From Montague Tigg, Esq., to Mr. David Crimp* in Old friends, chapitre XII
Andrew Lang
11 pages Longmans, Green and Co - 1890 - Royaume-Uni Nouvelle
Intérêt: **
L’homme de lettres britanniques Andrew Lang a publié en
1890 Old friends, un recueil de « parodies
épistolaires » dans lesquelles il fait se
rencontrer divers personnages de fiction imaginés par
des auteurs variés. Le chapitre IX de ce livre est
consacré à un échange de lettres entre deux militaires
anglais traitant du duel ayant opposé d’Artagnan et ses
trois amis à quatre gentilshommes anglais dans Les
trois mousquetaires. Voir la fiche consacrée
à ce texte pour une présentation de la démarche
d’Andrew Lang.
Quelques pages plus
loin, l’auteur fait de nouveau appel à un personnage de
Dumas. Le chapitre XII présente un échange de lettres
qui traitent du comte de Monte-Cristo. Lang confirme
ainsi son attachement à l’œuvre de Dumas, attachement
dont il a fourni par ailleurs maintes preuves. Selon les
recherches effectuées par Mihai-Bogdan Ciuca, l’homme de
lettres a consacré à Dumas un chapitre de son livre Letters
to Dead Authors. Il y proclame son admiration sans
limites pour l’écrivain français, à qui il assure que
son œuvre demeurera immortelle. Lang a écrit aussi une
copieuse et très intéressante préface à une édition
britannique des Mémoires de Dumas. Et son volume
Essays in Little comprend également un texte sur
Dumas.
Le chapitre XII d’Old friends consiste en un
échange de lettres entre Montague Tigg et David Crimp.
Il s’agit de deux personnages secondaires du roman de
Charles Dickens Martin Chuzzlewit. Montague Tigg
est un petit escroc, toujours en quête d’argent, qui
finit par créer une compagnie d’assurance bidon, la Anglo-Bengalee
Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company. Il
s’agit en fait d’une pyramide de Ponzi où les
remboursements aux assurés proviennent des primes payées
par les nouveaux clients. David Crimp est un associé
dans cette escroquerie.
Le texte d’Andrew Lang consiste en une longue lettre
envoyée par Tigg à Crimp et la brève réponse de ce
dernier. Tigg, dont on comprend qu’il n’a plus le sou,
raconte à son compère une histoire fantastique. Alors
qu’il était chez un coiffeur, il a surpris une
conversation entre deux hommes, dont l’un était le
prince Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, neveu de l’empereur, et
l’autre le comte de Monte-Cristo. Les deux hommes
discutant d’un plan de retour du prince en France, Tigg
explique à Crimp qu’il y a là le moyen de gagner
énormément d’argent. D’abord en faisant « chanter »
(en français dans le texte) le comte, dont il a
découvert qu’il est actuellement ambassadeur de France à
Londres, sous la menace de révéler le complot aux
autorités. Mais il y a mieux encore: Tigg fait miroiter
des possibilités grandioses en obligeant Monte-Cristo à
participer à la création de nouvelles entreprises. Il
imagine déjà la Compagnie universelle internationale
de récupération de trésors. Monte-Cristo en sera
le président, Tigg et Crimp seront au conseil
d’administration, ainsi d’ailleurs que Vautrin et Jean
Valjean ! Avec une telle affiche, en faisant miroiter la
liste des trésors antiques à retrouver, la foule se
précipitera pour souscrire des actions!
Les millions sont donc à portée de main. Seul petit
obstacle: Tigg n’est pas en état de se faire admettre
chez Monte-Cristo pour lui mettre le marché en mains,
les laquais ne le laisseraient pas entrer. Il lui faut
d’abord se refaire une garde-robe et se rendre
présentable. Crimp pourrait-il donc lui prêter quelque
argent? « Avec trente livres, que dis-je, vingt
livres, je peux me rendre maître de ce
millionaire! » Crimp ne voudra certainement
pas laisser échapper une telle occasion de bâtir une
colossale fortune? Hé ben si, Crimp refuse l’offre. Ne
croyant pas un mot de son histoire (il n’a d’ailleurs
jamais entendu parler de ce Monte-Cristo), il envoie
promener Tigg, à qui il ne donnera pas un penny.
Ce petit texte est un régal. Les élucubrations de Tigg
sur les moyens d’extorquer une fortune au comte de
Monte-Cristo sont des plus réjouissantes. On saluera
l’idée de l’entreprise de récupération des trésors
promue par Monte-Cristo, Vautrin et Jean Valjean!
L’écriture parodique de Lang fait merveille, en
particulier dans la façon dont Tigg, derrière ses
rodomontades et ses promesses de colossale fortune,
laisse sans cesse échapper sa véritable préoccupation:
soutirer un peu de menue monnaie à son complice. On ne
peut même pas savoir, en définitive, s’il a réellement
vu Monte-Cristo ou s’il a tout inventé. Lang confirme
son talent avec ce bref récit et livre, mine de rien,
une variation originale sur le thème de la récupération
du mythe de la fortune de Monte-Cristo par un petit
escroc.
