Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 55, No. 340, February, 1844

BY ALEXANDER DUMAS

We have heard of certain cooks, the Udes and Vatels of their day, whose boast it was to manufacture the most sumptuous and luxurious repast out of coarse and apparently insufficient materials. We will take the liberty of comparing M. Dumas with one of these artistical cuisiniers, possessing in the highest degree the talent of making much out of little, by the skill with which it is prepared, and the piquant nature of the condiments applied. A successful dramatist, as well as a popular romance-writer, his dialogues have the point and brilliancy, his narrative the vivid terseness, generally observable in novels written by persons accustomed to dramatic composition. Confining himself to no particular line of subject, he rambles through the different departments of light literature in a most agreeable and desultory manner; to-day a tourist, to-morrow a novelist; the next day surprising his public by an excursion into the regions of historical romance, amongst the well-beaten highways and byways of which he still manages to discover an untrodden path, or to embellish a familiar one by the sparkle of his wit and industry of his researches. The majority of his books convey the idea of being written currente calamo, and with little trouble to himself; and these have a lightness and brilliancy peculiar to their lively author, which cannot fail to recommend them to all classes of readers. They are like the sketches of a clever artist, who, with a few bright and bold touches, gives an effect to his subject which no labour would enable a less talented painter to achieve. But M. Dumas can produce highly finished pictures as well as brilliant sketches, although for the present it is one of the latter that we are about to introduce to our readers.

Every body knows, or ought to know, that M. Dumas has been in Italy, and found means to make half a dozen highly amusing volumes out of his rambles in a country, perhaps, of all others, the most familiar to the inhabitants of civilized Europe—a country which has been described and re-described ad nauseam, by tourists, loungers, and idlers innumerable. On his way to the land of lazzaroni he made a pause at Marseilles to visit his friend Méry, a poet and author of some celebrity; and here he managed to collect materials for a volume which we can recommend to the perusal of the daily increasing class of our countrymen who think that a book, although written in French, may be witty and amusing without being either blasphemous or indecent.

We have reason to believe that many persons who have not visited the south-eastern corner of France, think of it as a "land of the cypress and myrtle;" where troubadours wander amongst orange groves, or tinkle their guitars under the shade of the vine and the fig-tree. There is something in a name, and Provence, if it were only for the sake of its roses, ought, one would think, to be a smiling and beautiful country. And so part of it is; but in this part is assuredly not included the district around its chief city. One hears much of the vineyards and orange groves of the south. We do not profess to care much about vines, except for the sake of what they produce; most of the vineyards we ever saw looked very like plantations of gooseberry bushes, and the best of them were not so graceful or picturesque as a Kentish hop-ground. As to olives, admirable as they undoubtedly are when flanking a sparkling jug of claret, we find little to admire in the stiff, greyish, stunted sort of trees upon which they think proper to grow. But neither vines nor olives are to be found around Marseilles. Nothing but dust; dust on the roads, dust in the fields, dust on every leaf of the parched, unhappy-looking trees that surround the country-houses of the Marseillais. The fruit and vegetables consumed there are brought for miles overland, or by water from places on the coast; flowers are scarce—objecting, probably, to grow in so arid a soil, and in a heat that, for some months of the year, is perfectly African. Game there is little or none; notwithstanding which, there are nowhere to be found more enthusiastic sportsmen than at Marseilles. It is on this hint M. Dumas speaks. His description of the manner in which the worthy burghers of Marseilles make war upon the volatiles is rather amusing.

"Every Marseillais who aspires to the character of a keen sportsman, has what is termed a poste à feu. This is a pit or cave dug in the ground in the vicinity of a couple of pine-trees, and covered over with branches. In addition to the pine-trees, it is usual to have cimeaux, long spars of wood, of which two are supported horizontally on the branches of the trees, and a third planted perpendicularly in the ground. These cimeaux are intended as a sort of treacherous invitation to the birds to come and rest themselves. So regularly as Sunday morning arrives, the Marseillais Cockney installs himself in his pit, arranges a loophole through which he can see what passes outside, and waits with all imaginable patience. The question that will naturally be asked, is—What does he wait for?

"He waits for a thrush, an ortolan, a beccafico, a robin-redbreast, or any other feathered and diminutive biped. He is not so ambitious as to expect a quail. Partridges he has heard of; of one, at least, a sort of phoenix, reproduced from its own ashes, and seen from time to time before an earthquake, or other great catastrophe. As to the hare, he is well aware that it is a fabulous animal of the unicorn species.

