No More Learning

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,
――――――――――
-


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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


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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? "


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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. "


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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


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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.


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ALF. DE MUSSET.
12m


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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. The first one touches us
deeply by his harmonious and simple verses; the second
impresses us with the force of his genius; and the third is some-
times light and gay, and sometimes intensely passionate and sad.
Musset wrote several poems which cannot be surpassed by any in
the French language. He was highly nervous and sensitive, and
lacked Lamartine's spirit of patriotism and Hugo's well-balanced
mind. He was unfortunate, and led a reckless life, committing ex-
cesses which nearly destroyed his genius, and rendered it sterile for
the last ten years of his existence. It is, however, to his nervous
temperament-to the fact that he felt so deeply the misfortunes of
love that we owe his finest works. In the beginning of his career
-in 1828, when he was eighteen years old - we see him admitted
at Hugo's house, and considered by the poets of the famous Cénacle,
by the disciples of the Master, as their favorite child, as a Romantic
poet of great promise. He published at that time in a newspaper at
Dijon a poem, 'The Dream,' which was warmly received by his
brother poets and protectors. In 1830 appeared his first volume,
Tales of Spain and Italy,' which are rather immoral in tone, and
somewhat ironical. The author followed still the precepts of the
Romantic school; but one may see already that he is not a true dis-
ciple of Hugo, not an idolater like Gautier. His famous 'Ballad to
the Moon' was intended as a huge joke, and is indeed wonderful in
its eccentricity. Musset speaks with great irreverence of the celes-
tial body which shone on Lamartine's immortal 'Lake. '
The 'Ballad to the Moon' created a great sensation; and to this
day, Musset is better known to many people by his earliest poems
than by his magnificent Nights. ' It is true that his Tales of Spain
and Italy' are entrancing, in spite of their immorality, and contain.
some beautiful verses. The last lines of Don Poez' are full of pas-
sion; but most of these poems are ironical. Portia is white-armed
like Andromache, but she is not faithful to her husband like Hector's
wife. The Chestnuts out of the Fire' is, without doubt, a parody


## p. 10488 (#360) ##########################################

10488
ALFRED DE MUSSET
on Racine's 'Andromaque'; and 'Mardoche' can hardly be understood,
and seems to have been written for a mystification. The rhythm is
little marked; and in accordance with the precept of the Romantic
school, the author makes an abuse of the enjambement or overflow.
'The Willow' is more serious in tone, and relates a tragic love story;
while in Octave' we see the charming Mariette die of love for
Octave, who has disdained her, and who is a woman dressed as a
man. The earliest works of Musset are very eccentric, but they are
not lacking in poetic spirit.
The director of the Odéon requested Musset to write a comedy for
his theatre; and the poet produced the 'Venetian Night,' which was
played in December 1830, without any success. The author declared
that he would never write again for the stage, and gave his next
volume of dramas, published in 1833, the title of Spectacle in an
Arm-chair. The Cup and the Lips' is a work of great energy. It
is a dramatic poem in five acts, and represents the weird character
of Frank and the brutal and passionate love of Belcolore. Frank is
attracted by the charm and purity of the sweet Déidamia, and is
about to marry her when she is murdered by Belcolore. The idea
of the poet is, that when once vice has taken possession of a man he
cannot free himself from it. Musset expressed thus but too well his
own faults and his own weakness. There is in the work a chorus
which seems unnecessary, and which is very strange. Unlike the
Greek chorus, it has nothing to do with the development of the plot,
and it is not, like Racine's choruses, a pretext for beautiful lyric
poetry.
'Of What do Young Girls Dream? ' is a very incredible comedy;
but it is an interesting and romantic work, full of the innocent and
simple charm of youth. Namouna' is as strange and immoral as
'Mardoche'; but is far superior in poetic merit, and was greatly ad-
mired by Sainte-Beuve. Musset makes fun of local color, which was
so much appreciated by the Romantic school; and his work bears
some resemblance to Byron's 'Don Juan,' although he says:-"I was
told last year that I imitated Byron. You who know me, you know
that this is not true. I hate like death the trade of the plagiarist:
my glass is not large, but I drink from my glass. It is very little, I
know, to be an honest man; but still it is true that I exhume noth-
ing. " The whole poem is written in stanzas with two rhymes, and
displays admirably Musset's sarcastic wit and his sensual feelings.
There is not much to say about Musset's life; but his love for
George Sand had such an influence on his works that we must men-
tion it here. In 1833 he went with George Sand to Italy, and they
traveled together for some time. At Venice Musset fell sick; and
after many pathetic scenes the lovers parted from one another. They


