But it's
exceedingly
annoying: there
won't be a single object of art left.
won't be a single object of art left.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v18 - Mom to Old
"Ye may drag me through hell an' beat
me with a soot-bag ef hyar ain't the old fightin' preacher agin! "
he cried.
"I have only one thing to say to you," said Mr. Kenyon.
"You must go: I will not have you here shooting boys and break-
ing up a party. "
Rick demurred. "See hyar, now," he said, "ye've got no
business meddlin'. "
"You must go," Mr. Kenyon reiterated,
## p. 10470 (#338) ##########################################
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
10470
"Preachin's yer business," Rick continued: "'pears like ye
don't 'tend to it, though. "
You must go. "
"S'pose I say I won't," said Rick good-humoredly: "I s'pose
ye'd say ye'd make me. ”
"You must go," repeated Mr. Kenyon. "I am going to take
the boy home with me, but I intend to see you off first. "
Mr. Kenyon had prevented the hot-headed Kossuth from firing
by keeping his hand persistently over the muzzle of the gun; and
young Johns had feared to try to wrench it away lest it should
discharge in the effort. Had it done so, Mr. Kenyon would have
been in sweet converse with the Forty Monks in about a min-
ute and a quarter. Kossuth had finally let go the gun, and made
frantic efforts to borrow a weapon from some of his friends, but
the stern authoritative mandate of the belligerent peace-maker had
prevented them from gratifying him; and he now stood empty-
handed beside Mr. Kenyon, who had shouldered the old rifle in
an absent-minded manner, although still retaining his powerful
grasp on the arm of the outlaw.
"Waal, parson," said Rick at length, "I'll go, jest ter pleas-
ure you-uns. Ye see, I ain't forgot Shiloh. "
"I am not talking about Shiloh now," said the old man. You
must get off at once-all of you," indicating the gang, who
had been so whelmed in astonishment that they had not lifted
a finger to aid their chief.
"Ye say ye'll take that-that- Rick looked hard at Kos-
suth while he racked his brains for an injurious epithet - "that
sassy child home ter his mammy? "
«< Come, I am tired of this talk," said Mr. Kenyon: "you
must go. "
>>
-
«<
Rick walked heavily to the door and out into the moonlight.
"Them was good old times," he said to Mr. Kenyon, with a
regretful cadence in his peculiar drawl; "good old times, them
War days.
I wish they was back agin,—I wish they was back
agin. I ain't forgot Shiloh yit, though, and I ain't a-goin' ter.
But I'll tell ye one thing, parson," he added, his mind reverting
from ten years ago to the scene just past, as he unhitched his
horse and carefully examined the saddle-girth and stirrups, "ye're
a mighty queer preacher, ye air, a-sittin' up an' lookin' at sin-
ners dance, an' then gittin' in a fight that don't consarn ye.
ye're a mighty queer preacher! Ye ought ter be in my gang,
---
## p. 10471 (#339) ##########################################
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
10471
that's whar ye ought ter be," he exclaimed with a guffaw, as he
put his foot in the stirrup; "ye've got a damned deal too much
grit fur a preacher. But I ain't forgot Shiloh yit, an' I don't
mean ter, nuther. "
A shout of laughter from the gang, an oath or two, the quick
tread of horses' hoofs pressing into a gallop, and the outlaw's
troop were speeding along the narrow paths that led deep into
the vistas of the moonlit summer woods.
As the old churchman, with the boy at his side and the gun
still on his shoulder, ascended the rocky, precipitous slope on the
opposite side of the ravine above the foaming waters of the wild
mountain stream, he said but little of admonition to his com-
panion: with the disappearance of the flame and smoke and the
dangerous ruffian, his martial spirit had cooled; the last words of
the outlaw, the highest praise Rick Pearson could accord to the
highest qualities Rick Pearson could imagine,- he had grit enough
to belong to the gang,- had smitten a tender conscience. He, at
his age, using none of the means rightfully at his command,—
the gentle suasion of religion,- must needs rush between armed
men, wrench their weapons from their hands, threatening with
such violence that an outlaw and desperado, recognizing a paral-
lel of his own belligerent and lawless spirit, should say that he
ought to belong to the gang! And the heaviest scourge of the
sin-laden conscience was the perception that so far as the unsub-
dued old Adam went, he ought indeed.
He was not so tortured, though, that he did not think of
others. He paused on reaching the summit of the ascent, and
looked back at the little house nestling in the ravine, the lamp-
light streaming through its open doors and windows across the
path among the laurel bushes, where Rick's gang had hitched
their horses.
"I wonder," said the old man, "if they are quiet and peace-
able again: can you hear the music and dancing? "
"Not now," said Kossuth. Then, after a moment, "Now I
kin," he added, as the wind brought to their ears the oft-told
tale of the rabbit's gallopade in the pea-patch. "They're a-dan-
cin' now, and all right agin. "
As they walked along, Mr. Kenyon's racked conscience might
have been in a slight degree comforted had he known that he
was in some sort a revelation to the impressible lad at his side;
that Kossuth had begun dimly to comprehend that a Christian
## p. 10472 (#340) ##########################################
10472
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
may be a man of spirit also, and that bravado does not constitute
bravery. Now that the heat of anger was over, the young fellow
was glad that the fearless interposition of the warlike peace-
maker had prevented any killing, "'kase ef the old man hedn't
hung on ter my gun like he done, I'd have been a murderer like
he said, an' Rick would hev been dead. An' the bay filly ain't
sech a killin' matter nohow: ef it war the roan three-year-old
now, 'twould be different »
## p. 10473 (#341) ##########################################
10473
ZOO. G
HENRI MURGER
(1822-1861)
AKING into account a strange and persistent conception which
has been afloat for many generations, the genius of artistic
passion might well be represented as a haloed vagabond,
with immortal longings in his eyes, and out at the elbows.
In his 'Bohemians of the Latin Quarter,' Henri Murger, seizing
upon this conception, has prefaced his story of the gay, sad, wild, half-
starved, half-surfeited life led by four followers of art in Paris, with a
history of the world's Bohemians. He christens the picturesque clan by
this name, now in general use; but he does
not attempt to explain why the pursuit of
art in painting or literature has been so
often identified, in the past at least, with
worthlessness as a citizen. He merely calls
the long roll of those who have lived by
poetry rather than bread. He does not hesi-
tate to include the wanderer Homer, nor
Shakespeare, nor Molière, in this fellowship.
The inspired rascal Villon he claims as his
soul's own brother; Gringoire,-"friend to
vagrants and foe to fasting, "- Marot, Rous-
seau, Chatterton, are of his kin. For Mur-
ger himself was a prince of Bohemians.
Born in Paris in 1822, his father, a tailor,
arranged that he should study law; but Murger chose literature and
starvation. His 'Bohemians,' which was published in 1848, and which
made his fame, is the record of his own life and of the lives of some
boon friends in the Latin Quarter. It is the story of those spirits in
the untamed twenties, who like Omar desire only —
HENRI MURGER
"A book of verses underneath the bough,
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness. "
What does it matter that the wilderness is that of the Paris roofs,
and the bread at least wanting, perhaps, and the beloved a little
working-girl in chintz, happy with a few sous' worth of violets or an
## p. 10474 (#342) ##########################################
10474
HENRI MURGER
afternoon at Versailles? The Bohemians of Paris are linked by the
chains of vagabondage, and of possible genius, to all those in every
age and clime who have found stimulus for their powers in love and
wine and song; and who in serving this trinity have forgotten the
obligation to earn more than they spend.
-
Murger himself did not long survive his translation, from that
quarter of Paris where he lived in the fifth story of a cheap lodging-
house because there was no sixth, to the realm of respectability. He
was, however, still enough of a Bohemian to prefer a cottage in the
Forest of Fontainebleau to the smug quarters of Paris, whose inhabit-
ants know nothing of the excitement of chasing "that wild beast
called a five-franc piece. " Murger died in 1861; and there were
those who questioned, in reviewing his life, whether he had been
really at heart a Bohemian. His book, at least, shows the subtlest
penetration into that irregular form of human nature known as the
artistic temperament. The reader regrets that the possessor of such
insight — a man who could discern a brother Bohemian across many
centuries and under the strangest disguises of mediæval rags — should
not have explained why the world instinctively feels that the poet
or the artist is not likely to be normal in his habits of living. Had
he attempted to answer this question, he might have said that the
man who sees visions and dreams dreams, knows the true value of
bread and meat and gold pieces better than the Philistine; and can
therefore accept their services irregularly, and with the nonchalance
of the inspired. The world, before whom the bread and meat and
gold pieces loom large as fate itself, translates this nonchalance into
shiftless ignorance of the duties and obligations of life. As poets and
artists are as a rule visionaries, this reputation is therefore fastened
upon them.
