FRENCH HUMOR
Voltaire, the assumed name of François Marie Arouet, was one of the most famous of French writers. Plays, fiction, criticism and letters are among his celebrated works.
We can quote but a short bit from his novel of Candide:
The tutor Pangloss was the oracle of the house, and little Candide listened to his lessons with all the ready faith natural to his age and disposition.
Pangloss used to teach the science of metaphysico-theologo-cosmologo-noodleology. He demonstrated most admirably that there is no effect without a cause, and that, in this best of all possible worlds, the castle of my lord baron was the most magnificent of castles, and my lady the best of all possible baronesses.
“It has been proved,” said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than they are; for, everything being made for a certain end, the end for which everything is made is necessarily the best end. Observe how noses were made to carry spectacles, and spectacles we have accordingly. Our legs are clearly intended for shoes and stockings, so we have them. Stone has been formed to be hewn and dressed for building castles, so my lord has a very fine one, for it is meet that the greatest baron in the province should have the best accommodation. Pigs were made to be eaten, and we eat pork all the year round. Consequently those who have asserted that all is well have said what is silly; they should have said of everything that is, that it is the best that could possibly be.”
Candide listened attentively, and innocently believed all that he heard; for he thought Mlle. Cunégonde extremely beautiful, though he never had the boldness to tell her so. He felt convinced that, next to the happiness of being born Baron of Thundertentronckh, the second degree of happiness was to be Mlle. Cunégonde, the third to see her every day, and the fourth to hear Professor Pangloss, the greatest philosopher in the province, and therefore in all the world.
One day Mlle. Cunégonde, while taking a walk near the castle, in the little wood which was called the park, saw through the bushes Dr. Pangloss giving a lesson in experimental physics to her mother’s chambermaid, a little brunette, very pretty and very willing to learn. As Mlle. Cunégonde had a great taste for science, she watched with breathless interest the repeated experiments that were carried on under her eyes; she clearly perceived that the doctor had sufficient reason for all he did; she saw the connection between causes and effects, and returned home much agitated, though very thoughtful, and filled with a yearning after scientific pursuits, for sharing in which she wished that young Candide might find sufficient reason in her, and that she might find the same in him.
She met Candide as she was on her way back to the castle, and blushed; the youth blushed likewise. She bade him good morning in a voice that struggled for utterance; and Candide answered her without well knowing what he was saying. Next day, as the company were leaving the table after dinner, Cunégonde and Candide found themselves behind a screen. Cunégonde let fall her handkerchief; Candide picked it up; she innocently took hold of his hand, and the young man, as innocently, kissed hers with an ardor, a tenderness, and a grace quite peculiar; their lips met and their eyes sparkled. His lordship, the Baron of Thundertentronckh, happened to pass by the screen, and, seeing that particular instance of cause and effect, drove Candide out of the castle with vigorous kicks. Cunégonde swooned away, but, as soon as she recovered, my lady the baroness boxed her ears, and all was confusion and consternation in that most magnificent and most charming of all possible castles.
Marc Antoine Desaugiers was a Parisian song writer and author of vaudeville.
His wit was cynical and his versification of a facile sort.
THE ETERNAL YAWNER
Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth
What can one do?
Where for amusement seek, or mirth?
Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth
What can one do
To cease from yawning here below?
Of mortal man, what is the rôle?
To bustle, eat, and labor ply;
To plot, grow old, and then to die?
Not very lively this, or droll.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
No wonder in my mind begets
The sun, which poets call sublime;
Not this the first or second time
He rises, runs his race, and sets.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
To one dull course the seasons cling:
For full five thousand years we view
The summer following after spring,
And winter autumn’s close pursue.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
My watch (a friend of little use),
Whose hands their tedious circuit ply,
Tells me how slow the hours fly,
Not how I may my hours amuse.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
I half the world have traveled o’er,
To see if men diversion found;
But everywhere, on every ground,
I saw what I had seen before.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
In weariness which I abhorred,
Wishing to know how sped the great,
I dined with men of high estate,
And murmured as I left their board,
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
Wishing to see if, when in love,
Life some unworn amusement has,
Love I attempted, but alas!
Love in all climes the same doth prove.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
Thus being, at this early age,
Of all things sick, both night and day,
In hopes to be more blithe and gay
I did in settled life engage.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
The street where now my life I led,
By neighborhood my steps brought on
To th’ Institute and Odéon,
Which every day I visited.
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
By writing this (hope quickly gone),
To cheer my spirits I essayed;
But yawned the while this song was made,
And now I sing it, still I yawn:
Ah! well-a-day, etc.
