Murger's Story

MURGER’S STORY

HIGHLIGHTING

THE STORY OF THE GENUINE BOHEMIAN

BY THE

THREE WATER DRINKERS

ALSO CONTAINING

MURGER’S PRIVATE CORRESPONDANCE

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor’s Note ...... vii

TO PAUL D’H___YS ...... viii

PART ONE

I. The Book’s Objective — The Tradition of Murger — Legendary Gossip ...... 1

II. The Hidden Truth of the Water Drinkers — The Water Drinkers in the Novel ...... 2

III. The Story of the Water Drinkers — How They Ended — The Hospital’s Role ...... 4

IV. First Meeting — First Poems — His Childhood — A Word From Murger’s Father — Murger, the Little Clerk ...... 5

V. Eugène Pottier — Worthy for Bohemia — Murger’s First Teacher ...... 6

VI. Points on the Left Bank and the Right Bank — Parental Customs — An Opera at the Renaissance Theatre — Farewell to Painting — Dramatic Attempts — His First Romance — Marie de Brizeux — The Act of Faith — Bugs in the Bookstore — Four poems Saved from the Flames ...... 7

VII. Montholon Street — Emigration from the Latin Quarter — The FutureWater Drinkers — Forty Francs Per Month — Cousin Angèle — Laure de Pétrarque — Marie — The Women in Velvet ...... 9

VIII. Le Myosotis — Farewell to the Book — Marie and Mimi ...... 11

IX. Our Art Objects — Twelve Floors — Jacques’ Principal Desk — Monsieur de Biéville — Madame Léontine Volnys — The Lureua Family ...... 13

X. The Room on La Tour-d’Auvergne Street — Wonderful Years — A New Paper ...... 14

XI. Working All Night Long — Black Coffee — Happy Prose, Sad Poetry — Purpura ...... 16

XII. The Core of our Artistic Group (The Cenacle) — The Cariatides, de Banville — Proselytizing Skills ...... 17

XIII. Sporadic Enthusiasm — A Premonition — The Artificial Night ...... 18

XIV. The Watchmen — How the Society of Water Drinkers Was Formed ...... 19

XV. Literary Accomplishments — Imaginary Adventures of Real Characters — Christ — One Obsession — Champfleury — Final Encounters — With the Young People in School ...... 20

XVI. The Mule — A Moral — Youth Only Has a Short Time — The Raft Of Shipwrecked Bohemians — The Longest Way — Unpleasant Chances — Misplaced Remorse — The Shepherds And the Flocks ...... 22

PART TWO

I. The Path and the Main Road — The Important Journals and the Minor Publications — First Glimpses of Murger’s Humorous Personality: The Abduction of Helen and the Siege of Troy ...... 26

IL Why Murger Didn’t Join the Navy — Letters From a Water Drinker — The First Exposition of Three Painters Who Have Since Become Famous ...... 27

III. Murger and His Big Heart Strings — Rumors and Reflections. — Murger; His Family and His Birth — The Young Flower’s First Loves — The Hard Mountain Man — The Garcia Family — Murger as an Errand Boy At the Lawyer’s Office — He Wants to be a Painter — He Leaves the Brush For the Pen — His Father’s Rage ...... 28

IV. Monsieur de Jouy and Count Tolstoï — Murger Working as a Secretary for 40 Francs Per Month — His First Love Plays Out, Like All First Loves — Murger’s Entry to Bohemia ...... 30

V. Yesterday’s Youth and Today’s Youth — Olivier’s Loves — The Mistress and the Friend — Murger’s First Stay in the Hospital ...... 30

VI. Correspondence and Unpublished Poems ...... 32

VII. Autobiographies Can Contain Lies — Champfleury the Realist — The Journal le Corsaire — The Door to the Revue des Deux Mondes ...... 57

VIII. Parisian and Rural; a Prerequisite for Poetry —The Fontainebleau Forest, A Word from Michelet — Investigating the Cause of Murger’s Death — A Quotation from l'Indépendance Belge. — From Spices! ...... 58

IX. Murger’s Realism in Fiction — Indelible Memories of First Love — To Marie, Unpublished Poems — What These Poems Might Prove — Balzac; One of His Lost or Misplaced Novels — The Last Meeting and Musette’s Song ...... 60

X. Murger Was Condemned to Empiricism in Everything — His Unenthusiasm For Hunting — Lolo Nolot, the Poacher — Murger’s Rabbit — The Sun Sets, But There’s No Sleep ...... 63

XI. Marlotte — Another Word from Michelet About the Fontainebleau Forest — Shako, Father Antony, and le Sabot Rouge ...... 65

XII. The Idea For Murger to be Buried in Marlotte, Beautiful but Unreasonable — The Place Where the Cradle Was Rocked is Where the Grave Should be Located ...... 65

XIII. Murger Will Have a Monument — Fundraiser For this Purpose — Murger Will Remain in Paris — Monsieur Turgan’s Idea — The Sculpture Triumphs, Alas! ...... 66

PART THREE

I. What Remains to be Said — The Fly in the Ointment — Death is a Continuation of Life — The Cenacle — Desbrosses, Montaudon, Karol, and Jules de La Madelène —Let’s Not Count Our Dead — Bohemia and its Historians — The Sins that Men Will Least Forgive — The Official Record Of Martyrdom — The Bad Advisors — The Gospel Of Poor People — Fruit of the Raw Earth — Polar Bear Outbreak — The Water Faucet — Karol! ...... 67

II. Karol — Method for Opening Doors — Bayard, Don Quichotte, and Saint François de Sales — The Real Icarus — The Laughing Fool — Drawing of the Lottery! — The Meeting — The Poor Mothers — The Ammunition of Bread — Three Parts of His Life — Production of Pipe Stems — Forty Sous... Sometimes —

Les Gallipiges — A False Pole, the Duke d’Orléans’ Wedding — Karol the Rescuer — The Sinking of the Marne and the Bonus — A Complete Meal for 13 Sous — Mignon Street — Stop the Thieves! — Who Lives? — Romanzoff and the Crown Court — The Good Forger — R Did It ...... 70

III. People Who Want To Count on Others — Bohemia Becomes Popular — The Protective Gate — Jules de La Madelène — Letter From de J. W. — Let’s Do Our Duty! — Fauchery — The Polish Legion — The Magdebourg Bunker and the Hildesheim Mad House — Australia — The Peking Palace ...... 77

IV. The German Ideas — Art for Art’s Sake — H. Heine’s Corruption — Master Wolfram.— There Are Voices — The Goal — What the Nightingale’s Song Proves — Every Word is a Symbol — Balzac’s Funeral — An Acknowledgement — Everything Isn’t Dead in France — Enthusiasm and Indignation — The Father of the Game — The Old Man Has No White Hair — Dress Rehearsal of la Vie de Bohème — It’s Nature! — H___. à Spa ...... 79

V. Flying Against the Wind — The Big Battles —Emotionally Secure — Alexandre Dumas, Jr. — No Opinion — Murger and the Ministry — Mecænas Is Dead. — The Demolitions —The Thinker — “You Don’t Starve To Death” — The Value of a Penny When You Don’t Have One — Providing for a Bed — Hégésippe Moreau, Henry Murger — H. M., The Same Initials ...... 82

VI. Gérard de Nerval — The Cursed Street — The Fourth Bar... — Evening Pilgrimage —The Unknown — Death By Honor — Ch. Asselineau — The Debtors Who Remained Insolvent Despite Themselves — The Creditors’ Hive of Activity — Assistance — Slaughter of Sheep — Piles of Money — With Your Open Hand — The Cross of Honor: And Bread?... — The Clinic— Living Without Pleasure — Correspondence — Conclusion ...... 84

PARIS — IMPRIMERIE DE J. CLAYE, RUE SAINT-BENOIT, 7

EDITOR’S NOTE

This book, as revealed by the fast completion of the three authors, was created to appear in the month following Henry Murger’s death. Its publication was delayed due to circumstances beyond the control of the authors and the editor; a great deal of time was required to obtain and assemble many private letters as can be seen in the second and third sections of this book.

If this delay could have been foreseen, we would have certainly taken advantage of the time to revise the accouts of our memories and the the three Water Drinkers’ analysis into a single and consistent narrative.

As a book, this work would have been improved by such a revision; however, we think that the obvious disorder will appeal to the reader with a special interest in this subject rather than a well organized book: three of Murger’s friends recount and analyze his literary life, each from his own point of view and personal experiences; the reader we have in mind will not be upset at having to reconcile and compare these assessments themselves and will determine the ramifications in a more independent and impartial manner.

TO PAUL D’H___YS

To you who stood vigil every day and night over the friend we lost, without leaving him for even a moment;

To you who recently became close to him, and bravely accepted and performed the work of his old friends who had not been warned that death was ready to strike,

We dedicate this book to you as a sign of our loving admiration and gratitude.

* * *

THE STORY OF MURGER

HIGHLIGHTING

THE STORY OF THE GENUINE BOHEMIAN

PART ONE

The Book’s Objective — The Tradition of Murger — Legendary Gossip

I think it would be useful to begin by stating our intentions as well as the purpose of our book.

Murger, poet and novelist, — thoroughly finished today, unfortunately — will be judged well to a certain extent and the majority of opinions will be favorable. Our literary appreciation for his talent is confined to personal opinions although his books exist for others to formulate their own answer.

But what about the man himself?

There is an important distinction to make. In our opinion, his reputation based on the private life of the individual, regardless of how famous his works may be, can’t be judged by anyone. What we essentially want to point out about Murger comes from his accomplishments; his professional actions, what he stood for, and the effects he had on the world. These factors often dictate the author’s pages or sometimes they are a reflection of his works. In the first case, it is, as Murger wrote himself, “the perpetual exploitation of the heart by the imagination.” In the second instance, the poet caresses his humiliated will while whispering to himself “Go, console yourself; understand that what is the best of us flows out from our pen.” It is always the second case where the writer is linked to his book by intimate relationships that he comments, explains, or justifies his situation when it needs to be justified.

Is Murger known from this point of view? We dare say no, because in order to know the truth, one must know “the whole truth and nothing but the truth!” In fact, on the one hand, death struck Murger too soon, and on the other hand, so many unknown Bohemians, according to his expression, “left the game, never passing on their praise,” resulting I the fact that of his old friends who knew him sixteen years ago, when he first took a pen to his hand, at most only seven or eight of us remain. Little about his life from 1839 to 1844 is known, or better put, it was poorly told. We were waiting for him to write about this part of his life, as he intended to do and as he would have done, “one night or another.” That was for him, more than any other writer, a real literary property that his melancholic yet burlesque drama that we know so well would have been written to be played by actors and extras. But we hadn’t expected his sudden and sad ending.

Now, beside the brilliant literary friends that his mature talent had earned him, as well as kind critics and believers in him for the most part, a legendary tradition existed concerning Murger, the most dangerous and ruthless gossip that made its way through Paris. It was spoken in the garrets and the bars, the gossip that flew through the attic rooms and studios described completely new and dubious chapters of Scènes de la Bohème; it added spice to the story with ridiculous exaggerations of “crying poets whose muses always had red eyes and badly combed hair, and all sorts of helpless inadequacies,” etc... This crude parody of a bawdy Murger, this horrible claim that stinks of depravity and laziness which glorifies impropriety, mysteriously comes into the living room of the “anxious reader and of the timid bourgeois,” and this

is the one, when his son had the whim to write a poem for a holiday card or to buy a box of paints, he is eager to quote Murger to him (whom he doesn’t know), much like we give a certain treatise of Dr. Tissot to schoolboys.

Murger had been our friend for twenty five years, and we treasure his memory; he touched our life — even in his passing, alas! — He cemented his place in contemporary literature: he was kind and dignified. In addition to these attributes, we believe his entire life deserves to be understood. He remains with us, in our memories, his letters, and his personal poetry will simultaneously explain his character through his books. His novels stand on their own, and it is clear that we have neither the vain desire to rewrite them for the foolish presumption to add to them; we stand up for ourselves that it is neither foolish nor sacrilegious for us to add a word, a joke, or an anecdote about his original mind, to his perfect imagination which seemed to torment his thoughts and skill in vain which always allowed him, in spite of himself, to arrive at the simple truth.

The Hidden Truth of the Water Drinkers — The Water Drinkers in the Novel

I will first discuss the background of the society of the Water Drinkers.

Now is the time, I believe, to publish the secrets of this association which earned our entourage relentless verbal attacks and even — regardless of whether anyone believed it — serious hostility.

Like all young people, we had strong beliefs and illusions; perhaps we held on to them longer than we should have...

We didn’t feel accountable to anyone who disapproved of us or who simply complained about us!

When Murger brought me his book, les Scènes de la Bohème, I had already read it, and I criticized him, not for including scenes about the Water Drinkers, but because he made the society the butt of his humor, the personification of systematic inactivity, of the silent stoicism, of the commitment to obscurity which he rightly attacked. I especially complained to him about the following lines:

“...Jacques died a few days later. — Because the funeral procession took place on the same day that the Salon opened, the Water Drinkers didn’t attend. — Lazare said that art came above everything else.” (Francine’s Muff)

“You make our small fraternal group appear,” I told him, “like savage partisans who suffocate under the fanaticism of art over matters of the heart and friendship.”

“Bah!” he replied. “I wrote that in my novel to fight against a ridiculous and evil theory that dominates the garrets. It was occasionally a conviction, but too often it was a pretext for laziness or a poor excuse for helpless pride; I invented a group of disciples who composed the society of Water Drinkers; but who knew that we were the Water Drinkers? I was careful to write (and he flipped through the book to show me the passage) that all the members of this small congregation died silently, without leaving any work or inheritance behind.

The novel made a large impression on its readers; it contained too many real recollections, and these facts were too badly disguised for the reader to distinguish them from fiction.

Let’s consider now what proportion of the book was factual and what proportion was fiction.

Here are some fragments from what Murger wrote regarding the Water Drinkers:

“... The main flaw of the members of this association was their bias in favor of remaining isolated. By voluntarily restricting themselves to the circle of their members, while remaining away from any external relationships, they inevitably lost any advantage of meeting others who could have given advice for overcoming some of the obstacles they faced which prevented them from furthering their art. As a part of the natural cycle of modern life, when one doesn’t emerge from a phase of isolation, the artist is unable to collaborate with other talent in order to improve upon their works and to engage in social activity which will bring attention from the art world. However, there are certain personalities that resist the demands of a practical life. Incapable of bringing attention to their existence, either due to natural pride or because of ignorance of the methods to do so, they prolonged or perpetuated this state of anonymity which stifled talent in the same way as a shade affects a shining light. The Water Drinkers belonged to this race of stubborn recluses who were content with a contemplative life. By practicing their art in seclusion, the boundaries of the world were defined by the walls of their room or studio; their only influence was subject to their anonymity, an unhealthy atmosphere that numbed the most active imagination, embittered the most peaceful soul, and sometimes caused all involved to asphyxiate. People who voluntarily sequester themselves in a confined small space and who then complain about a lack of air should be told, “open the window,” by the first person who heard them. Whenever the discouraged Water Drinkers left their isolated space, they replied to any remark about their situation by complaining, “We are never given a chance!” We could have then answered, “Open the door!” But not only did they hold the door shut, but they essentially locked the door...” (Introduction to the Water Drinkers)

Likewise there is this passage from the preface to Scènes de la Bohème:

“...These Bohemians are recruited among young people who are said to be given expectations which offer them hope, and among those there are some who achieve a sense of hope, but who, due to their carelessness, faint-heartedness, or ignorance of everyday life, believe that everything will be fine when their work is finished, and wait for public admiration but their fortune will only come to their homes by breaking and entering. They live, so to speak, on the margins of society, in isolation and stagnation. Transfixed in art, they assumed that the academic poetic symbols placed a halo over the heads of poets, and since they were convinced that the spotlight would reach them in their shadows, they waited until it shined on them. We were once aware of a small school composed of such strange men and even we could hardly believe in their existence: they were known as the disciples of art for art’s sake. According to their naïve beliefs, art for art’s sake consisted of deifying one another while doing nothing to create a chance that anyone would even know how to find them while waiting for the pedestals to come under their feet.”

“This is, as we can see, foolish stoicism. Actually, we state this again in order to be believed, but there are similar beings within Bohemia whose misery arouses a sympathetic pity until common sense forces us recover from the feeling, for if you remark to them that we are in the 19th century, that the hundred franc piece is the empress of humanity, and that bundles of those coins do not fall all polished from the sky, they turn their backs and call you bourgeois.”

“As for the rest of them, they consistently stood by their foolish heroism; they weren’t heard crying or complaining, and silently suffered for their obscurity and the harsh fate that they created for themselves. For the most part, they eventually died from this disease that science didn’t dare to name: starvation caused by destitution. They died young, sometimes leaving behind a work that the world later admired, and which would have probably been celebrated earlier if the decedent had not remained invisible.” (Preface to Scènes de la Bohème)

Here is an example of the preposterous exaggerations that were made about those who did not allow themselves to became part of society; who were somewhat avenged by their labors in the studios, their uneven career, and their wit. This was said by a struggling young artist:

“The organization appears to be designed like a kind of Freemasons for art,” stated the artist with a hint of irony. “Members are only admitted to the group after a great deal of difficulties; they subject applicants to very harsh trials in order to join a world of poverty. If one is a painter, he first must improvise to create a masterpiece such as the Transfiguration in no more than twenty five minutes; if one is a sculptor, a figure like the Persee; if you are a poet, a poem like l'Iliade. If the work is completed on time, a vote is taken. If you are approved, you are required to utter all

sorts of oaths on brushes, pens, and chisels arranged in the shape of a cross. Since artistic genius is a gift from the divine, members must agree to not desecrate it by engaging in base commercialism; in other words, members are forbidden from making money from their works. The ceremony ends by drinking a large glass of water, a brilliant symbol which characterizes the spirit of the society where water is the only affordable drink available...” (Les Buveurs d’eau — Francis)

I want to discredit all of these passages solely by referring to the actual story of the society of the Water Drinkers.

The following chapter will explain what this group actually was like.

III

The Story of the Water Drinkers — How They Ended — The Hospital’s Role

According to the first article of their charter, the Water Drinkers were forbidden to belong to a secret society and their monthly meetings excluded any political discussions.

We were required to be interdependent on each other for the purpose of fulfilling the material needs of surviving in the world. In fact, this rule didn’t need to be codified as it had been practiced for a long time before the society was founded.

Each individual’s contribution to the common fund was low enough that each member could, within one month, provide the required sum, as long as water was the only drink served at the meals which preceded or followed our meetings. It was paramount that each member’s required contribution was small enough to ensure everyone could pay their share. Does the delicate nature of this requirement need to be explained?

Furthermore, we didn’t want any complicated money making scheme to become a pretext for the meeting banquets. A lot of other ambitious organizations ended up in that situation.

Far from imposing a stoic perseverance, a commitment to isolation, or contempt for success on its members, the society of Water Drinkers had been created, on the contrary, to share not only what each member learned and experienced, but also based on the activities and relationships of all its members. The creation of art and providing members with a stepping stone to success was everyone’s duty. Helping each other grow artistically and gaining stature was the main purpose of the society.

We also understood that we had to select our members carefully and that our process had to be based on excluding applicants who had the least potential and motivation; we consequently also understood that this “perpetual admiration for our talent and our works” had to be and could only be the result of sincere conviction.

We undoubtedly rejected commercialism, but only as an objective and not as a way to earn a living. Noël gave drawing lessons; Murger was Mr. Tolstoï’s secretary and penned little children’s tales for l’Age d'or; I transcribed the court proceedings for a judicial journal; Christ and Cabot designed ornaments for a marble mason; Gothique painted signs for midwives and other occupations. Such work was not only allowed, but it was recommended that each member of the Water Drinkers use their talent in some form to earn the equivalent of four pounds of bread.

Each of us, in fact, lived as he pleased, and wasn’t even required to drink only water once a month.

But each member of the society had to justify themselves at the end of the year by submitting a serious attempt to produce work demonstrative of their effort and awareness.

Finally, those sad Water Drinkers had been uncovered as constant connivers, fanatics outright exhausting in their curses against governments, societies, and classical geniuses. They should have had enough common sense and understanding to know that a common system of political opinions, social Utopia, or literary and artistic schools of thought was more of a danger than a force. The prevailing respect for individual aspirations was so religiously observed that it was a major threat to the destruction of our society. Indeed, it was especially difficult for young and passionate minds to establish a boundary between a work’s style and allegiance to a particular school. How can one wholeheartedly admire, and especially how does one unconditionally praise a poem, novel, painting, or sculpture, statue, or symbol incorporating a concept we didn’t all endorse? This was a subject of heated discussion, a dilemma which while always imperfectly resolved, still appeared threatening to the group.

But it should be noted that the society of Water Drinkers was dissolved only as a matter of form, and when we terminated the group, it was done so out of respect for the pure and profound feeling that had inspired its formation.

Christ died in the hospital, Cabot died in the hospital, while a third former member returned to his hometown in search of money for food that he was no longer able to earn in Paris... and he wrote the following to me on April 5 1844:

“...Oh my friend, our focus is no longer the same; we are far away from each other and, in spite of ourselves, we have forgotten ourselves, even if we remember when we were brought together by chance. This was the story of all of our lives... In short, it is very sad and I can only regret that it’s not otherwise...”

First Meeting — First Poems — His Childhood — A Word From Murger’s Father — Murger, the Little Clerk

On the sixth floor at No. 1 Monsigny Street, there was a small furnished airy and cheerful room. It had a window and balcony overlooking Ventadour Place and was behind a theater which was then called the Renaissance Theatre. It was there that I saw Murger for the first time, toward the end of 1838 when he was sixteen years old.

I can see every detail of our first encounter by simply closing my eyes. The key was in the lock; Murger turned it gently, then he entered quietly and smiling.

At that time he was a young boy; a beardless, chubby cheeked, pinkish hued fellow, whose rounded shape, rather more bloated than plump, which led one to believe he had an apathetic temperament. His brown eyes were open wide and looked all around with naïve calmness. His youthful good nature was unabashed as if he were daring; he looked like a young monk destined for contemplative happiness and he was very pleased about that future.

He wore a blue tailored coat like an important property owner, a tall top hat with a wide flat brim, blue socks, and laced shoes.

“Monsieur Pottier isn’t here?” he asked me.

“No, monsieur,” I answered. “Pottier won’t return until this evening.”

“Oh, he is a friend of mine,” he went on as he took a seat and pulled a bag of tobacco, cigarette papers and matches from his pocket. “He was my teacher at the school of M__; he met me this morning and asked me to come and see him. Incidentally, he told me you were staying with him; he informed me that you were involved in literature and drama, and he advised me to come and talk with you.”

“So, do you write poetry?”

“I try,” he answered while appearing to laugh at himself.

I was 19 years old, and at the time, the only literature for us was poetry; we believed that prose should only be reserved for the great poets.

Two hours later, he had read about 20 lines of poetry to me, all of it was the work of a novice, and he told me the very simple story of his life. The poetry was comprised of a wide range of expression, the feelings of a schoolboy; some very serious, some extremely rhythmic, overly thoughtful, composed of distorted, weak, or convoluted rhymes; ten, eleven, thirteen or fourteen feet to each verse — occasionally twelve! — I had those poems buried in a drawer for two years and I ensured that he didn’t know about it. I could have shown him that I still had them to console him but self-esteem is generous only at the proper time.

The story of his childhood is well known; his father who was originally from Prussia, I believe, was a tailor and also served as a doorman at a house on Trois-Frères Street. He was a homebody and a quiet type. After la Vie de Bohème made its successful debut at the Variétés Theatre, he said that his son was a distinguished intellectual because he had heard everyone talking about him; he felt a stunned admiration for the rest of his life. On the day of the second performance, Murger went to his father’s house in the morning and had the following conversation

“If you want to see my play again tonight,” Henry told his father, “I can get you some seats.”

“Your play?” answered his father, “You mean it is still being performed?”

In 1838, Murger had a small job as a clerk for a lawyer whose name I forgot. He managed to spend two hours a day studying subjects of interest to him with Pierre and Émile Bisson, two young painters who lived in the Latin Quarter. There he studied painting which was his first artistic interest, and he wrote poems about what he had dreamed the night before. He told me that he hoped that he would soon have more time to devote to the arts; Monsieur Tolstoï, a correspondent for the Russian government, had promised to hire him as his secretary.

That’s where we were when Pottier returned.

Eugène Pottier — Worthy for Bohemia — Murger’s First Teacher

Murger is a true Bohemian just as the Bohemian is the same as Murger. The characters who acted around him aren’t simply secondary, and it seems to me that they are all the more essential to detail the major characteristics of all the actors involved in this tragicomedy as they enter the scene since they all influenced the novelist’s ideas and orientation. Every individual whom Murger met became the key to a character described in his stories and sometimes were central to an entire chapter.

Eugène Pottier was the son of a box maker. He was born a good poet, and although his book is still only in manuscript form, it was confidentially shared among a small number of friends, although a few pages have been seen beyond this inner circle. Some literary men with very good reputations have confirmed my judgment that it is excellent work.

The manner in which Pottier was challenged to withstand the trials of his apprenticeship caused him incomparable pain and suffering! He was average sized, broad of shoulders, with the arms of Hercules and legs as round as oak trees, hot headed, energetic, strong as a bull, well disciplined, and impervious to cold or to heat. He could manage to wear snow as his shoes or his gloves at his discretion, place his desk in the middle of an intersection, and in à six steps write an ode or

a poem. He knew how to laugh without interrupting his own dream while being absent minded and carefree. He had great passion regardless of any setback and he quickly forgot any past mishap; he could take a stroll on the Boulevard des Italiens in a cold breeze without a hat and with his jacket on his arms. Finally, even if the doctors pronounced him terminally ill, under the pain of death, he could live with only clear water and cooked herbs, — bread was too substantial for his disposition!... What a plot for a Bohemian! To eat and to sleep were his biggest dreams, two unfilled pleasures; eight nights of deep sleep and eight days of eating beefsteak is something he would die to have. However, when he allowed himself to be do so, from time to time on Sundays, he was nearly ferocious. Blessed with these pathetic benefits, as he could have, without worrying about the physical world, he was soothed by his daydreams and he could relax! And that would happen, every day at five o’clock in the morning, often after an evening of writing poetry lasting past midnight, he woke up and grumbled, put on his green apron and worked until nightfall, sawing boards and nailing crates together in his father’s shop. His father paid him four francs per day, never more and never less.

We were thorns in Pottier’s father’s side. When we dared to enter the shop, the stairs of the main floor immediately creaked under his feet; he would greet us and ask about our health, courtesies which were easily expressed by, “Go to Hell!” It is true that when we were there, the son loosened his grip on the tool in his hands, and the whole time he was listening and talking to us, he was chewing on — literally chewing on — a handful of wood chips... He wasn’t exactly performing his duties! His father wasn’t really wrong for feeling animosity toward us.

Pottier, when he was a child, went to an elementary school and by the time he was 12 or 13 years old he had passed all the courses offered by the institution. He remained there as a teacher where Murger was his student. When he was 17 years old, disgusted with this unforeseen servitude, with no future, with no romance, tired of running in a circle, like a gerbil in its wheel, he began working for his father while pondering the meaning of life and waiting for a change to happen!

We had met in a theater audience and became acquainted with each other by exchanging poems and songs. He corrected my weak classical French poetics and taught me the rules of rhythmic composition, which I never learned from my professors at Louis-le-Grand. Pottier, himself, had instinctively learned it — he no longer remembered at what age — and, opposite from how student poets were taught, he had started composing poems already knowing the proper methods. He was highly productive but also very disappointed.

He was good at anything, passionate about everything, could learn about anything in two hours, understand any topic in one day, and complete any project within a week. This extraordinary ability to master all forms of knowledge on any subject astonished us and surpassed our expectations. Would he become the epicurean of Caveau? Would he be like Désaugiers, Béranger, Casimir Delavigne, or Lamartine?

Don’t forget that we were only 19 years old.

Points on the Left Bank and the Right Bank — Parental Customs — An Opera at the Renaissance Theatre — Farewell to Painting — Dramatic Attempts — His First Romance — Marie de Brizeux — The Act of Faith — Bugs in the Bookstore — Four poems Saved from the Flames

The intimate friendship of the three of them was quickly created. Murger was soon meeting with the other two every day and made our room his asylum on the Right Bank, while Bisson’s room became his refuge on the Left Bank. His particular topic of study determined where his domicile would be for that day. He would go either north or south of Paris depending on the mentor he required for his chosen intellectual need. He situated himself in his desired oasis as he varied his way along the road from east to west. — At one location he had his desk for writing and at the other he had his easel. He

made his home based on where his manuscripts and canvases where located, and stored any commodities ruthlessly prohibited by paternal customs at the entrance to his garret on Trois-Frères Street.

We were fanatic admirers of Victor Hugo, and the Renaissance Theatre, still popular after the turmoil from the performance of his Ruy-Blas, was like a temple to us. We leaned over the balcony to listen to the chorus rehearse and the opera (I believe it was Lady Melvil) which was being staged. I still catch myself hearing through the half opened windows near the interior fireplace to the melody of the chorus that Murger continued to hum two or three years later:

Friends, the ball is coming soon Whoever invites us. We should quickly accept their tune Let’s answer now without fuss. There’s no need to discuss Going to the ball is what we will do.

He repeated the tune ten times to ensure that every part could be heard and he even interupted the melody to imitate the sounds of all the instruments from the low thud of the double bass to the piercing tingle of the triangle... Alas!

Don’t fault me too much for telling this piece of childishness that returns to my memory as it is evoked from the depths of my inner mind…

For a long time, the song was like the national anthem representing his happiness — as he wrote so often.

He had brought Bisson to us, whom we greeted without fanfare as was our manner. One day, Pierre Bisson spoke to him in front of me with honest cruelty, “Murger, you will never become a successful painter!”

This undoubtedly confirmed his inner lack of confidence, as Murger calmly accepted this judgment and from then on devoted himself to poetry.

He managed without any difficulty to stay productive during his break from painting. He worked to master the art of poetic composition, the best method for developing phrases and rhyming patterns, as well as to incorporate rhythm in his lines to reflect a certain tone, the proper selection of words to phonetically match the sound being described, and mathematical procedures (rhythmic balance). These are all functions which are labor intensive but can become effortless and inspired when the methods become familiar. When he began this work, he could not rely on such inspiration and his thoughts were lost due to his distraction to technical matters. The delay caused by spending time studying theory rather than actually composing is a common problem in every art form. It is a difficult obstacle because concentration and patience is the only remedy; the strongest desire can’t resolve the issue because the true nature of the obstacle can only be realized when it has been overcome.

At this point, there was no doubt that Murger was uncertain about which path he wanted to choose. He soon developed a two-act play entitled le Paria de Collège, intended for the Theatre Comte or the Gymnase Enfantin, another children’s theater located near the Opera, — theaters which Murger counted on Pottier and me to recommend him for work, because we were, under the corporate name Adien, the regular providers of scripts to those institutions; he had earlier written a musical romance, — and what a true romance it was! I recently found a copy of the script in my papers and he had included a friendly dedication which began, “Souvenirs du bal, words by M. Henry Murger, music by M. Camille Devos.”

Ah! The ball, the ball, It’s so pleasant all in all, It’s what my heart feeds on All evening until dawn! Yes, to dance all night, Yes, the waltz feels right,

It’s exhilarating, above Bringing (4 times) my love... Etc.

But he soon gave up writing the lively musicals which earned him 50 francs from time to time as well as the romances which were published at his own expense in order to furiously plunge into the reading and studying of contemporary poetry.

When he developed the character of Melchior in the novel entitled Un Poète de Gouttières, it was fortunate that he commented on the subject by writing these lines:

“One of the many obsessions of this remarkable individual was this: he bought every volume of poems in multicolor covers, which twice a year, in the spring and the autumn, were delivered from the docks to the street vendors. He wouldn’t repeat even a single line of verse that he didn’t understand; one of his friends, a man of common sense, who referred to his collection as the Bugs of the Bookstore, asked him why he spent his money on such ridiculous acquisitions. Melchior replied that he had to keep informed about the progress of art. The fact was he simply wanted to determine whether he was as good as the authors of Soupirs Nocturnes, Matutina, and Autres Brises de Mai. Whenever one of these abominable collections was issued, Melchior bought a copy for himself and then gathered together all the works of mediocre poets he knew to read and compare them to one another...”

It was fortunate that this “obsession” also allowed him to meet Alfred de Musset, Hégésippe Moreau, Émile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, and especially Brizeux, the author of Marie, one of the poems he loved the most. (For more information see his Lettres à un Buveur d’eau.) Only a few months ago, he was still talking to me about it with real admiration.

Nevertheless, he continued to work at improving his art, but he didn’t share his progress like a man who was confident in his own assessment. He rarely read any of his work to us. “I can’t finish anything to my satisfaction,” he told us. Our compliments or our criticism only annoyed him because he believed he was the master of his own art. At the same time, he began to secretly destroy works that didn’t satisfy him; sometimes a single page, or even more pages at times. By the end of one year, his long cherished collection had been completely revised.

At the top of my head, I recall four lines he wrote. I wrote them down because they brought me a fond memory of his youth; it was certainly a fragment of a work he mysteriously burned in a leap of faith which I just described:

To A___ L___

There is a holy shadow that has come in front of me Who tells me, “I will take half of what all your fate will be; Happy or unhappy, come, oh! Come and be fear free, I will guide your steps, as I am called fraternity...

H. MURGER

VII

Montholon Street — Emigration from the Latin Quarter — The Future Water Drinkers — Forty Francs Per Month — Cousin Angèle — Laure de Pétrarque — Marie — The Women in Velvet

In December 1838, I left the little palace on Monsigny Street, and Pottier quit working at the box factory. One of his friends, the son of a worker at Jouy’s company, became an apprentice at the factory. A tireless worker for eight years

already, he developed himself by superhuman effort into a design draftsman. He had always been a small, slender young man, but he was strong willed and was very ambitious. He refused to give in to his uncertainties and founded his own company. Today, he is famous in the world of industrial arts; decorated with awards, and rich... and as always, he is our friend. He loved poetry and supported poets, especially those who were associated with Pottier. Naturally he became acquainted with Murger; but deep down, I don’t think they liked each other very much: they were more like associates — essentially there was an alliance — rather than a friendship. He was critical and pessimistic and the young Murger was easily discouraged.

I recorded what I believe were the last words they ever exchanged. This occurred after the success of la Vie de Bohème at the Variétés Theatre; their conversation finished as follows:

“It was your play? But I didn’t get a chance to see your play!”

“Ah! That is too bad for you!”

“The Devil! I heard it was a great success!”

Murger bowed and smiled.

The man whose character I just tried to describe told me that Murger said, “Too bad for you!” in jest because he knew Pottier’s opinion about Murger’s work had changed, but Murger didn’t want to rub it in. Pottier, who had always written poems and songs and believed that is what he would do for the rest of his life, became an assistant to a bookkeeper — and a Murger enthusiast. — He only poeticized Murger a little bit. He went on to live with our friend and became his patron.

After a year of trying to live in several rooms in different quarters, always on the Right Bank, I found myself in a garret at 13 Montholon Street — at the time is was number 13. For the most part, Murger had followed me to wherever I lived. The Latin Quarter, where I had never lived since I had a bitter feeling about the boarding houses and the Louis-le-Grand secondary school was on the contrary, Murger’s preferred district, and he went to live there for weeks at a time. It was during 1839 and at the beginning of 1840 when he became acquainted with Léon Noël, the two Desbrosses brothers, Cabot, Tabar, Vastine, Vilain, Guilbert, Chintreuil, Nadar, and other poets, sculptors, and painters who joined together with us at the end of 1841 to create the society of Water Drinkers. He also met with several other artists whose names I have forgotten; I am not talking about Karol, the strangest and the most likeable Bohemian figure one will ever meet — Karol will have his own chapter.

