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    The Lady of the Camellias: With linked Table of Contents
    The Lady of the Camellias: With linked Table of Contents
    The Lady of the Camellias: With linked Table of Contents
    Ebook285 pages4 hours

    The Lady of the Camellias: With linked Table of Contents

    By Alexandre Dumas

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    ‘The Lady of the Camellias’ is a novel by Alexandre Dumas, subsequently adapted for the stage (becoming known as ‘Camille’ in the English-speaking world), and then becoming the opera ‘La Traviata.’ The title character is based on Marie Duplessis, the real-life lover of Dumas. In this tale, a young provincial bourgeois, Armand, falls in love with a 'courtisane' named Marguerite, and ultimately becomes her lover, convincing her to turn her back on her life as a 'courtisane' and live with him in the countryside. This idyllic existence is broken by Armand's father, who, concerned by the scandal created by the illicit relationship and fearful that it will destroy his daughter's (Armand's sister's) chances of marriage, convinces Marguerite to leave Armand, who believes, up until Marguerite's death, that she has left him for another man.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateSep 26, 2015
    ISBN9781515401889
    The Lady of the Camellias: With linked Table of Contents
    Author

    Alexandre Dumas

    Alexandre Dumas (1802–1870) was the son of Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, a hero of Revolutionary France and the first black général d’armée. A popular playwright and novelist, Alexandre Dumas is best remembered today as the author of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers. His son, also named Alexandre Dumas, wrote the tragic love story Camille. 

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    Reviews for The Lady of the Camellias

    3.5/5

    475 ratings10 reviews

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    • 5/5
      Perfect to read in bed when fighting a cold. Who needs Harlequin romances when Alexdanre Dumas fils is writing.
    • 3/5
      I read the Le Livre de Poche (French) 1966 edition of this book, not the one indicated. Although intended as a Catholic morality tale, it's well-written & fun to read (of course, it's tragic). Jettisoning the "save one's immortal soul" reading prompt and replacing it with socio-economic & feminist critique makes for a more illuminating reading experience. Good detailed depiction of the catch-22 circumstances of a 19th century "kept woman" and her "respectable" lover.
    • 3/5
      Written by Alexandre Dumas' son (who is also, actually, named Alexandre Dumas - don't get confused), "La Dame aux Camelias" is the story of the most sought after courtesan in Paris, and the young man who falls in love with her. This book was average - I liked the unfolding of events and the writing style, even if it got a bit too flowery for my liking at many points. I wasn't taken in at all by the romance, though. Our suffering hero Armand is a fool, and he behaves ridiculously. He goes from a sensible man to a besotted puppy after he meets Marguerite. Marguerite herself is selfish and arrogant. She is constantly changing her mind, and unabashedly expects all men to fall deeply in love with her. Both of the two seemed impulsive, weak, and dramatic.I couldn't like these characters.
    • 4/5
      A quick read. While it's charming enough, it didn't leave too much of an impression on me afterwards. I read "Camille" because I heard it was the basis for Verdi's opera "La Traviata." I must say it makes a better opera. That said, if you have a free afternoon, it's enjoyable.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      I adore complicated, tortured stories of difficult love affairs if they don't descend into the sacarine or trite. Dumas fils does not disappoint with this fictionalized account of his own fractured love affair. Nothing burns quit so much as the passions that pain us in our youth. Although it's going on nearly 200 years old it wears well and has been mined for inspiration for books stage and film by lesser writers since. Sniff a camellia and heave a sad sigh for lost love.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 5/5
      The story is very similar to Manon Lescaut which is referenced a couple of times. But contrary to that tale, the characters are real, their behavior plausible and the story grips your emotion. The reader for this French edition does a superb job and had me crying during the final stages of the book.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      The narrator buys a courtesan's old book at a whim. Some time later, the man who gave her the book comes looking for it, and shares with the narrator their tale of love and sorrow. They had but a few short months together before her debts and his family's need to maintain their reputation came between them. I hadn't realized how closely the movie Moulin Rouge was based on this--the broad outline and many of the visual details (like the courtesan visiting her true love one last time, pale and waxy under her black veil) are the same. That said, Ewan McGregor's character was far less frustrating (nay, hateful!) than Armand Duval, the "hero" of this tale. But the courtesan of this tale is even more affecting than in the bombastic movie. I was helplessly crying near the end, distraught at Marguerite's courage and how little she hoped for (in vain, as it turns out).