Pierre Jean de Béranger was one of France’s greatest lyric poets. His versatility compassed songs of every sort from political to bacchanalian, from amatory to philosophical.
THE EDUCATION OF YOUNG LADIES
What! this Monsieur de Fénélon
The girls pretend to school!
Of Mass and needlework he prates;
Mama, he’s but a fool.
Balls, concerts, and the piece just out,
Can teach us better far, no doubt:
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Let others mind their work; I’ll play,
Mama, the sweet duet,
That for my master’s voice and mine
Is from Armida set.
If Rénaud felt love’s burning flame,
I feel some shootings of the same:
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Let others keep accounts; I’ll dance,
Mama, an hour or two;
And from my master learn a step
Voluptuous and new.
At this long skirt my feet rebel;
To loop it up a bit were well.
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Let others o’er my sister watch;
Mama, I’d rather trace—
I’ve wondrous talent—at the Louvre
The Apollo’s matchless grace:
Throughout his figure what a charm!
’Tis naked, true—but that’s no harm
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
Mama, I must be married soon,
Even fashion says no less;
Besides, there is an urgent cause,
I must, Mama, confess.
The world my situation sees—
But there they laugh at scrapes like these.
Tra la la la, tra la la la,
Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!
THE DEAD ALIVE
When a bore gets hold of me,
Dull and overbearing,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as herring.
When the thrusts of pleasure glib
In my sides are sticking,
Poking fun at every rib,
I’m alive and kicking.
When a snob his £ s. d.
Jingles in his breeches,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as ditches.
When a birthday’s champagne-corks
Round my ears are clicking,
Marking time with well-oil’d works,
I’m alive and kicking.
Kings and their supremacy
Occupy the table,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as Abel.
Talk about the age of wine
(Bought by cash or ticking),
So you bring a sample fine,
I’m alive and kicking.
When a trip to Muscovy
Tempts a conquest glutton,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as mutton.
Match me with a tippling foe,
See who first wants picking
From the dead man’s field below,
I’m alive and kicking.
When great scribes to poetry
March, by notions big led,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as pig-lead.
When you start a careless song,
Not at grammar sticking,
Good to push the wine along.
I’m alive and kicking.
When a bigot, half-hours three,
Spouts in canting gloom’s tones,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as tombstones.
When in cloisters underground,
Built of stone or bricking,
Orders of the screw you found,
I’m alive and kicking.
Bourbons back in France we see
(Sure we don’t much need ’em),
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as freedom.
Bess returns, and still our throats
Find us here a-slicking,
Sitting free without our coats—
I’m alive and kicking.
Forced to leave this company,
Bottle-wine and horn-ale,
Be so kind as pray for me,
I’m as dead as door-nail.
Pledging, though, a quick return,
Soon my anchor sticking
On the shore for which I yearn—
I’m alive and kicking.
A great name that ushers in the Nineteenth century is that of Honoré de Balzac, chief of the realistic school of French novelists. His humor is keen and is never lacking in his somewhat diversified writings.
From his well known Contes Drolatiques we give two stories.
A SLIGHT MISUNDERSTANDING
Louis XI had given the Abbey of Turpenay to a gentleman who, enjoying the revenue, had called himself M. de Turpenay. It happened that the king being at Plessis-les-Tours, the real abbot, who was a monk, came and presented himself before the king, and presented a petition, remonstrating with him that, canonically and monastically, he was entitled to the abbey, and the usurping gentleman wronged him of his right, and therefore he called upon his Majesty to have justice done to him. Nodding his peruke, the king promised to render him contented. This monk, importunate as are all hooded animals, came often at the end of the king’s meals, who, bored with the holy water of the convent, called friend Tristan and said to him, “Old fellow, there is here a Turpenay who annoys me; rid the world of him for me.”
Tristan, taking a frock for a monk, or a monk for a frock, came to this gentleman, whom all the court called M. de Turpenay, and, having accosted him, managed to lead him on one side, then, taking him by the button-hole, gave him to understand that the king desired he should die. He tried to resist, supplicating and supplicating to escape, but in no way could he obtain a hearing. He was delicately strangled between the head and shoulders, so that he expired; and, three hours afterwards, Tristan told the king that he was despatched. It happened five days later, which is the space in which souls come back again, that the monk came into the room where the king was, and when he saw him he was much astonished. Tristan was present; the king called him, and whispered into his ear:
“You have not done what I told you to.”
“Saving your Majesty, I have done it. Turpenay is dead.”
“Eh? I meant this monk.”
“I understood the gentleman!”