--
The world is not without its justification. Even Murger himself
says, "Bohemia is a stage in the artistic life: it is the preface to the
Academy, the Hôtel Dieu-or the Morgue. "
## p. 10475 (#343) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10475
M.
A BOHEMIAN EVENING PARTY
From The Humor of France,' in International Humor Series >
TOWA
NOWARDS the end of December the messengers of Bidault's
agency were commissioned to distribute about a hundred
copies of an invitation, of which the following is a faithful
reproduction:-
―――
MM. Rodolphe and Marcel request the honor of your company on
Saturday evening next, Christmas Eve.
There will be fine fun.
PROGRAMME OF THE ENTERTAINMENT
At 7 P. M. , opening of the reception rooms; lively and animated
conversation.
At 8 P. M. , entrance and walk through the rooms of the talented
authors of the Mountain in Labor,' comedy refused at the Odéon
Théâtre.
At 8:30 P. M. , M. Alexandre Schaunard, the celebrated virtuoso, will
perform on the piano 'The Influence of Blue in the Arts,' descript-
ive symphony.
At 9 P. M. , first reading of the paper on The Abolition of the Pen-
alty in Tragedy. '
At 9:30 P. M. , M. Gustave Colline, hyperphysical philosopher, and
Monsieur Schaunard, will hold a debate comparing dephilosophy and
metapolitics. In order to avoid any collision between the antagonists,
they will each be securely fastened.
At 10
P. M. , M. Tristan, man of letters, will relate his early
amours. M. Alexandre Schaunard will accompany him on the piano.
At 10:30 P. M. , second reading of the paper on The Abolition of
the Penalty in Tragedy. '
At 11 P. M. , a foreign Prince will describe a Cassowary hunt.
PART II
AT MIDNIGHT, Monsieur Marcel, historical painter, blindfolded, will
improvise in chalk the meeting of Napoleon and Voltaire in the Elys-
ian Fields. Monsieur Rodolphe will improvise a comparison between
the author of 'Zaïre' and the author of Austerlitz.
At 12:30 P. M. , M. Gustave, in a decent undress, will imitate the
athletic games of the fourth Olympiad.
At I
A. M. , third reading of the paper on The Abolition of the
Penalty in Tragedy,' and collection for the tragic authors who will
one day be out of work.
## p. 10476 (#344) ##########################################
10476
HENRI MURGER
At 2 A. M. , beginning of the games and organization of the dances,
which will be continued until morning.
At 6 A. M. , sunrise and final chorus.
During the whole of the entertainment the ventilators will play.
N. B. Any person wishing to read or recite verses will be imme-
diately turned out and delivered up to the police. You are requested
not to take away the candle ends.
Let me tell you briefly the origin of the entertainment that
so vastly dazzled the Bohemian world of Paris. For about a
year, Marcel and Rodolphe had gone on announcing this magnifi-
cent entertainment to take place always next Saturday. But un-
toward circumstances had forced them to let the promise extend
over fifty-two weeks. In consequence, they could scarcely move
a step without having to endure the jeers of their friends, some
of whom were actually unfeeling enough to formulate loud com-
plaints. The affair began to get tiresome; and the two friends
determined to put an end to it by liquidating the engagements
they had made. And the invitation quoted above was the out-
come of that decision.
"Now," said Rodolphe, "there's no possibility of retreat: we've
burnt our ships, and we've just a week in which to find the hun-
dred francs indispensable for doing the thing well. "
"As they are so absolutely necessary," said Marcel, "of course
they'll be forthcoming. "
And with an insolent confidence in luck, the two friends went
to sleep, convinced that the hundred francs were already on the
road-the road of the impossible.
However, two days before the evening appointed for the party,
as nothing had arrived, Rodolphe thought that if he did not
wish to be disgraced when the time came for the guests to arrive,
it would probably be safer to assist luck. In order to facilitate
matters, the two friends, by degrees, modified the sumptuous
programme on which they had at first determined. And from
modification to modification, after greatly curtailing the item.
cakes, and carefully revising and diminishing that of drinks, the
total expense was reduced to fifteen francs. The problem was
thus simplified but not solved.
"Well," said Rodolphe,
«< we must take strong measures: we
can't postpone it again this time. "
"Impossible," said Marcel.
"How long is it since I heard the story of Studzianka? "
## p. 10477 (#345) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10477
"Almost two months. "
"Two months? good! that's a respectable interval. My uncle
shall have no cause for complaint. To-morrow I'll go and see
him, and ask for the battle of Studzianka. That will mean five
francs. "
"And," said Marcel, "I'll sell old Medicis 'A Deserted Manor':
that will be another five francs. If I've time to put in three
towers and a mill, it will very likely be ten francs, and then we
shall have just the sum required. "
The two friends went to sleep, and dreamed that the Princess
Belgioso asked them to change their reception days, in order not
to deprive her of her habitual guests.
Marcel got up very early, took a canvas, and diligently pro-
ceeded to construct 'A Deserted Castle,'- an article in great
demand by a broker in the Place du Carrousel. Rodolphe went
to call on his uncle Monetti, who excelled in narrating the retreat
from Moscow. Rodolphe, when things went badly with him,
procured his uncle the satisfaction of fighting his campaigns
over again some five or six times a year, in consideration for a
loan. If you showed a proper enthusiasm for his stories, the
veteran stove-maker and chimney-doctor was not unwilling to
make it.
news.
«
About two o'clock, Marcel, with downcast look, carrying a
canvas under his arm, met Rodolphe in the Place du Carrou-
sel coming from his uncle's; his appearance also betokened ill
"Well," asked Marcel, "what luck? "
"None. My uncle had gone to the Versailles Museum. And
you? »
“That wretch of a Medicis doesn't want any more 'Ruined
Castles. ' He asked for a 'Bombardment of Tangiers. '"
"Our reputation's gone if we don't give the entertainment,"
grumbled Rodolphe. "What will my friend the influential critic
think, if I make him put on a white tie and light gloves for
nothing? "
They returned to the studio, a prey to the liveliest anxiety.
At that moment a neighbor's clock struck four.
"We've only three hours left," said Rodolphe.
"Well," exclaimed Marcel, going up to his friend, "are you
perfectly sure there's no money to be found here? "
## p. 10478 (#346) ##########################################
10478
HENRI MURGER
"Neither here nor elsewhere. Where could we have left any? "
"Let us search in the stuffing of the chairs. It is said that
the émigrés hid their treasure in Robespierre's time. Our arm-
chair may have belonged to an émigré. It's so hard that I've
often thought it must be metal inside. Will you make an autopsy
of it? "
"This is a mere farce," replied Rodolphe in a tone at once
severe and indulgent.
Suddenly Marcel, who had been prosecuting his search in
every corner of the studio, gave a loud shout of triumph.
"We are saved! " he exclaimed: "I felt sure there was some-
thing of value here. Look! " and he held up for Rodolphe's in-
spection a coin the size of a crown, half smothered in rust and
verdigris.
It was a Carlovingian coin of some artistic value.
"That's only worth thirty sous," said Rodolphe, throwing a
contemptuous glance at his friend's findings.
«
"Thirty sous well laid out will go a long way," said Marcel.
"I'll sell this Charlemagne crown to old Father Medicis. Isn't
could sell? Yes, suppose I take the
That will add to the collection. "
there anything else here I
Russian drum-major's tibia.
"Away with the tibia.
But it's exceedingly annoying: there
won't be a single object of art left. "
During Marcel's absence, Rodolphe, feeling certain that his
party would come off somehow, went in search of his friend
Colline, who lived quite near.
