at the time. But to-day he has his revenge—for it was the free seat in
the Vaudeville Theatre that led to “King” Pataud’s downfall! After the
agitator’s visit to _La Barricade_ it became the fashion amongst the
managers to invite the “Roi de la Lumière” to their theatres. Behold him,
actually, at the first performance of _Chantecler_—and at the Gymnase,
the Variétés, the Palais Royal. But if the public rejoiced over “King”
Pataud’s presence at the theatre, his colleagues in the labour world
were to be heard grumbling. Pataud (and it was true) was “getting his
head turned.” Pataud was neglecting the Bourse du Travail for theatres
and brilliant restaurants. But the “Roi de la Lumière” paid no heed to
these reproofs, nor to complaints and warnings vigorously expressed. And
the crisis came, the storm burst, when “King” Pataud and an electrician
came to blows on the boulevards, and were marched off to the police
station on a charge of breaking the peace. At the station, the “Roi de
la Lumière” was searched. “Ah, you do yourself well, you enjoy life, you
have a gay time of it,” grinned the _police commissaire_, after examining
the agitator’s pocket-book. It contained bank-notes for a large sum,
receipted bills from luxurious restaurants and hotels, and (what of
course, particularly delighted the Parisian) the autographed photograph
of a certain very blonde and very lively actress. So, indignation and
disgust of the Syndicate of Electricians, who had contributed to their
secretary’s support. He was called upon to resign. And to-day M. Pataud
is an agent for a champagne firm; and the street _gamins_ who once
cheered him, now—O supreme insult—apostrophise him as “sale bourgeois.”
Two questions remain for those whose opinion in the Amazing City counts.
The first is: Does an Eminent Academician, who, whether he writes in a
frock coat or no, professes the conviction that it would not be worth
while to produce plays _only_ to reveal the influence and power of
men’s emotions, passions and ideals in the shaping of life, unless one
had some ulterior clerical, social or political object to serve, stand
in the hopeful ways of thought that distinguish the first order of
Dramatists? The answer to the question is delivered with an emphatic
decision. “Mais—Non”—“Mais,”—a pause and a gesture by an emphatic falling
hand—“Non.” Second question: Is a social agitator, who displays himself
in a pink shirt and bowler hat in the best seats of fashionable theatres,
and who enjoys himself at fashionable restaurants with worldlings—whom he
affects to terrorise—a satisfactory Democrat? Same answer, but the “Non”
and the confirmatory gesture is more emphatic. “Mais—Non.”
[2] See page 69.
2. M. ALFRED CAPUS. “NÔTRE JEUNESSE” AT THE FRANÇAISE
Through a novel published some years ago, under the title of _Qui Perd
Gagne_, I made the acquaintance of a number of Parisians who committed
all manner of faults and follies, got into all kinds of dilemmas; and
yet compelled a certain sympathy by reason of their good-heartedness
and good humour. Never a dull moment in this novel; never, indeed,
a moment when there was not some anxious situation to face, some
formidable difficulty to overcome. The leading personages were a retired
_blanchisseuse_ and her husband. Their names I cannot recall—let them
be christened the Belons; and let it be admitted that the atmosphere
in which they lived would most assuredly be condemned by the orthodox
English critic as “unsavoury.” Laid bare before us in all its tawdriness,
all its feverishness, all its swift delirious ups and downs, was the
life of the adventurer. A good round dozen of these gentlemen, but the
most “enterprising,” the most audacious, the most entertaining amongst
them was our friend Belon, who, before becoming the husband of the
_blanchisseuse_, and the master of the money realised by the sale of the
_blanchisserie_, had been a seedy figure in shady newspaper offices and
suspicious gambling clubs. In his unmarried days Belon rejoiced when a
bet at baccarat, or a successful operation in the line of canvassing for
advertisements, yielded him a louis. He was always “hard up”—always (as
he described it) in a “crisis”—but adversity neither disheartened him nor
turned his temper.
“Times will change,” predicted Belon, when he surveyed his shabby form in
the mirror of a café.
“One of these days you will dine magnificently at Paillard’s,” Belon
murmured, when he issued forth (his hunger still unsatisfied) from a
greasy restaurant.