“What, it is done, then?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Very well, then”—turning toward the monk—“come here, monk.” The monk approached. The king said to him, “Kneel down.” The poor monk began to shiver in his shoes. But the king said to him, “Thank God that He has not willed that you should be executed as I had ordered. He who took your estates has been instead. God has done you justice. Go and pray to God for me, and don’t stir out of your convent.”
This proves the good-heartedness of Louis XI. He might very well have hanged the monk, the cause of the error. As for the aforesaid gentleman, it was given out that he had died in the king’s service.
INNOCENCE
When Queen Catherine was princess royal, to make herself welcome to the king, her father-in-law, who at that time was very ill indeed, she presented him from time to time with Italian pictures, knowing that he liked them much, being a friend of Sire Raphael d’Urbino and of the Sires Primaticcio and Leonardo da Vinci, to whom he sent large sums of money. She obtained from her family a precious picture, painted by a Venetian named Titian (painter to the Emperor Charles, and in very high favor), in which there were portraits of Adam and Eve at the moment when God left them to wander about the terrestrial paradise. They were painted full height, in the costume of the period, in which it is difficult to make a mistake, because they were attired in their ignorance, and caparisoned with the divine grace which enveloped them—a difficult thing to execute on account of the color, but one in which the said Sire Titian excelled. The picture was put into the room of the poor king, who was then ill with the disease of which he eventually died. It had a great success at the Court of France, where every one wished to see it; but no one was able to until after the king’s death, since at his desire it was allowed to remain in his room as long as he lived.
One day Catherine took with her to the king’s room her son Francis and little Margy, who began to talk at random, as children will. Now here, now there, these children had heard this picture of Adam and Eve spoken about, and had tormented their mother to take them to see it. Since the two little ones sometimes amused the old king, the princess royal complied with their request.
“You wished to see Adam and Eve, who were our first parents; there they are,” said she.
Then she left them in great astonishment before Titian’s picture, and seated herself by the bedside of the king, who delighted to watch the children.
“Which of the two is Adam?” said Francis, nudging his sister Margaret’s elbow.
“You silly,” replied she, “they would have to be dressed for one to know that!”
Louis Charles Alfred de Musset was a celebrated French poet and man of letters. Though he died in early middle age, he left many volumes of wise and witty writings.
THE SUPPER-PARTY OF THE THREE CAVALIERS
“Be silent, all of you!” cried Mimi. “I want to talk a little now. Since the magnificent M. Marcel does not care for fables, I am going to relate a true story, et quorum pars magna fui.”
“Do you speak Latin?” asked Eugène.
“As you perceive,” Mlle. Pinson answered. “I have inherited that sentence from my uncle, who served under the great Napoleon, and who always repeated it before he gave us an account of a battle. If you don’t know the meaning of the words, I’ll teach you free of charge. They mean, ‘I give you my word of honor.’ Well, then, you are to know that one night last week I went with two of my friends, Blanchette and Rougette, to the Odéon theater——”
“Watch me cut the cake,” interrupted Marcel.
“Cut ahead, but listen,” Mlle. Pinson continued. “As I was saying, I went with Blanchette and Rougette to the Odéon to see a tragedy. Rougette, as you know, has just lost her grandmother, and has inherited four hundred francs. We had taken a box, opposite to which, in the pit, sat three students. These young men liked our looks, and, on the pretext that we were alone and unprotected, invited us to supper.”
“Immediately?” asked Marcel. “That was gallant indeed. And you refused, I suppose?”
“By no means,” said Mimi. “We accepted the invitation, and in the intermission, without waiting for the end of the play, we all went off to Viot’s restaurant.”
“With your cavaliers?”
“With our cavaliers. The leader, of course, began by telling us that he had nothing, but such little obstacles did not disconcert us. We ordered everything we wanted. Rougette took pen and paper, and ordered a veritable marriage-feast: shrimps, an omelet with sugar, fritters, mussels, eggs with whipped cream—in fact, all the delicacies imaginable. To tell the truth, our young gentlemen pulled wry faces—— ”
“I have no doubt of it!” said Marcel.
“We didn’t care. When everything was brought in we began to act the part of great ladies. We approved of nothing, but found everything disgusting. Hardly was any dish brought in but we sent it out again. ‘Waiter, take this away; it’s intolerable; where did you get the horrible stuff?’ Our unknown gentlemen wanted to eat, but found it impossible. In a word, we supped as Sancho dined, and in our vigor nearly broke several dishes.”
“Nice conduct! And who was to pay for it all?”
“That is precisely the question that our three unknown gentlemen asked one another. To judge by what we overheard of their whispered conversation, one of them owned six francs, the second a good deal less, and the third had only his watch, which he generously pulled out of his pocket. So the three unfortunates went up to the cashier, intending to gain a delay of some sort. What answer do you suppose they received?”