Murger made great progress on his work. At least he was writing in the style he wanted to portray; his inspiration was no longer blocked by rhythmic patterns which had become purely mechanical and which he had also mastered. He began to read his work to us.

It has been said, and we have written, — in fact he readily admitted in his letters, that he didn’t have an university education; he tried to make up for that by studying literature written by the classic authors. His aptitude to learn was due less to his tenacity than it was due to his instincts; but if he didn’t have access to books, he would have been one of those people who learned to read by observing the words on street signs, and who learned about arithmetic from reading the numbers of house addresses.

Other changes had taken place in him. He had become more mature, and the forty francs per month which he earned as Monsieur Tolstoï’s secretary gave him some sort of relative independence; he always slept at the garret on Trois-Frères and ate every night at his father’s table; but the cost for that left him with thirty francs from his salary, so that he made a living from his work and he believed that he had the freedom to do as he wished and gained from that feeling which made him happy and worked to improve himself.

Although he wasn’t always cheerful, he was relatively happy and full of energy. He didn’t yet have the literary confidence of a Beaumarchais who incorporated irony and conflicts in his work, contrasting the antithesis of a word to an idea,

making use of a gentle epigram and the irony of it without venom, linking the response with an extraordinary presence of true spirit, a spirit which naturally seem contrived to us when it came to him since it seemed so sudden. No, it was a frank and slightly vague humor, a joviality that came from Champagne that he could obtain from red colored or clear water, as one doesn’t drink Moët or even much of our dubious Parisian homemade wine when one earns only forty francs per month to cover everything, and when one is satisfied with such an income.

And then there was love — whether it was one of the causes or only one of the effects of his powerful development — love came to him. The truth must be revealed: he fell in love with a passion.

“At the time, Rodolphe was very much in love with his cousin Angèle, but she couldn’t tolerate him...” (Scènes de la Bohème — Les Violettes du Pôle)

This cousin Angèle, or Hélène, as he later named her in les Buveurs d’eau, was the daughter of the chimneysweep Monetti who was Rodolphe’s uncle, or the daughter of Monsieur Bridoux, Olivier’s uncle, who was well known to us. Murger confided in us about the twists and turns of his childlike passion which he only continued, I believe, so that Pétrarque would not be without Laure. But since his cousin Angèle “couldn’t tolerate him,” he fell in love with Marie, who wanted him to love her.

You need to consult the short story les Amours d’Olivier (from the book, Scènes de la Vie de Jeunesse), if you want to know the details which was told to me every day for 18 months, although there was always more to follow the next day, like a serialized story. A fragment quoted below reproduces the exact section. It reads, “Marie and Olivier’s love lasted for 18 months; during that time they never retreated from the pure state of passion.” This is completely true, although the reason for their breakup makes this assertion suspect. Who doesn’t know that this platonic and celestial love wasn’t what all young people dreamed about at that time? Who doesn’t also know that experienced women — throughout all times — are able to gain exquisite pleasure?

Marie often went to the Opera ball during the 1840 carnival; she generally would go there with several friends and Murger was their escort. Those nights were like splendid holidays for him. The energy in the air made him very cheerful, the revelry of the cancan revolved around him without beginning or end. I can still see him under the veranda at the Opera on Fat Saturday at the opening of the masquerade ball; squeezed into his formal black coat and wearing white gloves, asking questions through the doors of the carriages arriving to the ball:

“Driver, do you have my dates? I’m waiting for seven women!... women in velvet!” (Those were his words.)

Additionally, you will read in Un Poète de Gouttières, “Melchior read the fragments of his love poem at the table where he had already symmetrically arranged all the remaining mementos from this great passion such as old white gloves, dirty ribbons, a mask worn at the ball, and wilted bouquets. This entire sentimental memorabilia was usually hung at the back of his alcove.”

VIII

Le Myosotis — Farewell to the Book — Marie and Mimi

The dramatic scenes described in the book, including Marie’s betrayal, the horrible quarrel between Olivier and his father, the suicide attempt, Olivier’s despondency and his nightly walks in the market comprise major portions of the novel. But Murger’s pain was just as real and intense in his own life. His father had demanded that he go home every night or not return at all, and Murger consequently moved his bed into my room.

One evening, he arrived behaving very emotional. He placed a book on the table and asked me to keep it for him. It was a copy of Le Myosotis by Hégésippe Moreau. He had arranged for the volume to be lavishly bound for Marie, — and she had just returned it to him.

“I don’t want her to keep it,” he told me, “and yet I don’t want to keep it either. I am giving it to you for safekeeping, but hide it well!”

As I prepared to conceal it in a trunk before going to sleep, he said to me, “Let me have it one more time tonight!”

I currently have that gilded volume in front of me and I have copied the poem he spent all night writing in front of the title page. It reads as follows:

Poor forget-me-nots, when I desert you, When your white blossoms seem to beg me to stay; If I have been cruel, oh forgive me, forgive, please do! You say, ‘Don’t forget,’ — but I want to forget without delay.

H. M.

TO MY FRIEND A___ L___

ON THE OCCASION OF GIVING HER THIS BOOK

This sweet nightingale, my brother, brings you songs! With sadness in its heart it resonates like a lyre; But, sensing the world it began to understand all of its wrongs It, who only knows love, flew away from those who don’t inspire

And to flee from them, it had to fly far from the ground Where it didn’t hear the echoes of mocking laughter. Carrying away to the sky, from deep in its heart he found, The presence of love and mystery ever after.

Brother, when the pain passing through your mind’s eye Exhausts your hope, like a flower on a frail stem, Think of the sweet nightingale soaring in the sky, Read one of its beautiful songs and your sorrows will end;

Your troubles will end when you realize, the poet, Found the words to write only after shedding tears, Because the lyre’s sound doesn’t cause your pain, you know it. Whatever chords are played, the songs always quell your fears.

HENRY MURGER

TO A___ L___

In the beautiful month of August when I celebrated Marie, As a poet in love, last year, on bended knee, I gave her this book and a blossoming plant with glee

Releasing the sweet fragrance of the orange tree,

To the one I loved — who perhaps I love still — And, rewarding me for these different gifts, She gave me a kiss — I remember it and always will — More kisses than the poems in the book made my spirit lift.

The flower, before it wilted on her breast The flower, a symbol of our love. Such was the case; The orange fragrance dispersed with the rest, The blossom withered without love, leaving no trace.

The blue forget-me-not born at the edge of the shore In its sheath of blue, impossible to protect, Those golden petals awoke in my dreams I couldn’t ignore, The same fate as the orange blossoms you reject.

These innocent blossoms from the poet’s most pure source Plead with you not to forget in the voice of a flower; When they come to you battered by the storm’s force, Hear their call and release to them your heart’s power.

H. M.

These verses are undoubtedly not Murger’s best work, but they portray the sentiments that inspired them, and it was for that one reason alone that I transcribed them. Besides, it reflects memories better than actual events. He would later write much better poems, which in my opinion were much more important than the ones just printed.

An odd thing is that when Murger felt the need, as he did in les Amours d’Olivier, to portray his much beloved Marie, “She was a frail and sickly type of woman which was usually the ideal subject for poets from the phthisical school of thought... Her faint blue eyes sometimes gleamed with a fleeting flash of light which caused her face, usually peaceful and pale, to become animated and embellished with color at the same time.” In fact, he wasn’t portraying a description of Marie, but rather one of Mimi, whose story can be read in les Scènes de la Bohème.

Our Art Objects — Twelve Floors — Jacques’ Principal Desk — Monsieur de Biéville — Madame Léontine Volnys — The Lureua Family

Because our room was long and narrow, requiring my bed to be placed parallel to the wall along the long side, only a narrow path was available, no more than the width of the door, to reach the exit. The light from the window frame illuminated an old office filled with books, scattered papers, pipes, and ripped bags of tobacco. Three earthenware plates, two wine glasses, and some iron forks comprised the only objects of art to be seen.

We had to climb up the service staircase to reach this fortress in the sky. The stairs to each floor was divided in two by a large landing which had never seen the light from a lamp. When my wonderful father walked up the stairs for the first time one evening, he found the climb painful due to his large size. After he reached our nest, he was out of breath and he told us, “Sacrebleu! You boys live at extreme heights; I counted twelve floors!”

Ten years later, Murger had made a name for himself, and when I reminded my father that he had met him in the room on Montholon Street, he replied, “Ah, yes! I remember; that large boy who always seemed to be sleeping!”

Indeed, at the time Murger worked all night and slept all day, so his bed blocked the door.

The desk which, as can been seen, contained various piles of paper representing the numerous jobs being performed, still served as a step stool when we wanted to go to the roof to smoke a pipe while enjoying the evening breeze. By leaning over the gutter we couldn’t be seen from the street, but we could gaze at everyone — without anyone suspecting it — Madame Léontine Volnys played with her little girl on the first balcony, and Monsieur de Biéville, her neighbor, in a dressing robe, smoked a cigar on the fourth balcony.

Monsieur de Biéville had just produced the performance of les Enfants de Troupe at the Gymnase-Dramatique, with Bouffé playing the role of Trim. It was one of the greatest and most profitable successes of that time.

“I believe he could help us succeed immediately!” Murger declared excitedly. “Let’s get in touch with him, and convince him to collaborate with us!”

Nearby, on the same floor resided the great Lureau, the beloved actor who worked at the Théâtre des Célestins in Lyon. — He had also happily died a few months ago leaving a widow and six children. Lureau had played the role of a father at the Théâtre Comte and he played that part with even more difficulty at home... The household consisted of him, his wife, a little girl in diapers, and an old woman who had adopted him as an orphan. He supported the whole family on an income of 70 francs per month. I have rarely seen such an example of modest and persevering fortitude: he copied scripts for young playwrights at 2 francs, 50 per act, and wrote addresses from the city directory onto grey paper envelopes for 25 centimes per 100. Such a home printing and distribution company was too much for him alone and every morning Murger and I would address a few hundred envelopes in exchange for a cup of café au lait...

Oh! These good people were such poor people!

However, Murger always felt attracted to the Latin Quarter, where I couldn’t allow myself to follow him. That is where he met with 15 or 20 friends every day. They usually gathered at Karol’s place, an attic which was divided into two compartments on Saint-Jacques Street.

The winter of 1840-1841 was forecast to be a long hard one, — perhaps favorable for the good of the earth, but very hard on poets, — and the room on Montholon Street didn’t have a fireplace which would have been a useful furnishing for us on many days. That is why Murger crossed over the bridges to where I had moved out to Rue de La Tour-d’Auvergne.

The Room on La Tour-d’Auvergne Street — Wonderful Years — A New Paper

I have no idea who currently lives in room numbers 1 and 3 on La Tour-d’Auvergne Street; but if the echoes can reverberate after 20 years to repeat the sounds that had been produced, if the memories can be seen from time to time, fluttering around like ghosts or only like dreams emanating from the walls that witnessed them, I would shiver for the wellbeing of the current tenants.

“Take the staircase at the end of the courtyard, to the fifth floor and then the door on the left!” you might say today to the new concierge, like the good Madame Fleury used to say to the concierge, the likes of which no longer exists, or to his daughter Eulalie, a pretty 18 years old brunette similar to those who are still living!

But I will let Murger speak about it:

“It was a room with ceilings so low that a man who was just above average height couldn’t keep his hat on his head. Light shined in through a small window on one side which overlooked the courtyard and from which one could see the silhouette of Montmartre. Another window was located at the back of the room; it was a sliding window that opened onto the gardens of a girls’ boarding school. From there we could see a partial panorama of Paris...” (from Le Bonhomme Jadis)

“Melchior (he called himself Melchior) lived on La Tour-d’Auvergne Street in a room which cost 100 francs where he wrote lyrical poetry...” (from Un Poète de gouttières)

“’I was very suspicious about how it all appeared,’ said one of those skeptics, ‘I used to go to Rodolphe’s meetings on Wednesday when he lived on Tour-d’Auvergne Street. Everyone would sit righteously and drink a little water from mismatched pottery.’” (from L’écu de Charlemagne, Scènes de la Bohème)

I would have to augment these quotations, if only to prove that one could find a room for 100 francs per year — with a fireplace!

After no more than a month, Murger crossed back over the bridges, and we started living in the same household again. Karol had no permanent home other than a tree branch off “Avenue de Saint-Cloud, — the fifth branch in the third tree on the left before leaving the Boulogne Woods.” (from Ali-Rodolphe, ou le Turc par Nécessité ) Ten people could sleep with us there, but not in a bed except for Murger who had brought his.

This was the beginning of our most wonderful years.

The memories and especially the people from that time arrive in droves to fill my mind. Please allow me to pay tribute to all those who have passed away since that time!

Alexandre Bouché, a handsome and dignified young man, a child of Bordeaux who never spoke a lot but when he did spoke quietly, was as calm as a Dutchman. His heart was filled with concern for the welfare of his friends and in turn, he was a loyal and forgiving friend. This poor Alexandre was an author of many happy musicals. He now also rests in the Montmartre cemetery, where Murger followed him... as well as so many others!

Alexandre Bouché, who came to Paris with his childhood friend Millaud, helped me get the job as editor for the judicial publication l’Audience. Murger supplemented the 40 francs he earned each month from Monsieur Tolstoï, by writing news articles Bouché assigned to him for la Gazette de la Jeunesse. We felt rich!

Murger immediately rented a small office in a nearby location for 40 francs per year, which we quickly transformed into our kitchen. I don’t remember now which doctor recommended that we live on grilled or roasted meats. — But, oh what a good doctor he was!

We discovered the smallest extravagances were the best and we promptly returned the office back to the landlord. We had determined that eliminating this expense would cover the cost of our writing paper which sold for nine sous per roll — all bonded!

It was green paper with diamond shaped watermarks; and when the stationer only had enough supply to last an hour, I went, for the first time, accompanied by Murger, and then followed to old Monsieur Guyot’s place as he was an agent for playwrights, and I owned half the rights to a musical entitled la Justice de Paix, which was being performed at the Saint- Marcel Theatre. We went there without much confidence, because Murger reminded me along the way that the audience at the first performance was exclusively composed of the two of us sitting on opposite sides of the first row while my colleague (Desperières) sat in front of the stage, and Alexandre Bouché stood by himself in the orchestra boxes, while six additional people had been assigned by us to clap in the audience. However, the eighteen tickets submitted by that group

had produced (at 4% of the gross receipts) a sum of 27 francs, or 13 francs 50 centimes for my share: all of it was just the price of the tickets plus the gratuity.

Working All Night Long — Black Coffee — Happy Prose, Sad Poetry — Purpura

We have now survived to the year 1841; Murger is no longer the big innocent and naive boy whom I used to know. Deprivation, actual sorrows, and depression based on imagined problems already had hollowed his cheeks and darkened his complexion; his multicolored beard which he lent to the character of Rodolphe began to grow wildly and already defined his appearance. Long nights without sleep were especially dangerous to his health; but for him, his vivacious spirit or his inspiration, whatever you want to call this impulsive creative fever only occurred at night and dissipated at the first light of dawn. Murger was compelled to take advantage of this time; his inner spirit required that he capitalize on his creative thinking! How could sleep compensate him for the cost of neglecting his creative productivity? His satisfaction for the result of his imaginative effectiveness could not be hampered by the need for sleep. He required massive quantities of coffee to quell fatigue!

When Murger was ready to tell his story after the fact, he would do so mockingly through the character of Melchior, the poet of the gutter, posing for the statue of Fate, “pretentiously draping himself in a cloak of holy misery,” devastated by his “reddish complexioned condition, seeking help from the hospital and only wishing for a curable disease that would allow him to sing a hymn to treat his pain on a cot in the Hôtel-Dieu charity hospital.” This Melchior finally ended up working for a stockbroker, “who had a fever of numbers just like he once had a fever of rhymes...”

Can you imagine Murger posing for himself and creating a caricature while he observed himself?

However, portraying himself wasn’t a simple task; it required Murger to see himself as Melchior with a confidence in his abilities, actual talent, and a true calling. He was then what he would later call a tearful poet.

Monsieur Jules Janin, in a recent commentary about Murger, noted, without being able to fully explain himself that while his prose was generally cheerful, his poems were sad. Indeed, most of the poems were written by Murger-Melchior from 1840 à 1844, while the prose can be traced to a flash of inspiration which he referred to in the following terms:

“...In short, I think he (Olivier) has become tired of always counting the same beads on his sad rosary. In the midst of his sorrow, he sometimes experienced flashes of ridicule which appeared far more comical than his feelings of sadness which was more like an echo than the true cry of a deeply afflicted heart...” (from Les Buveurs d'eau — Francis)

But even if there was a little exaggeration in Murger’s verbal or written elegies, his emotions were sincere and his suffering was all too real. As he lay in his hospital bed, he soothed his pride as if he were applying topical medicine to his sores. He himself said, “I am going to die a little bit like Gilbert and Hégésippe Moreau; or perhaps in a different way, like Nunez, the poet of Asturies. I was a poet and now I am here at the hospital; I will forge my own path forward!...” That might have been possible, but the disease was serious and agonizing; his health became progressively worse due to the hardship of living with his illness with the addition of his sleeplessness. Murger’s abuse of coffee really sparked a terrible case of purpura. It was an intermittent eruption which couldn’t be feigned in the manner that Melchior pretended to have a slight dry cough or the first stage of pulmonary tuberculosis. Once a week and at set times, his whole body was covered with purple splotches, and I remember that when he was released from the Saint-Louis hospital, the doctors told him, “Don’t think that you have been cured, your recovery will take a long time and will depend on how well you take care of yourself; you need to abstain from coffee and get plenty of sleep!...” He immediately forgot the advice... In fact, he didn’t see any reason to remember.

That was when he first began to write one or two volumes of fiction; I don’t remember anything about those novels, but they can be found among his papers.

“I invited a friend who is a poet to lunch on Sunday,” he said to me one morning. “His name is Léon Noël. He is your fellow country man; he is from Orleans.”

Indeed, on the following Sunday when Noël arrived, we recognized that we had been classmates together in our hometown, — that had already been a long time ago!

A new friendship began among the three of us. For the next three months we always met each other on La Tour- d’Auvergne Street where it lead to du Fouarre, a small, quiet, and dark street located behind Notre-Dame, between the Place Maubert and the Hôtel-Dieu! The poems we wrote, discussed, and edited piled up as pages in our collection. And although we considered that existing as anonymous poets was beneath our dignity, we concealed our talent, we disguised ourselves as young bourgeois men who roamed around the Ville-d’Avray Woods, — our Ville-d’Avray Woods, — the inevitable destination of our country journeys. Without a doubt, they belonged to everyone on Sundays, but during the week, we were the absolute owners there and it was then that we competed with the chattering birds. Never, perhaps since the course of our lives threw us on our various paths, never did we meet without recalling those good old times:

It’s only just searching through the ashes Of the beautiful days that were consumed, What memories return to us in flashes Providing the key to a lost paradise we assumed

Whenever we talked about those good old times we always had sweet memoriesrof our walks in the Ville-d’Avray Woods; the three of us climbing through the foliage, — each of us in our own tree — improvising a musical, with both the lyrics and the music based on hymns to nature and spring, and very short solos interrupted by duets followed by never ending trios which culminated in choruses full of harmony which thrilled the blonde children on the other side of the Rhine.

Then we climbed down to the foot of our trees and headed to Saint-Cloud, — hunger chased the wolves out of the woods. — On the way we counted the few coins we had in our pockets and asked ourselves a question: Should we spend our money on dinner and walk home, or pay for a carriage to take us home and go to bed hungry?... Nevertheless, we returned home on the train and ate dinner in Paris. None of us three remember how we managed to do that.

XII

The Core of our Artistic Group (The Cenacle) — The Cariatides, de Banville — Proselytizing Skills

I had spoken about — or rather I quoted Murger himself speaking — about his “mania” for buying and for reading all of the volumes of poetry which had the happy privilege of being published. The appearance of one of these volumes was a special event for us; the first publication of Théodore de Banville’s les Cariatides.

If anything can prove the minimum high quality which we used to compare ourselves, to judge our work against other published poets, it was against the kind of amazement we felt after reading Cariatides. All we knew about de Banville at that point was that he was only 19 years old. He was younger than the three of us, and we felt humbled as we recognized the superiority of this successful and vivid poet. Murger believed as I did that our inferiority was obvious and real; Noël claimed more vigorously that his work was invalidated, but I now believe that we were mistaken. Aiming for a superior style, austere descriptions, a broad and abstract configuration, he could nevertheless sense and manage graceful rhythms better than anyone else. But, still in the ideal and Christian sense, he wanted to remain an adherent to the

school of 1825 and he successfully did so. His style was much more classical in the true meaning of the term than he himself actually thought and whose personification was Lamartine; Victor Hugo, with his powerful and spirited personality, had already greatly altered his methods. Perhaps nothing is more likely to demonstrate the danger of isolation, even when accounting for the isolation of a group of two to three, or ten people, in which the first opinion, perpetuated itself and persisted, while gaining in stature within its group, without regard for new ideas to bring improved external expressions. Even when the truth is in focus, it can appear fuzzy or incomplete when one wants to limit its influence by discounting its importance, regardless of its magnitude. This materialistic and profane condition was suddenly revived, this fantasy with a thousand changing subtleties, this all thanks to Ronsard, this worship of color interrupting the stanza with favorable imagesreversed the old Olympus methods of convention already diminished by the poets of the 17th century which reverted to the Greek mythological scholarship such as Ovide and Horace, and all of this was carried out by eminently fine and distinguished talent, in order to dazzle us, and above all, inspire us with awe.

His battle was certainly lost, but did we have to despair during his long fight?

“I absolutely must see this Banville,” Murger told us. “Nadar knows him and will take me to his home.”

Where was Murger introduced to Nadar? I think it was at Noël’s place.

As a matter of fact, one or two years later, we went to Banville’s house along with Baudelaire, Nadar, Vitu, Pierre Dupont, and Vernet the miniaturist.

Not only did Murger collect the work of published poets, but he also collected poems by unpublished poets; he also worked hard to advocate for all of them. For several months, he brought a 20 year old young man to our home who had a basic knowledge of reading and writing which he had learned at a parochial school in his native village, but he certainly had never learned to speak about literature. He delivered newspapers which left his days free. He had started to read a large historical novel — and what a story it was! — He had started the first chapter a hundred times perhaps; but his lack of attention never allowed him to read past the first ten lines. I curiously watched poor R___ who never expressed, either verbally or in writing, anything that appeared to be an original idea, and I didn’t understand why Murger had such stubborn confidence even though he claimed to have discovered a great uncultivated mind. If the situation didn’t seem to fully support Murger’s prediction that R___ had a great future, at least he proved me wrong. In 1845, I learned that R___ had ended up studying theology, and became one of the editors of a religious journal; although we never saw him again. It’s also true that today he plays the clarinet in a regimental corps.

XIII

Sporadic Enthusiasm — A Premonition — The Artificial Night

We observed that Murger was sometimes showed sporadic enthusiasm for painting, music, and even for the less abstract arts such as medicine and surgery. These interests usually lasted two or three months and the result was that he learned more about the subject. Painting, his first love, often came back to him from his past experience, and he would become enthralled by a return of his imagination with relentless passion. He would return to the Louvre to watch his friends who were painters work, and he knew the contents and the layout of the museum batter than anyone. He didn’t study painting, but rather the history of painting and specifically, the history of artists and their famous works; recognizing that he didn’t have sufficient skill to carry out such work. He analyzed the science of art, and he filled his books with his discoveries. And then for the next three months, he would exclusively concentrate on music and write about his thoughts on that subject. He monitored and took note of whatever happened during his stay at the Saint-Louis Hospital including his interactions with his friends among the interns. He had a natural insatiable thirst to observe and know everything which served him well, without him realizing it, to harvest them for the realistic descriptions he would later need for his

books. If you refer to the details of an amputation depicted in les Amours d’Olivier, you will note that every character is accurately described and that every word is used to perfection!

I find the description of lung disease in his novel le Sabot rouge to be very moving as it realistically depicts the foreboding secret terror of those at risk of contracting the ailment.

When he was discharged from the hospital, he was still under the impression that his health was at risk and he wanted to follow the recommendation of the medical staff. He tried to quit drinking coffee which forced him to give up working all night. We imagine he closed the window shutters during the day, caulked his windows to block the sunlight, and lit candles to mislead his Muse into thinking he was working at night. Sadly, this scheme to simulate night was not successful; Murger still sensed the daylight even though he couldn’t see it; he still heard the sounds of the population’s normal activity from outside his garret, and was aware that in spite of the darkness that surrounded him, it was actually daytime. We no longer saw the brightness of the day and we tried not to hear the sounds made during the day by people and machinery moving, although we did feel them outside. Our instinct, or if you like, our habit was to avoid being fooled by schoolboy tricks.

Until the very end, Murger worked all night long, and day never started for him until two o’clock in the afternoon.

I just finished reading the volumes of poems that were published after he was overtaken by death. It includes Le Testament which is a brand new piece as well as works previously published in other journals. When he reviewed his older works for inclusion in this volume, he had to realize, at least unconsciously that many of his writings had a sad tone to them. His elegiac poems now appeared spiritual to him, the sensibility had become ironic; but the sprit was sad and the irony was bitter.

In September 1841, it was my turn to become seriously ill, and for about eight to ten days, Murger never left my bedside; then when my uncertain recuperation at least gave me the strength to go to the countryside for rest and a full recovery, on the recommendation of Madame Fleury the concierge, the landlord (whose name I never knew) agreed to accept Murger in place of me in the lease, making him sole holder of the lease and the rightful owner of the 25 francs to be refunded at the expiration of the current lease and any other future terms.

I’m surprised I can’t find any letters from Murger regarding this arrangement. I seem to vaguely recall giving them back to him five or six years ago when he developed the project to prepare his autobiography. I regret that they weren’t found among his other papers because they would have allowed me to include some more interesting information besides my faded memories that have so quickly been mixed together.

XIV

The Watchmen — How the Society of Water Drinkers Was Formed

The Society of Water Drinkers was founded when I returned from the countryside in December.

I often went to visit Murger at his home during the evening and I always found many meetings taking place there. Most of our friends left the meetings by midnight, but four of five stayed behind to watch and tend to the communal fire that had been set to provide us with light. Madame Fleury knew all of us, and she believed that any garret tenant had the right as a rent paying tenant to entertain his guests regardless of the number at any time he wanted whether it was during the day or at night.

However, we did not take advantage of her liberal permissiveness!

Truthfully, we were never heard singing loudly or shouting. Our discussions were always friendly and although it was sometimes animated, it was also noisy enough to attract the ire of the neighbors. Every individual was different, each with their own feelings, tastes, manner, and appearance, but joined together, we all became, without calculation and without premeditation, the obedient parts of a single intellect whose sole concern was art. The essence of the general conversation, theory, or criticism was never debated, but from time to time, one or the other would be singled out in consideration of his own work.

Those are words that sound a little bold and pompous; but what else would you expect me to say? It is my sole justification — and I will repeat it to my heart’s satisfaction — we were convinced that we were right.

There was J. Desbrosses (Christ) outlining his plans for designing monuments and statues; there was his brother (le Gothique) developing various methods for painting landscapes, there was... there was all of them criticizing each other, judging each other and especially helping each other.

I thought I noticed several times that my presence disturbed the harmony of this group. It seemed to me that I heard conversation where the subject was abruptly changed to avoid the issue being discussed when my presence was noted, and words were used to disguise the original intent of the speaker; and everybody, except for me seemed to understand the meaning of these innuendoes. I wasn’t alarmed or concerned at first because Murger and Noël were my true fiends; the others were essentially friends of Noël and Murger, but were just acquaintances and fellow members to me. However, the situation annoyed me and I stopped my evening visits. Within a week, my absence must have been noticed, because Murger formally invited me to attend the meetings — on behalf of all the others — to visit at his house that very evening to hear them tell me something important.

I attended the meeting at the appointed hour, and the Cénacle was fully represented: the president (Noël) was behind the table sitting in the only chair with a backrest; to his right sat Murger, the secretary, and to his left was Christ, the sectary treasurer!

After I agreed to never divulge any information about the proceedings that took place during the meeting, Murger explained the origin and goals of the Society of Water Drinkers, spelled out the rules of the organization, and familiarized me with the oath I would take if I accepted membership. Initiation into the society didn’t require any type of bizarre ceremony, no humiliating commitments, no parade of ridiculous emblems, and contrary to what has been previously published in order to ridicule the group; the procedure to become a member was very simple, — it was so easy that I am surprised when I look back on it now.

Literary Accomplishments — Imaginary Adventures of Real Characters — Christ — One Obsession — Champfleury — Final Encounters — With the Young People in School

I have satisfactorily stated that most of the books written by Murger — especially the first ones — were inspired by his memories. However, it would be wrong to assume that all the events actually took place or that all the people described are completely accurate. It would be more correct to say that he created stories about incidents and situations based on his memories of actual events. He modified the personalities of the characters based on the requirements of the framework for his story. For example, the characters of Melchior, Olivier and Rodolphe are all based on Murger, but none of them individually exactly portray his specific qualities. The character of the painter Lazare is very much like the actual Karol, but I don’t think he was actually in any of the situations described in Murger’s novels; the scene that seems to me to have most likely happened involving Karol was the night time meeting between Lazare and Olivier at the market in Voir les Amours d'Olivier.

Jacques D___, from Manchon de Francine, Antoine, and the man with one glove from Buveurs d'eau, all well represent our poor friend Christ, with his strict loyalty, his strong conscience, his intense thoughtfulness, the calm courage and faith, the one whom Murger wrote, “died in the hospital, without the ugly grimace of death on his face.”

Here is a memory of this good Desbrosses:

I don’t know what vague hope of millions he had received from America. He had quickly developed a plan for a special community of worn out Bohemians: a shelter designed for their needs including dormitories, a dining hall, quiet comfortable rooms where poets could write, studios for sculptors, lofts for painters, staircases decorated with inspirational sculptures and so forth. No detail was missing. There would be kitchens for individuals to experiment with cooking! Everyone would have chores assigned to them throughout the day; everything had been arranged and agreed upon… then he obtained an estimate for everything:

“I will never have enough!” he cried with innocent despair.

It will likely be noticed that three stories recreated a similar idea: in Manchon de Francine, Jacques D___, sees his beloved mistress die and tries to replace her with a poor girl he found somewhere who looks like the dead woman. He dresses her in the same clothes, he has her arrange her hair in the same style, he takes her to the same woods, to the same places where he went with Francine, and he seems to become exhausted due to the efforts he made to bring the illusion to life. This is similar to what Count Ulric de Rouvres did in le Souper des Funérailles, in the same way that Édouard, from Pays Latin, who also urged Marianne to change her rich country nature into the mold of a syrupy and aristocratic type of mistress who is abandoned and whose loss is then mourned.

Is this preoccupation, which recurs in three of his books with the persistence of a cherished dream also a memory from his life experience? It’s certainly possible. While I don’t know for sure, I believe it is.

At the beginning of 1844, Murger finally moved out of his room on La Tour-d’Auvergne Street and went to live with Champfleury. Champfleury, following so many others, advised him to give up writing unprofitable poetry and devote his time to writing prose. His advice was sound and Murger’s future success would prove it.

We had separated and scattered, but we were still united as one.

I remember many of our meetings with happiness; I will just recount two of them:

I felt someone trying to stop me on the boulevard at the corner of Drouot Street: I turned around and saw Murger all out of breath; he had noticed me and had run after me for a few minutes.

“Where have you been hiding?” he asked me. “You are impossible to find; we never see you anymore. I learned yesterday by chance that you were in rehearsals at the Théâtre-Français; I went to see Arsène Houssaye this morning and I explained your situation to him. I don’t need to consult you for this; the administration agreed to advance you 500 francs based on your play; all you have to do is go and submit the receipts for your expenses, it has all been arranged! I was looking for you everywhere tonight to inform you. Farewell, old man! Come see me some time, or at least send me your address!”

A few months later, the play premiered at the Odéon. At the end of the performance, Murger came to shake my hand. I learned he had spent the day visiting with all the critics who reviewed the opening day show.

I discovered that fact by chance a month later!

......

A delegation of eighty young people from the schools joined the two thousand writers and artists who led the procession of Murger’s body to the Montmartre Cemetery. I don’t know whether the newspaper articles noted it, but regardless, it

was good that the art students knew that three of Murger’s old best friends were holding arms in solidarity behind the hearse and thanking them from the bottom of their hearts.

XVI

The Mule — A Moral — Youth Only Has a Short Time — The Raft Of Shipwrecked Bohemians — The Longest Way — Unpleasant Chances — Misplaced Remorse — The Shepherds And the Flocks

A soldier on leave who was a cavalryman with the African Hunters Division told me one day that he had left Algiers with his regiment for an expedition to Kabylie. They had completed several legs of the journey traveling on those remarkable Arabian horses and they dismounted before they had even seen the enemy. In such an instance, a man on foot is useless; the soldier was ordered to retreat, which he was forced to do without his horse and while carrying all his weapons, equipment, and rations for three days while either sleeping in the open desert or accepting shelter in a Bedouin’s tent. He was still a long way from Algiers when he found a mule abandoned by its owner in the desert. The poor beast was exhausted and only seemed to have a few days to live, but it could still walk, if only by habit rather than by choice. The soldier loaded his burden onto the mule’s back and the animal walked slowly and painfully until the city was in sight.

“It was then,” said the soldier, “I thought of the poor appearance my company would make as we walked through the street. I was worried that my comrades at the barracks would make fun of me and I would be the joke of the regiment. I ignored either possibility, loaded my equipment back onto my back, and giving my skeleton of a mule a strong push with my foot, sent it down a ravine that bordered the road...”

Everyone has a different degree of sensitivity and sentiment and will judge this story based on their temperament — I have had several dreams about that poor mule. I dreamed about his sad round eyes which seemed to say to its torturer, “Why?”

Murger had returned and he was justly proud of the success he had achieved while facing a thousand obstacles, inadequate training, hunger, disease, and great sadness. Murger, ceaselessly and ruthlessly judging himself, struggled over the aspirations and idealistic daring of his youth, verbally attacked himself with judgmental assertions, sometimes with a rain of scorching witticisms full of irony. This Murger didn’t appear to be an ungrateful rider as he didn’t kick at the side of his mule. Could it have been that he treated the mule better than he behaved toward himself?

I’m not saying this as a criticism of him but rather out of regret.

Murger was just like the character of Melchior, just as he was later like the tender and fragile Olivier, and even still later like Rodolphe the skeptic; because Rodolphe really loved Mademoiselle Mimi passionately; but he had already used reason to analyze his love and determined that his emotion was pointless, if not actually dangerous!

Next, read the poem, “Youth Has But a Short Time” from the final chapter of Scènes de la Bohème. The message from the title of the poem is a moral which has been bluntly included in all these pieces from his heart which were deployed with conviction. This message was scattered throughout his stories and compiled to produce the book. After you read the book, you will realize that Murger no longer wanted to be like Rodolphe; the Rodolphe who had ridiculed Melchior, the Rodolphe who appeared indifferent when he recalled Olivier sobbing, the Rodolphe already full of the intensity in his heart that when Mademoiselle Mimi died, he cried, “It is my youth which is being buried!”

No! From then on he didn’t even want to be that Rodolphe, just as Rodolphe no longer wanted to be Olivier, even as Olivier no longer wanted to be Melchior.

