Monstrelet, Châtelain, Juvénal des Ursins, Montluc, Saulx-Tavannes, l'Estoile, Cardinal de Retz, Saint-Simon, Villars, Madame de la Fayette, Richelieu ... and so I could go on."

"How many volumes do those make?"

"Probably between two and three hundred."

"And you have read them?"

"Certainly."

"And I must read them?"

"If you wish to write novels, you must not only read them, you must get them off by heart."

"Why, you frighten me! I should not be able to write a word for two or three years!"

"Oh! longer than that, or you will write ignorantly."

"Oh, my God! what a lot of time I have lost!"

"You must retrieve it."

"You will aid me, will you not?"

"What about the office?"

"Oh! I will read and study at night; I will work at the office, and we can have a chat from time to time...."

"Yes, like to-day's; but we have talked too much."

"One word more. You have told me what I ought to study in the drama?"

"Yes."

"In romance?"

"Yes."

"In history?"

"Yes."

"Well, now, in poetry, what ought I to study?"

"First, what have you read?"

"Voltaire, Parny, Bertin, Demoustier, Legouvé, Colardeau."

"Good! forget the lot."

"Really?"

"Read Homer as representative of antiquity; Virgil among the Latin poets; Dante in the Middle Ages. I am giving you giants' marrow to feed on."

"And among the moderns?"

"Ronsard, Mathurin, Régnier, Milton, Goethe, Uhland, Byron, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, and especially a little volume which has just been published by Latouche."

"What is the name of it?"

"_André Chénier_."

"I have read it...."

"You have read Marie-Joseph.... Do not confuse Marie-Joseph with André."

"But how am I to read foreign authors when I do not know either Greek or English or German?"

"The deuce! Why, that is simple enough: you must learn those languages."

"How?"

"I do not know; but remember this: one can always learn what one wants to learn. And now I think it is time we gave our attention to business. One more piece of advice."

"What is it?"

"If you mean to follow the instructions I give you...."

"Indeed I do!"

"You must not say a word to M. Arnault of this little scheme of study."

"Why?"

"Because you would not be a friend of his for long."

"You think not?"

"I am certain of it."

"Thanks.... I will keep my mouth shut."

"You will do well. Now, a second word of advice."

"I am listening."

"You must not repeat a word of our conversation either to Oudard or to M. de Broval."

"Why?"

"Because they would not leave us long in the same office."

"The devil! I want to stay in it dreadfully."

"Then it depends on yourself."

"Oh, if it depends on me, we shall be together for many years."

"So be it."

At this point M. Oudard entered, and I set to my task with an avidity that won me many compliments from him at the end of the day.

I made a splendid discovery--which was that I could copy without thinking of what I was copying, and consequently I was able to think of other things whilst copying.

By the second day I had advanced as far as others who had been at work for four or five years.

As will be seen, I was making rapid progress.