      "...I am tired out with seeing people who always want the same thing; who pay me for it, and then think they are quit of me. If those who are going to go in for our hateful business only knew what it really was they would sooner be chambermaids. But no, vanity, the desire of having dresses and carriages and diamonds carries us away; one believes what one hears, for here, as elsewhere, there is such a thing as belief, and one uses up one's heart, one's body, one's beauty, little by little; one is feared like a beast of prey, scorned like a pariah, surrounded by people who always take more than they give; and one fine day one dies like a dog in a ditch, after having ruined others and ruined one's self."

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      I purchased this from the library book sale. I had not heard of this story and missed the author connection - his father wrote Count of Monte Christo and the Three Musketeers. This is a great story of love, redemption, jealousy, and societal judgment. The ending is not happy, but the story worth reading. I'd have loved to sit down and have a drink and coversation with Dumas.

      1 person found this helpful

    • 4/5
      Melodramatic and with characters that aren’t all that likeable, but yet somehow an enjoyable read, perhaps because of the depth of the emotions, and how the book transports you to early 19th century France. Marguerite is a ‘kept woman’, one who trades her sexual favors to aristocratic old men for their money and lavish gifts. She keeps up an extravagant lifestyle while juggling suitors, which she can do without offending those involved too much as long as she maintains a sense of decorum about it. Armand is a young bourgeoisie who falls madly in love with her, and despite not having the economic means to pay her expenses, gets petty and jealous of her other men and tries to take her from it all, to the alarm of his father.

      The book is restrained and doesn’t give us detail for the amorous relations, and yet it’s refreshingly frank about them, both of which were good things. While it’s a completely different world that these characters inhabit, when they go through the ups and downs of their affair, we recognize emotions and actions that are timeless. It drags on a bit towards the end, but the story of sacrifice and love is touching.

      Quotes:
      On affairs, this from Marguerite:
      “Men, instead of being satisfied in obtaining for a long time what they scarcely hoped to obtain once, exact from their mistresses a full account of the present, the past, and even the future. As they get accustomed to her, they want to rule her, and the more one gives them the more exacting they become. If I decide now on taking a new lover, he must have three very rare qualities: he must be confiding, submissive, and discreet.”

      On chance:
      “One day a young man is passing in the street, he brushes against a woman, looks at her, turns, goes on his way. He does not know the woman, and she has pleasures, griefs, loves, in which he has no part. He does not exist for her, and perhaps, if he spoke to her, she would only laugh at him, as Marguerite had laughed at me. Weeks, months, years pass, and all at once, when they have each followed their fate along a different path the logic of chance brings them face to face. The woman becomes the man’s mistress and loves him. How? Why? Their two existences are henceforth one; they have scarcely begun to know one another when it seems as if they had known one another always, and all that had gone before is wiped out from the memory of the two lovers. It is curious, one must admit.”

      1 person found this helpful

    • 3/5
      Almost a guilty pleasure. Dumas' novel is smutty and noble, trashy and sentimental, tragic and overwrought. Nineteenth century chick lit - I enjoyed it!

      I suspect it would make a good weepie - I need to check out La Traviata...

    Book preview

    The Lady of the Camellias - Alexandre Dumas

    The Lady of the Camellias

    by Alexandre Dumas

    translated from the french

    by edmund gosse

    ©2015 SMK Books

    All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

    SMK Books

    PO Box 632

    Floyd, VA 24091-0632

    ISBN 13: 978-1-5154-0188-9

    Table of Contents

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    Chapter 25

    Chapter 26

    Chapter 27

    Chapter 1

    In my opinion, it is impossible to create characters until one has spent a long time in studying men, as it is impossible to speak a language until it has been seriously acquired. Not being old enough to invent, I content myself with narrating, and I beg the reader to assure himself of the truth of a story in which all the characters, with the exception of the heroine, are still alive. Eye-witnesses of the greater part of the facts which I have collected are to be found in Paris, and I might call upon them to confirm me if my testimony is not enough. And, thanks to a particular circumstance, I alone can write these things, for I alone am able to give the final details, without which it would have been impossible to make the story at once interesting and complete.