"There is a tradition, however, at Marseilles, that during the last three months of the year, flocks of wild pigeons pass over, on their way from Africa or Kamschatka, or some other distant country. Within the memory of man no one has ever seen one of these flights; but it would nevertheless be deemed heresy to doubt the fact. At this season, therefore, the sportsman provides himself with tame pigeon, which he fastens by a string to the cimeaux, in such a manner that the poor bird is obliged to keep perpetually on the wing, not being allowed rope enough to reach a perch. After three or four Sundays passed in this manner, the unfortunate decoy dies of a broken heart."

There is not nearly so much caricature in this picture as our readers may be disposed to think. Whoever has passed a few weeks of the autumn in a French provincial town, must have witnessed and laughed at the very comical proceedings of the chasseurs, the high-sounding title assumed by every Frenchman who ever pointed a gun at a cock-sparrow. One sees them going forth in the morning in various picturesque and fanciful costumes, their loins girded with a broad leathern belt, a most capacious game-bag slung over their shoulder, a fowling-piece of murderous aspect balanced on their arm; their heads protected from the October sun by every possible variety of covering, from the Greek skull-cap to the broad-brimmed Spanish sombrero. Away they go, singly, or by twos and threes, accompanied by a whole regiment of dogs, for the most part badly bred, and worse broken curs, which, when they get into the field, go pottering about in a style that would sorely tempt an English sportsman to bestow upon them the contents of both barrels. Towards the close of the day, take a stroll outside the town, and you meet the heroes returning. "Well, what sport?" "Pas mal, mon cher. Not so bad," is the reply, in a tone of ill-concealed triumph; and plunging his hand into his game-bag, the chasseur produces—a phthisical snipe, a wood pigeon, an extenuated quail, and perhaps something which you at first take for a deformed blackbird, but which turns out to be a water-hen. As far as our own observations go, we do aver this to be a very handsome average of a French sportsman's day's shooting. If by chance he has knocked down a red-legged partridge, (grey ones are very scarce in France,) his exultation knows no bounds. The day on which such a thing occurs is a red-letter day with him for the rest of his life. He goes home at once and inscribes the circumstance in the family archives.

But this state of things, it will perhaps be urged, may arise from the scarcity of game in France, as probably as from the sportsman's want of skill. True; but the worst is to come. After you have duly admired and examined snipe, pigeon, quail, and water-hen, your friend again rummages in the depths of his gibecière, and pulls out—what?—a handful of tomtits and linnets, which he has been picking off every hedge for five miles round. "Je me suis rabattu sur le petit gibier," he says, with a grin and a shrug, and walks away, a proud man and a happy, leaving you in admiration of his prowess.

M. Dumas expresses a wish to make the acquaintance of one of these modern Nimrods, and his friend Méry arranges a supper, to which he invites a certain Monsieur Louet, who plays the fourth bass in the orchestra of the Marseilles theatre. The conversation after supper is a good specimen of persiflage. After doing ample justice to an excellent repast, during which he had scarcely uttered a word,

"Monsieur Louet threw himself back in his chair and looked at us all, one after the other, as if he had only just become aware of our presence, accompanying his inspection with a smile of the most perfect benevolence; then, heaving a gentle sigh of satisfaction—'Ma foi! I have made a capital supper!' exclaimed he.

"'M. Louet! A cigar?' cried Méry: 'It is good for the digestion.'

"'Thank you, most illustrious poet!' answered M. Louet; 'I never smoke. It was not the fashion in my time. Smoking and boots were introduced by the Cossacks. I always wear shoes, and am faithful to my snuff-box.'

"So saying, M. Louet produced his box, and offered it round. We all refused except Méry, who, wishing to flatter him, attacked his weak side.

"'What delicious snuff, M. Louet! This cannot be the common French snuff?'

"'Indeed it is—only I doctor it in a particular manner. It is a secret I learned from a cardinal when I was at Rome.'

"'Ha! You have been to Rome?' cried I.

"'Yes, sir; I passed twenty years there.'

"'M. Louet,' said Méry, 'since you do not smoke, you ought to tell these gentlemen the story of your thrush-hunt.'

"'I shall be most happy,' replied M. Louet graciously, 'if you think it will amuse the company.'

"'To be sure it will,' cried Méry. 'Gentlemen, you are going to hear the account of one of the most extraordinary hunts that has taken place since the days of Nimrod the mighty hunter. I have heard it told twenty times, and each time with increased pleasure. Another glass of punch, M. Louet. There! Now begin.—We are all impatience.'