“I imagine that you would be kept there, and your gentlemen sent to jail.”
“You are wrong,” said Mlle. Pinson. “Before going in Rougette had taken her precautions, and had paid for everything in advance. You can imagine the scene when Viot answered, ‘Gentlemen, everything is paid.’ Our three unknown gentlemen looked at us as never three dogs looked at three bishops, with pitiful stupefaction mixed with pure tenderness. But we, without seeming to notice anything unusual, went down-stairs and ordered a cab. ‘Dear Marquise,’ said Rougette to me, ‘we ought to take these gentlemen home.’ ‘Certainly, dear Countess,’ answered I. Our poor young gallants did not know what to say, they looked so sheepish. They wanted to get rid of our politeness, and asked not to be taken home, even refusing to give their address. No wonder, either, because they felt sure that they were having to do with great ladies, and they lived in Fish-Cat Street!”
The two students, the friends of Marcel, who, up to this time, had done nothing but smoke their pipes and drink in silence, appeared little pleased with this story. Their faces grew red, and they seemed to know as much about this unfortunate supper as Mimi herself, at whom they glanced restlessly. Marcel, laughing, said:
“Tell us who they were, Mlle. Mimi. Since it happened last week it does not matter.”
“Never!” cried the girl. “Play a trick on a man—yes. But ruin his career—never!”
“You are right,” said Eugène, “and are acting even more wisely than you yourself are aware of. There is not a single young fellow at college who has not some such mistake or folly behind him, and yet it is from among these very people that France draws her most distinguished men.”
“Yes,” said Marcel, “that’s true. There are peers of France who now dine at Flicoteau’s, but who once could not pay their bills. But,” he added, and winked, “haven’t you seen your unknown gentlemen again?”
“What do you take us for?” answered Mlle. Pinson in a severe and almost offended tone. “You know Blanchette and Rougette, and do you suppose that I——?”
“Very well,” said Marcel, “don’t be angry. But isn’t this a nice state of affairs? Here are three giddy girls, who may not be able to pay their next day’s dinner, and who throw away their money for the sake of mystifying three poor unoffending devils!”
“But why did they invite us to supper?” asked Mlle. Pinson.—“Mimi Pinson.”
Charles Paul de Kock was a novelist and dramatist. A short quotation from A Much Worried Gentleman shows the ubiquitous mother-in-law jest.
THÉOPHILE’S MOTHER-IN-LAW
“Son-in-law, you will offer me your arm; your wife will take her cousin’s.”
“Yes, mother-in-law.”
“Furthermore, when we get to the caterer’s for dinner, you must not whisper to your wife. People might suspect something unrefined.”
“Yes, mother-in-law.”
“Neither must you kiss her.”
“Why, you object to me kissing my wife?”
“Before people, yes. It’s very bad form. Haven’t you time enough for it at home?”
“True.”
“At table you will not sit next to your wife, but next to me.”
“That’s agreed.”
“During the meal you will take care that no comic songs on your marriage are sung. Those who write them usually permit themselves indelicate jokes, so that the ladies are put out. That is the worst taste possible.”
“I’ll see that none are sung.”
“You will dance only once with your wife during the evening. Understand me—only once.”
“But, why, why?”
“Because it is proper to let the bride accept the invitations of relatives, friends, and strangers.”
“But I didn’t marry in order that my wife should dance with everybody except myself!”
“Do you wish to insinuate, son-in-law, that you can instruct me concerning the usages of polite society? You are beginning well.”
“I assure you, mother-in-law, that I had no intention——”
“That will do. I accept your excuses. We now come to a more delicate matter, to—but, of course, you must understand me.”
“I confess that I do not at all.”
“Listen, son-in-law. Some newly married young men, on their wedding-night, when the ball is at its gayest, take the liberty of carrying off their wives, and disappearing with them about twelve o’clock.”
“And you object to that?”
“Fie, sir, fie! If you were to be guilty of such a thing, I would make your wife sue for a divorce the day after your marriage.”
“Be easy, then; I will not disappear. But when may I go away with my wife?”
“I shall take my daughter with me, and arrange an opportune time when the decencies of the situation may be observed.”
“And who will take me?”
“You will go alone, but you will not go, understand me well, until there isn’t a cat left at the ball.”
“I shall be getting to bed very late, then. Some of the people will want square dances and country dances, and——”
“You will get to bed soon enough, son-in-law.”
“But why all this, mother-in-law?”
“That will do, M. Tamponnet! It is not becoming that this conversation be prolonged.”
Alexandre Dumas, the Elder, was a noted novelist and dramatist. His output was enormous, and the wit, though always discernible, was subordinate to matters of heroism, adventure and the like.
