No More Learning

After his successful début, Daudet felt his way in different direc-
tions. In collaboration with M. Ernest Lepine, who has since made
a reputation under the name of Quatrelles, he had a drama, 'The
Last Idol,' performed at the Odéon theatre, at that same Odéon
which in his first days of Paris seems to have been the centre of his
life and of his ambitions. But he more frequently appeared before
the public as a journalist and a humorist, a writer of light articles
and short stories. Nothing can give a more true, more vivacious, and
on the whole more favorable impression of the Daudet of the period
than the 'Lettres de Mon Moulin' (Letters from My Windmill).
They owe their title to an old deserted windmill where Alphonse
Daudet seems to have lived some time in complete seclusion, forget-
ting, or trying to forget, the excitement of Parisian life. The
preface, most curiously disguised under the form of a mock contract
which is supposed to transfer the ownership from the old proprietor
to the poet, and professes to give the état de lieux or description of
the place, is an amusing parody of legal jargon. The next chapter


## p. 4438 (#212) ###########################################

4438
ALPHONSE DAUDET
describes the installation of the new master in the same happy vein,
with all the odd circumstances attending it.
Throughout the rest of the volume, Daudet disappears and re-
appears, as his fancy prompts him to do. Now he lets himself be
carried back to past memories and distant places; now he gives us a
mediæval tale or a domestic drama of to-day compressed into a few
brief pages, or a picture of rural life, or a glimpse of that literary
hell from which he had just escaped and to which he was soon to
return. He changed his tone and his subject with amazing versatil-
ity, from the bitterest satire to idyllic sweetness, or to a pleasant
kind of clever naïveté which is truly his own. We see him musing
among the firs and the pine-trees of his native Provence, or riding
on the top of the diligence under the scorching sun and listening, in
a Sterne-like fashion, to the conversation which took place between
the facetious baker and the unhappy knife-grinder, or chatting
familiarly with Frederic Mistral, who takes him into the confidence
of his poetical dreams. Then, again, we see him sitting down at
the table of an Algerian sheik; or wandering on the gloomy rocks.
where the Semillante was lost, and trying to revive the awful
tragedy of her last minutes; or shut up in a solitary light-house with
the keepers for weeks and weeks together, content with the society
and with the fare of those poor, rough, uncultivated men, cut off
from the whole world, alone with the stormy winds and his stormy
thoughts. Wherever his morbid restlessness takes him, whatever
part he chooses to assume, whether he wants to move us to laughter
or to tears, we can but follow him fascinated and spell-bound, and
in harmony with his moods. Daudet when he wrote those letters
was already a perfect master of all the resources of the language.
What he had seen or felt, he could make us see and feel. He could
make old words new with the freshness, ardor, and sincerity of the
personal impressions which he was pouring into them unceasingly.
The Letters from My Mill' had been scattered here and there
through different newspapers, and at different times. They were re-
printed in the form of a book in 1868. The year before he had given
to the public 'Le Petit Chose' (A Little Chap), which is better
known, I believe, to the English-speaking races under the rather mis-
leading title of 'My Brother Jack. ' 'Le Petit Chose' was a commer-
cial success, but it is doubtful whether it will rank as high among
Daudet's productions as the 'Lettres de Mon Moulin. ' He began to
compose it in February 1866, during one of those misanthropic fits to
which he was subject at periodical intervals, and which either par-
alyzed altogether, or quickened into fever, his creative faculties. He
finished the work two years later in a very different mood, imme-
diately after his marriage. As might have been expected, the two