"'You are aware, gentlemen,' said M. Louet, 'that every Marseillais is born a sportsman.'

"'Perfectly true,' interrupted Méry 'it is a physiological phenomenon which I have never been able to explain; but it is nevertheless quite true.'

"'Unfortunately,' continued M. Louet, 'or perhaps I should say fortunately, we have neither lions nor tigers in the neighbourhood of Marseilles. On the other hand, we have flights of pigeons.'

"'There!' cried Méry, 'I told you so. They insist upon it.'

"'Certainly,' replied M. Louet, visibly vexed; 'and, whatever you may say to the contrary, the pigeons do pass. Besides, did you not lend me the other day a book of Mr Cooper's, the Pioneers, in which the fact is authenticated?'

"'Ah, yes! Authenticated in America.'

"'Very well! If they pass over America why should they not pass over Marseilles? The vessels that go from Alexandria and Constantinople to America often pass here.'

"'Very true!' replied Méry, thunderstruck by this last argument. 'I have nothing more to say. M. Louet, your hand. I will never contradict you again on the subject.'

"'Sir, every man has a right to his opinion.'

"'True, but I relinquish mine. Pray go on, M. Louet.'

"'I was saying, then, that instead of lions and tigers we have flights of pigeons.' M. Louet paused a moment to see if Méry would contradict him. Méry nodded his head approvingly.

"'True,' said he, 'they have flights of pigeons.'"

Satisfied by this admission M. Louet resumed.

"'You may easily imagine that at the period of the year when these flights occur, every sportsman is on the alert; and, as I am only occupied in the evening at the theatre, I am fortunately able to dispose of my mornings as I like. It was in 1810 or '11, I was five-and-thirty years of age; that is to say, gentlemen, rather more active than I am now. I was one morning at my post, as usual, before daybreak. I had tied my decoy pigeon to the cimeaux, and he was fluttering about like a mad thing, when I fancied I saw by the light of the stars something perched upon my pine-tree. Unfortunately it was too dark for me to distinguish whether this something were a bat or a bird, so I remained quite quiet, waiting for the sun to rise. At last the sun rose and I saw that it was a bird. I raised my gun gently to my shoulder, and, when I was sure of my aim, I pulled the trigger. Sir, I had omitted to discharge my gun on returning from shooting the evening before. It had been twelve hours loaded, and it hung fire.

"'Nevertheless I saw by the way in which the bird flew that he was touched. I followed him with my eyes till he perched again. Then I looked for my pigeon; but by an extraordinary chance a shot had cut the string which tied him, and he had flown away. Without a decoy I knew very well it was no use remaining at the post, so I resolved to follow up the thrush. I forgot to tell you, gentlemen, that the bird I had fired at was a thrush.

"'Unluckily I had no dog. When one shoots with a decoy, a dog is worse than useless—it is a positive nuisance. I was obliged, therefore, to beat the bushes myself. The thrush had run along the ground, and rose behind me when I thought I still had him in front. At the sound of his wings I turned and fired in a hurry. A shot thrown away, as you may suppose. Nevertheless I saw some feathers fall from him.'

"'You saw some feathers?' cried Méry.

"'Yes, sir. I even found one, which I put in my buttonhole.'

"'In that case,' said Méry, 'the thrush was hit?'

"'That was my opinion at the time. I had not lost sight of him, and I continued the pursuit; but the bird was scared, and this time flew away before I got within range. I fired all the same. There is no saying where a stray shot may go.'

"'A stray shot is not enough for a thrush,' said Méry, shaking his head gravely. 'A thrush is a very hard-lived bird.'

"'Very true, sir; for I am certain my two first shots had wounded him, and yet he made a third flight of nearly half a mile. But I had sworn to have him, and on I went. Impossible to get near him. He led me on, mile after mile, always flying away as soon as I came within fifty or sixty paces. I became furious. If I had caught him I think I should have eaten him alive, and the more so as I was beginning to get very hungry. Fortunately, as I had calculated on remaining out all day, I had my breakfast and dinner in my game-bag, and I eat as I went along.'

"'Pardon me,' said Méry, interrupting M. Louet; 'I have an observation to make. Observe, my dear Dumas, the difference between the habits of the human race in northern and southern climes. In the north the sportsman runs after his game; in the south he waits for it to come to him. In the first case he takes out an empty bag and brings home a full one; in the other he takes it out full and brings it home empty. Pray, go on, my dear M. Louet. I have spoken.' And he recommenced puffing at his cigar.

