THE GREAT FRENCH WRITERS FROM THE SERIES EDITEI> BV J. J. JUSSERAND THEOPHILE GAUTIER In Same Series. MADAME DE STAEL. By ALBERT SOREL. A. TRIERS. By P. DE REMUSAT. BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. By ARVEDE BARINE. Others to follow. THEOPHILE GAUTIER. From a photograph by Nadar, of Paris. THEOPHILE GAUTIER M MAXIME DU CAMP TRANSLA TED BV /. GORDON PREFACE BY ANDREW LANG WITH PORTRAIT T . FISHER U N W I N PATERNOSTER SQUARE MDCCCXCIII CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE vii CHAFFER I. YOUTH I II. CRITICISM 50 III. THE TRAVELLER 97 IV. THE STORY-TELLER 142 V. THE POET 177 PREFACE. 'T^HE life of Theophile Gautier is of peculiar interest to men of letters, especially to that large proportion of them who, like Theophile, are " polygraphes" Our ancestors more briefly termed them "hacks" and, since Dr. Johnson, or, at least, since Southey, there has been no hack so distinguislied as Theophile. His Pegasus was early broken into harness, and his biographer, M. Maxime dii Camp, like himself, is constantly regretting this bondage. Perhaps too many laments are uttered over this misfortune ; like other men, Theophile Gautier did what he could, and what it was in him to do. He was a poet, indeed, and we are asked to believe that, had the State aided him with an adequate pension, his place as a poet would have been higher, his poetic work greater in bulk, and nobler in quality. But this may well be doubted. The man of letters in Gautier was stronger than the poet ; had it not viii Preface. .been so, probably lie would have given himself more freely and with a stricter loyalty to the Muse. A writer in whom the poet is supreme, a writer like Wordsworth, or Tennyson, will take poverty for his bride, disdaining the seductions of labour which is easier and better paid. To both of these Englishmen fortune proved kind, after years of self-denial. As a rule, at least in England, the poet has been a man of leisure, or if, like Burns, lie lived by the labour of his Jwnds, Jie wrote poetry in his hours of freedom, without hope of practical reward. The circumstances of his life and his necessities made Gautier a jour- nalist ; very probably (or rather, certainly] Ju did not even possess the pittance on which Words- worth and Tennyson cultivated verse with an .exclusive devotion. But we feel a conviction that, if Gautier had been more ardently and essentially a poet, he, too, would have found or made a way by which he might devote himself to this art. The truth is that he was not a poet of the highest, the creative order. His mind was not inhabited and possessed by airy beings, who insisted on being clothed in words and sent forth to live with Hamlet and Esmeralda,with Faust and a"Artagnan, Fantine and Di Vernon. Still less had Gautier the moral enthusiasm of Wordsworth, the natural magic of Keats, the ardent spirit of Burns, and his passionate interest Preface. ix in life. Art was what Gautier loved the beau- tiful of human creation. He is thus, as Plato says, distant by two degrees from the real, and his poetry touches life only on one side. Such poetry is neither the child of an absorbing and exclusive inspiration, nor so dear and necessary to men that a poet can live on bread thus earned alone. It was therefore necessary for Gautier, especially as his tastes were somewhat luxurious, to live other- wise, by the gifts which he could make profitable, really his more especial and singular gifts, his unrivalled art as a man of letters. He could not write an uninteresting line ; he had not the art of being dull ; to lack that was the gift of the fairies ; on not being dull he lived. Consequently his genius is scattered widecast ; his "three " hundred volumes are lost in a wilderness of old newspapers, and, if we ask for a "great work" it is not, or is represented only by two slim volumes of exquisite verse ; a romance, not of the most enthralling ; a novel, which lies patent to the censure of moralists ; and a feiu sliort stories. In none of these is the human interest the chief merit and attraction. There is style, there is charm, there is music ; but there is more of life in a chapter of Dumas, or in a proverbe of Alfred de Musset. Had Gautier, in addition to his other qualities, possessed the vitality, the hu- manity of Hugo, of Dumas, of Musset, his name x Preface. would indeed be among the greatest of the great in the wide and glorious domain of French lite- rature. But this vitality, this large and eager sympathy with what is