The Life and Writings of Alexandre Dumas/Writings

by Harry A. Spurr

His Writings.

"Suppose," wrote Victor Hugo, "that in place of the romance of narrative, and the romance epistolary, a creative brain produced the romance dramatic, wherein the action should unfold itself in a series of faithful and varied pictures, just as the events of real life occur; which should know no other division than that which the changing scenes demanded—which should be, in short, a long drama, in which the description supplies the scenery and the costumes?"

Dumas was destined to realise this ideal much more extensively and closely than Hugo himself. He possessed, in the first place, the constructive, dramatic skill; he only needed the impetus. He found it in the love of history; but it was needful that he should first find the historians who would reconcile him to the task.

"What France is looking for, is the historical novel," said Lassagne to Dumas once, in the early days of the writer's career.

"But the history of France is so dull and tedious!" answered the ignorant young dramatist dogmatically.

"Indeed—how do you know what?"

"I've been told so."

"Poor boy! Read it yourself, first, and then you'll change your mind."

Dumas took his friend's advice, and read Thierry, and a high ambition possessed him.

"One day," he tells us, "Lamartine asked me to what I attributed the success of his 'Histoire des Girondins.'"

"'To the fact that you raised history to the height of the romance,' I replied."

"In Dumas," says Swinburne, "the novelist and the dramatist were thoroughly at one." We are told, and can well believe, that when the immense success of "Les Trois Mousquetaires" called for a dramatised version of the book, little more than scissors and paste, some skill in selection, and a change of form, were needed to turn the romance into a play. On the other hand, "Henri Trois et sa Cour" and "La Tour de Nesle" read like cape-and-sword romances in stage dress.

We know that in Dumas a desire to write fiction had always lurked behind the lust for theatrical fame. About the time that his first vaudeville was performed, the first book, a little collection of short stories, appeared. These, as we have said, were the "Nouvelles Contemporaines" of 1826, afterwards included in the "Souvenirs d'Antony" of
Title page of Dumas's first book. 1835. As this was Dumas's first book, and is now a great rarity, we may give it a little attention.

"The first of these stories," he tells us, "was entitled 'Laurette,' the second 'Blanche de Beaulieu,' and the name of the third I have utterly forgotten. 'Blanche de Beaulieu' I afterwards utilised in writing 'La Rose Rouge,' and the third (the one of which I cannot remember the name), I subsequently reconstructed into 'Le Cocher de Cabriolet.'" We may add that the third story was named "Marie," and that the book was dedicated to the author's mother in "Homage—love—gratitude." Of the four (or six) copies sold, one is now in the possession of Robert Garnett, Esq., and the title-page is here reproduced with his permission.

Of the three (later the five) stories, "Blanche de Beaulieu" was the most striking. It is noteworthy that in this sombre but powerful little story General Dumas, the author's father, appears, though in its first form he was alluded to without being named. "Le Cocher de Cabriolet" (afterwards destined to form the basis of the author's drama of "Angèle"), is a pretty story, of a kind differing strongly from the terrible poignancy of its companion, "Un bal masqué," which is in the true "Antony" vein. This last, indeed, is the sole excuse for connecting these stories with the famous play, as it is supposed to be told by that Byronic personage himself. The remaining story, "Cherubino et Celestini," appeared as one of the "Cent-et-un Nouvelles" in 1833, under the title of "Les Enfants de la Madone" ("The Foundlings"). The main incidents contained in this "nouvelle" were told to Sir Walter Scott as local history, when he visited Naples shortly before he died, and are given in his "Journal" as "The Death of Bizarro." Tennyson versified it from that source in "The Bandit's Wife." How cleverly the theme has been elaborated, and how its interest has been heightened, by the skill of the Frenchman, may be seen by those who will compare the outline in Scott's journal with "Cherubino et Celestini."

The novelist in Dumas lay dormant for nine years—his period of dramatic triumphs. Then, an acquaintance with Scott's novels, and an introduction to history picturesquely told, in the shape of Barante's "Histoire des Ducs de Bourgoyne" combined to excite his imagination, and gave direction to the ambitions called forth by Thierry. In his fine preface to "Isabel de Bavière" he faces the difficulties and exults over the glories of the career which he foresees for himself:

"One of the most magnificent privileges of the historian, that lord over the Past," he wrote, "is the power to rebuild palaces and reanimate the dust of dead heroes. With the touch of his pen, at the sound of his voice, as at the call of a God, the scattered bones reunite; again the living flesh covers them; they are clothed once more in the gay robes of their other life, and from out that immense gulf of oblivion whither the three thousand centuries have flung their offspring, he has but to choose the favoured elect of his caprice, and call them by name, to see them instantly raise with their brows the walls of their tombs, part with their hands the folds of their shrouds, and answer him, as Lazarus answered Christ: 'Lord, here am I: what wilt Thou with me?'"

"True, one needs a firm step to descend into the abyss of history, a voice of power, to question the phantoms who dwell there, a hand that shall not tremble, to write the words that they shall speak, for often the dead hold terrible secrets which have been 'interrèd with their bones.'"

Dumas's early ideal of the historical romance, although it changed with the development of his genius, is also interesting. At the beginning of his career, he wrote:

"The great difficulty (it seems to us) is to avoid two errors—not to attenuate the past, as history has done; not to disfigure it, as the romance does. The only way to steer clear of both these mistakes will be, then, immediately one has chosen one's historical epoch, to study thoroughly the interests which moved the three classes of society—the people, the nobility and royalty—at that time; to choose from among the principal personages of those classes such as took an active part in the events to be comprised in the narrative; and to enquire minutely concerning their appearance, character and temperament, so that, whilst making them live, speak, and act in this triple unity, one may show the development in these historical types, of the passions which brought about those catastrophes which are recorded in the pages of the century by dates and facts and in which one can only interest one's public by showing them the actual living manner in which the same deeds were added to history."

Such was Dumas's view of the romance in the lays of "Isabel de Bavière," and "La Comtesse de Salisbury." We have already explained how the former "chronique" came to be written. Dumas selected the most effective portions of Barante, and vivified them. He was destined in the future to make a brilliant success by the way in which he painted romance on a foundation of history; but on this occasion, as Mr Saintsbury pithily puts it, "the canvas shows through." There is a want of coherence in the book: it is absorbingly interesting, but it is neither romance nor history. "La Comtesse de Salisbury," published four years later, in 1839, is less readable. An admirable opening chapter is succeeded by long tracts of history, and only at brief intervals do the characters take life. This is the more to be regretted, as the episode of Edward III's guilty passion for his vassal's wife was a subject of which, in after-years, our more experienced author, emancipated from history, would probably have made much. The preface, which treats of the influence of Scott on the author and his fellow-romancers in France, is by far the most valuable part of the book.

Absorbed in travel and the drama, once again our romancer neglected the historical métier. "Pauline," a powerful little novel, some first indications of which appeared in his "Impressions de Voyage en Suisse," was published in 1838, and was much praised; and "Pascal Bruno," an episode of the days of Murat, was also suggested by the author's travels in Italy, and was coupled with "Pauline" in a volume entitled "La Salle d'Armes."

When Dumas produced his drama of "Caligula," he said to himself, "to study the corpse it is best to visit the tomb." He therefore went to Italy, and also "read up" the epoch, and the result was a romance as well as a drama. "Acté," which was published in 1839, is not translated into English, but in some respects it is a most notable book. "Scott could never have written the first two hundred pages," says Parigot truly; "Renan would not have been ashamed of them. Every step that Dumas takes his foot rests on a document—Nero's entry into the city over the débris of its walls, which had been levelled in his honour, the suppers, the games at the circus, the letters from Gaul which interrupt the spectacle—the whole story taken from authentic sources, not forgetting Nero's flight, and his death at the house of Plancus. And with what grace, with what imaginative facility is this prodigious epoch conjured up, living and breathing, before our eyes! To these marvels of illusion, gathered together by the artist in Dumas with great effort and skill, he adds the vivid illusion of his own story."

It is a pity that such excellent work should in the end "drag itself to death in plagiarism and prolixity"; but the fact was that Dumas's mother died whilst the book was being written, and this probably accounts for the fact that the novel varies so markedly in merit. Either the writer, absorbed in his sorrow, left some other author to finish it, or he lost interest in the romance, and being as usual pressed for time, made use of Chateaubriand's "Martyrs" to supply the place of his vanished inspiration. Sienkiewicz, who has studied Dumas's works to admirable purpose, probably found in "Acté" the basis for "Quo Vadis." The "Acté" of Mr Westbury, although it does not resemble Dumas's in plot, would seem to have been suggested by the older romance.

"Le Capitaine Paul," published in the previous year, relates to the celebrated privateersman Paul Jones, and professes to be a sequel to Fenimore Cooper's "Pilot." Although Alphonse Karr in "Les Guêpes" makes fun of the sea-terms employed in the story, the comparative non-success of the book is due rather to the fact that Dumas, in his admiration for the American novelist, was working with unfamiliar and uncongenial material. The plot seems to have been suggested to him. "Dauzats invenit, Dumas sculpsit," he wrote. He was more successful, two years later, with the "Aventures de John Davys," a book somewhat after the manner of Defoe. Thackeray in the Revue Britannique for 1847 accused Dumas of having stolen half of it from another book, which he did not specify. Cherbuliez, a contemporary critic, who was usually severe on our author, admitted that the book could be numbered amongst the best and most amusing of his early works.

Three other books published in 1840 deserve attention, although not one of them is accessible in English. Of these perhaps the most noteworthy is "Maître Adam, le Calabrais," which is unknown to many of the admirers of the romancer, even to those who pursue him in the huge list of Calmann-Lévy. According to his witty epilogue, Dumas first heard the story from the lips of a peasant at Mugnano; but the intimate knowledge of Calabrian life, customs, and superstitions displayed suggests the assistance of Fiorentino, Dumas's Italian assistant. The result is an admirable story, told in most humorous fashion.

The "Maître d'Armes," the second book of this trio, Mr Saintsbury has pronounced "very poor stuff." Yet it was translated by a peer of the realm, and has been issued also for the use of schools. We fancy that on this occasion our author is to be taken more literally than usual in his explanation of the story's origin. Dumas supplied an introductory page to his friend Grisier's journal of a visit to St Petersburg, and possibly selected passages and rewrote them. "The public are warned that nothing of what follows is mine," writes Dumas, "not even the title." That is plain enough, and the internal evidence proves it. The story of the exiling of a Russian noble for complicity in the plot of 1825,^[1] and of the devotion of the mistress who followed him to far Siberia, forms only a minor portion of the book, and is not developed, as Dumas would have found himself forced to develop anything of his own. It may be added, that during his travels in Russia in 1858, our author was introduced to the hero and heroine of the adventure. The book had the honour of being forbidden in Russia.

The remaining work of this year was "Le Capitaine Pamphile," which narrates the adventures of a sort of nautical Crusoe in northern America. It should appcal particularly to children, for whom it was written, and if the entertaining digressions respecting the author's pets be forgiven or skipped, the rest of the book will be found capital reading. The note of humour in Dumas, which appears first in this book and in "Maître Adam," is not too frequently present in his later works.

Yet it is rather gaiety than any other quality which pervades the only attempt at story-telling made by Dumas during 1841 and 1842. It may be remembered that he was busy writing his three comedies for the Théâtre Français at this time. and also his "Impressions de Voyage" in the south of France and Mediterranean. At Marseilles, Dumas and his friend Méry enjoyed an experience which each utilised in his own way. Hayward, in his essay on our author, says, "One of the most amusing stories composed by Dumas is 'La Chasse au Chastre,' in which he depicts the trials and perils into which a worthy professor of music is hurried, by the reckless pursuit of a field-fare." Gautier in one of his books refers to "that chastre, whose adventures Dumas has told so vivaciously and wittily." The two authors heard the story from the lips of the unfortunate musician himself, and "de Mirecourt's" assertion that Dumas stole the tale from Méry is disproved by that writer in the preface to his own version.

