Heroes
The Nature and the Flower of Them
The Gallant D'Artagnan or the Glorious Bussy
By Young E. Allison
Let us
agree at the start that no perfect hero can be entirely mortal. The nearer the
element of mortality in him corresponds to the heel measure of Achilles, the
better his chance as hero. The Egyptian and Greek heroes were invariably
demi-gods on the paternal or maternal side. Few actual historic heroes have
escaped popular scandal concerning their origin, because the savage logic in us
demands lions from a lion; that Theseus shall trace to Mars; that courage shall
spring from courage.
Another most excellent thing about the ideal hero is that
the immortal quality enables him to go about the business of his heroism without
bothering his head with the rights or wrongs of it, except as the prevailing
sentiment of social honor (as distinguished from the inborn sentiment of
honesty) requires at the time. Of course, there is a lower grade of measly,
“moral heroes,” who (thank heaven and the innate sense of human justice!) are
usually well peppered with sorrow and punishment. The hero of romance is a
different stripe; Hyperion to a Satyr. He doesn’t go around groaning page after
page of top-heavy debates as to the inherent justice of his cause or his moral
right to thrust a tallow candle between the particular ribs behind which the
heart of his enemy is to be found—balancing his pros and cons, seeking a quo for
each quid, and conscientiously prowling for final authorities. When you invade
the chiropodical secret of the real hero’s fine boot, or brush him in passing—if
you have looked once too often at a certain lady, or have stood between him and
the sun, or even twiddled your thumbs at him in an indecorous or careless
manner—look to it that you be prepared to draw and mayhap to be spitted upon his
sword’s point, with honor. Sdeath! A gentlemen of courage carries his life
lightly at the needle end of his rapier, as that wonderful Japanese, Samsori,
used to make the flimsiest feather preside in miraculous equilibration upon the
tip of his handsome nose.
No hero who does more or less than is demanded by the
best practical opinion of the society of his time is worth more than thirty
cents as a hero. Boys are literary and dramatic critics so far above the critics
formed by strained formulas of the schools that you can trust them. They have
an unerring distrust of the fellow who moves around with his confounded
conscientious scruples, as if the well-settled opinion of the breathing world
were not good enough for him! Who the deuce has got any business setting
everybody else right?
Some of these days I believe it is going to be discovered
that the atmosphere and the encompassing radiance and sweetness of Heaven are
composed of the dear sighs and loving aspirations of earthly motherhood. If it
turns out otherwise, rest assured Heaven will not have reached its perfect point
of evolution. Why is it, then, that mothers will—will—will—try, so mistakenly,
to extirpate the jewel of honest, manly savagery from the breasts of their boys?
I wonder if they know that when grown men see one of these “pretty-mannered
boys,” cocksure as a Swiss toy new painted and directed by watch spring, they
feel an unholy impulse to empty an ink-bottle over the young calf? Fauntleroy
kids are a reproach to our civilization. Men, women and children, all of us,
crowd around the grimy Deignan of the Merrimac crew, and shout and cheer for
Bill Smith, the Rough Rider, who carried his mate out of the ruck at San Juan
and twirls his hat awkwardly and explains: “Ef I hadn’t a saw him fall he would
‘a’ laid thar yit!”—and go straight home and pretend to be proud of a snug
little poodle of a man who doesn’t play for fear of soiling his picture-clothes,
and who says: “Yes, sir, thank you,” and “No, thank you, ma’am,” like a French
doll before it has had the sawdust kicked out of it!
* * * * *
Now, when a hero tries to stamp his acts with the precise
quality of exact justice—why, he performs no acts. He is no better than that
poor tongue-loose Hamlet, who argues you the right of everything, and then, by
the great Jingo! piles in and messes it all by doing the wrong thing at the
wrong time and in the wrong manner. It is permitted of course to be a great
moral light and correct the errors of all the dust of earth that has been blown
into life these ages; but human justice has been measured out unerringly with
poetry and irony to such folk. They are admitted to be saints, but about the
time they have got too good for their earthly setting, they have been tied to
stakes and lighted up with oil and faggots; or a soda phosphate with a pinch of
cyanide of potassium inserted has been handed to them, as in the case of our old
friend, Socrates. And it’s right. When a man gets too wise and good for his
fellows and is embarrassed by the healthful scent of good human nature, send him
to heaven for relief, where he can have the goodly fellowship of the prophets,
the company of the noble army of martyrs, and amuse himself suggesting
improvements upon the vocal selections of cherubim and seraphim! Impress the
idea upon these gentry with warmth—and—with—oil!
