Pascaline visits the theatrical agency, sees the tawdriness of the place,
hears noisy laughter and is even addressed at length by a shabby old
comedian—a veritable _cabotin_—who mistakes her for an _ingénue_, in
quest of an engagement. The comedian is delightful. He might have stepped
straight on to the Odéon stage from one of those dim little cafés haunted
by broken-down actors in the neighbourhood of the Porte St-Martin. He
appals Pascaline with his grins, grimaces and familiarity. Pascaline’s
silence he attributes to worry. And he seeks to console her by declaring
that one must always be gay, always be smiling, even if one has eaten
nothing all day and the landlord has threatened to turn one out into the
street. He calls her _mon petit enfant_, and _mon petit chat_, and he
_tutoies_ her. Pure, irresistible comedy! The scene deserves to be quoted
in full, but we must hasten on to the _dénouement_.
It is close. Life at the Nantais publisher’s has become intolerable.
Constant strife; day after day, scenes between Pascaline and her
step-mother. And, at last, Hélène decides on a daring step: to visit
Gabrielle, tell her of Forjot’s unhappiness, implore her to interfere
no longer between father and daughter. But she fails to move Gabrielle,
who is cold and impertinent. And then, believing that if she herself
disappeared, Pascaline would be entirely restored to Forjot, Hélène
determines to leave Nantes and resume her dull career of governess.
And this determination becomes all the stronger when she learns that
Pascaline has fled Nantes and taken refuge with her mother. Poor Forjot
has aged and withered when next we see him. Pascaline’s flight has
been a bitter blow. But the music publisher will not hear of Hélène’s
sacrifice, and is passionately bidding her remain, when Gabrielle
is announced. Hélène leaves the room. And Gabrielle and Forjot find
themselves face to face again.
In the great scene that follows, Gabrielle begins by saying that, as
Hélène has determined to leave Nantes, she, Gabrielle, no longer wishes
to keep Pascaline away from her father, and has brought her home.
Forjot declares that Hélène shall not be sacrificed; and upon this,
Gabrielle proclaims her intention of keeping Pascaline.
Now again we have the Bourgeois Forjot displaying qualities of temper,
character and moral sense, of the very highest order: qualities of the
chivalrous sort. He does not fly into a passion. He does not taunt
this offender against maternal and conjugal obligations. But earnestly
and simply he addresses the author of all this trouble; and with a
self-restraint that would certainly not have been found in his English
prototype, he invites her to examine her own conduct; and to ask herself
whether it is Hélène and himself, or whether it is Gabrielle herself, and
Gabrielle only, who has behaved cruelly and selfishly to Pascaline, as
well as to the husband she betrayed and the good woman who has taken care
of the child she abandoned.
_Forjot._ Gabrielle, just remember. _You_ are the cause of all
this trouble. It only depended upon you to stay on here, and
never to be separated from your child. I never made your life
unhappy! I loved you; and you know very well I should have
forgiven you. I begged you to stay and you would not. What harm
you have done by obeying your caprice! Just now I saw very well
you hardly recognised me—so aged am I by all this. For my part,
I have never harmed you. Hélène has never harmed you—what do
you say? No, no; she has never harmed you! And yet it is we who
are punished. It is because _you_ behaved badly in the past
that _we_ are threatened to-day with distress and loneliness.
After having poisoned my life, you wish then to hasten my death?
_Gabrielle._ You know very well that I regret having made you
suffer.
_Forjot._ Let me tell you this: a great many people would not
have acted as we have done. They might not have told our child
the real story of your desertion; but they would not have
invented excuses for you.
_Gabrielle._ Yes; I know you have been very kind, and I thank
you for it.
_Forjot._ I am not the only one you ought to thank. Hélène has
always respected you: she has taught Pascaline to love you!
It seems to me that should touch you. Give our child back to
us. Now, admit it, you have launched yourself upon a new life.
You have made yourself different from us. I can’t well explain
myself; and it is difficult to make you understand my feelings
because I don’t want to use words that might hurt or irritate
you; but I must put the facts before you plainly.
Always generous is Forjot. Not one brutal, not one harsh word does he
throw at his wife! He promises that Pascaline shall continue to visit
her as often as she pleases, if Gabrielle, on the other side, will
promise not to poison Pascaline’s mind against him and Hélène. Gabrielle
is touched. Rising, she opens the door, and brings in Pascaline. And
Pascaline, seeing her poor father’s anxious, care-worn face, runs up to
him.