"I want you," he said, "to do me a favor. As master of the
house, I must wear a dress coat, and I haven't got one. Lend
me yours. "
"But," objected Colline, "as a guest I must wear my dress
coat myself. "
"I'll allow you to come in a frock coat. "
"You know I've never had a frock coat. "
"Well, then, the matter can be arranged like this: You need-
n't come to the party, and you can lend me your dress coat. "
"But that'll never do. I'm on the programme.
away. "
I can't stay
"There'll be plenty of other things lacking," said Rodolphe.
"Lend me the dress coat; and if you want to come, come as you
are, in your shirt-sleeves. "
## p. 10479 (#347) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10479
"Oh, no,” said Colline, getting red. "I'll put on my great-
coat. But it's all exceedingly annoying " And perceiving that
Rodolphe had already laid hold of the dress coat, he exclaimed:
"Stay-there are one or two little things in the pockets. "
Colline's coat deserves mention. First, it was blue, and it
was purely from habit that Colline talked about his black coat;
and as he was the only member of the band who possessed such
a garment, his friends were likewise accustomed to say when
speaking of the philosopher, Colline's black coat. Further, that
celebrated article of apparel had a particular shape of its own,
the most eccentric that can be imagined. The abnormally long
tails fastened to a very short waist possessed two pockets, verita-
ble abysses, in which Colline was accustomed to put about thirty
books he everlastingly carried about him. Thus it was said that
when the libraries were closed, scholars and literary men looked
up their references in the tails of Colline's coat, a library always
open to readers.
When Rodolphe returned he found Marcel playing quoits with
five-franc pieces, to the number of three.
He had sold the coin for fifteen francs.
The two friends immediately began their preparations. They
put the studio tidy, and lighted a fire in the stove. A canvas
frame, ornamented with candles, was suspended from the ceiling,
and did duty as a chandelier. A desk was placed in the middle
of the studio, to serve as a tribune for the speakers. In front
they put the one arm-chair, which was to be occupied by the
influential critic; and laid out a table the books, novels,
feuilletons of the authors who were to honor the entertainment
with their presence.
To avoid any collision between the differ-
ent parties of men of letters, they divided the studio into four
compartments; at the entrance were four hastily manufactured
placards inscribed-
POETS
PROSE-WRITERS
ROMANTIC
CLASSICAL
The ladies were to occupy a space reserved in the middle.
"Oh! " said Rodolphe, << there are no chairs. "
"There are plenty on the landing," replied Marcel.
we take those. "
"Suppose
"Of course," said Rodolphe, and proceeded calmly to take
possession of his neighbors' property.
## p. 10480 (#348) ##########################################
10480
HENRI MURGER
Six o'clock struck. The two friends went out for a hasty
dinner, and on their return proceeded to light up the rooms.
They could not help feeling dazzled themselves. At seven
o'clock Schaunard arrived, accompanied by three ladies, who had
forgotten their diamonds and their bonnets. Numerous steps
were heard on the staircase. The guests were arriving, and they
seemed surprised to find a fire in the stove.
Rodolphe's dress-coat went to meet the ladies, and kissed
their hands with a grace worthy of the Regency. When there
were about twenty persons present, Schaunard asked if they
couldn't have something to drink.
"Presently," said Marcel: "we are waiting for the influential
critic before we begin on the punch. "
By eight o'clock all the guests had come, and they began the
programme. Between each number came a round of some sort
of drink; but what it exactly was, has never transpired.
About ten o'clock the white waistcoat of the influential critic
appeared. He only stayed an hour, and was very sparing of
praise. At midnight, as it was very cold and there was no more
fuel, the guests who were seated drew lots for throwing their
chairs into the fire.
At one o'clock everybody was standing.
The greatest merriment held sway among the guests, and the
memorable evening was the talk of the neighborhood for a week.
THE WHITE VIOLETS
From The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter›
ABO
BOUT this time Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and the thermome-
ter was twelve degrees below freezing-point.
Mademoiselle Angela was the daughter of Monsieur Monetti,
the chimney-doctor, of whom we have already had occasion to
speak. She was eighteen years old, and had just come from
Burgundy, where she had lived five years with a relative who
was to leave her all her property. This relative was an old lady
who had never been young, apparently,- certainly never hand-
some, but had always been very ill-natured, although—or per-
haps because very superstitious. Angela, who at her departure
was a charming child, and promised to be a charming girl,
――――――――――
-
## p. 10481 (#349) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10481
came back at the end of the five years a pretty enough young
lady, but cold, dry, and uninteresting. Her secluded provincial
life, and the narrow and bigoted education she had received, had
filled her mind with vulgar prejudices, shrunk her imagination,
and converted her heart into a sort of organ limited to fulfilling
its function of physical balance-wheel. You might say that she
had holy water in her veins instead of blood. She received her
cousin with an icy reserve; and he lost his time whenever he
attempted to touch the chord of her recollections-recollections.
of the time when they had sketched out that flirtation, in the
Paul-and-Virginia style, which is traditional between cousins of
different sexes. Still Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and learning one day
that the young lady was going shortly to the wedding-ball of
one of her friends, he made bold to promise Angela a bouquet
of violets for the ball. And after asking permission of her
father, Angela accepted her cousin's gallant offer-always on
condition that the violets should be white.
Overjoyed at his cousin's amiability, Rodolphe danced and
sang his way back to Mount St. Bernard, as he called his lodg-
ing-why, will be seen presently. As he passed by a florist's in
crossing the Palais Royal, he saw some white violets in the show-
case, and was curious enough to ask their price. A presentable
bouquet could not be had for less than ten francs; there were
some that cost more.
"The deuce! " exclaimed Rodolphe; "ten francs! and only
eight days to find this fortune! It will be a hard pull, but never
mind; my cousin shall have her flowers. "
This happened in the time of Rodolphe's literary genesis, as
the transcendentalists would say. His only income at that period
was an allowance of fifteen francs a month, made him by a
friend, who after living a long while in Paris as a poet, had by
the help of influential acquaintances gained the mastership of
a provincial school. Rodolphe, who was the child of prodigality,
always spent his allowance in four days; and not choosing to
abandon his holy but not very profitable profession of elegiac poet,
lived for the rest of the month on the rare droppings from the
basket of Providence. This long Lent had no terrors for him;
he passed through it gayly, thanks to his stoical temperament,
and to the imaginary treasures which he expended every day
while waiting for the first of the month,- that Easter which
XVIII-656
## p. 10482 (#350) ##########################################
10482
HENRI MURGER
terminated his fast. He lived at this time at the very top of
one of the loftiest houses in Paris. His room was shaped like a
belvidere, and was a delicious habitation in summer; but from
October to April a perfect little Kamtchatka. The four cardinal
winds which penetrated by the four windows-there was one on
each of the four sides-made fearful music in it throughout the
cold seasons. Then, in irony as it were, there was a huge fire-
place, the immense chimney of which seemed a gate of honor
reserved for Boreas and his retinue. On the first attack of cold,
Rodolphe had recourse to an original system of warming: he cut
up successively what little furniture he had, and at the end of a
week his stock was considerably abridged,-in fact, he had only
a bed and two chairs left; it should be remarked that these three
articles were insured against fire by their nature, being of iron.
This manner of heating himself he called moving up the chimney.
It was January; and the thermometer, which indicated twelve
degrees below freezing-point on the Spectacle Quay, would have
stood two or three lower if moved to the belvidere, which
Rodolphe called indifferently Mount St. Bernard, Spitzenberg, and
Siberia. The night when he had promised his cousin the white
violets, he was seized with a great rage on returning home:
the four cardinal winds, in playing puss-in-the-corner round his
chamber, had broken a pane of glass-the third time in a fort-
night. After exploding in a volley of frantic imprecations upon
Eolus and all his family, and plugging up the breach with a
friend's portrait, Rodolphe lay down, dressed as he was, between
his two mattresses, and dreamed of white violets all night.