“Paris,” he soliloquised, as he swaggered along the boulevards, with
a shocking little black cigar in the corner of his mouth, and his
hat tilted rakishly on one side, “Paris, I know you well—know your
weaknesses, your failings, your vanities. And with this precious
knowledge to assist me, I shall undoubtedly succeed.”
Certainly, Belon knew Paris thoroughly—or part of it. He was full of
anecdote and scandal. He had amazing stories to tell of personages high
up in the _grande monde_, the _monde d’affaires_, and the _demi-monde_,
and he told them well. He could be gallant—in a way. Also, when it served
his purpose, he could feign a seriousness that inspired confidence. And
it was his gaiety, his gallantry, his flashy worldliness, that fascinated
the _blanchisseuse_—not a foolish woman by any means, but a practical,
amiable soul, still in her thirties, still attractive, still (as the
French novelist has it) “_appétissante_,” who saw in her marriage to
Belon not only a means of escape from the steamy, stifling atmosphere of
her laundry, but a position of importance, even of luxury and brilliancy.
Belon she believed capable of great things; Belon, with his enterprise,
his audacity, his knowledge of the world, needed only a small capital,
such as the sale of the laundry would provide, to become a master of
_affaires_, and a leader of men. And then—was not Belon fascinating,
and ardent, and tender? Thus, half prosaically, half sentimentally, did
the _blanchisseuse_ consider Belon’s eloquently worded proposal; and
the result of her deliberations was good-bye to the _blanchisserie_.
Affectionately she embraced, liberally she rewarded, Charlotte and
Amélie, her assistants. Charlotte and Amélie wept. The future Madame
Belon wept. Belon himself was moved to tears by the scene.
“Adieu, mes filles,” sobbed the future Madame Belon.
“Adieu, Madame,” sobbed back Charlotte and Amélie.
“Allons-nous-en, allons-nous-en,” said Belon huskily. And so—in this
touching fashion—farewell to the _blanchisserie_.
What changes, when next we beheld the Belons! Madame dressed
attractively; and Monsieur, when he went a-gambling, was an ornament
of brilliant, if not exclusive, clubs, and a power in busy, handsome
newspaper offices. There were, as Belon prophesied, “magnificent dinners”
at Paillard’s. There were constant visits to race-courses, theatres and
music-halls, and he played high, and he conceived colossal “business”
schemes, and he mixed familiarly with personages high up in the _monde
d’affaires_, and in the _demi-monde_; one even had _des relations_ with
certain personages in the veritable _monde_. But the reader, as he
followed Belon et Cie here, there and everywhere, still found himself
in a whirl of adventurers, and the adventurers (despite their display)
were still surrounded by difficulties. For Belon was too audacious, too
“enterprising.” Wonderfully ingenious were his schemes, but their fate
was disastrous.
In a word, Belon, with all his knowledge of Paris, overestimated the
credulity of the Parisians, and was brought face to face with that
unimaginative, relentless personage, the Commissaire de Police. Happier
had been Madame Belon in the steamy days of the _blanchisserie_; happier
had been Belon when he surveyed his shabby form in the café mirror,
saying: “Times will change.” In the Belon _ménage_, not only a constant
dread of M. le Commissaire de Police, but bitter, domestic quarrels,
even infidelities. But the quarrels were “made up,” the infidelities
were pardoned—for, as the troubles thickened, as the situation grew
increasingly alarming, so did the Belons become drawn closely together;
so did they display many, yes, admirable, yes—even heroic qualities.
And when at last the “crisis” arrived, and when the practical, amiable,
retired _blanchisseuse_ saved her husband from a disgraceful fate, it
was the good heart and good humour that had lived through, and survived,
these difficulties which made the point—the very un-English moral—of the
story! Thus, after discussing their short, stormy married career in every
detail, and with the utmost candour, the Belons agreed that no great
harm had been done, since they were better friends than ever! But Paris
had become distasteful to them; what a blithe, refreshing change, then,
to take up their abode in a quiet villa on the outskirts of the city! A
little villa with a porch! A little villa with a garden! A little villa
where one would be entirely _chez soi_. “We will plant cabbages,” cried
Madame Belon enthusiastically. “We will be happy,” responded Belon,
with emotion. So, another and a final change of scene. Behold—as a last
tableau—the Belons installed tranquilly, comfortably and affectionately
on the outskirts of Paris in a neat, innocent little villa.
