MAREUIL-SUR-OURCQ, April 20th, 1899.
I could scarcely believe I was in our quiet little town of La
Ferté-Milon to-day. Such a transformation--flags flying, draperies at
all the windows, garlands of greens and flowers across the streets, and
a fine triumphal arch--all greens and flowers arranged about the centre
of the Grande Rue. Many people standing about, looking on, and making
suggestions; altogether, an air de fête which is most unusual in these
sleepy little streets where nothing ever passes, except at four o'clock,
when the three schools come out, and clatter down the street. The École
Maternelle comes first, the good Mère Cécile bringing up the rear of the
procession, holding the smallest children, babies three and four years
old, by the hand, three or four more clinging to her skirts, and guiding
them across the perilous passage of the bridge over the canal. It is a
pretty view from the bridge. The canal (really the river Ourcq,
canalisée), which has preserved its current and hasn't the dead,
sluggish look of most canals, runs alongside of the Mail, a large green
place with grass, big trees, a broad walk down the centre, and benches
under the trees. It is a sort of promenade for the inhabitants and also
serves as a village green, where all the fairs, shows and markets are
held. The opposite bank is bordered by quaint old houses, with round
towers and gardens, full of bright flowers, running down to the water's
edge. There is one curious old colombier which has been there for
centuries; near the bridge there is a lavoir, where there are always
women washing. They are all there to-day, but much distracted, wildly
interested in all that is going on--and the unwonted stir in the
streets; chattering hard, and giving their opinions as to the decoration
of the arch, which is evidently a source of great pride to the town.
On a bright sunny day, when the red roofs and flowers are reflected in
the water, and it is not too cold, their work doesn't seem very hard;
but on a winter afternoon, when they have to break the ice sometimes,
and a biting wind is blowing down the canal, it is pitiable to see the
poor things thinly clad, shivering and damp; their hands and arms red
and chapped with cold. On the other side of the bridge, the canal
wanders peacefully along through endless green meadows, bordered with
poplars, to Marolles, a little village where there is the first écluse
on the way to Paris.
We had been talking vaguely all winter of doing something at La
Ferté-Milon to fêter the bicentenaire of Racine. They were making
preparations at Paris, also at Port Royal, and it seemed hard to do
nothing in his native place. His statue in the Grande Rue is one of the
glories of La Ferté.
Jean Racine was born in La Ferté in 1639. He lost both father and mother
young, and was brought up by his grandparents. He was sent first to
school at Beauvais, later, while still quite a youth, to Port Royal. His
stay there influenced considerably his character and his writings; and
though he separated himself entirely from the "Solitaires" during the
years of his brilliant career as poet and courtier, there remained
always in his heart a latent tenderness for the quiet green valley of
the Chevreuse, where he had passed all his years of adolescence,
listening to the good Fathers, and imbibing their doctrines of the
necessity of divine grace to complete the character. His masters were
horrified and distressed when his talent developed into plays, which
brought him into contact with actors and actresses, and made him an
habitué of a frivolous Court.
There is a pretty letter from one of his aunts, a religieuse de Port
Royal, begging him to keep away from "des fréquentations abominables,"
and to return to a Christian life.
His career was rapid and brilliant. He was named to the Académie
Française in 1673, and when he retired from the theatre was a welcome
and honoured guest at the most brilliant court of the world. He was made
private historian to the King and accompanied him on various campaigns.
There are amusing mentions of the poets-historians (Boileau was also
royal historian) in the writings of their contemporaries, "les messieurs
du sublime," much embarrassed with their military accoutrements and much
fatigued by the unwonted exercise and long days on horseback. The King
showed Racine every favour. He was lodged at Versailles and at Marly and
was called upon to amuse and distract the monarch when the cares of
state and increasing years made all diversions pall upon him. He saw the
decline and disgrace of Madame de Montespan, the marvellous good fortune
of Madame de Maintenon. His famous tragedies of Esther and Athalie were
written at Madame de Maintenon's request for her special institution of
St. Cyr, and the performances were honoured by the presence of the King.
Racine himself directed the rehearsals and the music was composed by
Jean Baptiste Moreau, organist of St. Cyr. The youthful actresses showed
wonderful aptitude in interpreting the passionate, tender verses of the
poet. Young imaginations worked and jealousies and rivalries ran high.
After a certain number of representations Mme. de Maintenon was obliged
to suspend the performances in public, with costumes and music. The
plays were only given in private at the Maison de St. Cyr; the young
scholars playing in the dress of the establishment. He made his peace
with Port Royal before he died. He submitted Phèdre to his former
masters and had the satisfaction of being received again by the "Grand
Arnauld,"[10] who had been deeply offended by his ingratitude and his
criticisms and ridicule of many of his early friends and protectors. He
asked to be buried there, and his body remained until the destruction
and devastation of Port Royal, when it was removed to Paris and placed
in the Church of St. Etienne des Monts.