## p. 4439 (#213) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4439
parts are very dissimilar, and it must be confessed greatly unequal.
'Le Petit Chose' has reminded more than one reader of 'David Cop-
perfield'; and it cannot be denied that the two works bear some
resemblance both as regards manner and matter. But though Dick-
ens was then widely read and much admired in France, plagiarism is
out of the question. If there is a little of Dickens about 'Le Petit
Chose,' there is a great deal more of Daudet himself in it. Young
Eyssette, the hero of the novel, starts in life as Daudet had done
and at the same period of life, in the quality of an usher at a small
provincial college. Whether we take it as a fiction, with its innumer-
able bits of delicate humor, lovely descriptions of places and glimpses
of characters in humble life, or whether we accept it as an autobi-
ography which is likely to bring us into closer acquaintance with the
inner soul of a great man, the first part is delightful reading. But
we lose sight of him through all the adventures, at once wild and
commonplace, which are crowding in the second part, to culminate
into the most unconvincing dénouement. Even when speaking of
himself, Daudet is sometimes at a disadvantage, perhaps because, as
he justly observed, "it is too early at twenty-five to comment upon
one's own past career. " Only the old man is able to look at his
former self through the distance of years and to see it as it stood
once, in its true light and with its real proportions.
'Tartarin of Tarascon' saw the light for the first time in 1872.
Strange to say, the readers of the Petit Moniteur, to whom it was
first offered in a serial form, did not like it. In consequence of their
marked disapproval, the publication had to be abandoned and was
then resumed through the columns of another newspaper. This time
the mistake was entirely on the side of the public. For-apart from
the fact that the immortal Tartarin was not yet Tartarin, but
answered to the much less typical name of Chapatin-the general
outlines of the character were already visible in all their distinctness
from the beginning, as all those who have read the introductory chap-
ters will readily admit. And the same lines were to be followed
with an undeviating fixity of artistic purpose and with unfailing verve
and spirit to the last. 'The Prodigious Adventures of Tartarin,›
'Tartarin on the Alps,' and 'Port-Tarascon,' form a trilogy; and I
know of no other example in modern French literature of so long and
so well sustained a joke. How is it then that we never grow tired
of Tartarin? It is probably because beneath the surface of Daudet's
playful absurdity there underlies rich substratum of good common-
sense and keen observation. Since 'Don Quixote' was written, no
caricature has ever been more human or more true than Tartarin.
Frenchmen are not, as is frequently asserted by their Anglo-Saxon
critics, totally unfit to appreciate humor, when it is mingled with the


## p. 4440 (#214) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4440
study of man's nature and seasoned with that high-spiced irony of
which they have been so fond at all times, from the days of Villon
to those of Rochefort. Still, Daudet would never have acquired such
a complete mastery over the general public in his own country, if
he had not been able to gratify their taste for that graphic and
faithful description of manners and characters, which in other centu-
ries put the moralists into fashion. Realism never disappears alto-
gether from French literature: it was at that moment all-powerful.
Zola was coming to the front with the first volumes of the well-
known 'Rougon-Macquart,' and Daudet in 1874 entered on the same
path, though in a different spirit, with 'Fromont Jeune et Risler
Aîné. ' The success was immediate and immense. The French bour-
geoisie accepted it at once as a true picture of its vices and its
virtues. The novel might, it is true, savor a little of Parisian cock-
neyism. Fastidious critics might discover in it some mixture of
weak sentimentalism, or a few traces of Dickensian affectation and
cheap tricks in story-telling. Young men of the new social school
might take exception to that old-fashioned democracy which had its
apotheosis in Risler senior. Despite all those objections, it was pro-
nounced a masterpiece of legitimate pathos and sound observation.
Even the minor characters were judged striking, and Delobelle's
name, for instance, occurs at once to our mind whenever we try to
realize the image of the modern cabotin.
'Jack,' which came next, exceeded the usual length of French
novels. "Too much paper, my son! " old Flaubert majestically
observed with a smile when the author presented him with a copy
of his book. As for George Sand, she felt so sick at heart and so
depressed when she had finished reading 'Jack,' that she could work
no more and had to remain idle for three or four days. A painful
book, indeed, a distressing book, but how fascinating! And is not its
wonderful influence over the readers exemplified in the most striking
manner by the fact that it had the power to unnerve and to incapaci-
tate for her daily task that most valiant of all intellectual laborers,
that hardest of hard workers, George Sand?
The lost ground, if there had been any lost at all, was soon
regained with 'Le Nabab' (The Nabob) and 'Les Rois en Exil' (Kings
in Exile). They took the reader to a higher sphere of emotion and
thought, showed us greater men fighting for greater things on a
wider theatre than the middle-class life in which Fromont and Risler
had moved. At the same time they kept the balance more evenly
than 'Jack' had done between the two elements of human drama,
good and evil, hope and despair, laughter and tears. But a higher
triumph was to be achieved with 'Numa Roumestan,' which brought
Daudet's literary fame to its zenith.