## p.
10489 (#361) ##########################################

ALFRED DE MUSSET
10489
had wished to act in life like the personages in the dramas and
novels of the Romantic school, and saw that no one is happy who
does not observe the moral and social laws of his time. Musset
and George Sand met again, but could not agree, and made each
other unhappy. This incident seems to have affected George Sand
very little in later life; but Musset was wounded to the heart, and
his genius was stung to activity and vigor by his misfortune. It is
his own story which he relates in his celebrated 'Confession of a
Child of the Century,' and in at least two of his admirable 'Nights. "
The 'Confession' is an extraordinary book, and written with won-
derful force and eloquence. The author describes most vividly skep-
ticism, the disease of the century. Octave believes in nothing; he
loves and yet he does not believe in love, in spite of the devotion of
Brigitte Pierson. Why is it so? Because "during the wars of the
Empire, while the husbands and the brothers were in Germany, the
anxious mothers had given birth to an ardent, pale, nervous genera-
tion.
Thousands of children looked at one another with a
dark look while testing their weak muscles. " When they grew to
manhood, the Restoration gave them no opportunity to display their
strength; and they led a useless life, which often ended like 'Rolla'
in a night of debauchery.
set.
'Rolla' is a powerful poem, and one of the masterpieces of Mus-
The conception of the work is immoral, and proves again the
lack of true moral courage in the author. It is very seldom that he
admits that reform is possible,—that there can be a healthy reaction
after a fault has been committed. Rolla enjoys life, and puts into
three purses all the money which he possesses. When that has been
spent, then he will kill himself in a night of orgies. There is such a
lack of true manhood in the debauchee, his character is so despicable,
that it is difficult to take any interest in the poem.
The poetry.
however, is so grand that we forget the subject of the work, and
are entranced by the beautiful words of passion and love.
Of the four 'Nights' of Musset, the 'Night of May' is in my
opinion the finest. It was written when his heart was still bleeding
after the rupture with George Sand, and is a proof that the poet's
genius is the highest when he treats of love. Indeed, the misfortune
of love concerns him more than anything else; and in 'Sadness' he
says:-
"The only happiness which remains to me in the world is, that I have
sometimes wept. "
When he wrote his 'Nights,' his brother Paul de Musset tells
us that he had his supper served in his room, which was brilliantly
illuminated in order to do honor to his Muse when she came to visit


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ALFRED DE MUSSET
10490
him. That idea of dualism is to be seen in a number of Musset's
works, and indicates perfectly his disposition. There were two men
in him: one gay and reckless, the other sad and tender. In the
'Night of May' the Muse appears to the poet, and asks him to love
again. She tells him to take his lute and to give her a kiss:-
"This evening, everything will bloom: immortal nature is filled with per-
fumes, with love and murmur. »
She has consoled him already once: let him now console her; let
him go with her to some place where there is oblivion; let him give
her at least a tear.
The Night of May' reminds us somewhat of our immortal Poe's
'Raven'; but the despair, the gloom, of the American poet is deeper
than that of the French poet. Musset's work is more graceful and
tender, Poe's is more forcible and weird.
In the Night of December' the poet speaks to " a stranger dressed
in black, who resembles him like a brother," and who follows him
everywhere. The vision replies: "Friend, I am Solitude. " The
'Night of August' is almost as beautiful as the Night of May. '
This time it is the Muse who is sad and the poet who consoles her.
In the Night of October' the poet forgets the past, pardons
it, and wishes to think only of the future. When Musset wrote in
1837 the 'Night of October,' he thought that he could love again and
forget the past; but in February 1841 he said in Remembrance':-
"I say to myself only this: 'At this hour, in this place, one day I
was loved, I loved; she was beautiful. I hide this treasure in my im-
mortal soul, and I carry it to God! '» Musset had already expressed
admirably in his 'Letter to Lamartine' (February 1836) the idea that
love alone survives of all things human.
The Stanzas to La Malibran,' the great singer and actress, are
noble and sad, and may be compared with the 'Letter to Lamartine,'
and with some parts of the 'Nights. ' Let us mention also, among
the best poems of Musset, 'Lucie,' an elegy as sorrowful and tender
as The Willow; the 'Hope in God,' where the author wishes to
shake off the skepticism of his century, but presents to us rather
a pantheistic view of religion; 'Sylvia,' a touching love story. -
taken from Boccaccio, as well as 'Simone'; 'A Lost Evening,' lines
inspired by a representation of The Misanthrope' before a very
small audience.
The poet is more gay and lively in four poems: 'A Good Fortune,'
an episode of a journey to Baden; 'Dupont and Durant,' an amusing
dialogue between two wretched poets; 'Mid-Lent,' where the pleas-
ures of the waltz are described with great harmony; and 'Le Mie
Prigioni,' where the poet, imprisoned for not having mounted guard,