At the end of five days, Rodolphe had found nothing to help
him toward realizing his dream. He must have the bouquet the
day after to-morrow. Meanwhile the thermometer fell still lower,
and the luckless poet was ready to despair as he thought that the
violets might have risen higher. Finally his good angel had pity
on him, and came to his relief as follows:-
One morning, Rodolphe went to take his chance of getting a
breakfast from his friend Marcel the painter, and found him con-
versing with a woman in mourning. It was a widow who had
just lost her husband, and who wanted to know how much it
would cost to paint on the tomb which she had erected, a man's
hand, with this inscription beneath:-
«I WAIT FOR HER TO WHOM MY FAITH WAS PLIGHTED »
## p. 10483 (#351) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10483
To get the work at a cheaper rate, she observed to the artist
that when she was called to rejoin her husband, he would have
another hand to paint,-her hand, with a bracelet on the wrist,
and the supplementary line beneath:-
«AT LENGTH, BEHOLD US THUS ONCE MORE UNITED»
"I shall put this clause in my will," she said, "and require
that the task be intrusted to you. "
"In that case, madame," replied the artist, "I will do it at the
price you offer- but only in the hope of seeing your hand. Don't
go and forget me in your will. "
"I should like to have this as soon as possible," said the dis-
consolate one: "nevertheless, take your time to do it well; and
don't forget the scar on the thumb. I want a living hand. "
"Don't be afraid, madame, it shall be a speaking one," said
Marcel, as he bowed the widow out.
But hardly had she crossed the threshold when she returned,
saying:-
"I have one thing more to ask you, sir: I should like to
have inscribed on my husband's tomb something in verse which
would tell of his good conduct and his last words. Is that good
style? "
"Very good style - they call that an epitaph - the very best
style. "
"You don't know any one who would do that for me cheap?
There is my neighbor M. Guérin, the public writer; but he asks
the clothes off my back. "
Here Rodolphe darted a look at Marcel, who understood him.
at once.
"Madame," said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, "a happy
fortune has conducted hither the very person who can be of
service to you in this mournful juncture. This gentleman is a
renowned poet; you couldn't find a better. "
"I want something very melancholy," said the widow; "and
the spelling all right. ”
"Madame," replied Marcel, "my friend spells like a book. He
had all the prizes at school. ”
"Indeed! " said the widow: "my grandnephew has just had
a prize too; he is only seven years old. ”
"A very forward child, madame. "
«< But are you sure that the gentleman can make very melan-
choly verses? "
## p. 10484 (#352) ##########################################
10484
HENRI MURGER
"No one better, madame, for he has undergone much sorrow
in his life. The papers always find fault with his verses for
being too melancholy. "
"What! " cried the widow, "do they talk about him in the
papers? He must know quite as much, then, as M. Guérin, the
public writer. "
Apply to him, madame, and you
"And a great deal more.
will not repent of it. "
After having explained to Rodolphe the sort of inscription
in verse which she wished to place on her husband's tomb, the
widow agreed to give Rodolphe ten francs if it suited her-only
she must have it very soon. The poet promised she should have
it the very next day.
"Oh, good genius of an Artemisia! " cried Rodolphe, as the
widow disappeared. "I promise you that you shall be suited-
full allowance of melancholy lyrics, better got up than a duchess,
orthography and all. Good old lady! May Heaven reward you.
with a life of a hundred and seven years-equal to that of good
brandy! "
"I object," said Marcel.
"That's true," said Rodolphe: "I forgot that you have her
hand to paint, and that so long a life would make you lose
money;" and lifting his hands he gravely ejaculated, "Heaven,
do not grant my prayer! Ah! " he continued, "I was in jolly
good luck to come here. "
"By the way," asked Marcel, "what did you want? "
"I recollect—and now especially that I have to pass the
night in making these verses, I cannot do without what I came
to ask you for: namely, first, some dinner; secondly, tobacco and
candle; thirdly, your polar-bear costume. "
"To go to the masked ball? »
"No indeed; but as you see me here, I am as much frozen
up as the grand army in the retreat from Russia. Certainly my
green frock coat and Scotch plaid trousers are very pretty, but
much too summery: they would do to live under the equator,
but for one who lodges near the Pole, as I do, a white-bear skin
is more suitable, indeed, I may say necessary. "
"Take the fur! " said Marcel: "it's a good idea; warm as a
dish of charcoal,-you will be like a roll in an oven in it. ”
Rodolphe was already inside the animal skin.
"Now," said he, "the thermometer is going to be sold a
trifle. "
## p. 10485 (#353) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10485
"Are you going out so? " said Marcel to his friend, after they
had finished an ambiguous repast served in a penny dish.
"I just am," replied Rodolphe: "do you think I care for pub-
lic opinion? Besides, to-day is the beginning of carnival. "
He went half over Paris with all the gravity of the beast
whose skin he occupied. Only on passing before a thermometer
in an optician's window, he couldn't help taking a sight at it.
Having returned home, not without causing great terror to
his porter, Rodolphe lit his candle, carefully surrounding it with
an extempore shade of paper to guard it against the malice of
the winds, and set to work at once. But he was not long in
perceiving that if his body was almost entirely protected from
the cold, his hands were not; a terrible numbness seized his
fingers, which let the pen fall.
"The bravest man cannot struggle against the elements," said
the poet, falling back helpless in his chair. "Cæsar passed the
Rubicon, but he could not have passed the Beresina. "
All at once he uttered a cry of joy from the depths of his
bearskin breast, and jumped up so suddenly as to overturn some
of his ink on its snowy fur. He had an idea!
Rodolphe drew from beneath his bed a considerable mass
of papers, among which were a dozen huge manuscripts of his
famous drama, 'The Avenger. ' This drama, on which he had
spent two years, had been made, unmade, and remade so often
that all the copies together weighed fully fifteen pounds. He put
the last version on one side, and dragged the others towards the
fireplace.
"I was sure that with patience I should dispose of it some-
how," he exclaimed. "What a pretty fagot! If I could have fore-
seen what would happen, I could have written a prologue, and
then I should have more fuel to-night. But one can't foresee
everything. " He lit some leaves of the manuscript, in the flame
of which he thawed his hands. In five minutes the first act of
'The Avenger' was over, and Rodolphe had written three verses
of his epitaph.
It would be impossible to describe the astonishment of the
four winds when they felt fire in the chimney.
"It's an illusion," quoth Boreas, as he amused himself by
brushing back the hair of Rodolphe's bearskin.
"Let's blow down the pipe," suggested another wind, "and
make the chimney smoke. " But just as they were about to
## p. 10486 (#354) ##########################################
10486
HENRI MURGER
plague the poor poet, the south wind perceived Monsieur Arago
at a window of the Observatory threatening them with his finger;
so they all made off, for fear of being put under arrest. Mean-
while the second act of The Avenger' was going off with im-
mense success, and Rodolphe had written ten lines.
But he only
achieved two during the third act.
"I always thought that third act too short," said Rodolphe:
"luckily the next one will take longer; there are twenty-three
scenes in it, including the great one of the throne. " As the last
flourish of the throne-scene went up the chimney in fiery flakes,
Rodolphe had only three couplets more to write. "Now for the
last act. This is all monologue. It may last five minutes. " The
catastrophe flashed and smoldered, and Rodolphe in a magnifi-
cent transport of poetry had enshrined in lyric stanzas the last.
words of the illustrious deceased. "There is enough left for
a second representation," said he, pushing the remainder of the
manuscript under his bed.
At eight o'clock next evening, Mademoiselle Angela entered
the ball-room; in her hand was a splendid nosegay of white vio-
lets, and among them two budding roses, white also. During the
whole night, men and women were complimenting the young girl
on her bouquet. Angela could not but feel a little grateful to her
cousin, who had procured this little triumph for her vanity; and
perhaps she would have thought more of him but for the gallant
persecutions of one of the bride's relatives, who had danced sev-
eral times with her. He was a fair-haired youth, with a magnifi-
cent mustache curled up at the ends, to hook innocent hearts.
The bouquet had been pulled to pieces by everybody; only the
two white roses were left. The young man asked Angela for
them; she refused-only to forget them after the ball on a
bench, whence the fair-haired youth hastened to take them.
At that moment it was fourteen degrees below freezing-point
in Rodolphe's belvidere. He was leaning against his window
looking out at the lights in the ball-room, where his cousin
Angela, who didn't care for him, was dancing.
## p. 10486 (#355) ##########################################
## p. 10486 (#356) ##########################################
ALF. DE MUSSET.
12m
## p. 10486 (#357) ##########################################
## p. 10486 (#358) ##########################################
ALF. DE MUSSET.
## p. 10487 (#359) ##########################################
10487
ALFRED DE MUSSET
(1810-1857)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
HE three greatest French poets of the nineteenth century are
Lamartine, Hugo, and Musset.
me with a soot-bag ef hyar ain't the old fightin' preacher agin! "
he cried.
