Chapter 61
"Always the same, to all thou comest," I said to Death, he himself speaking low enough for my lips to make, in dying ears, only an indistinct murmur. "I know thee always by thine own hollow voice, lent to youth and age alike. How well I know thee and thy terrors, which are no longer such to me![253] I feel the dust that thy wings scatter in the air as thou comest; I breathe the sickly odour of it; I see its pale ashes fly, invisible as they may be to other men's sight. O! thou Inevitable One, thou art here, verily thou comest to save this man from his misery. Take him in thine arms like a child; carry him off; save him; I give him to thee. Save him only from the devouring sorrow that accompanies us ever on the earth till we come to rest in thee, O Benefactor and Friend!"
I had not deceived myself, for Death it was. The sick man ceased to suffer, and began suddenly to enjoy the divine moment of repose which precedes the eternal immobility of the body. His eyes grew larger, and were charged with amazement; his mouth relaxed and smiled; his tongue twice pa.s.sed over his lips as if to taste once more, from some unseen cup, a last drop of the balm of Life. And then he said with that hoa.r.s.e voice of the dying which comes from the inwards and seems to come from the very feet:
At the banquet of life a guest ill-fated.[254]
[Sidenote: The satiric episode--contrast.]
But this death-bed, and the less final but hardly less tragic wanderings of the victim in his visit to the Archbishop (by whom also the doctor has been summoned), are contrasted and entangled, very skilfully indeed, with a scene--the most different possible--in which he still appears.
The main personages in this, however, are his Majesty Louis XV. and the reigning favourite, Mademoiselle de Coulanges, a young lady who, from the account given of her, might justify the description, a.s.signed earlier to one of her official predecessors in a former reign, of being "belle comme un ange, et bete comme un panier."[255] At first the lovers (if we are to call them so) are lying, most beautifully dressed and quite decorously, on different sofas, both of them with books in their hands, but one asleep and the other yawning. Suddenly the lady springs up shrieking, and the polite and amiable monarch (apart from his Solomonic or Sultanic weaknesses, and the perhaps graver indifference with which he knowingly allowed France to go to the devil, Louis le Bien-Aime was really _le meilleur fils du monde_) does his best to console his beloved and find out the reason of her woes. It appears at last that she thinks she has been bitten by a flea, and as the summer is very hot, and there has been much talk of mad dogs, she is convinced that the flea was a mad flea, and that she shall die of hydrophobia. (As it happens, the flea is not a flea at all, but a grain of snuff.) However, the Black Doctor is sent for, and finds the King as affable as usual, but Mlle. de Coulanges coiled up on a sofa--like something between a cat and a naughty child afraid of being scolded--and hiding her face. On being coaxed with the proper medical manner, she at last bursts out laughing, and finally they all laugh together, till his Majesty spills his coffee on his gold waistcoat, and then pulls the doctor down on a sofa to talk Paris gossip. And now the Black One clears himself from any connection with the serpent as far as wisdom is concerned, though he has plenty of a better kind. Fresh from Gilbert's appeal to the Archbishop, he tries to interest this so amiable Royalty in the subject. But the result is altogether unfortunate. The lady is merely contemptuous and bored. The King gets angry, and displays that indifference to anybody else's suffering which moralists (whether to an exaggerated extent or not, is another question) are wont to connect with excessive attention to a man's own sensual enjoyments. After some by no means stupid but decidedly acid remarks on Voltaire, Rousseau, and others, he takes (quite good-naturedly in appearance) the doctor's arm, walks with him to the end of the long apartment, opens the door, quotes certain satiric verses on literary and scientific "gents," and--shuts it on his medical adviser and guest.
I know few things of the kind more neatly done, or better adjusted to heighten the tragic purpose.
[Sidenote: The Chatteron part.]
