Dumas' Paris Part 5

Dumas himself has said much upon the subject in defence of his position, and the contemporary scribblers of the time have likewise had their say--and it was not brief; but of all that has been written and said, the following is pertinent and deliciously nave, and, coming from Dumas himself, has value:

"One morning I had only just opened my eyes when my servant entered my bedroom and brought me a letter upon which was written the word _urgent_.

He drew back the curtains; the weather--doubtless by some mistake--was fine, and the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne entered the room like a conqueror. I rubbed my eyes and looked at the letter to see who had sent it, astonished at the same time that there should be only one. The handwriting was quite unknown to me. Having turned it over and over for a minute or two, trying to guess whose the writing was, I opened it and this is what I found:

"'SIR:--I have read your "Three Musketeers," being well to do, and having plenty of spare time on my hands--'

"('Lucky fellow!' said I; and I continued reading.)

"'I admit that I found it fairly amusing; but, having plenty of time before me, I was curious enough to wish to know if you really did find them in the "Memoirs of M. de La Fere." As I was living in Carca.s.sonne, I wrote to one of my friends in Paris to go to the Bibliotheque Royale, and ask for these memoirs, and to write and let me know if you had really and truly borrowed your facts from them. My friend, whom I can trust, replied that you had copied them word for word, and that it is what you authors always do. So I give you fair notice, sir, that I have told people all about it at Carca.s.sonne, and, if it occurs again, we shall cease subscribing to the _Siecle_.

"'Yours sincerely, "'----.'

"I rang the bell.

"'If any more letters come for me to-day,' said I to the servant, 'you will keep them back, and only give them to me sometime when I seem a bit too happy.'

"'Ma.n.u.scripts as well, sir?'

"'Why do you ask that question?'

"'Because some one has brought one this very moment.'

"'Good! that is the last straw! Put it somewhere where it won't be lost, but don't tell me where.'

"He put it on the mantelpiece, which proved that my servant was decidedly a man of intelligence.

"It was half-past ten; I went to the window. As I have said, it was a beautiful day. It appeared as if the sun had won a permanent victory over the clouds. The pa.s.sers-by all looked happy, or, at least, contented.

"Like everybody else, I experienced a desire to take the air elsewhere than at my window, so I dressed, and went out.

"As chance would have it--for when I go out for a walk I don't care whether it is in one street or another--as chance would have it, I say, I pa.s.sed the Bibliotheque Royale.

"I went in, and, as usual, found Paris, who came up to me with a charming smile.

"'Give me,' said I, 'the "Memoirs of La Fere."'

"He looked at me for a moment as if he thought I was crazy; then, with the utmost gravity, he said, 'You know very well they don't exist, because you said yourself they did!'

"His speech, though brief, was decidedly pithy.

"By way of thanks I made Paris a gift of the autograph I had received from Carca.s.sonne.

"When he had finished reading it, he said, 'If it is any consolation to you to know it, you are not the first who has come to ask for the "Memoirs of La Fere"; I have already seen at least thirty people who came solely for that purpose, and no doubt they hate you for sending them on a fool's errand.'

"As I was in search of material for a novel, and as there are people who declare novels are to be found ready-made, I asked for the catalogue.

"Of course, I did not discover anything."

Every one knows of Dumas' great fame as a gastronome and epicure; some recall, also, that he himself was a _cuisinier_ of no mean abilities. How far his capacities went in this direction, and how wide was his knowledge of the subject, can only be gleaned by a careful reading of his great "Dictionnaire de Cuisine." Still further into the subject he may be supposed to have gone from the fact that he also published an inquiry, or an open letter, addressed to the _gourmands_ of all countries, on the subject of mustard.

It is an interesting subject, to be sure, but a trifling one for one of the world's greatest writers to spend his time upon; say you, dear reader?

