Henri Murger.

Note. – At an intimate Spiritist session, which took place at the home of a colleague of the Society, on February 6, 1861, the medium spontaneously wrote the following:

“The greater the celestial space, the greater the atmosphere, the more beautiful the flowers, the sweeter the fruits, and the aspirations are satisfied beyond illusion itself. Hail, new homeland! Hail, new dwelling! Hail, happiness, love! How pale is our brief sojourn on Earth, and how happy must he be who has uttered the sigh of relief at having left Tartarus for Heaven! Hail to the true calm! Hail to the legitimate tranquility! Hail, dreams fulfilled! I fell asleep joyful because I knew I was going to awaken happy. Ah! thanks to my friends for their sweet remembrance! H. Murger. n The following questions and answers were put at the Society, on February 8:

Last Wednesday you came spontaneously to communicate at the home of one of our colleagues, and there you dictated a charming page. Yet there was no one there who knew you particularly. Will you please tell us what afforded us the honor of your visit? Answer. – I came to make an act of life so as to be evoked today.

Were you drawn to Spiritist ideas?

Answer. – Somewhere between the two; I suspected; then I let myself be easily led by my inspirations.

It seems your disturbance lasted only a short while, for you express yourself so promptly, with such ease and clarity!

Answer. – I died with perfect knowledge of myself; consequently, I had only to open the eyes of the Spirit as soon as the eyes of the flesh closed for me.

This dictation may be regarded as an account of your first impressions of the world where you now are. Could you describe more precisely what took place within you, from the instant the soul left the body? Answer. – Joy flooded me; I saw again beloved faces, which I supposed lost forever. Scarcely dematerialized, I had only almost earthly sensations.

Could you give us an appraisal, from your present point of view, of your principal work:

La Vie de Bohème — Google Books?

Answer. – How would you have me, dazzled as I am by the unknown splendors of the resurrection, draw up a balance of that poor work, a pale reflection of a suffering youth?

One of your friends, Mr. Théodore Pelloquet, published in the newspaper Siècle of the 6th of this month, a bibliographical article about you. Could you address a few words to him, as well as to other friends and confreres in literature, among whom must be found some who believe in the future life? Answer. – I will tell them that present success is like gold transformed into dry leaves. What we believe, what we hope for, we insatiable scrutinizers of Parisian life, is success, always success. Never do our eyes rise toward heaven, in order to think of Him who judges our works in the last instance. Will my words change them? No; carried along by the impetuous life that consumes belief and youth, they will listen distractedly and pass on forgetful.

Do you see here Gérard de Nerval, who has just spoken of you?

Answer. – I see him, and Musset, as well as the amiable and noble Delphine. I see them all. They help me; they encourage me; they teach me to speak.

Observation. – This question was prompted by the following communication, which a medium of the Society had spontaneously written at the beginning of the session.

“A brother has arrived among us, happy and disposed. He gives thanks to heaven, as you have just heard a moment ago, for his somewhat tardy liberation. Far off, now, are the sadness, the tears, and the bitter smile; in your midst, as we now perceive very well, laughter is never frank. What is lamentable and truly painful on Earth is that one must laugh; laugh forcedly and at nothing, above all in France, when one would be disposed to dream in solitude. What is detestable for the heart that has hoped much is disillusionment, that repugnant skeleton, whose contours one tries in vain to palpate: trembling and uneasy, the hand finds only bones. What horror! For the one who believed in love, in religion, in family, in friendship; those who can look this horrible mask that petrifies straight in the face with impunity, ah! they live, though petrified; but those who sing like bohemians, ah! they die very soon: they have seen the head of Medusa. My brother Murger was among these latter. As you see, friends, henceforth we no longer live only in our works; and at your call we will soon be at your side. Far from priding ourselves on that air of happiness that envelops us, we will come to you as if we were still on Earth, and Murger will sing yet again.” Gérard de Nerval. n [1]

[v. Henri Murger.]

[2] [v.

Gérard de Nerval.]