    This is how these details came to my knowledge. On the 12th of March, 1847, I saw in the Rue Lafitte a great yellow placard announcing a sale of furniture and curiosities. The sale was to take place on account of the death of the owner. The owner’s name was not mentioned, but the sale was to be held at 9, Rue d’Antin, on the 16th, from 12 to 5. The placard further announced that the rooms and furniture could be seen on the 13th and 14th.

    I have always been very fond of curiosities, and I made up my mind not to miss the occasion, if not of buying some, at all events of seeing them. Next day I called at 9, Rue d’Antin.

    It was early in the day, and yet there were already a number of visitors, both men and women, and the women, though they were dressed in cashmere and velvet, and had their carriages waiting for them at the door, gazed with astonishment and admiration at the luxury which they saw before them.

    I was not long in discovering the reason of this astonishment and admiration, for, having begun to examine things a little carefully, I discovered without difficulty that I was in the house of a kept woman. Now, if there is one thing which women in society would like to see (and there were society women there), it is the home of those women whose carriages splash their own carriages day by day, who, like them, side by side with them, have their boxes at the Opera and at the Italiens, and who parade in Paris the opulent insolence of their beauty, their diamonds, and their scandal.

    This one was dead, so the most virtuous of women could enter even her bedroom. Death had purified the air of this abode of splendid foulness, and if more excuse were needed, they had the excuse that they had merely come to a sale, they knew not whose. They had read the placards, they wished to see what the placards had announced, and to make their choice beforehand. What could be more natural? Yet, all the same, in the midst of all these beautiful things, they could not help looking about for some traces of this courtesan’s life, of which they had heard, no doubt, strange enough stories.

    Unfortunately the mystery had vanished with the goddess, and, for all their endeavours, they discovered only what was on sale since the owner’s decease, and nothing of what had been on sale during her lifetime. For the rest, there were plenty of things worth buying. The furniture was superb; there were rosewood and buhl cabinets and tables, Sevres and Chinese vases, Saxe statuettes, satin, velvet, lace; there was nothing lacking.

    I sauntered through the rooms, following the inquisitive ladies of distinction. They entered a room with Persian hangings, and I was just going to enter in turn, when they came out again almost immediately, smiling, and as if ashamed of their own curiosity. I was all the more eager to see the room. It was the dressing-room, laid out with all the articles of toilet, in which the dead woman’s extravagance seemed to be seen at its height.

    On a large table against the wall, a table three feet in width and six in length, glittered all the treasures of Aucoc and Odiot. It was a magnificent collection, and there was not one of those thousand little things so necessary to the toilet of a woman of the kind which was not in gold or silver. Such a collection could only have been got together little by little, and the same lover had certainly not begun and ended it.

    Not being shocked at the sight of a kept woman’s dressing-room, I amused myself with examining every detail, and I discovered that these magnificently chiselled objects bore different initials and different coronets. I looked at one after another, each recalling a separate shame, and I said that God had been merciful to the poor child, in not having left her to pay the ordinary penalty, but rather to die in the midst of her beauty and luxury, before the coming of old age, the courtesan’s first death.

    Is there anything sadder in the world than the old age of vice, especially in woman? She preserves no dignity, she inspires no interest. The everlasting repentance, not of the evil ways followed, but of the plans that have miscarried, the money that has been spent in vain, is as saddening a thing as one can well meet with. I knew an aged woman who had once been gay, whose only link with the past was a daughter almost as beautiful as she herself had been. This poor creature to whom her mother had never said, You are my child, except to bid her nourish her old age as she herself had nourished her youth, was called Louise, and, being obedient to her mother, she abandoned herself without volition, without passion, without pleasure, as she would have worked at any other profession that might have been taught her.

    The constant sight of dissipation, precocious dissipation, in addition to her constant sickly state, had extinguished in her mind all the knowledge of good and evil that God had perhaps given her, but that no one had ever thought of developing. I shall always remember her, as she passed along the boulevards almost every day at the same hour, accompanied by her mother as assiduously as a real mother might have accompanied her daughter. I was very young then, and ready to accept for myself the easy morality of the age. I remember, however, the contempt and disgust which awoke in me at the sight of this scandalous chaperoning. Her face, too, was inexpressibly virginal in its expression of innocence and of melancholy suffering. She was like a figure of Resignation.

