"It is all in bad taste!" he said, in one of his letters, which a friend of mine showed me with the usual eagerness one's friends have for thrusting such kinds of stuff under one's nose. "In laying aside the Greeks and Romans, and the nobility of our old theatres, we have not been happy in their successors."
He called us messieurs de l'horrible. Poor Jacquemont! I hardly knew him; I saw him once at General La Fayette's, who treated him like a son. The famous old man had a sure instinct for friendship: all who became great later were honoured by his friendship or protection.
The death of Jacquemont hardly made any impression in France; he was totally unknown by his compatriots; his reputation dated from the posthumous publication of his works, and especially of his private correspondence, which every cultured man "has read. I say cultured man, for there are no more inveterate hunters-out of talent than your man of culture. Now there is real wit at the bottom of Jacquemont's correspondence, although it is of a dry and sceptical type. As for belief, that is another matter altogether; he evidently doubted everything, even God. In his last letters to his family, he does not express a word of hope for another life; the immortality of the soul, with Jacquemont, is not even as much as a dream. The letter in which he bids farewell to his brother, and, through his brother, to the whole family, is full of despair. I will not say that there is no resignation in it, but it reads like the work of an unconcerned person. Jacquemont talks of himself in it as he would speak of a casual acquaintance. Put the letter into the third person; let the dying man substitute he for I, and you have the official announcement of the death of a stranger, made by an indifferent person. See if the letter is that of a man dying four thousand leagues from his country:
"BOMBAY, INVALID OFFICERS' QUARTERS,
"1 December 1832
"DEAR PORPHYRE,—I came here ill thirty-two days ago, and for thirty-one I have been in bed. In the poisonous forests of the isle of Salsette, exposed to the burning sun during the most unhealthy season, I caught the germs of the disease, attacks of which I have often felt since my journey to Adjmir, but I had disguised from myself their true nature. It is inflammation of the liver. The pestilential exhalations have done for me. As soon as my illness began, I made my will and put my affairs in order. My interests are entrusted to the honourable and friendly care of Mr. James Nicol, an English merchant here, and to M. Cordier at Calcutta. Mr. Nicol was my host on my arrival in Bombay. No old friend could have lavished more affectionate care upon me. Nevertheless, at the end of a few days, while I was still able to be transported, I left his house, which is in the fort, in order to occupy a convenient and spacious set of rooms in the quarter of the invalided officers, in a most airy and healthy situation by the seacoast, a hundred yards from my doctor, Dr. MacLennan, the cleverest in Bombay, whose admirable care long since made him my very dear friend.
"The cruellest thought, dear Porphyre, when we are dying in a far country, for those who love us, is the idea of the loneliness and desertion in which we may be passing the last hours of our existence. Well, my dear fellow, you can find comfort in the assurance I give you that, since my arrival here, I have not ceased to be overwhelmed with the most affectionate and touching attentions of a number of good and kindly men. They come and see me constantly, humour my sick whims and forestall my every fancy. Mr. Nicol more than any one; Mr. John Box, a member of the Government; an old engineering colonel, Mr. Goodfellow; a very kind young officer, Major Mountain, and others still, whom I have not mentioned. The excellent MacLennan nearly risked his own health for my sake; for several days during a crisis which seemed likely to end fatally, he came twice each night. I have absolute confidence in his skill. At first, I suffered greatly; but for a long time I have been reduced to a state of weakness which is almost exempt from pain. The worst is that for thirty-one days I have not slept more than one hour in all. But these sleepless nights are very quiet ones, and do not seem desperately long.
"Happily, the disease is drawing to its close; it may not be fatal, although most probably it will. The abscess or abscesses formed since the first inside the liver, which, until a recent period, promised to disperse by absorption, seem to have increased, and bid fair shortly to open externally. All I desire is to escape quickly out of the wretched state in which I have been lingering for a month past, no matter by what means it he. My mind is perfectly clear, as you can see; it has only been rarely and temporarily clouded during several violent paroxysms of pain at the beginning of my illness. I have generally calculated upon the worst, so have never been unusually depressed. My end, should it come, looks sweet and peaceful. If you were here seated on my bed, with our father and Frédéric, I should be brokenhearted, and should not regard death with such serenity and resignation. Be comforted, and console our father; console one another, my dear ones. But I am exhausted with this effort to write. I must bid you farewell! Farewell ... Oh! how your poor Victor loves you! Farewell for the last time! I can only write in pencil as I lie on my back. For fear the letters get rubbed out, the excellent Mr. Nicol will copy this letter in ink, so that I may be certain you will read my last thoughts.
"VICTOR JACQUEMONT"I have been able to sign what the admirable Mr. Nicol has been so good as to copy. Farewell once more, my dear ones!"
Only one single sentence from the man's heart: "Farewell! Oh! how your poor Victor loves you!" It explains entirely why a literature full of sentiment must have been antipathetic to that cold, learned intellectual temperament.