_Pascaline._ Oh, father! father! advise me. I am puzzled,
bewildered. Something tells me I am acting badly; but I don’t
know what I ought to do. Oh, dear, I don’t know what I ought to
do!
_Forjot._ My little Girl, it all depends upon you whether I
am to finish my life in misery, or in peace. You can give me
happiness in the days I have still to live. But to do that, you
must come back to us; and you must try to treat Hélène with
the respect and gratitude you owe her. In her despair at not
being able to win back your affection, she wants to leave us.
She wishes to return once more to the lonely, uncertain life
of a governess. She wants to plunge herself into this unknown,
uncertain destiny. It is I who appeal to you to have mercy upon
her, and upon me.
_Pascaline._ Ah, if only I might love you without being false
to Mama!
_Gabrielle [emotionally]._ You can, you can, Pascaline! Yes,
my daughter, I am not the mother that you believe in! Since I
left you I have created for myself a new life, new habits, new
affections; and then, Pascaline, I am going to marry again!
Always, emotionally, Gabrielle tells how she once had two paths to
choose, and that she chose the wrong one.
But Pascaline interrupts her with a cry of: “What a calumny!” and vows
that her mother has never done wrong. And that she knows for certain, _as
Hélène herself has often told her so_.
_Gabrielle._ Eh bien, va embrasser Hélène pour cela. Je te le
demande. Je vous la confie, Hélène.
And so, the end. Not heroic, in accordance with the English poetic
sentiment, demanding that Gabrielle should pass out sorrowing and
penitent; convicted in her child’s eyes, who flies for safety to the
virtuous bosom of Hélène, but _à l’amiable_, in accordance with the
French sentiment expressed by Forjot: “Mon enfant, si l’on n’avait pas
d’indulgence les uns pour les autres, la vie des plus braves gens ne
serait pas possible.”
But what comes of it all? No argument for or against divorce; no attack
upon, no justification of the French method of educating the _jeune
fille_. But a picture of the feelings and emotions bound up with that
method; and a picture also of the generous reasonableness, sense of
justice, and human kindness that lie at the root of French character—and
that may to some extent compensate for a lack of the absolutely sincere
and unadulterated love of decency and respectability for their own sakes
that are our own distinguishing characteristics.
[3] _Briant_ père. Il suffit aujourd’hui—et je le constate sans en être
le moins du monde troublé, croyez-le bien—il suffit qu’un enfant soit
naturel pour se voir l’objet de la sympathie générale, comme il suffit
qu’une femme ne soit pas légitime pour être immédiatement entourée du
respect universel. Que les femmes et les enfants ne se le dissimulent
pas, ils sont en train de passer un mauvais quart d’heure.
[4] In a criticism of M. Paul Hervieu’s _Le Dédale_ given in _The
Fortnightly Review_ series of articles upon “French Life and the French
and the French Stage,” by John F. Macdonald. By the kind permission of
the Editor of _The Fortnightly Review_ these articles are reprinted
here.—F. M.
4. PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER”
Six years have elapsed since a Paris newspaper announced that M. Constant
Coquelin—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_—had suddenly taken train to the
south-west of France in the following circumstances:—
“Yesterday morning the greatest of our comedians received a telegram
urging him to proceed without delay to Cambo, the tranquil, beautiful
country seat, in the Pyrenees, of M. Edmond Rostand. No sooner had
he read the message than M. Coquelin bade Gillett, his devoted
valet, pack a valise, hail a _fiacre_, and accompany him to the Gare
d’Orléans. Excitement and delight were depicted on the face of the
distinguished traveller, whom we found smoking a cigarette in front of
a first-class compartment. ‘Yes,’ he joyously admitted. ‘Yes, I am off
to the Pyrenees—but that is all I shall tell you.’ Never, indeed, such
indomitable discretion! In reply to our adroit, persuasive questions
regarding the object of his journey, M. Coquelin made such irrelevant
observations as these: ‘The weather looks threatening,’ and ‘Gillett is
the most admirable of valets,’ and ‘Ah, my friends, has it ever occurred
to you what an extraordinary thing is a railway station?’ And then, as
the train steamed slowly away: ‘You may state in your article that the
cushions of this carriage are exceedingly restful and sympathetic.’