To an Englishman the next episode may be less satisfactory, though it was very popular in France under its original form, and still more so when Vigny dramatised it in his famous _Chatterton_. It is not that there is any (or at any rate much) of the usual caricature which was (let us be absolutely equitable and say) exchanged between the two countries for so long a time. Vigny married an English wife, knew something of England, and a good deal of English literature. But, regardless of his own historical _penchants_ and of the moral of this very book--that Sentiment must be kept under the control of Reason--he was pleased to transmogrify Chatterton's compa.s.sionate Holborn landlady into a certain Kitty Bell--a pastry-shop keeper close to the Houses of Parliament, who is very beautiful except that she has the inevitable "large feet" (let us hope that M. le Comte de Vigny, who was a gentleman, took only the first _signalement_ from Madame la Comtesse), extraordinarily sentimental, and desperately though (let us hope again, for she has a husband and two children) quite virtuously in love with the boy from Bristol. He entirely transforms Lord Mayor Beckford's part in the matter;[256] changes, for his own purposes, the a.r.s.enic into opium (a point of more importance than it may seem), and in one blunt word does all he can to spoil the story. It is too common an experience when foreigners treat such things, and I say this with the fullest awareness of the danger of _De te fabula_.
[Sidenote: The tragedy of Andre Chenier.]
These two stories, however, fill scarcely more than a third of the book, and the other two-thirds, subtracting the moral at the end, deal with a matter which Vigny, once more, understood thoroughly. The fate of Andre Chenier is "fictionised" in nearly the best manner, though with the author's usual fault of inability to "round out" character. We do not sufficiently realise the poet himself. But his brother, Marie-Joseph, requiring slighter presentment, has it; and so, on a still smaller scale, has the well-meaning but fatuous father, who, hopelessly misunderstanding the signs of the times, actually precipitates his elder son's fate by applying, in spite of remonstrance, to the tiger-pole-cat Robespierre for mercy. The scene where this happens--and where the "sea-green incorruptible" himself, Saint-Just (prototype of so many Republican enthusiasts, ever since and to-day), Marie-Joseph, and the Black Doctor figure--is singularly good. Hardly less so are the pictures--often painted by others but seldom better--of the ghastly though in a way heroic merriment of the lost souls in Saint-Lazare, between their doom and its execution, and the finale. In this the doctor's soldier-servant Blaireau ("Badger"), still a gunner on active service (partly, one fancies, from former touches,[257] by concealed good intention, partly from mere whim and from disgust at the drunken hectorings of General Henriot), refuses to turn his guns on the Thermidorists, and thus saves France from at least the lowest depths of the Revolutionary Inferno.[258] Perhaps there is here, as with Vigny's fiction throughout, a certain amateurishness, and a very distinct inability to keep apart things that had better not be mixed. But there is also evidence of power throughout, and there is actually some performance.
[Sidenote: _Servitude et Grandeur Militaires._]
His third and last work, of anything like the kind, _Servitude et Grandeur Militaires_, is no more of a regular novel than _Stello_; but, though perhaps in an inferior degree, it shares the superiority of _Stello_ itself over _Cinq-Mars_ in power of telling a story. Like _Stello_, too, it is a frame of short tales, not a continuous narrative; and like that, and even to a greater degree, it exhibits the intense melancholy (almost unique in its particular shade, though I suppose it comes nearer to Leopardi's than to that of any other great man of letters) which characterises Alfred de Vigny. His own experience of soldiering had not been fortunate. He had begun, as a mere boy, by accompanying Louis XVIII. in his flight before the Hundred Days; he had seen, for another fourteen or fifteen years during the Restoration,
No wars where triumphs on the victors wait,
but only the dreary garrison life (see on Beyle, _sup._ p. 149) of French peace time, and, in the way of active service, only what all soldiers hate, the thankless and inglorious police-work which comes on them through civil disturbance. Whether he was exactly the kind of man to have enjoyed the livelier side of martialism may be the subject of considerable doubt. But at any rate he had no chance of it, and his framework here is little more than a tissue of transcendental "grousing."
[Sidenote: The first story.]