Thus, very briefly, the story of _Qui Perd Gagne_. The author, I need
scarcely say, was M. Alfred Capus; for who but that inimitable dramatist
would have discovered good-heartedness and good humour as underlying
qualities in such shady people as the Belons; and who but that genius
at clearing up awkward, anxious situations could have got the retired
_blanchisseuse_ and her husband so generously and unexpectedly out of
their moral, as well as their practical, scrapes?
Thus, a good many years ago, M. Capus, then a comparatively unknown
journalist, already possessed those qualities which have made him by far
the most popular playwright of to-day: a wonderful tolerance, a wonderful
bonhomie, and a wonderful and incomparable talent at finding a way of
carrying the treasure of faith in human goodness safely through perilous
circumstances! As a consequence of these qualities M. Capus has been
called an “optimist.” We are always and always hearing of the “optimism”
of M. Capus; but if I may be permitted to differ from the vast majority
of his admirers, I would suggest that, so far from being an optimist, M.
Capus is, from the ideal point of view, a cynic. True, an amiable cynic.
He regards mankind with a smile—not of mockery, because there is nothing
unkind in it; a smile of raillery at the idealist’s effort to take the
mote out of his brother’s eye and to afflict himself too seriously in
his endeavour to get rid of the beam out of his own eye. From the point
of view of M. Capus, motes and beams, big faults as well as little ones,
belong to human nature. It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. “C’est la
vie”—and so let us make the best of it.
And it might be worse! Mankind might be cruel, whereas the average man,
the average woman, is kind—the hearts of average men and women are in
the right place. Thus, let mankind not be judged too harshly. Since we
are what we are, it is inevitable we should commit follies. But let us
see to it that our hearts _are_ in the right place, and when the moment
arrives we shall know how to make atonement for those follies and pass
on undisgraced. “Amusez-vous bien, soyez gais; mais soyez bons.” Such
might be M. Capus’ message to mankind; and that message, indeed, he has
delivered from the stage. For amongst French playwrights who bring home
to us vividly, by means of illustration, French ways of feeling and
methods of judgment that are not English methods, M. Alfred Capus stands
out as the efficient interpreter of the typical personage recognised by
general consent in France as “l’homme qui est foncièrement bon.”
Do not, however, let us suppose that we are in any way helped to a
correct understanding of this personage by makers of dictionaries, who
tell us that “l’homme qui est foncièrement bon” is a “thoroughly good
man.” No. If we leave the thoroughly bad man out of account, no two more
opposite types of human character can be compared with one another—no
two worthy men can be brought together more certain to quarrel, and
mutually to dislike and condemn each other than the “thoroughly good
man,” approved by the English standard, and “l’homme qui est foncièrement
bon,” recognised as such by general consent in France. Nor is this
all. Not only have we here two worthy human beings who, by reason of
the different directions wherein the special worthiness of each of
them displays itself, cannot agree as friends, but for the services of
friendship also their qualifications are so different that upon the
occasions when one can help us the other will get us into trouble; and
in the moods when we should cleave to the one, we should indubitably
avoid the other. The cause of this essential difference is not entirely
explained when the fact is stated that righteousness constitutes the
predominant characteristic of goodness in England, and kindliness the
predominant characteristic in France, because the Englishman is kind
also—in his own way. In other words, his righteousness _does_ exceed the
righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, and the Frenchman who is
_foncièrement bon_ has virtues also of his own; he has not merely the
good nature of the easy-going publican. What these special virtues really
are, and how, whilst they do not make “l’homme qui est foncièrement
bon” a “thoroughly good man,” in the English sense of the term, they do
make him a lovable and sympathetic human character, one can discover by
passing an evening in the society of Chartier, Lucien Briant, Hélène and
Laure of _Nôtre Jeunesse_, Monsieur Piégois of the delightful comedy of
that name, and Montferrand—the amazing Deputy Montferrand—of _L’Attentat_.