As you read the last chapter, you will see a sad fiasco unfolding: the Bohemian raft has cracked on all sides and has started to fall apart; the poetry, the love, the faith, and the courageous happiness has been shipwrecked and any survivors quickly swam back to the shore; the Bohemians arrived at the shore feeling numb; it appeared their immersion in the cold waters had a sobering effect on them.

It has been one year since Mimi died, only one year, no more than that: Rodolphe sits in his chair, his feet firmly on the rug; Marcel is running a legitimate commercial workshop, he fulfills the orders he receives. Schaunard sells his albums at a ridiculously low price, Colline receives an inheritance and gets married for reasons of financial advantage, and Musette becomes a part of the bourgeoisie!

How surprising that all of this could have taken place within one year! All four of these people, all four of them changed without any collaboration between them! Be careful as you read the last chapter because it really doesn’t describe a happy ending; it simply ends the story abruptly.

Did they all emerge from the misery of Bohemian life by wisely investing in the stock market? That was not it at all; the answer is an unfortunate one!

Marcel sold a painting to a rich Englishman who had once been Musette’s lover.

Musette married a postmaster who had been her last lover’s patron!

This may all seem too coincidental to be true! But it really is true!

“We are done, old friend! I have compromised myself,” said Marcel, who found no joy in going to dinner for 12 sous only to relive old memories at the restaurant on Fourth Street where they used to gather.

The only thing Rodolphe offered with his invitation to dinner was empty talk — an attempt to prove to his friend that their past had some meaning!

Therefore, you have been hiding in the shadows; your interpretation of the last chapter has proven that you are naive, or you have created a spectacle in your mind for the onlookers, or have you taken the longest path to find the solution? This mental journey required you to spend a lot of energy. All of your struggles, your efforts, and your pain has not widened your mind, did not forget your heart, and did not expand your horizons. Did all of this do anything for your destiny? It was your responsibility to immediately understand the implications correctly, but your mistake caused you to be happier but not wiser!

Yes, this is what the chapter said with its cruel brevity, and the preface said the same thing with the addition of a cautionary instruction.

Without a doubt, Bohemian life had to come to an end. It couldn’t serve as a goal but only as a means to an end, — and it must be remembered that most people from this group had known of no other calling! Of course, when one begins his journey, the purpose is to arrive at a predetermined destination, and it was essential to declare and to prove that a carefree life of audacity would perhaps lead to the anticipated glorious future, but at the very least, the life attained will always be an honorable one.

But when the effort is successfully carried out by taking risky chances, it defeats the purpose of the poem’s meaning.

Why don’t we allow ourselves to pity those who died along the way? Why do we feel the need to mock those who failed? Why must we glorify our success?

In spite of all the gradations of Bohemians which Murger classified in his preface, I only recognize two types: those who in good faith believe in their art, and the posers who only pretend to believe in it. As for the latter, there is no possible

way to defend them or to persuade them to change, since they don’t want to be defended or persuaded. Any attempt to manipulate the truth in their favor would be a waste of time. When it comes to the former, how does one begin to determine whether an individual has the potential to succeed and when he is merely deceiving himself? Each person has the freedom to decide for themselves; their instinct will know better than your wisdom and experience to balance the positive and the negative!

This sudden contradiction, in Murger’s case, was neither due to his disillusionment nor an internal preoccupation; rather it was because of his gentle character and his sense of faith. His short stories were published individually to serve as portraits of behavioral traditions and therefore couldn’t serve the objective to establish a theory or to support a particular point of view. Finding them compiled and assembled together into a single body of work changed the overall meaning in a way that undoubtedly disturbed Murger. The story of this Bohemian, hungry to spread good will, who died in the hospital one fine day after earning over 10,000 francs, is not completely fiction; the facts were only slightly embellished. Murger most likely believed he should criticize the premise of such a book full of dangerous deceptions which could mislead the youths in a family, the poor devils who would be led astray by their pride, and who would, at the least, discover that they had wasted their time if not their health, their future, and sometimes lose their lives in this hellish lifestyle.

Murger started his publishing career with the false assumption that all books were produced primarily for use in schools and for teaching — as if every book was like the classroom classic ad usum Delphini. That’s simply not true! Let us set aside the truths found in literature such as what is in children’s author Berquin’s books in order to promote modern morality; books are made for men; the truth may sometimes be dreadful but it is valuable and necessary nevertheless, just like the surgeon’s scalpel can appear frightening but can perform miracles.

We must be fair about his bashfulness after the book was published and became well known because the backlash of complaints that his conclusion had been irresponsible made him feel that he had to take responsibility. His attempt to defend himself and his work, which he carefully tailored, made the issue even more prominent. Was this controversy caused b his actions alone?

A personality suddenly emerged from the crowd to take charge and immediately set off an alarm bell that attracted popular guidance disguised as gentle praise. Don’t many people worry about independent thoughts and don’t they only want to define virtue as a figure of a eunuch? Aren’t these the same people who regret not having their voice heard before creation, and believing they are wiser than nature, claim the right to trim and correct it as they see fit?

For those, humanity is certainly a mistake. Its primitive instincts, its passions are simply deformities which grow as each individual progresses and from all the achievements of every successive generation. They believe that all passion must be suppressed, which for human beings are the warmth, the inspiration, and life itself; they believe emotional feelings must be completely eliminated, because they sometimes cause dangerous outbursts. Is this an accident or a crime? What remarkable logic they use! They also believe that we must eliminate all reasoning because it can lead the mind astray; the fire of our hearths must be extinguished because it can burn down the house; the river must be drained because it might overflow; the ocean must be filled in with dirt because someone could drown one day! They would have you believe that an unfeeling machine would be the perfect replacement. Flocks would be easier to herd and the shepherds would be happier!

Murger happened to meet some of these caring advisors who told him, “You need to watch out for yourself! Now that you have made it, you need to look around and understand that your interests are no longer the same! You are like a shepherd now that you are one of us: don’t look ridiculous by leading the chorus of piteous bleats. Your success has proven that you have a distinguished mind — don’t allow your voice to be joined with the common fervor!

In fact, if the man dared to strongly disagree with other people’s opinions, he would likely require solid fortitude to resign himself to promote his own opinion to everyone.

It would be as if a commonplace truth ceased to be true because of such meekness!

I believe that it is more true that this outside influence he encountered caused him to hesitate before proceeding to his new way of thinking. Often, when he was facing the strongest criticism, he would become indecisive and venture to edit his work accordingly; finally, as he became tired of this fight against himself, he once and for all put aside the opinions of other poets and artists while choosing how to portray his characters far away from Paris and the garrets.

Let me suggest that once he spent time away from all other influences, he would decide to add one word, only one, to a poem which had taken him six months to complete, but which he had lived with for ten years!

______

PART TWO

The Path and the Main Road — The Important Journals and the Minor Publications — First Glimpses of Murger’s Humorous Personality: The Abduction of Helen and the Siege of Troy

Although a large number of people could say as they saw Murger’s coffin pass by them, “There is a little bit of our youth going away,” we likely thought more than most of the others understood that really was true since we were the ones who had lived as youths often under the same roof as him, and often sat at the same table with the friend who had just left us.

The life of a man is both short and generously long. The 15 or 20 years that I can cover in these memories will affect many centuries. — “Doesn’t it seem to you, as it does to me, that you have lived many times?” Murger asked me one day when we were talking about our youth. And yet, like me, regardless of his age, he always felt like he was the same man. In fact, even if the man himself doesn’t feel like he changes very much over the years, his existence is composed of several distinct phases: new experiences take you and lead you to other places, make you take on other adventures, and cause you to change plans many times. Some men falter and others rise to the challenge — Murger was one of the latter.

Many of us immediately accepted that he had this attribute, allowing us to perceive his situation as positive regardless of the facts, gradually considering that we should follow in his path — without knowing where it would lead us — although believing that we were taking the high road that would likely lead to success. The rest of us have long since seen his success as proof.

However, our opinion of him proved to be more justified than one might think. When we first saw Murger in charge of publishing small newspapers, many feared the quality of the journal would be diminished because he would lose his sense for the necessary thoughtful and careful work. Indeed, this was the pitfall which caused others to fail. But instead of allowing the quality of these publications to falter, due to the special nature of his character, Murger parlayed his artistic talent to gain a foothold on this work and instead of what many people feared, he was able to succeed which became a key element for his future fame. While many major publications would have been wary of taking a chance on someone like Murger based on traditional thought, the smaller journals greeted him hands down. It turned out that he brought a real originality to his work and that the most important publications would soon compete to obtain his services.

It was when we were together — in February or March 1843 — that he cast the first glimmer of his humorous personality, and he could foresee the path he would have to follow.

Up until that point, he had entirely devoted himself to the worship of his strict muse, laboriously revising and constantly polishing lines of his poetry. He was so absorbed in his work that no one, not even himself, ever thought he would achieve his perfect fantasy of idea and form; work that was captivating, colorful and mesmerizing to the eye, which he has since achieved.

One night, we helped him finish a project assigned by his boss. At the time, Murger was essentially working at Monsieur de Tolstoï’s house as his secretary. The secretary had been asked to color a few thousand strategic maps; needless to say, this meticulous task had been deferred every day for two months. That night, his heart obviously buoyed by his friends’ assistance, Murger was transformed into an outlandishly cheerful person and he began to tell us the most fantastic things in a ridiculously graphic style which he later adapted when he was writing les Scènes de la Bohème. He finally composed the most breathtaking fireworks of wit and words that he ever formed in his mind, even during the best

days of his career. For three hours, he spewed strings of words that packed a wallop, exploding like fireworks, bright as the sun, and pouring with rain of fire.

We were dazzled and deafened by it all, — to the point that we had to spend an additional night to finish coloring the maps.

However, this circumstance wasn’t new, far from it. To be precise, it was only a minor feature of an outrageous comedy in an epic poem dating to back considerably to antiquity and disguised as literature of the future. It might make one envision Homer in the role of Schaunard. That was an exact comparison. Murger was rewriting the Iliad in his own manner. For three hours, he wrote a revised version of the Kidnapping of Helen and the Siege of Troy in between bursts of frantic laughter.

Murger’s true genius was revealed to us for the first time:

“Ah Murger,” I yelled at him once I was convinced. “Murger, I beg you to quit writing any more poetry!”

He didn’t pay any attention to my advice for another year or two later until others also made the same suggestion.

Why Murger Didn’t Join the Navy — Letters From a Water Drinker — The First Exposition of Three Painters Who Have Since Become Famous

Some of his biographers believe that the literary tastes during Murger’s time were not conducive to his style and made the start of his career difficult.

As we impartially judge his situation twenty years later, we honestly do not think that is the case.

We were with him and worked with him as he developed his work. He learned how to use language to make his voice heard as well as we knew how to do so, and to accomplish the gathering of his ideas, impressions, and memories which benefitted him later as he employed this in his work.

Did our constant encouragement and strong support when he met with failure not count for anything towards his success?

If it hadn’t been for us, Murger — at twenty two years old — would have enlisted in the navy.

Besides, it wasn’t and it couldn’t be his destiny; his intent was due to the influence of bad company who spoke and wrote about it to each other like we are going to tell:

“... Have you been sleeping? I expected that. For the past few months, everyone who I love, all of them, seem to have been undergoing a metamorphosis. I truly no longer understand anything. A sense of melancholy has taken over us and some sort of magnetic beam has pulled you over there to our curse. As for me, I am in my Saint-Louis cell (the hospital), and I have suffered greatly knowing that everything is dying outside while not being able to shake the sleepers awake and build up their courage. It sometimes seemed to me that everything would have progressed well if I had been free; I called on you with the most sincere commitment to come out of it, despite all my shortcomings, to restore life to our poor family where everything was dying, even friendship. But it was all for naught! Now you yourself are suffering from this common disease. Come on and stand up! Do it now because I’m finally leaving my cell. I also shouted, “Get up!” to the

others and I’m happy to announce that all of these snorers are alive and productive across the line once again. Everyone woke up, even our good big fat Murger, who was the sleepiest of them all. Don’t you want to wake up too?”

Joseph Desbrosses

“... Villain, Chintreuil, Tabar, and the Gothic all had a great deal of trouble completing their work for the Salon; you can easily suspect the reason. They all were finally able to succeed thanks to increasing their willpower which you will appreciate as much as I do. Their paintings were shipped yesterday. Will they be accepted for the Salon? That is the question everyone asks themselves. Some good things happen at the Salon; but the judges are like God and unfortunately, the Water Drinkers aren’t his prophets. There is a good chance, after all, that this time the judges might inadvertently put good lenses in their glasses. In any case, we have prepared ourselves for any contingency and failure will not take us by surprise. We have built up an ample supply of courage; we can develop even more if we encounter disappointment. For their part, Murger, Lelioux, and your commentator don’t waste their time while waiting for the results either. Lelioux finished the third act of his play, and Murger gave birth to a great poem while we waited for the results. As far as I am concerned, you will have to allow me to keep silent about the unfinished product of my wild imagination, as I intend to surprise you when I let you judge it firsthand. At any rate, we all continue to work; and what about you? I understand that your isolation is a terrible experience, but I also understand that you must overcome it all and triumph. You don’t have the right to give up and sit back. Get back to work and don’t be a big coward! You have told me you feel a great deal of doubt. Ah, what a word! It isn’t permissible to have any doubt. No, no, God doesn’t allow the enterprising blow of time to extinguish everyone’s spirit and to numb every heart. Come, my friend, have faith in yourself and in us! Let’s walk ahead together! Let’s walk without looking back! There will always be new ones who emerge in front of us. Let’s follow them! And when they fall, we will continue moving forward! We must always move forward. All of those who fall are dead, and in this race the dead can’t be allowed to delay the living.”

Joseph Desbrosses

III

Murger and His Big Heart Strings — Rumors and Reflections. — Murger; His Family and His Birth — The Young Flower’s First Loves — The Hard Mountain Man — The Garcia Family — Murger as an Errand Boy At the Lawyer’s Office — He Wants to be a Painter — He Leaves the Brush For the Pen — His Father’s Rage

The same biographers that we spoke of earlier appeared to imply that Murger lashed out at us when he left our group; that he pushed us away. — Murger was not the kind of man who would violently reject us or anyone else. Was this an attribute or was it one of his flaws? He gradually allowed himself to draw away based on the circumstances that motivated him, toward the simplest path that appealed to him, and if, one fine day, he indeed found that he had strayed far away from us; he found it difficult to understand what led to this separation.

Besides, perhaps the pull from the strong strings of his heart for his home weren’t quite as strong as everyone might have desired. Murger sometimes didn’t show the best judgment when it came to his feelings, or even when it came to his passions. He could quickly become enthusiastic about random ideas, but he was insecure about his impulses and he could easily change his mind based on those who influenced him; to the point that at first sight, his actions seemed to be driven by rumors that were reflected in his mind.

However, he had a marked personality, but one of those gentle, naive, and childish personalities, without stubborn viewpoints and he was completely flexible, which never hurt anyone.

Murger, as his name indicated, was of German heritage, although his father was born in Savoy.

By the time Murger’s father was 20 years old, Savoy was as French as it is now; therefore he served in the military during the First Empire. — After 1815, and in fact wanting to remain a French citizen, the young man from Savoy moved to Paris to work his trade as a tailor. A few years later he married a Parisian who was a common worker like him. Their small household was established in a janitor’s room at Number 5 on Rue des Trois-Frères.

Henri Murger was the offspring of this marriage, born in March or April 1922. He was an only child!

His mother, very proud of little Henri, whose chubby beauty was famous throughout the neighborhood, brought him up to become a future gentleman; she dreamed for him to have a destiny other than sitting cross legged at a workbench.

Here is how Murger described this phase of his life, from his sweet little novel, Les Premières Amours du Jeune Bluet, an autobiographical narrative, just like so many of his books:

“Bluet was the only child of hardworking craftsmen. His early years passed in the grip of those cruel diseases which decimated many in childhood; only God knew the tears and sleepless nights spent by his mother. Additionally, because of her special care, she was able to place her child on a good foundation, allowing him to live in a manner superior to most poor children. Bluet was spoiled beyond measure; all of his whims were fulfilled in what was really unhealthy with all his wishes granted as if it were law. His mother had no other concern other than to determine his needs and she satisfied his happiness at great cost which she hid from her husband. She ensured that the clothes he wore was superior to his friends which distinguished him from other children in his class; the honorable woman was obsessed with making sure that her son would not have to earn his living through the sweat from menial labor; she eliminated any notion such a fate would befall him and he never considered such an outcome.”

But the boy’s father didn’t see him in the same way. He believed that while his wife could dream, the husband had to consider the boy’s future in a realistic manner. Monsieur Murger aimed to see that his son became a common worker, just like himself. It seems he didn’t have the same accommodating manner of his wife; the strong mountain man of Savoy was rather hard on his son and the young Henri was often in tears during the family arguments concerning how he should be raised.

Henri Murger was really what we called a beautiful child. After enduring a phase of diseases as previously mentioned, he experienced robust health. With his chubby body and plump cheeks, he possessed the freshness of a carnation which was rare among Parisian children. Additionally, among all the tenants of his apartment, he attracted everyone to caress him and to give him treats. Now, it so happened that in this apartment complex on Rue des Trois-Frères, there lived two illustrious families of artists. These were the Garcia family, and I also believe there was the Lablache family. The matrons of both families pampered the poor child of their poor janitor. From this first contact Murger always felt special. It was during this time of his childhood, spent in an elegant and graceful world, that he owed, at least in part, his graceful and exquisitly spiritual talent. Perhaps it could also be said that this is how he gained his tender side. It was in this environment that he felt his heart beating with love for the first time, — it was a childlike love, but very real at heart, that greatly affected certain people. It may be that the love little Bluet experienced with Mademoiselle B___ gave him the inspiration for the melancholy and sentimental characteristics of Mimi and Musette.

Regardless of his mother’s aspirations, Murger seemed destined to become a common worker. His only education was from a small primary school, and when he left the school, at about the age of 14, he may have had pretty handwriting, but he was also afflicted with poor grammar and even worse spelling skills. His mother, however, won the argument with her husband to not make her son enter a technical apprenticeship, and instead she placed him as a clerk with an attorney. There he meet the Bisson brothers, two young boys his own age who were like him and they soon become his friends.

The Bisson brothers— Pierre and Émile, — whose education was as poor as his, lived in a house inhabited by several painters. As a result of their close living arrangement, no doubt, they had all developed the same ideas about art which they shared with their new friend. In the evening, when they left the attorney’s office, they each carried a sketchbook under their arms and ran to draw at the nearest free art school.

It didn’t take Murger long to be convinced that he was heading in the wrong direction. Since art didn’t allow him to properly express himself, he needed to find another outlet; he chose the pen.

He dreamed of writing nothing other than poetry, which is how all literary beginners start.

Within his uneducated circle, his underdeveloped works were bound to have an effect and they did; even with the elder Monsieur Murger, who was surprised one day by his son’s poetic scribbling and asked him what all the nonsense meant. After hearing his son’s explanation, the tailor responded that the little poet clerk needed to immediately make better use of his time or the pen in his hand would be replaced with a needle and thread. As one would expect, Henri didn’t care to obey; but he became much more cautious, and carefully hid the output of his muse under stacks of watermarked paper.

Monsieur de Jouy and Count Tolstoï — Murger Working as a Secretary for 40 Francs Per Month — His First Love Plays Out, Like All First Loves — Murger’s Entry to Bohemia

This is the point where he first met Lelioux and Pottier.

However he had resigned his position with the attorney, — poetry and legal arguments don’t go together, and poor Murger momentarily found himself under duress by his father over his unemployment. It was much too late for him to take up a trade. Fortunately, one of the tenants where he lived heard about a job that agreed with the young man’s interests and aptitude. This tenant was none other than the old man named de Jouy, the academician and the author of l’Ermite de la Chaus-sèe-d’Antin. The end result was that sometime in 1839 or 1840, Murger, was employed by Count Tolstoï as his secretary. His good and tender mother died. The good tailor, who rented a garret on the sixth floor for his son, continued to pay for his lodging as well as his food but charged him 30 francs per month.

But we all must count on the emergence of human passion. Puberty starts early with all poets. Murger fell in love. This first love, the only real one he was involved in that I know of, didn’t take long to consume him. Murger started to come home late and his father reprimanded him. He returned home even later and his father grew angrier. Then one night, he didn’t come home at all, and the following day, he father threw him out of the house. Crazy due to love, Murger uttered a sad lament with the full force of his heart, but he never batted an eye and went straight to his friend Lelioux’s house.

However, Murger opened a deep abyss when he broke the relationship with his father and he was soon going to fall to the bottom. With the support of his father, he never knew real need and was able to deceive himself about his poor financial situation; but when he was completely dependent on himself, he knew more than just simple poverty, more than destitution, but with all the horrible experiences which such misery brings, — he understood that due to his Bohemian existence, certain times were going to be extremely sinister and dark, but he still had many sunny days.

Yesterday’s Youth and Today’s Youth — Olivier’s Loves — The Mistress and the Friend — Murger’s First Stay in the Hospital

I don’t know whether today’s young people are similar to how we once were; I would like to believe that they are. In our day, friendships were formed quickly and were bonded by good will. We would be introduced to one another in the morning and by that evening, we felt free to lend each other our last penny, to share our last piece of bread, or our last pipe of tobacco. Everyone’s wallet, whether large or small, was shared among everyone, just like the roof over one’s head and the food at one’s table. That is why no one in our community was ever without refuge; no one was ever hungry unless everyone was hungry and we were all starving.

We suffered together and we were happy together; we shared laughter and tears. If the true meaning of the word fraternity could be applied to a group of men, it would have been applied to us. We were thrice blessed with our young age, our fresh hearts, and our innocent spirit.

However, there came a time when one of us lost sight of the bond that linked us together with poor Murger. — Les Amours d'Olivier, which is a part of Scènes de la Vie de Jeunesse, is nothing less than an account of this blow to friendship.

Murger’s first love was a 24 year old woman who was married to a rather unpleasant 55 year old man. Murger referred to him as Monsieur Duchampy; let’s go ahead and use that name. As it was described, “Monsieur Duchampy only loved his wife if she remained a submissive and quiet being, — someone he could unleash his anger at for recreation, — when he had lost a fortune while gambling. — Olivier’s devotion to her, on the other hand, served as an excuse to escape from the stress of his household and he appeared to others like a shameful womanizer.”

“Marie’s love affair with Olivier lasted 18 months and during that time, they never strayed from their pure passion. By the end of this time, excessive gambling loses complicated by acts of forgery placed Monsieur Duchampy into a dangerous situation. He was forced to flee to England to avoid prosecution. His wife remained in Paris without any support or resources. Olivier, who until then only stayed with Marie until the start of the evening, began to stay overnight with her. It was a winter night — one of those endless nights, so long and hard for the poor but so short and sweet for those who could place their arms around the neck of beloved woman. But they had a rude awakening on this particular night. Madame Duchampy was warned that she was going to be prosecuted as an accomplice of her husband and had been linked to a group of suspicious people. Realizing his mistress’ freedom was at stake, and without thinking for a moment that he could implicate himself by concealing her from the authorities who sought to arrest her, Olivier attempted to save the woman who depended on him alone for support. — Since he couldn’t hide her at his father’s house where he lived, Olivier thought of a young painter who was one of his friends. In addition to a studio where he worked, the painter also rented a room in a nearby neighborhood which he only used for sleeping. — Urbain agreed to allow Olivier to use the room as a hideout for his mistress. Urbain sometimes came to visit the two lovers during the evening. — After several visits, he returned one day while Olivier was gone, and he spent a long time visiting with Marie; he came back to visit her the next day as well as the day after. When Olivier came home in the evening after three days, he discovered no one was in the room — Marie had gone, leaving Olivier a very terse letter.”

“The letter explained that the location of her hideout had been compromised and she left to hide with a relative. Olivier didn’t know the relative. Marie implored him not to jeopardize her safety by trying to find her and made an appointment to meet him eight days later in the evening at Saint-Sulpice Square.”

“Olivier ran to Urbain’s studio to tell him what happened.”

“The painter appeared embarrassed when he heard the news...”

Alas, yes! Urbain had taken Marie from Olivier.

Murger had been deceived by the friend whom he had entrusted his mistress.

From that day, Murger’s gentleness was tinged with the irony of fate; his cheerfulness turned sad, and his laughter was mixed with tears.

He had learned a valuable life lesson.

The winter of 1841 ended with that event. Two or three months later, Murger, suffering from grief and deprivation, was admitted to the hospital for the first time. He ended up going to the hospital many times after that episode!

Correspondence and Unpublished Poems

His existence from that time and going forward was very hard and bleak! He has told us through his work about his difficult life by describing all his adventures, joys, pain, pleasures, and sorrows.

When he was released from the hospital in August, he began to correspond with one of us who had retired to the country. A sample of this correspondence follows for the reader of this book.

It should be noted that the content of this correspondence is often unrefined, almost always in a primitive style of a very young man. His approach became stronger and more sharpened over time.

Paris, August 28, 1841

My dear friend,

Since I haven’t received any letters from you, I decided to initiate the antagonism….

I learned from G___ that Karol had experienced and survived all the obstacles that life had to offer, which proves he has everything it takes to become like Napoleon, — the love of glory, feeling greatness, aptitude for..., etc., etc.; but it seems he has no more talent for poetry in his head than the number of gold coins I have in my pocket. S___ has written a poem that represents a great deal of progress. As for me, I don’t work very hard. I’m having difficulty finishing my latest work; I want it to conclude with multiple layers of complexities which makes it time consuming to complete. I work on it almost every night and the next day, I scratch out everything I wrote the night before because I realize I have strayed from my original intent. Am I right or wrong to persist?

______

September 18, 1841

Well now! Have you been doing well? I can report that I am terribly troubled in Paris. I haven’t been able to work since A. Lelioux left and I don’t have a penny which makes it very difficult to live well. Besides, I’m waiting for the Czar’s answer to my request. My major supporter is leaving for London at the end of the month and if I receive a response from Russia by then, I will only be making a quick visit to your house. Oh, the countryside! To be out in the country! What joy it brings me! I’m so in love with it that I go for a walk there every Saturday with Desbrosses and I don’t come back until the next day. That is how I learned to appreciate a real starry sky. Today is Saturday and we’ll be leaving in two hours. We plan to go grape picking along the way.

You probably know from the newspapers everything that happens here as well as in Clermont and in Mâcon. We have a lot of silly gatherings every night here that create a great deal of fun — and which also causes Monsieur Delessert’s

agents to investigate. Up to this point, the population remains harmless, but that doesn’t prevent the 60,000 reserves at the garrison from constantly taking up their weapons. I have heard, however, about the riots elsewhere from some groups who have observed them. They say the events at the end of the month wouldn’t have taken place without the involvement of the secret societies; only the attempted assassination on the Duke of Aumale has kept them at bay. If you have access to the newspapers, I would advise you to read them as the events taking place are very interesting.

The latest development in literature is the publication of Ternaires by Brizeux. I have read several parts of it which lead me to believe that he also wrote Curée de Barbier, just as Lafizelière maintained. Madame Lafarge has just published her memoirs; it’s delightfully witty, but it mostly lacks any emotion. I’m going to find myself with Lachambaudie next week since he is coming to visit the Bissons.

Please write back to me and tell me about what is new with you.

P. S. Lelioux and Pottier advised me to cut out the amusing part of my story; I’m inclined not to do that. — What do you think?

______

The passage in that letter which mentions the czar and Russia requires an explanation.

Shortly after the wedding of some grand duchess, a daughter of the Emperor Nicolas, — an Italian or a Corsican, I’m not sure which, Murger became acquainted with Count Tolstoï, who became his boss, and who came up with the idea of creating a poem in honor of the event, with the hope of receiving a response from the Imperial court. Incapable of writing in our language, especially our poetic language, V___ sent the piece he wrote to Murger for review and to revise it for him. But the poem was so terrible that no revision could fix it. At the desperate urging of V___, Murger agreed to completely rewrite the poem in return for a share of any reward provided in the response. Beautifully printed with V___’s name listed as the author, Murger was sent to the Russian Chancellery through Monsieur Tolstoï to explain that he had been the author. — As a resut, Murger had been waiting to hear a response.

______

September 26, 1841

I will tell you that I’m losing hope that I will be able to see you. First of all, cold Russia hasn’t sent any word, and my boss has decided not to go to London. As far as my boss is concerned, you need to congratulate me, skinny! He just gave me a 10 franc per month raise (which increased his salary to 50 francs), and he had his tailor make a coat for me. Finally, he has been very good to me and I hope I won’t starve to death this winter, like I have been doing for the past month.

...I finished reading, les Ternaires by Brizeux. Well, I assure you that les Ternaires is a very fine book, but it is nowhere as good as Marie. Ternaires contains short stories which serve no purpose and there is no beauty to its form. The end result is that I have now rejected the absurd supposition that Brizeux has simply written a poem in Iambic meter.

I have also read les Chants du Prisonnier by Esquiros. It is rather pretty, but it was too fashionable. It includes images of sheep and small birds singing in the forest, but only two or three pieces show any true poetic feelings. All in all, in my opinion, the quality of the work is far inferior to Sainte-Beuve and even Émile Deschamps.

......

Currently, Christ can’t find the time to work on his Napoléon. As for me, I have found a little happiness, and have started to work again. I was so miserable and troubled after Lelioux left that I couldn’t accomplish anything.

Everyone speaks of you with affection, and I do so more than anyone else.

______

Paris, October 7, 1841

G___ recently created a work composed of 30 or 40 verses which is especially lively in my opinion. I will make of copy of it, and send it to you along with les Ternaires and a book by Esquiros. I will also send you my completed story; it was revised based on the advice I received to eliminate the entire comedic tone for publication and I first would like to hear your opinion…

The gang in Faubourg Saint-Germain, as well as the Desbrosses and their group always act secretly and hide their true feelings...

______

December 6, 1841

You were wrong if you thought I was holding a grudge against you because of your long silence. The reason I didn’t answer you earlier is because I was waiting for the good or bad resolution to all the little issues that I will describe to you.

The day I received your letter about Mascré, I was preoccupied with worry; I was wondering whether I would be keeping my job with Monsieur Tolstoï, or whether I was about to be terminated. There was a very good reason for my concern. About a month ago, the Czar asked V___ whether he preferred money or a gift as a reward for the poem I wrote in June. In spite of my great need for money at the time, which I would have received a share, V___ answered that he would rather receive a present. This didn’t seem fair to me, because it would have been a simple matter to evenly divide the money, while a present would have to be valued and sold to split the proceeds and it was obvious that money would be lost on the transaction. I am sure that V___ planned to take care of the sale by himself and mislead me about the sum he received. Nevertheless, I didn’t complain about this arrangement; but a few days later he began an argument with me. He claimed that I told my boss all about this situation.

In order to disillusion him and to eliminate any possible repercussions from him, I had the good sense to burn my manuscript. The only proof that I was the author of the poem was therefore destroyed; and because of this rash act on my part, V___ couldn’t hold back his satisfaction which didn’t escape me and raised all my doubts about his good will. There were other situations, which I hope you will allow me to describe, which further increased my doubts about his honesty. A few days later, a man came to see Monsieur Tolstoï and presented him with an invoice of 472 francs for a shipment of wine. This man was a former associate of V___, was previously in the liquor business, and had sold the wine himself. He had received the money without sharing anything with his partner, just as he had schemed, and it appeared to be worth 2 or 3,000 francs. Fortunately, my boss had all of V___’s receipts, and the poor wine merchant had no further recourse to collect the debt. I learned he planned to take legal action against V___. You can understand how much this troubled me as I saw myself once again mingled in a dirty business. V___’s dishonesty became more obvious to everyone, but he had tried to circumvent me, hoodwink me, and implicate me by lavishing me with small gifts and attention. That is why he introduced me to Marco Saint-Hilaire who employed me to make some reproductions. It was all these considerations that gave me greater reason to make a break with him and to take every precaution to ensure that I didn’t share any part of the prize that was expected to be received from Russia. Lelioux advised me to tell my boss

everything, and I told him that I had written the poem the very next day and to notify me as soon as the prize was received.

Monsieur Tolstoï, already very angry with V___ because of the incident with the wine merchant, learned that he had wronged me by not telling the truth about the poem’s authorship. He summoned V___, strongly criticized his conduct, and literally threw him out. You can understand why V___ was angry with me. I waited in fear for eight days as I expected him to exact some form of retribution but it never materialized. I had been in hiding to prevent him from hurting me. That was where I was when you wrote to me...

I sincerely thank you for the advice you gave about my work and I have started to follow your suggestions. You immediately hit the nail on the head regarding my poem entitled Voix Nocturnes. In fact the poem was not well developed, and after the first three stanzas had been written, I was inclined to write anything othe than a piece with a political theme. I have no doubt that my revisions will greatly improve the piece as I have been working on it for a long time. It will be completely different from my original draft. I have also recently completed an epic poem entitled le Jour des Morts, which satisfied both Lelioux and Pottier who told me they saw great progress in my style. I’m working on another piece which I call Souvenirs d'enfance. It has been very difficult to write because I reject three out of every four verses that I write. Even if I don’t end up publishing it, I want to complete it for the sole reason of triumphing over the difficulty. I am now very serious about my art and I’m very critical about some of my more outrageous ideas.

I realize I am making some of the same mistakes that you used to make. I have been telling you about my poems without letting you know that Pottier and Lelioux approve of them as well as your last group of poems which I received and showed to them.

______

December 14, 1841

Now I will proceed in logical order to provide you with the information you requested about the people and things that we are aware of which, alas, is ignored by the general public.

Lelioux has returned to working at the journal l’’Audience and is doing very well. He drinks Bordeaux from the Saint- Georges vineyard, eats pâté de foie gras, lives in a splendid apartment, has a cashmere bathrobe, and writes two thirds of a poem each day. All in all, he is very happy — I pity him.

Pottier has forever been separated from his Muse. He makes children as big as him. He has finally become something like a grocer: he is an excellent citizen who would make a rather good national guardsman if he didn’t have the weakness of always falling asleep. If he were on duty, he would be distracted by drowsiness and his sentry box would go missing without him even noticing it.

The Desbrosses spend half the day looking for something to eat and the other half trying not to freeze to death. Cats are suspicious of them, and their only fireplace is actually their pipes — many times without tobacco. We talk about you often; about your old beard, oh you hooligan! About your poems, oh, you real man! Time passes by quickly when we talk about you — but our appetite remains — and when we go to sleep we dream that we are dining at Véfour. It is there where we find the most fortunate fellows in our existence.

G___ (Monsieur and Madame) — This household broke in two. Madame was going to return to her family... “I don’t know where” (V. Hugo), and Monsieur, who has four large pictures appropriate for any establishment, is in love with a young girl, pure as “the lily of the valley” (Balzac).

Karol, the former Don Juan of the Latin Quarter, the former aristocratic poet, philosopher, généralissimo, etc., etc., is nothing but a memory lost in an atmosphere of unpleasant matter. He appears to be crazy; he has earned the right.

As for H___, I think he still teaches classical grammar at a remote location.

As for yours truly... He found a way to eat 40 francs in half a month; but fortunately he still has 40 sous to last for the rest of the month. During the first two weeks his existence was a mix of beef steaks and Bougies de l’Étoile, of Havana cigars, and silk shirts, and of jam on thick pieces of brown bread. Today he doesn’t even have enough money to pay his landlord or even his boot maker; but he forces himself to write poems, substituting quantity for quality, waiting for that Russian ring to slip on his finger, making the best of his misfortune, and dreaming all the while of the satisfaction he would receive if he could see you with him — smoking a pipe while helping him find a way to move for free as well as a way to make his boots last another six months while still dealing with his debts. This last problem can quickly be solved with a little intelligence, isn’t that true?