[10] "Le Grand Arnauld" (Antoine), one of the first and most
influential of the celebrated "Solitaires" who established themselves
at Port Royal, and one of the founders of the famous sect of
Jansenists whose controversies with the Jesuits convulsed the whole
religious world in France during the years 1662-1668. He was followed
in his retreat by his mother (after the husband's death), his brother
and four sisters, one of whom became the "Mère Angélique," Abbesse of
Port Royal.
He returned many times to La Ferté-Milon, and the great poet and
private historian of the Roi Soleil must often have climbed the steep
little street that leads to the ruins, and thought of the changes, since
the little boy lay on the grass at the foot of the great walls, dreaming
golden dreams of the future, which for him were so brilliantly realised.
In a small country town one is slow to adopt new ideas, slower still to
carry them out, but the Mayor and curé were both most anxious to do
something in the birthplace of the poet, and that was the general
feeling in the Department. After many discussions we finally arrived at
a solution, or at least we decided what we wanted: a special service in
the fine old church of Notre Dame, which stands beautifully on the hill,
close to the ruins; a representation of the Comédie Française, and of
course a banquet at the Sauvage, with all the official world, senators,
Préfet, Académiciens--a band of music, a torch-light procession, and as
many distinguished visitors as we could get hold of. _Funds_ of course
were a necessary item, but all the countryside contributed largely, and
we knew that the artists would give their services gratis.
We arranged a breakfast at my house in Paris with Mons. Casimir-Périer,
late President of the Republic, who was always ready to lend his
influence for anything that interests the people, and teaches them
something of their great men, and Mons. Claretie, Directeur of the
Comédie Française, a most cultivated, charming man. He is generally
rather chary of letting his pensionnaires play en province, but this
really was an occasion to break through his rules, and he was quite
ready to help us in every way. We had also M. Sebline, Senator of the
Aisne, and l'Abbé Maréchal, curé of La Ferté-Milon. We had wanted one of
the Administrateurs of the Chemin de Fer du Nord to arrange about a free
transport for the actors, but there seemed some trouble about getting
hold of the right man, and Sebline promised to see about that.
The Abbe Maréchal and I were very ambitious for the theatrical part of
the entertainment and had views of Esther with the costumes, and
choruses of Moreau, but M. Claretie said that would be impossible. It
was difficult enough to arrange in Paris with all the singers,
instruments, and costumes at hand--and would be impossible in the
country with our modest resources. I think the idea of a tent on a
village green rather frightened him; and he didn't quite see the élite
of his company playing in such a cadre--no décor--and probably very bad
acoustics. However, Sebline reassured him. He knew the tent and its
capabilities, having seen it figure on various occasions, comices
agricoles, banquets de pompiers, at village fêtes generally, and said it
could be arranged quite well.
We discussed many programmes, but finally accepted whatever M. Claretie
would give--an act of "Les Plaideurs," and two or three of "Bérénice,"
with Mme. Bartet, who is charming in that rôle. The Abbé Maréchal
undertook the music in his church, and I was sure he would succeed in
having some of the choruses of Esther. His heart was quite set on it.
Once he had settled our programme, the conversation drifted away from
the purely local talk, and was brilliant enough. All the men were clever
and good talkers, and all well up in Racine, his career, and the various
phases of his work.
From the classics we got into modern plays and poets, and there of
course the differences of opinion were wide; but I think the general
public (people in the upper galleries) like better when they go to the
Française to see a classic piece--Roman emperors and soldiers, and
vestal virgins and barbarians in chains--and to listen to their long
tirades. The modern light comedy, even when it treats of the vital
subjects of the day, seems less in its place in those old walls. I quite
understand one couldn't see Britannicus,[11] Mithridate, nor the Cid
every evening.
[11] I remember so well our cousin Arthur's description of his
holidays spent at his grandmother's château. Every evening they read
aloud some classical piece. When he had read Britannicus twice (the
second time to appreciate more fully the beauties which were lightly
passed over at first), he rebelled, had a migraine, or a sore throat,
something which prevented his appearing in the drawing-room after
dinner; and he and his cousins attired themselves in sheets, and stood
on the corner of the wall where the diligence made a sharp turn,
frightening the driver and his horses out of their wits.
We came down here several times to see how things were getting on, and
always found the little town quite feverishly animated. We had succeeded
in getting the band of the regiment stationed at Soissons. I wrote to
the Colonel, who said he would send it with pleasure, but that he
couldn't on his own authority. An application must be made to the
Ministère de la Guerre. There is always so much red tape in France. One
writes and receives so many letters about anything one wants to do--a
Christmas Tree in the school-house--a distribution of soup for the poor
and old--a turn in a road to be rounded, etc. However, the permission
was graciously accorded for the band. The Mayor's idea was to station it
on the Mail, where quantities of people would congregate who couldn't
get into the church or the tent.