"Le Chateau d'Eppstein" or "Albine" was the outcome of a social gathering at Florence in 1841, and was told to Dumas and the company by one of the guests. That is our author's explanation: his "commentators" declare "Albine" to be a story of the Rhineland (title and author not given). "Jacquot sans Oreilles"—not, one is disappointed to find, a pillorying of M. "de Mirecourt"—was similarly "supplied" to Dumas by an officer whose acquaintance he made during his Russian travels in 1858. The "Aventures de Lyderic" which appeared in 1842, is the story of Siegfried, made familiar to the public by Wagner.

We now enter upon the most important period of our author's career as a writer of romance. Up to this time he has possessed some very praiseworthy ideals, but has failed to devote much care—except, perhaps, in the case of "Acté"—to the realisation of them. We have seen him displaying wit and humour, skill in picturesque narrative, and his native sense of the dramatic, but all without any very definite aim. He had vowed, he tells us, to write the history of France in fiction, but, as we have seen, he had made little progress.

At this juncture the great man made the acquaintance of an unknown, unappreciated writer, named Auguste Maquet. The latter wrote a short story, in which he had great faith, and had the mortification of seeing it refused by an editor. Let Charles Reade (who supplies these details, in his "Eighth Commandment") take up the story:

"As Maquet paced the boulevards, smarting, he met Dumas, who asked him if he had nothing 'by him.'

"'I have only the "Bonhomme Buvat,"' said Maquet, sorrowfully.

"Dumas pricked up his ears. 'That is a good title,' he said. 'Come, tell me something about your "Bonhomme."'

"Maquet glowed, and poured out a part of his story.

"'That will do: send me the manuscript,' said Dumas. 'I am off to Italy to-night.'

"Dumas took the 'Buvat' with him, worked on him, and in a few weeks it came out and charmed all Europe as the 'Chevalier d'Harmental.'"

"And then," adds Reade, "began that intellectual alliance to which the world owes the most brilliant romances of the century."

The episode of "The good-man Buvat" will be remembered by readers of this romance (known also as "The Conspirators "). It is a clever piece of character-drawing, but has only a slight-connection with the main plot. The Cellemare conspiracy has provided the principal theme.

This is one of the best of Dumas's stories, and is not yet fully appreciated. Thackeray refers to it admiringly in his "Roundabout Papers"; and Mr. Saintsbury commends it as the most perfect of its author's novels in form—for unhappily Dumas was not always particular about unity and completeness. The contrast between the witty, voluptuous society of the Regency and the fresh, innocent life of Bathilde, is admirable in taste and effect. Captain Roquefinette is the first (off the stage) of the adventurers who occupy such a large place in Dumas's gallery of portraits. He dies finely, too, as do his comrades who come after him—Porthos, D'Artagnan, Maison-Rouge, La Mole, "Morgan," Bannière, and the rest.

"Une Fille du Régent," a sequel to the "Chevalier," was published two or three years later by the same collaborators. It contains one entertaining episode (treating of the Cellamare conspirators, and their life in the Bastille); but it is the plot of "D'Harmenthal" again, with judicious variations. Worse still, there is a gloomy note of fatalism throughout the whole story. Nevertheless, "Une Fille du Régent" is well worth reading, if only for the study of Dubois, the Regent's minister, which shows Dumas's talent for intrigue at its best.

"Georges," which also dates from 1843, is a story of Mauritius, or the "Ile de France," and is probably the work of our author in combination with some "'prentice" who knew the colony. This may or may not have been Mallefille, to whom the credit of the whole work has charitably been given. But the hero, who suffers social ostracism for the black blood in his veins; the hero, who allows nothing to stand between himself and his desires—in short, "Dumas-Antony,"—betrays his origin unmistakably. With the struggle between the French and English for that tropical paradise the novelist has interwoven a revolt of the slaves, told with great dramatic force and truth, and a love story.

"Cécile," or "La Robe de Noce," is chiefly interesting as affording a first glimpse, in the author's writings, of the days of Revolution, afterwards to be turned to such full and effective account. So popular was this pathetic story that two pirated editions were issued in Belgium in the course of a few months. "Cécile" dates from "the great year," 1844, as does "Fernande," which has been claimed by M. Hippolyte Auger as at least half his own. It is impossible to test the truth of that author's assertions at this remote date, so that the degree of blame—if any—which can attach to Dumas cannot now be measured, but we may add that we believe the story is not the great writer's. "Amaury" was also published about this time, and Dumas gives an account of its origin in which he disavows the authorship; but it may or may not be genuine, for he always delighted in this form of mystification. It is probably true that M. Paul Meurice wrote the story with Dumas, for the style is not our author's. He has told us, however, that it was suggested by the case of his friend Felix Deviolaine, who was consumptive, and who, happily, recovered; but in the story Madeleine D'Avrigny is not cured, and so faithful and poignant was the description of the malady's progress that one M. Noailles, whose daughter was also suffering from the disease, appealed to the author to suspend the serial publication of "Amaury," if Madeleine was meant to die. The feuilleton was therefore suspended until after the poor girl's death, and the kind-hearted Dumas went so far as to improvise in manuscript a miraculous recovery and happy fate for the poor heroine, for the especial benefit of the doomed girl and her husband.

One of the best of Dumas's minor romances is that of "Sylvandire," at one time known in England as "Beau Tancrède." Its historical interest is slight, but it affords a glimpse of the court of Louis XIV. in his latter days, under the domination of Madame de Maintenon. Chronologically "Sylvandire " precedes the "Chevalier d'Harmenthal," and possesses many of the merits of that romance. It has little or nothing of the pretty sentiment of Bathilde's love story, but instead, is told with much ironic humour.

M. About, at the unveiling of the Dumas statue in Paris, told a story of M. Sarcey, who was in the same class at school with a little Spanish boy. The child was homesick; he could not eat, he could not sleep; he was almost in a decline.

"You want to see your mother?" said young Sarcey.

"No: she is dead."

"Your father, then?"

"No: he used to beat me."

"Your brothers and sisters?"

"I have none."

"Then why are you so eager to be back in Spain?"

"To finish a book I began in the holidays."

"And what was its name?"

"'Los Tres Mosqueteros!'"

"He was homesick for 'The Three Musketeers'" (says Mr. Lang), "and they cured him easily."

That boy would almost seem to have been the young Castelar, the great Spanish orator, statesman, and author, for he has written of the famous story in manner quite as fervent:

"I can never forget the impression left upon my mind by the reading of that book. The characters are life-like, and stand out in such high relief, that I seemed to see them, to speak to them, to distinguish their features and manners, and even to compare them with real persons among my acquaintances. So absorbing was my interest in the story, that I watched for each new number with feverish impatience, to read the end of these adventures, as if they were intimately connected with some one beloved, with my former friends, with my nearest relations, with my own soul.... That exciting narrative; that flashing style; those characters, so boldly described; those scenes, so marvellously woven together; that ever-increasing interest in the story—all this worked upon my imagination, and by the magic of art the fictitious world was changed into the world of truth and poetry, and became as real as society or as nature."

Is there any man who has not read "The Three Musketeers"? It has become one of the world's books. As Méry, Dumas's fast friend, jestingly put it,

"If there exists a second Robinson Crusoe in any part of the world at this moment, be sure that the exile is whiling away his solitude reading 'Les Trois Mousquetaires,' under the shade of his parrot-feathered umbrella."

In his preface to the romance, Dumas has confessed the chief source of his inspiration—Courtils de Sandraz's "Mémoires de D'Artagnan," which in turn was probably more than half-fiction, although, of course, a soldier of that name lived, fought, sinned, and died in those times. "I think I like D'Artagnan in his own 'Mémoires' best," wrote Thackeray. Mr Lang does not agree with him, nor, we may add our testimony, do we. To read the "Mémoires" and then the romance is to undergo a revelation. Mingled with this sordid story of closet-intrigue and kitchen-amours, Dumas, with his keen scent for the picturesque, found excellent material for a splendid story; and his admirable taste is shown not only in what has been utilised, but in what has been omitted. Only one questionable incident has been employed, and that because it has an important bearing on the plot of the romance and its sequel. "It has passed through a medium, as Dumas himself declared, of natural delicacy and good taste." These chapters about Kitty and Miladi, Sir Herbert Maxwell reminds us, in his article on "The Real D'Artagnan," did not escape their author's criticism.

"It is told that Dumas in after-life expressed bitter regret that the said episode had not been omitted, with the rest of like nature; and there is evidence given by M. E. de Goncourt of how greatly Dumas differed in taste on these matters from less scrupulous French writers. M. de Goncourt tells us that he once heard Victor Hugo declare that, had he not been above filching from other authors, he must have yielded to the temptation to appropriate the story of 'Ketty,' 'et de lui donner une forme d'art'. 'Think,' exclaimed Hugo, 'of the marvellously human dénoûment, far finer than any dénoûment of the utmost realism!'^[2] It is not difficult to imagine to what luxuriance these materials might have blossomed, under the florid touch of Victor Hugo."

M. Parigot recommends students of Dumas to make the comparison between the romance and the "Mémoires," and judge for themselves how the man of imagination has glorified the material he worked on. "Dumas borrowed, but Dumas selected," he adds.

We may supplement this opinion with a short comparison of our own. Briefly, Dumas owes "D'Artagnan," first, the facts of the hero's life, so far as they concern history. All these are retained, and the famous character goes through the very necessary process of renovation, elaboration, and elevation.

The names—and little else—of the three "brothers-in-war" are to be found in the "Mémoires." Athos, Porthos, and Aramis are but shadows, and the little that we do learn of them there is not exactly to their credit. They are actually brothers; whereas the romancer by making them brothers-in-heart gains enormously in effect.

Roughly speaking, Dumas has expanded, in the first six chapters of the "Mousquetaires," the opening chapters of "D'Artagnan." "The man of Meung," the hero's evil genius, was evidently suggested by an aristocrat named Rosnay, with whom the real D'Artagnan had an encounter early in his career, and who figures throughout as a coward, who endeavours to get D'Artagnan assassinated. In a later part of the "Mémoires" a hint is given that Louis XIII's Chancellor, Séguier, once attempted to take from the Queen a letter concealed upon her person. In "D'Artagnan" the letter was suspected to be from Spain, and political; in Dumas it was thought to be from Buckingham, Anne's secret lover. The most important extract from the "Mémoires" concerns "Miladi," and our author has borrowed freely from the young cadet's amour with the beautiful Englishwoman. The chapters describing the intrigue, D'Artagnan's rivalry with De Wardes, his subterfuges, and "affair" with the chambermaid, are mostly "fact"; but strange to say, Dumas entirely ignored the real beginning of this, D'Artagnan's greatest "passion."

204 The story is interesting. The musketeer had just returned from England (where he had fought with Charles at the battle of Newbury), when he was sent for by the exiled Queen, and questioned concerning his visit. The too-candid youth declared, in the course of the interview, that "he would as soon live with bears as with the English"; and this so deeply provoked one of the Queen's maids-of-honour, that she sent D'Artagnan, after the forward fashion of the time, an invitation to pay court to her. The soldier readily responded, and fell straightway in love. When, however, he at length avowed his passion, "Miladi" coolly informed him that she had acted thus in order to punish him for his abuse of her countrymen, and proceeded to mock him pitilessly. The story of his revenge is told by Dumas, to whose imagination, however, is due the incident of the fleur-de-lis, and all the tragic sequel.

These detailed comparisons may, perhaps, be more interestingly summed up in a few words. From the loose, casual jottings of a soldier, telling of his amours, his campaigns, and the politics of his day, Dumas extracted, by some wonderful mental process, a stirring and dramatic story, full of incident and character. Of the spiteful wanton "Miladi" he made a powerful and tragic figure; and the three names Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, in his hands, assumed individualities and became immortal. The whole plot concerning the Queen's studs, the sad story of Constance Bonacieux, the tragedy of Fenton and Buckingham—all these were either devised in the French novelist's fertile brain, or skilfully introduced by him into the framework provided for him by the "Mémoires." After the first six chapters (of which the dialogue, wit, and character-drawing were wholly his own), Dumas launched out for himself, and the plot begins.

Our author, too, makes use in this and subsequent romances, of Madame de la Fayette's "Histoire d'Henriette d'Angleterre," and also of the court chroniques of the time, omitting to avail himself of their most scandalous passages. He borrows from La Porte's memoirs the incident of Bonacieux's abduction; he finds the faint outline of his episode of the Bastion St Gervais, in an account of a scene at the siege of Casal in 1630. To Maquet probably belongs the credit of discovering these picturesque incidents; to Dumas the glory of giving them colour, shape, and life on his great canvas.