CHAPTER TOUCHING THE OLFACTORY ORGAN
Has it ever occurred to you, dear reader, how admirable an organ the nose is?
The nose; yes, the nose.
And how useful an article this very nose is to every creature which, as Ovid says, lifts its face to heaven?
Well, strange as it may seem, monstrous ingratitude that it is, no poet has yet thought of addressing an ode to the nose!
So it has been left to me, who am not a poet, or who, at least, claim to rank only after our greatest poets, to conceive such an idea.
Truly, the nose is unfortunate.
So many things have been invented for the eyes:
Songs and compliments and kaleidoscopes, pictures and scenery and spectacles.
And for the ears:
Ear-rings, of course, and Robert the Devil, William Tell, and Fra Diavolo, Stradivarius violins and Érard pianos and Sax trumpets.
And for the mouth:
Lent, plain cooking, The Gastronomists’ Calendar, The Gormand’s Dictionary. Soups of every kind have they made for it, from Russian broth to French cabbage-soup; dishes for it are connected with the reputations of the greatest men, from Soubise cutlets to Richelieu puddings; its lips have been compared to coral, its teeth to pearls, its breath to perfume. Before it have been set plumed peacocks and undrawn snipes; and, for the future, it has been promised whole roast larks.
But what has been invented for the nose?
Attar of roses and snuff.
You have not done well, oh, my masters the philanthropists; oh, my brothers the poets!
And yet how faithfully this limb——
“It is not a limb!” cry the scientists.
I beg your pardon, gentlemen, and retract. This appendage—Ah yes, I was saying with what touching fidelity this appendage has done service for you.
The eyes sleep, the mouth closes, the ears are deaf.
The nose is always on duty.
It watches over your repose and contributes to your health. Feet, hands, all other parts of the body are stupid. The hands are often caught in foolish acts; the feet stumble, and in their clumsiness allow the body to fall. And when they do, they get off free, and the poor nose is punished for their misdeeds.
How often do you not hear it said: “Mr. So-and-So has broken his nose.”
There have been a great many broken noses since the creation of the world.
Can any one give a single instance of a nose broken through any fault of its own?
No; but, nevertheless, the poor nose is always being scolded.
Well, it endures it all with angelic patience. True, it sometimes has the impertinence to snore. But where and when did you ever hear it complain?...
But let us forget for a moment the utility of the nose, and regard it only from the esthetic point of view.
A cedar of Lebanon, it tramples underfoot the hyssop of the mustache; a central column, it provides a support for the double arch of the eyebrows. On its capital perches the eagle of thought. It is enwreathed with smiles. With what boldness did the nose of Ajax confront the storm when he said, “I will escape in spite of the gods.” With what courage did the nose of the great Condé—whose greatness really derived from his nose—with what courage did the nose of the great Condé enter before all others, before the great Condé himself, the entrenchments of the Spanish at Lens and Rocroy, where their conqueror boldly flourished the staff of command? With what assurance was Dugazon’s nose thrust before the public, that nose which knew how to wriggle in forty-two different ways, and each way funnier than the last?
No, I do not believe that the nose should be permitted to remain in the obscurity into which man’s ingratitude has hitherto forced it.
I suggest as one reason why the nose has submitted to this injustice the fact that Occidental noses are so small.
But the deuce is to pay if the noses of the West are the only noses.
There are the Oriental noses, which are very handsome noses.
Do you question the superiority of these noses to your own, gentlemen of Paris, of Vienna, of St. Petersburg?
In that case, my Viennese friends, go by the Danube; you Parisians, take the steamer; Petersburgers, the sledge; and say these simple words:
“To Georgia.”
But I forewarn you of deep humiliation. Should you bring to Georgia one of the largest noses in Europe, at the gate of Tiflis they would gaze at you in astonishment and exclaim:
“What a pity that this gentleman has lost his nose on the way.” ...
Ah, sweet Heaven! those beautiful Georgian noses! Robust noses, magnificent noses!
They are all shapes:
Round, fat, long, large.
There is every color:
White, pink, crimson, violet.
Some are set with rubies, others with pearls. I saw one set with turquoises.
In Georgia, Vakhtang IV abolished the fathom, the meter, and the yard, keeping only the nose.
Goods are measured off by the nose.
They say, “I bought seventeen noses of flannel for a dressing-gown, seven noses of cloth for a pair of breeches, a nose and a half of satin for a cravat.”
Let us add, finally, that the Georgian ladies find this more convenient than European measures.
Théophile Gautier, poet, artist and novelist was identified with the romantic movement in French literature.