## p. 4441 (#215) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
444I
'Tartarin' had not exhausted all that the author had to say of
meridional ways and manners. The Provençal character has its
dramatic as well as its comic aspect. In 'Numa Roumestan' we
have the farce and the tragedy blended together into a coherent
whole. We have a Tartarin whose power over man and woman is
not a mockery but a reality, who can win love and sympathy and
admiration, not in little Tarascon, mind you, but in Paris; who sends
joy abroad and creates torture at home; a charming companion, a
kind master, a subtle politician, a wonderful talker, but a light-
hearted and faithless husband, a genial liar, a smiling and good-
natured deceiver; the true image of the gifted adventurer who
periodically emerges from the South and goes northward finally to
conquer and govern the whole country.
As Zola has remarked, the author of 'Numa Roumestan' poured
himself out into that book with his double nature, North and South,
the rich sensuous imagination, the indolent easy-going optimism of
his native land, and the stern moral sensitiveness which was partly
characteristic of his own mind, partly acquired by painful and pro-
tracted experience. To depict his hero he had only to consult the
most intimate records of his own lifelong struggle. For he had been
trying desperately to evince Roumestan out of his own being. He
had fought and conquered, but only partially conquered. And on this
partial failure we must congratulate him and congratulate ourselves.
He said once that "Provençal landscape without sunshine is dull and
uninteresting. " The same may be said of his literary genius. It
wants sunshine, or else it loses half its loveliness and its irresistible
charm. Roumestan' is full of sunshine, and there is no other
among his books, except Tartarin,' where the bright and happy
light of the South plays more freely and more gracefully.
The novel is equally strong if you examine it from a different
standpoint. Nothing can be artistically better and more enchanting
than the Farandole scene, or more amusing than Roumestan's in-
trigue with the young opera singer; nothing can be more grand than
old Le Quesnoy's confession of sin and shame, or more affecting than
the closing scene where Rosalie is taught forgiveness by her dying
sister. Other parts in Daudet's work may sound hollow; 'Numa
Roumestan' will stand the most critical scrutiny as a drama, as a
work of art, as a faithful representation of life. Daudet's talents were
then at their best and united in happy combination for that splendid
effort which was not to be renewed.
In 'Sapho' Daudet described the modern courtesan, in 'L'Évan-
géliste' a desperate case of religious madness. In 'L'Immortel' he
gave vent to his feelings against the French Academy, which had 're-
pulsed him once and to which he turned his back forever in disgust.


## p. 4442 (#216) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4442
The angry writer pursued his enemy to death. In his unforgiving
mood, he was not satisfied before he had drowned the Academy
in the muddy waters of the Seine, with its unfortunate Secrétaire-
perpetuel, Astier-Réhu. The general verdict was that the vengeance
was altogether out of proportion to the offense; and that despite
all its brilliancy of wit and elaborate incisiveness of style, the satire
was really too violent and too personal to give real enjoyment to un-
biased and unprejudiced readers.
At different periods of his career Daudet had tried his hand as
a dramatist, but never succeeded in getting a firm foot on the
French stage. Play-goers still remember the signal failure of 'Lise
Tavernier,' the indifferent reception of 'L'Arlésienne,' or more re-
cently, of 'L'Obstacle. ' All his successful novels have been drama-
tized, but their popularity in that new form fell far short of the
common expectation. As an explanation of the fact various reasons
may be suggested. Daudet, I am inclined to think, is endowed with
real dramatic powers, not with scenic qualities; and from their con-
ventional point of view, old stagers will pronounce the construction
of his novels too weak for plays to be built upon them. Again, in
the play-house we miss the man who tells the story, the happy
presence - so unlike Flaubert's cheerless impassibility—the generous
anger, the hearty laugh, the delightful humor, that strange some-
thing which seems to appeal to every one of us in particular when
we read his novels. Dickens was once heard to say, on a pub-
lic occasion, that he owed his prodigious world-wide popularity to
this: that he was "so very human. " The words will apply with
equal felicity to Daudet's success. He never troubles to conceal
from his readers that he is a man. When the critic of the future
has to assign him a place and to compare his productions with the
writings of his great contemporary and fellow-worker Émile Zola, it
will occur to him that Daudet never had the steady-going indomi-
table energy, the ox-like patience, the large and comprehensive intel-
lect which are so characteristic in the master of Médan; that he
recoiled from assuming, like the author of Germinal' and 'Lourdes,'
a bold and definite position in the social and religious strife of our
days; that he never dreamt for a moment of taking the survey of a
whole society and covering the entire ground on which it stands with
his books.
Such a task-the critic will say - would have been uncongenial
to him. The scientist is careful to explain everything and to omit
nothing; he aims at completeness. But Daudet is an artist, not a
scientist. He is a poet in the primitive sense of the word, or, as he
styled himself in one of his books, a trouvère. » He has creative
power, but he has at the same time his share of the minor gift of
<<


