Chapter 3

The first page of _Le Petit Chose_ was written in the February of 1866, and was finished during the author's honeymoon, but it was with _Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine_, published six years later, that he made his first real success as a novelist, the work being crowned by the French Academy, and arousing a veritable enthusiasm both at home and abroad.

Alphonse Daudet is not a quick worker; he often allows several years to elapse between his novels, and refuses to bind himself down to any especial date. _Tartarin de Tarascon_ was, however, an exception to this rule, for the author wrote it for Messrs. Guillaume, the well-known art publishers, who, wishing to popularise an improved style of illustration, offered M. Daudet 150,000 francs (L6,000) to write them a serio-comic story. _Tartarin_, which obtained an instant popularity, proved the author's versatility, but won him the hatred of the good people of Provence, who have never forgiven him for having made fun of their foibles. On one occasion a bagman, passing through Tarascon, put, by way of a jest, the name "Alphonse Daudet" in his hotel register. The news quickly spread, and had it not been for the prompt help of the innkeeper, who managed to smuggle him out of the town, he might easily have had cause to regret his foolish joke.

Judging by sales, _Sapho_ has been the most popular of Daudet's novels, for over a quarter of a million copies have been sold. Like most of his stories, its appearance provoked a great deal of discussion, as did the author's dedication "To my two sons at the age of twenty." But, in answer to his critics, Daudet always replies, "I wrote the book with a purpose, and I have succeeded in painting the picture as I wished it to appear. Each of the types mentioned by me really existed; each incident was copied from life...."

The year following its publication M. Daudet dramatised _Sapho_, and the play was acted with considerable success at the Gymnase, Jane Hading being in the _title-role_. Last year the play was again acted in Paris, with Madame Rejane as the heroine.

M. Daudet, like most novelists, takes a special interest in all that concerns dramatic art and the theatre. When his health permits it he is a persistent first-nighter, and most of his novels lend themselves in a rare degree to stage adaptation.

I once asked him what he thought of the attempts now so frequently made to introduce unconventionality and naked realism on the stage.

"I have every sympathy," he replied, "with the attempts made by Antoine and his Theatre Libre to discover strong and unconventional work. But I do not believe in the new terms which a certain school have invented for everything; after all, the play's the thing, whether it is produced by a group who dub themselves romantics, realists, old or new style. Realism is not necessarily real life; a photograph only gives a rigid, neutral side of the object placed in front of the camera. A dissection of what we call affection does not give so vivid an impression of the master-passion as a true love-sonnet written by a poet. Life is a thing of infinite gradations; a dramatist wishes to show existence as it really is, not as it may be under exceptionally revolting circumstances."

His own favourite dramatist and writer is Shakespeare, whom, however, he only knows by translation, and _Hamlet_ and _Desdemona_ are his favourite hero and heroine in the fiction of the world, although he considered Balzac his literary master.

M. Daudet will seldom be beguiled into talking on politics. Like all Frenchmen, the late Panama scandals have profoundly shocked and disgusted him, as revealing a state of things discreditable to the Government of his country. But the creator of Desiree Dolobelle has a profound belief in human nature, and believes that, come what may, the novelist will never lack beautiful and touching models in the world round and about him.

_The Dismal Throng._

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEO. HUTCHINSON.

(_Written after reading the last Study in Literary Distemper._)

The Fairy Tale of Life is done, The horns of Fairyland cease blowing, The Gods have left us one by one, And the last Poets, too, are going! Ended is all the mirth and song, Fled are the merry Music-makers; And what remains? The Dismal Throng Of literary Undertakers!

Clad in deep black of funeral cut, With faces of forlorn expression, Their eyes half open, souls close shut, They stalk along in pale procession; The latest seed of Schopenhauer, Born of a Trull of Flaubert's choosing, They cry, while on the ground they glower, "There's nothing in the world amusing!"