universal, Gautier lacked. No pension, no sinecure, no leisure could have given him what Nature withheld, and he is neither to be blamed nor pitied, but rather applauded, for his industrious work in his own field, the common field of letters. Here he laboured after his kind, giving in abundant measure such enjoyment as he had it in his power to give. His reputation suffers from the common and irritating " theory of the Great Work" the magnum opus. There was no magnum opus in him to give. We might as well ask an orfevre like Benvenuto Cellini to build St. Peters or the Parthenon; though the Perseus of the gold-zvorker is a greater triumph than was possible, in his own province, to Gautier. He himself was probably una^vare of his limitations, and, loving poetry well, regretted that the lyre was often hung out of reach. But, to us who survive him, it may seem that he did what it was in him to do, that he did it to per- " fection, and with unwearied diligence. He is known of his own" to quote the inscription on a miniature of James VIII. If they are few, they are loyal. Gautier s biography and his confessions prove that lie was a born student. He /tad the love Preface. xi of printed matter, he had a memory as proved by his recital of a long poem of Hugo's only once read, which rivalled that of Scott. Sir Walter repeated, by the banks of the Ttveed, a long ballad of Hogg's which had been read to him once, a ballad which the Sheplierd had lost. Gautier might have rivalled this feat. With such a love of reading, with such natural scholar- ship as M. Maxime du Camp vouches for, with such a memory, Gautier had the complete equip- ment of a man of letters, combined with the temperament of an artist. Like Thackeray, of whom his melancholy and his gaiety both remind us, Gautier began life as a painter, but the current of 1830, of Romanticism, carried him into litera- ture. He very soon began to laugh at the boyish medievalism of the Petruses and Jehans, but his life was inspired to its close by the memories of that gallant boyishness, and death found him as lie was writing an article on the well-worn theme of Hernani. For Mort aux Perruques he substi- tuted Mort aux bourgeois, and, to tell the truth, his bitter insistence on this hatred of the common- becomes becomes as place tedious, melancholy ^ we read his harangues in the memoirs of the Gon- courts. We cannot imagine Shakespeare, or Scott, or Dumas thus declaiming against the ordinary, the staple of human existence, the life that all the poets' fatJiers lived. That life, of course, is in- xii Preface. different to the finer things of art, but man teas by no means born to live for art alone, and the majority of men welcome art only when it refiects the very everyday passions and experiences wJiicJi Gautier scouted. The young lady of the familiar anecdote spoke of'him as un cerebral, and, in spite of his muscles, un cerebral Gautier essentially was. Endowed with a noble physical equipment, he lived by the brain rather than the heart. He could not forgive people who lived otherwise, and they, con- sequently, did not welcome him and his work as they welcomed Dumas, and Musset, and Balzac. " In brief, he lived in a vale',' the vale of art and " letters, and he and his fame must accept the consequences of such a situation? For this Hollow Land is remote from the actual interests of mortal men ; this realm they do not inhabit, and they hold but lightly the natives of the place. For " them the wiser policy is to take this for a her- mitage," and be content among their dreams, indifferent to what is really so indifferent, the most sweet voices of the multitude. Unluckily ^Gautier did not attain to this philosopliy. To s^ despise the general and yet to be eager for its \ plaudits is the paradox of the artist. T/ius does lie disquiet himselfin vain,conscious ofgreaterpowers+ conscious that they are not fiilly recognised, because, in fact, the light in him is not completely focussed^ does not concentrate and burn to a single point. Preface. xiii It is possible to be too Puritanic in an estimate of Gautier s wrongs and grievances. The perpetual task of criticising trash, in pictures, in books, in " plays, to write sur la valeur litteraire de pieces: qui, le plus souvent rfen avaient aucune" is, in- deed, a burden almost not to be borne. M. Maxime du Camp thinks that Gautier might have written an admirable history of French literature. No doubt he might, but did anything external prevent him from doing it ? To take a similar case, M.