V___ is definitely a thug. He took me to see Marco Saint-Hilaire to work there, and I haven’t seen the aforementioned Marco in two weeks — who owes me 60 centimes. But I’m generous and I’m leaving it all to him.

This is everything I had to tell you, my good man. Try to read my letter if you can, and tell Monsieur Z___ and his newspaper that they aren’t the only idiots in France. Being done with that, I would shake your hand. Ah! I’m informing you that if you have shaved off your beard, I have grown a magnificent one that has the potential to become a tricolor; this is living proof of my patriotism. I’m not joking: it is two inches long and is shaded black, blonde, and red. Good-bye once again, and drop off a letter to me one of these mornings! I’m going to smoke a pipe for you. Farewell!

______

March 6, 1842

I must tell you that the day I received your package, I had gone three days when all I had to eat was dry bread — which is why I hope you’ll forgive me for taking 20 francs out of the 60 I received. That allowed me to start eating heartily and to pay a few pressing debts. This loan will not delay the delivery I need to send to you because I expect to receive some money from my boss soon. I have never been so unhappy, my poor friend. As for S___, he is paying me back the 30 francs he owes me 14 sous at a time; it’s not funny. Anyway, to say it briefly, I am terribly upset. I haven’t been able to produce anything since you left, other than a bad article for la Gazette de la Jeunesse, which as you know, belongs to Millaud just like l’Audience. Lelioux has promised me that he will take care of my article and make sure it is received, but I have little hope that he will succeed; at least I can’t dare to hope it works. I don’t know what would have happened to me without Christ who fed me dinner and lunch four times a week. This guy didn’t misrepresent his nickname...

......

Amazing events have taken place! Lelioux recently met V___, who showed him a letter from Victor Hugo, authentically addressed to him, which contained the most flattering compliments about his prose. What does all this mean? Only that V___ writes in French like s Spanish cow. Àh! It seems that Rozan has an ongoing series which has been accepted by the Commerce...

______

March 21, 1842

Carissimo!!!

It is clear that Eve did a good thing when she ate God’s apple — and Voltaire wasn’t wrong when he said that, “everything is as good as she is.” I don’t think I would change one iota of this tenet; though I would have you hear me say it while you looked me in the eye to allow you to judge me!

Now you will ask me where this introduction might lead. But of course... it must lead to a splendid conclusion, my friend, and a golden finish; nothing but the best. — You can assume that if I don’t send this message to you via delivery, it’s only because you live a little too close to me — just thirty leagues! It wouldn’t be worth the cost; otherwise, I do have the means to send it, because I’m currently swimming in a river of gold, in an ocean filled with Centimes. It is a real rain of monarchs and monarchs from every country and of all types: It was like my hands were in the gold mine — and in liquid the color of almond paste. I have multicolored gloves as well as similar coats and pants. Here you are! Look at it! Poets are only joking when they claim that life is gloomy and bad. Those who howl for God for mercy on them do not understand life; they can’t see all the pleasures that I‘m currently savoring; they have never understood the enjoyment one feels when hearing a carriage driver ask for a tip; they are unaware of the fragrance that is released by a Havana cigar, the radiance of the Sun in a candle or the harmony of a person full of grace, or the creaking a of a varnished boot that is too narrow. Well! I can feel, see, and hear all of it. You would no longer recognize your big Flemish friend, you tall skinny one! He has disappeared; he has turned into dust, along with his old coat and his boots in three sections like a navy ship. He died as an owl to be resurrected like a phoenix. What a beautiful line in a Latin poem that would make! I am sure of that.

Ah! That is true, my dear fellow. Right now, the very high and very powerful Lord Viscount de La Tour-d’Auvergne1 is dazzling. Pedestrians stand along his way; the poor ask for charity and he gives them a franc; the women ask him for nothing and yet he gives them a smile — and what a smile it is! — This, my great man, is my view of the world; and based on it, I have concluded that life is a beautiful thing. Now, you are probably going to ask me where did the cloud of five franc coins come from that burst onto my head. — That storm came from the north, my dear friend; it’s a magnificent aurora borealis, here!!! — My boss, who doesn’t want to give the ring he was awarded to V___ and who will send it back to Russia, advanced me 350 francs and also arranged for me to receive an additional 150 francs in a few months. You can guess my jubilation when this staggering news was delivered to me; I shivered out of the frying pan and into the fire. I immediately ran all the way to Rothschild to withdraw some of the money; from there, I went to the bookseller; from there to my tailor; from there to the restaurant; from there to the cafe; and from there to my home where I immersed myself in new sheets and filled the air with scented smoke. Then I dreamed I was the emperor of Morocco who had just married the Bank of France. This became my existence; and I have spent so much by this time that there appears to be more sand than gold in my mine. Nevertheless, I am well dressed. ______1Murger was then living on rue de La Tour-d’Auvergne, and given some of his propensities, we sometimes amused ourselves by giving him this title.

I have enough money to live for eight days! I will live them!

And after I run out of money, I will write literature for children under seven years old, for Lelioux’s and Bouché’s publications; it’s just wasted time to help me get along; simple stories to help pay for my gloves and cigars during the sunny days of summer. Beginning tomorrow, I am going to start some serious work; it’s been three months since I’ve done anything; I hope that this critical time will be productive and that I will give birth to a large number of masterpieces. And one more thing — hello, old man! I would give 10,000 louis if there was a railway between Paris and your hometown that would allow me to see you and pay you — and eat a dinner for 2 francs each. Unfortunately, we will have to wait. Farewell!

______

March 25, 1842

Enclosed, you will find another issue of l’Age d’or, Lelioux’s publication, where I have to work hard to earn 2 francs per page. Oh, what a sacrilege! By the way, the Gazette de la Jeunesse has accepted my article; it will earn me about 30 francs and will make my presence known. — Please respond quickly to Lelioux about what he wrote to you — His quarterly meeting will be on Friday, April 2, at 4 o’clock! You understand what you need to do. — That’s all I have to say now, my good old friend. Forgive me if it is written badly, but I can’t look over it any more as I am very tired: it is 2 o’clock in the morning according to my clock — and it is necessary for me to be holding my pen for you at this ungodly hour. — Christ, who is writing to you at the same time as me, has just made the first down stroke of the first character of the first line of his letter to you. At the rate he is going, he will likely finish the first line on Sunday when Quasimodo makes his appearance. I will ask Victor Hugo to fill you in about Quasimodo, aha!

P. S. — I am sending you my mask that Christ recently made. According to a lady — of my acquaintance, he makes a quality likeness, much like the face of Marie Stuart.

______

April 5, 1842

I learned from several letters you wrote to Christ that you have been complaining about my negligence to perform a certain favor for you; you are wrong, but I do owe you an explanation. I admittedly waited a long time, it is true I procrastinated before going to speak to Nadar because I didn’t want to go looking bedraggled; and when, thanks to the event you learned of from my letter on the 21st, I was able to dress appropriately, I immediately introduced myself to him. But Nadar didn’t have time to write to you then. As for Charles Barbara, he didn’t respond to my letters either, despite two or three repeated warnings. You must agree, when it all comes down to it, this isn’t really my fault.

Now, I need to write at length about the quarterly meeting that took place last Friday at my home, which was a very stormy session. Cabot, who as you know, replaced you as vice president, — unfortunately doesn’t know how to replace you, not even a little bit. This has resulted in unimaginable disorder. Additionally, he was very tactless in proposing to award an honorable mention to Tabar and Vastine for “overcoming a thousand financial difficulties and succeeding in finishing their paintings and having them accepted.” That is what he said in his own words. You can understand the clumsiness. There was an immediate uproar from those who were unhappy with such an award: this exchange resulted in swear words and confusion; finally this question was formally asked: Is it a good idea to keep official compliments and proclamations of awards in our statutes? Don’t these competitive elements create discord and simmering jealousy among our members which then creates dangerous rivalries? In a word isn’t it better to eliminate them? The majority voted in favor of eliminating any mention of awards after a lively discussion where personalities clashed at every end of the field. One point concerned us, — while Lelioux and I voted in favor of elimination and Christ and Gothique voted against it, we didn’t know your opinion on this matter since you weren’t present.

......

... In short, there was really nothing accomplished at our meeting; I think we are going to have to remove Cabot from his position. My idea, if you agree with me, is to manipulate the group, — pardon the expression — and to arrange for Lelioux to replace him. Frankly, he is the only one with the ability to serve as the leader. — He has been authorized to begin a newspaper for himself. The publication will be called le Foyer Domestique….

P. S. — I don’t know if it is a joke, but Rozan told me he was paid 150 franc for his column.

______

April 11, 1842

Since I’m a your true friend, I want to be honest and I’ll start by apologizing for not being happy with your latest letter. It seemed cold to me, and I couldn’t believe this attitude was the result of my forgetfulness to send you a letter on simulated parchment. Now I think I understand the reason for this, and please allow me to expound on it to unravel the unspoken issues which have enveloped us. First of all, I only received the letter you sent to me on March 29 yesterday, April 9. Barbara couldn’t bring it to me any earlier. You can understand now why my last letter to you didn’t discuss my reaction to your document. At that point, Lelioux, whom I saw earlier, assured me again that he had sent you a long letter over two weeks ago about composing a journal other than l’Age d'or, and at the same time he had directly answered the questions that you had asked me to pose to him. Let’s return to your document! I believe he is happy that it didn’t arrive in time, because it revealed there was a traitor among us, — which is indisputable, since Bisson told you about our society and those who composed our membership, — it would have only thrown oil onto the great fire which was our discussions….

______

May 18, 1842

I’m rushing to write to you to help you deal with the worries you seem to have; as for your last letter to Christ, let me assure you that he quickly received it....

When it comes to the problems affecting our organization, a large number of issues have prevented us from ensuring its preservation. It is a matter that must be dealt with carefully if it is to succeed and we will be taking up that issue today. We regret that you never sent us your written resignation since it would have expedited the group’s dissolution....

Thank you for your proposal to consider publishing my poems in your area newspaper. You will be receiving the poems soon and I will also send you the Stabat Mater that I submitted to la Gazette de la Jeunesse, as soon as Bouché is gracious enough to print it for me. I see no reason to continue the trouble of working for l’Age d’or, since they are not willing to pay me anything. By the way, an unfortunate development has occurred! Your friend Auguste Lefrane replaced Lelioux at l’Audience. Now, please allow me to discuss something else.

I will begin by telling you that I have finally met my soul mate — I pine for her, — she a is soft woman, a twenty five year old Dane, spiritually wicked, and as pretty as an English portrait. This lady is a woman of the world; I was uncertain about it at first, but I knew, I absolutely knew that I had to believe it. That was enough! Her name is Christine; at any rate, to keep it short, she spent two nights at my house due to a situation which forced her to come and ask me to provide her shelter, and all this after she had only known me for a month. I graciously offered her my assistance, and she left my room as pure as the Immaculate Virgin — which proves one thing, that I am a moron, — that’s it! Other than that, everything is going well; we are going out together, and we even went together to the Opera. However, I won’t show her the poem I wrote for her. She would make too much of it or she would consider it too little. It’s a wonderful jewel full of sentimental feelings that I lovingly worked on for over a month with all the meticulous attention that you have seen me apply to previous works. When you add it all up, my friend, the verses in this poem are worth at least five sous; what does that say about the value of it to me?

Due to a mistake she made — or perhaps it was a clever trick, I received a letter from her that was meant to be sent to one of her friends. She wrote about our relationship in a manner that confused me like a school boy. I immediately took an inventory of all my emotional feelings to honorably remove myself from this difficult situation by volunteering the following:

You are a Scandinavian flower blooming under the snow;

I’m waiting to hear from you. Meanwhile, I would be sorry if we broke up, because she is a woman I can truly be proud to be mine — she has every charming quality: beauty, spirit, presence, — and a thousand other things which will soon, no doubt, make me love her deeply. Besides, I have another one; — she is a beautiful maid who weighs 100 kilos without her petticoat....

Finally, my dear friend, here is a quick outline of my current life: a little fun, a lot of hard work, — without much production from either side; — it appears my Dane is not going to return to me — and my inspiration has been stifled. I work with difficulty, but with eagerness and awareness — and yet I find I’m making little progress, except in the area of style. The golden luck described by Chénier is my only desire! Also, I have decided to start a volume of prose — which I will tend to, while I wait for my Muse to do me the favor of taking up residence with me.

Forgive my scribbling and always believe me when I tell you that I am always your devoted and sincere friend.

______

May 18, 1842

This is the second time I have taken up my pen to write to you today; while going to the post office this morning with the letter you will find enclosed, I met Christ, which by the way, brought me what you have been asking for so long….

Now, let’s talk about our society! It’s absolutely essential that you send us your official resignation. I have already informed Cabot that I’m resigning along with you and Lelioux. My story about Wœstyn will appear next Saturday in l'Age d'or, and Lelioux has asked me to submit more stories. The aforementioned Lelioux is also the assistant editor at the journal la Coulisses. — As for me, my poor friend, I am irritated as much as you are, because I have no interest in hard work. Even when I am motivated to start a project, I don’t end up doing anything worthwhile. I have enclosed the only poem I’ve composed since your departure; it is my piece dedicated to the Danish lady — which comes directly from my heart. You would not believe that I spent twelve nights working on it: it is appalling! — and distressing at the same time. I am discouraged. I will try to go into a rage and rant at anything to see if I still have any ideas within me.

My love with my princess is something very beautiful — as an emotional form; as far as the substance of it, for me at least, it is very sad, and it causes me great suffering. — I was also very stupid.

“It takes nothing more than the heart to make a man stupid.

Farewell!

______

Here is the poem which was enclosed in the letter:

TO CHRISTINE DE S...

Disoriented by the look of her eyes, I often looked in disbelief: She was there.

HÉG. MOREAU

Crossing the threshold of this obscure asylum. Nothing is betrayed on your peaceful face nor do you succumb To scorn or fear; since his destitution Still couldn’t make you uncertain about your freedom, It is me who asks you to stay despite the glum You were the ray of light in my shadow which revealed the solution!

You entered my life; time passed by fast. Then you ran away at long last, When I vainly believed you were mine, While you sat in a chair and slept, To have you with me was a outcome to protect You sang in my nights with sweetness to enshrine.

My heart clearly said to me: Yes, it’s her! Yes, it’s what I want, but this time it’s real not a blur, Who comes to your call to unveil; Your dreamy and poetic world; From your secret desire it’s the mystical idol unfurled Who won’t run away when you want to speak to her without fail.

Like the Greek artist seeking his Galatea, The Nymph with alabaster curves and sculpted with love, Pulsating under the iron of the creative tool. The new Pygmalion, is the statue I knew In front of my eyes she suddenly came to life, bejeweled With all the beauty my heart could give her too.

But, sadly in the morning, as I should have known, I found myself peacefully all alone Instead of my belief that I had been with you, My hope for an hour, in an hour was gone The fleeting bright vision obscured by the dawn Taking you away who spoke such sweet words before the morning dew!

Whether you are a mirage or you are really her, It doesn’t matter! It was always real, not a mere blur: Yesterday, under my roof, you had come Such guests I used to expect at any time, But who, for a long while, at the door of the house which is mine Didn’t come knocking anymore, or say: Open the door, love!

For these guests and you, I would open my door. If you left and the others stayed, it won’t matter anymore! The night that surrounded me will make way for the day. And I can fly to you with the two wings in my heart, Because these other guests led by you, aren’t apart, These two guests are Hope and Love and they will stay.

A couple always united in their fraternal dreams,

Like birds who are heard without sensing their wings by any means, Leaving and returning together again. Their flight makes echoes through my poor garret Where every happy chorus dies as soon as it has any merit — With words they don’t understand, but to me are plain.

Because to me they are magic phrases, Open Sesame! There come the Arab legends which amazes, The lost talisman is suddenly found, Which will open the icy prison I’m in Where boredom, the vigilant jailer of my thoughts has been, To nourish her with repulsive bread to astound.

Now I’m born again — and everything seems the same My rebirth is complete because I have hope and love without shame, Because I have returned at last, a pilgrim tired of drifting On the wrong paths, where shadows obscure the day Diverting to the side of life where the road is a beautiful way, Where we believe in happiness as we enter a world uplifting.

And this is thanks to you, who perhaps at this hour You won’t remember this humble home which can make you sour, The retreat where I live, to forget or to become lost But who, since the day you came To ask for asylum, for me became A hallow place for a long time, never to be crossed.

Because your shadow has floated across its grey wall; Because the worn chair where you sat aches to call, Since I saw you, I will see you again Quietly, you fall asleep leaving me feeling bliss; Because your perfume permeates inside my vase like a kiss Transformed from a clay cup to a golden urn before my brain.

______

Hospital Saint-Louis, May 23, 1842

My dear friend,

Here I am again in the hospital! — One night, two days after I sent you my last letter, I woke up with a feeling of burning all over my body. It felt like I was wrapped in flames; I was literally on fire. I lit a candle, and I was horrified by the appearance of my body. Imagine seeing my body red from my head to my toe, looking like a cooked lobster, nothing more or less. I ran to the hospital in the morning, where I was admitted, — room number 10 in the Henri IV section. The doctors were astonished by my case; they say I have purpura. I believe they are correct! The purple worn by the Roman emperors wasn’t, I’m sure, as dark as what was covering me. My head also sometimes hurts. I am feeling a little better right now and I’m taking advantage of the opportunity to let you know about my sad condition.

______

Hôpital Saint-Louis, May 30. 1842

I received your letter addressed to me at the hospital; thank you! I’m not doing very well at the moment. My disease is in a phase that science doesn’t know how to treat. Every day, from noon until 5 o’clock, I can’t walk 30 steps without faltering. I have a ringing in my ears that sounds like a thousand trumpets, etc, etc. — I was bled, bled again, had mustard plaster applied to my body, and it has all been in vain; I have consumed as much arsenic all by myself as possible; I don’t know how this will all end. The doctor told me that he could cure me, but that it would take time. Incidentally, I am cared for very well and well regarded by the nuns on the floor; but it bothers me that my sickly state makes it all but impossible for me to work. Finally, all sorts of things will be placed on my body today, including leeches, in an effort to treat my dizziness. I will be inspired as soon as I am cured and will then create masterpieces. — Now that I have told you all about me, let’s talk a little bit about some others. Luck seems to be turning for Desbrosses and that only seems fair. You know or perhaps you don’t know that after the opening of the Salon, artists who weren’t awarded an exhibition at the Salon were allowed to exhibit their works on the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle. The Desbrosses displayed several different things there, and their works were purchased: 1st was a small statuette of Marguerite; 2nd, the bust of St. Anthony; 3rd, a small painting by Chintreuil; — all of them for the sum of 200 francs, which helped them a little. They and G___ will separate their partnership, but all in all, it is an amicable arrangement. — On the other hand, Chintreuil, a protégé of a member of parliament, has just received a commission from the ministry; it isn’t known yet whether it will be worth 800 or 1,500 francs. — So in fact, our poor friends have found a little bit of luck for themselves. We pray to God that this continues! — I wrote to Bouché and told him that since I was in need of money, I would give him my story entitled Rouet for 10 francs, but I still haven’t received an answer to my proposal. These aloof friendships are such a sad thing! — If you have the funds, please mail me a money order for five francs; I would greatly appreciate it, because I don’t think it will be long before the Desbrosses will be unable to afford to buy me anymore tobacco. I’m very sorry, my poor friend, for always having to bleed you, whether I’m near or far away from you. — My life here is very troubling, and my days are very sad; especially since there are many days when I see men dying like flies in the rooms next to mine. A hospital can be very poetic, but it’s also very sad.

______

Hospital Saint-Louis, June 12 1842

This has been a disaster! A great deal of confusion is created when our letters are not received on time. They tend to be delivered following unexpected detours, after treveling through twisting routes, and the post office should be more careful. I just received your last letter from the 5th, with all of your news. It is true that you accidentally addressed it to my home at Tour-d’Auvergne Road….

The Desbrosses have exhausted all of their funds, and we are all feeling hungry again. I will be leaving here very soon! At least I am hopeful that will be the case. I have been feeling better for the past three days, although I have become relatively thin which concerns my stomach….

______

July 8, 1842

My boss has entered into a partnership with Challamel, the editor of France Littéraire; and since the latter wants to maintain this partnership, it is likely that he wouldn’t refuse the opportunity to please my boss. Based on my hunch, I am going to ask the Count to write a letter to Challamel, requesting him to include my poems in his collection from time to time. If Challamel agrees, which I hope he will, I will propose that he publish some of your work as well. It is a popular publication; I have submitted le Saule and la Fontaine Bandusie to him and have enclosed copies of them in this letter. For your part, you were kind enough to think of me for the little literary journal of Wœstyn. I’m therefore sending you five or six pieces that I think would be appropriate for their scope. Here is the order in which I would like them to appear: le Saule, A Marie, l’Age d'or, and A Bandusie. These last two pieces are the most recent I have written and I would be happy to hear your opinion of them in your next letter. Christ has been in the hospital for 10 days and may need to stay there for another month. I don’t know what plans he has for our group and don’t know why he has told you to not send your resignation. I will speak to him one of these days, and we will write to you about all the details of the situation in order to ensure that you are informed before the July meeting. While I told you I would be enclosing l’Age d'or and A Bandusie; I don’t have time to copy them for you. I will get them to you soon.

I definitely lost my Swedish princess. It bothers me because it’s my fault; I behaved arrogantly toward her, and I’m sure that she’s now making fun of me. It’s upsetting to lose a conquest which dates back to the women of Ogier the Dane or to the Ossian bard. I’m going back to concentrate on my work. Since Bouché hasn’t published my article that he’s had for four months, I won’t write any more prose and will only concentrate on poetry. Good luck has returned in the form of valuable lyrics that I didn’t recognize until now; it is due to my relationship with her that resulted in my writing of A Bandusie, and now I’m upset that I didn’t make another copy of it. In my poem, l’Age d’or, I focused on overcoming the difficulties of correct form, because I became obsessed with correct form, which is alarming. I read and reread Chénier; and — I am confiding in you, don’t repeat that! In order to regain my intuition of rhythm, I read aloud, yes, aloud and in Latin, Horace, Virgil and other old masters, and although I don’t understand it, the metric cadence captivates me. This is probably foolish, but at least if it doesn’t do any good, it can’t do any harm. Please correct the punctuation in the two enclosed poems before sending them to the publisher.

All yours

______

July 11, 1842

I have enclosed the poems I told you about in my last letter, namely l’Age d’or and A Bandusie. If it wasn’t too stylized, I would tell you that la Branche de Réséda appears almost as pretty when printed as it did when it was handwritten. I expect to see Challamel in two or three days; I don’t want to delay it any longer because the poor devil appears to be quite sick and at least if we could have one or two pieces published in France Littéraire, it would give us an opportunity to be exposed to Challamel’s successor if he is to leave. I think he is a good source just as you do. In addition, I will see if there is a way to have our names listed as one of the journal’s collaborators; that can only be useful and I will seriously consider whether I should attempt to have that happen. It is something else we can hope for even if the chance of success is not very good! At long last! I am beginning to believe that my boss has always been able to help me. When I say “me,” I really mean “us.” I can tell you that my boss has sent me to see Jouy several times. He is a young artist who is quite favorably known and has a very good reputation. Yesterday, while I was at this artist’s house, a heavy rain storm began; he asked me to stay, and offered me cigarettes and drinks, and we had a long conversation about art — and artists. He told me a thousand interesting anecdotes about Pierre, Paul, and others. With all modesty, I think my conversation was quite witty because he invited me to visit and share a pipe with him from time to time; I won’t miss visiting whenever I’m invited and here’s why: he is in close contact with Théophile Gautier, Alphonse Karr, E. Briffaut, and other famous names. Ten minutes earlier, I met Gautier, just as he had told me; and indeed, while going there, I met the author of Albertus. You can understand that this is a way to exchange a few words with notable writers, which allows me, based on the topic of conversation, to publicize my profession as a poet. All of this, I agree, may be a convoluted venture; but hope is a microscope that enlarges — for the eye — the chance of getting what we want. Finally, if I’m given

a small piece of cake, I will save a piece for you, the biggest piece will be for me — similia similibus, — just like the largest one is for you.

Ah! Ossian’s daughter has returned, although not from the caves of Fingal, but from the waters of Enghien where she had gone. So we’ve taken up the story where we left off, and I hope to finally turn the page and move on to the interesting place which you know. The worst thing is that my number 2, which now counts as 3, won’t leave and speaks to me with such composure about establishing our permanence and she shows me nothing but the official church publications about the bridal ceremony; nothing is missing from the procedures, not even the orange blossom. She has also offered me two or three thousand franc notes, an attic flat, and her heart. I think I will give it all up to a police captain who became a soldier — along with a relationship with her. Besides, I’m really uncomfortable being between this huge Amazon, who weighs 50 kilos more than me — and my Scandinavian temptress. I feel as though I’m between an elephant and a gazelle; I’m crazy about the gazelle and as for the elephant, I’m waiting for her — to cheat on me. That would be an excuse. If necessary, I could probably count on G___, you understand.

Goodbye, my good friend; I still recommend you correct the punctuation of my two poems.

______

July 22, 1842

Definitely, we sow these letters like peas on the road to Orléans, or else we are in a dark chamber. That makes it at least ten times that our letters have been delayed or have not arrived at all. I wrote to you two weeks ago, and Lelioux told me that my letter had left with a delivery he had sent to Wœstyn. That letter contained a thousand details, which among others, described the last meeting which brought about the absolute dissolution of our artistic society, a dissolution which was requested by the majority. There was also a reference to a long letter from Christ, and I would be very sorry if that was lost, because it contained a remarkable description of life in the hospital.

I thank you very much for the eagerness that Wœstyn displayed by publishing le Saule in its journal. If they plan on publishing another one soon, give them A Bandusie. Alas, my friend, my circumstances have required me to pawn my formal clothes, and because of this unfortunate fact I have been unable to visit Jouy, where as I previously noted to you, one can meet influential people. I explained my situation to Jouy, and he has renewed my invitation. If Wœstyn intends to provide short stories to its readers, I propose a little story I wrote entitled Amour à l’hôpital. It is the story of Christ’s desire for a sister of charity, a passion which is profound on both sides; there are enchanting details. There is another article of mine that I may propose to you. It’s not political, despite its title, and it’s precisely because of the title that I can’t turn it into a comedic play, as I originally planned to do with Lelioux and your friend Auguste Lefranc. Both Lefranc and Lelioux agree that my idea is ingenious and it would make a very good play, but it wouldn’t pass muster with the censors, especially with the current title. Since I have no hope that I can get it published in any Paris publication as none of them are receptive to me, I was wondering whether Wœstyn would accept it if I turned it into a series. Please find out and let me know!

I have been doing some work for the past two weeks, but I haven’t been working on multiple pieces at the same time. — My love has focused on my great maid; she is a delightful woman for a Dane, in fact she’s a lovely woman. I go out with her once a week and she gives me a great deal of pleasure, but... but she is not my mistress and I don’t know if she ever will be. In short, she is a friend!

P. S. Christ is feeling much better.

______

July 26, 1842

Christ is still in the hospital; he is better, but as soon as one ailment is cured it is immediately replaced by another. In addition to the physical wounds, he suffers from the wounds to his spirit which I contemplate in poetry and in prose. Desbrosses, as I have already pointed out to you, is deeply in love with the humble servant of her patron of Nazareth. I think she has everything necessary to become a Saint Madeleine, including beauty and youth. Now it remains to be seen if Desbrosses can bring her back to repentance. I’m working on a beautiful piece of poetry which will cause you to sense the aroma of a pharmaceutical laboratory. It is physiological... reading it will clog your nose — and perhaps even your ears.

I’m going to start writing Amour à l'hôpital; I will send it to you when I have completed it. Bouché never published my Stabat, so I will attempt nothing more for his inhospitable institution; I am withdrawing the thing and will send it to you, after I edit out the juvenile parts of it. I’m working a lot now, at least three or four nights a week, which makes me very tired; but my Muse is too fickle not take advantage of her when she sends some good luck my way. Therefore I will deal with her in the same way Hercules reacted to the fire he faced when he took the mares of Diomedes. Your letter describing your travels to Ville-d’Avray brought me much happiness. Ossian’s daughter asked me to take her for a walk through that enchanted forest; unfortunately the pants that give me a stylish air have worn out the way many pants do and I will have to accompany my blonde friend wearing a pair of knee high breeches that make me look like a middle class citizen. Speaking of similar appearances, it has recently been pointed out that my physical features are similar to Paul Véronèse, which doesn’t surprise me at all. However, since it has already been established that the shape of my face resembles Marie Stuart, I could easily be convinced that many likenesses have been brought back to life in the form of my body. — Let’s hope that I’m never confused with Nebuchadnezzar!!!

______

August 12, 1842

We created a fiasco for France littéraire, my poor friend! You did it with your Cerf-volant and I did it with my Bandusie. Le Cerf-volant is too long, I was told, it would take up too much space, and as for Bandusie, they don’t publish translations. Additionally, the biggest problem was that our pieces didn’t agree with their usual formulas such as delightful verses or delicate thoughts etc., etc. — I’m going to submit le Cerf-volant to the Gazette de la Jeunesse, because Bouché has finally decided to publish my Stabat, which I will soon send to you along with le Rouet de Marguerite, another piece that Bouché promised me not to keep in the envelope for too long. But what about the money? The money... this isn’t all about the money! I see myself pushed down more deeply than ever in the most agonizing impoverishment: Chintreuil, Gothique and I all live together, and — what kind of a life is it? — Christ, due to the incompetence of the medical staff, will probably be confined to the hospital for another six weeks; they were mistaken about his illness and they don’t know for sure what it is. The most frightening thing is that it looms in front of me from one day to the next; I have certainly abused myself with too much coffee along with the long vigil, and it wouldn’t surprise me if I join Christ, Vastipe, and G___, who are all three in the hospital. — As for you, my friend, what have you been doing? Are you working? Has the Wœstyn journal increased its circulation? I plan on sending you Amour à l'hôpital soon. I plan to give up a month of working on poetry and instead will write nothing but prose; perhaps I will be able to earn some money that way. Speaking of poetry, I began writing a piece for the sister whom Desbrosses is in love with; I have spent at least fifteen nights and yet I have only written sixty lines — it’s appalling. With all that being considered, I get so tired that I’m afraid I’m going to get sick and end up finishing the poem in the hospital. Christ is begging you to write him a long letter and I urge you to do the same for me; we have nothing except for bread and tobacco.

______

September 22, 1842

Forgive me, and a thousand pardons for not immediately answering your all encompassing August letter! I have been full of worries that didn’t cease for a moment, of if I did have an hour of peace, I was so depressed that I didn’t have the strength to write; and it has been so bad that I haven’t been able to write the article that I promised to send to Bouché and he nevertheless, must send me some money. Speaking of Bouché, he is thrilled with your Cerf-Volant and will immediately publish it — and pay you. He also accepted your article, but he requested a few small changes. — Christ has been discharged from the hospital; but Ghintreuilt’s and Gothique’s situation remain unchanged. Desbrosses doesn’t have a job and spends his time working on his art, which doesn’t earn him anything. As for me, I’m still in the same situation although it wouldn’t take much to make it a hundred times worse. I didn’t receive my salary two weeks ago and I asked my boss to pay me. To my surprise, he responded that he had already paid me! I argued with him and there were unpleasant words exchanged by both of us, and I felt it was necessary to tell him that I wouldn’t work for him anymore. Finally, after two days of negotiations, he remembered that he hadn’t paid me and he begged me to forget everything. During these events, I was told about another position — I was told it was an excellent one; — I hurried to apply for it. I was merely offered housing and 800 francs a year with a chance of an increase later. The job entails maintaining correspondence for the owner, who is a judge in the court of commerce and a wholesale fabric merchant; other responsibilities include performing accounting, inventory control for stores, and unpacking shipments, etc., etc. These duties begin at seven o’clock in the morning, and I was warned that they often don’t end until very late. I politely thanked the proprietor and left as quickly as I could. Did I make the right decision? Regardless, I still don’t know if I will continue to work for Monsieur de Tolstoï. On the other hand, my father became terrible angry when he heard that I had turned down the job offer and I haven’t spoken with him since then. You know that I have visited with him from time to time for over a year. This time, however, the breakup is permanent. In fact, my father — and it’s a sad thing to say — didn’t treat me with any respect. He knew I didn’t have any food, he didn’t offer me any, and yet he owed me money. He saw me wearing torn boots, and he made it clear that he really didn’t care about my visiting. He is a very judgmental man! Despite that, he had the gall to tell people, who repeated it to me, that if I was unhappy, it was because that is what I wanted; that he had offered to feed me and wash my clothes for the small sum of 20 francs a month, and that I had refused. God knows that if he ever made such an offer, I would still have rejected it, essentially because I know him too well to be fooled by any appearance of parental kindness. At this point, I am literally an orphan staring face to face at my fate. Well, my dear friend, I swear that whenever I become just a little satisfied with my work, I’m ready to applaud my existence. Oh, how poor we are!!! — I’m aware that you say that you are discouraged and I know the painful anxiety of doubt. For over three months I have been unable to produce anything as I have been unable to write twenty reasonable sentences for a miserable children’s story; for three months I have been like someone with consumption who seeks the sunshine for a cure, I search for my feelings, whatever they are, and yet I fail to warm myself in the sun. My mind is empty, my friend, and there is no more activity in it than there is in a grave. I have tried to awaken my head through physical means; there have been nights when I consumed large quantities of coffee but it only ends in convincing myself more than ever that I’m powerless; and this has been happening for over three months! I’m currently all broken up by this creative inertia, and have accomplished nothing, except perhaps for being infected again with purpura, as I feel the temperature rising deep inside my body. Despite everything, the fact is I have come too far to back off now. Even though I feel like everything is against me, I won’t leave the arena; even if it means being devoured by vicious beasts! I don’t know if I’m mistaken but I’m trying to pick up the pieces, and I’m working throughout the nights, drinking coffee like Voltaire and smoking like Jean Bart. I need to feel exhilarated and my work is the only thing that exhilarates me. You spoke to me about Marie; she is, in fact, still single, but I have no desire to look for her or to see her: I haven’t heard anything about her other than from what I’ve read in the newspapers. I foolishly continue to pursue my blonde Christine, and I make that attempt through the mail. I have written her over nine separate letters from Paris, and I’ve told her about everything except about our relationship. This is a woman who behaves much like ___ with G___, perhaps a little less spiritual, but at least her behavior and feelings are genuine — to whom I haven’t yet caused an ounce of harm. She has been away in the country for a long time and she will be returning at the end of the month, I believe. When she left, I was still the Viscount of Tour-d’Auvergne, as elegant as any Regency Marquis, in all appearances; but everything has completely changed today and I don’t know if she will recognize me or if she will accept me. I will try to see if there is still a way I can touch her heart, but under my current situation, I have serious doubts. I won’t hide any single detail about

my existence, I will introduce her to the deepest depths of my impoverishment, and if she doesn’t faint and if she reacts in a respectable manner, I may decide to become something other than just a correspondent to her. But since I will suggest that we should intensify our affection, it is possible that our love will become broken when she returns. This must be or likely could be just like a classical tragedy!

And on that note, I will stop my chattering. — Goodbye!