"'Where was I?' said M. Louet, who had lost the threat of his narrative through this interruption.

"'Speeding over hill and dale in pursuit of your thrush.'

"'True, sir. I cannot describe to you the state of excitement and irritation I was in. I began to think of the bird of Prince Camaralzaman, and to suspect that I, too, might be the victim of some enchantment. I passed Cassis and La Ciotat, and entered the large plain extending from Ligne to St. Cyr. I had been fifteen hours on my feet, and I was half dead with fatigue. I made a vow to Our Lady of La Garde to hang a silver thrush in her chapel, if she would only assist me to catch the living one I was following; but she paid no attention to me. Night was coming on, and in despair I fired my last shot at the accursed bird. I have no doubt he heard the lead whistle, for this time he flew so far that I lost sight of him in the twilight. He had gone in the direction of the village of St. Cyr. Probably he intended to sleep there, and I resolved to do the same. Fortunately there was to be no performance that night at the Marseilles theatre.'"

The worthy basso goes to the inn at St. Cyr, and relates his troubles to the host, who decides that the object of his pursuit must have halted for the night in a neighbouring piece of brushwood. By daybreak M. Louet is again a-foot, accompanied by the innkeeper's dog, Soliman. They soon get upon the scent of the devoted thrush.

"'Every body knows that a true sporting dog will follow any one who has a gun on his shoulder. "Soliman, Soliman!" cried I; and Soliman came. Sir, the instinct of the dog was remarkable: we had hardly got out of the village when he made a point—such a point, sir!—his tail out as straight as a ramrod. There was the thrush, not ten paces from me. I fired both barrels—Poum! Poum! Powder not worth a rush. I had used all my own the day before, and this was some I had got from my host. The thrush flew away unhurt. But Soliman had kept his eye on him, and went straight to the place where the bird was. Again he made a most beautiful point; but although I looked with all my eyes, I could not see the thrush. I was stooping down in this manner, looking for the creature, when suddenly it flew away, and so fast, that before I got my gun to my shoulder, it was out of reach. Soliman opened his eyes and stared at me; as much as to say, "What is the meaning of all this?" The expression of the dog's face made me feel quit humiliated. I could not help speaking to him. "Never mind," said I, nodding my head, "you will see next time." You would have thought the animal understood me. He again began to hunt about. In less than ten minutes he stopped as if he were cut out of marble. I was determined not to lose this chance; and I went right before the dog's nose. The bird rose literally under my feet; but I was so agitated that I fired my first barrel too soon, and my second too late. The first discharge passed by him like a single ball; the second was too scattered, and he passed between it. It was then that a thing happened to me—one of those things which I should not repeat, but for my attachment to the truth. The dog looked at me for a moment with a sort of smile upon his countenance: then, coming close up to me while I was reloading my gun, he lifted his left hind leg, made water against my gaiter, and then turning round, trotted away in the direction of his master's house. You may easily suppose, that if it had been a man who had thus insulted me, I would have had his life, or he should have had mine. But what could I say, sir, to a dumb beast which God had not gifted with reason?'"

This canine insult only acts as a spur to the indefatigable chasseur, who, dogless as he finds himself, follows up his thrush till he reaches the town of Hyères. Here he loses all trace of the bird, but endeavours to console himself by eating the oranges which grow in the garden of his hotel. Whilst thus engaged, a thrush perches on a tree beside him, and the first glance at the creature's profile satisfied him that it is the same bird whose society he has been rejoicing in the for the last two days. Unfortunately his gun is in the house, of which the thrush seems to be aware, for it continues singing and dressing its feathers on a branch within ten feet of his head. Afraid of losing sight of it, M. Louet waits till the landlord comes to announce supper, and then desires him to bring his gun. But there is a punishment of fine and imprisonment for whoever fires a shot, between sunset and sunrise, within the precincts of the town; and although the enthusiastic sportsman is willing enough to run this risk, the hotel-keeper fears to be taken for an accomplice, and refuses to fetch the gun, threatening to drive away the bird if M. Louet goes for it himself. At last they come to terms. M. Louet sups and sleeps under the tree, the bird roosts on the same; and at the first stroke of the matin bell, mine host appears with the fowling-piece. Our chasseur stretches out his hand to take it, and—the bird flies away.