The bonhomie of M. Capus represents a life philosophy as well as a
dramatic method, that might not be applied with equal success to British
institutions. But used among French social conditions, it demonstrates
how neglect of logic, and force of good feeling, may help an intelligent
and a humane people to render faulty systems habitable, and make good
nature serve as a substitute for, and even as a corrective of, a rigid,
an unheroic, an unchristian worship of “respectability” at the expense of
human kindness—that is to say, a form of respectability which does not
necessarily mean a very ardent love of virtue.
The characters of _Nôtre Jeunesse_ are essentially French. Take Chartier,
for instance, the _bonhomme philosophe par excellence_. Chartier, at
forty years of age, amused by his own past; tranquil as to the future;
well satisfied, in the present, to make the best of his life upon a
moderate income—the quarter of a once handsome fortune, considerately
left him by a former mistress, the then famous “Pervenche,” who, after
she had cost him a million and a half, herself broke off their _liaison_,
in the amiable and reasonable fashion related by the Forsaken One himself
thus:
_Chartier._ One evening she said to me: “_Mon chéri_, I have
been looking into things. You have spent upon me three-fourths
of your fortune. It is as much as any woman should expect from
any gallant man. I am contented; and grateful to you. I have
come across a man who is in love with me; and I am going to be
married to him.”... She married an employé at the Louvre. It is
an excellent _ménage_.
Take Laure de Roine, Chartier’s sister, the good genius of the
play—bonhomie, not only personified, but idealised, invested with all the
liveliness and fascination that belong to delightful French womanhood.
Laure, some years older than her brother, left a widow, also with a
quarter of her handsome wedding portion, remaining through the opportune
decease, in the very hour when he seemed bent upon ruining her, after
himself, of a husband given to gambling on the Stock Exchange.
Take Madame Hélène Briant, the very charming, vivacious wife of M.
Lucien Briant, a lady approaching the perilous age—_i.e._ nearly
thirty—reasonably attached to, but not passionately in love with, an
amiable but despondent husband, who has become despondent under the
authoritative rule of M. Briant _père_, a superior man, and master of
the “correct,” frock-coated attitude towards life. Briant _père_ is
the tyrant of the Briant household. Hear the charming Hélène in active
revolt against this insupportable father-in-law, and her husband’s
despondency, as a result of his filial docility, exposing her own case,
half playfully, half seriously, to Laure de Roine, everyone’s good genius:
_Hélène._ When I try to react against this general depression;
when, in spite of them both, I make it my task to find
something cheerful, and worth taking pleasure in, I find myself
treated by both Father and Son as a frivolous worldling. Add
on to that that I have no children, and live in this deadly
provincial atmosphere, full of spiteful gossip, scandal, and
vanity. And then try, if you can, to imagine my condition of
mind—not forgetting that I am an “honest” woman—and that I am
beginning to realise it.
_Laure._ And when a woman begins to realise that she is
“honest”——
_Hélène._ Yes; the case is grave.
All these personages explain themselves to us, and claim us, by reason
of their vivid humanity, as intimate acquaintances, in the play. Yet not
one of them has his or her exact counterpart in English society, for the
simple reason that their choice qualities, and entertaining defects, not
only belong to the French temperament but are the result of manners,
conventions, prejudices and sentiments that do not enter into our actual
experiences, although we are in a position to judge, or at any rate
correctly to appreciate them, when we have studied them in this dramatic
picture....
And now for the situation of the play. It is also essentially
French; what the orthodox English critic would probably describe as
“disagreeable” and “painful.” But with that neither M. Capus nor
ourselves are concerned. Our playwright, true to the canons of his art,
has aimed at no more than selecting an episode from _la vie vivante_, and
revealing it in its most vital and human moments, and the episode he has
chosen is one that has its counterpart, year in, year out, in the gay,
irresponsible land peopled by the _jeunesse_ of Paris and the provinces.
“Nôtre Jeunesse”—that period, in France particularly, of extravagances
and follies; “Nôtre Jeunesse”—those years in the Latin Quarter when
irregularity of conduct does not appear reprehensible even to the
parental eye.
“C’est de leur âge,” says the bourgeois indulgently, thinking, no doubt,
of his own _jeunesse_, when he meets a band of students rejoicing
riotously in their corduroy clothes, long, flowing capes and amazing
hats. And such wild figures were Chartier and Lucien Briant some twenty
years before we meet them. And it is of those days that they are
speaking, when M. Capus introduces them to his audience in the Chartier
Villa at Trouville. Chartier, of course, is in excellent spirits. But
Lucien is nervous and despondent, and becomes still more troubled when
his friend reminds him of his _liaison_ with Léontine Gilard, a charming
and light-hearted girl, whose pet name Chartier forgets.