There's Zola, grimy as his theme, Nosing the sewers with cynic pleasure, Sceptic of all that poets dream, All hopes that simple mortals treasure; With sense most keen for odours strong, He stirs the Drains and scents disaster, Grim monarch of the Dismal Throng Who bow their heads before "the Master."

There's Miss Matilda[1] in the south, There's Valdes[2] in Madrid and Seville, There's mad Verlaine[3] with gangrened mouth. Grinning at Rimbaud and the Devil. From every nation of the earth, Instead of smiling merry-makers, They come, the foes of Love and Mirth, The Dismal Throng of Undertakers.

There's Tolstoi, towering in his place O'er all the rest by head and shoulders; No sunshine on that noble face Which Nature meant to charm beholders! Mad with his self-made martyr's shirt, Obscene, through hatred of obsceneness, He from a pulpit built of Dirt Shrieks his Apocalypse of Cleanness!

There's Ibsen,[4] puckering up his lips, Squirming at Nature and Society, Drawing with tingling finger-tips The clothes off naked Impropriety! So nice, so nasty, and so grim, He hugs his gloomy bottled thunder; To summon up one smile from _him_ Would be a miracle of wonder!

There's Maupassant,[5] who takes his cue From Dame Bovary's bourgeois troubles; There's Bourget, dyed his own sick "blue," There's Loti, blowing blue soap bubbles; There's Mendes[6] (no Catullus, he!) There's Richepin,[7] sick with sensual passion. The Dismal Throng! So foul, so free, Yet sombre all, as is the fashion.

"Turn down the lights! put out the Sun! Man is unclean and morals muddy. The Fairy Tale of Life is done, Disease and Dirt must be our study! Tear open Nature's genial heart, Let neither God nor gods escape us, But spare, to give our subjects zest, The basest god of all--Priapus!"

The Dismal Throng! 'Tis thus they preach, From Christiania to Cadiz, Recruited as they talk and teach By dingy lads and draggled ladies; Without a sunbeam or a song, With no clear Heaven to hunger after; The Dismal Throng! the Dismal Throng! The foes of Life and Love and Laughter!

By Shakespere's Soul! if this goes on, From every face of man and woman The gift of gladness will be gone, And laughter will be thought inhuman! The only beast who smiles is Man! _That_ marks him out from meaner creatures! Confound the Dismal Throng, who plan To take God's birth-mark from our features!

Manfreds who walk the hospitals. Laras and Giaours grown scientific, They wear the clothes and bear the palls Of Stormy Ones once thought terrific; They play the same old funeral tune, And posture with the same dejection, But turn from howling at the moon To literary vivisection!

And while they loom before our view, Dark'ning the air that should be sunny, Here's Oscar,[8] growing dismal too, Our Oscar, who was once so funny! Blue china ceases to delight The dear curl'd darling of society, Changed are his breeches, once so bright, For foreign breaches of propriety!

I like my Oscar, tolerate My Archer[9] of the Dauntless Grammar, Nay, e'en my Moore[10] I estimate Not too unkindly, 'spite his clamour; But I prefer my roses still To all the garlic in their garden-- Let Hedda gabble as she will, I'll stay with Rosalind, in Arden!

O for one laugh of Rabelais, To rout these moralising croakers! (The cowls were mightier far than they, Yet fled before that King of Jokers) O for a slash of Fielding's pen To bleed these pimps of Melancholy! O for a Boz, born once again To play the Dickens with such folly!

Yet stay! why bid the dead arise? Why call them back from Charon's wherry? Come, Yankee Mark, with twinkling eyes, Confuse these ghouls with something merry! Come, Kipling, with thy soldiers three, Thy barrack-ladies frail and fervent, Forsake thy themes of butchery And be the merry Muses' servant!

Come, Dickens' foster-son, Bret Harte! Come, Sims, though gigmen flout thy labours! Tom Hardy, blow the clouds apart With sound of rustic fifes and tabors! Dick Blackmore, full of homely joy, Come from thy garden by the river, And pelt with fruit and flowers, old boy, These dismal bores who drone for ever!