Happily, two men undertook to send to the family, heart-broken by the unexpected loss far away from them, the melancholy consolations which the dying man had not thought of giving them. A dying man who knows he is beloved ought to console those whom he is going to leave as much as he can; he ought to have pity on those whom he causes to weep: hearts are cured by being softened, not by being turned to stone. The man who has wept much alone can appreciate the truth of what I say here.
This is Mr. James Nicol's letter to Jacquemont's brother. Mr. James Nicol is an Englishman, remember, and yet the letter is written in French, a tongue other than his own. But there is one universal language for the heart.
"BOMBAY, 17 December 1832
"MY DEAR SIR,—Although a stranger to you, fate has allotted it to me to communicate to you an event which you did not expect. It is with the deepest regret I am obliged to transmit to you your brother Victor's last letter, and to communicate to you the sole consolation which is left to you, that of telling you of the peaceful and painless end he made on 17 December.
"Your brother came to my house on 29 October from Tanna, being in a very weak state of health, in consequence of an illness he had recently had, which he thought would speedily be cured by the sea breezes of this island, and his strength quickly restored. The evening of his arrival he took a walk of half a league with me, and, next day, paid various calls; but he came back early, thoroughly exhausted. I advised him to see a doctor at once; Dr. MacLennan saw him the same evening. I enclose in this letter for your satisfaction the account the doctor wrote of his illness. As your brother has himself told you, he suffered terribly at the beginning of his illness, and, from the first, he was informed of the dangerous nature of the disease. On 4 November he made his will, a copy of which I enclose herewith. About 8 November the disease appeared to take a favourable turn; and he still entertained the hope of recovering his health, when the formation of an abscess appeared. He then became daily weaker, but preserved throughout his illness a calm and contentedness I have never seen equalled. I left him on 6 December nearly in the same condition as on the preceding days, but without any symptoms of near dissolution. However, on the 7th, about three in the morning, he was seized with violent pains, which lasted for two hours. Dr. MacLennan was with him at the time. At five A.M. your brother sent for me: he was not suffering when I arrived; but a great change had taken place in his looks since the previous night, and I could hardly restrain my tears. Then, taking my hand, he said to me: 'Do not grieve; the time draws close, and my wishes are about to be fulfilled. I have been praying to heaven for it for the last fortnight. It is a happy release. Were I to live now the disease would probably make the rest of my life miserable.... Write to my brother, and tell how peacefully and happily my last days passed....'
"He repeated to me that he wished me to send his manuscripts and collections to France, and went into the most elaborate details concerning his funeral arrangements, which he wished to be celebrated with Protestant rites. He asked me to put up a simple gravestone with this inscription upon it—
'VICTOR JACQUEMONT
NÉ À PARIS LE 8 AOUT 1801
MORT À BOMBAY
APRÈS AVOIR VOYAGÉ PENDANT TROIS
ANS ET DEMI
DANS L'INDE'During the course of the day he had several attacks of vomiting, and his breathing was considerably affected; but he kept the use of his faculties as perfectly as when in good health. He was only disquieted about his death, adding: 'I am very comfortable here, but I should be much better in my grave!' About five P.M. he said to me: 'I am now going to take my last drink from your hand, and then die.' A violent fit of vomiting ensued, and he was laid back in his bed completely exhausted. He opened his eyes at times, and until within twenty minutes before his death he seemed to recognise me. At sixteen minutes past six, he rendered up his spirit into the arms of death in his sleep.
"He was buried the following evening with military honours, as a member of the Légion d'honneur, and was followed by members of the Government, and by many other people.
"I feel the sincerest sympathy with you and your father in this irreparable loss. I only knew your brother during his illness, and only had the melancholy satisfaction of contributing to the best of my ability to his needs during his illness. In conformity with your brother's wishes, I have sent off by steamer with all possible care the articles of natural history which remained in my possession; they are packed in eleven cases and barrels, for which I enclose the invoice and bill of lading, signed by the captain of the French vessel, La Nymphe of Bordeaux. I wrote to the Commissaire Général de la Marine at Bordeaux, asking him to smooth over any difficulties that might arise in connection with them. Be so good as to write to him about the things. I have also dispatched a box addressed to your father, containing all the writings your brother left with me.[1] I have put his Order of the Légion d'honneur, which your brother particularly instructed me to send you, in the case containing his papers. I also send you his watch and pistols. Be so good as to separate the catalogues belonging to the collections from the other writings, and send them to the Royal Museum. I have the honour to be, dear Sir, yours, etc.
JAMES NICOL."
The epitaph drawn up by the dying man himself is terribly curt and dreary. The lost child called Antony would have found something more filial for his unknown mother than this philosopher for his. Besides the mother who bore us, is there not also the mother who receives us into her arms;—the everlasting grave as well as the temporary cradle? Ought not the arid and devouring climate of India to make the gentle land of his birth most precious to the sufferer?
Oh, violets and daisies which shall one day spring up on my grave, how I should regret you if I had to sleep my last sleep beneath the burning sands of Bombay! The soul may, perhaps, be but a dream; but the perfume of flowers is a reality.