The first story ill.u.s.trating "Servitude" is sufficiently horrible, and has a certain element of paradox in it. The author, actually on his very disagreeable introduction to a military career by flight, meets with an old officer who tells him his history. He has been at one time a merchant sailor; and then in the service of the Directory, by whom he was commissioned to carry convicts to Cayenne. The most noteworthy of these, a young man of letters, who had libelled one of the tyrants, and his still younger wife, are very charming people; and the captain, who makes them his guests, becomes so fond of them that he even proposes to give up his profession and farm with them in the colony. He has, however, sealed orders, to be opened only in mid-Atlantic; and when he does open them, he finds, to his unspeakable horror, a simple command to shoot the poet at once. He obeys; and
[Sidenote: The second]
The second is also tragical, but less so; and is again very well told.
It is concerned with the explosion of a powder-magazine--fortunately not the main one--at Vincennes, brought about by the over-zeal of a good old adjutant, the happiness of whose domestic interior just before his fate (with some other things) forms one of Vigny's favourite contrasts.
[Sidenote: and third.]
But, as in _Stello_, he has kept the best wine to the last. The single ill.u.s.tration of _Grandeur_ must have, for some people, though it may not have for all, the very rare interest of a story which would rather gain than lose if it were true. It opens in the thick of the July Revolution, when the veteran French army--half-hearted and gaining no new heart from the half-dead hands which ought to have guided it--was subjected, on a larger scale, to the same sort of treatment which the fresh-recruited Sherwood Foresters (fortunately _not_ half-hearted) experienced in Dublin at Easter 1916. The author, having, luckily for himself, resigned his commission a year or two before, meets an old friend--a certain Captain Renaud--who, though a _vieux de la vieille_, has reached no higher position, but is adored by his men, and generally known as "Canne de Jonc," because he always carries that not very lethal weapon, and has been known to take it into action instead of a sword.
In the "sullen interval" of the crisis the two talk; and Renaud is led into telling the chief experiences of his life. He had known little of his father--a soldier before him--but had been taken by that father on Bonaparte's Egyptian expedition till, at Malta, he was stopped by Bonaparte himself, who would have no boy on it save Casabianca's (pity he did not stop him too!). But he only sends Renaud back to the Military Academy, and afterwards makes him his page. The father is blown up in the _Orient_, but saved, and, though made prisoner by us, is well treated, and, as being of great age and broken health, allowed, by Collingwood's interest, to go to Sicily. He dies on the way; but is able to send a letter to his son, which is one of the finest examples of Vigny's peculiar melancholy irony. In this he recants his wors.h.i.+p of the (now) Emperor. It has, however, no immediate effect on the son. But before long, by an accident, he is an unwilling and at first unperceived witness of the famous historical or half-historical interview at Fontainebleau between Napoleon and the Pope, where the bullied Holy Father enrages, but vanquishes, the conqueror by successively e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.n.g. the two words _Commediante!_ and _Tragediante!_ (This scene is again admirable.) The page's absence from his ordinary duty excites suspicion, and the Emperor, _more_ _suo_, exiles him to the farce-tragedy of the Boulogne flotilla, where the clumsy flat-bottoms are sunk at pleasure as they exercise[260] by English frigates. The father's experience is repeated with the son, for he also is captured and also falls into the beneficent power of Collingwood, whom Vigny almost literally beatifies.[261] The Admiral keeps the young man on parole with him four years at sea, and when he has--"so as by water" if not fire--overcome the temptation of breaking his word, effects exchange for him. But, as is well known (the very words occur here, though I do not know whether for the first time or not), Napoleon's motto in such cases was: "Je n'aime pas les prisonniers. On se fait tuer." He goes back to his duty, but avoids recognition as much as possible, and receives no, or hardly any, promotion. Once, just after Montmirail, he and the Emperor meet, whether with full knowledge on the latter's part is skilfully veiled. But they touch hands. Still Captain Renaud's _guignon_ pursues him in strange fas.h.i.+on; and during a night attack on a Russian post near Reims he kills, in a mere blind mellay, a boy officer of barely fourteen, and is haunted by remorse ever afterwards.
