Amid all the uncertainties and anxieties, the follies and the vices of their daily life, these brother Bohemians are possessed of a very keen and genuine enthusiasm for art, and of a sturdy faith in themselves and their own high calling. This is one good aspect of their character; another and complementary aspect, upon which Murger lays much stress, is their complete freedom from stiff-necked virtuosity and dilettante affectations. There are Bohemians who chatter only of “art for art’s sake,” who hold with inflexible obstinacy and stoical pride to the narrow path they have marked out for themselves, who scorn to descend, upon any pretext, for any purpose whatsoever, to the plane of common affairs. But Murger takes pains to make it clear that Rodolphe and his friends do not belong to this unfortunate class—the “Buveurs d’Eau,” as they are called, the first tenet of whose creed is that no one of their number, on penalty of expulsion from the society, shall accept any work outside pure art itself.[[30]] Rodolphe, as we know, is working hard upon his great tragedy; Marcel, upon his “Passage of the Red Sea”; Schaunard, upon his symbolic symphony; Colline, upon his system of “Hyperphysical Philosophy”: but there are no cant phrases of art-worship everlastingly upon their lips, and they are ready enough to turn their energies, when opportunity offers, into more remunerative, if less ambitious, undertakings. We have seen something already of the practical means, sometimes adopted by them, of putting a figure before the cipher, which unfortunately, as a rule, constitutes their entire available capital. If further evidence be demanded, we need only refer to the occasions when Rodolphe versifies an epitaph for an inconsolable widow and turns off a rhyming advertisement for a dentist, and when Marcel paints eight grenadiers at six francs apiece—likenesses guaranteed for a year, like a watch.
Of the “Scenes of Bohemian Life” as a whole, it would be hopeless to endeavor to give any general idea within the limits of a rapid sketch. It is little to say that from cover to cover of this wonderful book there is not a dull or indifferent page—not a page that does not teem with quaint description, brilliant bits of characterization, vivid pictures of manners and life. Of the range and opulence of its humor some hint has perhaps been given, though the merest hint only, in the personal delineations attempted above. Mirth-compelling the “Scenes” certainly are, and we feel in their case, as we cannot always feel with the masterpieces of the French comic genius, that the laughter they provoke is generous, hearty, wholesome—laughter without taint of cynicism or spite. But the humor of the volume, rich and racy as it is, and the ebullient wit that glitters and flashes in its dialogues and incidental touches of comment and criticism, are not by any means the only qualities that deserve attention. Murger was a true humorist, and, like all true humorists, he had the keenest realization of the pathos and tragedy of life, the most delicate apprehension of “the sense of tears in mortal things.” Though it can hardly be said of the “Scenes of Bohemian Life,” as it has been rightly said of the great body of the author’s work, that the dominant note is one of poignant melancholy, the minor chords are heavy and frequent enough to tone down the exuberant gayety of the volume, and to cause the final impression left by it to be rather sombre than exhilarating. Murger saw much of the reckless and irresponsible life of the Latin Quarter on its grotesque side, and he has given this side extraordinary prominence in this particular book, reserving many of the harsher features, which from personal contact he knew equally well, for the “Scenes de la Vie de Jeunesse” and the “Buveurs d’Eau.” But the reader who follows to their close the chapters we have here more especially been considering—and who can put them down unfinished?—will find that their brilliancy of light and color are thrown up against a very dark background, and that the shadows gather and deepen about us as the story runs its course. At length, the wild music ceases altogether; the mad laughter is silenced; and the book is laid by, not with a burst of final merriment, but with a gulp and a pang. Ah, comme nous avons ri! Yes, the struggles, the privations, the absurdities of Bohemia are comical enough; but life is stern, even in this Land of Romance; there is death in it, and many a heartbreak; and if we escape the suffering of failure, we must accept the inevitable disillusion of success. Life, too, is fleeting; the golden sands slip through our fingers as we try to clutch them. Eheu fugaces! It is the old-world burden that we must needs end with—“La jeunesse n’a qu’un temps!”
No—“ce n’est pas gai tous les jours, la Bohème.” For my own part, I know not whither one could turn to find pages of purer tenderness and pathos than those in which Murger has written of Francine’s muff and of the death of poor little Mimi. And yet, there is no effort, no melodramatic striving after effect. The lips quiver, the eyes grow dim as we read; but so admirably is the art concealed, so perfect is the reserve under which it is all done, that it is only when we come to turn back over the chapters for the express purpose of analyzing them, that we begin to realize the author’s exquisite perception and tact, and the genius with which he carries his meaning straight home to our hearts. Poor Francine! Poor Mimi! These fragile slips of womanhood from the dingy old Latin Quarter are filled with the life that the poet alone can give. We meet them once in a few pages of print; and their hungry eyes and poor, worn faces linger with us forever.
