Miscellaneous. Balzac's Death-bed.

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1830, 29 March 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

Miscellaneous. Balzac's Death- bed.

I t>Aw Balzac some weeks before his last day. He came to the Theatre Francais, but as his usual heart disease did not allow him to mount up the stairs, I was requested to go down and speak to him in his carriage. He wanted all his pieces to bo played at the home of Moliere. Hia wife was in the carriage. He had scarcely introduced me before she bagan to explain the dramatic genius of the novelist. Frightened by the deathly palor of Balzac, I promised all that was abked of me. He requested me to call at his house and talk over the matter with him, as that would give him an opportunity _of showing me his pictures and his curiosities. Three days afterwards I saw him in hid library in the lillipufcian house, which is still standing in the Kue Balzac. He took me about everywhere with the solemnity of a Medicis. The pleasure of showing us his riches brought back a light color to his cheeks. In the afternoon of August 19, 1850, 1 again returned to the house. I met Eugene Giraud, the artist, at the door. "Balzac?" he paid to me;" I have just seen him ; it is all over." I felt myself grow pale. "Already?" I cried. Giraud opened his portfolio and showed me a magnificent crayon design — life in death. It was Balzac upon his funeral bed. The Countess had herself asked the artist to preserve this face for histoiy. I looked with emotion upon the image of the great man. "You do not know," he said to me, " how Balzac died. Listen." He related a more terrible scene than the most dramatic ones in Balzac's novels. The sick man, who was not too anxious because his wife had the art of deceiving him, wished, however, to question the physician. " My dear doctor," he said to him, " I am not like other men ; I do not wish to be nurprised by death. I have still a groat many things to do to finish my work." " Yes, you have raised one of the monuments of the nineteenth century." " How many windows are wanted in this monument I How many ornaments, how many statues!" Balzac struck his head. " The fronton is still there. There are some p"<rfl)ns who do not comprehend. Intelligence is the key of genus." He became animated and feverish. " Doctor, I want you to tell me all the truth. You are a prince of science. You esteem me sufficiently not to conceal the truth from me. Listen. I see that I am more dangerously ill than I believed ; I feel that I am losing ground. It is vain that I excite my hunger by imagination— everything is frightful to me. How much time do you believe that I can still live?" The doctor did not reply. " Come, doctor; do you take me for a child? I tell you again that I cannot die like other men. A man like myself owes a testament to the public." The word testament made the doctor open his mouth. If Balzac owed a testament to the public he perhaps owed one to his family and his wife. " My dear patient, how much time do you need for what remains to be done?" " Six months," replied Balzac, with the air of a man who has well reckoned. And he looked steadily at his physician. " Six months ! six months I" repeated the doctor, shakiDg his head. " Oh 1" cried Balzac, sorrowfully, " I see that you will not give me six months. You will at least give me six weeks ? Six weeks with a fever is still eternity. The hours arc days * * * and then, the nights are not lost." The physician shook his head the same as before. Balzac raised himself up, almost indignant. Did he think the doctor was a master of prolonging or of shortening his existence like another Peau de cliayrin ? The doctor had taken the summons of his patient too serioualy. He decided to tell him the truth. Balzac, anxious, roused up his moral force in order to be worthy of the truth. " What, doctor 1 am I then a dead man ? Thank God I am strong enough to fight, but I feel also that I have courage enough to submit ; I am all ready for the sacrifice. If your science does not deceive you do not deceive me. What can I still hope for? You will give me six days ?" The doctor could no longer speak. He turned his head away to conceal his tears. " Six days 1" repeated Balzac. " Well, I will indicate by some grand strokes what remains to be done to finish ; my friends will look after the details. I shall have the time to throw a rapid glance over my fifty volumes. I will tear out the bad pages and strengthen the good ones. The human can do miracles. God created the world in six days ; I can give an immortal life to the world that I have created. I will rest on the seventh day." Here he gave a painful look and a still more painful sigh. Since he had asked these terrible questions he had grown ten years older. He no longer found any voice to still question the physician, who no longer found any voice to reply. " My dear patient," Baid the doctor at last, in trying to smile — a doctor's smile — " who can reply for the hour in this world? Some one who is well may die before you. But you have asked me for the truth ; you have spoken of your testament to the public " "Well!" " Well, you must make your testament to the public to-day. Besides, you have, perhaps, another testament to make; you must not wait until to-morrow." Balzac raised his head. "I have then only six hours?" he cried, with terror. He fell back upon the pillow. This last word ol the doctor was the death blow. The agonies of death began. ■ That creative head took on the last paleness; that intelligent mind swooned away into darkness. He had asked for the truth and it had killed him before his time. — Arsene Roussaye.