Honoré de Balzac

by Théophile Gautier

"Ah!" he cried with an air of superb weariness and magnificent disdain, "if I need to tell you the subject, we will never be finished."

I did not think I was being inappropriate in posing that question, which seemed quite pointless to Balzac.

After a brief instruction that I obtained with difficulty, I set to work to put together a scene from which only a few words remained in the final work, which was not read the next day, as one might well believe. I do not know what the other collaborators did; but the only one who seriously joined in, this was Laurent‑Jan, to whom the play is dedicated.

That play, it was Vautrin. Everyone knows that the dynastic and pyramidal tuft of hair that Frédérick Lemaître fantasized wearing in his disguise as a Mexican general brought down on the work the criticism of the authorities; Vautrin, forbidden, had only a single performance, and poor Balzac remained like Perrette in front of his overturned milk jug. The prodigious proceeds that he had anticipated as the probable product of his drama vanished into ciphers, which did not stop him from refusing very nobly the compensation offered by the ministry.

At the beginning of this study, I told you about the tendencies toward dandyism that were demonstrated by Balzac, I spoke of his blue coat with solid gold buttons, his monstrous cane topped with a group of turquoise stones, his appearances in society and in the extravagant salon; this splendor lasted only for a period of time, and Balzac recognized that he was not suited to play the role of Alcibiades or Brummel. Everyone could encounter him, particularly in the morning, when he rushed to the printers carrying copy or seeking proofs, in an infinitely less splendid outfit. I recall the green hunting jacket, with brass buttons representing the head of a fox, the black and gray checked pants that extended to his feet, which were encased in large laced shoes, the red scarf wrapped around the neck like a rope, and the hat that was at the same time both bristly and smooth, its blue bleached by sweat, which covered rather than clothed "the most fertile of our novelists." Despite the disorder and poverty of his dress, nobody would have been tempted to take for an unknown commoner this large man with the blazing eyes, flaring nostrils, and cheeks struck with violent tones, all illuminated by genius, who passed while carried away by his dream like a whirlwind! At the sight of him, the mocking stopped on the urchin's lips, and the serious man did not begin to smile. Everyone recognized one of the kings of thought.

Sometimes, to the contrary, he would be seen walking with slow steps, his nose in the air, his eyes searching, following one side of the street then examining the other, not daydreaming, but looking at the signs. He was looking for names to christen his characters. He maintained with some justification that a name could not be invented any more than a word. According to him, names arose on their own like languages; besides real names possessed a life, a meaning, a destiny, a mystical significance, and it was impossible to place too much importance on their choice. Léon Gozlan has told in a charming way, in his Balzac en Pantoufles, how the famous Z. Marcas of the Revue Parisienne was found.

A sign of a chimney man provided the name of Gubetta that had long been sought by Victor Hugo, who was no less careful than Balzac in the names of his characters.

This demanding life of nocturnal work had, despite his strong constitution, left its traces on the features of Balzac, and we find in Albert Savarus a portrait of him, written by himself, that represents him such as he was at that time (1842), with some minor differences:

"… A superb head, black hair already streaked with some white, hair like that of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in our paintings, with thick shining curls, stiff like horsehair, a round white neck like that of a woman, a magnificent forehead, divided by the powerful furrows that great projects, great thoughts, strong reflections inscribe on the the foreheads of great men; an olive complexion marbled with red marks, a square nose, eyes of fire, then the hollow cheeks, with two long lines full of suffering, a mouth with a sardonic smile and a small chin that was narrow and too short; crow's feet at his temples, sunken eyes, rolling under the eyebrow arches like two burning globes; but despite all of these signs of violent passion, a calm manner, profoundly accepting, the voice of a penetrating sweetness which surprised me with its facility, the true voice of an orator, sometimes pure and astute, sometimes insinuating, and thunderous when necessary, then pliant with sarcasm, and then becoming incisive. Monsieur Albert Savaron is of middle height, neither fat nor thin; finally, he has the hands of a prelate."

In this portrait, which is incidentally very faithful, Balzac idealizes himself a little for the needs of the novel, and subtracts from himself a few kilograms of portliness, license which is certainly permitted to a beloved hero of the Duchess d'Argaiolo and Mademoiselle Philomène de Watteville. This novel of Albert Savarus, one of the least known and least quoted of Balzac, contains many transposed details on his habits of life and of work; one could even see there, if it was permissible to lift those veils, secrets of another kind.