And now we must revert for a moment to a question already touched on—the loose morality not infrequently charged against this record of Bohemian life. I promised that I should try to say something about this matter ere I brought these jottings to a close; but now that it is definitely before us, I do not feel, after all, that there is very much to be said. Our judgment on such a book as this, ethically considered, must finally depend on the point of view from which we regard it, and this point of view will always be at bottom so much an affair of temperament, outlook, training, bias, that it is not likely to be much affected by any arguments, adverse or favorable. “Certainly,” Murger once imagines one of his readers saying, “I shall not allow this story to fall into the hands of my daughter.” To this, doubtless, most Anglo-Saxon fathers would say amen, and there is little question that they would, on the whole, be wise in so doing. I readily admit that it would be better that the perusal of such a work as this, as of many other great and enduring pieces of literature, should be left for those whose minds have been schooled and sobered by the discipline of real life, and who are thus in a position to bring Murger’s imaginary scenes, with all their bewitching humor, magic of description, and charm of style, to the touchstone of actual experience. But while I concede this much, I cannot for a moment go with those who would, therefore, place the volume on their unofficial “Index Expurgatorius,” on the score that it will be found dangerous to morality. Such a notion seems to me simply absurd, and due to an entire misapprehension of what it is in literature that renders it injurious in its effects. Murger drew his material from a world he had known and lived in, and he incorporates all its irregularities of conduct, and very much of its wantonness. Yet I challenge any intelligent and broad-minded reader to deny that the atmosphere of his “Scenes” is almost always fresh and wholesome. Those at least who know something of the French novel, from “La Dame aux Camélias” onward, and of some of the English fiction produced within recent decades, by writers who boldly claim place in the ranks of the moralists, will hardly feel called upon to attack our author on this particular head. Nowhere, let it be said emphatically, does Murger deliberately give himself up to the worship of the great Goddess of Lubricity; nowhere does he willingly throw the halo of poetry over mere physical passion; nowhere does he go out of his way to show vice as vice in glowing or attractive colors. These may read like phrases of the most conventional criticism, but they are here thoroughly to the point. The very story which the writer stops short for a moment to interject the imaginary comment quoted above, is as pure and delicate as a love-story well could be, and only a reader capable of sucking poison out of a lily, could be disturbed in the slightest degree by the irregularity of the relations existing between Jacques and poor Francine. It can never be often urged that in such a case as this—perhaps in all art whatsoever—the one fundamentally essential thing is treatment; and with Murger’s handling of his theme, no possible fault could be found, even by the most austere and exacting critic.
A more substantial charge may, I think, be brought against the “Scenes,” on the ground that in their delightful pages the shiftless, improvident, hand-to-mouth existence of Rodolphe and his friends is made too engaging and seductive. Are there not, it may be asked, scores of young men who believe that they have (in very large capitals) Genius and a Mission in Art, and who need nothing but the incentive of such a volume as this to lead them to throw aside the sober concerns of law or commerce, and voluntarily exchange a career of useful, if monotonous, toil, for one wherein immediate misery is practically certain, and ultimate success only a remote chance? Youths of some sensibility and ambition, who hate the counting-house and the desk; who have written verses or made sketches which have been praised by injudicious friends; and who have devoured the numerous biographies of those who, having commenced life in uncongenial labor, boldly kicked over the traces and finally made for themselves a position and a name, are prone enough, it may be alleged, to mistake themselves for great men in embryo, and to set up their backs against the daily routine and the common task, without the aid of a book which paints Bohemia so constantly on its pleasantest side, and gives to even its struggles and sufferings a romantic charm, which the jog-trot round of experience does not possess. All this, perhaps, is true. At any rate, I have myself known one young fellow of the class referred to who, under Murger’s inspiration, played for a time at Bohemianism, allowed his hair to grow down over his shoulders, wore by preference a threadbare coat, and posed as an unappreciated genius. His genius, I believe, remains unrecognized still; but he has long since assumed a respectable garb, and given other outward and visible signs of his perversion to conventionality. And yet, even with this instructive case well in mind, I think too much might easily be made of the harmful tendencies of Murger’s book. The Sturm und Drang period of youth, the period of ferment, and aimless experiment, and general unrest, will always be fraught with perils of one or another kind; and a few wild dreams of vague ambition, some spiritual green-sickness, an attack or two of the hysterics of social revolt, a little affectation of Byronism, or Shelleyism, or Murgerism, are not the worst of these. Fortunately, the real world is a businesslike and remorseless disciplinarian, and in the school of practical experience, a nature essentially healthy will presently right itself, and be none the worse—perhaps even the better—for a handful of battered illusions and some pricked bubbles of fancy. And as for the natures not fundamentally healthy—well, Life the Schoolmistress has her own effectual way with these also.
But should there perchance be any young man in danger of taking the Bohemian fever a trifle too seriously, we will refer him for treatment to a very satisfactory physician, a specialist, one may say, in the complaint—Murger himself. Properly read, and read through to the end, the “Scenes” should prove their own corrective; and if their full significance is not clear, the preface furnishes the needed commentary. It is but simple justice to Murger to say that he himself had no sympathy whatever with the indefinite ambitions and mawkish sentimentalism of a certain class of young men, who mistake the cravings of aspiration for the promptings of genius, and turn to art because they are fit for nothing else. Again and again does he insist upon the stern realities of the artist’s probation; again and again does he raise the voice of warning to those who would rashly decide to commit themselves to the artist’s career.
“Il en est dans les luttes de l’art à peu près comme à la guerre—toute la gloire conquise rejaillit sur le nom des chefs. L’armée se partage pour récompense les quelques lignes d’un ordre du jour. Quant aux soldats frappés dans le combat, on les enterre là où ils sont tombés, et une seule épitaphe suffit pour vingt mille morts.”[[31]]