* * * * *
The ideal hero of fiction, you say, is Capt. D’Artagnan,
first name unknown, one time cadet in the Reserves of M. de Troisville’s company
of the King’s Guards, intrusted with the care of the honor and safety of His
Majesty, Louis XIV. Very well; he is a noble gentleman; the choice does honor to
your heart, mind and soul; take him and hold the remembrance of his courage,
loyalty, adroitness and splendid endurance with hooks of steel. For myself,
while yielding to none who honor the great D’Artagnan, yet I march under the
flag of the Sieur Bussy d’Amboise, a proud Clermont, of blood royal in the reign
of Henry III., who shed luster upon a court that was edified by the wisdom of
M. Chicot, the “King’s Brother,” the incomparable jester and philosopher, who
would have himself exceeded all heroes except that he despised the actors and
the audience of the world’s theater and performed valiant feats only that he
might hang his cap and bells upon the achievements in ridicule.
Can it be improper to compare D’Artagnan and Bussy—when
the intention is wholly respectful and the motive pure? If a single protest is
heard, there will be an end to this paper now—at once. There are some
comparisons that strengthen both candidates. For, we must consider the extent of
the theater and the stage, the space of time covering the achievements, the
varying conditions, lights and complexities. As, for instance, the very
atmosphere in which these two heroes moved, the accompaniment of manner which we
call the “air” of the histories, and which are markedly different. The contrast
of breeding, quality and refinement between Bussy and D’Artagnan is as great as
that which distinguishes Mercutio from the keen M. Chicot. Yet each was his own
ideal type. Birth and the superior privileges of the haute noblesse conferred
upon the Sieur Bussy the splendid air of its own sufficient prestige; the lack
of these require of D’Artagnan that his intelligence, courage and loyal devotion
should yet seem to yield something of their greatness in the submission that the
man was compelled to pay to the master. True, this attitude was atoned for on
occasion by blunt boldness, but the abased position and the lack of subtle
distinction of air and mind of the noble, forbade to the Fourth Mousquetaire the
last gracious touch of a Bayard of heroism. But the vulgarity was itself heroic.
* * * * *
Compare the first appearance of the great Gascon at the
Hotel de Troisville, or even his manner and attitude toward the King when he
sought to warn that monarch against forgetfulness of loyalty proved, with the
haughty insolence of indomitable spirit in which Bussy threw back to Henry the
shuttle of disfavor on the night of that remarkable wedding of St. Luc with the
piquant little page soubrette, Jeanne de Brissac.
D’Artagnan’s air to his King has its pathos. It seems to
say: “I speak bluntly, sire, knowing that my life is yours and yet feeling that
it is too obscure to provoke your vengeance.” A very hard draught for a man of
fire and fearlessness to take without a gulp. But into Bussy’s manner toward his
King there was this flash of lightning from Olympus: “My life, sire, is yours,
as my King, to take or leave; but not even you may dare to think of taking the
life of Bussy with the dust of least reproach upon it. My life you may blow out;
my honor you do not dare approach to question!”
There are advantages in being a gentleman, which can not
be denied. One is that it commands credit in the King’s presence as well as at
the tailor’s.
It is interesting to compare both these attitudes with
that of “Athos,” the Count de la Fere, toward the King. He was lacking in the
irresistibly fierce insolence of Bussy and in the abasement of D’Artagnan; it
was melancholy, patient, persistent and terrible in its restrained calmness. How
narrowly he just escaped true greatness. I would no more cast reproaches upon
that noble gentleman than I would upon my grandmother; but
he—was—a—trifle—serous, wasn’t he? He was brave, prompt, resourceful, splendid,
and, at need, gingerish as the best colt in the paddock. It is the deuce’s own
pity for a man to be born to too much seriousness. Do you know—and as I love my
country, I mean it in honest respect—that I sometimes think that the gentleness
and melancholy of Athos somehow suggests a bit of distrust. One is almost
terrified at times lest he may begin the Hamlet controversies. You feel that if
he committed a murder by mistake you are not absolutely sure he wouldn’t take a
turn with Remorse. Not so Bussy; he would throw the mistake in with good will
and not create worry about it. Hang it all, if the necessary business of murder
is to halt upon the shuffling accident of mistake, we may as well sell out the
hero business and rent the shop. It would be down to the level of Hamlet in no
time. Unless, of course, the hero took the view of it that Nero adopted. It is
improbable that Nero inherited the gift of natural remorse; but he cultivated
one and seemed to do well with it. He used to reflect upon his mother and his
wife, both of whom he had affectionately murdered, and justified himself by
declaring that a great artist, who was also the Roman Emperor, would be lacking
in breadth of emotional experience and retrospective wisdom, unless he knew the
melancholy of a two-pronged family remorse. And from Nero’s standpoint it was
one of the best thoughts that he ever formulated into language.
To return to Bussy and D’Artagnan. In courage they were
Hector and Achilles. You remember the champagne picnic before the bastion St.