Of the other source of information—the "Mémoires de M. le Comte de la Fère," nothing can be said here, for a very excellent reason. When Dumas had the audacity to ask at the Bibliothèque Royale for that book, the librarian retorted, "You know that it doesn't exist, because you yourself have said it does!" Indeed, the good man's sharpness was natural; since the publication of the "Mousquetaires" he had been appealed to perpetually for the book, by readers eager for "more"!

Mr Saintsbury complains that there is no central idea in "Les Trois Mousquetaires," and indeed there are at least two main plots. Professor Carpenter even analyses the story into

"A series of smaller tales (they are more like plays), each a hundred pages or so in length. In 'Les Trois Mousquetaires' the main problem is this, How can four adventurers, by their combined force, outwit The Cardinal and all his powers, temporal and spiritual? Viz. (1) How can a friendless and awkward but dashing young Gascon become in three days the talk of Paris and a sworn companion of the best three blades in the city? (2) The Queen's honour is at stake; how can this band of brothers fetch her jewels from England in time? (3) D'Artagnan is fascinated by Milady: how can his reckless passion be turned to hate and fear? (4) Milady, with good reason, is determined on D'Artagnan's death, Richelieu on Buckingham's assassination: how can both catastrophes be averted? (5) Milady is a prisoner in England: how can she escape and murder Buckingham? (6) How can the brothers' avenge their wrongs on Milady, and avoid the punishment of the Cardinal, whose agent she is?"

207 But it is obviously wrong to treat a book of adventure as if it were an ordinary novel. We do not expect a central plot in "Don Quixote," "Robinson Crusoe," or "Gil Blas."

Every lover of the "Mousquetaires" has his own particular hero, in one of the famous four. Thackeray, for instance, writes:

"Of your heroic heroes, I think our friend Monseigneur Athos, Count de la Fère, is my favourite. I have read about him from sunrise to sunset with the utmost contentment of mind. He has passed through how many volumes? Forty? Fifty? I wish, for my part, there were a hundred more, and would never tire of him rescuing prisoners, punishing ruffians, and running scoundrels through the midriff with his most graceful rapier. Ah! Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, you are a magnificent trio."

Stevenson had a weakness for Porthos. "If," he wrote to a friend, "by any sacrifice of my own literary baggage I could clear the 'Vicomte de Bragelonne' of Porthos, Jekyll might go, and the Master, and the Black Arrow, you may be sure, and I should think my life not lost for mankind if half a dozen more of my volumes must be thrown in."

208 Dumas himself shared this feeling. The great, strong, vain hero was a child after his own heart. One afternoon his son, seeing him looking careworn, wretched, overwhelmed, asked him,

"What has happened to you? Are you ill?"

"No."

"Well, what is it then?

"I am miserable."

"Why?"

"This morning, I killed Porthos—poor Porthos! Oh what trouble I have had, to make up my mind to do it! But there must be an end to all things. Yet when I saw him sink beneath the ruins, crying 'It is too heavy, too heavy for me!' I swear to you that I cried."

And he wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his dressing-gown.

We have glided insensibly into "Vingt Ans Après" and the "Vicomte de Bragelonne," for it is the D'Artagnan of this last of the series whom Stevenson has so eloquently proclaimed as his hero. In his essay "On a Romance of Dumas's" in "Memories and Portraits," he writes of him thus:

"It is in the character of D'Artagnan, that we
D'Artagnan. From the Dumas Monument. must look for that spirit of morality, which is one of the chief merits of the book, makes one of the main joys of its perusal, and sets it high above more popular rivals. Athos, with the coming of years, has declined too much into the preacher, and the preacher of a sapless creed; but D'Artagnan has mellowed into a man so witty, rough, kind and upright, that he takes the heart by storm. There is nothing of the copybook about his virtues, nothing of the drawing-room in his fine, natural civility; he will sail near the wind; he is no district visitor—no Wesley or Robespierre; his conscience is void of all refinement whether for good or evil; but the whole man rings true like a good sovereign. I do not say there is no character as well-drawn in Shakespeare; I do say there is none that I love so wholly. There are many spiritual eyes that seem to spy upon our actions—eyes of the dead and the absent, whom we imagine to behold us in our most private hours, and whom we fear and scruple to offend; our witnesses and judges. And among these, even if you should think me childish, I must count my D'Artagnan—not the D'Artagnan of the memoirs, whom Thackeray pretended to prefer—a preference, I take the freedom of saying, in which he stands alone—not the D'Artagnan of flesh and blood, but him of the ink and paper; not Nature's but Dumas's."

One secret of the charm of the four musketeers is perhaps to be found in the fact that they stand for types of the great national characteristics. Says Parigot:

"D'Artagnan, the adroit Gascon, caressing his moustache; Porthos, the muscular and foolish; Athos, the somewhat romantic 'grand seigneur,' Aramis, who pinches his ear to make it red,—Aramis, the discreet Aramis, who hides his religion and his amours, able pupil of the good fathers—these four friends, and not four brothers as Courtils imagined, typify the four cardinal qualities of our country.... If Danton and Napoleon were the prototypes of French energy, Dumas, in 'Les Trois Mousquetaires' is its national historian. His romance is quite as dramatic as theirs, but more pleasant, and with a more continuous charm."

The origin of the two sequels has already been partly indicated. It is said that Dumas fils, frightened at the thought of the prodigious task which the rash author set himself, asked his father "In spite of the help of Madame de La Fayette, who furnishes you with the name and first-love of Athos's son, how will you manage to keep up the interest through these innumerable volumes?"

"Oh, well," answered his father, all that happened to Athos will happen over again to his son."

But (not for the first time) Dumas did himself an injustice. One has no feeling of repetition about "Bragelonne." If it is, as some critics assert, "full of improbabilities," it is yet very faithful to the chronicles of the court. "Those who rage about the far-fetched incidents," writes M. Parigot, "with which these romances of Dumas are simply crammed, make us smile. Have they never read the history written by Madame de La Fayette? And Guiche in the chimney? And the women spies? And the caskets of Malicorne? And the plots of de Wardes?"

The Trilogy of the Four is, after all, one great prose epic on friendship—the love of man for man. Professor Carpenter has seen this clearly, and expressed well:

"So far as I am concerned there is no more poignant scene in literature than that in which, after twenty years of separation, the four who once were but a single will and a single force—hence, dauntless and invincible—found in the gloom of battle their swords clash on those of their peers, and realised that they were arrayed against each other. How paltry beside this seem lovers' quarrels! And yet there is nothing of the mock-heroic in Dumas's treatment of the famous friendship. These were men of clay, prone to vice and error, redeemed only by their sense of the sacredness of the strongest human tie, save that of family."

The same writer also notices with what unconscious skill the characters of the musketeers are developed:

"These men grow, not of the author's set purpose, in the ordinary fashion, according to a rule of logic, but as men grow in life, naturally. He (Dumas) could not have planned it; at the proper time he simply knew it. The Athos, the Porthos, the Aramis, and the D'Artagnan of 'Le Vicomte de Bragelonne' are not those of 'Les Trois Mousquetaires,' or even of 'Vingt Ans Après.' But the author does not inform us of it, except in a single case, and then he is evidently as surprised as we are. They grow, and if they are honest men they grow better, on stepping-stones of their own baser selves.... These novels show more than the growth of man. They represent the slow development of a race and nation. Like Gibbon or Michelet, Dumas had a genius for history. France under Charles IX. and Henry III., France under Louis XIV., France in the Revolution—he knew them, and felt them to the core, His chronology may be weak and his facts faulty, the young doctor of philosophy may find flaws in every chapter, but the great laws he follows, so far as I can see: the types are sound."

Let us limit ourselves to the quotation of two passages from Stevenson, endorsing this opinion. He is still writing of "my dear 'Vicomte,'" as he called him:

"What other novel has such epic variety and nobility of incident? Often, if you will, impossible; often of the order of an Arabian story; and yet all based in human nature? Not studied with the microscope, but seen largely, in plain daylight, with the natural eye? What novel has more good sense, and gaiety, and wit, and unflagging, admirable literary skill? And once more, to make an end of commendations, what novel is inspired with a more unstrained or a more wholesome morality? There is no quite good book without a good morality; but the world is wide, and so are morals.... And above all, in this last volume, I find a singular charm of spirit. It breathes a pleasant and a tonic sadness, always brave, never hysterical. Upon the crowded, noisy life of this long tale, evening gradually falls, and the lights are extinguished, and the heroes pass away one by one. One by one they go, and not a regret embitters their departure; the young succeed them in their places, Louis Quatorze is swelling larger and shining broader, another generation and another France dawn on the horizon; but for us and these old men whom we have loved so long, the inevitable end draws near and is welcome. To read this well is to anticipate experience. Ah, if only, when these hours of the long shadows fall for us in reality and not in figure, we may hope to face them with a mind as quiet."

One day, about two years before his death, Dumas's son found him with a book.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"'Les Trois Mousquetaires.' I always promised myself that I would read it when I was an old man, so that I might be able to judge of its merit."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"It is good."

Some days later the same thing occurred again, only this time it was another of his own books—"Monte Cristo."

"What do you think of it?" asked the son once more.

"Pah! It isn't as good as the 'Mousquetaires!'"^[3]

Nevertheless "Monte Cristo," published in the same year as the "Mousquetaires," rivalled, and still rivals the other in popularity. The two romances were in point of fact written with great rapidity. Charles Reade's comment on the fact is amusing:

"This phenomenon astounded costive writers, and set them uttering, by way of solution, old wives' fables that turned the wonder into an impossibility. The account the authors themselves (Dumas and Maquet) gave was the only credible one. These works were flung off by even collaboration of two most inventive and rapid writers. Some of the work was written in almost less time than a single hand could have transcribed it. I believe they still show at Trouville, in a fisherman's cottage, the chamber and table where the pair wrote the first four volumes of 'Monte Cristo' in sixteen days."

According to the amiable Quérard (inspired by the equally kindly "de Mirecourt") "Monte Cristo" was written, the first half by Fiorentino, the second by Maquet. "It was so simple to believe I was the author, that they never even thought of it," says Dumas banteringly. He has given us his own account of the genesis of the book, in his "Causeries." We know already how the story got its "local habitation and its name"; and the evolution of the plot is no less interesting.

Towards 1843 Dumas had agreed with a firm of publishers to supply them with eight volumes of "Impressions de Voyage" through Paris, the idea being a perambulatory tour of the city from barrier to barrier, anecdotic, historic, archeological and above all, picturesque. But Sue had just written his "Mysteries of Paris," and the publishers, anxious to imitate the success of that book, modified their idea and demanded a story in which Paris should be the background merely. Dumas bethought him of an anecdote, twenty pages long, from the "Police devoilée" of Peuchet, entitled, "La Diamant et La Vengeance," of which he had made a mental note. The story itself he declares was tout simplement idiot, but it contained the germ of an idea.

The first outline of the book was no more than this—that a very rich nobleman, living in Rome, and called the Count of Monte Cristo, should render a great service to a young French traveller, and should beg him, when that gentleman desires to repay the kindness, to act as the Count's guide when he, in his turn, should visit Paris. Vengeance had inspired this thought, and when Monte Cristo "did" the French capital he was to discover enemies who were hidden there—his enemies, who had condemned him in his youth to ten years of captivity. His fortune was to furnish the Count with the means of revenge.

At this point Dumas acquainted Maquet (who, as we know, was his literary partner at the time) with the plot, and the assistant at once pointed out that "the master" was passing by the most interesting part of the story—the prologue, in which should be told not only how those enemies betrayed the Count in his youth, but also the story of his years in prison. From that moment the story developed: Dumas seized the idea, took for his text three cities—Marseilles, Rome, Paris—and the romance was made.

"Monte Cristo" owed part of its enormous success to its verisimilitude. The details were most convincing, and had, indeed, been studied on the spot.