## p. 4443 (#217) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4443
observation. He had to write for a public of strongly realistic tend-
encies, who understood and desired nothing better than the faithful,
accurate, almost scientific description of life. Daudet could supply
the demand, but as he was not born a realist, whatever social influ-
ences he had been subjected to, he remained free from the faults
and excesses of the school. He borrowed from it all that was good
and sound; he accepted realism as a practical method, not as an
ultimate result and a consummation. Again, he was preserved from
the danger of going down too deep and too low into the unclean
mysteries of modern humanity, not so much perhaps by moral deli-
cacy as by an artistic distaste for all that is repulsive and unseemly.
For those reasons, it would not be surprising if - when Death has
made him young again - Alphonse Daudet was destined to outlive
and outshine many who have enjoyed an equal or even greater
celebrity during this century. He will command an ever increasing
circle of admirers and friends, and generations yet unborn will grow
warm in his sunshine.
Augustin Filon
THE TWO TARTARINS
From Tartarin of Tarascon >
Α
NSWER me, you will say, how the mischief is it that Tartarin
of Tarascon never left Tarascon, with all this mania for
adventure, need of powerful sensations, and folly about
travel, rides, and journeys from the Pole to the Equator?
For that is a fact: up to the age of five-and-forty, the dread-
less Tarasconian had never once slept outside his own room.
He had not even taken that obligatory trip to Marseilles which
every sound Provençal makes upon coming of age. The most of
his knowledge included Beaucaire, and yet that's not far from
Tarascon, there being merely the bridge to go over. Unfortu-
nately, this rascally bridge has so often been blown away by
the gales, it is so long and frail, and the Rhône has such a
width at this spot that-well, faith! you understand! Tartarin
of Tarascon preferred terra firma.
We are afraid we must make a clean breast of it: in our hero
there were two very distinct characters. Some Father of the


## p. 4444 (#218) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4444
Church has said: "I feel there are two men in me. " He would
have spoken truly in saying this about Tartarin, who carried in
his frame the soul of Don Quixote, the same chivalric impulses,
heroic ideal, and crankiness for the grandiose and romantic; but,
worse is the luck! he had not the body of the celebrated
hidalgo, that thin and meagre apology for a body, on which
material life failed to take a hold; one that could get through
twenty nights without its breast-plate being unbuckled, and
forty-eight hours on a handful of rice.
a handful of rice. On the contrary, Tar-
tarin's body was a stout honest bully of a body, very fat, very
weighty, most sensual and fond of coddling, highly touchy, full of
low-class appetite and homely requirements—the short, paunchy
body on stumps of the immortal Sancho Panza.
Don Quixote and Sancho Panza in the one same man! you
will readily comprehend what a cat-and-dog couple they made!
what strife! what clapperclawing! Oh, the fine dialogue for
Lucian or Saint-Évremond to write, between the two Tartarins —
Quixote-Tartarin and Sancho-Tartarin! Quixote-Tartarin firing
up on the stories of Gustave Aimard, and shouting, "Up and at
'em! " and Sancho-Tartarin thinking only of the rheumatics
ahead, and murmuring, "I mean to stay at home. "
QUIXOTE-TARTARIN
THE DUET
[Highly excited]
Cover yourself with glory, Tar-
tarin.
[Still more excitedly]
Oh for the terrible double-bar-
reled rifle! Oh for bowie-
knives, lassos, and mocca-
sins!
[Above all self-control]
A battle-axe! fetch me a battle-
axe!
SANCHO-TARTARIN
[Quite calmly]
Tartarin, cover yourself with flan-
nel.
[Still more calmly]
Oh for the thick knitted waist-
coats! and warm knee-caps!
Oh for the welcome padded
caps with ear-flaps!
[Ringing up the maid]
Now then, Jeannette, do bring
up that chocolate!
Whereupon Jeannette would appear with an unusually good
cup of chocolate, just right in warmth, sweetly smelling, and


## p. 4445 (#219) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4445
with the play of light on watered silk upon its unctuous surface,
and with succulent grilled steak flavored with anise-seed, which
would set Sancho-Tartarin off on the broad grin, and into a
laugh that drowned the shouts of Quixote-Tartarin.
Thus it came about that Tartarin of Tarascon never had left
Tarascon.
OF "MENTAL MIRAGE," AS DISTINGUISHED FROM LYING
From Tartarin of Tarascon
NDER
one conjunction of circumstances, Tartarin did how-
ever once almost start out upon a great voyage.
The three brothers Garcio-Camus, natives of Tarascon, es-
tablished in business at Shanghai, offered him the managership
of one of their branches there. This undoubtedly presented the
kind of life he hankered after. Plenty of active business, a whole
army of understrappers to order about, and connections with
Russia, Persia, Turkey in Asia-in short, to be a merchant
prince.
In Tartarin's mouth, the title of Merchant Prince thundered
out as something stunning!
The house of Garcio-Camus had the further advantage of
sometimes being favored with a call from the Tartars. Then
the doors would be slammed shut, all the clerks flew to arms,
up ran the consular flag, and zizz! phit! bang! out of the
windows upon the Tartars.
I need not tell you with what enthusiasm Quixote-Tartarin
clutched this proposition; sad to say, Sancho-Tartarin did not
see it in the same light, and as he was the stronger party,
it never came to anything. But in the town there was much
talk about it. Would he go or would he not? "I'll lay he
will "— and “I'll wager he won't! " It was the event of the
week. In the upshot, Tartarin did not depart, but the matter
redounded to his credit none the less. Going or not going to
Shanghai was all one to Tarascon. Tartarin's journey was so
much talked about that people got to believe he had done it
and returned, and at the club in the evening members would
actually ask for information on life at Shanghai, the manners
and customs and climate, about opium, and commerce.