Gervais at the siege of St. Rochelle? What light-hearted gayety amid the flying
missiles of the arquebusiers! Yet, do not forget that—ignoring the lacquey—there
were four of them, and that his Eminence, the Cardinal Duke, had said the four
of them were equal to a thousand men! If you have enough knowledge of human
nature to understand the fine game of baseball, and have at any time scraped
acquaintance with the interesting mathematical doctrine of progressive
permutations, you will see, when four men equal to a thousand are under the eyes
of each other, and of the garrison in the fort, that the whole arsenal of
logarithms would give out before you could compute the permutative possibilities
of the courage that would be refracted, reflected, compounded and concentrated
by all there, each giving courage to and receiving courage from each and all the
others. It makes my head ache to think of it. I feel as if I could be brave
myself.
Certainly they were that day. To the bitter end of
finishing the meal; and they confessed the added courage by gamboling like boys
amid awful thunders of the arquebuses, which made a rumble in their time like
their successors, the omnibuses, still make to this day on the granite streets
of cities populated by deaf folks.
There never was more of a gay, lilting, impudent courage
than those four mousquetaires displayed with such splendid coolness and spirit.
But compare it with the fight which Bussy made,
single-handed, against the assassins hired by Monsereau and authorized by that
effeminate fop, the Due D’Anjou. Of course you remember it. Let me pay you the
affectionate compliment of presuming that you have read “La Dame de Monsereau,”
often translated under the English title, “Chicot, the Jester,” that almost
incomparable novel of historical romance, by M. Dumas. If, through some
accident or even through lack of culture, you have failed to do so, pray do not
admit it. Conceal your blemish and remedy the matter at once. At least, seem to
deserve respect and confidence, and appear to be a worthy novel-reader if
actually you are not. There is a novel that, I assure you on my honor, is as
good as the “Three Guardsmen;” but—oh!--so—much—shorter; the pity of it,
too!--oh, the pity of it! On the second reading—now, let us speak with frank
conservatism—on the second reading of it, I give you my word, man to man, I
dreaded to turn every page, because it brought the end nearer. If it had been
granted to me to have one wish fulfilled that fine winter night, I should have
said with humility: “Beneficent Power, string it out by nine more volumes,
presto me here a fresh box of cigars, and the account of your kindness, and my
gratitude is closed.”
* * * * *
If the publisher of this series did not have such absurd
sensitiveness about the value of space and such pitifully small ideas about the
nobility of novels, I should like to write at least twenty pages about “Chicot.”
There are books that none of us ever put down in our lists of great books, and
yet which we think more of and delight more in than all the great guns. Not one
of the friends I’ve loved so long and well has been President of the United
States, but I wouldn’t give one of them for all the Presidents. Just across the
hall at this minute I can hear the frightful din of war—shells whistling and
moaning, bullets s-e-o-uing, the shrieks of the dying and wounded—Merciful
Heaven! the “Don Juan of Asturia” has just blown up in Manila Bay with an awful
roar—again! Again, as I’m a living man, just as she has blown up every day, and
several times every day, since May 1, 1898. There are two warriors over in the
play-room, drenched with imaginary gore, immersed in the tender grace of
bestowing chastening death and destruction upon the Spanish foe. Don’t I know
that they rank somewhat below Admiral Dewey as heroes? But do you suppose that
their father would swap them for Admiral Dewey and all the rainbow glories that
fine old Yankee sea-dog ever will enjoy—long may he live to enjoy them all!--do
you think so? Of course not! You know perfectly well that
his—wife—wouldn’t—let—him!
I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but
speaking for myself—“Chicot” being beloved of my heart—if there was a mean man,
living in a mean street, who had the last volume of “Chicot” in existence, I
would pour out my library’s last heart’s blood to get it. He could have all of
Scott but “Ivanhoe,” all of Dickens but “Copperfield,” all of Hugo but “Les
Miserables,” cords of Fielding, Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a
whole ton of German translations—by George! he could leave me a poor old
despoiled, destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costly
bindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who also deceive them
in turn.
Brother, “Chicot” is a book you lend only to your dearest
friend, and then remind him next day that he hasn’t sent it back.