"There is one thing I cannot do," Dumas tells us, in his preface to the "Compagnons de Jehu," "I cannot write a book or a drama about localities I have never seen. To write 'Christine' I went to Fontainebleau; to write 'Henri III.' I went to Blois; to write 'Les Trois Mousquetaires' I went to Bethune and Boulogne; to write 'Monte Cristo' I returned to the Catalans and the Chateau d'If. This gives such a character of truth to what I write that the personages I plant in certain places seem to grow there, and some people have been led to think they have actually existed; in fact, there are persons who say they have known them. I do not wish to injure worthy family-men who live by the little industry, but if you go to Marseilles they will show you Morel's house on the Cours, Mercedès' house at the Catalans, and the dungeons of Dantès and Faria at the Chateau D'If. When I brought out 'Monte Cristo' at the Théâtre Historique I wrote to Marseilles for a drawing of the Chateau D'If, which they sent me. I wanted it for the scene-painter. The artist to whom I had written not only sent me the sketch, but he did more than I had ventured to ask of him; he wrote underneath it: 'View of the Chateau D'If, on the side from which Dantès was flung.' I have heard since that a worthy fellow, a guide attached to the Chateau D'If, sells pens of fish-bones made by the Abbé Faria himself."

One anecdote among many, will illustrate the fascination which this book possesses for its readers. The Academy not so long ago quoted an amusing passage from a speech made by Lord Salisbury at a literary gathering. The Prime Minister humorously told how once at Sandringham, he was surprised by his host, at half-past four one morning, reading his favourite book "Monte Cristo." The prince wished to know the name of the book which had dragged the Premier from his bed at such an hour. Three weeks after he confessed to his guest that the same romance had lured him from his bed that morning half-an-hour earlier still!

"Monte Cristo," says Mr Lang, "has the best beginning—and loses itself in the sands." There is a good deal of truth in this: some of us believe that Dumas's reputation suffers rather than gains by being so prominently associated with a romance, parts of which are undeniably dull. Mr Saintsbury declares the second part to be too "Balzac-like." But even admitting this, admitting also that the omnipresent count is not altogether the perfect gentleman his creator seems to have thought him; and that his appearances and disappearances are ultra-theatrical at times; yet, there is a grandeur of conception about "Monte Cristo" which more than redeems it from these drawbacks. It is Dumas's "Misérables," and the lesson it teaches—"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord"—is taught so effectively, so honestly, and on so great a scale, that the book has a moral value which should preserve it from oblivion for generations to come.

"Ascanio" is variously said to date from this year or the previous one. It was suggested by Benvenuto Cellini's autobiography, wherein one or two of the most improbable incidents of the story are to be found, notably the employment of the head of the sculptor's gigantic statue as a hiding-place. The reader is introduced to François I., the monarch of Pavia, and the intrigues of his court, which as usual with Dumas are cleverly manipulated to attract and absorb the reader. It should be added that our author in his "Causeries" tells of a flattering and unexpected sequel to this book. It so inspired a poor potter of Bourg-en-bresse with an ambition to emulate its hero, that he studied and worked until from artisan he developed into an artist. Meurice is said to have been the collaborator in this instance.

"Gabriel Lambert" is the last chief product of this extraordinary year. Dumas professes that this story is true, and that he has met and spoken with the chief personages. "Gabriel Lambert" recalls "Richard Darlington," with a difference, for this novel is less a story of unscrupulous ambition, than a study of cowardice, made with a touch of that poignant realism which has since become so popular. The "forties" proved the most brilliant and most productive period of Dumas the novelist. In 1845, the year following his great double triumph, the author produced (in addition to "Une Fille de Régent" and "Vingt Ans Après," already mentioned) "La Reine Margot," "La Guerre des Femmes" (or "Nanon"), and "Les Frères Corses."

First of the Valois romances as was "La Reine Margot," we must not forget that the success of "Henri Trois et sa Cour" many years before, had given the author a love for this historical period. The fatal passion of St Mégrin is repeated in the ill-fated devotion of La Mole. The great personages of history here are drawn boldly, and with seeming carelessness, but how human they are—how full of character and life! The Charles IX. of history, as Parigot testifies, is not "betrayed" by the Charles of romance; the portrait of Catherine de Medici, if somewhat overdrawn, is full of that Italian guile with which the records credit her, and the frank, ingenuous, supple-minded Béarnais, Henri of Navarre, is one of the triumphs of Dumas's vivifying genius. The intrigue of the romance is full of absorbing interest: Will Henri of Navarre become King of France? Will Catherine be able to prevent him from reaching the throne? And with this, other threads are interwoven: the Huguenot-Catholic plots, the brotherly love of La Mole and Coconnas, these in turn being interspersed with those terrible episodes, the massacre of St Bartholomew, and the reading of the poisoned book.^[4]

Yet, throughout "La Reine Margot" our "haphazard" author (the words belongs to his critics) has exercised a double restraint: he neither harrows the reader unbearably nor does he take advantage of the scandalous facts which informal history affords, relating to the court of the Valois. Mr Lang, in his "Letters to Dead Authors" notes this judicious quality in our author. "In these romances," he says, apostrophising Dumas, "how easy it would have been for you to burn incense to that great goddess, Lubricity, whom our critic says your people worship. You had Brantôme, you had Tallemant, you had Retif, and a dozen others, to furnish materials for scenes of voluptuousness and of blood that would have outdone even present naturalistes. From these alcoves of 'Les Dames Galantes,' from the torture chambers (M. Zola would not have spared us one starting sinew of brave La Mole on the rack) you turned, as Scott would have turned, without a thought of their profitable literary uses. You had other metal to work on: you gave us that superstitious and tragical true love of La Mole's, that devotion—how tender and how pure!—of Bussy for the Dame de Montsoreau. You gave us the valour of D'Artagnan, the strength of Porthos, the melancholy nobility of Athos: Honour, Chivalry, and Friendship."

"La Guerre des Femmes," a story of the Fronde, and therefore contemporary with "Vingt Ans Après," is easily recognised as another of the romances in which Maquet had his share. Probably it owes its position in the second class to its sad, its fatalistic atmosphere. But "La Guerre des Femmes" has many merits: it develops rapidly, neatly, to its end, and Cavagnac and Canolles, like La Mole and Coconnas, are worthy of a place not far below those famous friends-to-the-death, the Musketeers.

Dumas's admiration for the historical plays of Shakespeare was chiefly owing to the skill with which the dramatist fused history into fiction and fiction into history, so that only the most expert eye could tell where the one ended and the other began. The little novel, "Les Frères Corses," possesses this virtue. It is obviously, as its author asserts, the result of his travels in Corsica; but it is equally certain that the supernatural element is beyond the credible and actual. Although the story forms a strikingly dramatic episode it hardly possesses the merits to which its popularity in England would seem to entitle it. Dumas himself, though much given to staging his novels, never made a play of the "Frères Corses,"^[5] but two or three different versions were played simultaneously in London, and the craze gave rise to various burlesques on the theme.

In the following year, 1846, Dumas's publishers issued a remarkable advertisement respecting our author, which Mr Fitzgerald asserts (without advancing proof) to be written by the novelist himself. It offers the public Dumas's works "in a new shape" and at a uniformly low price. It proclaims the author as still young and in "wonderfully good health"; and declares that his unceasing flow of invention and esprit will in all probability add forty volunes a year to his already large library.

There seemed, indeed, every prospect that this extraordinary pledge would be fulfilled. The next few years brought their quota of lengthy and more or less famous romances, and "Le Chevalier de Maison Rouge" dates from 1846.

This epilogue to the series of novels dealing with the French Revolution was in reality the first to appear. The raison d'être of the book, which is full of revolutionary spirit, is easily explained in this instance, for France was beginning to feel the throes of that political upheaval, which was destined two years later to result in the Second Republic.

M. Blaze de Bury tells an anecdote respecting this story, which explains the rapidity with which our author worked:

"Dumas asserted that the actual writing of a book or a play was nothing to him—the conception, form, arrangement, and development of the theme, comprised all the difficulties. These once settled, the hand could go forward 'by itself.' One day some one avowed the very opposite. The romancist, who was preparing 'Maison Rouge' at this time, wagered with his opponent that he would write the first book in seventy-two hours, inclusive of time for sleep and meals. A bet of a hundred louis was made and recorded: to complete the volume^[6] seventy-five great sheets were to contain forty-five lines of fifty letters each. In sixty-six hours Dumas filled them in his beautiful handwriting, without an erasure, thus gaining six hours on the specified time."

The incidents of the story, strange as they seem, were amply justified by history. Once again Dumas was "speaking by the book." M. Parigot suggests that "unbelievers" should compare the romance with M. Lenôtre's erudite work on the original hero; "Vrai Chevalier de Maison Rouge—A. D. J. Gonze de Rougeville, 1761-1814." "If I am not mistaken," he adds, "you will admire the discretion of our author, no less than his modesty." M. de Bury, in an appreciation of this romance, especially praises its creator for respecting and doing justice to the characters of Marie Antoinette and Madame Elizabeth, and adds that in spite of his republican sentiments, which he never loses an opportunity of expressing, Dumas gives those personages exactly their true sympathetic and historical value.

Even more famous than the "Chevalier de Maison Rouge" is the second Valois romance, which appeared the same year—"La Dame de Monsoreau," commonly known in England as "Chicot the Jester." Dumas had already made acquaintance with Bussy D'Amboise, the mignon of the Duc d'Alençon in the old chroniclers, introduced him into "Henri Trois," and utilised the story of his assassination, as given in Anquetil, for the dénoûment of his tragedy. But in history the lady was on the side of the husband; our storyweaver turned her affections in the other direction, and the romance became at once sympathetic and moving. (A writer has taken the trouble to compile a book on the "historical inaccuracies" of this romance. Dumas knew quite well when it was wise to reconvey the spirit of the age, and ignore the form.) Critics have agreed that there are few finer historical portraits in fiction than that of Henri III., the effeminate, superstitious king, devoted to luxury and the most trivial pleasures. The sardonic Chicot, the Rabelaisian monk Gorenflot, the chivalrous and devoted Bussy, are three splendid additions to Dumas's picture-gallery. For the truth or untruth of detail in these stories it is probably only fair to praise or blame Maquet. We learn that a descendant of St Luc (one of the minor characters of the book) took umbrage at the description of that courtier, and brought an action, to prove that his ancestor was not one of Henri's mignons. The trial showed the collaborators to be right, even in this trifling respect!

The closing scene of the book—the death of Bussy—draws this warm tribute from Mr Lang:

"I know four good fights of one against a multitude. These are the Death of Gretir the Strong, the Death of Gunnar of Lithend, the Death of Hereward the Wake, and the Death of Bussy D'Amboise."

"Le Bâtard de Mauléon," or "The Half-Brothers," was written, as we know by a passage in the "Histoire de mes Bêtes," in the château of Monte Cristo, by Dumas and Maquet; and the dog Mouton, a new recruit for the menagerie of the "palace," was woven into the story by his master. The scene on this occasion is laid in Spain, in the days of Du Guesclin and the Black Prince; and those interested in comparing the methods of romancists should read Dr Doyle's "White Company," which is of the same period, and into which many of the same characters are introduced. Froissart's chronicles formed the base for Dumas's story, and even Agénor de Mauléon himself is to be found in the pages of the old chronicler. In spite of some "purple passages," however—Mr Saintsbury instances Du Guesclin's negotiations with the Free Companies, and the battle of Najara—this story of the days of Don Pedro the Cruel has not the best qualities of its author, for which, perhaps, we may blame the uncongenial time and place. Quérard states that the end is wholly Maquet's.

There remains for 1846 "Les Deux Diane," which, if a certain letter from Dumas be not a forgery, was entirely the work of M. Paul Meurice. It is probable, however, that the plot is "the master's." The style is certainly not Dumas's, being entirely sentimental, and the romance is said to have been suggested by "Une Fille Naturelle," by one Félix Davin.