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ALFRED DE MUSSET
10491
gives a pleasant description of his prison. Let us notice also the
'German Rhine,' a proud and patriotic reply to Becker's song.
'On Three Steps of Rose-colored Marble' is a most graceful poem;
nothing can surpass the delicacy of some of the verses.
As a poet Musset is sometimes witty, sarcastic, and graceful,
and sometimes most passionate. As already said, his verses written
when his heart was bleeding are by far his best. There is certainly
nothing in French literature superior to the four sublime 'Nights,'
- of May, of December, of August, of October. These poems are not
inferior to the best works of Lamartine and of Hugo.
We have already spoken of Musset's two dramas in verse, 'The
Cup and the Lips' and 'Of What do Young Girls Dream? ' written
after the failure of his 'Venetian Night. ' He did not intend his
dramas to be acted, but in 1847, ten years after it had been pub-
lished in the Revue des Deux Mondes, 'A Caprice' was played in
St. Petersburg by Mrs. Allen Despréaux. On her return to Paris
the distinguished actress played 'A Caprice' with great success at
the Comédie Française. This called attention to Musset's dramas, and
they were nearly all put on the French stage. Love is the subject
of all these works except 'Lorenzaccio. ' The latter drama is Shake-
spearean in tone, and is written with great force. It is the story of
Lorenzo de' Medici, who wishes to rid Florence of her tyrant, Alex-
ander de' Medici. He becomes the boon companion of the duke,
shares his ignoble pleasures, is despised by the people, and after he
has killed the tyrant, finds that he also is polluted without hope of
redemption. It is the same idea which was expressed in 'The Cup
and the Lips' by the murder of the sweet Déidamia. In Lorenz-
accio' the author gives us a correct picture of life at Florence in the
sixteenth century, when the city had lost her glory and her independ-
ence, and was governed by tyrants appointed by Charles V.
'The Candlestick' is a witty and amusing comedy, but far from
moral. Fortunio is charming, and reminds us of Chérubin in Beau-
marchais's 'Marriage of Figaro. ' His love for Jacqueline, however, is
much more true and passionate than Chérubin's light love for the
Countess.
In One Must Swear to Nothing' we meet Valentin, who is cap-
tivated by the charm and simplicity of the young girl whom he
courted at first merely to win a wager from his uncle Van Breck.
'The Caprices of Marianne' present to us Celio, tender and sad, and
Octave, frivolous and corrupt,- the two inseparable friends, who per-
sonify admirably the two sides of Musset's character.
It is impossible to describe 'One Cannot Think of Everything,'
and 'A Door Must be Open or Shut. ' There is hardly any plot in
these little comedies; and what interests us is the playful mirth, the
delicate irony, the wit of the dialogue.