"I have only one thing to say to you," said Mr. Kenyon.
"You must go: I will not have you here shooting boys and break-
ing up a party. "
Rick demurred. "See hyar, now," he said, "ye've got no
business meddlin'. "
"You must go," Mr. Kenyon reiterated,
## p. 10470 (#338) ##########################################
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
10470
"Preachin's yer business," Rick continued: "'pears like ye
don't 'tend to it, though. "
You must go. "
"S'pose I say I won't," said Rick good-humoredly: "I s'pose
ye'd say ye'd make me. ”
"You must go," repeated Mr. Kenyon. "I am going to take
the boy home with me, but I intend to see you off first. "
Mr. Kenyon had prevented the hot-headed Kossuth from firing
by keeping his hand persistently over the muzzle of the gun; and
young Johns had feared to try to wrench it away lest it should
discharge in the effort. Had it done so, Mr. Kenyon would have
been in sweet converse with the Forty Monks in about a min-
ute and a quarter. Kossuth had finally let go the gun, and made
frantic efforts to borrow a weapon from some of his friends, but
the stern authoritative mandate of the belligerent peace-maker had
prevented them from gratifying him; and he now stood empty-
handed beside Mr. Kenyon, who had shouldered the old rifle in
an absent-minded manner, although still retaining his powerful
grasp on the arm of the outlaw.
"Waal, parson," said Rick at length, "I'll go, jest ter pleas-
ure you-uns. Ye see, I ain't forgot Shiloh. "
"I am not talking about Shiloh now," said the old man. You
must get off at once-all of you," indicating the gang, who
had been so whelmed in astonishment that they had not lifted
a finger to aid their chief.
"Ye say ye'll take that-that- Rick looked hard at Kos-
suth while he racked his brains for an injurious epithet - "that
sassy child home ter his mammy? "
«< Come, I am tired of this talk," said Mr. Kenyon: "you
must go. "
>>
-
«<
Rick walked heavily to the door and out into the moonlight.
"Them was good old times," he said to Mr. Kenyon, with a
regretful cadence in his peculiar drawl; "good old times, them
War days.
I wish they was back agin,—I wish they was back
agin. I ain't forgot Shiloh yit, though, and I ain't a-goin' ter.
But I'll tell ye one thing, parson," he added, his mind reverting
from ten years ago to the scene just past, as he unhitched his
horse and carefully examined the saddle-girth and stirrups, "ye're
a mighty queer preacher, ye air, a-sittin' up an' lookin' at sin-
ners dance, an' then gittin' in a fight that don't consarn ye.
ye're a mighty queer preacher! Ye ought ter be in my gang,
---
## p. 10471 (#339) ##########################################
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
10471
that's whar ye ought ter be," he exclaimed with a guffaw, as he
put his foot in the stirrup; "ye've got a damned deal too much
grit fur a preacher. But I ain't forgot Shiloh yit, an' I don't
mean ter, nuther. "
A shout of laughter from the gang, an oath or two, the quick
tread of horses' hoofs pressing into a gallop, and the outlaw's
troop were speeding along the narrow paths that led deep into
the vistas of the moonlit summer woods.
As the old churchman, with the boy at his side and the gun
still on his shoulder, ascended the rocky, precipitous slope on the
opposite side of the ravine above the foaming waters of the wild
mountain stream, he said but little of admonition to his com-
panion: with the disappearance of the flame and smoke and the
dangerous ruffian, his martial spirit had cooled; the last words of
the outlaw, the highest praise Rick Pearson could accord to the
highest qualities Rick Pearson could imagine,- he had grit enough
to belong to the gang,- had smitten a tender conscience. He, at
his age, using none of the means rightfully at his command,—
the gentle suasion of religion,- must needs rush between armed
men, wrench their weapons from their hands, threatening with
such violence that an outlaw and desperado, recognizing a paral-
lel of his own belligerent and lawless spirit, should say that he
ought to belong to the gang! And the heaviest scourge of the
sin-laden conscience was the perception that so far as the unsub-
dued old Adam went, he ought indeed.
He was not so tortured, though, that he did not think of
others. He paused on reaching the summit of the ascent, and
looked back at the little house nestling in the ravine, the lamp-
light streaming through its open doors and windows across the
path among the laurel bushes, where Rick's gang had hitched
their horses.
"I wonder," said the old man, "if they are quiet and peace-
able again: can you hear the music and dancing? "
"Not now," said Kossuth. Then, after a moment, "Now I
kin," he added, as the wind brought to their ears the oft-told
tale of the rabbit's gallopade in the pea-patch. "They're a-dan-
cin' now, and all right agin. "
As they walked along, Mr. Kenyon's racked conscience might
have been in a slight degree comforted had he known that he
was in some sort a revelation to the impressible lad at his side;
that Kossuth had begun dimly to comprehend that a Christian
## p. 10472 (#340) ##########################################
10472
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE
may be a man of spirit also, and that bravado does not constitute
bravery. Now that the heat of anger was over, the young fellow
was glad that the fearless interposition of the warlike peace-
maker had prevented any killing, "'kase ef the old man hedn't
hung on ter my gun like he done, I'd have been a murderer like
he said, an' Rick would hev been dead. An' the bay filly ain't
sech a killin' matter nohow: ef it war the roan three-year-old
now, 'twould be different »
## p. 10473 (#341) ##########################################
10473
ZOO. G
HENRI MURGER
(1822-1861)
AKING into account a strange and persistent conception which
has been afloat for many generations, the genius of artistic
passion might well be represented as a haloed vagabond,
with immortal longings in his eyes, and out at the elbows.
In his 'Bohemians of the Latin Quarter,' Henri Murger, seizing
upon this conception, has prefaced his story of the gay, sad, wild, half-
starved, half-surfeited life led by four followers of art in Paris, with a
history of the world's Bohemians. He christens the picturesque clan by
this name, now in general use; but he does
not attempt to explain why the pursuit of
art in painting or literature has been so
often identified, in the past at least, with
worthlessness as a citizen. He merely calls
the long roll of those who have lived by
poetry rather than bread. He does not hesi-
tate to include the wanderer Homer, nor
Shakespeare, nor Molière, in this fellowship.
The inspired rascal Villon he claims as his
soul's own brother; Gringoire,-"friend to
vagrants and foe to fasting, "- Marot, Rous-
seau, Chatterton, are of his kin. For Mur-
ger himself was a prince of Bohemians.
Born in Paris in 1822, his father, a tailor,
arranged that he should study law; but Murger chose literature and
starvation. His 'Bohemians,' which was published in 1848, and which
made his fame, is the record of his own life and of the lives of some
boon friends in the Latin Quarter. It is the story of those spirits in
the untamed twenties, who like Omar desire only —
HENRI MURGER
"A book of verses underneath the bough,
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou
Beside me singing in the wilderness. "
What does it matter that the wilderness is that of the Paris roofs,
and the bread at least wanting, perhaps, and the beloved a little
working-girl in chintz, happy with a few sous' worth of violets or an
## p. 10474 (#342) ##########################################
10474
HENRI MURGER
afternoon at Versailles? The Bohemians of Paris are linked by the
chains of vagabondage, and of possible genius, to all those in every
age and clime who have found stimulus for their powers in love and
wine and song; and who in serving this trinity have forgotten the
obligation to earn more than they spend.
-
Murger himself did not long survive his translation, from that
quarter of Paris where he lived in the fifth story of a cheap lodging-
house because there was no sixth, to the realm of respectability. He
was, however, still enough of a Bohemian to prefer a cottage in the
Forest of Fontainebleau to the smug quarters of Paris, whose inhabit-
ants know nothing of the excitement of chasing "that wild beast
called a five-franc piece. " Murger died in 1861; and there were
those who questioned, in reviewing his life, whether he had been
really at heart a Bohemian. His book, at least, shows the subtlest
penetration into that irregular form of human nature known as the
artistic temperament. The reader regrets that the possessor of such
insight — a man who could discern a brother Bohemian across many
centuries and under the strangest disguises of mediæval rags — should
not have explained why the world instinctively feels that the poet
or the artist is not likely to be normal in his habits of living. Had
he attempted to answer this question, he might have said that the
man who sees visions and dreams dreams, knows the true value of
bread and meat and gold pieces better than the Philistine; and can
therefore accept their services irregularly, and with the nonchalance
of the inspired. The world, before whom the bread and meat and
gold pieces loom large as fate itself, translates this nonchalance into
shiftless ignorance of the duties and obligations of life. As poets and
artists are as a rule visionaries, this reputation is therefore fastened
upon them.