A few days after telling the story he is shot by a _gamin_ whom older men have made half-drunk and furnished with a pistol with directions to do what he does. And all this is preserved from being merely sentimental ("Riccobonish," as I think Vigny himself--but it may be somebody else--has it) by the touch of true melancholy on the one hand and of all-saving irony on the other.
[Sidenote: The moral of the three.]
So also these two curious books save Vigny himself to some extent from the condemnation, or at any rate the exceedingly faint praise, which his princ.i.p.al novel may bring upon him as a novelist. But they do so to some extent only. It is clear even from them, though not so clear as it is from their more famous companion, that he was not to the manner born.
The riddles of the painful earth were far too much with him to permit him to be an unembarra.s.sed master or creator of pastime--not necessarily horse-collar pastime by any means, but pastime pure and simple. His preoccupations with philosophy, politics, world-sorrow, and other things were constantly cropping up and getting in the way of his narrative faculty. I do not know that, even of the scenes that I have praised, any one except the expurgated Crebillonade of the King and the Lady and the Doctor goes off with complete "currency," and this is an episode rather than a whole tale, though it gives itself the half-t.i.tle of _Histoire d'une Puce Enragee_. He could never, I think, have done anything but short stories; and even as a short-story teller he ranks with the other Alfred, Musset, rather than with Merimee or Gautier. But, like Musset, he presents us, as neither of the other two did (for Merimee was not a poet, and Gautier was hardly a dramatist), with a writer, of mark all but the greatest, in verse and prose and drama; while in prose and verse at least he shows that quality of melancholy magnificence which has been noted, as hardly any one else does in all three forms, except Hugo himself.
NOTE ON FROMENTIN'S _DOMINIQUE_
[Sidenote: Note on Fromentin's _Dominique_: its altogether exceptional character.]
I have found it rather difficult to determine the place most proper for noticing the _Dominique_ of Eugene Fromentin--one of the most remarkable "single-speech" novels in any literature. It was not published till the Second Empire was more than half-way through, but it seems to have been written considerably earlier; and as it is equally remarkable for _lexis_ and for _dianoia_, it may, on the double ground, be best attached to this chapter, though Fromentin was younger than any one else here dealt with, and belonged, in fact, to the generation of our later, though not latest, const.i.tuents. But, in fact, it is a book like no other, and it is for this reason, and by no means as confessing omission or after-thought, that I have made the notice of it a note. In an outside way, indeed, it may be said to belong to the school of _Rene_, but the resemblance is very partial.
The author was a painter--perhaps the only painter-novelist of merit, though there are bright examples of painter-poets. His other literary work consists of a good book on his Netherlandish brethren in art, and of two still better ones, descriptive of Algeria. And _Dominique_ itself has unsurpa.s.sed pa.s.sages of description at length, as well as numerous tiny touches like actual _remarques_ on the margin of the page. Only once does his painter's eye seem to have failed him as to situation. The hero, when he has thrown himself on his knees before his beloved, and she (who is married and "honest") has started back in terror, "drags himself after her." Now I believe it to be impossible for any one to execute this manoeuvre without producing a ludicrous effect. For which reason the wise have laid it down that the kneeling posture should never be resorted to unless the object of wors.h.i.+p is likely to remain fairly still. But this is, I think, the only slip in the book. It is exceedingly interesting to compare Fromentin's descriptions with those of Gautier on the one hand before him, and with those of Fabre and Theuriet on the other later. I should like to point out the differences, but it is probably better merely to suggest the comparison. His actual work in design and colour I never saw, but I think (from attacks on it that I _have_ seen) I should like it.