A charming art of description was his, as may be seen in the story of the Lap Dog.
FANFRELUCHE
To write in praise of this marvelous lap-dog, one should pluck a quill from the wing of Love himself; the hands of the Graces alone would be light enough to trace his picture; nor would the touch of Latour be too soft.
His name was Fanfreluche, a pretty name for a dog, and one that he bore with honor.
Fanfreluche was no larger than his mistress’s hand, and it is well known that the marquise has the smallest hand in the world; and yet he seemed larger to the eye, assuming almost the proportions of a small sheep, for he had silky hair a foot in length, and so fine and soft and lustrous that the tresses of Minette were a mere mop by contrast. When he presented his paw, and one pressed it a little, one was astonished to feel nothing at all. Fanfreluche was rather a ball of silk, from which two beautiful brown eyes and a little red nose glittered, than an actual dog. Such a dog could only have belonged to the mother of Love, who lost him in Cytherea, where the marquise, on one of her occasional visits, found him. Look for a moment at this fascinatingly exquisite face. Would not Roxalana herself have been jealous of that delicately tipped-up nose, divided in the middle by a little furrow just like Anne of Austria’s?
What vivacity in that quick eye! And that double row of white teeth, no larger than grains of rice, which, at the least emotion, sparkled in all their brilliance—what duchess would not envy them? And this charming Fanfreluche, apart from his physical attractions, possessed a thousand social graces: he danced the minuet with exquisite grace, knew how to give his paw and tell the hour, capered before the queen and great ladies of France, and distinguished his right paw from his left. And Fanfreluche was learned, and knew more than the members of the Academy. If he was not a member of that body it was because he did not desire it, thinking, no doubt, to shine rather by his absence. The abbé declared that he was as strong as a Turk in the dead languages, and that, if he did not talk, it was from pure malice and to vex his mistress.
Then, too, Fanfreluche had not the vivacity of common dogs. He was very dainty, and very hard to please. He absolutely refused to eat anything but little pies of calves’ brains made especially for him; he would drink nothing but cream from a little Japanese saucer. Only when his mistress dined in town would he consent to nibble at the wing of a chicken, and to take sweets for dessert; but he did not grant this favor to every one, and one had to have an excellent cook to gain it. Fanfreluche had only one little fault. But who is perfect in this world? He loved cherries in brandy and Spanish snuff, of which he took a little pinch from time to time. But the latter is a weakness he shared with the Prince of Condé.
When he heard the cover of the general’s golden snuff-box click, it was a treat to see him sit up on his little hind legs and brush the carpet with his silken tail; and, if the marquise was engrossed in the pleasures of whist, and did not watch him closely, he would jump on the abbé’s lap, who fed him with brandied cherries. And Fanfreluche, whose head was not strong, would become as tipsy as a Swiss guard and two choristers, would perform the queerest little tricks on the carpet, and become extraordinarily ferocious on the subject of the calves of the chevalier, who, to preserve what little was left of them, would draw up his legs on his chair. Then Fanfreluche was no longer a little dog, but a little lion, and the marquise alone could manage him. His picture would not be complete without mentioning the droll little naughtinesses that he was guilty of before being stowed away into his muff, and put to bed in his niche of rosewood, padded with white satin and edged with blue silk cord.
Henri Murger, a noted litterateur, wrote on themes both gloomy and merry. More than most, he ran the gamut from grave to gay, from lively to severe.
Among his best known works are his Bohemian Life Sketches. From the subjoined bit, it may be seen that boresome parties obtain in all times and nations.
AN EVENING RECEPTION
Toward the end of the month of December the messengers of Bidault’s agency received for distribution about a hundred copies of a circular of which we certify the following to be a true and genuine copy:
Messieurs Rodolphe and Marcel request the honor of your company at a reception, on Christmas Eve, Saturday next. There is going to be some fun.
P. S. We only live once!
Program
I
7 P.M. The rooms will open: lively and animated conversation.
8 P.M. The ingenious authors of The Mountain in Labor, a comedy rejected by the Odéon, will take a turn round the rooms.
8.30 P.M. M. Alexandre Schaunard, the distinguished artist, will execute his Imitative Symphony for the piano, called The Influence of Blue in Art.
9 P.M. First reading of a memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.
9.30 P.M. M. Gustave Colline, hyperphysical philosopher, and M. Schaunard will commence a debate on comparative philosophy and metapolitics. In order to prevent any possible collision, the two disputants will be tied together.
10 P.M. M. Tristan, a literary man, will relate the story of his first love. M. Alexandre Schaunard will play a pianoforte accompaniment.