--
The world is not without its justification. Even Murger himself
says, "Bohemia is a stage in the artistic life: it is the preface to the
Academy, the Hôtel Dieu-or the Morgue. "
## p. 10475 (#343) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10475
M.
A BOHEMIAN EVENING PARTY
From The Humor of France,' in International Humor Series >
TOWA
NOWARDS the end of December the messengers of Bidault's
agency were commissioned to distribute about a hundred
copies of an invitation, of which the following is a faithful
reproduction:-
―――
MM. Rodolphe and Marcel request the honor of your company on
Saturday evening next, Christmas Eve.
There will be fine fun.
PROGRAMME OF THE ENTERTAINMENT
At 7 P. M. , opening of the reception rooms; lively and animated
conversation.
At 8 P. M. , entrance and walk through the rooms of the talented
authors of the Mountain in Labor,' comedy refused at the Odéon
Théâtre.
At 8:30 P. M. , M. Alexandre Schaunard, the celebrated virtuoso, will
perform on the piano 'The Influence of Blue in the Arts,' descript-
ive symphony.
At 9 P. M. , first reading of the paper on The Abolition of the Pen-
alty in Tragedy. '
At 9:30 P. M. , M. Gustave Colline, hyperphysical philosopher, and
Monsieur Schaunard, will hold a debate comparing dephilosophy and
metapolitics. In order to avoid any collision between the antagonists,
they will each be securely fastened.
At 10
P. M. , M. Tristan, man of letters, will relate his early
amours. M. Alexandre Schaunard will accompany him on the piano.
At 10:30 P. M. , second reading of the paper on The Abolition of
the Penalty in Tragedy. '
At 11 P. M. , a foreign Prince will describe a Cassowary hunt.
PART II
AT MIDNIGHT, Monsieur Marcel, historical painter, blindfolded, will
improvise in chalk the meeting of Napoleon and Voltaire in the Elys-
ian Fields. Monsieur Rodolphe will improvise a comparison between
the author of 'Zaïre' and the author of Austerlitz.
At 12:30 P. M. , M. Gustave, in a decent undress, will imitate the
athletic games of the fourth Olympiad.
At I
A. M. , third reading of the paper on The Abolition of the
Penalty in Tragedy,' and collection for the tragic authors who will
one day be out of work.
## p. 10476 (#344) ##########################################
10476
HENRI MURGER
At 2 A. M. , beginning of the games and organization of the dances,
which will be continued until morning.
At 6 A. M. , sunrise and final chorus.
During the whole of the entertainment the ventilators will play.
N. B. Any person wishing to read or recite verses will be imme-
diately turned out and delivered up to the police. You are requested
not to take away the candle ends.
Let me tell you briefly the origin of the entertainment that
so vastly dazzled the Bohemian world of Paris. For about a
year, Marcel and Rodolphe had gone on announcing this magnifi-
cent entertainment to take place always next Saturday. But un-
toward circumstances had forced them to let the promise extend
over fifty-two weeks. In consequence, they could scarcely move
a step without having to endure the jeers of their friends, some
of whom were actually unfeeling enough to formulate loud com-
plaints. The affair began to get tiresome; and the two friends
determined to put an end to it by liquidating the engagements
they had made. And the invitation quoted above was the out-
come of that decision.
"Now," said Rodolphe, "there's no possibility of retreat: we've
burnt our ships, and we've just a week in which to find the hun-
dred francs indispensable for doing the thing well. "
"As they are so absolutely necessary," said Marcel, "of course
they'll be forthcoming. "
And with an insolent confidence in luck, the two friends went
to sleep, convinced that the hundred francs were already on the
road-the road of the impossible.
However, two days before the evening appointed for the party,
as nothing had arrived, Rodolphe thought that if he did not
wish to be disgraced when the time came for the guests to arrive,
it would probably be safer to assist luck. In order to facilitate
matters, the two friends, by degrees, modified the sumptuous
programme on which they had at first determined. And from
modification to modification, after greatly curtailing the item.
cakes, and carefully revising and diminishing that of drinks, the
total expense was reduced to fifteen francs. The problem was
thus simplified but not solved.
"Well," said Rodolphe,
«< we must take strong measures: we
can't postpone it again this time. "
"Impossible," said Marcel.
"How long is it since I heard the story of Studzianka? "
## p. 10477 (#345) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10477
"Almost two months. "
"Two months? good! that's a respectable interval. My uncle
shall have no cause for complaint. To-morrow I'll go and see
him, and ask for the battle of Studzianka. That will mean five
francs. "
"And," said Marcel, "I'll sell old Medicis 'A Deserted Manor':
that will be another five francs. If I've time to put in three
towers and a mill, it will very likely be ten francs, and then we
shall have just the sum required. "
The two friends went to sleep, and dreamed that the Princess
Belgioso asked them to change their reception days, in order not
to deprive her of her habitual guests.
Marcel got up very early, took a canvas, and diligently pro-
ceeded to construct 'A Deserted Castle,'- an article in great
demand by a broker in the Place du Carrousel. Rodolphe went
to call on his uncle Monetti, who excelled in narrating the retreat
from Moscow. Rodolphe, when things went badly with him,
procured his uncle the satisfaction of fighting his campaigns
over again some five or six times a year, in consideration for a
loan. If you showed a proper enthusiasm for his stories, the
veteran stove-maker and chimney-doctor was not unwilling to
make it.
news.
«
About two o'clock, Marcel, with downcast look, carrying a
canvas under his arm, met Rodolphe in the Place du Carrou-
sel coming from his uncle's; his appearance also betokened ill
"Well," asked Marcel, "what luck? "
"None. My uncle had gone to the Versailles Museum. And
you? »
“That wretch of a Medicis doesn't want any more 'Ruined
Castles. ' He asked for a 'Bombardment of Tangiers. '"
"Our reputation's gone if we don't give the entertainment,"
grumbled Rodolphe. "What will my friend the influential critic
think, if I make him put on a white tie and light gloves for
nothing? "
They returned to the studio, a prey to the liveliest anxiety.
At that moment a neighbor's clock struck four.
"We've only three hours left," said Rodolphe.
"Well," exclaimed Marcel, going up to his friend, "are you
perfectly sure there's no money to be found here? "
## p. 10478 (#346) ##########################################
10478
HENRI MURGER
"Neither here nor elsewhere. Where could we have left any? "
"Let us search in the stuffing of the chairs. It is said that
the émigrés hid their treasure in Robespierre's time. Our arm-
chair may have belonged to an émigré. It's so hard that I've
often thought it must be metal inside. Will you make an autopsy
of it? "
"This is a mere farce," replied Rodolphe in a tone at once
severe and indulgent.
Suddenly Marcel, who had been prosecuting his search in
every corner of the studio, gave a loud shout of triumph.
"We are saved! " he exclaimed: "I felt sure there was some-
thing of value here. Look! " and he held up for Rodolphe's in-
spection a coin the size of a crown, half smothered in rust and
verdigris.
It was a Carlovingian coin of some artistic value.
"That's only worth thirty sous," said Rodolphe, throwing a
contemptuous glance at his friend's findings.
«
"Thirty sous well laid out will go a long way," said Marcel.
"I'll sell this Charlemagne crown to old Father Medicis. Isn't
could sell? Yes, suppose I take the
That will add to the collection. "
there anything else here I
Russian drum-major's tibia.
"Away with the tibia.
But it's exceedingly annoying: there
won't be a single object of art left. "
During Marcel's absence, Rodolphe, feeling certain that his
party would come off somehow, went in search of his friend
Colline, who lived quite near.
"I want you," he said, "to do me a favor. As master of the
house, I must wear a dress coat, and I haven't got one. Lend
me yours. "
"But," objected Colline, "as a guest I must wear my dress
coat myself. "
"I'll allow you to come in a frock coat. "
"You know I've never had a frock coat. "
"Well, then, the matter can be arranged like this: You need-
n't come to the party, and you can lend me your dress coat. "
"But that'll never do. I'm on the programme.
away. "
I can't stay
"There'll be plenty of other things lacking," said Rodolphe.