On peut enfin relever que, tout comme dans sa
« parodie épistolaire » consacrée aux
mousquetaires, Lang ne fait pas intervenir directement
le héros de Dumas. Ni Aramis ni Monte-Cristo ne sont les
auteurs ou les destinataires des lettres. Dans les deux
cas, il s’agit d’échanges entre des personnages de
fiction anglais qui parlent simplement du mousquetaire
et du comte.
Merci à Mihai-Bogdan
Ciuca pour le signalement de ce texte et les
recherches le concernant.
Texte intégral
From Montague Tigg, Esq., to Mr. David Crimp.
The following letter needs no explanation for any
who have studied the fortunes and admired the style of
that celebrated and sanguine financier, Mr. Montague
Tigg, in 'Martin Chuzzlewit.' His chance meeting with
the romantic Comte de Monte Cristo naturally suggested
to him the plans and hopes which he unfolds to an
unsympathetic capitalist.
1542 Park Lane, May 27, 1848.
MY PREMIUM POMEGRANATE, — Oracles are not in it, David,
with you, my pippin, as auspicious counsellors of
ingenious indigence. The remark which you uttered
lately, when refusing to make the trumpery advance of
half-a-crown on a garment which had been near to the
illustrious person of my friend Chevy Slime, that remark
was inspired. 'Go to Holborn !' you said, and the
longest-bearded of early prophets never uttered aught
more pregnant with Destiny. I went to Holborn, to the
humble establishment of the tuneful tonsor, Sweedlepipe.
All things come, the poet says, to him who knows how to
wait—especially, I may add, to him who knows how to wait
behind thin partitions with a chink in them. Ensconced
in such an ambush in fact, in the back shop—I bided my
time, intending to solicit pecuniary accommodation from
the barber, and studying human nature as developed in
his customers.
There are odd customers in Kingsgate Street, Holborn —
foreign gents and refugees. Such a cove my eagle eye
detected in a man who entered the shop wearing a long
black beard streaked with the snows of age, and who
requested Poll to shave him clean. He was a sailor-man
to look at ; but his profile, David, might have been
carved by a Grecian chisel out of an iceberg, and that
steel grey eye of his might have struck a chill, even
through a chink, into any heart less stout than beats
behind the vest of Montague Tigg. The task of rasping so
hirsute a customer seemed to sit heavy on the soul of
Poll, and threatened to exhaust the resources of his
limited establishment. The barber went forth to command,
as I presume, a fresher strop, or more keenly tempered
steel, and glittering cans of water heated to a fiercer
heat. No sooner was the coast clear than the street-door
opened, and my stranger was joined by a mantled form,
that glided into Poll's emporium. The new-comer doffed a
swart sombrero, and disclosed historic features that
were not unknown to the concealed observer —meaning me.
Yes, David, that aquiline beak, that long and waxed
moustache, that impassible mask of a face, I had seen
them, Sir, conspicuous (though their owner be of alien
and even hostile birth) among England's special
chivalry. The foremost he had charged on the Ides of
April (I mean against the ungentlemanly Chartist throng)
and in the storied lists of Eglinton. The newcomer, in
short, was the nephew of him who ate his heart out in an
English gaol (like our illustrious Chiv)—in fact, he was
Prince Louis N—— B ——.
Gliding to the seat where, half-lathered, the more or
less ancient Mariner awaited Poll's return, the Prince
muttered (in the French lingo, familiar to me from long
exile in Boulogne) :
'Hist, goes all well ?'
'Magnificently, Sire !' says the other chap.
'Our passages taken ?'
'Ay, and private cabins paid for to boot, in case of the
storm's inclemency.'
The Prince nodded and seemed pleased ; then he asked
anxiously,
'The Bird ? You have been to Jamrach's ?'
'Pardon me, Sire,' says the man who was waiting to be
shaved, 'I can slip from your jesses no mercenary eagle.
These limbs have yet the pith to climb and this heart
the daring to venture to the airiest crag of Monte
d'Oro, and I have ravished from his eyrie a true
Corsican eagle to be the omen of our expedition.
Wherever this eagle is your uncle's legions will gather
together.'
‘ ’Tis well ; and the gold ?'
'Trust Monte Cristo !' says the bearded man ; and
then, David, begad I knew I had them !
'We meet ?'
'At Folkestone pier, 7.45, tidal train.'
'I shall be there without fail,' says the Prince, and
sneaks out of the street-door just as Poll comes in with
the extra soap and strop.
Well, David, to make it as short as I can, the man of
the icy glance was clean-shaved at last, and the mother
who bore him would not have known him as he looked in
the glass when it was done. He chucked Poll a diamond
worth about a million piastres, and, remarking that he
would not trouble him for the change, he walked out. By
this characteristic swagger, of course, he more than
confirmed my belief that he was, indeed, the celebrated
foreigner the Count of Monte Cristo ; whose name and
history even you must be acquainted with, though you may
not be what I have heard my friend Chevy Slime call
himself, 'the most literary man alive.' A desperate
follower of the star of Austerlitz from his youth, a
martyr to the cause in the Château d'If, Monte Cristo
has not deserted it now that he has come into his own—or
anybody else's.