10.30 P.M. Second reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy.
11 P.M. The Story of a Cassowary Hunt, by a foreign prince.
II
At midnight M. Marcel, historical painter, will make a white chalk drawing, with his eyes bandaged. Subject: The interview between Napoleon and Voltaire in the Champs Élysées. At the same time M. Rodolphe will improvise a parallel between the author of Zaïre and the author of The Battle of Austerlitz.
12.30 A.M. M. Gustave Colline, in modest undress, will give a revival of the athletic sports of the Fourth Olympiad.
1 A.M. Third reading of the memoir on the abolition of the penalty of tragedy, followed by a collection in aid of authors of tragedies likely to be thrown out of employment.
2 A.M. Sports and quadrilles, which will be kept up till morning.
6 A.M. Rise of the sun upon the scene. Final chorus.
The ventilators will be open during the whole of the reception.
N. B. Any person attempting to read or recite poetry will be immediately ejected from the rooms and taken into custody; you are also requested not to take away candle-ends.
Victor Marie Hugo, celebrated poet, novelist and dramatist, was a recognized leader of the Romantic school of Nineteenth century France.
Quotation from his works is hard to do in brief, but an amusing story is given from Tales of a Grandfather.
THE GOOD FLEA AND THE WICKED KING
Once upon a time there was a wicked king, who made his people very unhappy. Everybody detested him, and those whom he had put in prison and beheaded would have liked to whip him. But how? He was the strongest, he was the master, he did not have to give account to any one, and when he was told his subjects were not content, he replied:
“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” Which was an ugly answer.
As he continued to act like a king, and as every day he became a little more wicked than the day before, this set a certain little flea to thinking over the matter. It was a little bit of a flea, who was of no consequence at all, but full of good sentiments. This is not the nature of fleas in general; but this one had been very well brought up; it bit people with moderation, and only when it was very hungry.
“What if I were to bring the king to reason?” it said to itself. “It is not without danger. But no matter—I will try.”
That night the wicked king, after having done all sorts of naughty things during the day, was calmly going to sleep when he felt what seemed to be the prick of a pin.
“Bite!”
He growled, and turned over on the other side.
“Bite! Bite! Bite!”
“Who is it that bites me so?” cried the king in a terrible voice.
“It is I,” replied a very little voice.
“You? Who are you?”
“A little flea who wishes to correct you.”
“A flea? Just you wait! Just you wait, and you shall see!”
And the king sprang from his bed, twisted his coverings, and shook the sheets, all of which was quite useless, for the good flea had hidden itself in the royal beard.
“Ah,” said the king, “it has gone now, and I shall be able to get a sound sleep.”
But scarcely had he laid his head on the pillow, when—
“Bite!”
“How? What? Again?”
“Bite! Bite!”
“You dare to return, you abominable little flea? Think for a moment what you are doing! You are no bigger than a grain of sand, and you dare to bite one of the greatest kings on earth!”
“Well, what of it? I don’t care a rap!” answered the flea in the very words of the king.
“Ah, if I only had you!”
“Yes, but you haven’t got me!”
The wicked king did not sleep all that night, and he arose the next morning in a killing ill humor. He resolved to destroy his enemy. By his orders, they cleaned the palace from top to bottom, and particularly his bedroom; his bed was made by ten old women very skilful in the art of catching fleas. But they caught nothing, for the good flea had hidden itself under the collar of the king’s coat.
That night, this frightful tyrant, who was dying for want of sleep, lay back on both his ears, though this is said to be very difficult. But he wished to sleep double, and he knew no better way. I wish you may find a better. Scarcely had he put out his light, when he felt the flea on his neck.
“Bite! Bite!”
“Ah, zounds! What is this?”
“It is I—the flea of yesterday.”
“But what do you want, you rascal—you tiny pest?”
“I wish you to obey me, and to make your people happy.”
“Ho, there, my soldiers, my captain of the guard, my ministers, my generals! Everybody! The whole lot of you!”
The whole lot of them came in. The king was in a rage, which made everybody tremble. He found fault with all the servants of the palace. Everybody was in consternation. During this time the flea, quite calm, kept itself hid in the king’s nightcap.
The guards were doubled; laws and decrees were made; ordinances were published against all fleas; there were processions and public prayers to ask of Heaven the extermination of the flea, and sound sleep for the king. It was all of no avail. The wretched king could not lie down, even on the grass, without being attacked by his obstinate enemy, the good flea, who did not let him sleep a single minute.
“Bite! Bite!”
It would take too long to tell the many hard knocks the king gave himself in trying to crush the flea; he was covered with bruises and contusions. As he could not sleep, he wandered about like an uneasy spirit. He grew thinner. He would certainly have died if, at last, he had not made up his mind to obey the good flea.