But his descriptions, though they would always have given the book distinction, would not--or would not by themselves--have given it its special appeal. Neither does that appeal lie in such story as there is--which, in fact, is very little. A French squire (he is more nearly that than most French landlords have cared to be, or indeed have been able to be, since the Revolution and the Code Napoleon) is orphaned early, brought up at his remote country house by an aunt, privately tutored for a time, not by an abbe, but by a young schoolmaster and literary aspirant; then sent for three or four years to the nearest "college," where he is bored but triumphant: and at last, about his _vingt ans_, let loose in Paris. But--except once, and with the result, usual for him, of finding the thing a failure--he does not make the stock use of liberty at that age and in that place. He has, at school, made friends with another youth of good family in the same province, who has an uncle and cousins living in the town where the college is. The eldest she-cousin of Olivier d'Orsel, Madeleine, is a year older than Dominique de Bray, and of course he falls in love with her. But though she, in a way, knows his pa.s.sion, and, as one finds out afterwards, shares or might have been made to share it, the love is "never told,"
and she marries another. The destined victims of the _un_smooth course, however, meet in Paris, where Dominique and Olivier, though they do not share chambers, live in the same house and flat; and the story of just overcome temptation is broken off at last in a pa.s.sionate scene like that of "Love and Duty"--which n.o.ble and strangely undervalued poem might serve as a long motto or verse-prelude to the book. It is rather questionable whether it would not be better without the thin frame of actual proem and conclusion, which does actually enclose the body of the novel as a sort of _recit_, provoked partly by the suicide, or attempted suicide, of Olivier after a life of fastidiousness and frivolity. The proem gives us Dominique as--after his pa.s.sion-years, and his as yet unmentioned failure to achieve more than mediocrity in letters--a quiet if not cheerful married man with a charming wife, pretty children, a good estate, and some peasants not in the least like those of _La Terre_; while in the epilogue the tutor Augustin, who has made his way at last and has also married happily, drives up to the door, and the book ends abruptly. It is perhaps naughty, but one does not want the wife, or the children, or the good peasants, or the tutor Augustin, while the suicide of Olivier appears rather copy-booky. It is especially annoying thus to have what one does not want to know, and not what one, however childishly, does want to know--that is to say, the after-history of Madeleine.
Yet even in the preliminary forty or fifty pages few readers can fail to perceive that they have got hold of a most uncommon book. Its uncommonness, as was partly said above, does not consist merely in the excellence of its description; nor in the acuteness of the occasional _mots_; nor in the pa.s.sion of the two main characters; nor in the representation of the mood of that "discouraged generation of 1850" of which it is, in prose and French, the other Testament corresponding to Matthew Arnold's in verse and English. Nor does it even consist in all these added together; but in the way in which they are fused; in which they permeate each other and make, not a group, but a whole. It might even, like Sainte-Beuve's _Volupte_ (_v. inf._). be called "not precisely a novel" at all, and even more than Fabre's _Abbe Tigrane_ (_v. inf._ again), rather a study than a story. And it is partly from this point of view that one regrets the prologue and epilogue. No doubt--and the plea is a recurring one--in life these storms and stresses, these failures and disappointments, do often subside into something parallel to Dominique's second existence as squire, sportsman, husband, father, and farmer. No doubt they
Pulveris exigui jactu compacta quiesc.u.n.t,
whether the dust is of the actual grave and its ashes, or the more symbolical one of the end of love. But on the whole, for art's sake, this somewhat prosaic _Versohnung_ is better left behind the scenes. Yet this may be a private--it may be an erroneous--criticism. The positive part of what has been said in favour of _Dominique_ is, I think, something more. There are few novels like it; none exactly like, and perhaps one does not want many or any more. But by itself it stands--and stands crowned.
FOOTNOTES:
[198] Some years after its original appearance Mr. Andrew Lang, in collaboration with another friend of mine, who adopted the _nom de guerre_ of "Paul Sylvester," published a complete translation under the t.i.tle of _The Dead Leman_; and I believe that the late Mr. Lafacido Hearn more recently executed another. But this last I have never seen.