    One day the girl’s face was transfigured. In the midst of all the debauches mapped out by her mother, it seemed to her as if God had left over for her one happiness. And why indeed should God, who had made her without strength, have left her without consolation, under the sorrowful burden of her life? One day, then, she realized that she was to have a child, and all that remained to her of chastity leaped for joy. The soul has strange refuges. Louise ran to tell the good news to her mother. It is a shameful thing to speak of, but we are not telling tales of pleasant sins; we are telling of true facts, which it would be better, no doubt, to pass over in silence, if we did not believe that it is needful from time to time to reveal the martyrdom of those who are condemned without bearing, scorned without judging; shameful it is, but this mother answered the daughter that they had already scarce enough for two, and would certainly not have enough for three; that such children are useless, and a lying-in is so much time lost.

    Next day a midwife, of whom all we will say is that she was a friend of the mother, visited Louise, who remained in bed for a few days, and then got up paler and feebler than before.

    Three months afterward a man took pity on her and tried to heal her, morally and physically; but the last shock had been too violent, and Louise died of it. The mother still lives; how? God knows.

    This story returned to my mind while I looked at the silver toilet things, and a certain space of time must have elapsed during these reflections, for no one was left in the room but myself and an attendant, who, standing near the door, was carefully watching me to see that I did not pocket anything.

    I went up to the man, to whom I was causing so much anxiety. Sir, I said, can you tell me the name of the person who formerly lived here?

    Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier.

    I knew her by name and by sight.

    What! I said to the attendant; Marguerite Gautier is dead?

    Yes, sir.

    When did she die?

    Three weeks ago, I believe.

    And why are the rooms on view?

    The creditors believe that it will send up the prices. People can see beforehand the effect of the things; you see that induces them to buy.

    She was in debt, then?

    To any extent, sir.

    But the sale will cover it?

    And more too.

    Who will get what remains over?

    Her family.

    She had a family?

    It seems so.

    Thanks.

    The attendant, reassured as to my intentions, touched his hat, and I went out.

    Poor girl! I said to myself as I returned home; she must have had a sad death, for, in her world, one has friends only when one is perfectly well. And in spite of myself I began to feel melancholy over the fate of Marguerite Gautier.

    It will seem absurd to many people, but I have an unbounded sympathy for women of this kind, and I do not think it necessary to apologize for such sympathy.

    One day, as I was going to the Prefecture for a passport, I saw in one of the neighbouring streets a poor girl who was being marched along by two policemen. I do not know what was the matter. All I know is that she was weeping bitterly as she kissed an infant only a few months old, from whom her arrest was to separate her. Since that day I have never dared to despise a woman at first sight.

    Chapter 2

    The sale was to take place on the 16th. A day’s interval had been left between the visiting days and the sale, in order to give time for taking down the hangings, curtains, etc. I had just returned from abroad. It was natural that I had not heard of Marguerite’s death among the pieces of news which one’s friends always tell on returning after an absence. Marguerite was a pretty woman; but though the life of such women makes sensation enough, their death makes very little. They are suns which set as they rose, unobserved. Their death, when they die young, is heard of by all their lovers at the same moment, for in Paris almost all the lovers of a well-known woman are friends. A few recollections are exchanged, and everybody’s life goes on as if the incident had never occurred, without so much as a tear.

    Nowadays, at twenty-five, tears have become so rare a thing that they are not to be squandered indiscriminately. It is the most that can be expected if the parents who pay for being wept over are wept over in return for the price they pay.

    As for me, though my initials did not occur on any of Marguerite’s belongings, that instinctive indulgence, that natural pity that I have already confessed, set me thinking over her death, more perhaps than it was worth thinking over. I remembered having often met Marguerite in the Bois, where she went regularly every day in a little blue coupe drawn by two magnificent bays, and I had noticed in her a distinction quite apart from other women of her kind, a distinction which was enhanced by a really exceptional beauty.

    These unfortunate creatures whenever they go out are always accompanied by somebody or other. As no man cares to make himself conspicuous by being seen in their company, and as they are afraid of solitude, they take with them either those who are not well enough off to have a carriage, or one or another of those elegant, ancient ladies, whose elegance is a little inexplicable, and to whom one can always go for information in regard to the women whom they accompany.

    In Marguerite’s case it was quite different. She was always alone when she drove in the Champs-Elysees, lying back in her carriage as much as possible, dressed in furs in winter, and in summer wearing very simple dresses; and though she often passed people whom she knew, her smile, when she chose to smile, was seen only by them, and a duchess might have smiled in just such a manner. She did not drive to and fro like the others, from the Rond-Point to the end of the Champs-Elysees. She drove straight to the Bois. There she left her carriage, walked for an hour, returned to her carriage, and drove rapidly home.