Come, too, George Meredith, whose eyes, Though oft with vapours shadow'd over, Can catch the sunlight from the skies And flash it down on lass and lover; Tell us of Life, and Love's young dream, Show the prismatic soul of Woman, Bring back the Light, whose morning beam First made the Beast upright and human!

You _can_ be merry, George, I vow! Wit through your cloudiest prosing twinkles! Brood as you may, upon your brow The cynic, Art, has left no wrinkles! For you're a poet to the core, No ghouls can from the Muses win you; So throw your cap i' the air once more, And show the joy of earth that's in you!

By Heaven! we want you one and all, For Hypochondria is reigning-- The Mater Dolorosa's squall Makes Nature hideous with complaining! Ah! who will paint the Face that smiled When Art was virginal and vernal-- The pure Madonna with her Child, Pure as the light, and as eternal!

Pest on these dreary, dolent airs! Confound these funeral pomps and poses! Is Life Dyspepsia's and Despair's, And Love's complexion all _chlorosis_? A lie! There's Health, and Mirth, and Song, The World still laughs, and goes a-Maying-- The dismal, droning, doleful Throng Are only smuts in sunshine playing!

Play up, ye horns of Fairyland! Shine out, O sun, and planets seven! Beyond these clouds a beckoning Hand Gleams from the lattices of Heaven! The World's alive--still quick, not dead, It needs no Undertaker's warning; So put the Dismal Throng to bed, And wake once more to Light and Morning!

* * *

[1] Mathilde Serao, an Italian novelist.

[2] A Spanish novelist.

[3] Verlaine and Rimbaud, two poets of the Parisian Decadence.

[4] A Norwegian playwright.

[5] Guy de Maupassant, Paul Bourget, and Pierre Loti, novelists of the Decadence.

[6] Catulle Mendes, a Parisian poet and novelist.

[7] Jean Richepin, ditto.

[8] Mr. Oscar Wilde.

[9] Mr. William Archer, a newspaper critic.

[10] Mr. George Moore, an author and newspaper critic.

NOTE.--These verses refer to a literary phenomenon that will in time become historical, that phenomenon being the sudden growth, in all parts of Europe, of a fungus-literature bred of Foulness and Decay; and contemporaneously, the intrusion into all parts of human life of a Calvinistic yet materialistic Morality. This literature of a sunless Decadence has spread widely, by virtue of its own uncleanness, and its leading characteristics are gloom, ugliness, prurience, preachiness, and weedy flabbiness of style. That it has not flourished in Great Britain, save among a small and discredited Cockney minority, is due to the inherent manliness and vigour of the national character. The land of Shakespere, Scott, Burns, Fielding, Dickens, and Charles Reade is protected against literary miasmas by the strength of its humour and the sunniness of its temperament.--R.B.

_In the Hands of Jefferson._

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY RONALD GRAY.

It is not difficult to appreciate the recent catastrophe in Oceania, where the island of Great Sangir was partially smothered by terrific volcanic and seismic convulsions, when one has visited the Western Indies.

Many of these tropic isles probably owe their present isolation, if not their actual existence, to mighty earthquake throes in remote ages of terrestrial history beyond the memory of man. But man's memory is not a very extensive affair, and at best probes the past to the extent of a mere rind of a few thousand years. For the rest he has to read the word of God, written in fossil and stone and those wondrous arcana of Nature, which, each in turn, yields a fragment of the secret of truth to human intellect.

Regions that have been produced or largely modified by earthquake and volcanic upheaval may, probably enough, vanish at any moment under like conditions; and the island of Nevis, hard by St. Christopher, in the West Indies, strongly suggests a possibility of such disaster. It has always been the regular rendezvous of hurricanes and earthquakes, and it consists practically of one vast volcanic mountain which rises abruptly from the sea and pushes its densely-wooded sides three thousand two hundred feet into the sky. The crater shows no particularly active inclination at present, but it is doubtless wide awake and merely resting, like its volcanic neighbour in St. Christopher, where the breathing of the dormant giant can be noted through rent and rift. The Fourth Officer of our steamship "Rhine" assured me, as we approached the lofty dome of Nevis and gazed upon its fertile acclivities and fringe of palms, that it would never surprise him upon his rounds to find the place had altogether disappeared under the Caribbean Sea. He added, according to his custom, an allusion to Columbus, and explained also that, in the dead and gone days of Slave Traffic, Nevis was a much more important spot than it is ever likely to become again. Then, indeed, the island enjoyed no little prosperity and importance, being a head centre and mart for the industry in negroes. Emancipation, however, wrecked Nevis, together with a good many other of the Antilles.