* * * * *
Now, as to Bussy’s great fight. He had gone to the house
of Madame Diana de Monsereau. I am not au fait upon French social customs, but
let us presume his being there was entirely proper, because that excellent lady
was glad to see him. He was set upon by her husband, M. de Monsereau, with
fifteen hired assassins. Outside, the Due D’Anjou and some others of assassins
were in hiding to make sure that Monsereau killed Bussy, and that somebody
killed Monsereau! There’s a “situation” for you, double-edged treachery
against—love and innocence, let us say. Bussy is in the house with Madame. His
friend, St. Luc, is with him; also his lacquey and body-physician, the faithful
Rely. Bang! the doors are broken in, and the assassins penetrate up the
stairway. The brave Bussy confides Diana to St. Luc and Rely, and, hastily
throwing up a barricade of tables and chairs near the door of the apartment,
draws his sword. Then, ye friends of sudden death and valorous exercise, began
a surfeit of joy. Monsereau and his assassins numbered sixteen. In less than
three moderate paragraphs Bessy’s sword, playing like avenging lightning, had
struck fatality to seven. Even then, with every wrist going, he reflected, with
sublime calculation: “I can kill five more, because I can fight with all my
vigor ten minutes longer!” After that? Bessy could see no further—there spoke
fate!--you feel he is to die. Once more the leaping steel point, the shrill
death cry, the miraculous parry. The villain, Monsereau, draws his pistol. Bessy,
who is fighting half a dozen swordsmen, can even see the cowardly purpose; he
watches; he—dodges—the—bullets!--by watching the aim—
“Ye sons of France, behold the glory!”
He thrusts, parries and swings the sword as a falchion.
Suddenly a pistol ball snaps the blade off six inches from the hilt. Bessy picks
up the blade and in an instant splices—it—to—the—hilt—with—his— handkerchief!
Oh, good sword of the good swordsman! it drinks the blood of three more before
it—bends—and—loosens—under—the—strain! Bessy is shot in the thigh; Monsereau is
upon him; the good Rely, lying almost lifeless from a bullet wound received at
the outset, thrusts a rapier to Bessy’s grasp with a last effort. Bessy springs
upon Monsereau with the great bound of a panther and
pins—the—son—of—a—gun—to—the—floor --with—the—rapier—and—watches—him—die!
You can feel faint for joy at that passage for a good
dozen readings, if you are appreciative. Poor Bessy, faint from wounds and
blood-letting, retreats valiantly to a closet window step by step and drops out,
leaving Monsereau spitted, like a black spider, dead on the floor. Here hope and
expectation are drawn out in your breast like chewing gum stretched to the last
shred of tenuation. At this point I firmly believed that Bessy would escape. I
feel sorry for the reader who does not. You just naturally argue that the
faithful Rely will surely reach him and rub him with the balsam. That balsam of
Dumas! The same that D’Artagnan’s mother gave him when he rode away on the
yellow horse, and which cured so many heroes hurt to the last gasp. That
miraculous balsam, which would make doctors and surgeons sing small today if
they had not suppressed it from the materia medica. May be they can silence
their consciences by the reflection that they suppressed it to enhance the value
and necessity of their own personal services. But let them look at the death
rate and shudder. I had confidence in Rely and the balsam, but he could not get
there in time. Then, it was forgone that Bessy must die. Like Mercutio, he was
too brilliant to live. Depend upon it, these wizards of story tellers know when
the knell of fate rings much sooner than we halting readers do.
Bessy drops from the closet window upon an iron fence
that surrounded the park and was impaled upon the dreadful pickets! Even then
for another moment you can cherish a hope that he may escape after all.
Suspended there and growing weaker, he hears footsteps approaching. Is it a
rescuing friend? He calls out—and a dagger stroke from the hand of D’Anjou, his
Judas master, finds his heart. That’s the way Bessy died. No man is proof
against the dagger stroke of treachery. Bessy was powerful and the due jealous.
Diana has been carried off safely by the trustworthy St.
Luc. She must have died of grief if she had not been kept alive to be the
instrument of retributive justice. (In the sequel you will find that this Queen
of Hearts descended upon the ignoble due at the proper time like a thousand of
brick and took the last trick of justice.)
* * * * *
The extraordinary description of Bussy’s fight is beyond
everything. You gallop along as if in a whirlwind, and it is only in cooler
moments that you discover he killed about twelve rascals with his own good arm.
It seems impossible; the scientific, careful readers have been known to declare
it impossible and sneer at it with laughter. I trust every novel reader respects
scientific folks as he should; but science is not everything. Our scientific
friends have contended that the whale did not engulf Jonah; that the sun did not
pause over the vale of Askelon; that Baron Munchausen’s horse did not hang to
the steeple by his bridle; that the beanstalk could not have supported a stout
lad like Jack; that General Monk was not sent to Holland in a cage; that Remus
and Romulus had not a devoted lady wolf for a step-mother; in fact, that loads
of things, of which the most undeniable proof exists in plain print all over the
world, never were done or never happened. Bessy was killed, Rely was killed
later, Diana died in performing her destiny, St. Luc was killed. Nobody left to
make affidavits, except M. Dumas; in his lifetime nobody questioned it; he is
now dead and unable to depose; whereupon the scientists sniff scornfully and
deny. I hope I shall always continue to respect science in its true offices,
but, brethren, are there not times when—science—makes—you—just—a—little—tired?
Heroes! D’Artagnan or Bessy? Choose, good friends,
freely; as freely let me have my Bessy.
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