______

Hospital Saint-Louis, October 2, 1842

The days go by and none of them are alike; nothing is more true. Two weeks ago, I wrote to you from home; today I am writing to you from the hospital. I have taken Christ’s place there. I have now been in Hospital Saint-Louis for eight days, the red splotches on my skin that make me appear like a cooked lobster have returned and are appearing more purple. However, I’m not as unhappy as I feared I would be; I was placed in a large ward — it contains 106 beds! I’m with people who are here for essentially the same reason I am and for the most part, they are intelligent men. I had part of my library brought to me, and I could work if I was closer to the light; I can’t see enough to write at night although I do have twelve hours of daylight remaining.... In between the time that it took me to write these two lines, I was almost expelled from the ward. The patient in the bed next to mine is an old bureaucrat who can’t be understood because he mumbles all the time, and naturally, he is the subject of many jokes from those who are around him. The man was furious about this and made a formal complaint to the doctor resulting in a reprimand filed against me as well as seven or eight others. But the sister defended us and we were allowed to stay; I only had to change my bed which was an improvement for me. First of all, I’m now next to a window which allows daylight in, I’m closer to the gas heater at night, and overlook a charming neighborhood. I will be able to work at night, away from the others, without anyone noticing. All of these little things are very advantageous since there is not much entertainment! It makes for a very special existence, you must know! — It’s an experience you know I missed. After all this time, I’m not very displeased with the new situation. No matter how bad the food may be, at least I’m sure to be fed, and it is, in fact, ten times better than what I would be eating if I wasn’t here. I ask for soup up to two or three times each day, but you have to change the appearance of your health to get it because it can only be obtained through deception.

I’ll let you know as soon as I’m discharged from the hospital.

______

November 10, 1842

It’s been a long time since we’ve talked together, so I’ve taken a big piece of paper, which is an ominous omen. However, I have hardly any good news to communicate to you. You know that I spent one month in the hospital and you know why. My red splotches, my purpura, have resisted all possible treatments. I wallowed in sulfur, I drank it and I ate it, but the said purpura nevertheless persisted in reappearing every Thursday, which is perplexing to science, as it opened huge eyes without allowing them to see more clearly. Finally, I left the hospital at the end of the month while Chintreuil and Gothique took my place there on the same day. What a merry band we all are! Now I have returned to private life and faith is all I have since I find myself deprived of everything. Alas! Yes, it is always the same song. Our lives are like a ballad with multiple lyrics: sometimes life is good, sometimes it’s bad, then it gets better, then it gets worse, etc., but the refrain is always the same — misery! misery! misery! I won’t dwell on it too much; Christ will tell you about it. — Lelioux, on the other hand, is doing well financially; discovering that his work is well received at a multitude of theaters... You should know that I’ve been working like an ox since I was discharged from the hospital. I have been staying with my

routine for 10 nights already. I first wrote two articles for Lelioux’s journal, then another one that I will place where I can, and I have also completed 250 lines of dialogue for a play called Marie. The real Marie is my constant nightmare and still causes me great regrets. I was specifically thinking about her four or five days ago when I was walking down the street. All of the sudden, I met a woman coming out of an alley; it was Marie. My heart was beating so hard that I was afraid it would break and I had to lean against a carriage to keep myself from falling to the ground. She turned slightly pale and continued on her way. By that evening, the experience affected me to the point that I was practically crazy by the time I arrived home. I grabbed my pen and in four or five hours I wrote more than a third of my prologue. It would have been good if this encounter resulted in an unexpected inspiration. But unfortunately, I have been thinking about Marie ten times more than before I saw her again. Foolishly on my part, I think I love her as much as I did two years ago. I can hear you laughing from here; there is no need for you to do so! It might not have affected me as much if I had met her at another point in time, but I was thinking about her exactly when I saw her in person and she was wearing the same clothes I had seen her wear long ago. The sight of her hit me like a lightning bolt and the impact was immediate. Only God knows how long it will take to drive this wretched madness out of my heart and my mind. I will try to continue using this inspiration while writing my play, which is more like a poetic novel because it is being created while ignoring the traditional structure of a play for the stage. — It’s as though all my other loves have flown away, perhaps due to the cold weather. Ah, it is as though they are like the swallows migrating due to winter!!! My blonde Christine hadn’t yet returned from the countryside when I was admitted to the hospital. I went to her home a few days ago but she had moved and nobody would give me her new address. I am not only punished for my sensitivity but also for my stupidity pushed to the fourth power. I would still have a delightful mistress who was pretty and witty but I just wouldn’t pretend to love her and she left me; it is as simple as that. But now I have another one! I had told my big Dorine that I was going to the provinces to prevent her from enveloping me with hugs and kisses in the hospital. She felt like an abandoned colossal Ariane and went to my home to see if I had returned from the countryside. When she couldn’t get an answer, she stated that she was going to meet me in Orléans. God forbid that you met her if she went there! — This is the state of my mind in this joyless month of November. But Providence is vast, and maybe on a day when I least expect it, I’ll see some Beatrice come along that will make me forget the hell I’m currently experiencing. In the meantime while I’m writing to you, my biggest problem is what I’m going to have for dinner today as well as for the next few days. It has come to the point where I sometimes miss being in the hospital. In spite of everything, I’m as fat as a monk, which makes me believe that being fat shouldn’t cause anyone to jump to conclusions.

______

November 17, 1842

I’m doing well now; I’m also working like a madman on the dramatic poem I had started (Marie). I have written nearly 300 lines in two sessions. I will try to finish the prologue between now and New Year’s Day, which should be easy for me, because I have all the ideas in my head and I should be able to write the details rather quickly. This work will be much shorter than traditional lyric poetry since my thoughts are not locked within the often narrow scope of a stanza and the dialogue can be stretched a little if need be; this would be inappropriate if it was intended for the theater; but the rules are not as strict for a dramatic poem. I hope to send you my completed prologue on New Year’s Day. — If you have developed a list of appropriate character names that would be suitable for my work, it would make me happy if you would send them to me since you didn’t agree with the names I had proposed; currently, my heroes and heroines are simply named 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, etc., etc. You can see that such a system is not very colorful.

Now I need to ask for your opinion. I want to show George Sand my last piece of poetry and ask her to kindly agree to submit it to la Revue indépendante. What is your advice? Please respond and let me know!

______

Hospital Saint-Louis, December 20, 1842

Don’t worry too much about the date and location of my letter! It is only too true however, that I am once again shut up in the halls of the ward, almost confined to my bed and the state of my redness is a shame to public decency — this redevelopment is a surprise to the medical establishment; however, I’m better than yesterday, and yesterday, I was better than the day before — this goes back to the 5th of the month which is the day I returned to the hospital. Yes, it has been fifteen days since I returned to the hospital, following a new outbreak of my purpura, which now presents itself in a more pronounced form — referring to its color, — but also a much more serious condition. When the condition redeveloped, it was accompanied by a large group of annoyances such as dreadful headaches, blackouts, and dizzy spells which made me stumble like a drunken man and put me in a stupor which caused me to act like an idiot. I was sick enough for a few days to be confined to bed and to be limited to a small portion of food. They tried to bleed me on Saturday, but three lancets in both arms literally brought only three drops of blood. Last Monday, I was bled again with no result, but it caused me to faint, which eliminated my discomfort. That’s where I am now. Will I have to stay here much longer? I’m afraid I will have to according to what I have heard from the interns. It bothers me even more this time since I don’t know how my boss will react to my absence. I hope that he keeps my position open for me. On the other hand, I’m also concerned about how this is affecting my productivity, because I had been working very hard before I was admitted here; in less than a month, I had written nearly 400 lines of my dramatic poem, and if I hadn’t been hospitalized, my prologue might have been completed by the end of this month. — As for Lemieux, the end of his play is a fact that is still in the mists of the future.

I could affectionately shake your hand, since the purpura is not contagious, and besides I don’t have it today — which makes me hope I won’t have it tomorrow.

______

February 7, 1843

You’re going to Paris, and you didn’t write to me about it personally? That was very improper of you! — However, I will forgive you on the condition that you visit me. You can come at any time, because as of today I have left my key with the doorman to give to you. I don’t know if you’re traveling to Paris to get back on your feet or to just take a trip; in any case, we might have something to offer you which I think will suit you. I won’t write to you again since I will be seeing you; otherwise, you would have received a collection of letters from me within a week because we hadn’t written to each other in about three months. You will be meeting with all of us at a time when we are busy at work. As for me, I’m working like a madman and practically killing myself. You’ll have to fix me some coffee; I’m counting on you.

Therefore, my good friend, be quick with your departure and especially with your arrival. You cannot believe the pleasure your visit will bring and the happiness it will give me to greet you.

______

April 15, 1843

Please forgive me. If it has been such a long time since I have written to you, it is only because there hasn’t been anything interesting for me to write about. First of all, I was fired from my job, although it’s true that it was partly my fault. I had promised to finish the prologue of Marie by last Saturday, and I still had to complete at least a hundred lines on Saturday morning; I thought my boss could do without me for a day, and I continued writing. I did finish the

prologue. But when I returned to work the next day, my boss fought with me and thanked me for my services. — I was also badgered by my landlord, whom I owed two months back rent and had to pawn all sorts of belongings to pay him. In addition, the bailiffs questioned me regarding, P___’s business practices. Finally, I have been living a hellish life for the past three weeks. — I think I’m going to be forced to hide in Saint-Louis for the next three or four months. I may be able to recover from this, but I’ll be very upset if I can’t work….

We are starving and are at the end of our rope. We really have to come up with some sort of solution or blow our brains out!

______

Hospital Saint-Louis, May 7, 1843

I’m experiencing the effects of my purpura more than ever, and I’m in the hospital once again where I have been led to believe I won’t have to stay for more than six months. Before I was admitted here, I sold my furniture to my landlord for 75 francs and paid my creditors the 50 francs I owed them, which means that I won’t have either a fire or a place to stay when I’m discharged. But I have some big projects in my mind, which if successful, will put me on strong financial ground. I will explain them to you in due time....

Now let’s talk a little bit about literature! — I have completed four major works since your departure: les Burgraves, Lucrèce, Judith, and Via Dolorosa. Let’s go through my current works in chronological order. I have been advised and essentially reached an opinion regarding Les Burgraves; it isn’t a masterpiece but it is clever although it is still flawed! — Next, I will present Lucrèce to you. Oh, it’s certainly different! Although I have bad feelings about it because I spent eight hours rewriting it — twice — and I fought with myself over it, I must admit to you that it appeared shockingly beautiful to me. Ponsard, as you see, is a poet who will create a lot of ruckus for some people. — Give your regards to him again, old man! Judith is neither a tragedy nor a drama! It’s really nothing other than a form of biblical pastoral that has some similarity with la Bergère d'Ivry and la Belle Écaillère. It displays a very beautiful Bedouin motif and three or four verses of it aren’t bad; the rest of it isn’t worth the honor of being quoted. As for Via Dolorosa, it is essentially a revision of my poem previously entitled Marie, and its prologue was clearly reviewed, corrected, and its meaning clarified, as it was recently read before a group. It was a great success! However, I would prefer if it would be a mediocre success at the bookstores. Speaking of success, I understand you have also had yours. Fortoul’s brother visited with the Desbrosses; they read your poems to him and he was so enthusiastic that he asked me to entrust him with your manuscript in order to find an editor for you. Let me know if such an arrangement would suit you! — Address your letters to me at the Henri IV ward.

______

September 6, 1843

You must be very angry with me since I haven’t written to you for over five months but what do you want from me? I was in the hospital. Now that I’m out, I’m going to resume my correspondence, and for starters, I’ll let you know about my change of address as a tenant. I now live in a beautiful second floor apartment on Vaugirard Street with a balcony overlooking the street, with a rent of 250 francs per month! I live there with a young man whom you don’t know but he is an old friend of Desbrosses. He wants to make a living with his writing and he probably could succeed if he wasn’t as lazy as a snake. He has good social skills and in a few days, we are going to work with some minor writers. — He has introduced me to someone who is willing to invest 3 or 4,000 francs for the establishment of a Latin Quarter newspaper; we will inevitably be on the editorial staff. Banville must be involved in this as well; we will probably get in touch with

him. On the other hand, although this may be very costly for me, I’m going to devote all my efforts to make this a successful enterprise. I am going to create some light dramas and try to get them accepted by the little theaters — under a pseudonym, of course, because I don’t want to compromise my name for all the literary crimes I plan to commit. It may be a bad way to go, but what can I do? I don’t have a job and I must have a way to live. I tell myself that this may be a way to build some relationships and make contacts which could be useful to further my serious work that I don’t want to give up either.

______

October 18, 1843

You forgave me in your last letter for neglecting to write to you on the condition that I start to respond quickly to your letters. I’m afraid I can’t promise this because I’m still having a lot of problems, but I ask that you be lenient with me. However, I can explain what prevented me from writing to you sooner: I submitted a script to the Palais-Royal and I was waiting for their answer before I let you know. I received a sad answer, my friend. In their judgment the piece was engaging with excellent and profound dialogue but they sent regrets for not being able to accept the work. Today I’m offering the script to the Pantheon Theatre where we hope to have better luck; the play is entitled Pipelet et Cabrion. — I’m currently writing another one, what am I saying? Actually, it’s two others; a light comedy and a literary drama for l’Odéon. If they reject my work, I will add a plot twist to the drama such as an assassination or a childbirth, or perhaps a violent tirade against the vile gentleman who stole the honor of some poor girl. I will become clandestine and submit the whole thing to the Pantheon or to the Bobino under a hair rising pseudonym. Even though I may be creating commercial work, I still won’t neglect the proud craft of my Muse. Right now, I’m working on a little poem that is looking good; I’ll let you review it when I’m finished. Although I’m not completely cured, I have experienced a huge improvement, and by taking care of myself, which I’m beginning to do; I hope to get rid of my illness. — Desbrosses is out of the hospital but the poor man isn’t doing very well. His disease is much more serious than mine. He is becoming depressed which makes the situation desperate for all of us. Ah, we are all poor devils! I will let you know the result of my dramatic attempts.

______

January 9, 1844

You must be very mad with me! But if you are indeed mad at me, you shouldn’t feel that way! First of all, I think the post office has played one of those tricks we are all too used to being played on us. Two and a half months ago I responded to your October letter but I never received a reply from you. However, my letter was returned back to me. In short, I’m going to describe my life for you since the four months I have been out of the hospital. Upon my discharge, a young man who is a friend of Desbrosses offered to share his home with me along with the allowance he received from his parents. The offer was sincere and made with good will, and on the other hand, I had no other place to turn and so I accepted his offer. I ended up living with this young man for three months at his expense. I wanted to try to make a living from my literary work, and we wrote a light comedy together, which was rejected — by the Palais-Royal and three or four other theaters. At this point, it must be set aside with the poems as an ill advised idea. — After doing just that, I returned to serious art and I started writing something more like a drama which I planned to submit to the Odéon. I wrote three acts; then I ran into problems that caused me to stop working. On another note, I have had a thousand worries: I am at odds with the Desbrosses, without either of us knowing the reason. They started our problems, although they disagree with this assessment; but ultimately, all of our silly quarrels have been caused by our common impoverishment. We currently don’t see each other and I can tell you that I’m not going to try to renew contact with them. — Nadar found a position at the newspaper le Commerce for me; I worked there for three months without earning anything but now I’m

being paid fifty francs — per month. I hope to get a salary increase soon. In addition, Nadar introduced me to Banville and to other young people from the Latin Quarter who have formed a small group.

R___ brought me your letter and my reception — not to your letter, but to him — was rather cold. I don’t want to reconnect with him. He had the nerve to tell me he was going to be collaborating with the Revue Indépendante…. I’m currently very upset again. The young man I’m living with made it clear to me that we could no longer stay together; he went about it in a tactless way and it offended me. I still have some of my furniture at his house and I can’t remove it because unfortunately, I haven’t finished paying for it. I’m staying in Nadar’s furnished hotel room. He left me his room after he had to move to a nursing home. However, you can always write to me at my address on Vaugirard Street. And now, tell me a little about what you have been doing; go into detail about your work, because I suspect you are hiding some nice surprises.

______

March 17, 1844

You are between Carybde and Scylla, my dear friend! — Our poverty is worse than ever with me and all those around me. My plans to earn an income have not succeeded; I’m on the streets again. It’s horrible! The discouragement I feel has completely overwhelmed me. If I have to spend a few more days in this situation, I will either shoot myself or join the navy. Forgive me for complaining. It’s the cry of hopelessness.

______

March 21, 1844

Bouché is no longer working at la Gazette de la Jeunesse or l’Audience. So you can give up any hope of getting paid for your Cerf-Volant or for your other short story. However, there is a chance to file an appeal against the newspaper; I will explain this to you in Orléans. — I can’t scrounge up any money to make the trip; you will need to send me some...

I will be on my way as soon as I receive what you can send me. I eagerly await your response.

______

Between the date of the previous letter and the following letter, Murger visited the province where his friend lived. He discontinued his work while he was there! Instead, he took daily walks through the countryside and had daily talks with his friend which gave renewed meaning to his life and instilled hope in his heart!

We are only aware of two verses Murger wrote during those few months. They are as follows:

On the banks of the Loiret, my young cousin, I gathered these forget-me-nots for you...

The piece ended there. Did the poet’s new love — because it was love — remain there as well? We believe that it did since we can find no trace of it anywhere else.

______

June 15, 1844

As soon as I returned home, it seemed that sorrows and troubles poured down upon me as if I was accustomed prey. My position on the perch is difficult and the trough accumulating my troubles never seems to empty. At last, starting tomorrow, I will begin a new effort to earn an income from my literature and I have hope for success. But hope is a vague sentiment! I have been told that Nadar had to return to the nursing home…. I’m not sending your trunk back to you immediately but you will be happy with the reason. We will be casting a mask of Christ in a couple of days and we will then send you a test of it in your trunk which we will convert to terra cotta (like Saint Georges Terracing le Demon), along with Grenadier Blessed and some original images of our poor friend. At the same time you will receive two or three etchings of Chien-Caillou. These etchings are true masterpieces of the style.

______

Joseph Desbrosses, whom we had nicknamed Christ, died a few months earlier. He died in the hospital, exhausted by work and poverty — at twenty-three years old. He was undoubtedly still only making models, but these models were already very masterful. I have in front of me his little Grenadier of 1792 which is an achievement for justice. If he had lived, I’m sure that Joseph Desbrosses would have become a great, a very great sculptor. He had a wide range of original design ideas; and, having acquired the skills to match his talent, he wouldn’t have had any rivals. We all thought of him that way when we saw him working and leading by example. — Additionally, his great mind was enhanced by his big heart. Joseph Desbrosses’ character exemplified the greatest loving goodness and he was enlightened by kind and pure values. He spread this well reasoned kindness all around him like a vase that overflowed naturally, innocently, and without any apparent ulterior motive. Everyone received their share with the most vulnerable receiving a larger portion. That is why it was a great shock to all of us when death took Joseph away from us; a few people are still currently in bereavement. La Lettre a un Mort, from Murger’s book of poetry contains the following lines:

Ever since that winter day under a mournful sky We dug where we saw your poor coffin would lie A layer of damp soil, etc.,

The poem was addressed to the dearly departed Joseph Desbrosses. Although Murger’s correspondence with his friend in the provinces didn’t discuss the burial of the greatest and best one of us, it was more likely because he didn’t want to face his grief rather than any problem preventing him from writing.

Let’s return to Murger’s letters.

______

July 30, 1844

I’m always unhappy! But I’m also always more determined to fight for myself! For a while, I had counted on Monsieur de Tolstoï; he is doing nothing and he doesn’t want to do anything for me. As for my father, he only criticizes me and insults me when I go to see him. He told me the other day that my current position is nothing to be proud of and that I would

be better off working as a servant. Isn’t that horrible and something to outrage me? I have no hope of finding another job because I don’t have the proper clothes to wear; my position can only change by a quirk of chance. I’m simply waiting for it to happen. I also have other worries such as the frequent return of my skin condition and I have had terrible stomach pains for some time now. Yet, despite this complication, I don’t want to go back to the hospital. I have had enough. — Nevertheless, I have been working some. I recently wrote a very long article arguing against emancipation in art and especially against proletarian art as it is practiced in the Revue Indépendante. It may be badly organized, but it contains a lot of wit along with factual statements and other comments that are just paradoxical. I don’t know where to turn. I’ve been advised to go to the Revue de Paris, but we can’t come to an agreement — I’ll see what happens. I have also written some poems which are pure fantasy and edited four chapters of Tristan.

P. S. — August 3 — A delay of four days — Yesterday I tried to shop around several different proposals that had been given to me. No one was interested! Nothing was to be had! I’m considering the possibility of carrying out my old idea of enlisting in the navy. Let’s see, what is your honest opinion on the subject!

______

August 15, 1844

I’m glad to finally be able to write to you without having to include stories of my impoverishment. Bad luck seems to have become tired of chasing after me and good luck seems to want to present itself before me. Here are the facts — we are too close to each other for me to hide anything from you — I had written to Madame Rothschild to inquire about a position with her husband. She talked to his assistant and asked him to arrange a meeting. There really wasn’t a position suitable for my skills; but I was offered 50 francs as a diplomatic gesture; and I accepted it. — I immediately ran to obtain clothing to make myself presentable. With the assistance of good luck, my father lent me a hand and practically gave me a second set of clothes. As a result, I now have the start of an entire wardrobe. I could now go out and I did. I went to see Monsieur Tolstoï again, and he gave me 20 francs last Saturday — and he wrote me on Sunday to ask if I would go back to work for him. What do you think if I told you I accepted his offer! — I have returned to my duties with him and I’m very happy. — Monsieur Tolstoï is an excellent person and I’m very devoted to him. I’m convinced that the only reason he didn’t help me earlier was because he didn’t have the ability to do so. As rich as he appears, he does have his moments of difficulty. He seems more than willing to help me when he can. Since he decided he didn’t like the jacket I was wearing today, he gave me 40 francs and asked me to buy myself a new coat. If he found himself with spare funds, I believe it’s possible he would have given me several hundred francs to buy new furniture.

He recently commissioned Lelioux to write a novel for a publisher; I am working with him and about a third of it is complete. Each of us is earning about 125 francs for the work. I have told you about my new found luck but unfortunately, there has been a sad setback. Poor Gothique is sick, and there is no doubt that his health began to decline after his brother became ill. He has the same symptoms as poor Christ and he is receiving the same treatment. The worst of it all is that the unfortunate Christ suspects the true nature of his illness but pretends he doesn’t for the sake of his friends. I pray to God that I’m wrong! I hope you know that my prayer is sincere; but I’m afraid, greatly afraid that before long the two brothers will be side by side in their graves. In short, Gothique’s situation is horrible; his father won’t do anything for him, there is no medicine that can help him, and he refuses to be admitted to the hospital. We have appealed to some of his friends, but his best friends are also the poorest. I’m afraid that despite his reluctance, our dear sick friend will be forced to go to the hospital. — We will do whatever we can to help him avoid it, but there isn’t much we can do!

G___, who has a very good job as an illustrator for a publication entitled les Bagnes has promised to help.

______

October 2, 1844

R___ suddenly announced that he was giving up literature and will presumably enter a seminary.

Literary advice to ***

Read: Odes et Poemes, by A. de Laprade; — Les Grotesques, by T. Gautier.

Artistic advice to Gothique:

Try to see — an illustration of Othello by Chassériau. — Very beautiful! — More beautiful than Rossini’s that I had the misfortune of hearing at l’Opéra.

I won’t be writing to you anymore; I am very depressed.

______

February 18, 1845

You must be very angry at me and you would be correct if you accused me of being lazy! But you would be wrong if you believe there was any other reason for my long silence! — I couldn’t forgive myself if my carelessness was excessive to the point that it affected your feelings for me. Listen, I don’t want to blame anyone, but Gothique is partly the reason for my long pause in corresponding, and here’s how. He had promised that he was going to give me the statuette of Christ to send to you, and I had been waiting every day for it in order to include my new script which you asked to see in the same package. The statuette hasn’t been sent to you yet because Gothique is in such great need that as soon as each one was cast, he sold it to pay for necessities, or — more often than not — forfeited it in lieu of debts, many of which is still owed. In short, due to this delay, I have a lot of news to tell you about, — and it is good news about me. First of all, please be patient if you haven’t received any of my recent work! I simply think that my prose and poetry would look better printed than written by hand. I’m starting to feel a little like Guttenberg. I met with Arsène Houssaye. — I can place all my cards on the table for you to see, — and I’m not afraid to tell you that he has found my poems worthy of publication and that he has already included two pieces in l’Artiste. Additionally, Houssaye asked me for a short story. I gave him a title at random and he said, “Do it!” I wrote it, and I’m taking it to him tomorrow — the story is called les Amours d'un Grillon et d'une Étincelle, and it is entirely fictional, my friend! In addition, in a vein of sarcasm, I threw a dozen notes in the Corsaire’s submission box, and I have had the pleasure of seeing them parade one after the other in that journal; resulting in further collaboration with the aforesaid publication, — where, like one of my friends who already works there, I will reap from 30 to 40 francs per month without any bother. — There is much more news, my dear skinny friend! I became acquainted with the owner-editor of a popular journal, which has 8,000 subscribers and pays its editorial staff very well. I submitted an article which he was kind enough to refer to as the “pearl of his journal,” and two possibilities have been opened for me: I hope to be published in the magazine Salon and I have also received attention from three or four theaters. There is even more to tell! If you receive the Gazette de la Jeunesse, you can see that I’m working on it again, which is why I’m having dinner at my uncle’s house since my cousins are subscribers. — Besides, additionally, oh! oh! I am going to be in contact with a publisher of children’s literature, which will earn me money and who will take responsibility for my literary misdeeds. So here I am on my way down the path, as Nadar would say, — who lounges around even more than the number of wrinkles in his Robe — much more than de Dèjanire. But, but, you say! I recognize if you want to point out my failings, but it’s necessary to sacrifice my work for vile prose, — as long as the idea

is attributed — and it is credited to you. This won’t stop me from completing my book of poetry; it’s just that I won’t work on it exclusively.

My boss is leaving for Russia but he is keeping me on the payroll during his trip; he determined that he could do that by paying me an advance of 150 to 200 francs, which will make it possible for me to gather forget-me-nots along the banks of the Loiret during the month of April.

I don’t know if you would agree with me or not, but I think I have found my kind of literature: it’s purely imaginative. I have created prose and poetic ballads, which are very pretty, — I always place my cards on the table. Houssaye is a benevolent man who wants to do good things for all the young people who show real aptitude. He launched the career of one of my friends, and he might do the same for me if he is happy with my work. — Lelioux has resumed working on his drama and has finished the fourth act; it’s very beautiful. I have heard two new songs by Pottier that are very remarkable. — This b___ of Barthélemy is inappropriately proud, isn’t he! — Write to me! What have you been doing? Have you made a little progress with your art? Is your job going better? Have your marriage plans fallen apart or is it still going to take place? Is she a brunette or a blonde? Did fate rain down a dowry on your house???... Provide me with the answers to these questions and a thousand more.

Develop the most favorable response, and place it at the bottom of this letter, with a handful of words.

______

June 18, 1845

I have been very bad for not writing to you for such a long time. Forgive me, but I don’t know what to say to you. You will receive this letter from a friend of mine whom you should be glad to meet. He will tell you that I haven’t written to you because I am lazy. In terms of productivity, my business affairs are not going badly; my finances are another thing altogether. Yet I’m not very unhappy. I expect my boss will be sending me some money in a few days. — If you have written any nice poems that don’t exceed thirty lines, I could likely pass them on to l’Artiste for publication. Once again, please excuse my brevity; writing a single page scares me as much as writing ten pages.

P. S. Nadar fought a duel recently. You can ask Wallon to tell you the details.

______

VII

Autobiographies Can Contain Lies — Champfleury the Realist — The Journal le Corsaire — The Door to the Revue des Deux Mondes

These letters show Henri Murger in his entirety: both the man and the writer at the same time. From 1841 to 1845, he lived as if his life was public for the reader. He wrote about his joys, his suffering, and his labors without any pretense, openly, with much more sincerity than if he wanted to produce stories for profit. Autobiographies always contain their lies, and even the most truthful memoirs obscure some facts. The writer instinctively poses even in spite of himself because he knows that others are scrutinizing his life. This doesn’t happen with Murger’s letters; it is his genuine nature that speaks, thinks, and acts.

Undoubtedly these letters, which only cover a four year period, don’t tell Murger’s complete story; they only cover a small portion of his youth. But isn’t this portion of his life the most interesting? It was the time of his life for studying, working hard, surviving worthy misfortunes and honorable wounds; it was the time when he privately struggled with his vocation, when he fought battles over his destiny; finally it was the time when he grew independent.

And besides, Murger hasn’t been the same ever since. He shaped what he would become by the early snippet of his life; all that he was to become later in life. He experienced the same suffering, the same joy and the same work ethic; the only difference was that he did it on a larger scale.

Starting in 1845 however, he gradually gathered with a different entourage than he was previously associated; one that was more militant, more skillful, and more practical minded than his previous associates. He was often satisfied with the simple dream of taking his work to the highest level; to concentrate on the proper execution of his art, and he was correct. All his associates knew that Murger was happy to face these real adventurous and daring down to earth challenges.

By 1843 however, he had already placed his foot into this new camp. “I live,” he wrote, “with a young man, an old friend of Desbrosses, who wants to take up an occupation in literature.” This young man, who was then still being referred to by his real name of Jules Fleury, was none other than the future realist Champfleury, the author of Bourgeois de Molinchart.

Now, as an enemy of verse, biased against poetry as a rule and by temperament, Jules Fleury fought against and triumphantly influenced his new friend to limit his concentration on the form, at least in part. He was able to prevail in his advice, which 18 months earlier, I had personally given to Murger, and which others, Nadar in particular, had repeated many times to him. From that moment on, in fact, we saw Murger attempt light comedy, try to write dramas, concern himself with short stories and novels; but he was not quite drawn into the current of prose until the day he wrote to his provincial friend, “Tomorrow, I’m submitting a work of fiction entitled les Amours d'un Grillon et d'une Étincelle to l'Artiste. In addition, in a vein of sarcasm, I threw a dozen notes into the Corsaire’s submission box, and I have had the pleasure of seeing them parade one after the other in that journal; resulting in further collaboration with Corsaire.”

The Corsaire opened a small door for Murger to gain a lot of publicity. His notes, the stories he wrote, soon turned into Scènes de la Bohème, which was produced for the theater and became famous when it played at the Revue des Deux Mondes. — I think it debuted there in 1850 (actually Nov 1849).

______

VIII

Parisian and Rural; a Prerequisite for Poetry —The Fontainebleau Forest, A Word from Michelet — Investigating the Cause of Murger’s Death — A Quotation from l'Indépendance Belge. — From Spices!

When he published les Scènes de la Boheme in le Corsaire, Murger was writing a little bit every day, so to speak, which was the very life he was currently living. He no longer wrote beside the fireplace as in the past — where there often was no fire and when his stomach was often empty. As it was heard say, he conceptualized art with that passionate language that characterized all platonic lovers; it was discussed in the open air, in the street, in the square, and at the tavern, — where one would talk of his conquests — artistic — and others between two mugs!

Murger left that scene as soon as he could.

Although he had a predominately Parisian spirit, his heart was essentially rural, and despite the extravagance which appeared on his exterior, he had the upmost interest in living in retreat. His love of the countryside — the love which is a

prerequisite for poetry! — dominated his mind and caused him to almost completely withdraw from society as soon as he experienced his first success. The place he chose for his retreat was Marlotte! — That was where he lived for eight months of each year for six years. Marlotte was one of the most beautiful places in the stunning Fontainebleau Forest which placed him between Switzerland and the outskirts of Paris.

However, while standing in front of his freshly closed grave, and remembering the swift and terrible illness that suddenly struck him, one wonders whether Murger’s prolonged stay in this beautiful place had a negative impact on his already weak constitution. — “This place is hard,” said Michelet as he spoke about the Fontainebleau Forest. “No one is there with immunity.” Medical science has long confirmed the words of the philosopher. Woe be onto those here who are in poor health! This place is the opposite of Nice.

Since we are searching for the causes of his death which was so quick that it seemed sudden, shouldn’t we also look for any adverse circumstances from his past? It wouldn’t be too preposterous to identify the causes in the difficult life that Murger led at the age of 20, including his deprivations, his illnesses — and the treatments imposed on him in the hospitals. He wrote a letter from the Saint-Louis Hospital where he said, “They have me consume arsenic as if I were in three melodramas.” Isn’t that a revelation? Who knows whether such aggressive treatments could have eventually brought trouble to the complicated mechanism of a being in poor health? Everything is a mystery when it comes to such questions, even for a clairvoyant.

We also know that Murger had a dreadful habit, a habit that was formed in the early years of his youth, when there was no wood for the fireplace on cold winter days, and he found a way to compensate in order to work; he almost always worked lying in his bed at night, and only at night. In order to stay awake, he abused coffee to the point of fever and delirium. “There were nights when I used over six ounces of coffee beans,” he wrote one day. At another time he wrote, “I’m literally killing myself. I need for you to hide my coffee; I’m counting on you.” Isn’t this another revelation?

Can’t all these causes together explain the reason for his catastrophic end?

But no, the reason for his quick death lies elsewhere; Murger carried it within himself since his very birth. Nature, which had made him a poet, had at the same time assigned him the exact hour for his eternal silence. We find this said so well in an interchange from l’Indépendance Belge, that we could do no better than to borrow from his text:

“Nothing could foretell Murger’s premature death, but it seemed to me that the best way to sense his continued presence was to read his books. Despite all the obvious signs such as the sincerity of his passion, his enthusiasm for natural beauty, the power of his emotion for life which overflowed in the streams and the blossoms of flowers, there was a hidden sense that this poet would die young. The spirit of spring was so ingrained in him that it was hard to comprehend how he could live through summer, much less survive until autumn.”

Indeed, Murger was only 38 years old when he died; the summer of his life was just beginning.

His death was dreadful. It was cauased by the slow disintegration — fiber by fiber — vein by vein — molecule by molecule — during life itself. Murger essentially no longer existed, and yet through his legacy, he still spoke and enlightened.

I had the consolation of having seen him several times during his final short illness. — He had somehow become more tender, more expressive, and more friendly. He grasped the hands of each new visitor, and grasped them again and again while squeezing them a thousand times: — “Ah, my good old friend!” he sighed. And then he made a sound like a hiccup, a constant and mournful sputtering, often mixed with cries, and finally stopped his outpouring.

It happened one day at the beginning of a crisis. — The cries of the unfortunate patients who were housed on the fifth floor was loud enough that they could be heard from the ground floor.

“Ah!... Well!... Well!... You have long legs... Go!... Go!... Get me my medicine! A bottle!... You’ll take a wide mouthed bottle... Go! Go!...” And he was writhing in terrible convulsions.

I had trouble finding this wide mouthed bottle; I spent over a half hour looking for it. When I returned, the crisis was still going on. — “Ah, thank goodness! Here is the man!” and he frantically snatched the bottle from me. After consuming a larger than normal dose of the medicine, he grasped me with both his hands in a display of deep gratitude, and I thought he would never let go of me.

He was transported the next day to the Dubois house, where he died three days later on Monday, January 28, 1861, at ten o’clock in the evening.

Did death, by striking Murger prematurely, stop him from completing his work? This is a question that can only be determined in the future.

However, seeing that this work was already so complete given the little time he had, the evidence makes it possible to conclude that the writer would not have greatly increased the size of his work, even if he had been able to add to it. Murger appears to have given everything within himself between the novels, dramas, and poems that he left us in somewhere between 10 to 12 volumes.