## p. 4446 (#220) ###########################################

4446
ALPHONSE DAUDET
Deeply read up, Tartarin would graciously furnish the par-
ticulars desired, and in the end the good fellow was not
quite sure himself about not having gone to Shanghai; so that
after relating for the hundredth time how the Tartars came
down on the trading post, it would most naturally happen him
to add:
----
"Then I made my men take up arms and hoist the consular
flag, and zizz! phit! bang! out of the windows upon the Tartars. "
On hearing this, the whole club would quiver.
"But according to that, this Tartarin of yours is an awful
liar. "
"No, no, a thousand times over, no! Tartarin is no liar. ”
"But the man ought to know that he has never been to
Shanghai->
"Why, of course, he knows that; but still -»
"But still," you see mark that! It is high time for the law
to be laid down once for all on the reputation as drawers of the
long bow which Northerners fling at Southerners. There are no
Baron Munchausens in the South of France, neither at Nîmes nor
Marseilles, Toulouse nor Tarascon. The Southerner does not de-
ceive, but is self-deceived. He does not always tell the cold-
drawn truth, but he believes he does. His falsehood is not
falsehood, but a kind of mental mirage.
Yes, purely mirage! The better to follow me, you should
actually follow me into the South, and you will see I am right.
You have only to look at that Lucifer's own country, where the
sun transmogrifies everything, and magnifies it beyond life-size.
The little hills of Provence are no bigger than the Butte Mont-
martre, but they will loom up like the Rocky Mountains; the
Square House at Nîmes-a mere model to put on your side-
board- will seem grander than St. Peter's. You will see. - in
brief, the only exaggerator in the South is Old Sol, for he does
enlarge everything he touches. What was Sparta in its days of
splendor? a pitiful hamlet. What was Athens? at the most, a
second-class town; and yet in history both appear to us as enor-
mous cities. This is a sample of what the sun can do.
――――――――――
_
Are you going to be astonished, after this, that the same sun
falling upon Tarascon should have made of an ex-captain in the
Army Clothing Factory, like Bravida, the "brave commandant »;
of a sprout, an Indian fig-tree; and of a man who had missed
going to Shanghai one who had been there?


## p. 4447 (#221) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4447
THE DEATH OF THE DAUPHIN
From 'Letters from My Windmill ›
little Dauphin is ill; the little Dauphin will die. In all
THE
Τ the churches of the kingdom the Holy Sacrament is laid
ready day and night, and tapers are burning, for the
recovery of the royal child. The streets of the old town are sad
and silent; the bells ring no more; the carriages are driven very
slow ly. The curious townspeople are gathered just outside the
palace, and are staring in through the grating of the gates at
the guards, with their golden helmets, who walk the court with
an important air. The entire castle is in a state of anxiety; the
chamberlains and major-domos go up and down the staircase,
and run through the marble halls. The galleries are filled with
pages and courtiers in silk clothing, who go from group to
group collecting later news in a low voice.
On the large porches
can be seen the ladies of honor, bathed in tears, bowing their
heads
and wiping their eyes with pretty embroidered handker-
chiefs.
In the orangery is a numerous assembly of doctors in
long robes: one can see them through the panes gesticulating in
their long sleeves, and shaking their wigs knowingly. The little
Dauphin's tutor and squire are waiting before the door, anxious
for the decision of the faculty. Scullions pass by without salut-
ing them. The squire swears like a pagan; the tutor recites
verse s from Horace. And during this time down by the stables
can hear a long plaintive neighing. It is the Dauphin's
little sorrel pony, whom the grooms are neglecting, and who
calls sadly from his empty manger. And the King - where is his
Majesty the King?
The King has shut himself up in a room
remote part of the castle. Their Majesties do not like to
be seen weeping. But the Queen-that is different. Seated by
the little prince's pillow, her beautiful face bathed in tears, she
sobs bitterly before every one, just as a peasant mother would.
one
in a
In his lace crib is the little Dauphin, whiter than the cushions
on which he reposes, with closed eyelids. They think he is
sleeping; but no, the little Dauphin does not sleep. He turns
toward
his mother, and seeing that she weeps, he says to her,
"Madame my Queen, why do you weep? Do you think truly
that I
am going to die? " The Queen wishes to reply, but sobs
prevent her speaking.
"Pray do not cry, Madame my Queen.