Our readers will remember that in the autumn of this year Dumas departed hurriedly for Madrid, accompanied, it is true, by Maquet, but bent upon pleasure-seeking and the pursuit of material for further "Impressions de Voyage." "Joseph Balsamo" ("The Memoirs of a Physician"), which was appearing serially, suddenly suspended publication, leaving young Gilbert, the hero, lying senseless in the road whilst his thoughtless creator "did" Spain and Algeria. The unfortunate youth remained in this inconvenient position until Dumas restored him to life on his return. This suspension of consciousness suggests the magnetic trances of which our author so frequently makes use in this story. He has told us (in "Bric-à-Brac") that he experimented in mesmerism at the time that he was preparing to write "Balsamo," and that he succeeded in "putting to sleep" one of his servants, who then became clairvoyant. However much truth there may be in this, there is no doubt that "magnetic influence," or telepathy, is very ingeniously employed to give the charlatan Balsamo (or Cagliostro) his supposed supernatural powers.

For the rest the romance, if somewhat formless, is full of a number of varied intrigues and interests. We meet the king's mistress, Madame Dubarry, and learn how, in spite of all opposition, she managed to get presented at Court. We enjoy once more the witty society of Dumas's favourite libertine, the Duc de Richelieu, whom we met, in earlier years, in "Mademoiselle de Bellisle," and view Louis Quinze himself en famille. The first faint rumblings of the coming thunder of the Revolution are heard; Marat appears on the scene; Rousseau is disappearing from it. Then there is the weird story of Balsamo's love for Lorenza, and that of Gilbert for Andrée de Tavernay—all are interwoven in this gigantic romance, which is itself only a beginning. Either because Dumas wearied of his interminable subject, or left it to Maquet to finish—possibly the lawsuit with the seven journals distracted the author's attention—the closing chapters are dull; but, on the whole, "Balsamo" contains some of his best work.

In 1847 came "Les Quarante-Cinq," the sequel to "La Dame de Monsoreau." It tells chiefly of that lady's revenge upon the treacherous D'Alençon (now D'Anjou), who has caused the death of her beloved Bussy. The part of the book in which Chicot goes on an embassy to Henri Quatre is excellent, but the last volume is unsatisfactory. This year, be it remembered, was a stormy one in public affairs, and disastrous to Dumas personally. He dictated the last chapters to his son, being probably ill in bed.

Notwithstanding this blemish, the "Quarante-Cinq" was a favourite with one of our author's firmest admirers—George Sand. M. Victor Borie has told us that he chanced to visit the famous novelist just before her death, and found the romance lying on her table. He expressed his wonder that she was reading it for the first time.

"For the first time," she exclaimed, "why, this is the fifth or sixth time I have read 'Les Quarante-Cinq,' and the others. When I am ill, anxious, melancholy, tired, discouraged, nothing helps me against moral or physical troubles like a book of Dumas's."

During the next two years—troublous ones for our novelist—the rate of production slackened. With the very notable exception of "Bragelonne," and some historical studies, the chief work of importance in 1849 was "Le Collier de la Reine" ("The Queen's Necklace"), a continuation of the history-in-romance of the Louis XVI. period. So much has been written by Carlyle, by Funck-Brentano and others, about this famous episode in the career of Marie Antoinette, that there is no need to describe it here. Dumas (still with the valuable assistance of Maquet) tells the story of that extraordinary scandal in his own fashion, carrying forward, as he does so, the other "motifs' mentioned already. The comparative non-success of this book is probably due to the fact that history left so little to the imagination. "Les Mille-et-un Fantômes," said by some to have been written with Paul Bocage, by others with "Bibliophile Jacob," appeared this year. It is in great part a gruesome debate as to whether a severed head can speak, or retains knowledge of itself after parting from the body, and dwells on other similar matters,—being, in short, a book calculated to "make your flesh creep."

Of a very different nature was "La Tulipe Noire," which appeared in 1850. This book—"as modest as a story by Miss Edgeworth," Thackeray declared enthusiastically—has recently been issued as Dumas's contribution to the series of translations known as a "Century of French Romance." The subject—or at least the historical part of it—is said to have been suggested to Dumas by the King of Holland. (The novelist visited Amsterdam in 1849 to be present at the wedding of the Prince of Orange, who had recently ascended the throne, and with whom he had a corresponding acquaintance.) The tale, as Flotow used to relate it, is as follows.

When the author of "Monte Cristo" was first presented to the king at Amsterdam, the royal host said:

"M. Dumas, you have written many brilliant stories dealing with distinguished Frenchmen; have you not found any Dutchmen worthy of your consideration?"

"Your Majesty, I have not had time to make the necessary researches."

"Oh! you need not trouble about that," replied the king, whose own life and courtship had tinges of romance, "I will tell you a story." And so the king related the incidents of 1672 and 1673, of the murder of the De Witts, and the imprisonment of Cornelius Van Baerle—all upon wicked and shamefully wrong charges. At the end of the description, Dumas exclaimed,

"What a fine subject for a novel!"

"Write it," said the king, and Dumas promptly answered

"I will."

The dramatised version of the story produced at the Haymarket, and the consequent popularity of the book itself will have made the plot generally familiar. This is another case in which English managers, who have so generally disdained Dumas's dramatic work, have adapted for the stage a book which even the skilled instinct of its author failed to find suitable for dramatic use.

"Les Mariages de Père Olifus," rather loosely described as "a sequel to the 'Mille-et-un Fantômes,'" is said to have been written with Paul Bocage, and was one of the results of the trip to Amsterdam mentioned above. It is an extraordinary work, and decidedly deserves much more attention than it has received at the hands of critics. From a letter with which Mr W. M. Rossetti has kindly favoured us, it appears that the story was specially liked by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, a great admirer of our author.

"If a question were raised as to particular novels (by Dumas) specially admired by my brother," he writes, "I could mention 'Monte Cristo,' 'Trois Mousquetaires,' 'Bragelonne,' 'Père Olifus,' 'Ingénue,' 'Les Quarante-Cinq,' I think also 'La Tulipe Noire'. He was also vastly amused with Dumas's 'Mémoires.'"

The tale, which purports to have been confided to Dumas by Olifus himself, is too strange not to have had some such origin. As we read it, it is told with as much reticence as the exigencies of the story and the promptings of humour allow; but the adventures of the seaman with his "sea-wife" too closely resemble the style of the narratives of "The Arabian Nights" or "Boccaccio," to recommend themselves to a prudish translator.

For his next story Dumas went to German history, and chose the time when the patriotic sccret society of the "Tugendbund" was conspiring to assassinate Napoleon and to throw off the French yoke. Probably with the help of a 'prentice who "knew his Germany," Dumas wrote "Le Trou de l'Enfer," a powerful, poignant story, of how a young Antony living, à la Schiller's "Robber," a life sufficient unto himself, strove successfully to possess a young goatherdess, and the wife of his best friend, for whom he had conceived a self-willed passion. "Dieu dispose," which Mr Swinburne considers to possess great merit, was written in Brussels in 1852. It tells of the retribution which gradually overtakes the seducer, and the reader follows the sure though tortuous course of Nemesis with the interest which Dumas himself rarely fails to arouse and reward. The Revolution of 1830, and the secret "freemasonry" agitations connected therewith, are touched upon; but the dramatic effect of the story is borrowed from the author's own play of "Comte Hermann," produced three years before. We have indicated the sources of the story's strength; its weakness lies in a husband's non-recognition of his wife, after years of separation.

"La Femme au Collier de Velours," which also dates from 1851, contains by way of introduction an interesting account of Dumas's literary patron, Charles Nodier, and the society at the Arsenal. The tale itself, which purports to have been told to the narrator by the dying Nodier, and of which Hoffmann, the author of "Contes Fantastiques," is the hero, is as weird as any story by the German Poe. Incidentally it introduces the guillotining of Madame Dubarry the mistress of Louis XV., and presents a realistic picture of life in Paris in '93.

This story is associated by Calmann-Lévy with another essay into the supernatural—"Le Testament de M. Chauvelin." That noble, who was historically one of Louis XV.'s roués, makes a will for the protection of his wife and children, which he neglects to sign. He dies suddenly, but is seen to return to his chateau, and the will is found, duly completed. Powerful as the story is, its chief value lies in the introduction, which gives us a glimpse of the writer's youth, and in the full and vivid description of the last days of Louis Quinze.

One of the books of Dumas which is destined to become more appreciated in the future than it has been in the past, is "Olympe de Clèves," which dates from 1852. It was written before he retired to Brussels, and Maquet is credited with a share in the work. We, for our part, believe that the extent of that writer's connection with this story begins—if it begins at all—and ends with the discovery of Lemazurier's biographies of the French actors, from which the career of Bannière is taken, and with the preparation of the historical material repecting the debauching of the young king, Louis Quinze. The charm of the story lies for once in the characters of the lovable hero and heroine, and the unhistorical parts of the book, describing the life of a strolling company of French actors, in the early eighteenth century. We should like to echo the sentiments of Mr W. E. Henley, who proclaims "Olympe de Clèves" a masterpiece.

Probably most readers of "Ange Pitou" (also known as "Taking the Bastille"), published in 1853, will have noticed that the story ends abruptly—that, in fact, it cannot be said to end at all. An anecdote told by M. Parigot offers an explanation of this. One day, it appears, Maquet, reader and explorer of the obscure, burst in upon Dumas with an idea for a new romance, to be founded on a real historical character, Ange Pitou, ballad-monger, Royalist, and the rest. (M. Maurice Engerrand has recently given us a brochure on this historical personage similar to the one written by M. Lenôtre on Rougeville, or "Maison Rouge.") The master bade his assistant prepare the usual material, that is to say, make researches, and reconstitute the man in his moral and historical atmosphere. On the strength of this project the romancer entered into a contract with publishers to write and supply the story. Luckily or unluckily, Dumas and Maquet quarrelled; the book had to be written by a certain date; the romancer, pressed for time, ignored research, and created his hero from his own imagination, locating him at Villers-Cotterets, giving him his own personal boyhood, and sending him to Paris to take part in the capture of the Bastille. Then, when the novel had reached the requisite length, he abandoned the work.

Dumas's own explanation, given in an introduction to "La Comtesse de Charny," is that just at that time the Chamber imposed a tax on every copy of those journals which contained a feuilleton, and that De Girardin, editor of the paper in which "Ange Pitou" appeared, wrote to Dumas bidding him cut the story short. Presumably the timbre was taken off soon after. Those readers who care to compare the early chapters of "Ange Pitou" with the first volumes of the "Mémoires" will find that the hero and his author possess many interesting points of resemblance and dissimilarity.

Hre, so far as we can trace, ended the connection between Dumas and his best collaborator. It has been said that without Maquet our author was helpless. It is true that he was at his best with that admirable 'prentice; but it is none the less true that both before and after him, Dumas wrote books which none but he could have produced, whilst Maquet never achieved anything like the same degree of merit or success under his own name.

During his exile in Brussels (1851-3) Dumas, as he tells us in the preface to "Père Gigogne," was far from idle. He instances "Conscience l'Innocent" (or "L'Enfant"), "La Comtesse de Charny," "Le Pasteur d'Ashbourn," "Isaac Laquedem," "Catherine Blum," and a portion of his "Mémoires" as the result of two years' work, and adds "it will one day be a source of trouble for my biographers to discover the 'anonymous collaborators' who have written those books!"

It was about this time that the novelist turned from the romance of cap-and-sword, and devoted himself chiefly to semi-pastoral stories, to tales of contemporary, and often humble, life. In the opening passages of "Conscience" he dwells on this.

"As one gets on in life," he writes, "and, losing sight of the cradle, draws nigh to the tomb, it seems as if the invisible ties which bind one to one's birthplace grow stronger and more irresistible.... A man's life is divided into two distinct parts: the first thirty-five years are for hope; the second thirty-five, for memory.... That is why, instead of always breaking fresh ground in literary work, consulting solely the caprices of my fancy, the resources of my imagination, ever seeking new characters and conceiving new, unheard-of situations, I return at times, at least in thought, to that beaten track, my childhood, retracing those days to their earliest hours, looking back along the path I have trodden, back until I see my little feet as they kept pace with my dearly loved mother's—which have traversed life side by side with mine from the day when my eyes first opened, to the day when hers closed for ever."