Certainly he would have still been young enough to complete a lot of work, and but he probably would have done little more than reproduce his prior work, to create variations on the motifs that he had already developed. He was resourceful, and his ingenuity would have likely kept him successful, without his literary legacy effectively becoming more significant. His last books tend to prove this opinion. He did not improve on what he had previously accomplished; he simply maintained the quality of his work.

In my opinion, this assessment should serve as consolation for his true friends. By the time of his death, Murger could only develop a rough draft, only an incomplete product inferior to his former self. What he left behind has all the dimensions of a complete life’s work. His legacy is complete, true to form, all together true in its intent.

Many accused him of being unfaithful to his principles; some faulted him for being lazy. In these times of hasty opinions, such criticism is not surprising. Murger, it must be admitted, wasn’t a writer who exactly embodied the strength or speed of a locomotive. He didn’t operate like a high speed or an express train; he slowly and methodically went on his own way, and he complimented himself for it. His manner of going certainly allowed him to stop and enjoy the flowers he gathered along the way! Regarding the accusations that he was lazy, let us review the letters he wrote when he was younger: he always continued to remain the same person he had always been. Can laziness be attributed to a person who ‘literally killed himself” by working all night long?

In short, Murger’s unfaithfulness and laziness produced a dozen volumes in 12 years which resulted in very little criticism: such productivity would satisfy the hardest working writers.

______

Murger’s Realism in Fiction — Indelible Memories of First Love — To Marie, Unpublished Poems — What These Poems Might Prove — Balzac; One of His Lost or Misplaced Novels — The Last Meeting and Musette’s Song

It is true that all of Murger’s works are based on real life experiences; that’s what gives them allure and power. Whimsical, sometimes to excess, in his expression, Murger was always simple, always true, and always human in fact. He

described only what he knew perfectly, that is to say himself and those around him. Above all, he publicly confided about his loves. In that regard, I want to talk again about Marie.

The poet’s first love is almost always his only true love; this one becomes the mold in which all the others will be partly cast: this is the one that is already shaped on the ideal. Therefore Marie is essentially relived in all the women of Murger’s novels. Musette, Mimi, Hélène, Francine, Camille, and the others are all portrayed with some of the characteristics which contained the writer’s true passion.

That passion was so real that the name of Marie always stirred Murger’s emotions. Six months ago, just like ten years ago, I saw him moved to tears when hearing that cherished name. He also joked about it sometimes. He tried to laugh at his tears, because one of his weaknesses was to blush when speaking of his first love; his memory of Marie was always loving and poignant until the end of his life.

We think we should provide an example of the lines the poet composed and addressed to his lover after he discovered she had been unfaithful.

TO MARIE

In this sad and dark place where boredom devours you, Alone as you think about it. Ah, are you pondering it anew? Of the sweet moments in the past, when we, once upon a time Away from the noise of the city, in the forest when you were mine? Don’t you relive it when you daydream, Seeing the bushes flowering with hawthorn by the stream, The fields filled with wheat as we walked through them for hours, Paths which were dotted with acacia flowers, And, like an oasis in the middle of the prairie do you recall, The green bouquet of the willow shading the waterfall Where you were reminded as the water dripped like tears, Of Desdemona crying as she spoke of her fears?

It was there where I often waited for you, Pretending to sleep so I could surprise you, I lay down on the flowery grass and dreamed as I wait; Trembling with hope, and facing the skies as I expected my fate. And the balmy breeze, like an invisible prophet said, “She is coming!” as the wind passed over my head; “She is coming!” I had a vision of your flowing hair, Floating in the arbitrary layers of air Your flimsy clothes with white lace tied with strings, Caressed your forehead with the tips of its wings, And to prove that you were brought by design from the start The fragrance of a flower broke free from your heart.

Then, when you arrived, we spent an entire hour Of ecstasy and sighs, of silent prayer which gave its power, Of the tears we wiped as we counted them out, With a thousand kisses that we didn’t count.

If a day ever comes when you suffer in pain, You will have lost memory of this time in vain,

But these hours of love will forever remain in my mind: My heart will never leave this sacred memory behind, The memories of the evenings we spent, Marie, Will never leave like the setting sun coloring the prairie.

1842

Despite a certain beauty, mostly borrowed from Brizeux’s poem which also sang praise to his Marie, it must be acknowledged that the images in this poem are weak; and yet at the time, Murger was a much happier person, as proven in his book, Nuits d’hiver, which included some pieces that were written during the same time.

In our opinion, the weakness of the poem indicated the poet’s loss of passion for the subject by the time he wrote it — more than a year after he lost his mistress. When it comes to art, storms within the heart never inspire but only lead to mediocrity. The lightning must be far away from the clouds where they are spawned. In short, effective work, or true works of art, can only be inspired by a memory, — a long held recollection. Murger himself later proved this was true.

In fact, this was Balzac’s opinion, a man whom very few would dispute. He had the courage to describe this affect in an extended short story, in a novella that we deeply regret failed to be included in his Comédie Humaine.

In 1839, an exceptional situation enabled us to obtain — as a sample to review — this little novel. What happened to it after it was returned to the author? It was entitled la Frelore. Incidentally, we want to bring attention to this work to this great novelist’s editors.

But let’s return to the subject of Murger and Marie.

After their separation, which took place at the beginning of 1841, the former couple only saw each other two times: first in November 1842, and then in April or May, 1851. Now, each of these two encounters inspired a literary work that the poet didn’t think would be of interest to anyone. This is regrettable, because the resulting poem, even though it is true that it was never finished — entitled Via Dolorosa, possessed very genuine qualities. The 1851 meeting between Marie and Murger was a much happier one and inspired two enchanting works: the novel Dernier Rendez-vous and the ballad Musette.

Marie and Olivier never renewed their romance according to the short story; in reality, Murger and Marie had renewed their relationship. However, this second phase of their love life was short lived; the fire of passion couldn’t be sustained on ashes.

Once Musette knew, The party had ended, On a beautiful morning she returned anew, Back to the old nest like a fickle bird she descended; But after kissing the one who betrayed, My heart felt no ardor. And Musette, whose laughter was her real self displayed. Said I wasn’t myself any more.

They had been separated for ten years. Indeed, after all that time, how could they recognize each other?

______

Murger Was Condemned to Empiricism in Everything — His Unenthusiasm For Hunting — Lolo Nolot, the Poacher — Murger’s Rabbit — The Sun Sets, But There’s No Sleep

During those ten years when they were apart, I had no clue about Marie’s feelings, but Murger certainly didn’t keep track of her. The poet spent much more time with platonic pursuits, dreams, and fantasizing than he described in his books. The story of the Dane which begins,

Scandinavian flower blooming under the snow, had been reproduced many times during Murger’s life.

Besides, his passions and desires didn’t just revolve around love, but to remaininging true to his pure ideals. His compulsion to empiricism seemed to have been one of the essential characteristics of his strange nature. As for hunting, which in recent years had become a major passion, I believe his only motivation was the harmless pursuit of game.

Murger was so heavily influenced by the character of Nemrod that he had a genuine hunting suit made, from the mid thigh high hunting boots, to the melon shaped cap. There was nothing more strange than seeing him dressed in this gear, which he sometimes wore when he walked on the boulevards in the middle of Paris.

I remember he met me one day on the Avenue de Clichy when he was dressed in this outfit while carrying a rifle on his shoulder — when he lived in Batignolles, — and he asked me to accompany him to the Saint-Ouen prairie, where he planned to hunt larks. As we crossed a field near Clichy, our footsteps startled a bevy of birds that rose in clouds from the tall grass. “It’s all yours, Murger!” I cried to him. But he didn’t take aim and as he quietly loaded his weapon he said, “What do you think I am? At least wait until they come back to land.” That was the only effort he made to hunt.

And yet, hunting was one of Murger’s major activities when he lived in Marlotte. If, from time to time, he didn’t need to hunt some money, he would have, like in The Leather Stocking Tales, spent all of his time on the prairie.

I recall some anecdotes about his life in the country. One day, Murger was sleeping under a tree with his rifle at his side. Suddenly, he woke up to barking. It was Lolo’s dog, — Lolo Nolot was the powerful hunter of the forest whom the forest rangers believed was really a poacher. Now, the dog was in a frenzy at the foot of the tree, with his eyes fixed on something in one of the branches. Murger stood up, looked but didn’t see anything. Lolo ran to the spot where his dog bayed.

“Quick, Monsieur Murger, give me your rifle! Don’t you see it?”

“Who? What?”

“A pheasant, pardieu! A magnificent bird! It’s on a branch; look out!”

A shot rang out and the pheasant fell at Murger’s feet.

“Grab hold of it!” said Lolo. “Take the bird and then you can say you shot it!”

Murger was pale with restrained emotion. He accepted the bird. And this is how he happened to kill a pheasant. Nevertheless, he explained the situation just as Lolo suggested!

A rabbit lived in a potato field. Murger had essentially adopted it; he considered it to be his rabbit. Every morning at daybreak, he took his rifle and went looking for the hare and he did the same thing in the evening. This hunt lasted for the duration of the hunting season. All of the hunters in Marlotte spread word to spare Murger’s rabbit. One day the rabbit almost lost its life. Antoine Fauchery, the woodsman, the Buwranger, and the outlaw, went hunting with Busquet. A rabbit came out of hiding; Fauchery aimed his gun. Busquet only had enough time to raise his rifle before recognizing the animal.

“Don’t shoot!” he shouted. “You’ll kill Murger’s rabbit!”

“Ah! Well, let me at least leave him my calling card!”

Fauchery fired his rifle, and from that day forward, Murger’s rabbit only had one ear.

Murger was really a lost soul over the duration of two hunting seasons. However, sometimes his feelings were spared because all the local hunters knew not to hunt Murger’s rabbit and since they couldn’t always tell the animals apart, many other rabbits were spared as well. He was happy with the added benefits of his arrangement with the hunters!

One March evening, in accordance with his license, Murger went hunting in the Longs-Rochers. But time passed by quickly and it was after seven o’clock eve though the regulations made it illegal to hunt after sunset which occurred at six o’clock; Murger, it couldn’t be concealed, was poaching at that moment. While waiting for the rabbits to come out and find him, he smoked his pipe with his dog by his side. The dog suddenly began to growl, but his master wasn’t concerned. The dog continued to growl and began to bark. “Something unusual is happening,” said Murger to himself. And, in fact, he saw the appearance of the gendarmes’ tri-cornered hats as they headed towards him, guided by the dog’s growling. Murger tried to silence his dog, but it was too late.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” asked one gendarme.

“Here it is, my friends,” answered Murger.

“We aren’t your friends, we are officers.

They unfolded a page and read from it

“Very well, you are in violation of the state; that’s why, young man, you will follow us.

“This isn’t right!” said Murger. “Why, I am from Marlotte and I’m staying at Antony’s.

“That makes no difference. You are being charged with a misdemeanor for hunting after sunset.”

“But it was only six o’clock by my watch,” brazenly stated Murger.

“Then you can make your defense to the prosecutor tomorrow and settle the issue.”

The two gendarmes then gave a sly smile and walked away.

The next day, a shamefaced Murger went to Fontainebleau, less worried about a conviction than about the revocation of his hunting license.

“Monsieur Murger,” began the prosecutor.”You are incorrigible and we will use force to crack down on you. There have been many reports about your activity. Isn’t it true that you were hunting yesterday after sunset?”

“That’s only partly true, Monsieur Prosecutor; the sun was setting down, but... but it wasn’t asleep yet!

The judge was an intelligent man; the case wasn’t pursued any further.

______

Marlotte — Another Word From Michelet About the Fontainebleau Forest — Shako, Father Antony, and le Sabot Rouge

How and when did Murger discover Marlotte? If I’m not mistaken, it was around 1850 or 1851. He had originally come, no doubt, for the simple purpose of spending 24 hours in the country with some friends. This one day excursion turned into several months and soon kept him there for many years. “Many people,” said Michelet speaking of the Fontainebleau Forest. “Remained here, awestruck by the beauty. They came for a month and stayed until death.” This was initially the case for Murger.

He first stayed at Shako, a modest inn costing three francs per day, then soon moved to Father Antony, a club that had been transformed into a hotel, and whose owner was naturally portrayed in le Sabot Rouge.

This hotel was no ordinary inn! It wasn’t necessary to ask for a brush, soap, or anything else that makes for the most basic comfort. Father Antony, a hardened drunkard, always immersed in a haze from the wine, didn’t pay close attention to his guests. As long as his boarders were served their four meals on time, he declared he was satisfied and he would stumble into his bed. “My residents, ah, yes... they are a bunch of loafers who are well fed and well housed! I don’t need to feel sorry for them!!!!!” Then he fell asleep.

For a long time Murger, who loved Antony, was content with this strange hospitality; but when he decided to leave Paris to work in the country, he thought somewhere more orderly and peaceful would make a better place. He first stayed in a nearby house but continued to eat his meals at the inn. He soon wanted to settle down into something more permanent, and he found a small house just inside the boundary of Marlotte with a courtyard and garden which seemed just suitable to him. The big front door opened toward the road; while on the other side, a smaller back door opened toward the countryside. From that back door Murger could easily leave to go hunting — and return home without arousing the curiosity of his neighbors, whose comments often caused harm to his self esteem.

______

XII

The Idea For Murger to be Buried in Marlotte, Beautiful but Unreasonable — The Place Where the Cradle Was Rocked is Where the Grave Should be Located

In spite of Murger’s love for this place, Marlotte itself was not exactly a delightful place to visit. The surrounding area was undoubtedly very pleasing because it was in the middle of one of the most beautiful sites in the forest, but the place itself was not very captivating. The hamlet was almost completely unknown to tourists until recently. Marlotte’s unique views are enriched as it descends from the Gorge-aux-Loups plateau under the slope of the Long-Rocher which shelters it. Its low houses and its fields are infinitely divided by orchards during the spring and by snowy praries in the winter.

However, Murger considered this somewhat arid land to be the most wonderful paradise one could dream about. One had to hear him rave about his beloved village while analyzing its beauty and merits. Nothing in the world was more disagreeable to him than to hear his opinion of this land contradicted. Love didn’t define the deep feeling he felt for it; it was a true passion.

Those who understood this passion developed the idea to carry the poet’s remains to all the places he had cherished; it was a loving idea which reflected great regard for Murger’s memory, but upon reflection, it proved to be impractical and the plan was withdrawn.

First of all, the hamlet of Marlotte didn’t have a place for a burial; and even if it could have been his resting place, what would be the purpose of a village cemetery where no one would readily be able to visit and protect his grave? It’s possible the delinquents of the place would soon have defiled and desecrated the tomb of the author of Pays Latin.

If a monument was to be raised in Murger’s memory, it had to be erected in Paris, and nowhere else. Murger loved Marlotte, adored the countryside, and believed nothing was better; but he also loved and revered Paris which was his hometown. The place where the cradle was rocked is where the grave should be located! — This is the wish of every human being and it was especially the poet’s desire.

______

XIII

Murger Will Have a Monument — Fundraiser For This Purpose — Murger Will Remain in Paris — Monsieur Turgan’s Idea — The Sculpture Triumphs, Alas!

With this idea in mind, a fundraiser was held for the purpose of building a monument to Henri Murger, and this effort — a tribute to the poet, raised 10,000 francs in less than six weeks.

A committee was appointed to account for and to monitor and supervise the use of this sum. Since the purpose of the donations was for a sacred work, it was expected that the intention of those who contributed was to remain anonymous, but the largest contributors were known to everyone. The majority of the money raised was supposed to be dedicated to the tomb. To our deep regret, due to a great deal of confusion, this wasn’t the case.

During the initial meeting of the committee, the major topic of discussion revolved around the location of the proposed monument. An argument ensued concerning whether Murger would remain in Paris at the North Cemetery where he had been buried, or whether his body would be moved to Marlotte. The opinion that had originally been expressed finally prevailed: Murger would remain in Paris.

But what caused some people to feel a great deal of regret was that the poet’s final resting place would not be near the country retreat where he had chosen to live in recent times. This gave one of the committee members, Monsieur Julien Turgan, a beautiful idea, which unfortunately didn’t have the consent of the majority. It was proposed that while Murger’s body would stay in Paris, a part of Marlotte and the Fontainebleau Forest would be brought to his side at a minimal cost.

It was hoped that one of the beautiful rocks from the forest could be obtained from the ministry and placed on a base of granite or marble on the grave of the author of Sabot Rouge. A bronze by Préault, including the poet’s medallion was offered free of charge including the labor, materials, and the cast iron by the sculptor, — who was an ingenious sculptor — which would be embedded in the monument; and then green trees, heather, and mosses from the forest would be included to complete the memorial.

It would have been beautiful, simple, and unique at the same time.

But the sppnsors of the sculpture didn’t agree with the plans for the project. It wasn’t artistic enough for the direction they sought. As it turned out, the outline to be chiseled triumphed as the most important feature, and a task force — five members appointed from the committee, it seems, — commissioned Monsieur Aimé Millet — a skillful sculptor — with the execution of the monument.

Murger will therefore have a tomb that encompasses all the cultural norms: beautiful marble with tasteful, gorgeous, and expensive sculptures. It’s certainly impressive without a doubt. However, we would have preferred that he would have rested under Monsieur Turgan’s rustic and poetically significant rock.

PART THREE

What Remains to be Said — The Fly in the Ointment — Death is a Continuation of Life — The Cenacle — Desbrosses, Montaudon, Karol, and Jules de La Madelène —Let’s Not Count Our Dead — Bohemia and its Historians — The Sins that Men Will Least Forgive — The Official Record Of Martyrdom — The Bad Advisors — The Gospel Of Poor People — Fruit of the Raw Earth — Polar Bear Outbreak — The Water Faucet — Karol!

I didn’t have the honor of being a member of the Society of Water Drinkers, and I can chalk that up to the natural aversion that I’ve always had for wine.

Of one of the three or four of the oldest, and I can say the most beloved of Murger’s friends,-I thought there might be a real Water Drinker who would make an eulogy worthy of the man’s memory. I hoped that among everyone else, those affected by the eulogies, those aware of his literature, and those outside of Bohemia who had encountered his words, there might be something that was left unsaid about him that would be meaningful to say.

I will try to do so in my own way and all the more gladly because what I have in mind is beyond all the praise that has been devoted to the loyal and wonderful friend whose loss we regret.

I understand about the term used to label literature — the fly in the ointment, — it is symbolism that I manage to recognize even if I can’t explain it, — I can’t overlook it, because I love the full truth, and in my view, the best policy is to reveal the whole truth, and every lesson must be learned wherever it is discovered, even in front of a grave.

Death is a continuation of life, and according to the law of the eternal cycle, the corpse germinates plants and turns the furrows green.

Asking that the life of the dead give all it can to instruct those who remain is the best honor we can give to our lost friend.

Do you remember, my dear friends, the day we saw the memorable image of this naïve youth in the middle of the cenacle presided over by the brilliant dean Karol? Do you remember how he appeared shy and clean shaven, with his

round head, round chin, round cheeks, and round nose, as he contemplated us while gazing about with his two big round eyes?

That was indeed something to see!

A handful of poets who hadn’t yet been published gathered together. They didn’t have jackets and the soles of their shoes were worn. They had no doubts about anything; not their future, not their genius, not the genius of their neighbors, not their future publisher, not their success, not the beautiful ladies who were to come, nor their fortunes, — they were unconcerned about everything, except for whether they would have their evening dinner, although they were sure they would be able to obtain breakfast in the morning.

Every poet — except for one, because I only spoke in prose; — is all intoxicated with hope, happiness, courage, and is radiant with all the joys of youth and health; — they are all brave and loyal, since poverty doesn’t make them change their feelings and those who remain today can still look at each other without disillusionment, just like in the days when they were young.

Of all of these, a few died from heartache.

Desbrosses the sculptor, — the one you called Christ, who was so good and helpful — dead.

Montaudon, who studied poetic rhythm while in the same print shop as Hégésippe Moreau — dead.

Karol, that loyal and generous Karol, the mother of Bohemia, whose door didn’t even have a lock to allow anyone who needed to come in the ability to enter, Karol, the best of us all, died in Constantinople while looking for students who wanted to learn French.

Jules de La Madelène — dead.

Today — Murger is dead.

Whose turn will it be tomorrow?

Let’s not count any more, my friends, and let’s simply love each other.

I want to go back, even after you’ve gone, to this Bohemia of our younger days, because the truth is that the more I look around me, the less I see anything that resembles it today.

Everyone spoke and reminisced about our Bohemia and they noted that Murger was the first and the best of them all. Some have written about his story while going beyond what could be documented, categorizing his characters, analyzing his viewpoints, or reinventing the story with the skill of consummate and distinguished academics. They have disguised the brutal and horrific truth of the facts with the skillful charm of rhetoric, employing emotional and tender sentiment combined by an amiable and valuable knack with the witty genius of humor, — so that the eyes were dazzled by the fireworks in the mind or were veiled by the tears of the heart which allowed for nothing real to be seen or for the truth to be found.

Still others, as if wanting to be benevolent to a child who wasn’t their own, were content to accept our dear and decent Bohemia (accepting it at face value, of course). They condescendingly smiled as they protected this theme open to literary variations; a simple theme and even more favorable because it gave them the advantage of appearing as good princes1 toward harmless souls, without venom and full of gratitude and all ready for any sign of his hand. Balzac’s character La Palferine, from A Prince of Bohemia served as a precedent for Rodolphe which could be used as a mitigating circumstance to support his actions.

I’m not referring to the last category, — that is a rare species which causes no damage! — It’s the insufferable devotees, the self important dignified journalists, even the preachers and other good souls always ready to sign themselves at the cross or to express disdain as they gaze at our disorder and our misconduct.

I would like to say, however, that I am surprised at the rarity of this group of honest people, because the sins that men will least forgive you for, after the ones they have committed against you, is above all the sins you have committed against yourself.

1I would quickly like to make my most sincere reservations regarding my personal feelings about the word, “prince,” which has become the title of an excellent critic who is also a man of the best heart.

I cannot forget all the many times when I was deeply grateful to Monsieur Jules Janin for saying, in his charming and masterful way, the things that I thought myself, and while it is true that such a certificate of similarity is the greatest praise I can offer to a writer, today I see very few of his colleagues that I can compliment in the same manner for maintaining their dignity as a man of letters as well as a man. The most honest of us all is sometimes wrong, not only because he is a real man; but also because he is honest. We are always sure to find such a man when we sense his generosity and sincerity.

I find that what no one has failed to mention, not the eulogists, the outraged, or even the last of the realists have dared to confess is the actual and true record of martyrdom; the absolute, precise, and not at all poetic details of the suffering endured by many for such a long time — a life of poverty which was so unbelievable and so unbearable that in the last few years since they recovered, it appears to the very actors of the drama were insufferable ghosts of a distant nightmare.

Although I emphasize this sad and terrible life of misery, as far as I’m concerned, it was not motivated by pride or humility. But the more bitter and the longer their trials lasted, the more likely they learned how to live with it and they paid the price with their bodies, — like the poor friend from not so long ago! — without their souls ever weakening or surrendering to these bloody and repeated shocks. It is my desire, even more for those who are no longer with us than for those still living, to state the true facts: it is because of this small group, born of famine, cold, and vagrancy, gathered together by chance due to the strangest of encounters, there is not one — not one — who failed due to bad advisers. The esteem of each one’s neighbor commanded self respect in this mutual school of minimal honor, and, in the life sustaining home of our fraternal community, those who had been deprived of the precious example of a father, or of the holy teachings of a mother, were able to learn and to internalize the gospel of the poor which gave strength and goodness to the most wretched. From those men who I never left, no wicked deeds were ever taken against me.

It is high time to restore the real meaning of the term Bohemian, which has been so strangely distorted by popular playwrights as well as by influential vaudevilles.

As long as our Bohemians were united together, they were able to suffer less hardship, because for a long time they followed to the letter the singular example of an association where the words “yours” and “mine” were absolutely meaningless.

When their focus of working together as a team was lost due to some unknown circumstance, the isolated members began to have a difficult struggle. As an example, I will mention one of them who lived for eight days on a supply of raw potatoes provided by a poor mother from the provinces. He didn’t have the resources to make a fire to cook them, but he stated that he could survive despite this disadvantage. He felt even more deprived because he also didn’t have any access to salt. He stayed very skinny during his ordeal.

Another person had to go three days and two nights without eating any food and another time went without eating for three days and three nights. He now runs a business that spends five hundred francs in expenses each morning. I’m not including those who suffered such a circumstance for one or two full days during one’s youth because that was common for everyone, but it was an experience which served as motivation for success.

Another one went through a very severe winter, — the one from 1837 or 1838 (the polar bear outbreak), — simply dressed in a blue calico shirt — without a coat. I must admit that afterward he always wore a sweater. Three or four years ago he wrote the winning composition in an open competition against a young Duke d’Aumale. One night during this harsh winter while dressed, or rather undressed as I described, and without a place to stay and without food to eat for over a day, he walked, actually walked from the Bastille to the Madeleine and back, without stopping to avoid any questioning from the gray patrols. Finally collapsing from fatigue, hunger, and the cold, he used his hands to remove the snow covering a water faucet located in front of the Cirque-Olympique Theater; and right there, he drifted off into a heavy sleep. — I still shiver when I think back on it...

He didn’t know about Karol yet!

I can’t continue until I memorialize this brave heart that no longer beats for others today; without taking up several pages detailing his heroic, yet comical existence, his dark and difficult existence, which ended, certainly without a funeral or an eulogy, perhaps without a tomb, and who didn’t have a single line published containing a warm recollection or even the honor of a simple mention.

Yet all of us who loved him are moved when his name comes to one of our lips...

______

Karol — Method for Opening Doors — Bayard, Don Quichotte, and Saint François de Sales — The Real Icarus — The Laughing Fool — Drawing of the Lottery! — The Meeting — The Poor Mothers — The Ammunition of Bread — Three Parts of His Life — Production of Pipe Stems — Forty Sous... Sometimes — Les Gallipiges — A False Pole, the Duke d’Orléans’ Wedding — Karol the Rescuer — The Sinking of the Marne and the Bonus — A Complete Meal for 13 Sous — Mignon Street — Stop the Thieves! — Who Lives? — Romanzoff and the Crown Court — The Good Forger — R Did It

Our Bohemia was originated by Karol. He was the one who nurtured it, he was the one who provided for it, albeit not enough to live very well although no one had any hope that this was possible, but he provided enough support to survive.

Karol possessed the true nature of men. Besides having great physical strength, he also displayed unalterable gentleness and patience. If a door needed opening without a key, he would use his fist to punch it open, not against the wood, but against the lock. Although he could stop a team of horses pulling a carriage by grabbing them by their nostrils, I saw that he could only answer the most brutal insult and provocation with a sad and indifferent look. He lived by the philosophy of Bayard, Don Quichotte, and to a larger extent by Saint François de Sales. I can’t imagine that any other man ever displayed the same amount of selflessness and charity as he did. He discovered and lived his life based on the real Icarus. Murger, just as all or almost all of us, lived from his hospitality which never wore out or grew tired. Stocky, with a Mongolian face, an olive complexion, thick brown hair, large and slanted eyes, a mashed nose, and almost beardless, Karol had no faults other than a little vanity which was completely inoffensive; he displayed a little pride in his physical

fitness, a little bit for his hopes for the future, and a lot for his poetry, which was the worst I ever heard, and God knows I have written and read a lot of poems over the years! He was always serious — was it because of the constant and all encompassing concern to support us all and whose care we completely abandoned to him? — Karol always maintained his composure; holding firm and staying serious when being told jokes that came out of the blue, when he was taunted, when the most outrageous charges were made against him, or when he was told the most incredible lies. A smile never appeared on his face even in the midst of tremendous merriment, an atmosphere of celebration which persisted whether it was day or night in this den of Bohemia, as if there had always been at least two sentinels of good will to maintain the sparks of fire and to repeat the punch lines of the laughing fool.

I remember, among other things, the many fits of laughter and endless jumping for joy which took place during the mysterious and fantastic process that always greatly intrigued us which was like a drawing of a lottery.

Ah! We were indeed such wretched Bohemians, so painfully gifted and pitifully incurable, yet not one of us ever suspected, even today, the key to this mystery!

This high priest of the joyous famine, Karol was 24 years old when I met him. I believe I first encountered him around a straw fire to stay warm at Saint-André-des-Arcs Square.

He was a son of a soldier for the Empire, who fell apart in an ammunition wagon near Vilna — after Moscow, and decided to remain there, managed to mend his ways (they had a hard life) and married a Polish woman who had taken him in.

The household finally returned to France. The husband had nothing to do except for waiting to die. The woman remained penniless with two sons to raise.

Fortunately, there came a day when God wanted to reveal himself in an undeniable way and to close the mouths of the unfaithful, and he revealed the mystery of miracles to all the poor mothers!

You can’t know as well as us, our brothers who were born rich, what is in the heart of a poor mother; and in truth the most unhappy, the most wounded, the worst of us would be a monster if we wished to know. Haven’t we been greatly compensated for all our misery by the fervent and dazzling admiration, the respect of those kneeling in front of us on the ground, the gratitude shown by the emotional and endless hymn for the holy and valiant virtue which overcame all the averted deaths imposed on us during this life that we didn’t want! The ruthlessness of the wind, the anger of the seas, the fury of the fire that bites, twists, and turns iron into ashes; no force equals the strength of the pale and weak creature who sews under the small lamp next the cradle of the tiny child... The wonderful mystery of motherhood radiates in all the splendor of God’s power for the benefit of poor mothers. He immediately purifies his chosen ones and sanctifies her by transforming her. She changes from a passive and feeble creature into a heroic warrior who defies the actions of the ancient demigods; she berates the divine instinct of conservation and defense into her weak mind imbuing her with gripping concern. It is he, disdainful of measuring the wind aimed at the intended victim, who seems pleased, in order to display all his omnipotence, to amass the distress and the anxiety before the consecrated mother, to take on the task of tiring love, of discouraging sacrifice, exhausting tears from the dried up ducts withering the bosom from which it will bring forth life, to plod through all the stones of the road under bloody feet that climb the Calvary of poor mothers, a grueling Calvary that reaches a height which almost touches the door of heaven.

You now understand how that poor Polish woman’s two little children became men…..

Good Karol! I can still see him now, cutting our ration of bread into the four pieces that was supposed to last us for four days and tying the precisely cut pieces to a string hanging from the ceiling and pulling them down every morning one after the other.

“I have divided my life into three parts,” Karol used to say. “The first portion is for literature. When my name becomes famous as a great poet, I will take the sword and deliver it to my noble country (he absolutely wanted to believe he was Polish). Then, after Poland’s reputation has been restored, I will deal with philosophy and lawmaking.”

He said nothing more about it, — and lying on his back, he puffed from his little pipe and exhaled little rings of smoke which rose like halos until they began to dissipate against the low ceiling; smoke that was more stable and more real than his dreams...

Karol was as ingenious as a wolf. He was as isolated as Robinson Crusoe in the middle of a society with which we had little in common except for the air we breathed; he always seemed to be full of unexpected and inexplicable resources that would have been easier to obtain by performing odd jobs if not full time work. But our too romantic Karol loved to manage his acquisitions in absurd ways.

That is why he dreamed up a way to produce pipes made from wild cherry and wild rose bush which he searched for and chose, especially in the Boulogne woods; he raised and managed the straightest shoots until they were harvested, shaping them into a rough outline with his fingernails. When the big day came, we went out into the country, usually just him and me who weren’t busy writing poems like the others, and most importantly who actually appreciated this kind of expedition. Bent down in the thicket, we cut the stems and packaged them into a bundle and then it was just the matter of getting out of the enclosure around the woods without being seen by any guards. We kept our eyes and ears on the lookout until we reached the first gate where Karol would bravely put his hands in his pockets and walk out. I then walked two hundred paces, although not well counted out, along the wall at the edge of the woods: when I reached the correct spot, a blow of a whistle signaled me and a stone was thrown to me on the other side of the wall, and then I threw the bundle of sticks in the same direction as the stone flew and Karol caught them in flight and then I would catch up with my leader and we would go home together.

Once the dangerous part had been accomplished, the hard work of perforating the wood from one end to the other had to be performed. I set up the earthen furnace, stoked the fire, and heated the graduated number of iron rods that Karol grabbed with his hand insulated by a rag, and then plunged skillfully into the middle of the wood. The greatest difficulty was to proceed gradually without placing too much pressure on the rods to avoid cracking the wood or the bark. Karol, who wouldn’t rely on just anyone to insert the rods, was very skillful, and after a good day’s work, had perforated a dozen pipes measuring from one to two meters long.

You can appreciate the critical effect that this primitive procedure would forever cause to the taste of the tobacco smoke that passed through these vents... But since we didn’t intend to smoke them, the issue remained minor to us. arol would take the pipes and go to the tobacco shops in the center of Paris to sell them — the devil if I would have followed him there in any instance! — A courageous confidence was required to enter each shop and convince every proprietor to purchase the “work of unfortunate refugees”

From time to time Karol would bring back up to forty sous.

It was all due to his misleading salesmanship! It was a system of his own, which he had tested to capture his neighbor’s goose without ever crossing over any fence.

A string, a hook, and a piece of bread was all that kept us from going hungry; but it still wasn’t adequate, because it was clear that his system, even when it was tweaked and improved, never resulted in substantial improvement.

You can rest in peace, old Karol; for it has been written that you couldn’t accomplish the one great caper you had planned, and if the forest guards couldn’t hold a grudge against you for your secretive transgressions, no other authority in the entire country could make you feel remorse for the crime of skillfully rustling wood.

I had noted that Karol positively wanted to believe he was Polish. In this harmless lie, which he always insisted on believing to himself, I certainly found to some extent the satisfaction of sensing he had a petty feeling of foolish importance by attributing an exotic origin to himself — for our dear Karol loved the appearance of this image, even as we criticized him for this fantasy during the day; but above all, I see that he had good intentions which led him to band together with the unfortunate and the oppressed. Karol was a native born citizen of any country where people were victimized or where tyranny reigned. However, even though he only pretended to be Polish, we didn’t realize that the jokes we made upset him and he found it very difficult to accept the abuse.

He never failed to respond to these jokes with a long speech containing several points that we never let him finish.

Although many people were kept away during the Duke of Orléans’ wedding celebration, we had gone — as close as we could get, as usual, — to the Champ-de-Mars, I hoped to see the fireworks display. On the way back — we were at the end of the Pont-Royal, at the foot of the Tuileries, — a stampede developed which caused a terrifying logjam in the crowd which was already so compact that it was difficult for anyone to breathe. From the left and to the right, we could hear the piercing cries of women and men in the uproar. Three steps away from us, a man, — I can still see him, with his distraught eyes and his open mouth, began to disappear as he was engulfed under this wave of humanity. “Save my child!” he cried in a strangled voice. He was clutching a little boy although we couldn’t see him. — “We must stop this, my friends!” said Karol. He violently shook his shoulders and his elbows to create a hole within the crowd and finally reached the poor father. We managed to clear the area by surrounding him. Karol lifted up the child with one hand, positioned him to straddle around his huge neck, and walked beside the distraught father as we led him to safety.

Little by little, there was more air between us and we were able to walk more freely as we reached the pont des Arts. The father was filled with thankfulness, and he tried to rid Karol of his burden with all his might; but Karol, proud of his actions, didn’t want to let go of the child: he would have been content to carry him home. Finally, at Pont-Neuf, Karol regretfully, set the little one down. The father repeated his appreciation and the good man began to cry. He pulled his card from his wallet, and, placing himself and everything he had at our disposal, begged Karol to tell him what he could do to show his gratitude... Our eyes widened in anticipation: we imagined four pound loaves of bread in our future... — we gazed at Karol: but in a single gesture, he refused to accept anything, which was typical of his modesty and nobility!