Still, in spite of M. Coquelin’s reticence, we are in a position to
acquaint our readers with the reason of this sudden, this sensational
visit to Cambo. _M. Edmond Rostand is engaged upon a new play, and the
leading part in it will be sustained by M. Coquelin._ Down there in the
golden calm of the Pyrenees—yes, even as we pen these words—the most
exquisite of poets is reading to the most brilliant of actors... another
_chef-d’œuvre_. It will surpass the triumphant, the glorious _Cyrano de
Bergerac_! Parisians will certainly rejoice, Parisians will assuredly be
thrilled to hear of the superb, artistic festival in store for them.”
Such, six years ago, was the very first—and very florid—_potin_ to
be published on _Chantecler_; and no sooner had it appeared than
Paris, truly enough, “rejoiced” and was “thrilled”—but complained
that it was maddening and heart-breaking to know so little about the
new masterpiece. What was its theme? What, too, was the title? And
when—oh, when—would the first performance take place? In order to
satisfy the Parisian’s curiosity, newspaper editors despatched their
Yellowest Reporters to Cambo with instructions to force a statement
out of the comedian and the poet. With the Yellow Ones went alert,
sharp photographers. And then, what strange, indelicate scenes in that
once-tranquil and refined spot in the Pyrenees! Since M. Rostand and his
guest refused to receive the invaders, the latter set about performing
their vulgar mission from a distance. Outside the poet’s picturesque
Basque villa, cameras and cameras; and again and again was the “golden
calm” of Cambo disturbed by shouts of “There’s Madame Rostand at that
window,” and “There’s her son, Maurice, picking a flower,” and “There’s
Rostand talking hard to Coquelin on a bench.” Nobody, nothing in the
far-spreading grounds, escaped the photographers. The gardener was
“taken”; so were a housemaid, a peacock, a mowing-machine, a dog and a
hammock. As for the reporters, they followed MM. Rostand and Coquelin
when the latter took their afternoon walks, even hid themselves behind
bushes and hedges in the hopes of overhearing a fragment of their
conversation; and minutely they described in their newspapers the gait
and the gestures of the comedian, and the smile, the eyeglass and the
extreme elegance of the poet; and wildly they declared that insomuch
as MM. Rostand and Coquelin discussed naught but the new masterpiece
during those afternoon walks, every step they took left a glorious, an
historic imprint in the dusty white lane. But the subject of the play,
the date of its production?—“mystery, mystery!” admitted the reporters.
Nor was it until many months later, and until after M. Coquelin had paid
half-a-dozen visits to Cambo, that Paris heard with amazement that M.
Rostand’s hero was a cock, his heroine a hen pheasant, his chief scene a
farm-yard, in which all kinds of feathered creatures were to fly, strut
and waddle about. As Paris was marvelling at the novelty and audacity
of the idea, the poet fell ill. A severe operation kept him an invalid
a whole year. The successive deaths of a relative and of three close
friends so shocked him that he had not the heart to return to his work.
But when in the autumn of 1908 M. Coquelin made yet another expedition
to Cambo, the “glorious,” “historic” walks were resumed. In M. Rostand’s
study, animated, all-night sittings. In the drawing-room, extraordinary
rehearsals—M. Coquelin the cock, Madame Rostand the pheasant, M. Rostand
a dog, young Maurice Rostand a blackbird. Then visits from wig-makers,
costumiers, scene-painters, electricians. And at last the official,
stirring announcement that M. Rostand and the play were leaving for
Paris, that the name of the play was _Chantecler_, and that the first
performance would be given at the Porte St-Martin Theatre in the spring
of 1909.
It was in January of that year that M. Rostand took up his abode in an
hotel facing the Tuileries Gardens. The corridor outside the poet’s suite
of apartments was guarded by footmen—so many sentinels with instructions
to let nobody pass; and thus M. Rostand was secure from cameras and
Yellow scribbling pencils except when he left the hotel, entered a motor
car and sped off to the pleasant little country town of Pont-aux-Dames,
where Constant Coquelin had founded a home for aged and infirm actors.
Of this establishment Coquelin _aîné_ himself was then an inmate. Not
that he was feeling old or infirm—“only a little fatigued and in need
of calm and repose ere disguising myself as a proud, majestic cock.”