“I surrender,” he said at last, when it began to bite him again. “I ask for quarter. I will do what you wish.”
“So much the better. On that condition only shall you sleep,” replied the flea.
“Thank you. What must I do?”
“Make your people happy!”
“I have never learned how. I do not know how——”
“Nothing more easy: you have only to go away.”
“Taking my treasures with me?”
“Without taking anything.”
“But I shall die if I have no money,” said the king.
“Well, what of it? I don’t care!” replied the flea.
But the flea was not hard-hearted, and it let the king fill his pockets with money before he went away. And the people were able to be very happy by setting up a republic.
Alphonse Daudet, humorist and story writer, created the character of Tartarin, a gasconading humbug, and a satire on the typical character attributed to Southern France.
A bit from Tartarin in the Alps will show the type of humor.
WILLIAM TELL
The party of travelers now came to the Lake of Lucerne, with its dark waters overshadowed by high and menacing mountains. To their right they saw that Ruetli meadow where Melchthal, Fuerst, and Stauffacher had sworn the oath to deliver their country.
Tartarin, deeply moved, took off his cap, and even threw it into the air three times to render homage to the shades of the departed heroes. Some of the tourists mistook this for a salutation, and bowed in return. At last they reached Tell’s Chapel. This chapel is situated at the edge of the lake, on the very rock upon which, during the storm, William Tell jumped from Gessler’s boat. And it was a delicious emotion to Tartarin, while he followed the travelers along the lake, to tread this historic ground, to recall and revive the various scenes of this great drama, which he knew as well as his own biography.
For William Tell had always been his ideal man. When at Bézuquet’s pharmacy the game of Preferences was being played, and each one wrote on his slip of paper the name of the poet, the tree, the odor, the hero, and the woman that he preferred to all others of their kind, one slip invariably bore this inscription:
“Favorite tree?—The baobab.
“Favorite odor?—Gunpowder.
“Favorite author?—Fenimore Cooper.
“Who would you like to have been?—William Tell.”
And then everybody would exclaim, “That’s Tartarin!”
Imagine, then, how happy he was, and how his heart beat when he stood before the chapel commemorative of the gratitude of a whole nation. It seemed to him as if William Tell must come in person to open the door, still dripping from the waters of the lake, and holding in his hand his bolts and crossbow.
“Don’t come in here. I’m working. This is not the day on which tourists are allowed,” sounded a strong voice from the interior, reechoing against the walls.
“M. Astier-Réhu, of the French Academy!”
“Herr Professor Doctor Schwanthaler!”
“Tartarin of Tarascon!”
The painter, who was standing on a scaffolding within, stretched out half of his body clad in his working-blouse, and holding his palette in his hand.
“My pupil will come down and open the door for you, gentlemen,” he said in a respectful tone.
“I was sure of it; of course,” said Tartarin to himself, “I have only to mention my name.”
For all that, he had the good taste to fall into line and modestly enter the chapel behind the others.
The painter, a splendid fellow, with a magnificent golden head of an artist of the Renaissance, received his visitors on the wooden staircase which led to the temporary scaffolding from which the mural paintings were being done. All the frescos, representing scenes from Tell’s life, were complete, except the one in which the scene of the apple at Altorf was to be shown. Upon that the painter was now working....
“I find it all very characteristically done,” said the great Astier-Réhu.
And Schwanthaler, folding his arms, recited two of Schiller’s verses, half of which was lost in his beard. Then the ladies delivered their opinions, and for some minutes one would have thought oneself in a confectioner’s shop. “Beautiful!” they cried. “Lovely! Exquisite! Delicious!”
Suddenly came a voice, tearing the silence like a trumpet’s blare:
“Badly shouldered, that blunderbuss, I tell you! He never held it in that way!”
Imagine the stupefaction of the painter when this tourist, stick in hand and bundle on his back, undertook to demonstrate to him as clearly as that two and two are four, that the position of Tell in the picture was incorrect.
“And I understand these matters, I would have you know!”
“And who are you?”
“Who am I?” said our Tarasconian hero, deeply astonished. And so it was not at his name that the door had opened. Drawing himself up, he answered, “Ask the panthers of Zaccar, or the lions of Atlas, and perhaps they will answer you.”
Every one drew away from Tartarin in fright and consternation.
“But then,” asked the painter, “in what respect is Tell’s position incorrect?”
“Look at me!”
Falling back with a double step that made the planks creak, Tartarin, using his cane to represent the “blunderbuss,” threw himself into position.
“Superb! He is right! Don’t move!” cried the painter. Then to his pupil:
“Quick, bring me paper and charcoal!”