    All these circumstances which I had so often witnessed came back to my memory, and I regretted her death as one might regret the destruction of a beautiful work of art.

    It was impossible to see more charm in beauty than in that of Marguerite. Excessively tall and thin, she had in the fullest degree the art of repairing this oversight of Nature by the mere arrangement of the things she wore. Her cashmere reached to the ground, and showed on each side the large flounces of a silk dress, and the heavy muff which she held pressed against her bosom was surrounded by such cunningly arranged folds that the eye, however exacting, could find no fault with the contour of the lines. Her head, a marvel, was the object of the most coquettish care. It was small, and her mother, as Musset would say, seemed to have made it so in order to make it with care.

    Set, in an oval of indescribable grace, two black eyes, surmounted by eyebrows of so pure a curve that it seemed as if painted; veil these eyes with lovely lashes, which, when drooped, cast their shadow on the rosy hue of the cheeks; trace a delicate, straight nose, the nostrils a little open, in an ardent aspiration toward the life of the senses; design a regular mouth, with lips parted graciously over teeth as white as milk; colour the skin with the down of a peach that no hand has touched, and you will have the general aspect of that charming countenance. The hair, black as jet, waving naturally or not, was parted on the forehead in two large folds and draped back over the head, leaving in sight just the tip of the ears, in which there glittered two diamonds, worth four to five thousand francs each. How it was that her ardent life had left on Marguerite’s face the virginal, almost childlike expression, which characterized it, is a problem which we can but state, without attempting to solve it.

    Marguerite had a marvellous portrait of herself, by Vidal, the only man whose pencil could do her justice. I had this portrait by me for a few days after her death, and the likeness was so astonishing that it has helped to refresh my memory in regard to some points which I might not otherwise have remembered.

    Some among the details of this chapter did not reach me until later, but I write them here so as not to be obliged to return to them when the story itself has begun.

    Marguerite was always present at every first night, and passed every evening either at the theatre or the ball. Whenever there was a new piece she was certain to be seen, and she invariably had three things with her on the ledge of her ground-floor box: her opera-glass, a bag of sweets, and a bouquet of camellias.

    For twenty-five days of the month the camellias were white, and for five they were red; no one ever knew the reason of this change of colour, which I mention though I can not explain it; it was noticed both by her friends and by the habitue’s of the theatres to which she most often went. She was never seen with any flowers but camellias. At the florist’s, Madame Barjon’s, she had come to be called the Lady of the Camellias, and the name stuck to her.

    Like all those who move in a certain set in Paris, I knew that Marguerite had lived with some of the most fashionable young men in society, that she spoke of it openly, and that they themselves boasted of it; so that all seemed equally pleased with one another. Nevertheless, for about three years, after a visit to Bagnees, she was said to be living with an old duke, a foreigner, enormously rich, who had tried to remove her as far as possible from her former life, and, as it seemed, entirely to her own satisfaction.

    This is what I was told on the subject. In the spring of 1847 Marguerite was so ill that the doctors ordered her to take the waters, and she went to Bagneres. Among the invalids was the daughter of this duke; she was not only suffering from the same complaint, but she was so like Marguerite in appearance that they might have been taken for sisters; the young duchess was in the last stage of consumption, and a few days after Marguerite’s arrival she died. One morning, the duke, who had remained at Bagneres to be near the soil that had buried a part of his heart, caught sight of Marguerite at a turn of the road. He seemed to see the shadow of his child, and going up to her, he took her hands, embraced and wept over her, and without even asking her who she was, begged her to let him love in her the living image of his dead child. Marguerite, alone at Bagneres with her maid, and not being in any fear of compromising herself, granted the duke’s request. Some people who knew her, happening to be at Bagneres, took upon themselves to explain Mademoiselle Gautier’s true position to the duke. It was a blow to the old man, for the resemblance with his daughter was ended in one direction, but it was too late. She had become a necessity to his heart, his only pretext, his only excuse, for living. He made no reproaches, he had indeed no right to do so, but he asked her if she felt herself capable of changing her mode of life, offering her in return for the sacrifice every compensation that she could desire. She consented.

    It must be said that

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