We have seen how Dumas made use, in "Ange Pitou," of his recollections of childhood. The preparation of the "Mémoires" probably further stimulated him to utilise his recollections of life at Villers—Cotterets, as a "milieu" for these semi-pastoral stories. Therefore, when he read a little story by Hendrik Conscience, the Flemish novelist, called "Le Conscrit," in which a young peasant is "drawn" for the war, is blinded in action, is brought home by his sweetheart, and is finally restored to sight, Dumas saw in this novelette (as he tells us in "Bric-à-brac") the outline of a story after his own heart. He wrote to Conscience, asking permission to use this story as a basis, and this the flattered author readily granted. In order to acknowledge his indebtedness publicly Dumas gave the name of Conscience to the hero of his own story, which is a considerable elaboration on the original. Our author changed the locale to Villers-Cotterets, introduced his boyish recollections of Napoleon's flying visits to that village, indulged in a little contemporary history, made the love of the peasant for the land a powerful factor in the story, created Bastien, one of the leading characters, and gave to the new "Conscrit" many times the length and strength of the original.

"Catherine Blum," published in 1854, had a similar origin. It is said to have been suggested by Iffland's "Gardes Forestiers," but its charm lies in the description of the people and atmosphere of Villers-Cotterets, and in the simple art with which it is told. There is a pleasant portrait of Abbé Grégoire, one of the boy Alexandre's preceptors. Mr Swinburne tells us that amongst Dumas's minor works he admires chiefly this pair of pastoral pictures, "Conscience" and "Catherine Blum," and we believe that if they were known to the Englishreading public his judgment would be generally confirmed.

When he wrote "Conscience" Dumas was waiting for a copy of Michelet's "French Revolution," in order to begin upon "La Comtesse de Charny" (1853-5). Professor G. C. Carpenter, a thoughtful critic of Dumas's genius and writings, gives an appreciation of this romance, touching also upon the secret sources of our author's success:

"He read memoirs avidly, for one thing; he had a marvellous heritage of race, that made other times akin to him; submerged in his under-consciousness, out of reach of will or reason, were wondrous stores of association; his own life was rich and varied; his sympathy was extraordinary. On all these sources he drew, in that madly rapid writing of his. And the result is that in his pages, as in an allegory, are all the elements essential to the nation's life. Among a score of others, three are not to be forgotten: the violated Comtesse de Charny, who was the wrecked aristocracy; the brutal peasant boy Gilbert, who represented the uprising of men long down-trodden; and their child, who was the new France."

"La Comtesse de Charny," which links "Ange Pitou" with the "Chevalier de Maison Rouge" and thus completes the Revolution cycle, is full of picturesque history, although it is perhaps too long; and the fictitious interest, apart from the character of the countess herself, who develops into one of Dumas's most life-like heroines, is not very engrossing. We regret to find that in some English translations the "epilogue" to "La Comtesse de Charny," in which Ange Pitou and Catherine are satisfactorily brought together, is omitted.

In this cycle of revolutionary romance, which begins with the "Mémoires du Médecin," and ends with "Le Chevalier de Maison Rouge," there are several unsatisfactory gaps. The reader will find a consecutive and vivid panorama of the events of 1792, 1793, and 1794, from the battles of Valmy and Jemappes to the fall of Robespierre, in "Le Docteur Mysterieux" and "La Fille du Marquis." These volumes bear evident traces of Dumas's hand, touching as they do upon the restoration of reason to the imbecile, the use of "magnetic power," and the sense of life after death, in the case of a guillotined head (see "Le Mille-et-une Fantômes"). There is an interesting thread of fiction, and a translation of scenes from "Romeo and Juliet" may attract the curious. Chincholle tells us that when he visited the author in 1869, he was completing the dictation of these volumes, which were not published in book-form until after his death.

"Ever since 1832," Dumas tells us in one of his frequent bursts of confidence, "I have had in my mind the outline of a 'Juif errant,' to which I shall devote myself at the first leisure moment I get, and which will be one of my best books. Indeed, I have only one fear—that I may die without having written it."

In this case, "l'auteur propose, le censeur dispose." Parigot is facetious, but misleading, when he writes: "Dumas, in commencing 'Isaac Laquedem,' thought to write the romance of the world's history. He soon stopped, as there did not seem sufficient material."

The story was interdicted by the censor of the Second Empire, probably as profane. It promised, says Henley, to fulfil its author's pledge, and be one of his best romances. M. de Bury devotes considerable space to it in his study of Dumas. It was, in truth, a gigantic task to undertake: "Isaac Laquedem" was telling us the story of the early days of the world and of the Bible with all sincerity and reverence, and in Dumas's most vivid and enthralling manner. The trial of Jesus; His encounter with the Jew and the terrible curse He laid upon him—all was as powerful as it was audacious. But the idea of the Passion told en feuilleton was too much for the authorities, and all that we possess of "Isaac Laquedem" is a fragment—a few scattered columns of one of the most daring literary edifices ever mortal man designed to erect. The MS.—all in Dumas's own handwriting—was presented by his son to the town of Villers-Cotterets.

The last of the "romances of exile," the "Pasteur d'Ashbourn," is said to have been drawn from an English source. On the other hand, Parran, who made considerable researches into the dates and origins of Dumas's works, believed both in its genuineness and its merit. "It reveals a new side to his talent," he declares. To this we are regretfully unable to subscribe. Apart from the story of "la Dame Grise" which it contains, and which may have been suggested by Marie Dorval's passionate and unconquerable grief for her dead child, the novel would seem to have originally been a German attempt to copy Goldsmith or Richardson. Probably something in this story attracted Dumas and caused him to translate and transform it. The novel is obviously incomplete as it stands, but we can find no trace of a sequel, which perhaps its lack of success did not encourage the author to supply. "La Boule de Neige" (or "Moullah-Nour") is also a translation or adaptation of a story by Marlinsky, but the humour with which it is told makes it our author's own, if not by right of ownership, then by right of "conquest."

The year 1854 saw Dumas back in Paris and installed in the editorial chair of the Mousquetaire. "Saltéador" (or "The Brigand"), which appeared in the great man's journal, was announced in the master's introductory note as by another hand; but, according to a member of the family, it is certainly the work of our author—probably in collaboration. "La Princesse de Monaco" was simply recueilli by Dumas; "Une Vie d'Artiste" consists of the story of the early struggles of Mélingue, the witty actor and original stage D'Artagnan, most interestingly retold by his friend and patron.

In this year began "Les Mohicans de Paris," still another new departure for the inexhaustible romancer. Frequently with Dumas a new assistant meant a new field of enterprise; on this occasion the 'prentice was, we believe, Paul Bocage, and the story was at once the pioneer of the detective-story, and a reminiscence of the second part of "Monte Cristo," and "The Mysteries of Paris." Our author himself appeared in it, "athlete and poet," in the opening chapters, which take place in a night restaurant. The leading character, the detective, was a forerunner of Sherlock Holmes; but in this particular type of story Dumas was not at his best, and the same remark applies to the better constructed but too lengthy sequel, "Salvator," which commenced to appear the following year.

"Ingenue,"^[7] also of this year's date, is of much better quality, and we are surprised that the English translations of it have been allowed to go out of print. We find ourselves once more in the midst of the Revolution, the leading character of the story being Marat, to whom a love romance of his youth brings a strange sequel. The heroine is the daughter of Rétif de la Bretonne, a literary character of the time; but his descendants resented the freedom with which their ancestors were treated, and warned the public not to accept the story as true. Dumas's sincere apology, and declaration that he was unaware of the existence of any survivors of the family were accepted.

A sequel to "Les Deux Diane" also belongs to 1855—"Le Page du Duc de Savoie," and is obviously from the same pens—Meurice, instructed by his master.

We now come to another of our author's very best romances—"Les Compagnons de Jehu." This story, which appeared in 1857, was suggested (as we learn from the preface) by a page in Nodier's "Souvenirs de la Révolution." Dumas, in accordance with his practice, visited Bourg-en-Bresse to study the locality, and gives an instructive and amusing account of his visit, in the introduction to the book. At the time when he set off on the track of the young Royalist highwaymen he was preparing to write a serial to be called "René d'Argonne," and was studying Varennes for that purpose, along with Paul Bocage, so that the "neat draft" of the "Compagnons" which About saw on Dumas's table was probably by that young 'prentice. In our judgment this story of the days of the Directoire is one of the most dramatic and skilfully constructed of all Dumas's romances, and excels most of its more famous rivals in unity and form. Dumas fils took an interest in the story, and is said to have suggested to his father the characters of Roland de Montrevel, the young Republican, and Sir John Tanlay, the English aristocrat.

Once more, Villers-Cotterets! In "Le Meneur de Loups," which dates from this year, the narrator is Mocquet, the friend of the boy Alexandre, keeper to General Dumas, and hero of a wonderful trip to the moon. Dumas recalls how in his childhood Mocquet told him the tale of Thibaut, the man who became a wolf; and the weird adventures of the loup-garou are told engrossingly enough, not to say enthrallingly. But their chronicler-in-after-years modestly disclaims the credit. He speaks of the story as his, it is true, adding very sensibly, "when one has sat on an egg for thirty-two years one finishes by thinking one has laid it one's-self!"

"Le Capitaine Richard," known to the last generation of English readers as "The Twin Captains," is a good story spoilt by history. For once Dumas did not give sufficient attention to the fusing process, and story and history could almost be disentangled without damage to either. The plot, as we learn in the epilogue, was given to Dumas by Schlegel, the great critic, whom the former met when he was "doing the Rhine" in 1838. The period of the story is that of the "Trou de l'Enfer"; Napoleon is in Germany; and the account of the attempted assassination of the Emperor by Staps, and of the Moscow campaign, are both of the author's best. The tale finishes with such a dramatic situation that one is tempted to regret the evident haste with which "Le Capitaine Richard" was written, a haste which compressed matter for a full-sized drama into the last few pages of a novel.

We pass by "L'Horoscope," a fragment of the history of the short-lived François II., husband of Mary Queen of Scots, a piece of work of which the little we possess makes us ask vainly for more; "Black," a pretty story, based on the idea of the transmigration of souls into the bodies of animals; and "Ammalat Beg" (or "Sultanetta"), rewritten by Dumas from a translation of a story in Russian by Marlinsky.^[8] This was published in 1859, being, of course, the result of Dumas's visit to the Caucasus just previously. We may also briefly dismiss "Le Chasseur de Sauvagine," a charming story, the whole credit of which Dumas frankly gives entirely to his friend and collaborator, the Comte de Cherville. In spite of this avowal the authorship has been claimed by experts for Dumas, and in any case the story is well worth reading. It follows the fortunes of a Normandy wildfowl-hunter, and tells of his love, his sin, and his repentance. The story contains qualities not generally acknowledged to be possessed by our author, being in marked contrast with his better-known style. "Le Fils du Forçat" (or "Monsieur Coumbes"), published the following year, has also been ascribed to Dumas, and suggests the same collaborator as the previous work. Although the scene is laid in Marseilles, the tale resembles the "Chasseur" in manner. It is really a study of a "little" nature—that of Monsieur Coumbes, to wit, and is simply yet powerfully told. A splendid edition of "Le Fils du Forçat" was published in France not long ago.

"Les Louves de Machecoul," a product of 1859, deserves fuller notice. This tale gives the reader a graphic account of the rising in La Vendée in 1832, caused by the Duchesse de Berri—a description all the more trustworthy because, as we know, the author had not only foreseen the occurrence, but had visited the Royalist West a year or two before the outbreak. Mr Saintsbury remarks that the episode of Ewan of Brigglands in "Rob Roy" is "calmly translated verbatim" into this romance. This is somewhat of an exaggeration; the incident is undoubtedly "conveyed," it is true, but is retold in more graphic style. The character of Jean Oullier alone should give this book life: he is a fine study of the Breton peasant—cunning, dogged, devoted, pious—one of the best portraits from the hands of the master.

"La Maison de Glace," known to us in the sixties as "The Russian Gipsy," published in 1859, was another outcome of the visit to Russia two years before. It is a romance of the court of the Empress Anna, in the early half of the eighteenth century, full of intrigue and passion. We incline to believe, with Maurel, that the story is a translation.

Another excursion into unfamiliar regions was "L'Ile de Feu," known to a past generation in England as "Doctor Basilius." This was probably written with an assistant who knew Java well, for it is a weird story of that island, the interest afforded by the people and customs of that semi-barbarous spot being heightened by a suggestion of the supernatural. "Truly one of the gems of the collection," writes a deep student of Dumas, "the concluding volume being perhaps among his finest work."