"Lend me the dress coat; and if you want to come, come as you
are, in your shirt-sleeves. "
## p. 10479 (#347) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10479
"Oh, no,” said Colline, getting red. "I'll put on my great-
coat. But it's all exceedingly annoying " And perceiving that
Rodolphe had already laid hold of the dress coat, he exclaimed:
"Stay-there are one or two little things in the pockets. "
Colline's coat deserves mention. First, it was blue, and it
was purely from habit that Colline talked about his black coat;
and as he was the only member of the band who possessed such
a garment, his friends were likewise accustomed to say when
speaking of the philosopher, Colline's black coat. Further, that
celebrated article of apparel had a particular shape of its own,
the most eccentric that can be imagined. The abnormally long
tails fastened to a very short waist possessed two pockets, verita-
ble abysses, in which Colline was accustomed to put about thirty
books he everlastingly carried about him. Thus it was said that
when the libraries were closed, scholars and literary men looked
up their references in the tails of Colline's coat, a library always
open to readers.
When Rodolphe returned he found Marcel playing quoits with
five-franc pieces, to the number of three.
He had sold the coin for fifteen francs.
The two friends immediately began their preparations. They
put the studio tidy, and lighted a fire in the stove. A canvas
frame, ornamented with candles, was suspended from the ceiling,
and did duty as a chandelier. A desk was placed in the middle
of the studio, to serve as a tribune for the speakers. In front
they put the one arm-chair, which was to be occupied by the
influential critic; and laid out a table the books, novels,
feuilletons of the authors who were to honor the entertainment
with their presence.
To avoid any collision between the differ-
ent parties of men of letters, they divided the studio into four
compartments; at the entrance were four hastily manufactured
placards inscribed-
POETS
PROSE-WRITERS
ROMANTIC
CLASSICAL
The ladies were to occupy a space reserved in the middle.
"Oh! " said Rodolphe, << there are no chairs. "
"There are plenty on the landing," replied Marcel.
we take those. "
"Suppose
"Of course," said Rodolphe, and proceeded calmly to take
possession of his neighbors' property.
## p. 10480 (#348) ##########################################
10480
HENRI MURGER
Six o'clock struck. The two friends went out for a hasty
dinner, and on their return proceeded to light up the rooms.
They could not help feeling dazzled themselves. At seven
o'clock Schaunard arrived, accompanied by three ladies, who had
forgotten their diamonds and their bonnets. Numerous steps
were heard on the staircase. The guests were arriving, and they
seemed surprised to find a fire in the stove.
Rodolphe's dress-coat went to meet the ladies, and kissed
their hands with a grace worthy of the Regency. When there
were about twenty persons present, Schaunard asked if they
couldn't have something to drink.
"Presently," said Marcel: "we are waiting for the influential
critic before we begin on the punch. "
By eight o'clock all the guests had come, and they began the
programme. Between each number came a round of some sort
of drink; but what it exactly was, has never transpired.
About ten o'clock the white waistcoat of the influential critic
appeared. He only stayed an hour, and was very sparing of
praise. At midnight, as it was very cold and there was no more
fuel, the guests who were seated drew lots for throwing their
chairs into the fire.
At one o'clock everybody was standing.
The greatest merriment held sway among the guests, and the
memorable evening was the talk of the neighborhood for a week.
THE WHITE VIOLETS
From The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter›
ABO
BOUT this time Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and the thermome-
ter was twelve degrees below freezing-point.
Mademoiselle Angela was the daughter of Monsieur Monetti,
the chimney-doctor, of whom we have already had occasion to
speak. She was eighteen years old, and had just come from
Burgundy, where she had lived five years with a relative who
was to leave her all her property. This relative was an old lady
who had never been young, apparently,- certainly never hand-
some, but had always been very ill-natured, although—or per-
haps because very superstitious. Angela, who at her departure
was a charming child, and promised to be a charming girl,
――――――――――
-
## p. 10481 (#349) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10481
came back at the end of the five years a pretty enough young
lady, but cold, dry, and uninteresting. Her secluded provincial
life, and the narrow and bigoted education she had received, had
filled her mind with vulgar prejudices, shrunk her imagination,
and converted her heart into a sort of organ limited to fulfilling
its function of physical balance-wheel. You might say that she
had holy water in her veins instead of blood. She received her
cousin with an icy reserve; and he lost his time whenever he
attempted to touch the chord of her recollections-recollections.
of the time when they had sketched out that flirtation, in the
Paul-and-Virginia style, which is traditional between cousins of
different sexes. Still Rodolphe was very much in love with his
cousin Angela, who couldn't bear him; and learning one day
that the young lady was going shortly to the wedding-ball of
one of her friends, he made bold to promise Angela a bouquet
of violets for the ball. And after asking permission of her
father, Angela accepted her cousin's gallant offer-always on
condition that the violets should be white.
Overjoyed at his cousin's amiability, Rodolphe danced and
sang his way back to Mount St. Bernard, as he called his lodg-
ing-why, will be seen presently. As he passed by a florist's in
crossing the Palais Royal, he saw some white violets in the show-
case, and was curious enough to ask their price. A presentable
bouquet could not be had for less than ten francs; there were
some that cost more.
"The deuce! " exclaimed Rodolphe; "ten francs! and only
eight days to find this fortune! It will be a hard pull, but never
mind; my cousin shall have her flowers. "
This happened in the time of Rodolphe's literary genesis, as
the transcendentalists would say. His only income at that period
was an allowance of fifteen francs a month, made him by a
friend, who after living a long while in Paris as a poet, had by
the help of influential acquaintances gained the mastership of
a provincial school. Rodolphe, who was the child of prodigality,
always spent his allowance in four days; and not choosing to
abandon his holy but not very profitable profession of elegiac poet,
lived for the rest of the month on the rare droppings from the
basket of Providence. This long Lent had no terrors for him;
he passed through it gayly, thanks to his stoical temperament,
and to the imaginary treasures which he expended every day
while waiting for the first of the month,- that Easter which
XVIII-656
## p. 10482 (#350) ##########################################
10482
HENRI MURGER
terminated his fast. He lived at this time at the very top of
one of the loftiest houses in Paris. His room was shaped like a
belvidere, and was a delicious habitation in summer; but from
October to April a perfect little Kamtchatka. The four cardinal
winds which penetrated by the four windows-there was one on
each of the four sides-made fearful music in it throughout the
cold seasons. Then, in irony as it were, there was a huge fire-
place, the immense chimney of which seemed a gate of honor
reserved for Boreas and his retinue. On the first attack of cold,
Rodolphe had recourse to an original system of warming: he cut
up successively what little furniture he had, and at the end of a
week his stock was considerably abridged,-in fact, he had only
a bed and two chairs left; it should be remarked that these three
articles were insured against fire by their nature, being of iron.
This manner of heating himself he called moving up the chimney.
It was January; and the thermometer, which indicated twelve
degrees below freezing-point on the Spectacle Quay, would have
stood two or three lower if moved to the belvidere, which
Rodolphe called indifferently Mount St. Bernard, Spitzenberg, and
Siberia. The night when he had promised his cousin the white
violets, he was seized with a great rage on returning home:
the four cardinal winds, in playing puss-in-the-corner round his
chamber, had broken a pane of glass-the third time in a fort-
night. After exploding in a volley of frantic imprecations upon
Eolus and all his family, and plugging up the breach with a
friend's portrait, Rodolphe lay down, dressed as he was, between
his two mattresses, and dreamed of white violets all night.