Well! perhaps! But it is a most fascinating contribution to the literature of epicurism, and quite worth looking up and into. The history of the subtle spice is traced down through Biblical and Roman times to our own day, chronologically, etymologically, botanically, and practically. It will be, and doubtless has been, useful to other compilers of essays on good cheer.

Whatever may be the subtle abilities which make the true romancer, or rather those which make his romances things of life and blood, they were possessed by Alexandre Dumas.

Perhaps it is the more easy to construct a romantic play than it is to erect, from matter-of-fact components, a really engrossing romantic novel.

Dumas' abilities seem to fit in with both varieties alike, and if he did build to order, the result was in most cases no less successful than if evolved laboriously.

It is a curious fact that many serial contributions--if we are to believe the literary gossip of the time--are only produced as the printer is waiting for copy. The formula is manifestly not a good one upon which to build, but it has been done, and successfully, by more writers than one, and with scarce a gap unbridged.

d.i.c.kens did it,--if it is allowable to mention him here,--and Dumas himself did it,--many times,--and with a wonderful and, one may say, inspired facility, but then his facility, none the less than his vitality, made possible much that was not granted to the laborious Zola.

Dumas was untiring to the very last. His was a case of being literally worked out--not worked to death, which is quite a different thing.

It has been said by Dumas _fils_ that in the latter years of the elder's life he would sit for length upon length of time, pen in hand, and not a word would flow therefrom, ere the ink had dried.

An interesting article on Dumas' last days appeared in _La Revue_ in 1903.

It dealt with the sadness and disappointments of Dumas' later days, in spite of which the impression conveyed of the great novelist's personality is very vivid, and he emerges from it much as his books would lead one to expect--a hearty, vigorous creature, surcharged with vitality, with desire to live and let live, a man possessed of almost equally prominent faults and virtues, and generous to a fault.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Alexandre Dumas, Fils]

Money he had never been able to keep. He had said himself, at a time when he was earning a fortune, "I can keep everything but money. Money unfortunately always slips through my fingers." The close of his life was a horrible struggle to make ends meet. When matters came to a crisis Dumas would p.a.w.n some of the valuable _objets d'art_ he had collected in the opulent past, or ask his son for a.s.sistance. But, though the sum asked was always given, there were probably few things which the old man would not have preferred to this appeal to the younger author.

As he grew old, Dumas _pere_ became almost timid in his att.i.tude toward the son, whose disapproval had frequently found expression in advice and warning. But Dumas could not settle down, and he could not become careful.

Neither of these things was in his nature, and there was consequently always some little undercurrent of friction between them. To the end of his days his money was anybody's who liked to come and ask for it, and nothing but the final clouding of his intellectual capacity could reduce his optimism. Then, it is true, he fell into a state of sustained depression. The idea that his reputation would not last haunted him.

In 1870, when Dumas was already very ill, his son, anxious that he should not be in Paris during its investment by the Germans, took him to a house he had at Puys, near Dieppe. Here the great man rapidly sank, and, except at meal-times, pa.s.sed his time in a state of heavy sleep, until a sudden attack of apoplexy finally seized him. He never rallied after it, and died upon the day the Prussian soldiers took possession of Dieppe.

Many stories are rife of Dumas the prodigal. Some doubtless are true, many are not. Those which he fathers himself, we might well accept as being true. Surely he himself should know.

The following incident which happened in the last days of his life certainly has the ring of truth about it.

When in his last illness he left Paris for his son's country house near Dieppe, he had but twenty francs, the total fortune of the man who had earned millions.

On arriving at Puys, Dumas placed the coin on his bedroom chimneypiece, and there it remained all through his illness.

One day he was seated in his chair near the window, chatting with his son, when his eye fell on the gold piece.

A recollection of the past crossed his mind.

"Fifty years ago, when I went to Paris," he said, "I had a louis. Why have people accused me of prodigality? I have always kept that louis.

See--there it is."

And he showed his son the coin, smiling feebly as he did so.