At Montpelier, on this island, Lord Nelson enjoyed his honeymoon, but now only a few trees and a little ruined masonry at the corner of a sugar-cane plantation appear to mark the spot. Further, it may be recorded, as a point in favour of the place, that it grows very exceptional Tangerine oranges. These, to taste in perfection, should be eaten at the turning point, before their skins grow yellow. We cannot judge of the noble possibilities in an orange at home. I brought back a dozen of these Nevis Tangerines with me, but I secretly suspected that, in spite of their fine reputation, quite inferior sorts would be able to beat them by the time they got to England; and it was so.

We stopped half-an-hour only at Charlestown, Nevis, and then proceeded to St. Christopher, a sister isle of greater size and scope.

At Antigua, there came aboard the "Rhine" a young man who implicitly leads us to understand that he is the most important person in the West Indies. He is the Governor of Antigua's own clerk, and is going to St. Christopher with a portmanteau, some walking-sticks, and a despatch-box. It appears that his significance is gigantic, and that, though the nominal seat of government lies at Antigua, yet the real active centre of political administration may be found immediately under the Panama hat of the Governor's own clerk. This he takes the trouble to explain to us. The Governor himself is a puppet, his trusted men of resource and portfolio-holders are the veriest fantoccini; for the Governor's own clerk pulls the strings, frames the foreign policy, conducts, controls, adjusts difficulties, and maintains a right balance between the parties. This he condescends to make clear to us.

I ventured to ask him how many of the more important nations were involved with the matters at present in his despatch-box; and he said lightly, as though the concern in hand was a mere bagatelle, that only the United States, Great Britain and Germany were occupying his attention at the moment.

The Model Man said:

"I suppose you'll soon knock off a flea-bite like that?"

And the Governor's own clerk answered:

"Yes, I fancy so, unless any unforeseen hitch happens. Negotiations are pending."

I liked his last sentence particularly. It smacked so strongly of miles of red tape and months of official delay.

When we reached St. Christopher, it was currently reported that the Governor's own clerk had simply come to settle a dispute between two negro landowners concerning a fragment of the island rather smaller than a table-napkin; but personally I doubt not this was a blind, under cover of which he secretly pushed forward those pending negotiations. He certainly had fine diplomatic instincts, and a sound view, from a political standpoint, of the value of veracity.

When we cast out anchor off Basseterre, St. Christopher, the Treasure hurried to me in some sorrow. He had proposed going ashore, with his Enchantress and her mother, to show them the sights, but now, to his dismay, he found that unforeseen official duties would keep him on the ship during our brief sojourn here. With anxiety almost pathetic, therefore, he entrusted the Enchantress to me, and commended her mother to the Doctor's care. I felt the compliment, and assured him that I would simply devote myself to her--platonically withal; but the Doctor was not quite so hearty about her mother. However, he must behave like a gentleman, whether he felt inclined to do so or not, which the Treasure knew, and, therefore, felt safe.

Our party of four started straightway for a ramble in St. Kitts (as St. Christopher is more generally called), and, upon landing, we were happily met by a middle-aged negro, who had evidently watched our boat from afar. He tumbled off a pile of planks, where he had been basking in the sun, girt his indifferent raiment about him, and then, by sheer force of character, took complete command of our contemplated expedition. It may have been hypnotism, or some kindred mystery, but we were unresisting children in his hands. He said: "Follow me, gem'men: me show you ebb'ryting for nuffing: de 'tanical Garns, de prison-house, de public buildings, de church, an' all. Dis way, dis way, ladies. Don't listen to dem niggers; dey nobody on dis island."