Of course I was after him like a shot. He walked down
Kingsgate Street and took a four-wheeler that was
loitering at the corner. I followed on foot, escaping
the notice of the police from the fact, made only too
natural by Fortune's cursed spite, that under the
toga-like simplicity of Montague Tigg's costume these
minions merely guessed at a cab-tout.
Well, David, he led me a long chase. He got out of the
four-wheeler (it was dark now) at the Travellers',
throwing the cabman a purse—of sequins, no doubt. At the
door of the Travellers' he entered a brougham ; and,
driving to the French Embassy in Albert Gate, he
alighted, in different togs, quite the swell,
and let himself in with his own latch-key.
In fact, Sir, this conspirator of barbers' shops, this
prisoner of the Château d'If, this climber of Corsican
eyries, is to-day the French Minister accredited to the
Court of St. James's !
And now perhaps, David, you begin to see how the land
lies, the Promised Land, the land where there is corn
and milk and honey-dew. I hold those eminent and highly
romantic parties in the hollow of my hand. A letter from
me to M. Lecoq, of the Rue Jerusalem, and their little
game is up, their eagle moults, the history of Europe is
altered. But what good would all that do Montague Tigg ?
Will it so much as put that delightful coin, a golden
sovereign, in the pocket of his nether garments ? No,
Tigg is no informer ; a man who has charged at the head
of his regiment on the coast of Africa is no vulgar spy.
There is more to be got by making the Count pay through
the nose, as we say ; chanter, as the French say
; 'sing a song of sixpence'—to a golden tune.
But, as Fortune now uses me, I cannot personally
approach his Excellency. Powdered menials would urge me
from his portals. An advance, a small advance—say 30l.
—is needed for preliminary expenses : for the charges of
the clothier, the bootmaker, the hosier, the barber.
Give me 30l. for the restoration of Tigg to the
semblance of the Montagues, and with that sum I conquer
millions. The diamonds of Monte Cristo, the ingots, the
rubies, the golden crowns with the image and
superscription of Pope Alexander VI.—all are mine : I
mean are ours.
More, David ; more, my premium tulip : we shall make the
Count a richer man than ever he has been. We shall
promote new companies, we shall put him on the board of
directors. I see the prospectuses from afar.
UNIVERSAL INTERNATIONAL TREASURE RECOVERY COMPANY.
Chairman.
His Excellency the COMTE DE MONTE CRISTO, K.G., K.C.B.,
Knight of the Black Eagle.
Directors.
CHEVY SLIME, Esq., Berkeley Square.
MONTAGUE TIGG, Esq., Park Lane.
M. VAUTRIN (Les Bagnes près de Toulon).
M. JEAN VALJEAN.
The CHEVALIER STRONG. (Would he come in ?)
Hon. Secretary. -DAVID CRIMP, Esq.
Archaeological Adviser.—Dr. SPIEGELMANN, Berlin.
Then the prospectus ! Treasure-hunting too long left to
individual and uneducated enterprise. Need of organised
and instructed effort. Examples of treasure easily to be
had. Grave of Alaric. Golden chain of Cuzco. Galleons of
Vigo Bay. Loot of Delphi. Straits of Salamis. Advice of
most distinguished foreign experts already secured.
Paid-up capital, a 6 and as many 0's as the resources of
the printing establishment can command. The public will
rush in by the myriad. And I am also sketching a
'Disinterested Association for Securing the Rights of
Foundlings,' again with Monte Cristo in the chair.
David, you have saved a few pounds ; in the confidence
of unofficial moments you have confessed as much (though
not exactly how much) to me. Will you neglect one of
those opportunities which only genius can discover, but
which the humble capitalist can help to fructify ? With
thirty, nay, with twenty pounds, I can master this
millionaire and tame this Earthly Providence. Behind us
lies penury and squalor, before us glitters jewelled
opulence. You will be at 1542 Park Lane to-morrow with
the dibs ? Yours expectantly,
MONTAGUE TIGG.
From Mr. David Crimp to Montague Tigg, Esq.
The Golden Balls, May 28.
DEAR MR. TIGG,—You always were full of your chaff, but
you must have been drinking when you wrote all that
cock-and-a-bull gammon. Thirty pounds ! No ; nor fifteen
; nor as many pence. I never heard of the party you
mention by the name of the Count of Monte Cristo ; and
as for the Prince, he's as likely to be setting out for
Boulogne with an eagle as you are to start a monkey and
a barrel-organ in Jericho ; or may be that's the
likeliest of the two. So stow your gammon, and spare
your stamps, is my last word. Yours respectfully to
command,
D. CRIMP.
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