## p. 10492 (#364) ##########################################

10492
ALFRED DE MUSSET
'Louison is a picture of life in the eighteenth century, and
reminds us of 'The Beauty Patch,' one of the most charming nov-
elettes of Musset. 'André del Sarto' is a drama, but inferior to
'Lorenzaccio'; and 'Bettine' is the least interesting of Musset's come-
dies. 'Carmosine' and the 'Distaff of Barberine' treat of the epoch
of chivalry. In the former we see the beautiful Carmosine fall in
love with King Peter of Aragon, on seeing him at a tournament.
She repulses the clownish Sir Vespasiano, and Périllo her betrothed,
and is dying of love for the King. The troubadour Minuccio relates
the story of the young girl to the Queen, and the latter takes her
husband to see Carmosine. The King soothes her, kisses her fore-
head, gives her in marriage to Périllo, and the play ends amid great
rejoicing.
We love the gentle Carmosine, but we are still better pleased with
the noble Barberine. Ulric, her husband, goes to the court of the
King of Hungary to seek his fortune; and she remains at home with
her distaff. Rosenberg, a conceited young man, has bought a magic
book, which will teach him to kill giants and dragons, and to be
loved by all women. He wagers with Ulric that he will win he
heart of Barberine, and goes to the latter's castle with a letter of
introduction from Ulric. Barberine succeeds in shutting him up in a
room, and orders him to take her distaff and spin; otherwise he will
have nothing to eat. While Rosenberg, conquered by hunger, is about
to try to obey Barberine, the Queen and Ulric arrive at the castle
and witness the humiliation of the young man and the triumph of
the faithful wife.
'Fantasio' reminds us of Marivaux's graceful 'Games of Love and
of Chance,' but is sometimes as strange, as fantastic, as the Tales
of Spain and Italy. ' Fantasio, in his madness and in his wisdom, is
Musset himself, sometimes Hamlet, and too often Scapin.
'One Must Not Play with Love' is probably Musset's most origi-
nal drama, the strongest after 'Lorenzaccio. ' Master Blazius and
Master Bridaire are really comic personages, as well as Dame Pluche;
and the chorus is interesting. The play, however, can hardly be
called a comedy. It is too bitter in some scenes, and the end is too
tragic. Perdican loves his cousin Camille, and feigns to love Rosette,
in order to render Camille jealous. The poor little Rosette dies of
grief on hearing Perdican speak words of love to Camille, and the
latter returns to the convent where she had been educated.
Musset's dramas made him celebrated for the last ten years of
his life, and they are still played with success on the French stage.
Among his other prose works are the 'Letters of Dupuis and Co-
tonet,' in one of which he makes fun in a most amusing manner
of the Romantic school, by his extraordinary definition of the word
romantisme.


## p. 10493 (#365) ##########################################

ALFRED DE MUSSET
10493
Musset published a number of short stories and novelettes in the
Revue des Deux Mondes, and most of them are very interesting
and witty. The best are The Son of Titian,' 'Croisilles,' 'Frédéric
et Bernerette,' 'Mimi Pinson,' 'The Beauty Patch,' and the 'History
of a White Blackbird. ' In the latter work he refers in a sarcastic
manner to George Sand without naming her.
Alfred de Musset died on May 1st, 1857, and his last words were:
«< Sleep! at last I am going to sleep. " He needed rest; for his last
years had been agitated by great nervousness. He was carried to
the tomb accompanied by twenty-seven persons,- he whose works
were known to all human beings whose hearts could be touched by
truly passionate notes. A monument has been erected to him in
Père Lachaise cemetery in Paris, and a few of his immortal lines
have been inscribed on his tombstone. I read lately these charming
words with a feeling of sadness, and thought of the Muse, the tender
friend of the poet. I repeated to myself some of the wonderful
verses of the 'Night of May,' and it seemed to me then that Musset
had really taken his lute, as requested by his Muse, and that the
Père Lachaise was filled with divine harmony.
Alio Portion
THE GRISETTES
From Mimi Pinson,' in 'Selections from the Prose and Poetry of Alfred de
Musset. Copyright 1870, by Hurd & Houghton
M
ADEMOISELLE PINSON was not exactly what one calls a pretty
woman. There is a wide difference between a pretty
woman and a pretty grisette. If a pretty woman, acknowl-
edged and pronounced to be so by Parisian verdict, were to take
it into her head to put on a little cap, a chintz dress, and a
black-silk apron, she must needs look like a pretty grisette. But
if a grisette were to dress herself up in a bonnet, a velvet cloak,
and a dress from Worth's, she would by no means necessarily be
a pretty woman; on the contrary, it is probable that she would
look like a clothes-peg, and no blame to her. The difference lies.
in the circumstances of these two creatures, and chiefly in the
little bit of buckram covered with some sort of stuff and called
a bonnet, which women think fit to tie over their ears, a little
like the blinkers of a horse; it is to be observed, however, that