The Doctor alone fought feebly, but it was useless, and, in two minutes, our masterful Ethiop had led us all away to see the sights.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Jefferson, sar; ebb'rybody know Jefferson. Fus', we go to 'tanical Garns. Here dey is."

The Botanical Gardens of Basseterre, St. Kitts, were handsome, extensive, and well cared for. We wandered with pleasure down broad walks, shaded by cabbage palms and palmettos, mahogany and tamarind trees; we admired the fountain and varied foliage and blazing flower-beds, streaked and splashed with many brilliant blossoms and bright-leaved crotons.

"There," said the mother of the Enchantress, pointing to a handsome lily, "is a specimen of Crinum Asiaticum."

The Doctor started as though she had used a bad word. He hates a woman to know anything he does not, and this botanical display irritated him; but our attention was instantly distracted by Jefferson, who, upon hearing the lily admired, walked straight up to it and picked it.

I expostulated. I said:

"You mustn't go plucking curiosities here, Jefferson, or you will get us all into hot water."

"Dat's right, massa," he replied. "Me an' de boss garner great ole frens. De ladies jus' say what dey like, an' Jefferson pick him off for dem."

He was as good as his word, and a fine theatrical display followed, as our party grew gradually bolder and bolder, and our guide, evidently upon his mettle, complied with each request in turn.

I will cast a fragment of the dialogue and action in dramatic form, so that you may the better judge of and picture that wild scene.

THE ENCHANTRESS (_timidly_): Should you think we might have this tiny flower?

JEFFERSON: I pick him, missy. (_Does so._)

THE DOCTOR: I wonder if they'd miss one of those red things? They've got a good number. I believe they're medicinal. Should you think----?

(_Jefferson picks two of the flowers in question. The Doctor takes heart._)

THE MOTHER OF THE ENCHANTRESS: Dear me! Here's a singularly fine specimen of the Somethingiensis. I wonder if you----?

(_Jefferson picks it._)

THE DOCTOR: We might have that big affair there, hidden away behind those orange trees. Nobody will miss it. I should rather like it for my own.

(_Jefferson wrestles with this concern, and the Doctor lends him a knife._)

THE ENCHANTRESS: Oh, there's a sweet, sweet blossom! Might we have that, and that bud, and that bunch of leaves next to them, Monsieur Jefferson?

(_Jefferson, evidently feeling he is in for a hard morning's work, makes further onslaught upon the flora, and drags down three parts of an entire tree._)

THE MOTHER OF THE ENCHANTRESS: When you're done there, I will ask you to go into this fountain for one of those blue water-lilies.

(_Jefferson, getting rather sick of it, pretends he does not hear._)

THE DOCTOR (_speaking in loud tones which Jefferson cannot ignore_): Pick that, please, and that, and those things half-way up that tree.

(_Jefferson begins to grow very hot and uneasy. He peeps about nervously, probably with a view to dodging his old friend, the head gardener._)

THE CHRONICLER (_feeling that his party is disgracing itself, and desiring to reprove them in a parable_): I say, Jefferson, could you cut down that palm--the biggest of those two--and have it sent along to the ship? If the head gardener is here, he might help you.

JEFFERSON (_losing his temper, missing the parable, and turning upon the Chronicler_): No, sar! You no hab no more. I'se dam near pulled off ebb'ryting in de 'tanical Garns, an' I'se goin' right away now 'fore anyfing's said!

(_Exit Jefferson rapidly, trying to conceal a mass of foliage under his ragged coat. The party follows him in single file._)

[_Curtain._]

I doubt not that, had we met the head gardener just then, our guide would have lost a friend.

Henceforth, evidently feeling we were not wholly responsible in this foreign atmosphere of wonders, Jefferson stuck to the streets, and took us to churches and shops and other places where we had to control ourselves and leave things alone.