## p. 4448 (#222) ###########################################

4448
ALPHONSE DAUDET
You forget that I am the Dauphin, and Dauphins cannot die
thus. " The Queen sobs more bitterly still, and the little Dauphin
begins to be frightened. "Hola! " he says, "I do not wish to
have Death come and take me; and I shall know how to prevent
his coming here. Bring forth forty lancers, our strongest, to
mount guard around our bed; a hundred cannon night and day;
torches lighted beneath our windows. And unhappy Death if he
dares to approach us then! " The Queen gives a sign to please
the royal child. Forthwith, one can hear heavy cannon being
rolled across the courtyard; and forty soldiers, halberds in hand,
come and range themselves around the room: they are veterans,
with gray moustaches. The little Dauphin claps his hands feebly
as he sees them, and recognizing one he calls him by name,
"Lorrain! Lorrain! " The old soldier takes a step towards the
bed. "I love you well, my good Lorrain. Let me see your big
sword. If Death comes to take me, we must kill him, must we
not? " Lorrain replies, "Yes, Monseigneur," as the big tears
run down his bronzed cheeks.
At this moment the chaplain approaches the little Dauphin,
and talks to him for some time in a low tone, showing him a
crucifix. The little Dauphin listens with an astonished air; then
suddenly interrupting, "I understand well what you say, Mon-
sieur l'Abbé; but after all, could not my little friend Beppo die
in my place, if we should give him a great deal of money? »
The chaplain continues talking to him in a low voice, and
the little Dauphin looks more and more astonished. When the
chaplain has finished, the little Dauphin resumes, with a heavy
sigh, "All that you tell me is very sad, Monsieur l'Abbé, but
one thing consoles me: up there, in the paradise of stars, I shall
still be the Dauphin. I know that our good God is my cousin,
and would not fail to treat me according to my rank. " Then he
adds, turning to his mother, "Have my finest garments brought
-my ermine cloak and velvet slippers. I wish to array myself
for the angels, and enter paradise dressed as a Dauphin. "
A third time the chaplain bends over the little prince, and
talks a long time in whispering tones. The royal child inter-
rupts him in anger, in the midst of his discourse, and cries,
Then it is no use to be Dauphin,- it is nothing at all; >> and
not wishing to hear more, he turns toward the wall weeping.
<<
Translation of Mary Corey.
1


## p. 4449 (#223) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
JACK IS INVITED TO TAKE UP A "PROFESSION »
From 'Jack'
4449
"D°
o you hear, Jack? " resumed D'Argenton, with flashing eyes
and outstretched arm. "In four years you will be a
good workman; that is to say, the noblest, grandest thing
that can exist in this world of slavery and servitude. In four
years you will be that sacred, venerated thing, a good work-
man! "
VIII-279
Yes, indeed he heard it! "a good workman. " Only he was
bewildered and was trying to understand.
The child had seen workmen in Paris. There were some
who lived in the Passage des Douze Maisons, and not far from
the Gymnase there was a factory, from which he often watched
them as they left work at about six o'clock; a crowd of dirty-
looking men with their blouses all stained with oil, and their
rough hands blackened and deformed by work.
The idea that he would have to wear a blouse struck him at
once. He remembered the tone of contempt with which his
mother would say: "Those are workmen, men in blouses, "— the
care she took in the streets to avoid the contact of their soiled
garments. Labassindre's fine speeches on the duties and in-
fluence of the workingman in the nineteenth century attenuated
and contradicted, it is true, these vague impressions. But what
he did understand, and that most clearly and bitterly, was that
he must go away, leave the forest whose tree-tops he saw from
the window, leave the Rivalses, leave his mother, his mother
whom he had recovered at the cost of so much pain, and whom
he loved so tenderly.
What on earth was she doing at that window all this time,
seeming so indifferent to all that was going on around her?
Within the last few minutes, however, she had lost her immov-
able indifference. A convulsive shudder seemed to shake her
from head to foot, and the hand she held over her eyes closed
over them as if she were hiding tears. Was it then so sad a
sight that she beheld yonder in the country, on the far horizon
where the sun sets, and where so many dreams, so many illu-
sions, so many loves and passions sink and disappear, never to
return?