## p. 10494 (#366) ##########################################

ALFRED DE MUSSET
10494
blinkers prevent horses from looking about, and that the bit of
buckram prevents nothing of the sort.
Be this as it may, a little cap requires a turned-up nose,
which in its turn demands a well-shaped mouth with good teeth,
and a round face for the frame. A round face requires sparkling
eyes, which are best as black as possible, with eyebrows to match.
The hair ad libitum, for the eyes settle everything else. Such a
combination is evidently far from being beautiful, strictly speak-
ing. It is what is called irregularly pretty, the classic face of
the grisette; which might possibly be ugly in the bits of buckram,
but which is charming in a cap, and prettier than beauty itself.
Such was Mademoiselle Pinson.
Marcel had taken it into his head that Eugene should pay his
court to this damsel; wherefore, I cannot tell, unless because he
himself was the adorer of Mademoiselle Zelia, Mademoiselle Pin-
son's most intimate friend. It struck him as being a natural and
convenient arrangement; he wished to settle matters to suit him-
self, and make love in a friendly way, as it were. Such plans
are not uncommon, and succeed quite often; for ever since the
world began, opportunity has been found the strongest of all
temptations. Who can tell the real source of our joys and griefs,
our attachments and quarrels, our happiness and misery? — a door
of communication, a back staircase, an entry, a broken pane.
-
Some characters, however, draw back from these games of
chance. They choose to conquer their enjoyments, not to win
them as at a lottery; and are not moved to fall in love because
they find themselves next to a pretty woman in a public con-
veyance. Eugene was one of these, and Marcel knew it; there-
fore he had long nursed a project, simple enough in itself, but
which he thought most ingenious, and infallibly sure to overcome
his friend's resistance. He had resolved to give a supper, and
decided that his own birthday was the fittest occasion for it. He
ordered two dozen bottles of beer, a large joint of cold veal with
salad, an enormous plum-cake, and a bottle of champagne. He
first invited two of his fellow-students, then announced to Made-
moiselle Zelia that there was to be a frolic at his rooms that
evening, and she must bring Mademoiselle Pinson. They were
quite sure to be there. Marcel was considered one of the fine
gentlemen of the Latin Quarter,-one of those whose invita-
tions are not to be declined; and seven o'clock had but just
finished striking when the two grisettes knocked at his door.


## p. 10495 (#367) ##########################################

ALFRED DE MUSSET
10495
Mademoiselle Zelia was arrayed in a short dress, gray gaiter-
boots, and a cap with flowers; Mademoiselle Pinson more quietly
attired in a black gown which she always wore, and which they
used to say gave her a little Spanish air, of which she was very
proud. Both, as you may suppose, were in entire ignorance of
their host's designs.
Marcel had too much tact to invite Eugene in advance: he
was too sure of a refusal. It was not until the girls had taken
their places and the first glass had been emptied, that he excused
himself for a few minutes to go and look for another guest, and
then turned his steps towards Eugene's lodgings. He found him
at work as usual, surrounded by his books. After some passing
remarks he began to reproach him gently with studying so hard,
and never giving himself any relaxation; and at length he pro-
posed a walk. Eugene, who was in fact rather weary, having
studied the whole day, assented: the two young men went out
together, and after a few turns in the walks of the Luxembourg
it was not difficult for Marcel to induce his friend to go home
with him.
.
The two grisettes, finding themselves left alone and proba
bly tired of waiting, had begun by making themselves at home;
they had taken off their bonnets and shawls, and were hum-
ming a quadrille and dancing, not forgetting to do honor to the
repast from time to time, by way of testing its quality. Their
eyes were already sparkling and their cheeks flushed, as Eugene
bowed to them with a mixture of surprise and shyness, and they
stopped short, in high spirits and a little out of breath. Owing
to his secluded habits, they hardly knew him by sight, and imme-
diately scrutinized him from head to foot with the undaunted
curiosity which is the prerogative of their class; they then re-
sumed their song and dance as if nothing had happened. The
new-comer, a little disconcerted, fell back a few steps,- medi-
tating a retreat, perhaps; but Marcel, having double-locked the
door, threw the key noisily on the table.
"Nobody here yet? " he exclaimed. "Where are our friends?
But no matter, we have captured the savage. Ladies, let me
present the most virtuous youth in France and Navarre, who has
long been very anxious for the honor of your acquaintance, and
who is an especial admirer of Mademoiselle Pinson. "
The quadrille stopped again; Mademoiselle Pinson made a
little bow and put on her cap.