Kindly Coquelin was never so happy as when playing the host to his score
of superannuated actors and actresses. He called them his “guests,” and
had provided them with easy-chairs, a library, a billiard-table, playing
cards, backgammon boards and gramophones; and with summer-houses in the
garden where the old ladies might gossip and gossip out of the glare of
the sun, and with a lake, too, in which the old fellows might fish. Also,
he invited them to relate their theatrical experiences—the rôles they
had played, the successes they had achieved, the costumes they had worn
long, long ago; and, oh, dear me, how the “guests” took their host at his
word—yes, heavens, how garrulously and lavishly they responded! Withered
old Joyeux (late—very late—of the Palais Royal) described how emperors
and kings had been convulsed by his grins, winks and tricks; swollen,
red-faced Hector Duchatel (slim, elegant, irresistible at the Vaudeville
in the seventies) declared that beautiful _mondaines_ had sighed, almost
swooned, when he passionately made love on the stage; wrinkled, haggard
Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle (once such a radiant _blonde_ at the
Bouffes) narrated how she could scarcely turn round in her dressing-room
for the _corbeilles_ of flowers, in which jewels and _billets-doux_
from illustrious personages lay concealed. Then, after all these
reminiscences, the “guests” produced faded, tattered newspaper cuttings,
that proclaimed Joyeux “extraordinaire de fantaisie et de verve,” and
Hector Duchatel “le roi de la mode,” and Mademoiselle de Perle “the most
exquisite, the most incomparable of blondes”—“Cabotinville,” if you like;
the tawdry, flashy talk of M. le Cabot and Madame la Cabotine. But I
like, nevertheless, to call up the vision of Coquelin _aîné_, wrapped
in a dressing-gown, a skull-cap pulled down over his ears, listening
patiently and sympathetically to these confidences of the past, and
reading through the faded newspaper cuttings, and saying to haggard
Mademoiselle de Perle: “I myself, like everybody else, was once madly
in love with you,” and to withered old Joyeux: “Those winks and grins
of yours were excruciating,” and—— But an end to this digression. The
scene between Coquelin _aîné_ and his superannuated “guests” is cut short
by the arrival, from the hotel in the rue de Rivoli, of the author of
_Chantecler_.
Well, Constant Coquelin was wearing a dressing-gown and a skull-cap,
because he felt a little “fatigued.” But the visits of M. Rostand,
and of the wig-makers, scene-painters and costumiers, as well as the
impatience of the Parisians to behold the new “masterpiece,” restored to
the comedian all his former energy, enthusiasm. Final resolutions were
made. The first rehearsal at the Porte St-Martin Theatre was fixed for
the following week; the first performance would be given, irrevocably, in
the middle of May. “What a triumph we shall have!” said Coquelin _aîné_
to the few friends he received in the Home. “Ah, my admirable Gillett,
what a work of genius is _Chantecler_!” he exclaimed, when the devoted
valet lighted him to his bedroom. “Listen, I will recite to you Rostand’s
_Hymn to the Sun_. And after that, my good Gillett, you shall hear me
crow.” Replied faithful Gillett: “To-morrow—not to-night. It is wiser to
go to sleep.” But Constant Coquelin refused to sleep until he had recited
and crowed. Up and down the room, in the dressing-gown and skull-cap, he
strutted. The superannuated actors and actresses were awakened by his
cry: “Je t’adore, Soleil!” Five minutes later there resounded throughout
the Home a clarion, peremptory—“Cocorico.” Said the old players: “The
master is rehearsing.” Said Gillett: “Your old servant insists upon your
going to bed.” Said Coquelin _aîné_: “When I have played Chantecler I
shall retire from the stage, and you and I, my faithful Gillett, will
pass the rest of our lives down here, tranquilly, happily, amidst our
twenty old guests.” But next morning, after Gillett had helped his master
into the dressing-gown, Constant Coquelin fell heavily to the floor.
Cry after cry from admirable Gillett, cries from the superannuated
players—then profound silence and gloom. Gloom, too, in Paris. The blinds
darkly drawn in the windows of the first floor of the rue de Rivoli
hotel. The Porte St-Martin—other theatres—closed. All kinds of _soirées_,
banquets and fêtes postponed. “What a disaster, what a tragedy, _mon
ami_; what a blow, what a calamity, _ma chère_.” Gloom—dear, wonderful
Coquelin _aîné_ was dead....
In the summer of 1909 M. Edmond Rostand, after spending four months in
seclusion at Cambo, returned to Paris; a few days later the rehearsals
of _Chantecler_ at the Porte St-Martin Theatre began. “Should anything
happen to me, you must ask Guitry to play my part,” had said Coquelin,
to the poet. M. Guitry, therefore, was appointed “Chantecler,” Madame
Simone, ex-Le Bargy, was made the Hen Pheasant. Gay, frisky M. Galipaux
was created Blackbird, M. Jean Coquelin, the great comedian’s son, chose
the rôle of the Dog. “Irrevocably in November,” stated the newspapers,
“we shall hear ‘Chantecler’ sound his first cocorico.” And Paris rejoiced
once again and was “thrilled.”