“At least sir, tell me your name,” replied the gratified father. “Let me know the name of my child’s savior!”

Karol took one step back and reached his hand into his shirt, since he didn’t have a vest while he answered:

“I am just a Polish refugee!!!...”

And he then walked away, while offering a dignified salute.

If he didn’t win over a friend to the white and red on that day, it would have caused the Polish nationality to lose all hope for its reputation.

He behaved less selfless one day because of an appalling discovery.

Karol returned and redoubled his steps in a fast pace going I don’t know where along the Marne, when he saw the body of an old woman who appeared to be drowning as she slowly drifted down the river. My Karol took off his shoes and pants before he jumped in the water, and swam to make a rescue. He thought there might still be time to save her, but he realized he was only dealing with a corpse.

He pushed her body to the river bank — and thought about her life...

What is it? — My God! It must be revealed that there was a bonus of 15 or 25 francs granted to those who found and retrieved abandoned bodies.

But how could he accomplish that? Night was falling, the town hall of the nearest village was far away, and Karol was already late for his arrival in Paris. — It didn’t matter because Karol wouldn’t have redeemed the reward for himself!

He made up his mind quickly. He notified a few dredgers and reed collectors a little further down the river bank. He resumed swimming while pushing the body ahead of him, placed her in a group of willow trees along the bank and concealed the body as best as he could to keep some amateur from claiming the body, and returned to Paris.

The next day, he returned to make his statement, and brought us his share of the reward before dinner time.

Karol’s mother managed a small table d’hôte which seved dinner at a cost of 13 sous — for Polish emigrants, — on Mignon Street, just across the Moniteur Universel offices — at that time.

There I saw those same small sad and serious faces, those tall and bald foreheads, and those same huge gray moustaches that I found in the group including Michelet, de Quinet, and de Mickiewiçz... all former counts, former colonels, and former generals whose property had been confiscated by Russia.

Karol went to his mother’s for dinner as little as possible because parents should be spared from disappointment.

But when it was determined that an old and worn out method no longer returned any positive results, — color illustrations for children, lithographs at 15 francs that could be used by the shady editors on Saint-Jacques Street, drawings and engravings of ducks on pear wood, etc., — without neglecting his famous pipe stems, — Karol would replant himself, — that was his expression, — on Mignon Street, — and he religiously brought back all the little pieces of bread which he took from the table after serving the poor emigrants.

Karol was caught, in the end, by a strange obsession which he managed to share with me. His constant concern — his aspiration, I would say — was to arrest thieves! He would have been happy to sacrifice his life to catch a murderer or to prevent a crime. It was not his responsibility to deliver them to justice; Karol lived a life of a free man to the extent that he wouldn’t accept anything other than his form of personal justice; perfunctory, expedient, and retaliatory.

“If I’m attacked in the process,” he said. “Nothing could be simpler: I rush at the individual, I beat him, and I brutalize him! — I will overpower him! He would like to do the same to me but I’m stronger! By doing this, I am giving him a good lesson which will make him stop and think before he does it again. As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t wasted my time.”

This application of the law, whose slightest defect was that it was a little primitive, had a certain appearance of wild logic that attracted me at first sight. I have to confess that the combination of my 17 years and my natural taste for adventure caused me to agree with Karol’s bizarre theory and nothing seemed more desirable and valuable to me than to put it into practice.

He directed me two or three times after midnight to the place where he planned to carry out his form of justice. He instructed me to take the following route: I had to go down rue des Postes to rue Mouffetard, and meet Karol at la Place Maubert, which he reached from either Saint-Jacques or Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais Streets.

Alas, we never ran across any thieves there! It was probably all for the best for me since I didn’t have the stature or the physical strength of my Captain Karol.

Or perhaps we did meet some: but after looking at us, even in the dark light of the lampposts, what thief would have recognized us as honest people that they would have even considered approaching?

Karol, unfortunately, once thought he found who he was looking for — and this is where I touch on a bloody story which forever left him feeling remorseful.

He was returning one night to his hovel on Saint-Jacques Street — which Murger was then sharing with him. In the narrow staircase, Karol sensed a human form at his feet... He had a pistol on him, a pistol that he had been regularly carrying for a long time because his obsession had been growing more severe.

Aiming his weapon and scanning the darkness, he shouted three times, “Who’s there?”

When he didn’t hear a response, Karol fired his weapon! Then he heard someone moan...

The doors opened at the sound of the gunshot... he rushed to investigate, — and he found a poor woman who had fallen asleep on the stairs waiting for her son with whom she lived.

Karol went on trial in court. He begged the judge for mercy — although that didn’t prevent him from thoroughly explaining his theory for the protection of society.

Fortunately, there were doctors who testified about his condition. The obsessive Karol was acquitted. — He hasn’t touched a weapon since then.

I’m only familiar with the dramatic part of Karol’s life.

We met with a tall and handsome Prussian named Romanzoff who was an engraver by profession several times at Karol’s house. There was something very mysterious about him; he carried himself in a distinguished manner although the clothes he wore made him appear like a pauper.

Romanzoff, who was very introverted, eventually stopped visiting Karol’s house. — We learned that he had become wealthy and had given a house to Karol’s mother.

A few months later, we were shocked to learn that Romanzoff and Karol’s mother were arrested and charged with distributing more than a million counterfeit notes from the banks of Prussia and Austria!

It was certainly true that Romanzoff as engaged in this actvity, at least. The investigation and the proceedings during his trial revealed several unusual details, and the courtroom attracted many celebrities of the day.

Romanzoff apparently had engaged in a long series of forgeries which he had carried out with great skill. His motive was less about personal gain since his main purpose was to cause harm to two governments that he hated. — It was pointed out to him, and rightly so, that his actions didn’t accomplish what he intended, since the counterfeit notes he created and distributed only ruined individual bankers or those who had accepted them in payment. But on the other hand, Romanzoff’s private life, a very pure and religious existence which up until then reached a level of piety, absolutely contradicted any accusation of intent to hurt anyone. All the gold gained over these past few months by this strange forger was given to established charitable or religious institutions by a sincere man who had little care for his own personal satisfaction or physical needs.

The King’s prosecutor paid little attention to this point and demanded the maximum penalty against Romanzoff and his accomplice, “Who,” he asked as he exaggerated the importance of this indictment, ”who will take pity on this unfortunate woman...”

“I do!!!” shouted a voice at the sasme time as a hand slammed on the bar in anger. “I do, who is her son who loves and cherishes her!”

Karol was brought out to face the jury.

Romanzoff was sentenced to hard labor for life, I believe.

Karol’s mother was acquitted which was the proper thing to do.

These events darkened Karol’s personality.

His heart didn’t change: he was still the same friend who was devoted to everyone, but he became preoccupied and even sad. I believe that as the years went by, he slowly gave up on his dreams for the future.

I also think that he believed he needed to start fresh — it was time — he told himself to find a job, especially since he no longer had any income.

He then began with real courage for several months to try a number of varied jobs. — He succeeded in spending the entire winter waking up late at night, around four in the morning, even without the light of a candle, and prepared himself, without shivering, using his shirt to polish his shoes, before going to work, at a textile factory on Montparnasse Boulevard.

He then went to model for the artists at the Swiss studio.

It must have especially been a blow to his pride to stand naked on the modeling pedestal, in front of the crowd of barbarians who showed contempt for a poor devil reduced to such a trade.

Karol maintained his native dignity, ignored the snide remarks, and answered only with proud silence to the unsavory remarks.

He wanted to respond differently only once when he lost his temper — but after meditating for a long time,— and after 15 minutes of reflection, he flippantly picked up a piece a chalk and wrote the following four verses on the modeling pedestal, which will give the reader an idea abou his personality, notwithstanding his spelling:

The model is not always the person we think of him. (Lightning can sometimes erupt without a flash of light!) He can contain great intelligence along with toned limbs And can express his heart beyond what is in sight!

Immediately after Karol finished, B___ the spoiled brat snatched the chalk from the poet’s hand, and wrote on top of the poem:

It’s no use

Karol never again tried to defend himself.

III

People Who Want To Count on Others — Bohemia Becomes Popular — The Protective Gate — Jules de La Madelène — Letter From de J. W. — Let’s Do Our Duty! — Fauchery — The Polish Legion — The Magdebourg Bunker and the Hildesheim Mad House — Australia — The Peking Palace

“But you have told us the rather uninteresting story of a nice fellow, and if you are aware, a very lazy, rather conceited, more than crazy enough person, who has absolutely no talent; that is what you said yourself. If all of your Bohemia is like him, most people will say they can’t depend on them, — it’s not worth pulling them by the sleeve, and we don’t care about heroes like those.”

I understand such an objection without embarrassment. However, I cannot name all those who started in Bohemia and moved on to high positions in private industry or public administration because it might ruin their current reputations: there are Bohemians who have risen to high places during our times. Nor do I want to call out the names of those who were either from Bohemia or became a part of our movement through affection or closeness and who are now recognized as established artists such as Pierre Dupont, G. Mathieu, Baudelaire, de Banville, Jules de La Madelène, Fauchery, etc.

I wanted — we all just wanted to remember a few cherished memories, bury our dead, virtually for ourselves alone, and above all to surround their tombs with a gate that would protect them. — I especially have to stop in front of these two names of the deceased: Fauchery and Jules de La Madelène.

I didn’t mention those among the recently departed in order to remind the readers of la Revue des Deux Mondes, the exquisite author who wrote le Marquis des Saffras, les Gants Vert Pale, and a few other short masterpieces which expressed great feelings with distinction. I don’t want to disturb the village cemetery where Jules de La Madelène’s humility rests, whose fervent and ecstatic piety caused such a young author to denounce his own triumphs.

I only have to make room for these few lines — which I’m gathering right now — from one of us, certainly one of the best if not the absolute best of us. To this one, who had a sincere and a tender heart and the communion of the Catholic faith which was especially close to Jules de La Madelène, it is necessary and appropriate to say this farewell which will undoubtedly be the last memory and the last trace1 of the compelling dreamer who left us:

My dear...

I suddenly interrupted myself while working and thought how much we were, or rather how much we had been unjust to our poor and holy friend La Madelène, who I always remember just like he was on the first day I met him. You who knew him, you who touched his soul, felt his purity, his gentleness, his uplifting spirit, and his angel like nature. As Sylvestre said, couldn’t you hold a remembrance for him even in passing, if only to once again protest this ridiculous and inept idea that we owe our success to Murger’s Bohemia? La Madelène was a saint and, like so many other saints, he was a Bohemian only due to the unexpected and disjointed nature of his life. He paid all his debts in full even though he was very poor. He even paid creditors who had forgotten about the debt and didn’t demand payment: he still went looking for them, often with difficulty, and they were all paid. This is only a small side to his personality, but because of this, it’s necessary to emphasize a common trait among many significant ones. There are many additional noble and beautiful qualities and traits that he displayed. Since he needed to serve as an example to us, we owe it to him to tell others about him. The way everyone should lead their life can be summed up in just a few words: let us do our duty….

______1I was mistaken: while these lines were being published, a friend who remembered Monsieur Théophile Sylvestre, published an excellent notice in le Figaro about Jules de La Madelène which expressed great appreciation for the man and the author in a tender and thoughtful manner.

Think of him alone there in a small provincial cemetery where I was the only one present to bury him. My tears fell in spite of myself and I realized that... it will take a long time to do him justice.

J.W.

As for the other, the one who died yesterday, alone and so far away from us, his tirelessness taken away only by death in a miserable hut in a small Japanese village, we are all entitled based on our experience with this fearless and generous man to state his worth; he gave all of himself to us while displaying his friendly cheerfulness and endless good humor.

Antoine Fauchery, the youngest of us all, volunteered for the Polish Legion in 1848. He was among the first to fight to win the freedom for those in the Duchy of Posen that he believed was deserved. Unfortunately, he was conquered and left behind. He had enthusiastically crossed into Germany, his hair in the wind, not to mention his joyful gallantry at the Magdebourg armory, at the Hildesheim mad house, or the despair at the siege of Eisleben. He had returned just the same as he left, a brave man, believing in his dreams — perhaps a little more sober about the Poles, but that was my fault — and, despite the unruly horror he felt after taking a break, he had twice attempted to have his work performed in Australia, not even turning around to stop and listen to the public bravos at the performance of his first comedy. One by one, he was a miner, a hunter, a photographer again, — even once a grocer in Melbourne, and he also improvised as a coffee maker in I don’t know what place, but he was always a writer first, this enchanting jack-of-all-trades sent everything he wrote to the Moniteur and these curious pages were collected in a volume entitled Lettres d'un Mineur en Australie. — It surprised me that when we were young, Fauchery had been trained to be a wood carver, a perfectly sedentary position!

He came back to us from time to time in France, but was it to stay in this cosmopolitan or was it to prepare for another trip abroad? The last time, our army was leaving for China: we would have had to tie him up to keep him from following! There he went, this blessed fool of objective curiosity, more adventurous than the plots of 10 chivalrous novels. He carried a backpack and a hunting rifle in a strap around his shoulder; an amateur soldier without even a captain! He was alert, his feet dry, his shining black pupils always on the lookout, always neat and clean as if he just walked out of the barracks, trotting to the left and to the right, happy and wild like a horse who had escaped, hailed by one and the other, respected by all, and welcomed to share anyone’s mess kit; he was a real Parisian, even though he had arrived from Auvergne — but who would have guessed it? — And he rushed to write about his experiences in his notebook.

That is how he entered the emperor’s palace, in Peking, and lay down on the floor at the nearest corner of the first room to write on his stomach, as there were no tables to be found in this gold and jasper palace. Our good friend quickly wrote about his amazing story and arranged to have it sent to us.

The letters captured the interest of his friends Monsieurs Turgan and Dalloz who published them as a column in the Moniteur, where their concern for his future caused them to reserve some resources to pay for his return — a return which we would have to wait forever.

Ah, dear Fauchery was a brave and honest Bohemian once again! Our hearts were thrilled as we followed his progress on his distant travels. Since he was always gone and always poor, he didn’t leave behind any enemies or creditors!

But I forgot why I came as I walked past other graves and I went back to the one which had originally brought me here.

______

The German Ideas — Art for Art’s Sake — H. Heine’s Corruption — Master Wolfram.— There Are Voices — The Goal — What the Nightingale’s Song Proves — Every Word is a Symbol — Balzac’s Funeral — An Acknowledgement — Everything Isn’t Dead in France — Enthusiasm and Indignation — The Father of the Game — The Old Man Has No White Hair — Dress Rehearsal of la Vie de Bohème — It’s Nature! — H___. à Spa

Like most of the young people of his time, Murger was influenced by the German literary ideas which were then in style. They were particularly sympathetic to this naive and defiant spirit that was searching for a path. It must be remembered that Murger was of German heritage, and additionally, in these times of art for art’s sake, the letters that contributed to the spelling of one’s proper name were not without some preordained influence.

When Germany invaded us we were infiltrated with its hazy and vague aesthetics. Astonished by the discovery of great beauty which had never been known in this country, our young students were enthusiastic for the German masters. This enthusiasm was strong enough to cause honest minds, confused by their fascination, to even excuse Heine’s corruption.1 Goethe and Schiller were translated and strongly debated, and in romantic fashion, every young Frenchman felt obligated to hang pertinent quotes on the walls of their rooms, as if they were credentials, although it was actually a sentimental and above all, a prestigious certificate. — These credentials were designed by Master Wolfram — whose chief merit was in his advancement in reproduction technology. ______1 “He died as he lived: with evil in his mind...” (PROUDHON, De la Justice dans la Révolution)

I would argue that this influence as well as other external and personal reasons convinced Murger to take a certain course of action regarding his work.

He had a witty mind, and although he was naive, he was easy to accept and he was especially enchanted with the poetical aspects of current thought. He would sing rhymes as he walked and when he stopped dreaming, he picked daisies and developed ideas — there were voices in his head — so that the speed which he reached his destination as he walked through the night surprised him since he hadn’t clearly realized the purpose of his journey, — and I hasten to add that the only criticism I have about Murger is his failure to reach a conclusion about his purpose.

I must emphasize, even here, about the goal which the man of heart who makes his livelihood with a pen must never forget. Regardless of whether he is humble or proud, the writer must strive to put his work to good use, whether it is to teach, help, or console, he holds a sacred tool which should honor his hand.

Murger provided no moral conclusion concerning the Bohemian life, and this is the most serious flaw that I can lay blame to this sympathetic mind; a man with such an honest nature should have given us a more complete and a better lesson. I loved him enough to find fault with him — the wrongs of those closest to us are the biggest ones for us — not to raise his efforts above the difficulties of a simple literary figure, regardless of how brilliant he may have been, and he didn’t ask more from his soul which would have responded to him.

Some real writers, — whom I know well, advocate for art for art’s sake to their followers and to their friends as well as to the many readers who themselves try to escape from the issue and to foreveravoid the great and worrying problem have a good reason to renew the following old quarrel. “He was the best painter of landscapes, the most joyful artist in the

garrets; what else did he have to say to us other than what he already told us so well? There is always the eternal complaint to the rose bush that it should produce apples. Eh, what more do you expect the song of the nightingale to prove other than it can sing?”

For these people, full of excellent reasons to be convinced, the question will never be answered, since history has not proven to them that the names of those artists who have been admired and recognized for centuries are all writers who were concerned with eternal morality.

It’s as if every word wasn’t a just a symbol, as if every word didn’t express its thought! For the responsible writer who understands his duty, everything has meaning, because he is responsible for the souls who read what he writes, and therefore it isn’t necessary for him to write about morality throughout his story in order for it to teach a lesson.

Murger also lacked the influence of one of the greatest minds of his time due to the death of Honoré de Balzac. He lacked the true philosophical spirit, that is the enlightenment of the spirit, which in perfect harmony with the greatness of the heart, formulates the thinker’s work for the benefit of what the human conscience considers to exist for the greater good.

It is this absence of a moral conclusion about the Bohemians which, after reading Balzac’s work, leaves a good man’s heart empty and makes him feel lost. When thinking about the purpose of Murger’s work, the reader can’t help but feel that the very foundation of the work lacks the primary requirement of perfection and pertinence. But of all his scattered works, as he tried to improve them after completion, his enhancements only resulted in a vague and detrimental verdict, which can be explained by his personal character and his life.

Don’t you remember Balzac’s funeral and wasn’t a serious lesson learned from the small number of friends who followed behind his coffin to mourn the genius that a great nation had just lost?

What irresistible and infinite power is this attraction to the memories of our early years that we hold such gratitude for Murger who only wanted to remain young in order to remind us of our youth? He reminded us of our younger days in such a touching and gentle manner. Most of us can relate to the stories he told since the springtime of our lives were very similar until it vanished and we found ourselves laying in the funeral home which had been overrun by a crowd gathering around which included so many faces we didn’t recognize — by those of us who thought we knew everyone who knew Murger; those of us who thought we knew everyone who loved him?

Who are all these young people in the crowd who came to thank those of us who don’t need an archivist to keep track of our memories? We didn’t realize his life and his stories were still remembered until we saw this large and passionate group of college youth; we were touched with emotion to discover that not much had changed since our best days, those distant days when the heart had to fight for our France; for the honor, the dedication or the liberty, which jolted the first pulse to be sensed in the Latin country. We were amazed by the number of noble and sincere faces in the crowd! There were so many hands there which we would have been proud to shake with our own! — Everything isn’t dead yet, since there are these real young people who have been reinvigorated!

But with the devout eagerness of these diverse multitudes which restored the honor of public concern for the poor and lowly man of letters, was it necessary to show the final acknowledgement and a friendly salutation to the beloved artist?

Therefore, were there only cultured men of letters present? In such a sacred trial didn’t you also feel a tribute to stubborn work, to noble poverty, and to a loyal and pure character which never was lost even on the worst days?

On rare occasions, I literarily heard that Murger was filled with enthusiasm to cause a bit of mischief, — and he absolutely lacked any indignation which was, in fact enthusiasm turned around and the mathematical proof of the first operation divided by the second one.

We are usually severely critical of those who have the same faults that we ourselves display, and we are very ruthless when we discover defects in our neighbors that we lack.

Murger, on the other hand, wasn’t like that. He was always lenient with others, and what especially characterized him, both in literature and in his life, was the complete absence of critical feelings. I remember how amazed he was while reading a review of a dramatic comedy or a book review. — “I don’t understand,” he told me, “How they can write about other author’s works if they can’t say something good about it.” — And one shouldn’t believe that the simplicity which was so naive and childlike in a man of his worth, was the least bit pretentiousness or was simply a pose (a word that became so necessary for us that we had to hurry to invent it). Murger was the embodiment of sincerity, and he found it impossible to place anyone under his thumb when he reviewed someone else’s work, a job which he found necessary to abandon.

This kindness of the man and writer, so appealing due to its rarity, makes it clear why everyone who met Murger cared greatly about him. Blessed with talent like no other witty mind, he merely conceded that he was good natured and he didn’t understand why any other description needed to be applied to him. — “It’s only natural that wine is made with grapes,” he said matter-of-factly.

But as every man has his reasons and every action results in a counter action, Murger’s undefined kindness made him passive and even had negative consequences for him. He lacked initiative and momentum, and any extreme situation caused him great discomfort.

He felt uncomfortable displaying great emotions due in part to a little shyness and even a bit of fear, and he was only at ease when taking action for Platonic reasons which characterized his entire being ranging from his role as a hunter or as a lover. — I once called him the Father of the Game, and I was right. — His entire collection of work conclusively indicated a natural misunderstanding of the progression of life. This explains why Murger didn’t dare portray his characters beyond the time their youth regardless of the subject matter. He was afraid to face the consequences of growing older. The one time he made his central character an old man, he couldn’t portray the one thing that makes old age respectable: serious dignity. Murger limited the depiction of his heroes to the simple and mediocre philosophy of songwriters. Therefore, the older man might be described as bald, but he never had white hair.

I still remember the touching evening when the dress rehearsal of la Vie de Bohème took place.

All of us, the former Bohemians who had grown older and wiser, were in attendance and our hearts beat very hard when the first actor who portrayed one of us during our Bohemian days emerged in the spotlight on the stage. It was a risky attempt: a five act play, on a simple stage in a vaudeville theater, developed by a beginner1 and conceived in a completely new way, which paved the way for modern theater since exemplified by Messieurs Barrière and Dumas. ______

II would say almost two beginners since Murger collaborated on the play with Théodore Barrière.

It seemed to us that this was his one work which served as the long communion of life and intimate thought among us and our beginnings during that evening. Additionally, from the first words of the play, when we could feel rather than see from this dimly lit and half empty theater that a brilliant success would emerge the next day from the lights and in front of the audience at the premier, when the bursts of laughter from one act to another caused by each word advancied the emotional adventures of the action written by a previously unheard from stunning mind caused us to be moved and transported back in time. We were finally absorbed only in our attention to the work that we even forgot the concern of our brotherly affection for the author. We were completely focused from the last sobs to the last groans of the dramatic ending. We relived the touching agony felt by Mimi...

But when she tragically died, when the one she intensely loved and the one who strongly loved her let her still warm hand fall and exclaimed, at the end of the play, “Oh, my youth! It is you that is being buried!” — The cry of this young man, of this pitiful man who could only think of himself at that moment; this selfish cry left me frozen...

I ran to Murger when the performance ended and hugged him in my arms while Murger’s valuable collaborator stood in the limelight of his first brilliant success.

“You have a magnificent and real success here,” I stated. “But in the name of all the friendship you have for me, I beg you to delete that horrible sentence exclaimed at the end of the play!”

“It’s not horrible at all, he replied. “It’s natural.”

I can’t explain the pain I felt after hearing him deny my request. — That last sentence went unnoticed, without anyone, including the newspaper critics commenting about it, and I have been amazed many times since that I was the only one to be disturbed by it. Only two years ago, I was walking with H___ in the woods around Spa, when we started to talk about the play la Vie de Bohème. We agreed to disagree.

“There was only one line that stirred my heart,” H___ told me. “And it was the last one.”

I held out my hand to him.

Flying Against the Wind — The Big Battles —Emotionally Secure — Alexandre Dumas, Jr. — No Opinion — Murger and the Ministry — Mecænas Is Dead. — The Demolitions —The Thinker — “You Don’t Starve To Death” — The Value of a Penny When You Don’t Have One — Providing for a Bed — Hégésippe Moreau, Henry Murger — H. M., The Same Initials

It must be quickly added that in his life as in his work, Murger wasn’t one of those rare and mighty souls who flew against the wind. He demonstrated through his actions, without ever denying it, as was his gentle and honest nature, that he was absolutely incapable of understanding the ability of those who could do evil. He wasn’t the type of man who would attack first in big battles, but he also didn’t pitifully follow them from the back either. Murger was essentially, what is called in one’s personal life, emotionally secure; which is increasingly rare these days.

Currently, we see a large number of former Bohemians deny, due to their immediate interests, respect for their past, their heart and what they once held holy. I am pleased to note that Murger, whose opinions were not swayed by ulterior motives, and who always lived on the verge of poverty, never criticized himself for his past or demeaned himself for any failures. The man always maintained his freedom; the poet never sang on command.

Likewise, his honest heart never lost gratitude for a person who once had provided him with a favor. Alexandre Dumas, Jr, once sincerely and modestly told me that he, “would gladly give away the credit for all his books if he had only written Chanson de Musette.” Dumas, Jr. developed strong feelings for Murger long before he knew him personally. When he heard that his friend, whom he had never met, was in great difficulty, he immediately offered him a large sum of money. Murger took advantage of this kind help more than once. — But he took every opportunity to acknowledge him and to spread the word to everyone that he had been helped by Dumas and he further explained the generous and considerate circumstances of the assistance rendered to him!...

Still others fulfilled Murger’s simple needs — they remained his friends. We don’t need to name them, but we know them, and we thank them from the bottom of our hearts, just as Murger thanked them himself.

There is another fact I need to reveal, which went unrecognized by Murger. His book Scènes de la vie de Bohème was compiled, as we know, from a series of individual columns published by him in le Corsaire. The first edition quickly sold out. — When the second printing was about to appear, our friend L___x reminded Murger about a political episode mentioned in the book in which the men of a defeated party were ridiculed beyond measure long after they had lost the election.

Murger didn’t respond to the observation, but the reported episode was eliminated from successive editions, and you read about it only in a copy of the first edition, which can rarely be found today.

This is another instance where I’m truly pleased to note that Murger held no political grudges.

I have one last point even though it isn’t the most important issue to cover.

A great deal of praise was heaped on the cabinet minister who, during the time when the public’s sympathy for Murger appeared to be revived during his last hours, thought of donating money from the ministry’s fund to provide for the funeral.

In other words, the administration that helped the poet to die was commended. I wish it had helped him to live — and I can explain.

First of all, I think it’s rather pointless to question the value of a person as a matter of principle, but thwn it comes to an execellence which I don’t know and that I will probably neve have the opportunity to know, in short, at least he tried to do something that others in his place wouldn’t have even tried to attempt. I see nothing being accomplished by men or from current political action although I observe it from the most respectful distance. For someone like me, and like every good and peaceful middle class citizen — who lives far away from the administration ,— the minister with portfolio or who represents a single purpose is not a lord as such, the minister isn’t even the minister, — the minister is the government, — that is to say a person of reason who is willing to spare us the trouble of taking care of our own affairs and who therefore, I think, must do the job very well and comprehensively in every respect.

However, there is intelligence superior to the common level which helps to bestow greatness on us all, to contribute to the glory of their country, and to satisfy its intellectual needs. The demonstration of such intelligence is limited, — either because its productivity is relatively lower, or because of its spiritual nature, or due to some physical deficiency. Nevertheless, these individuals serve a dignified and worthy place within the nation they honor, seeking only to do better but not to do more, curious about the art that makes the spirit live, indifferent to the craft that feeds the body, and painfully delving into the niche which contains the best gifted.

Do these persevering and modest men behind the scenes, in their disinterested selfishness, persist in wanting their bittersweet pleasures only from the toils which kill them? Isn’t it only right that the recipients of thir work give something back to them in the form of fair compensation in reciprocity for the benefits they derive including the genuine satisfaction realized from their major material needs?

Today, now that the Mecænas dead as well as the Médicis are no more — today there are no longer any Pensioners of the King, — and now that our great lords, absorbed with the administration of the railroads and other duties, no longer have the opportunity to serve as patrons to poets, but are they strictly limited to ensuring the hospital and other departments function and to contributing to the treasury of Leo X and Louis XIV, instead of their generosity to Noailles and Condés, at Fouquet’s table?

Of course I try not to harbor any regrets; but in these times, when we have such concern for manual craftsmen that we demolish our cities from top to bottom in order to keep them employed to rebuild them, it seems to me that it would be good to also ensure that something is done for men of letters, men of art, and philosophers. The masons and other builders are no doubt very important; but once they have been compensated, isn’t there something left at the bottom of the bag to provide a pittance to the poets?

I know very well that only a few poets and artists will be troubled over this; but even if it is a small number affected, whose needs are very modest, doesn’t that indicate that I’m asking for very little? It is especially important that artists help each other by sharing their commissions; — you don’t need to feel obligated to give anything yourself, as long as you don’t look like you’re interested in buying something.

I haven’t been around all that long, but I’ve known a worthy man, — it is true that he was a property owner, and his name has been drawn at random much more than mine to serve as a juror, — and he smiled with a sweet shrewdness as if he didn’t understand when we spoke in front of him about people who were “starving to death.”

This powerful man couldn’t believe such a thing could be true.

However, there are many different ways to die of hunger or from poverty, and while it may take some time even it doesn’t seem to do so; it can happen almost as quickly as shooting a man with a gun. But there are many people who have never had to face such a situation who can’t comprehend the truth, because they don’t understand the value of a penny to someone who doesn’t have one!

After experiencing so many close calls with death in this manner and after the regret and after suffering the regret and the remorse from such circumstances, isn’t it time in the name of honor for our society to end this martyrdom?

Besides Gilbert and Malfilâtre, many others such as Hégésippe Moreau and Gérard de Nerval have unsuccessfully fought against such a gloomy end, is it no surprise that Murger elected to die in the hospital in order to avoid the same cause of death as the others? Is it really necessary for a hospital bed to be established for the benefit of the Society of Men of Letters?

Hégésippe Moreau, Henri Murger, and H. M. all had the same fateful initials. One exception was that when Murger left the charity hospital to travel to the Mont-Parnasse Cemetery, his hearse didn’t have his initials embossed on the side of it due to the expense by the order of the minister even though the minister’s hearse would later bear his initials.

You can see that you are making progress. Go ahead and continue!

______

Gérard de Nerval — The Cursed Street — The Fourth Bar... — Evening Pilgrimage —The Unknown — Death By Honor — Ch. Asselineau — The Debtors Who Remained Insolvent Despite Themselves — The Creditors’ Hive of Activity — Assistance — Slaughter of Sheep — Piles of Money — With Your Open Hand — The Cross of Honor: And Bread?... — The Clinic— Living Without Pleasure — Correspondence — Conclusion

I always considered Gérard de Nerval to be a sweet and appealing figure!

This trait should be emulateded by the few people who know it and should especially be emulated by those who refuse to see it. Everyone needs to understand why and how we feel this way about our dear friend who communicated with his fine and delicate mind. Didn’t he exude the flower of poetry, the purity of a child’s heart, a chivalrous honor, a brotherly devotion to everyone he knew, and an endless kindness to all?

Have we forgotten the Rue de la Vieille Lanterne, this dark and silent alley which Nanteuil and Doré preserved for us as a fantastic memory that feels like a nightmare, which grew between the Town Hall and the old Place du Châtelet following the river? — It contained a dark path, barely a meter and a half wide, which Paris wouldn’t have wanted if it hadn’t discovered this one passage leading to the two sewers that formed a cross and whose impure turbulence rushed to the river, as it gnawed at the foot of the black and loose grates.

Upon entering this impure cesspool, leaving behind the Golden Victory that hovered in the light as well as the azure tint from the top of the Châtelet column, our heart felt tight and our pace slowed down... No one lived there, just as one would have thought; no one ever passed by us. There were no cries or voices heard as there was no air in this cursed place. It was a place ignored by the sun. It was encompassed by a damp shadow and a dismal silence and it evoked horror and caused any visitors to shiver as if they were in an ancient sacred clearing. We trembled as we moved between the dark walls of these suffocating depths and as we reached the eight steps that followed down to a section that turned at an angle into the abyss where an iron bar that served as a railing to a staircase showed the corrosion of time. A type of open den on the left suggested the presence of a silent anvil of a blacksmith who didn’t seem to exist in the vague darkness. — As if nothing should be missed by the melodrama of the gloomy staged scene, a large scruffy raven appeared to jump all day long on the edge of a platform. — An irresistible fascination made us place our hesitant feet on the first dislodged step as we walked down the iron stairs: we stooped low under the oppressive roof covered with thick and earthy spider webs hanging upon us. — We reached a triangular shaped landing and took three more steps down to find ourselves standing between the two sewers. We saw to our left, at most the height of an average man, a basement window covered by seven rust devoured bars. We counted these bars — and looked carefully at the fourth one... — We didn’t want to go any further: at the far end of this polluted tube during the evening, all of this death seemed to awaken to the life of the darkness. A hesitant glimmer behind the frosted glass spied through the bloody red curtains which suggested the thirst of a spying man, who only came out at dusk, along with the inhabitants of two shanties next to a small hotel that looked even more sinister at night... We quickly retraced our steps upward...

Back at the surface, feeling numb in the thick snow, standing still on this cold January night, our hearts freezing and our heads burning with a somber spirit, we knew that poor Gérard was still at that fourth rung because his numb fingers had given up and were knotted together... We realized, when he was found in the morning, that he had to lift both his feet off the ground for death to take him, and in fact, he wasn’t on the ground where he would have grasped his winged spirit.

I initially wanted to avoid returning to that place. I resisted returning for several days; but at last one evening I returned, and full of sorrow for a friend who had departed, and sad for myself, I began my pilgrimage for many evenings. — I often met a man I didn’t know who was a visitor like myself. He always behaved in the same manner; silent and absorbed… Eventually, a demolition crew marked the neighborhood to be razed by surrounding it with stakes. The area’s mysterious inhabitants had to abandon the neighborhood and toward the end, I finally discovered a passage way near a fence and by the next evening, I found my visitor. He also had determined what the outcome of the area woukld be. — Until the end, until the last pickaxe reached the sacred point, I would see this man from one day to another. We only greeted each other once, on the last day before everything had been demolished. — Who was he, and what pain brought him there?

We had blamed Gérard’s suicide on madness, but we were wrong.

There had been talk of his poverty, as only a single coin was found on his body and the lack of proper clothing seemed to prove he committed suicide due to his impoverishment. The truth, however, hadn’t exactly been revealed.

As poor as Gérard was, he could have found 20 friends around him who would have been happy to offer him their money, their food, and their shelter. We know of those who gave help to Gérard in his time of need or when he was ill, and it proved he had friends whose tireless dedication never ended1; and just two weeks before his unexpected death, I know someone who offered to provide for his daily needs under the most acceptable and dignified conditions. Gérard had refused the offer. — It wasn’t because he found the cost of such hospitality too high due to a strong sense of false self serving pity on the part of those offering help: it was because, above all, Gérard was afraid he wouldn’t be able to pay back the favor. — Gérard died to preserve his honor. ______1I have many names that I could quote here such as: Rogier, Al. Dumas, Th. Gautier, etc., and especially the great Stadler, my favorite, who I saw tirelessly nurse him in sickness, placing Gérard in his own bed and keeping watch over him with maternal anxiety...