(The new pages which follow to 222, it may not be superfluous to repeat, appeared originally in the _Fortnightly Review_ for 1878, and were reprinted in _Essays on French Novelists_, London, 1891. The Essay itself contains, of course, a wider criticism of Gautier's work than would be proper here.)
[199] For, as a rule, the critical faculty is like wine--it steadily improves with age. But of course anybody is at liberty to say, "Only, in both cases, when it is good to begin with."
[200] I suppose this was what attracted Mr. Hearn; but, as I have said, I do not know his book itself.
[201] I do not know how many of the users of the catchword "purely decorative," as applied to Moore, knew what they meant by it; but if they meant what I have just said, I have no quarrel with them.
[202] Yet even inside poetry not so very much before 1830.
[203] Of course I know what a dangerous word this is; how often people who have not a glimmering of it themselves deny it to others; and how it is sometimes seen in mere horseplay, often confounded with "wit" itself, and generally "taken in vain." But one must sometimes be content with [Greek: phoneenta] or [Greek: phonanta] (the choice is open, but I prefer the latter) [Greek: synetoisi], and take the consequences of them with the [Greek: asynetoi].
[204] Some would allow it to Plautus, but I doubt; and even Martial did not draw as much of it from Spanish soil as must have been latent there--unless the Goths absolutely imported it. Perhaps the nearest approach in him is the sudden turn when the obliging Phyllis, just as he is meditating with what choice and costly gifts he shall reward her varied kindnesses, antic.i.p.ates him by modestly asking, with the sweetest preliminary blandishments, for a jar of wine (xii. 65).
[205] La Fontaine may be desiderated. His is certainly one of the most _humouresque_ of wits; but whether he has pure humour I am not sure.
[206] This is an exception to the rule of _tout pa.s.se_, if not of _tout ca.s.se_. You can still buy avanturine wax; only, like all waxes, except red and black, it seals very badly, and makes "kisses" in a most untidy fas.h.i.+on. Avanturine should be left to the original stone--to peat-water running over pebbles with the sun on it--and to eyes.
[207] I once knew an incident which might have figured in these scenes, and which would, I think, have pleased Theo. But it happened just after his own death, in the dawn of the aesthetic movement. A man, whom we may call A, visited a friend, say B, who was doing his utmost to be in the mode. A had for some time been away from the centre; and B showed him, in hopes to impress, the blue china the j.a.panese mats and fans, the rush-bottomed chairs, the Morris paper and curtains, the peac.o.c.k feathers, etc. But A looked coldly on them and said, "Where is your bra.s.s tray?" And B was saddened and could only plead, "It is coming directly; but you know too much."
[208] They are both connected with the "orgie"-mania, and the last is a deliberate burlesque of the originals of P. L. Jacob, Janin, Eugene Sue, and Balzac himself.
[209] It is here that the famous return of a kiss _revu, corrige et considerablement augmente_ is recorded.
[210] He (it is some excuse for him that this suggested a better thing in certain _New Arabian Nights_) buys, furnishes, and subsequently deserts an empty house to give a ball in, and put his friends on no scent of his own abode; but he makes this "own abode" a sort of Crystal Palace in the centre of a whole ring-fence of streets, with the old fronts of the houses kept to avert suspicion of the Seraglio of Eastern beauties, the menagerie and beast fights, and the slaves whom (it is rather suggested than definitely stated) he occasionally murders. He performs circus-rider feats when he meets a lady (or at least a woman) in the Bois de Boulogne; he sets her house on fire when it occurs to him that she has received other lovers there; and we are given to understand that he blows up his own palace when he returns to the East. In fact, he is a pure antic.i.p.ated cognition of a Ouidesque super-hero as parodied by Sir Francis Burnand (and independently by divers schoolboys and undergraduates) some fifty years ago.
[211] I have seen an admirable criticism of this "thing" in one word, "Cold!"