DORLANGE TO MARIE-GASTON
Paris, April, 1839.
Why do I desert my art, and what do I intend to do in this cursed galley of politics? This shows what it is, my dear romantic friend, to shut one's self up for years in a conjugal convent.During that time the world has progressed.To friends forgotten at the gate life brings new combinations; and the more they are ignored, the more disposed the forgetter is to cast the blame upon those forgotten; it is so easy to preach to others!
Learn, then, my dear inquisitor, that I do not enter politics of my own volition.In pushing myself in this unexpected manner into the electoral breach, I merely follow an inspiration that has been made to me.A ray of light has come into my darkness; a father has partly revealed himself, and, if I may believe appearances, he holds a place in the world which ought to satisfy the most exacting ambition.This revelation, considering the very ordinary course of my life, has come to me surrounded by fantastic and romantic circumstances which served to be related to you in some detail.
As you have lived in Italy, I think it useless to explain to you the Cafe Greco, the usual rendezvous of the pupils of the Academy and the artists of all countries who flock to Rome.In Paris, rue de Coq-Saint-Honore, we have a distant counterpart of that institution in a cafe long known as that of the Cafe des Arts.Two or three times a week I spend an evening there, where I meet several of my contemporaries in the French Academy in Rome.They have introduced me to a number of journalists and men of letters, all of them amiable and distinguished men, with whom there is both profit and pleasure in exchanging ideas.
In a certain corner, where we gather, many questions of a nature to interest serious minds are debated; but the most eager interest, namely politics, takes the lead in our discussions.In this little club the prevailing opinion is democratic; it is represented under all its aspects, the phalansterian Utopia not excepted.That's enough to tell you that before this tribunal the ways of the government are often judged with severity, and that the utmost liberty of language reigns in our discussions.The consequence is that about a year ago the waiter who serves us habitually took me aside one day to give me, as he said, a timely warning.
"Monsieur," he said, "you are watched by the police; and you would do well not to talk like Saint Paul, open-mouthed.""The police! my good friend," I replied, "why the devil should the police watch me? What I say, and a good deal else, is printed every morning in the newspapers.""No matter for that, they are watching you.I have seen it.There is a little old man, who takes a great deal of snuff, who is always within hearing distance of you; when you speak he seems to pay more attention to your words than to those of the others; and once I saw him write something down in a note-book in marks that were not writing.""Well, the next time he comes, point him out to me."The next time proved to be the next day.The person shown to me was a short man with gray hair, a rather neglected person and a face deeply pitted with the small-pox, which seemed to make him about fifty years of age.He frequently dipped in a large snuffbox; and seemed to be giving to my remarks an attention I might consider either flattering or inquisitive, as I pleased; but a certain air of gentleness and integrity in this supposed police-spy inclined me to the kinder interpretation.I said so to the waiter, who had plumed himself on discovering a spy.
"Parbleu!" he replied, "they always put on that honeyed manner to hide their game."Two days later, on a Sunday, at the hour of vespers, in one of my rambles about old Paris--for which, as you know, I always had a taste --I happened to enter the church of Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile, the parish church of the remote quarter of the city which bears that name.This church is a building of very little interest, no matter what historians and certain "Guides to Paris" may say.I should therefore have passed rapidly through it if the remarkable talent of the organist who was performing part of the service had not induced me to remain.
To say that the playing of that man realized my ideal is giving it high praise, for I dare say you will remember that I always distinguished between organ-players and organists, a superior order of nobility the title of which is not to be given unwittingly.
The service over, I had a curiosity to see the face of so eminent an artist buried in that out-of-the-way place.Accordingly I posted myself near the door of the organ loft, to see him as he left the church--a thing I certainly would not have done for a crowned head;but great artists, after all, are they not kings by divine right?
Imagine my amazement when, after waiting a few minutes, instead of seeing a totally unknown face I saw that of a man in whom I recognized my listener at the Cafe des Arts.But that is not all: behind him came the semblance of a human being in whose crooked legs and bushy tangled hair I recognized by old tri-monthly providence, my banker, my money-bringer,--in a word my worthy friend, the mysterious dwarf.
I did not escape, myself, his vigilant eye, and I saw him point me out to the organist with an eager gesture.The latter turned hastily to look at me and then, without further demonstration, continued his way.