"Le Père la Ruine," which dates from this period, resembles "Le Chasseur de Sauvagine," "Le Fils du Forçat," and "Parisiens et Provinciaux," so much as to suggest Dumas in collaboration with de Cherville once more. It is a pretty but sad story, in which, as in "Conscience," the love of the French peasant for the soil is powerfully shown.

A translation of Trelawney's "Adventures of a Younger Son," made under Dumas's orders, and known as "Un Cadet de Famille," and one of Gordon-Cumming's "Adventures of a Lion Hunter," known as "La Vie au Desert," were also issued in 1860, when Dumas set out on that tour which ended in the camp of Garibaldi. For some time the romancer was busy following the fortunes of the "red-shirts," editing a paper at Naples, writing the "Mémoires de Garibaldi," his own diary as amateur war correspondent, and the rest; and it was not until 1863 that he published another romance of any importance—"Madame de Chamblay." According to the circumstantial account given in the introduction, the manuscript of this story was sent to Dumas by a friend, whom he had met at Compiègne in 1836, when on a visit to the young Duc D'Orleans. The novel tells of a young wife, an unworthy husband, a lover, a potion à la Juliet, by which the lady escapes from bondage, and promises a happy life for lover and mistress in a distant land. In spite of this testimony, however, Mr Saintsbury believes Octave Feuillet to be the author of "Madame de Chamblay." Be that as it may, we have seen that Dumas does not claim the authorship for himself.

"Une Nuit à Florence," published in 1861, is a story based on the life-history of the Medicis—a favourite topic with Dumas. The night in question is the 2nd or 3rd January 1537,^[9] and concerns the adventure of the Duke Alexander de Medici, who is finally killed by his cousin Lorenzino, the "Brutus" of his day. It would be interesting to compare this story with de Musset's play, "Lorenzaccio," which it closely resembles.

About this time (1862) appeared "Une Aventure d'Amour," which is more an autobiographical sketch and a record of the author's visit to Austria in 1856, than fiction. Incidentally it shows Dumas as the chivalrous friend of a beautiful woman in a risky and equivocal position. "Herminie" or "Une Amazone," which is bound with the same volume, is of earlier date—about 1845. It is a short story of a bal masqué intrigue, a sort of belated "Souvenir d'Antony," and is considered a model short story in its way.

In the following year—1864—came Dumas's last long romance (if we except "Le Docteur Mysterieux," and its sequel), "La San Felice."

"La San Felice" is a word-panorama of the strange series of events which occurred in Naples in 1798 and 1799, when the Bourbon Ferdinand was overthrown by the French, in the former year, and was restored to the throne by Cardinal Ruffo in the next. We know, by passages in "Le Corricolo," that the events of this time had already aroused Dumas's interest. Pifteau, who was the author's secretary at the time the romance was written (and who vouches for its authenticity), tells us that Dumas whilst at Naples wrote a history of Ferdinand's overthrow and return known as the "Histoire des Bourbons," or "I Borboni Napoli," for the paper which he was then editing, and found the series of events far too exciting and extraordinary to neglect. Accordingly "La San Felice" was written. The characters are historical throughout, and the hapless Luisa San Felice, Ferdinand, "King of the Lazzarone," Nelson, Lady Hamilton, Fra Diavolo, Admiral Caracciolo^[10] and a score more, appear "in their habits as they lived." This story shows strikingly the change which has come over the author during the past twenty years. The "pace," is now comparatively slow; one is no longer swept off one's feet, as with the "Mousquetaires." The author unfolds his tale deliberately, but with much of his old charm, stepping carefully from document to document, and weaving half a score of threads together with a patience and dignity of style akin to Scott. "La San Felice" was followed by "Emma Lyonna," in which is told the story of Lady Hamilton's career, being a picturesque version, it is said, of that fascinating woman's "Memoirs." A supplementary sequel, "Les Souvenirs d'une Favorite," appeared in 1865. Lady Hamilton played a prominent part in the events described in "La San Felice," and Dumas was evidently led on by his interest in that picturesque personality to make her the central figure in succeeding volumes.

Readers who are inclined to disparage Dumas's later work, particularly the products of the "sixties," are advised to try "Parisiens et Provinciaux," issued this year, written with the Comte de Cherville. The scene shifts from Paris to the neighbourhood of the author's beloved Villers-Cotterets, and is in fact a humorous comparison of the city cockney (typified in the delightful person of M. Peluche) and the "rustic" Madeleine. The story might have taken the title of the author's first little play "La Chasse et l'Amour," for the humours of the chase and a slight but pretty love-story are the chief attractions of this book, which is one of the best of that class of novels written by Dumas and yet so neglected by his admirers,—the slight, humorous story of modern humble life.

It is not generally known that in the closing years of his life Dumas tried his hand once more at a "romance of cape-and-sword." The reader will search the comprehensive list of MM. Calmann-Lévy in vain for any record of it. In the early part of 1866—so Ferry asserts—the editor of Les Nouvelles appealed to Dumas for an historical romance in his famous style, and Dumas agreed to think the matter over. He found an excellent subject in the career of "Le Comte de Moret," that illegitimate son of Henri Quatre who disappeared so mysteriously during the battle of Castelnaudary, and whose body was never found. He had already treated this subject in that charming story, "La Colombe." The first number of the feuilleton, Ferry tells us, promised an engrossing story; but unhappily other preoccupations, other work, took Dumas's attention from the romance, which flagged. He lost the thread of the narrative, which became merely a chronique, full of long extracts from the memoirs of Pontis, Delaporte, and from other historical documents of the seventeenth century. It suddenly ceased to appear, and was never heard of more. But although the romance is not now accessible, a wretched American translation published at the time, and happily preserved, shows that the story has been underrated by M. Ferry. Some of it, indeed, is excellent, notably the chapter in which Corneille is introduced to the précieuses ridicules of the day; and Richelieu's intrigues, and the incident of the "day of dupes," are Dumas as we know him best. The period of "Le Comte de Moret" just precedes that of the "Mousquetaires."

Two of the last volumes of fiction from the pen of the fast-ageing writer were of the revolutionary period.^[11] "Les Blancs et les Bleus" (1867) like the "Compagnons," was suggested by Nodier's "Souvenirs de la Révolution," and Dumas in acknowledgment introduces his old friend into the story. It is interesting chiefly for the dramatic episode of Euloge Schneider the "red," who bargained for the hand of a Royalist maiden, as the price of her father's life. "Les Blancs et les Bleus," the scene of which is laid in Strasbourg in December 1793, was dedicated, with a gleam of the author's old wit, to the memory of Nodier, his illustrious friend and "collaborator." "I have said 'collaborator,'" he adds, "because people would give themselves a lot of trouble in finding another one, and their time would be wasted." The veteran still held his grip of his facts, and of his reader; but the sequel, "Le Huitième Croisade," which now forms the latter part of "Les Blancs et les Bleus," is chiefly a spirited chronique of the siege of Acre. And on that last effort, made in 1869, the year before Dumas's death, the curtain falls.

*****

At occasional intervals Dumas issued books of tales for children, one of which ("Le Capitaine Pamphile") we have already mentioned. Of the others, "La Bouillie de la Comtesse Berthe" is the most notable: it is a pretty story, in which the "Castle of Otranto" seems turned into a haunt for dwarfs and a delight for little readers. "Le Père Gigogne" opens with a story ("La Lièvre de mon grandpère") told to Dumas by de Cherville and recounted by him; but the rest of the two volumes contains fairy-tales, chiefly translations from Hans Christian Andersen and the German.

In reply to an enquiry from us Mr Lang writes to say that although he has not these stories by him, he thinks it unlikely that any are original. In spite of this weighty opinion we are reluctant to part with two or three tales, notably "La Jeunesse de Pierrot." This verdict also disposes of the tales "L'Homme aux Contes": "L'Histoire d'un casse-noisette," is, we know, an adaptation of Hoffmann's story of the same name.

Next to the plays, with which we have not dealt for reasons already given, and to the romances, come the travels—if not in importance, at least in originality. These volumes abound in gaiety, in brief sketches of dialogue, of history, of archaeology, of personal adventure—in short, they make a mélange, a savoury stew, with Dumas for cook! Parigot suggests that they should be called "Impressions produites par Dumas en Voyage," and declares "he is charming thus"; though with a touch of satire he adds, "one scarcely exaggerates when one says that the beauty of a country was to Dumas in proportion to the native admiration for his books." Of the first trip, "En Suisse" (1833), we have already given some account; then followed those on "La Midi de la France" and "Les Bords du Rhin" (1841), the former containing "La Chasse au Chastre" and other excellent reading; the latter, probably written with the help of Gerard de Nerval, telling, amongst other matter, of Waterloo and Marceau, of Rubens, and the devil-tempted architect of Cologne cathedral. Italy and the Mediterranean yielded the finest crop of "impressions," and there appeared in rapid succession "Une Année à Florence" (in 1841), and "Le Capitaine Arèna,"^[12] followed by "Le Corricolo" and "Le Speronare" in the next two years. "It must be said," admits Fitzgerald, "that the 'Corricolo,' an account of Naples, and the 'Speronare,' an account of Florence—both written by Dumas's friend Fiorentin under his direction—are as spirited and amusing books of travels as can be found." "La Villa Palmieri" is another volume of souvenirs of Florence.

In 1846, as will be remembered, Dumas set out for Madrid, to be present at the royal wedding, and the following year his description of Spain was issued, in "Paris à Cadix." "Spain had had little influence on his genius, it is true," says Parigot, "but what impressions he has left us! The very custom-house officers respected the baggage of the illustrious Frenchman; the author of 'Monte Cristo' was received with open arms; the French schoolmasters left their work to escort him hither and thither, and the great hidalgos paid him homage of courtesy." As a consequence, "Paris à Cadix " is full of verve and gaiety, bull-fights, dances, and the rest. "Le Véloce," issued two years later, is a description of Dumas's adventures in that state-vessel along the coast of North Africa. Of the travels "En Russie" (1865) and "Le Caucase" (1859) we have already spoken, and there only remains "Quinze jours à Sinai," written in 1839, a book remarkable for the fact that although Dumas was never in Palestine (he wrote the volume from the drawings of Dauzats and Baron Taylor's notes), it was declared by a Caliph to be the most faithful description of the Holy Land that he had ever read! Its author, we can believe, was delighted to find he had revealed the East to the Orientals.

We must not omit "Un Pays Inconnu," 1865 (an account of a visit to the land of the Aztecs in South America, and written from the notes of a certain Mr Middleton-Payne of New York), if only because of the incidental assertion, unmistakably made, that Dumas had visited the United States. It seems incredible that a man who travelled in the public eye, as it were, and whose journeys abroad were invariably turned to delightful account, could have gone to America unnoticed, and returned to leave his visit unrecorded. We know that Dumas wished to cross the Atlantic, but was restrained by a natural fear that his negro descent might lay him open to humiliating rebuffs. Probably, either Dumas "bluffed" his readers more hardily than usual, or else the introduction and notes were written by a 'prentice who had had the desired experience.

Not yet have we exhausted the catalogue of this universal writer! Here are historical studies by the teens of volumes—a presentment of old facts from a refreshingly new point of view. "Gaule et France," a concise sketch of French history, began the series, being written, it is said, to divert Dumas's mind from the cholera epidemic. Its author is accused of having borrowed passages from Thierry and others; and this is quite possible. On the other hand, the form, design, and aim of the work were Dumas's own, and the closing passages which so faithfully prophesy the Second Republic of fifteen years later—with a president, elected by the people for five years, and so forth—is quoted by Blaze de Bury in full, as proof of the romancer's political foresight. Then came "Napoléon" (1839); "Les Stuarts" (1840)—in which Dumas largely availed himself of Scott's "Abbot"; "Jehanne la Pucelle," (1842), which is half a romance; "Louis XIV. et son Siècle" (1844), his most important history; "Les Médicis" (1845); "La Régence" and "Louis XV. et sa Cour" (1849); "Louis XVI. et la Révolution" (1850); "'93" (1851); and a "Histoire de Louis-Philippe" (1852). A series of portraits in undress, "Grands Hommes en Robe-de-Chambre," was sketched, but only "César" (1857), "Henri IV." (1866), and "Louis XIII. et Richelieu" (1866) appeared. "Perhaps." added Dumas, "if these studies meet with success, we shall try to go backward as far as Alexander, and forward as far as Napoleon." Evidently the series did not appeal to Dumas's public.