At the end of five days, Rodolphe had found nothing to help
him toward realizing his dream. He must have the bouquet the
day after to-morrow. Meanwhile the thermometer fell still lower,
and the luckless poet was ready to despair as he thought that the
violets might have risen higher. Finally his good angel had pity
on him, and came to his relief as follows:-
One morning, Rodolphe went to take his chance of getting a
breakfast from his friend Marcel the painter, and found him con-
versing with a woman in mourning. It was a widow who had
just lost her husband, and who wanted to know how much it
would cost to paint on the tomb which she had erected, a man's
hand, with this inscription beneath:-
«I WAIT FOR HER TO WHOM MY FAITH WAS PLIGHTED »
## p. 10483 (#351) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10483
To get the work at a cheaper rate, she observed to the artist
that when she was called to rejoin her husband, he would have
another hand to paint,-her hand, with a bracelet on the wrist,
and the supplementary line beneath:-
«AT LENGTH, BEHOLD US THUS ONCE MORE UNITED»
"I shall put this clause in my will," she said, "and require
that the task be intrusted to you. "
"In that case, madame," replied the artist, "I will do it at the
price you offer- but only in the hope of seeing your hand. Don't
go and forget me in your will. "
"I should like to have this as soon as possible," said the dis-
consolate one: "nevertheless, take your time to do it well; and
don't forget the scar on the thumb. I want a living hand. "
"Don't be afraid, madame, it shall be a speaking one," said
Marcel, as he bowed the widow out.
But hardly had she crossed the threshold when she returned,
saying:-
"I have one thing more to ask you, sir: I should like to
have inscribed on my husband's tomb something in verse which
would tell of his good conduct and his last words. Is that good
style? "
"Very good style - they call that an epitaph - the very best
style. "
"You don't know any one who would do that for me cheap?
There is my neighbor M. Guérin, the public writer; but he asks
the clothes off my back. "
Here Rodolphe darted a look at Marcel, who understood him.
at once.
"Madame," said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, "a happy
fortune has conducted hither the very person who can be of
service to you in this mournful juncture. This gentleman is a
renowned poet; you couldn't find a better. "
"I want something very melancholy," said the widow; "and
the spelling all right. ”
"Madame," replied Marcel, "my friend spells like a book. He
had all the prizes at school. ”
"Indeed! " said the widow: "my grandnephew has just had
a prize too; he is only seven years old. ”
"A very forward child, madame. "
«< But are you sure that the gentleman can make very melan-
choly verses? "
## p. 10484 (#352) ##########################################
10484
HENRI MURGER
"No one better, madame, for he has undergone much sorrow
in his life. The papers always find fault with his verses for
being too melancholy. "
"What! " cried the widow, "do they talk about him in the
papers? He must know quite as much, then, as M. Guérin, the
public writer. "
Apply to him, madame, and you
"And a great deal more.
will not repent of it. "
After having explained to Rodolphe the sort of inscription
in verse which she wished to place on her husband's tomb, the
widow agreed to give Rodolphe ten francs if it suited her-only
she must have it very soon. The poet promised she should have
it the very next day.
"Oh, good genius of an Artemisia! " cried Rodolphe, as the
widow disappeared. "I promise you that you shall be suited-
full allowance of melancholy lyrics, better got up than a duchess,
orthography and all. Good old lady! May Heaven reward you.
with a life of a hundred and seven years-equal to that of good
brandy! "
"I object," said Marcel.
"That's true," said Rodolphe: "I forgot that you have her
hand to paint, and that so long a life would make you lose
money;" and lifting his hands he gravely ejaculated, "Heaven,
do not grant my prayer! Ah! " he continued, "I was in jolly
good luck to come here. "
"By the way," asked Marcel, "what did you want? "
"I recollect—and now especially that I have to pass the
night in making these verses, I cannot do without what I came
to ask you for: namely, first, some dinner; secondly, tobacco and
candle; thirdly, your polar-bear costume. "
"To go to the masked ball? »
"No indeed; but as you see me here, I am as much frozen
up as the grand army in the retreat from Russia. Certainly my
green frock coat and Scotch plaid trousers are very pretty, but
much too summery: they would do to live under the equator,
but for one who lodges near the Pole, as I do, a white-bear skin
is more suitable, indeed, I may say necessary. "
"Take the fur! " said Marcel: "it's a good idea; warm as a
dish of charcoal,-you will be like a roll in an oven in it. ”
Rodolphe was already inside the animal skin.
"Now," said he, "the thermometer is going to be sold a
trifle. "
## p. 10485 (#353) ##########################################
HENRI MURGER
10485
"Are you going out so? " said Marcel to his friend, after they
had finished an ambiguous repast served in a penny dish.
"I just am," replied Rodolphe: "do you think I care for pub-
lic opinion? Besides, to-day is the beginning of carnival. "
He went half over Paris with all the gravity of the beast
whose skin he occupied. Only on passing before a thermometer
in an optician's window, he couldn't help taking a sight at it.
Having returned home, not without causing great terror to
his porter, Rodolphe lit his candle, carefully surrounding it with
an extempore shade of paper to guard it against the malice of
the winds, and set to work at once. But he was not long in
perceiving that if his body was almost entirely protected from
the cold, his hands were not; a terrible numbness seized his
fingers, which let the pen fall.
"The bravest man cannot struggle against the elements," said
the poet, falling back helpless in his chair. "Cæsar passed the
Rubicon, but he could not have passed the Beresina. "
All at once he uttered a cry of joy from the depths of his
bearskin breast, and jumped up so suddenly as to overturn some
of his ink on its snowy fur. He had an idea!
Rodolphe drew from beneath his bed a considerable mass
of papers, among which were a dozen huge manuscripts of his
famous drama, 'The Avenger. ' This drama, on which he had
spent two years, had been made, unmade, and remade so often
that all the copies together weighed fully fifteen pounds. He put
the last version on one side, and dragged the others towards the
fireplace.
"I was sure that with patience I should dispose of it some-
how," he exclaimed. "What a pretty fagot! If I could have fore-
seen what would happen, I could have written a prologue, and
then I should have more fuel to-night. But one can't foresee
everything. " He lit some leaves of the manuscript, in the flame
of which he thawed his hands. In five minutes the first act of
'The Avenger' was over, and Rodolphe had written three verses
of his epitaph.
It would be impossible to describe the astonishment of the
four winds when they felt fire in the chimney.
"It's an illusion," quoth Boreas, as he amused himself by
brushing back the hair of Rodolphe's bearskin.
"Let's blow down the pipe," suggested another wind, "and
make the chimney smoke. " But just as they were about to
## p. 10486 (#354) ##########################################
10486
HENRI MURGER
plague the poor poet, the south wind perceived Monsieur Arago
at a window of the Observatory threatening them with his finger;
so they all made off, for fear of being put under arrest. Mean-
while the second act of The Avenger' was going off with im-
mense success, and Rodolphe had written ten lines.
But he only
achieved two during the third act.
"I always thought that third act too short," said Rodolphe:
"luckily the next one will take longer; there are twenty-three
scenes in it, including the great one of the throne. " As the last
flourish of the throne-scene went up the chimney in fiery flakes,
Rodolphe had only three couplets more to write. "Now for the
last act. This is all monologue. It may last five minutes. " The
catastrophe flashed and smoldered, and Rodolphe in a magnifi-
cent transport of poetry had enshrined in lyric stanzas the last.
words of the illustrious deceased. "There is enough left for
a second representation," said he, pushing the remainder of the
manuscript under his bed.
At eight o'clock next evening, Mademoiselle Angela entered
the ball-room; in her hand was a splendid nosegay of white vio-
lets, and among them two budding roses, white also. During the
whole night, men and women were complimenting the young girl
on her bouquet. Angela could not but feel a little grateful to her
cousin, who had procured this little triumph for her vanity; and
perhaps she would have thought more of him but for the gallant
persecutions of one of the bride's relatives, who had danced sev-
eral times with her. He was a fair-haired youth, with a magnifi-
cent mustache curled up at the ends, to hook innocent hearts.
The bouquet had been pulled to pieces by everybody; only the
two white roses were left. The young man asked Angela for
them; she refused-only to forget them after the ball on a
bench, whence the fair-haired youth hastened to take them.
At that moment it was fourteen degrees below freezing-point
in Rodolphe's belvidere. He was leaning against his window
looking out at the lights in the ball-room, where his cousin
Angela, who didn't care for him, was dancing.
## p. 10486 (#355) ##########################################
## p. 10486 (#356) ##########################################
ALF. DE MUSSET.
12m
## p. 10486 (#357) ##########################################
## p. 10486 (#358) ##########################################
ALF. DE MUSSET.
## p. 10487 (#359) ##########################################
10487
ALFRED DE MUSSET
(1810-1857)
BY ALCÉE FORTIER
HE three greatest French poets of the nineteenth century are
Lamartine, Hugo, and Musset.