## p. 4450 (#224) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4450
"Then I shall have to go away? " inquired the child in a
smothered voice, and the automatic air of one who lets his
thought speak, the one thought that absorbed him.
At this artless question all the members of the tribunal
looked at each other with a smile of pity; but over there at the
window a great sob was heard.
"We shall start in a week, my lad," answered Labassindre
briskly. "I have not seen my brother for a long time. I shall
avail myself of this opportunity to renew my acquaintance with
the fire of my old forge, by Jove! "
As he spoke, he turned back his sleeve, distending the mus-
cles of his brawny, hairy, tattooed arm, till they looked ready to
burst.
"He is superb," said Dr. Hirsch.
D'Argenton, however, who did not lose sight of the sobbing
woman standing at the window, had an absent air, and a terrible
frown gathering on his brow.
"You can go, Jack," he said to the child, "and prepare to
start in a week. "
Jack went down-stairs, dazed and stupefied, repeating to him-
self, "In a week! in a week! " The street door was open; he
rushed out, bare-headed, just as he was, dashed through the
village to the house of his friends, and meeting the Doctor, who
was just going out, informed him in a few words of what had
taken place.
Monsieur Rivals was indignant.
"A workman! They want to make a workman of you? Is
that what they call looking after your prospects in life? Wait a
moment. I am going to speak myself to monsieur your step-
father. "
The villagers who saw them pass by, the worthy Doctor
gesticulating and talking out loud, and little Jack, bare-headed
and breathless from running, said, "There is certainly some one
very ill at Les Aulnettes. "
No one was ill, most assuredly. When the Doctor arrived
they were sitting down to table; for on account of the capricious
appetite of the master of the house, and as in all places where
ennui reigns supreme, the hours for the meals were constantly
being changed.
The faces around were cheerful; Charlotte could even be
heard humming on the stairs as she came down from her room.


## p. 4451 (#225) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
E
e
0
e
1
4451
"I should like to say a word to you, M. d'Argenton," said
old Rivals with quivering lips.
The poet twirled his moustache:
_______
"Well, Doctor, sit down there. They shall give you a plate
and you can say your word while you eat your breakfast.
>>>
"No, thank you, I am not hungry; besides, what I have to
say to you as well as to Madame "- he bowed to Charlotte, who
had just come in "is strictly private. "
"I think I can guess your errand," said D'Argenton, who did
not care for a tête-à-tête conversation with the Doctor.
about the child, is it not? "
"It is
"You are right; it is about the child. "
"In that case you can speak. These gentlemen know the cir-
cumstances, and my actions are always too loyal and too dis-
interested for me to fear the light of day. "
«< But, my dear! " Charlotte ventured to say, shocked for
many reasons at the idea of this discussion before strangers.
"You can speak, Doctor," said D'Argenton coldly.
Standing upright in front of the table, the Doctor began:—
"Jack has just told me that you intend to send him as an
apprentice to the iron works at Indret. Is this serious? Come! "
"Quite serious, my dear Doctor. "
"Take care," pursued M. Rivals, restraining his anger; "that
child has not been brought up for so hard a life. At a growing
age you are going to throw him out of his element into new sur-
roundings, a new atmosphere. His health, his life are involved.
He has none of the requisites needed to bear this. He is not
strong enough. "
"Oh! allow me, my dear colleague," put in Dr. Hirsch sol-
emnly.
M. Rivals shrugged his shoulders, and without even looking
at him, went on:
"It is I who tell you so, Madame. ”
He pointedly addressed himself to Charlotte, who was singu-
larly embarrassed by this appeal to her repressed feelings.
"Your child cannot possibly endure a life of this sort. You
surely know him, you who are his mother. You know that his
nature is a refined and delicate one, and that it will be unable
to resist fatigue. And here I only speak of the physical pain.
But do you not know what terrible sufferings a child so well
gifted, with a mind so capable and ready to receive all kinds of