The morning before, he had gone to the man that I knew was his most devoted friend, — Ch. Asselineau, — where he asked for a small sum of money to go to the public reading room where he used to work.

Asselineau, seeing his poor friend dressed inappropriately for the cold weather, immediately opened his wallet. Gérard insisted on taking only the small amount he had originally requested. He was worried and restless.

“I don’t know what will happen to me,” he said, “but I’m worried. For several days, I literally haven’t been able to write a line. I’m afraid I can’t produce anything anymore... I’ll try again today...”

He indeed did go back and try but it is likely that his mind, preoccupied with his inability to produce, blocked him from doing anything again. At that point, badly dressed, his stomach almost empty, his brain wracked with demons, he likely wandered in the icy night, enlivened by the isolation of his random walk through the nameless streets of the old city he once knew.Feeling unproductive and without dignity, he stopped abruptly and prepared to end it all...

In two more hours, just two hours, the first glow of the morning might have driven away the phantoms of the night, but our dear friend couldn’t let go of his internal doubts.

His body was still warm when we arrived.

This life, which his fragile sensibilities feared would require all of his friends to take responsibility for his needs, was something that Gérard de Nerval refused to accept. How could he expect to receive aid from his friends without embarrassment? Shouldn’t we honor him even if he left his creditors with a loss in spite of his sympathetic talent which was honestly pure?

I know I’m walking into an anthill surrounded by a jury composed of men of letters who are experts in their craft, full of all the knowledge which can be taught, literary professors who are clever enough to conclude they know their French and who serve as delegates and missionaries, and who are particularly decorated retirees, — not to mention that they also always serve as unbiased advocates. For them, I speak of the singular representatives of our French literature who are also quite aware of government subsidies, payments, and foundations. It may be that I am being outrageous and impertinent, but if these men say that everything is fine, then all is well and there is nothing else needed to reveal the truth. Why is it necessary to provide pensions to those who created good books, since when they are retired, they can’t even create bad ones? They are already rummaging through the boxes that they know better than anyone, and they come back to tell us the exact amount of money allocated by the government, some of which, it is true, sometimes ends up in the hands of the writers we love and who die.

The one thing that they will fail to add at the end of their summary is that this long sought aid is the last resort and is always insufficient, too often spent before it is even granted, and it is only a limited and random resource for poor writers because it isn’t sent when needed and therefore it doesn’t really help and has absolutely no effect, yet it makes them feel disgusting and it takes away all their dignity.

In view of the small size of these rare relief efforts, they refuse to accept their disastrous mistakes and so to speak, their professional irregularities, and their juvenile shortcomings in the face of social struggle. For those who have little genius or talent, their first step in activism is poorly supported, — they behave like sheep going to the slaughter — to the point where they don’t want to do anything to receive their annuities and this is where they first get stuck. What can they do and what becomes of them when these poor defenseless minds who haven’t received a sense of common diligence start out on the wrong foot, when we already know what superhuman relentless vigor is required for the strong man to free himself once he has allowed himself to be caught in the spiral of debt after he has had a poor start? In our society which is dependent on money, a modern drama already plays out — and who among us hasn’t played a little role in it? In his panic, his anxiety, his sweat, and his insomnia, he fights hand-to-hand with an axe or a sword, while his prized asset, in case of a last resort, is always at hand — a gun pressed to the temple.

For those poor people who write poetry or prose, who are crippled in the humane hospital, struck by native banishment, only good to fall into the well by baying at the moon, and who, stamped with the Ravenswood motto — the Open Hand — give you everything they have without even counting, you are the natural guardians: save them from themselves and provide them with shelter while giving them their daily bread.

Murger’s life is a sad appeal for the cause.

You were heartbroken earlier when you read the series of letters in which he recounted his first experience with poverty.

This impoverishment has been with him all his life. His first letters were dated from the time he spent in the state hospital: he wrote his last three lines when he went there for the last time where he died.

He was born sober, economical, even a little frugal, completely terrified of any creditor, without any sort of passion, which ended up costing him dearly.

He always worked hard and he did so stubbornly. No matter how hard it was for him to write, he left behind 12 volumes — but his work didn’t provide enough revenue to feed him.

He did have talent however, since he was eventually awarded the medal of honor.

He was awarded the cross, yes! — But what about providing for his sustenance?

This important and agonizing story must be followed to the very end. It must be known to everyone, and others must hear its message in order to not follow in the same path.

It’s up to us, since it is still necessary, to continue in the same manner that we began, to test if the story, from each day to the last, serves as a warning to the very end to avoid the misery of such a life: it is up to us to do what we can to ensure that the poverty of yesterday’s dead is reported in order to save those who will live tomorrow.

The danger of living the life of the poor man of letters must be exposed without any qualms or any hesitation, just as the doctor removes the shroud of a dead patient to teach a lesson. It is necessary to dissect the still throbbing veins in order to quickly discover the most intimate secrets and in the end to extract the last word from the laments of those condemned to death due to their love of art.

Read the last of his correspondence — his final words. I don’t know of a more heart-wrenching piercing cry than this subdued complaint. Try following along without getting tired of finding them on every page, and as you go through the indifferent trivialities of the familiar letter, follow his unrelenting anxiety, this constant concern for living although he lived

without any pleasure — ask yourself how much drive it takes this poor fool to overwork his brains to tell you with all his eloquence the story of Monsieur Rodolphe or the story of Mademoiselle Musette, when the most interesting, the most striking, the most important, and the only story should be his own because he lived another day that rose without bread.

I couldn’t summon the strength to distance myself from these letters.

Whoever reads them would clearly understand his situation. The receiver of the letters was a devoted companion who was a constant friend to our friend. Good, intelligent, gentle, and a little fragile like him — she played a major role in helping Murger understand the feminine spirit.

These letters are enchanting in their intimacy — we don’t think we are wrong when I state that they will remain one of Murger’s best literary works. Although it is obvious that these pages weren’t designed to be made public, it is likely that a future Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve will discover them and make them known to the world and it will then take its place as one of the most intriguing pieces in the history of literature and contemporary art.

If the reason for this book was to show the literary Murger, these letters will have served its purpose.

Thursday evening, August 1851

I didn’t expect the scrap of paper I wrote on to get such a quick response. You were candid, Madame, and neither of us will take the beaten path lined with false sentimental foolishness that leads to the inevitable. I adore you for being an enthusiastic lover; — I would tell you that I’m so madly in love with you that you wouldn’t believe a word of it and neither would I.— My self esteem, which you seem afraid of stimulating didn’t get carried away and has remained peaceful. You have answered me and now we know where we stand. Since the game was destroyed by both sides, it is clear that love won’t return to either side — that is totally proper and as it should be. Those who told you, Madame, that they were disappointed to see writers instead of poets were right. The fact is that most of the time, the scene behind the creation of poetry is just like the theater, full of disenchantment. Nevertheless, Madame, I would be very pleased to provide you with the experience you wish to have, and I look forward to the honor of performing for you while humbly submitting to your desires without any ulterior motive, as I serve in the simple role that pleases your imagination for me to play. However, when will we see each other? I’m leaving tomorrow morning on a trip and may only come back to this house to move. You have told me that you are afraid of being in my home at night because of the neighborhood. In fact, there is nothing to fear. Your feet, which I have seen, are silent when you move about, and not even a hare would hear you. Excuse me for turning this into a bigger problem than it really is. If I had the pleasure of seeing you before I left, I expect that I would have a pleasant memory of our encounter, but it may be that by separating in this manner, you might forget this entire incident: My God, intelligent people can be so foolish!

My sincere best wishes,

Henry Murger

______

My darling,

I haen’t heard from you for the past two days. You did, however, give me hope that you would answer some of the questions I asked you the other night. Has something deterred you since we last met? Can you be no more than my neighbor? For my part, I’m still and more than ever, planning to sign the contract I told you about. I beg you to please

show me some sign of life. Your silence worries me. I’m well aware that you told me you needed time to think, but that’s a big mistake! Reflection is a ruse that the mind invents to prevent the heart from going in the right direction. Once you have the strength to fight against a feeling, you begin to believe that the feeling must be invalid! Let me remind you again that I have offered you my newly restored heart. You have given me your promise to God; would you break your vow by not moving in with me, and do I have to formally notify you that you are breaking your promise? What must I do to make my dream come true? Have you sufficiently experimented with your life? And do you think I have told you everything there is to say? I have barely started! Please try to see me tonight and don’t make any plans for next week as we have been invited to a party which may bring us happiness.

Here’s to you — I’m all yours,

Henry M.

Sunday morning, November 1851

______

I wanted to speak to you this evening — not that I had all that much to say — but I wanted to passionately kiss you and give you a great memory. You asked me what I was doing: didn’t the little light you see shining in the night sky tell you? For the past eight days, my life has awakened at a time when others’ have fallen asleep: I don’t know the color of the sky, what has been discussed in the city, or what is happening there. I have locked my heart away, and I will send you the key if you want it. Work, my darling, is the only reason why I haven’t been in touch with you; you need to realize that there is no other reason for my silence. Why would you assume I want to end our relationship? Where could I find a more pleasant and even sweeter lover? If one of us is disappointed in the other, — wouldn’t it be you who is disappointed in me? And hasn’t oil already fallen from Psyche’s lamp to stain what you consider to be your beautiful dream? I think that I’ve already told you but I will repeat that I would never become complacent: that is what fools do, and it would be very difficult for me to believe I am one of them. As you can see, I don’t exhibit much vanity — I’m not exaggerating in any way. By far, there isn’t much to me; but from up close, as seen from a magnifying glass of intimacy, I must appear even less worthy than I am. You are very perceptive and may have already noticed. Strictly speaking, what is missing from our relationship is a name. Would it be called love or is it just a fantasy? There have been several times when I wanted you to explain it to me; but you appeared reluctant to talk about it and for my part, I have set the issue aside. However, you told me that you loved me, but your admission seemed to be riddled with ifs and buts; in short, the still unnamed feeling that we have for each other has not developed to the point where we know what it is or isn’t; and that it is how it remains, but I repeat that it is my conviction that we don’t dare to say what we mean to each other. Love behaves a little bit like creditors: they only come when we talk about them. By believing that we love each other, even without thinking about it, the moment we think about it without saying it comes faster. There is one last thing needed to break the ice, and it’s the one word which will tear it apart; but you’re hesitant to speak that word. The inhibition of your lips is shared with your pen; — I wish you would say or write “my friend,” instead of “my neighbor.” — Ah, my darling! Your essence is vivacious and alluring; — a harmonious law seems to regulate your gracious movements and every gesture you make is rhythmically seductive. Your eyes know how to provoke and control me. Your hand is soft to the lips and your lips are sweet to kiss. But why is your heart like a letter enclosed in 36 envelopes when you only allow 35 to be opened?

You speak to me of reciprocity; therefore I will return your irony. That is how my letter ends, and I’ll see how your next one begins.

Always yours, Henry

Tuesday night

P. S. The key is in the door every night

______

January 1852

It’s my turn to ask what has become of you, my darling.— If it was clear that you were mine, perhaps I would scold you for not even bothering to respond to the letter I sent you the day we were supposed to meet to go to the theater — but I don’t have the right to do so. I don’t know what I mean to you; no doubt I’m some kind of curiosity; something to place on the mantle as if it was picture of me. However, I’m happy to accept whatever you consider me to be in your fantasies. As unfortunate as it is for me, I have become used to your pretty smile, and it’s ironic that I still look forward to your touch. Anyway without getting too complex, I think my feelings are getting in the way. In spite of everything I am, I confess to you, I don’t see how this poor invalid still plans on seeking your love. How will you react to this? You will probably laugh a lot and you will likely tell others and make them laugh. But why should that matter to me? We have only known each other for three months. When we took our first walk together, we passed through yellowing leaves and saw the first swallows leave; will we be together to see them return? Only you know the answer to that, my darling. I saw your friend, Mademoiselle Demouy, I think at the café the other day; she was good enough to speak to me and she seemed surprised to hear how little we see each other anymore; but who is to blame for that?

I hope to see you on Tuesday night. I plan on returning early; come to the café if you’re free as I will be there all night.

Always yours if it pleases you.

Henry M.

Tuesday morning, April 1852

______

March 1852

My Sweet Darling,

I have to see you to have a serious talk about some important things. As your feet are always silent when it comes to visiting, I’m asking you to please come tonight. You only need to stay for half an hour; please come.

You are more than just a lover.

Your friend,

Henry M.

Wednesday night

______

Algiers, July 10, 1853

Dear sweet Naïs,

Now that I’m here, I deeply regret that you didn’t come with me! We had a smooth journey, except for the last twenty leagues, where we had some rough seas, like on the day we went to visit the island. I’m sure it wouldn’t have bothered you. As for me, I lay on the deck wrapped in a pea jacket, and if I didn’t sleep, it wasn’t the sea that kept me awake, but the deep sadness I felt. I didn’t want to become too friendly with anyone on board, because I fearing being linked too closely to fellow travelers which would diminish the freedom to come and go as I please. When I arrived, I checked in to a hotel that had been recommended to me by the Goncourts. Room and board cost five francs a day. The food served was about the same as in Lyon, and you would have found plenty to choose from even with your picky taste. The room where I’m writing this overlooks the sea and I can see the coast of Africa in the distance. A steamer has just disembarked from France and I instinctively looked at the passengers as they came onto the dock to see if you had arrived to join me. What are you doing? What are you thinking? I think I’m making good use of my time. But first, let me give you a brief description of the city of Algiers. The Parisian portion of the city, which is in the south, has no character. The two beautiful streets of Bab-a-Zoun and Bab-el-Oued are smaller versions of the Coquenard Streets in Paris, but what you can’t envision is the strange animation that takes place, the mish-mash of costumes, the hustle and bustle of different languages being spoken simultaneously, and the shouting of all kinds. However, what lives up to the dream as we all have heard, a really beautiful sight, is the upper part of the city where the Moorish and the Arab districts are located. You would have been very happy if you could have seen all this. It truly feels as if you were in a corner of the Orient, and in the evening it feels like you are in the middle of a Thousand and One Arabian Nights as you hear the sounds in these dark and narrow streets, which are as steep as a ladder leading to a loft; all the struming of guitars and the sound of foreign instruments which buzz in the cellars of Moorish cafes and in the houses we are prohibited from entering. It seems certain, from what I hear, that Moorish women are very beautiful. But the beautiful woman are held captive under Turkish lock and key, the strongest in the world for restricting women: the only women we saw in the streets seemed to me like dirty rags: if you had any fears because of the gorgeous creatures you have seen in advertisements, you can rest assured, my darling.

I arrived on the same day that the great Muslim fast ended. Because of this, there were celebrations throughout the city for three days which included parades and unique dances. Here is how I spend my time: after lunch, I go to bed until 3 o’clock; then I go swim for half a league, and then I go to drink coffee at a type of caravan way station where all the donkey and camel drivers stop. Oh, they are pretty donkeys! And then I go back for dinner. Afterwards, I go to the fashionable part of the city where I run from one café to another, listening to music which is accompanied by the sound of iron castanets; none of this costs much money, because I can get excellent coffee for only a penny a cup.

I have already bought you a pair of velvet slippers with gilded decorations, a matching cap, a beautiful silk belt, a handkerchief sewn with gold thread, a bracelet made from gold and coral, a matching necklace, a charming Moorish fan, and a bottle of rose scented perfume.

I have ordered a silk blouse for you which you will find exquisite. If I have enough money left over, I might bring you a necklace and a bracelet covered in sequins. But I can’t make any promises; I’ll also bring you some knickknacks to give to your friends.

I see that my ship, the Mèrovèe, is preparing to leave and I will have to mail this letter on board. Goodbye for now, my sweet little darling. Thank you for letting me take this trip. I have seen and will still experience some beautiful and unique things which will be useful for me as well as for both of us. Before we return to Paris with the money I expect to have, we can take another little trip through France. Take care of yourself, my darling. We’ll be together again by the 20th. Oh, the small disagreements we have had never affected my affection for you at all, and the feelings I have when I think of you has stayed strong. Farewell, goodbye, my little darling, take care of yourself. Today I’m taking a short trip about two leagues from Algiers to visit the experimental garden. I will make a bouquet for you from rare flowers. I will need another trunk to carry everything that I have bought for you.

Send my regards to Delaunay and his wife.

You know how I would like to kiss you goodbye.

Always yours,

Henry M.

______

Algiers, July 15, 1853

Dear sweet Anaïs,

Two days ago I was in Boghar, 60 leagues from Algiers, on the edge of the Saharan Desert; I went hurriedly, hoping to arrange for my transportation, and leave for France today on the Ville de Bordeaux, which was returning to that city. But this ship wasn’t part of the Bazin fleet and I wasn’t able to book passage on it. I wanted to buy the 20 franc ticket, but I discovered I was restricted by a regulation that required me to file a departure notice three days in advance. I can therefore only return to Marseille on a cargo ship leaving on the 20th. I will see you again on the 22nd. At long last!

Now, my sweet darling, let me tell you a little bit about what I’ve been doing since I last wrote to you. The day after I last wrote, I left for Blidah where I stayed for just one day. That is where you would have had orange and lemon trees! I picked a small bouquet of roses for you and the scent of them still lingers as I’m writing this to you. The city itself, like most cities in Africa, in a nutshell, isn’t a pleasant place for a visitor; it is a garrison town. From Blidah, I left for Médéah in a six-horse carriage. I traveled with the butler of my hotel in Algiers, who had business there. In order to reach Médéah, you have to cross through part of the Atlas Mountains and follow a road cut through the mountains which overlooks an abyss which is a hundred feet deep for ten leagues. It’s a dreadful journey and it is also a dangerous one because the rocks which line and tower over the road aren’t stable and large blocks of them often fall onto the road. If you had been there, my darling, you wouldn’t have wanted to go beyond the first section, because these gorges of Chiffa seem to constantly tell the traveler who crosses them, “Don’t go any further.” I myself thought about turning back two or three times. After arriving in Médéah, which is a very French city, I met an expatriate, a friend of Viard, whom I had spoken with a few times in Paris. After settling in the country, he founded a factory here and he was able to put me in touch with some government officials. That was how I was invited to a Jewish wedding where I spent part of the night. I was there in the middle of A Thousand Arabian Nights. We dined on a terrace, in the moonlight, clouded by smoke from incense. The bride was the daughter of one of the country’s richest merchants, so the party was magnificent. I’ll be bringing you a piece of cake from this biblical feast. The next day, the head of the Arab Bureau loaned me a mule and assigned four cavalrymen to accompany me to Boghar, which is situated twenty leagues from Médéah and requires passage through the mountains. It took us over 15 hours to complete the trip, because halfway into the journey a terrible storm surprised us and we had to take shelter with a tribe. They wanted to take me to ___, the final border of French territory. But I didn’t want to go that far. My time in the desert has adversely affected me. I really believed that I was lost; which proved to me how much I love you, my darling, or my aziza, as the Arabs say, was that I thought only of you during that moment. I spent the entire night sheltered in my tent while my entire life passed by in my mind, and I couldn’t help but cry like a baby. What were you doing at that time...? Ah, my darling! This place is so much further away because I can’t see you! As beautiful as it is, this is a very sad country because I am without you, and I have regretted leaving you many times since I departed France! And perhaps you also resented me for not cancelling this trip. But we will meet again in seven days. Believe me when I tell you we will be back in Paris very soon. I can’t wait to be back together and to start our good old life all over again. If, by good fortune, you are still in the same situation as when I left you, remind me of your memories.

Goodbye, my darling. I now know all kinds of words and phrases in Arabic to tell you that I love you in the language of A Thousand and One Arabian Nights.

I give you kisses with all my heart.

Your friend,

Henry M.

______

My sweet darling,

I just left Porcher’s; while the money was sent yesterday, the railroad hasn’t yet credited my account. I could only get eighty francs. The drama of my ordeal hasn’t come to a good resolution; the director of la Gaîté has appealed on my behalf, but my issue hasn’t been resolved. I haven’t been able to make time for the Revue. I continue to finish my first part that I have been asked to deliver before I leave here; as you know all too well. I need to find some money before returning. I’m going to try a different approach tomorrow and I will tell you about it after I know whether it works. I’ll see you soon, my sweet darling. Please have positive thoughts and try not to be bothered by my problems. Write and tell me what you need so I can bring it back to you if there’s any way.

Your friend with kisses for you,

Henry Murger September 13, 1854

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My sweet darling,

It has become impossible for me to return tomorrow. Although I know this news will make you upset at first, I hope that you will be able to understand my situation. I plan on contacting my editors at the Constitutionnel, and asking for an advance. If that doesn’t work, I will have to turn elsewhere for help. On the other hand, I have to see the director at the Odeon regarding our play, which I most definitely have to place. Yesterday, I signed a contract with the Vaudeville to deliver the first act of my play on October 15, and the remaining acts on November 1st. Therefore, I have ensured myself six weeks of income. I’m facing a lot of turmoil and I hope you understand my predicament; my dear, this is all very serious and must be placed above our little troubles. My return will not be delayed for very long. I’ll write to you again tomorrow to inform you about the day’s developments. Besides, this brief stay has been good for my health. I have been going to the baths every day and I’m feeling well.

Send my regards to everyone. Love and kisses,

Henry Murger

September 15, 1854

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September 20, 1854

My sweet darling,

I waited for Houssaye at the theater until ten o’clock, but he never came. I heard his wife was very sick, and she may not survive through the year. — I’ll wait for Houssaye when he leaves the Stock Exchange, to find out what I can expect from him. I just wrote to Buloz to explain my situation, and will try to receive another advance, or at least see if he will extend the terms of my loan. On the other hand, I’m going to see Michel Lévy, and will try to get something from him. — If I’m able to get any help tonight which will allow me to afford to return to Marlotte, I won’t stay here any longer and waste any more precious time. — However, I have been working to find a solution today since nine in the morning. You can be sure that I’m making every effort to resolve this problem. — There are too many compelling reasons why I’m having problems solving this, but I don’t want to worry you by staying here any longer than necessary.

Love and kisses,

Henry Murger

Friday

______

My sweet darling,

Today I arranged to extend the due date of Saccault’s three hundred franc note to the end of this month, and tomorrow I’m counting on Madame Porcher to give me a hundred francs. Since I can’t afford to pay Antony and also give money to Marchand, I will try to get something from Michel Lévy based on the expected royalties from my Water Drinkers manuscript. I’ll be going to the first performance at the Gaîté tonight, where I will probably see Millaud, and at the same time, I’ll take the initiative to benefit my cause.

If all goes well, you can wait for my arrival on the six o’clock carriage.

I can’t wait to see you again, my sweet darling. With all my love and kisses,

Henry Murger

October 16, 1854

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Thursday night

My sweet darling,

Deshayes just came and visited with me; he told me he had seen you several times and he thought you appeared very sad. Although he was unable to explain why you were sad, my guess is that it’s due to your current loneliness which you have been condemned due to me, as I looked for job opportunities which were elusive and I’ve not been able to secure. While it’s true I haven’t written to tell you I’m returning to you, my dear, it’s not because of a lack of desire for you, but because, once again, I don’t think I have had so much trouble in all my life. But since you were in Paris, I wanted you to at least enjoy some distractions during your stay. — I didn’t know at the time that Madame Porcher was unable to give you enough money for your needs, and I was devastated when I learned from Deshayes that you were penniless. Why

didn’t you write to let me know? Why didn’t you go back home, and how could I know your dilemma when you haven’t written to me, especially since the last letter I received from you explained that everything about our relationship was well? Do I need to tell you again and would you believe me when I say that you are as dear to me as you were during our best days in the past? Why do you have such a strange and painful need to doubt me so often? — Is this because of how you really feel, or is it due to malicious rumors that you have heard? If I had been able to leave today, I would already have been with you, but please believe that I don’t want to stay one more day away while I worry about you — but I didn’t have the means to go to Paris: I haven’t even been able to pay for my laundry. I sincerely expect to be near you tomorrow, Friday, at six o’clock; please wait for me, my dear. I have important business to attend to in order to redeem my note by the due date. You and I will leave Paris together as soon as possible, and we will be able to enjoy six weeks of peace and quiet. I can’t write to you any longer, even though I want to, but I was forced to repeat myself three times to complete this letter. I will see you tomorrow, my dear; be ready to have dinner with me.

I send you love and send kisses.

Henry Murger

January 23, 1855

______

My sweet darling,

I haven’t received any letters from you and it has me worried. As for me, I haven’t written to you again because it has been impossible for me to write the last few days. The cold weather has made my hands numb and I can’t use them for anything. It is physically difficult for me to write this to you today; I have had a string of bad days; nothing is going well; my work has been suffering the most; I don’t think I have ever been this troubled in my life; it feels as if I’m dreaming in the middle of a great disaster. I’m being tormented by all sorts of anxieties that I can’t overcome; — the problems I face at the end of the month are a big part of it and I don’t know if I’ll be able to resolve them this time. — How are you and what have you been doing? Why have I been met with silence for so long? — Are you ever going to break it? Since I’m going to have to return via Paris, wait for my arrival and we will leave there together. Let me know how Monsieur Vatel reacted to my letter, and how you were received at Madame Porcher’s. I received a letter from Royer, reminding me of the deadline; I’m about to write him to ask for an extension. — I was also reminded about my promise to send my script to la Revue by February 15. My God, how much time has been lost and what a sad situation we find ourselves in! I feel lost. There is too much work to be done. — But to work effectively, I think we must improve our life together; that is what I will concentrate on doing when I return to Paris. — Please write me a long letter soon, my dear.

I send you love and kisses.

Always yours,

Henry Murger

January 24, 1855

______

My sweet darling,

I’m enclosing the bulk of the loot I’ve gathered. — Please take it immediately to Monsieur Heugel, on Rue Vivienne, next to Lévy. — The following day, please go to the very same Lévy to find out whether he has an answer for me. — Read the

contract if he offers one, and if it indicates that Monsieur Heugel is accepting my stories, go to his place with the enclosed blank receipt and fill it out as he indicates, based on the customary conditions; it’s fifty francs per story; — but since I’m short on funds — and you will need to use the money on my behalf, take what he pays, although verify that he paid fifty francs for each story. — This money is intended to pay the Saccault which will become due on the 15th. Once you have received his address, arrange to make the payment before the past due notice is filed. — You only have until tomorrow to accomplish this. Please make every effort to take care of this — and then let me know if it has been resolved. — While it is true that I can’t afford to pay rent costing 600 francs in my current situation, I still don’t understand why you chose an apartment located at the bottom of the stairs; — that not only doesn’t improve our living situation, but it actually makes it worse. We have enough right now, so let’s don’t sow this seed of difficulty that blooms every three months in the form of high rent. — Find a place which costs up to 400 francs, and no more. — It will create less of a burden. I hope that in time we will have the means to be a little more elaborate. In the meantime, you need to exercise more patience with our money — and with your dresses when they become worn out; because the future currently looks black enough to make ink with it. However, the small conversation I have had with my muses was very promising and has raised my spirits; I have attained a new excitement for my work which is capable of sustaining me. — I shook my cash box and realized it was no longer empty. — But I needed the boost from this realization; because, based on my calculations, my income has fallen below what it was in ‘48. — I hope to return to you before Lévy’s money runs out because I otherwise may never be able to see you again. I have been working half the day and half the night. I feel as if a large tide of work is about to roll out. — Have fun but be careful. — Marie Lalot has left me (along with most of my clothing as well); I have been forced to blow my nose in vine leaves. —- Otherwise, I have a good appetite, — a little more happiness — and more soap. — I expect to see you soon, and hope for a letter from you even faster. Love and kisses,

H. M.

Here is where Murger took his dog’s paw and made it look like the dog was writing part of the letter which I have carefully included.

My dear mistress, it appears that we are going to go through some rough times. My guardian is talking about taking away my morning meal and renting me to a shepherd — so that I can make some money for him. — But since I have a reputation for loving lamb chops, no one will want me to watch over their sheep. — If you can find a nice diamond decorated collar costing around 25 sous, please send it to me.

Kisses to you,

Mirza the Dog

March 14, 1855

______

I’m now inserting the following letter without any hesitation even though it isn’t part of the same chain of correspondence because it provides additional evidence to what I have easily been able to establish.

My dear de Villemessant,

You must be very upset with me. You have been very obliging, and I haven’t been able to keep my promise. — But the terms of the refinanced loan made it difficult to comply. — I have just moved to new accommodations, and two debt collectors already who know my address. Nevertheless, I’m working on your behalf tonight. Please don’t be angry with me as I’m making every effort to see that you don’t lose anything if you are willing to be patient.

Very dedicatedly yours,

Henry Murger 80 rue de Clichy, next to the Monument

April 1856

______

May 1856

Monsieur Henry Murger and the dog Stoop request Madame Anaïs and her patron to do him the honor of dining with him tonight at Father Latuile’s. They will wait for an answer to determine whether to prepare the roast and the pâté.

Compliments

______

My sweet darling,

I saw Texier last night — my matter described in the Siècle needed to pass in the council meeting during the day. Maybe I’ll hear the answer tonight at the ministry. I just saw Salles; he assured me that he very seriously believes I will have my 1,500 francs. It shouldn’t take longer than eight days for me to have it. On the other hand, I was told that Calonne was backing me — or that he was providing me the money. — Your little card reading was basically correct. I’m having dinner tonight with d’Houssaye’s brother — and we’re going from there to a premiere at the Théâtre-Lyrique.

I hope to see you tomorrow, maybe by the evening.

Henry

______

My sweet darling,

I’m looking forward to seeing you again. — Please first buy me two packages of large sized blue paper, costing 28 sous, at the stationary store on Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette; and then purchase two or three cheese wheels from Mont-d’Or; — and finally bring the issue of le Figaro dated from the day you depart; — and especially bring your kind nature from our old days. — If you are hungry for game, I think it would wise to bring some.

Your good friend,

H. M.

Take a carriage to Fontainebleau.

January 20, 1858

______

My sweet darling,

I was going to leave at two o’clock today, but when I arrived at the Moniteur to edit my column due for that night, I was begged to write an additional one for a Sunday supplement. Everyone is too charming for me to refuse something I’m asked to do as a favor. So I’m going to take a nap and write another column tonight. I’ll send it to the printing press by seven in the morning and I’ll leave on the eight o’clock train. I have been experiencing a lot of fun in Paris; not only have I seen seven premier performances, but I’ve also been dining five times a week at midnight or even at one o’clock in the morning. The gala dinner I told you about hasn’t taken place yet because Meyrargues’s bother was sick. It is certain that, had I not been furloughed for three or four days, I would have fallen ill as well. At long last, my dear, I’ll see you tomorrow; I’ll meet you for lunch. My series of columns is starting to become successful. — The newspaper asked me to return my tickets to the Opéra. But what good are they at the moment?

Since I haven’t received any letters from you, it appears you don’t even have enough ink in your pen to send your regards to me. — Ah! How sad!

Regardless, I’m always yours.

Henry

October 30, 1858

______

I’m busy trying to find the money to return to Marlotte.

February 5, 1859

______

My sweet darling is always, always, and forever the same. However, she knows that I could only return under certain conditions, which haven’t yet been met. While she yearns for me, I also yearn for her, and I especially yearn for her like I never have before. Is that because of the real special moments she created when we were together? It’s certainly possible. It was only the day before yesterday that Lambert delivered his work to me; I promised to read it this week while at the Palais-Royal; I deserve and must be given a bonus for doing this. If I can gather 20 francs before five o’clock, I will be able to be with you tomorrow, but please be reasonable and wait for me.

With all of my tenderness.

Henry Murger

Saturday, November 1859

______

My sweet darling,

I will only have enough money to return to you by the beginning of next week.

Always yours,

Henry

February 16, 1860

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Frascati Hotel— Le Havre — 5 p.m.

My sweet darling,

The high tide diminished before we could leave. What hasn’t diminished is the great love I have for you. — However, I’m spending the night with someone other than you — with a frigate named État, which I was invited to take passage. — Everything I can bring on board doesn’t make up for being absent from you in our little room tonight where we barely sleep but where we would keep watch over each other if you didn’t sleep as much. — I’m bringing you a pineapple sapling, which you will have to nurse: this plant will be very happy.

I am always yours, my sweet darling, — and enjoy you complete freedom until midnight on Sunday.

Henry Murger

I have saved all my kisses for you in this box.

March 9, 1860

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Marlotte, May 21, 1860

My sweet darling,

I find myself once again in front of my window, looking at this peaceful landscape which appears so joyful today that it almost makes me feel sad. You might want to ask me why that is? It’s because neither my mind nor my body is healthy. I’m really very tired, my poor Anaïs; much more than you can imagine. However, I feel ready to work, and by reminding myself of my previous situation, I have built up some courage; — but I need you to help me succeed during this new struggle. I would simply give up if I had to live here or anywhere else without you. This house seems dead to me without the sound of your footsteps, and I automatically lean to peer down the road every time a carriage passes to see if some great inspiration has broungt you to me earlier than the scheduled day. Ah my sweet darling, my greatest support is the feelings I have for you: let’s not destroy that, and please come back on Wednesday. Or tomorrow if you are able. There is nothing new here to tell you; — the dogs are healthy, but they don’t appear well: I’m afraid they have suffered a little

because of my financial difficulties. — A flock of swallows is once again living in our chimney, which I have heard is a good omen: it means we will probably be able to have a fire burning throughout the winter.

I can hear a black-headed warbler singing in the brush by the quarry, just serenading with the enthusiasm of a young poet on the side of his garret. — Do you want to know the secret of her happiness? It’s because of the nice weather and the love of her neighbors. — This warbler lives within the real world like all other natural creatures. I can’t place my feelings of love for you in an envelope, but enclosed you will find a few strands of hawthorn blossoms that bloomed from a branch. Farewell, my sweet darling, and I will see you on Wednesday if you take the 1:45 train. — That will give you the benefit of enjoying the carriage from Fontainebleau to Marlotte, which only costs 16 sous. — I’m no longer depending on the situation as it currently stands. — What have I learned that makes this different? It’s not the same warbler as it was before.

Always yours,

Henry

…1861

______

My sweet darling,

I’m very troubled, so very distressed, as if I’m dangling in the air: every day seems to last six months and every night seems to last for a year. Please come back quickly, reunite with me; bring me good weather, good cheer, and a little love, if there is any left.

I’m waiting to see you the day after Tuesday.

Always yours,

Henry

______

January 6, 1861

Please don’t be angry with me for not going to see you, my dear. The reason is because I have been having a lot of problems and I don’t want you to see the sullen look on my face. In my current circumstance, any harsh word from you would cause me more distress than I could handle. I can see the image of your face in my mind; it makes me smile and helps me to cope with my troubles which are very real, and which I might otherwise not have the courage to bear if you weren’t in my life. Fortunately, I know that this will all end at some point. I will definitely manage to see you tonight, regardless of what time it is, and I will stay with you. Please send me a shirt and a handkerchief as I need to go shopping, but I haven’t had the time or the money.

Always yours with all my heart,

…

The postscript to this letter is missing.

Here are a few sentences that Murger, who was not allowed to speak at the time, wrote in his notebook with a pencil to the friend who picked up his work for translation at the Dubois Hospital:

“Ricord and the others are advised to go to the Dubois institution. I would have preferred being at the Saint-Louis. We no longer feel at home there anymore. At last…!”

It is outrageous that he would write, “we feel more at home in this hospital than in another one!”

What concluding communication could have better replaced this one?

THE END