But, ah me, how that positive word, “irrevocable,” was misused! No
_Chantecler_ in November, no “Cocorico” in December—only multitudinous
newspaper _potins_ that constantly announced the postponement of the
event, and described “life” at the Porte St-Martin and in M. Rostand’s
hotel on the Champs Elysées. It was repeatedly stated that the poet,
after hot words with M. Guitry, had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.”
It was asserted that Madame Simone had thrown her type-written rôle on
to the stage, stamped hysterically on the rôle, and left the theatre in
tears. It was furthermore reported that M. Guitry was about to undergo
an operation for cancer; that lively Galipaux was suffering from acute
melancholia; that M. Jean Coquelin, distracted, prematurely ancient
and infirm, had taken refuge in the Home at Pont-aux-Dames. Then, the
insinuation that Chantecler would never, never “cocorico.”... Nor,
according to the same newspaper _potins_, was “life” in M. Rostand’s
hotel more serene. He was as closely guarded as the Tsar of All the
Russias. Nevertheless, a waiter who served him was, in reality, a
Yellow Italian journalist; threatening letters and telegrams from
lunatics arrived by the score; and wizened old cranks sent the poet
baskets of feathers, with the solemn warning that unless these, and
only these feathers, were worn by the Cock and the Hen Pheasant, well,
M. Guitry and Madame Simone, and M. Rostand and _Chantecler_ would be
ridiculed, ruined, and done for.... In fine, what a November, what a
December—and what a January of the present year! And when MM. Hertz
and Jean Coquelin, the proprietors of the Porte St-Martin Theatre,
themselves announced that the first performance of _Chantecler_ would
be given on 28th January “_most irrevocably_,” how delirious became the
_potins_, and how agitated the Parisians! The great question was: Would
_Chantecler_ be a triumphant success, or only a moderate success, or a
catastrophe? To determine this problem, clairvoyantes—positively—were
consulted. And Madame Olga de Sonski, at present of the rue des Martyrs,
and late—so her card asserted—of Persia, Budapest, Cairo and Bond
Street—Madame de Sonski declared she already felt the Porte St-Martin,
massive theatre that it was, trembling, almost tottering, from applause.
But not so Madame Juliette de Magenta, of the rue des Ténèbres, from
Morocco, St Petersburg, Constantinople and Broadway: “I hear [_sic_] the
silence, the coldness, the gloom of disappointment and disapproval,”
funereally she said. However, in spite of Madame de Magenta’s lugubrious
prognostications, the news came that M. Rostand had disposed of the
publishing rights of _Chantecler_ for one million francs; that stalls
and dress-circle seats (for the box-office was now open) for the first
three performances were selling like wildfire at six pounds apiece;
that critics and millionaires from America, and French Ambassadors and
Ministers from divers parts of Europe, and even dark-skinned, dyspeptic
merchants from Buenos Ayres, were all hastening to Paris to hear the
“cocorico” of Chantecler. What excitement, what a whirl! For the
twentieth time it was rumoured that M. Rostand had taken “the 9.39 train
back to Cambo.” Now M. Guitry had appendicitis; and Madame Simone had
injured herself by falling through a trap-door. Nevertheless, the first
performance remained fixed “most irrevocably” for 28th January—on which
day many a quarter of Paris and most of the _banlieue_ were flooded.
So, another postponement. Successively, and always “positively
irrevocably,” it was announced that the great event would take place
on 31st January, 2nd February, 5th February and 6th February. And thus
the critics and millionaires from America, the French Ambassadors and
Ministers from divers European capitals, the merchants from Buenos Ayres
(looking sallow and bloodshot from the voyage) were detained in Paris at
much personal inconvenience and loss to themselves. Nothing would move
them until they had heard the clarion cry of—“Cocorico.” And M. Pichon,
Minister of Foreign Affairs, became uneasy at the prolonged sojourn of
the Ministers and Ambassadors. “Diplomatic relations between France and
many a foreign Power are interrupted,” he cried tragically, “and all
because of a cock and a hen pheasant.” Social life, too, was interrupted.
_Le Tout Paris_ refrained from issuing dinner invitations lest they
should clash with the first performance, and countermanded rooms engaged
weeks beforehand in the Riviera hotels.