## p. 4452 (#226) ###########################################

4452
ALPHONSE DAUDET
knowledge, will feel in the forced inaction, the death of intel-
lectual faculties to which you are about to condemn him? ”
"You are mistaken, Doctor," said D'Argenton, who was get-
ting very angry. "I know the fellow better than any one. I
have tried him. He is only fit for manual labor. His aptitudes
lie there, and there only. And it is when I furnish him with
the means of developing his aptitudes, when I put into his hands
a magnificent profession, that instead of thanking me, my fine
gentleman goes off complaining to strangers, seeking protectors
outside of his own home. "
Jack was going to protest. His friend however saved him the
trouble.
"He did not come to complain. He only informed me of
your decision, and I said to him what I now repeat to him before
you all:- 'Jack, my child, do not let them do it.
Throw your-
self into the arms of your parents, of your mother who loves
you, of your mother's husband, who for her sake must love
you. Entreat them, implore them. Ask them what you have
done to deserve to be thus degraded, to be made lower than
themselves! >»
"Doctor," exclaimed Labassindre, bringing his fist heavily
down upon the table, making it tremble and shake, "the tool
does not degrade the man, it ennobles him. The tool is the
regenerator of mankind. Christ handled a plane when he was
ten years of age.
"That is indeed true," said Charlotte, who at once conjured
up the vision of her little Jack dressed for the procession of the
Fête-Dieu as the child Jesus, armed with a little plane.
"Don't be taken in by such balderdash, Madame," said the
exasperated doctor. "To make a workman of your son is to
separate him from you forever. If you were to send him to the
other end of the world, he could not be further from your mind,
from your heart; for you would have, in this case, means of
drawing together again, whereas social distances are irremediable.
You will see. The day will come when you will be ashamed of
your child, when you will find his hands rough, his language
coarse, his sentiments totally different from yours. He will stand
one day before you, before his mother, as before a stranger of
higher rank than himself,-not only humbled, but degraded. "
Jack, who had hitherto not uttered a word, but had listened
attentively from a corner near the sideboard, was suddenly


## p. 4453 (#227) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4453
alarmed at the idea of any possible disaffection springing up
between his mother and himself.
He advanced into the middle of the room, and steadying his
voice:
"I will not be a workman," he said in a determined manner.
"O Jack! " murmured Charlotte, faltering.
This time it was D'Argenton who spoke.
"Oh, really! you will not be a workman? Look at this fine
gentleman who will or who will not accept a thing that I have
decided. You will not be a workman, eh? But you are quite
willing to be clothed, fed, and amused. Well, I solemnly declare
that I have had enough of you, you horrid little parasite; and
that if you do not choose to work, I for my part refuse to be
any longer your victim. "
-
He stopped abruptly, and passing from his mad rage to the
chilly manner which was habitual to him: —
"Go up to your room," he said; "I will consider what
remains to be done. "
"What remains to be done, my dear D'Argenton, I will soon
tell you. "
But Jack did not hear the end of Monsieur Rivals's phrase,
D'Argenton with a shove having thrust him out.
The noise of the discussion reached him in his room, like the
various parts in a great orchestra. He distinguished and recog-
nized all the voices, but they melted one into the other, united
by their resonance, and made a discordant uproar through which
some bits of phrases were alone intelligible.
"It is an infamous lie. "
"Messieurs! Messieurs! "
"Life is not a romance.
"Sacred blouse, beûh! beûh ! »
w
>>
At last old Rivals's voice could be heard thundering as he
crossed the threshold:
"May I be hanged if ever I put my foot in your house again! "
Then the door was violently slammed, and a great silence
fell on the dining-room, broken only by the clatter of knives and
forks.
They were breakfasting.
"You wish to degrade him, to make him something lower
than yourself. " The child remembered that phrase, and he felt.
that this was indeed his enemy's intention.


## p. 4454 (#228) ###########################################

ALPHONSE DAUDET
4454
Well, no; a thousand times no-he would not be a workman.
The door opened, and his mother came in.
She had cried a great deal, had shed real tears, tears such as
furrow the cheek. For the first time, a mother showed herself
in that pretty woman's face, an afflicted and sorrowing mother.
"Listen to me, Jack," she said, striving to appear severe; "I
must speak very seriously to you. You have made me very
unhappy by putting yourself in open rebellion against your real
friends, and by refusing to accept the situation they offer you.
I am well aware that there is in the new existence
While she spoke, she carefully avoided meeting the child's
eyes, for they had such an expression of desperate grief and
heartfelt reproach that she would not have been able to resist
their appeal.
«< - That there is, in the new existence we have chosen for
you, an apparent inconsistency with the life you have hitherto
been leading. I confess that I was myself at first rather startled
by it, but you heard, did you not, what was said to you? The
position of a workman is no longer what it used to be; oh no!
not at all the same thing, not at all. You must know that the
time of the working-man has now come. The middle classes
have had their day, the aristocracy likewise. Although, I must
say, the aristocracy - Moreover, is it not more natural at your
age, to allow yourself to be guided by those who love you, and
who are experienced? "
A sob from the child interrupted her.
"Then you too send me away; you too send me away. "
This time the mother could no longer resist. She took him
in her arms, clasped him passionately to her heart:-
"I send you away? How can you imagine such a thing?
Is it possible? Come, be calm; don't tremble and give way like
that. You know how I love you, and how, if it only depended
on me, we would never leave each other. But we must be rea-
sonable, and think a little of the future. Alas! the future is
already dark enough for us.