Lucien helps his memory; the name was “Loulou.” Let me quote the passage:
_Lucien [with emotion]._ Loulou.
_Chartier._ That’s it! I can see Loulou now: fair hair, blue
eyes, very pretty hands. You made a charming couple, the
two of you! Well—there you have a memory which shouldn’t be
disagreeable, surely.
_Lucien._ Ah, _mon ami_, one never knows the end of adventures
of that sort!
_Chartier._ The end? Why didn’t the thing end naturally?
_Lucien._ What do you mean by ending naturally?
_Chartier._ When you left the Latin Quarter, you made Loulou
a handsome present? She took another lover? or, perhaps, she
got married? To-day, if you met each other in the street, you
wouldn’t recognise each other? That is what I call a natural
ending.
_Lucien._ Yes; that is the way things happen with _you_, and
with almost everybody. But not with _me_. I ask myself, What
may not still come of it?
Lucien’s forebodings are prophetic. Soon after, Chartier is told by his
sister Laure that a young girl (_très jolie, très convenable_) has called
to see him. It turns out that the young girl visitor (_très jolie, très
convenable_) is _Lucienne_. In other words, _she_ is the visible and
terrifying proof of the unlucky Lucien Briant’s conviction that he is not
to be permitted, like other men, to bury under the flowers of sentimental
memories the irregularities of his Latin Quarter days.
Still, Lucienne had no intention of troubling her father. She was trained
to believe that she had no legitimate, no righteous claim on him. Poor
Loulou was true to the rule of the game that, for her, had had lifelong
seriousness. Even on her death-bed she has kept faithfully to the terms
of the unequal bargain. She had told Lucienne that her father had behaved
“generously,” that she has no further legitimate claim on him. But she
remembers Chartier’s kindness of heart and recommends her daughter to
apply to him for advice and recommendations helpful in the way of finding
her honest employment. So that this is the reason why Lucienne has sought
out Monsieur Chartier. She is now alone in the world—poor “Loulou’s”
savings nearly exhausted. Can Monsieur Chartier, perhaps, amongst his
friends, find her a situation as secretary or companion, where she may
earn an honest livelihood?
Touched to the heart by Loulou’s good remembrance and confidence in him
is Chartier, and at once interested in Lucienne’s case.
_Chartier._ Yes, yes, certainly—you did well, mademoiselle,
to come to me! I shall at once make inquiries amongst all my
acquaintances. We shall find you a charming post; I give you my
promise, to set about it at once.
Although the good Chartier is perfectly sincere in his desire and
resolution to find Lucienne a “charming post,” he does not feel that
there is any need to distress and upset the nervous and despondent Lucien
by telling him about the appearance upon the scene of Loulou’s daughter
(and his own) and of her need of assistance. But he has no secrets from
Laure, and he at once consults his resourceful sister and confides to her
his charming and discreet plan of finding Lucienne a pleasant situation
as the companion of a lady who travels a great deal; thus Lucienne will
see different countries, have a good salary and be as happy as the day is
long—_also_, she will be kept out of the way of upsetting the nerves of
the timorous Lucien.
Laure, however, the “good genius,” takes another view of the case. It
is _Lucienne’s_ homelessness, not Lucien’s nerves, that appears to her
the chief question. She remembers, too, the “grave” state of mind of
Hélène Briant, the result of her ineffectual efforts to react against
her depressing environment—most repugnant to a charming woman still
young but arrived at an age when she is forced to realise that one is
not _always_ going to be young and charming, and who has no children,
and no congenial companionship, and who, nevertheless, is “honest”—so
far, Laure then _forms her own plan_. And the first step is to make known
the facts of Lucienne’s identity, situation and presence at Trouville
to Lucien, and to Hélène also. This is how she announces what, to him,
at first appears a desperately indiscreet proceeding, to Chartier, who,
ultimately, becomes a convert to her scheme.
Laure begins by assuring her brother that an excess of discretion
condemns those who make it their rule to fail in friendly services.