I had not let a single day elapse before I took my seat again in the
_Théâtre Français_, to which I had free admission for an indefinite
period. The first time I arrived, the doorkeeper at the theatre merely
called the sub-officials together; they looked at me, noted my
appearance, and for the future I might take my seat wherever I liked,
when the man at the entrance had called out his _Entrée_. They were
anything but particular, and in the middle of the Summer, after a visit
of a month to London, I found my seat reserved for me as before.
The first evening after my arrival, I sat, quietly enjoying _Hernani_
(the lyric beauty of which always rejoiced my heart), with Mounet-Sully
in the leading rôle, Bressant as Charles V, and as Doña Sol, Mlle.
Lloyd, a minor actress, who, however, at the conclusion of the piece,
rose to the level of the poetry. The audience were so much in sympathy
with the spirit of the piece that a voice from the gallery shouted
indignantly: "_Le roi est un lâche!_" Afterwards, during the same
evening, I saw, in a transport of delight, Mme. de Girardin's charming
little piece, _La Joie fait Peur_. A certain family believe that their
son, who is a young naval officer, fallen in the far East, has been
cruelly put to death. He comes back, unannounced, to his broken-hearted
mother, his despairing bride, his sister, and an old man-servant. This
old, bent, faithful retainer, a stock dramatic part, was played by
Régnier with the consummate art that is Nature itself staged. He has
hidden the returned son behind a curtain for fear that his mother,
seeing him unexpectedly, should die of joy. The sister comes in.
Humming, the servant begins to dust, to prevent her going near the
curtain; but unconsciously, in his delight, his humming grows louder
and louder, until, in a hymn of jubilation, tratara-tratara! he flings
the broom up over his head, then stops short suddenly, noticing that
the poor child is standing there, mute with astonishment, not knowing
what to think. Capital, too, was the acting of a now forgotten actress,
Mlle. Dubois, who played the young girl. Her exclamation, as she
suddenly sees her brother, "_Je n'ai pas peur, va_!" was uttered so
lightly and gaily, that all the people round me, and I myself, too,
burst into tears.
I was much impressed by Edmond Thierry, then director of the _Théâtre
Français_. I thought him the most refined man I had so far met,
possessed of all the old French courtesy, which seemed to have died out
in Paris. A conversation with him was a regular course in Dramaturgy,
and although a young foreigner like myself must necessarily have been
troublesome to him, he let nothing of this be perceptible. I was so
charmed by him that nearly two years later I introduced a few
unimportant words of his about Molière's _Misanthrope_ into my lectures
on the first part of _Main Currents in European Literature_, simply for
the pleasure of mentioning his name.
It was, moreover, a very pleasant thing to pay him a visit, even when
he was interrupted. For actors streamed in and out of his house. One
day, for instance, the lovely Agar burst into the room to tell her tale
of woe, being dissatisfied with the dress that she was to wear in a new
part. I saw her frequently again when war had been declared, for she it
was who, every evening, with overpowering force and art, sang the
_Marseillaise_ from before the footlights.
The theatrical performances were a delight to me. I had been charmed as
much only by Michael Wiehe and Johanne Luise Heiberg in my salad days
when they played together in Hertz's _Ninon_. But my artistic enjoyment
went deeper here, for the character portrayal was very much more true
to life. The best impressions I had brought with me of Danish art were
supremely romantic, Michael Wiehe as Henrik in _The Fairies_, as the
Chevalier in _Ninon_, as Mortimer in Schiller's _Mary Stuart_. But this
was the real, living thing.
One evening I saw _Ristori_ play the sleep-walking scene in Macbeth
with thrilling earnestness and supreme virtuosity. You felt horror to
the very marrow of your bones, and your eyes filled with tears of
emotion and anxiety. Masterly was the regular breathing that indicated
slumber, and the stiff fingers when she washed her hands and smelt them
to see if there were blood upon them. But Mme. Favart, who with
artistic self-restraint co-ordinated herself into the whole, without
any virtuosity at all, produced no less an effect upon me. As the
leading character in Feuillet's _Julie_, she was perfection itself;
when I saw her, it seemed to me as though no one at home in Denmark had
any idea of what feminine characterisation was. What had been taken for
such (Heiberg's art, for instance,) only seemed like a graceful and
brilliant convention, that fell to pieces by the side of this.
The performances at the _Théâtre Français_ lasted longer than they do
now. In one evening you could see Gozlan's _Tempête dans un verre
d'Eau_, Augier's _Gabrielle_, and Banville's _Gringoire_. When I had
seen Mme. Favart and Régnier in _Gabrielle_, Lafontaine as Louis XI,
his wife as Loyse, Mlle. Ponsin as Nicole, and Coquelin, at that time
still young and fresh, as Gringoire, I felt that I had enjoyed one of
the greatest and most elevating pleasures the world had to offer. I
went home, enraptured and enthusiastic, as much edified as the believer
returning from his church. I could see _Gringoire_ a dozen times in
succession and find only one expression for what I felt: "This is holy."
The piece appealed to me so much, no doubt, because it was more in
agreement than the rest with what in Denmark was considered true
poetry. But during the three years since I had last seen him, Coquelin
had made immense strides in this rôle. He rendered it now with an
individuality, a heartfelt sincerity and charm, that he had not
previously attained; in contrast to harsh King Louis and unfeeling
Loyse, was so poor, and hungry, and ill and merry and tender and such a
hero and such a genius--that I said to myself: "Who, ever has seen
this, has lived."
Quite a short while after my arrival--April 12, 1870--I saw for the
first time Sarah Bernhardt, who had just begun to make a name at the
Odéon. She was playing in George Sand's beautiful and mutinous drama
_L'autre_, from which the great-grandmother in Björnson's _Leonarda_ is
derived. The piece is a plea for the freedom of love, or rather, for
indulgence with regard to what are branded by society as the sins of
love. Sarah Bernhardt was the young girl who, in her innocence, judges
all moral irregularities with the utmost severity, until her eyes are
opened to what the world really is. She is, without knowing it, the
child of unlawful love, and the father's curse is that of not daring to
be anything to his child--whom he has educated and over whom he
watches--not daring to claim his right to her affection, as he would
otherwise stain her mother's memory. In his presence, the young girl
utters all the hard words that society has for those who break her
laws; she calls her unknown father false and forsworn. George Sand has
collected all the justified protests and every prejudice for this young
girl to utter, because in her they inspire most respect, and are to
their best advantage.--So far her father has not revealed himself. Then
at last it dawns upon her that it is he, her benefactor, who is the
_other one_ whom she has just condemned, and as the curtain falls she
flings herself, melted, into his arms.
Sarah played the part with great modesty, with what one might assume to
be the natural melancholy of the orphan, and the enthusiasm of the
young virgin for strict justice, and yet in such wise that, through all
the coldness, through the expressive uncertainty of her words, and
especially through the lovely, rich ring of her voice, one suspected
tenderness and mildness long held back.