## p. 10496 (#368) ##########################################

10496
ALFRED DE MUSSET
"Eugene," cried Marcel, "this is my birthday, and these two
ladies are good enough to celebrate it with us. I brought you
here almost by force, it is true; but I hope you will stay of your
own accord if we beg you. It is now almost eight o'clock: we
have time to smoke a pipe while waiting for an appetite. "
As he spoke he looked towards Mademoiselle Pinson, who
instantly understood him, and bowing a second time, said to
Eugene in a sweet voice:-
"Yes, sir, do stay; we beg of you. "
At this moment the two students whom Marcel had invited
knocked at the door. Eugene saw that he could not retreat with
a good grace; so resigning himself, he took his seat with the rest.
THE Supper was long and lively. The gentlemen began by
filling the room with smoke, and then drank in proportion, to
refresh themselves. The ladies did the talking, and regaled the
company with remarks, more or less pointed, about their various
friends and acquaintances, and adventures more or less credible,
picked up in the back shops. If the stories were not very prob-
able, they were at least very marvelous. Two lawyers' clerks, so
they said, had made twenty thousand francs by speculating in
Spanish funds, and had devoured it in six weeks with two girls
from a glove shop. The son of one of the richest bankers in
Paris had offered an opera-box and a country-seat to a well-
known sempstress, who had refused them, preferring to take care
of her parents and remain true to a salesman at the Deux-
Magots. A certain person whom they could not name, and whose
rank forced him to wrap himself in the deepest mystery, had
come incognito to visit a girl who embroiders, in the Passage du
Pont Neuf; and she had been immediately seized by order of the
police, put into a post-chaise at midnight with a pocket-book full
of bank-notes, and dispatched to the United States; etc. , etc.
"That's enough," interposed Marcel. "We have heard that
sort of thing before. Zelia is romancing; and as to Mademoiselle
Mimi, which is Mademoiselle Pinson's name among friends, her
information is incorrect. Your lawyers' clerks got nothing but a
sprain, in clearing a gutter; your banker proffered an orange; and
your embroidery girl, so far from being in the United States, is
to be seen every day from twelve to four o'clock, at the alms-
house, where she has taken lodgings on account of the rise in
provisions. "


## p. 10497 (#369) ##########################################

ALFRED DE MUSSET
10497
Eugene was sitting near Mademoiselle Pinson; he thought that
she turned pale at these last words, which were carelessly uttered.
But almost at the same instant she rose, lighted a cigarette, and
said in a deliberate manner:
"It is your turn to be silent now! I claim the floor. Since
my lord Marcel does not believe fables, I will tell you a true
story, et quorum magna pars fui. "
«You understand Latin? " said Eugene.
"As you hear," replied Mademoiselle Pinson. "I learned this
sentence of my uncle, who served under the great Napoleon,
and never omitted it before telling us about a battle. If you do
not know the meaning, I will tell you for nothing. It means:
'I give you my word of honor. ' You must know that last week
I went with two of my friends, Blanchette and Rougette, to the
Odéon Theatre - "
-
"Wait till I cut the cake," said Marcel.
"Cut, but listen," replied Mademoiselle Pinson. "Well, I went
with Blanchette and Rougette to see a tragedy. Rougette, as
you know, has lately lost her grandmother, who left her four
hundred francs. We took a box: three students were near us in
the pit; these young fellows accosted us, and asked us to supper,
on the pretext that we were alone. "
"Without preamble? " inquired Marcel. "Upon my word it
was very civil. And you declined, I suppose ? »
"No, sir," replied Mademoiselle Pinson, "we accepted; and
at the first entr'acte, without waiting for the end of the play, we
repaired to Viot's. "
"With your cavaliers? "
"With our cavaliers. The waiter began, of course, by saying
that there was nothing left; but we were not to be baked by
such a trifle. We ordered them to go into the city and fetch
whatever was needed. Rougette took the pen and ordered a
regular wedding supper: prawns, a sweet omelette, fritters, mus-
sels, whipped eggs,-everything that is to be found in sauce-
pans. Our young friends' faces grew rather long, it must be
confessed-»
"By Jove! so I should think," said Marcel.
"We paid no attention to that. When the supper came we
began to play the fine lady. We found nothing good; everything
disgusted us; we scarcely tasted a dish before we sent it away
and asked for something else.