Of one of these books its author tells an amusing anecdote. He was chatting with a somewhat supercilious savant, and incidentally mentioned that he had written a history of Cæsar.

"You have written a history of Cæsar?" repeated the incredulous listener with a smile.

"Yes."

"You?"

"Why not?'

"Pardon! But it has not been spoken of amongst scholars..."

"Oh, the scholars never speak of me."

"But a history of Cæsar should have caused some sensation?..."

"Mine caused none; people read it, that's all. It is the unreadable histories which make sensations; they are like the dinners which one doesn't digest; the dinners which one does digest, one has forgotten by next day."

Of these excursions into history "La Route de Varennes" (1860) and "La Terreur Prussienne' (1867) are two of the most valuable. The former was an attempt to write the story of Louis XVI.'s flight from Paris, of which historical accounts seemed confusing and contradictory. Dumas followed the course of the royal fugitive step by step, and Maxime Du Camp, who had himself studied the epoch carefully, testified to Dumas's accuracy and skill in the revision of the work of trusted historians. The "Terreur," in spite of its fiction-form, is practically a study of the Prusso-Austrian war, made on the spot, and full of shrewd observation and disquieting forebodings, soon to be justified. We should add here "Les Garibaldiens," Dumas's diary as amateur and volunteer war correspondent in 1860—a crisp, intelligent, restrained account of the Sicilian campaign.

Certainly not the least attractive of Dumas's writings are those in which he writes frankly of himself, his friends, his pets, and all that concerns his life and work. Of these, the first in order and importance is "Mes Mémoires," commenced in the forties, but written "in exile" in 1852-54, when leisure allowed the adventurous author to look back upon his early life. Dr Garnett speaks of them as "those wondrous 'Mémoires' which, as it is inconceivable that anyone but himself should have written them, alone suffice to establish his genius." The ten volumes cover the period of childhood, the early struggles and triumphs, the Revolution of 1830, and end abruptly at the time of the Swiss tour, 1832-33. But the "Mémoires" contain much more than Dumas's own history; he chronicles the political

[Translation.]

MY FATHER

My father, who has already been mentioned twice in the foregoing chapter, firstly, à propos of my certificate of birth, and again, in connection with his own marriage-contract, was General Thomas-Alexandre Dumas Davy de la Pailleterie.

He was, as we have shown in the documents cited by us son of the Marquis Antoine-Alexandre Davy de la Pailleterie, Colonel and Commissary-General of Artillery, who owned by inheritance the estate of La Pailleterie, raised to a Marquisate by Louis XIV. in 1707.

The arms of the family were: "d'azur à trois aigles d'or, aux vols éployés pour deux, et un avec un anneau d'argent placé en cœur, embrassés par les griffes dextres el senestres des angles du chef, et reposant sur la tête de l'aigle de pointe"

My father, when enlisting as a simple sollier, or rather, when renouncing both title and coat-of-arms, adopted instead the simple device "Deus dedit; Deus dabit"—a device which would have sounded ambitious, if God himself had not countersigned it.

I do not know what secret discontent or speculative plan determined my grandfather to quit France, about 1760, sell his estate and go off to take up his abode in San Domingo.

As a result of this resolution he bought an immense stretch of land situated on the western side of the island near Cape Rose and known as La Guinodée, or the Trou de Jérémie.

It was there that my father was born, of Louise-Cessette Dumas and the Marquis de la Pailleterie, on March 25th, 1762. The Marquis was then fifty-two years of age, having been born in 1710.

My father first saw the light in the most beautiful spot in that magnificent island, queen of the gulf in which it is situated, and of which the air is so pure that no venomous reptile can exist there.

events of the time, and sketches the characters of his famous contemporaries. It is evident that even the stout-hearted Alexandre himself shirked the task of bringing such a record up to date. Needless to add, these volumes are full of entertainment. The "Causeries" (1860) contain the sketches of travel in England, chatty fragments of autobiography, and two jeux d'esprit. The two volumes "Bric-à-brac," issued the following year, are similar in nature—"Propos d'art, de cuisine"—et de Dumas. "Les Morts vont vite" contains appreciations of the author's friends, de Musset, Chateaubriand, Béranger, and recollections of Marie Dorval, and others. The "Histoire de mes Bêtes" (1868) shows us Dumas as he was in the forties, en famille at Monte Cristo, amongst his dogs, monkeys, servants, and hangers-on. The "Souvenirs dramatiques" (1868) are written with an unusual degree of dignity for Dumas, and with a genial masterhood of stage-craft. The studies in criticism, the appreciation of Shakespeare, and the views expressed on the art of the playwright, and the management of the theatre, are all excellent in matter and manner.

Two volumes of "Mémoires" with which Dumas's name has been associated are not easy to classify. One is the "Mémoires d'Horace," published in 1860. It was supposed to be taken from an MS. in the library of the Vatican, and is, Glinel tells us, "une grande fantaisie sur Rome ancienne." It is not now accessible. The "Mémoires de Talma," on the other hand, were written by Dumas from memoranda left by the great tragedian, and have been recognised by Fournel, J. Cherbulicz, and others, to be practically a biography of the actor, written by his young admirer, in after years.

One other work also stands in a class by itself. This is "Crimes Célèbres," which appeared in 1839-40. The series was founded on the "Causes Célèbres" of Gayot de Pithaval; the excellent material afforded by that industrious person was divested of formality and tediousness, and rewritten with all the animation and dramatic effect for which the novelist was noted. The records were compared by Dumas with the best authorities on the subject, and the romances of real life written with scrupulous attention to accuracy. Arnould, Fournier, Fiorentino, and Mallefille were responsible for some chapters, which consisted of the following: "Les Borgia," "La Comtesse de St Géran," "Jeanne de Naples," "Nisida," "La Marquise de Brinvilliers," "Les Cenci," La Marquise de Ganges," "Karl Ludwig Sand" (the murderer of Kotzebue), "Vaninka" and "Urbain Grandier." (This last was dramatised by the author.) The whole scheme of the book is of course Dumas's, and some of the chapters appeared in his different "Impressions de Voyage."

Dumas the poet is perhaps best represented by "Charles VII. et ses grands Vassaux," and by "Christine"; but M. Glinel has collected a considerable number of fugitive poems, most of which appeared in the "Psyche."^[13] They prove what, indeed, Dumas's tragedy-dramas show, that he had le mouvement, la couleur et l'image, and expressed passion with a rare vigour and warmth. "Although lacking a sure knowledge of syntax," says Parigot, "and deficient in mastery of form, he sparkled with gaiety and youth, even in verse. The man who wrote the lion chase, the dream of the desert, and the fifth act of 'Charles VII.'; the 'spirituel' couplets in 'L'Alchimiste,' and, above all, the prologue to 'Caligula' is not a poet to be despised." What, indeed, did this marvellous man attempt, that he did not in some degree achieve? Of the thirty or forty poems thus preserved, the elegy on the death of General Foy, the dithyrambe "Canaris," in praise of that heroic Greek, and the verses to Hugo and Sainte-Beuve, deserve mention. In selecting one of Dumas's poems for quotation, we have chosen what we believe to be one of the best and most typical. It is "La Sylphe," one of the fairy race which we meet in the "Rape of the Lock":

Je suis un sylphe, une ombre, un rien, un rêve,
Hôte de l'air, esprit mystérieux,
Léger parfum, que le zéphír enlève,
Anneau vivant, qui joint l'homme et les dieux

De mon corps pur les rayons diaphanes
Flottent mêlés à la vapeur du soir;
Mais je me cache aux regards des profanes,
Et l'âme seule en songe peut me voir.

Rasant du lac la nappe étincelante
D'un vol léger j'effleure les roseaux;
Et, balancé sur mon aile brillante,
J'aime à me voir dans le cristal des eaux.

Dans vos jardins quelque fois je voltige;
Et, m'enivrant de suaves odeurs,
Sans que mon pied fasse incliner leur tige,
Je me suspends au calice des fleurs.

Dans vos foyers j'entre avec confiance,
Et, récréant son œil clos à demi,
J'aime à verser des songes d'innocence
Sur le front pur d'un enfant endormi.

Lorsque sur vous la nuit jette son voile
Je glisse aux cieux comme un long filet d'or,
Et les mortals disent "C'est une étoile
Qui d'un ami vous présage la mort."

We are far from pretending that the foregoing is a complete review of its subject. The task is an almost endless one, and there are limits to time and space and the patience of readers. We submit, however, that this analytical description is in advance of public knowledge in England and America at least, and that it has served a two-fold purpose. It has, we hope, told the reader something new about the books he knows, and has given him an idea, however slight, of the nature and authenticity of other works by our author of which he has probably never heard. We trust we shall have led him to marvel, as we have marvelled, at the fact that so much which is good, and which is undoubtedly "genuine Dumas," should remain untranslated and almost forgotten. A good dozen of the minor romances have been translated into English and allowed to go out of print. Yet we have shown, we think, that there is plenty of excellent fish in this wide, wide sea which has not as yet been landed on our shores in the net of the translator.

One other point cannot have escaped attention. Our most serious admissions respecting Dumas's integrity have been made in the course of this examination of the authenticity of the various books attributed to him. In the case of collaboration, we declare that Dumas was ever the greater brain, the "predominant partner," and deserves the most credit. But in cases where his name is attached, obviously or confessedly to books untouched by his pen, his responsibility is grave. Yet even here it is well to discriminate between the man who issued the book with a frank disavowal of authorship, and the publishers of his day who sent it forth as "the master's".^[14] Like Goldsmith, Dumas became a bondman to his publishers, and yielded weakly to them. His reputation has suffered accordingly, as was only right; but we believe that when the wheat of his own growing is sifted from the chaff, as one day it will be, and when the truth has prevailed over slander, Dumas, as a man and as a writer, will stand higher than he has ever done.

---

1. The plot forms the subject of Jokai's romance, "The Green Book."
2. This incident is not to be found, as the reader will infer, in Dumas's romance.
3. It is interesting to note that there was announced, in the "Mousquetaire" (1853), a romance, "Le Maréchal Ferrant," in 4. vols., "a sequel to the D'Artagnan Cycle." We know that in those days it was a frequent practice to announce books before they were written. What would not such an MS. be worth now, if it could be discovered? The so-called "Stories by Dumas"—"Monte Cristo and his Wife," and "The Son of Porthos"—are, of course, forgeries and find no place in Calmann-Lévy's authorised edition.
4. We would advise our readers to compare the romance with "The House of the Wolf" or "Count Hannibal" by Weyman, and the "Chronique du Régne de Charles IX." by Merimée.
5. See Appendix C.
6. In the original editions of Dumas's works, there were at least twice as many volumes as in the present one-franc series—hence occasional discrepancies on this point.
7. It is stated that Maquet had a share in this work, but unless it was commenced before the rupture between the two men we doubt this. Certainly they would scarcely come together for the purpose of writing this small romance.
8. An English version of this story, one of the best known in Russian literature, appeared in Blackwood's, 1843.
9. This is the date given by Dumas. Authorities disagree as to the day, and even as to the year.
10. Incidentally, the story of Nelson's hanging of Caracciolo is introduced, and treated from the French and humanitarian point of view. The "case for Nelson" is presented in Mr Sladen's book "The Admiral," which contains exhaustive quotations from original documents.
11. "La Terreur Prussienne," although technically a novel, derives its chief interest and value from its historical matter, and is therefore dealt with in that capacity.
12. "Le Capitaine Arena" tells of a tour round Sicily in a vessel commanded by that seaman. A "speronare" is a light coasting-vessel used by the Italians; a "corricolo," a carriage used by the Neapolitans a sort of "tilbury."
13. Dumas translated a number of poems from German and Russian writers, but these are not now accessible.
14. We need hardly say that this in no way reflects on the present publishers of Dumas, MM. Calmann-Lévy.