We went one day to have tea with the Abbé Maréchal in his nice old
presbytère; the salon opening out on a large, old-fashioned garden with
fine trees, and a view of the church towers in the distance. He was
quite pleased with all that he had arranged for his church service. One
of his friends, Abbé Vignon, a most interesting man and eloquent
preacher, promised to deliver a lecture on Racine from the pulpit; and
M. Vincent d'Indy, the distinguished composer and leader of the modern
school of music, undertook the music with Mme. Jeanne Maunay as singer;
he himself presiding at the organ.
I tried to persuade the proprietors of all the châteaux in the
neighbourhood to come, but I can't say I had much success. Some had
gout--some had mourning. I don't remember if any one "had married a wife
and therefore couldn't come."
However, we shall fill our own house, and give breakfast and dinner to
any one who will come. To-day we have been wandering about on the green
near the ruins, trying to find some place where we can give our friends
tea. The service in the church will certainly be long, and before the
theatrical performance begins we should like to arrange a little
goûter--but where? It is too far to go back to our house, and the
Sauvage, our usual resort, will be packed on that day, and quite off its
head, as they have two banquets morning and evening. The "Cafe des
Ruines," a dirty little place just under the great walls of the château,
didn't look inviting; but there was literally nothing else, so we
interviewed the proprietor, went in to the big room down stairs, which
was perfectly impossible, reeking with smoke, and smelling of cheap
liquor; but he told us he had a "très belle salle" up stairs, where we
should be quite alone. We climbed up a dark, rickety little turning
staircase, and found ourselves in quite a good room, with three large
windows on the green; the walls covered with pictures from the cheap
illustrated papers, and on the whole not too dirty. We have taken it for
the afternoon, told the patron we would come to-morrow, put up tables,
and make as many preparations as we could for the great day. He was very
anxious to furnish something--some "vin du pays;" but we told him all we
wanted was fire, plenty of hot water, and a good scrubbing of floor and
windows.
It is enchanting this afternoon. We are taking advantage of the fine
weather to drive about the country, and show our friends some of our big
farms and quaint little villages. They look exactly as they did a
hundred years ago, "when the Cossacks were here," as they say in the
country. Some of the inns have still kept their old-fashioned signs and
names. Near May, on the road to Meaux, Bossuet's fine old cathedral
town, there is a nice old square red-brick house, "L'Auberge du Veau qui
Téte" (The Inn of the Sucking Calf), which certainly indicates that this
is great farming country. There are quantities of big white oxen, cows,
and horses in the fields, but the roads are solitary. One never meets
anything except on market day. The Florians who live in Seine et Marne,
which is thickly populated--villages and châteaux close together--were
much struck with the loneliness and great stretches of wood and plain.
We are praying for fine weather, as rain would be disastrous. The main
street looks really charming. The green arch is nearly finished, and at
night, when everything is illuminated, will be most effective.
22nd. It rained yesterday afternoon and all night--not light April
showers, but a good, steady downpour. Francis and Ctesse. de Gontaut
arrived from Paris in his little open automobile. Such a limp, draggled
female as emerged from the little carriage I never saw. They had had
some sharp showers; pannes (breakdowns), too, and she _says_ she pushed
the carriage up all the hills. She didn't seem either tired or cross,
and looked quite bright and rested when she reappeared at dinner.
Various friends arrived this morning, and we have been in La Ferté all
the afternoon. The draperies and festoons of flowers don't look any the
worse for the heavy rain, and at least it is over, and we shall probably
have sun to-morrow. The tent is up on the green, and looks fairly large.
I don't think any one will see anything except in the first eight or ten
rows of chairs, but it seems they will all hear. The stage was being
arranged, and, much to our amusement, they told us the Empire chairs and
tables had been lent by the Abbé Maréchal. He is a collectionneur, and
has some handsome furniture. We inspected our tea-room, which didn't
look too bad. Our men were there with tables, china, etc., and when it
is all arranged we shall have quite a respectable buffet. The landlord
was very anxious to decorate the tables with greens, flags, and perhaps
a bust of Racine with a crown of laurels, but we told him it would be
better not to complicate things.
The view was lovely to-day from the top of the hill--the ruins looking
enormous, standing out against the bright blue sky, and soft and pink at
the top where the outline was irregular and the walls crumbling a
little. We had some difficulty in collecting our party, and finally
discovered Francis, Ctesse de Gontaut and Christiani having chocolate
and cakes in the back parlour of the grocer's shop (nothing like
equality on these occasions), who was telling them all the little gossip
of the town, and naming the radicals who wouldn't go to the church.
We had a pleasant evening with music and "baraque"--which is not very
fatiguing as a mental exercise. I tried to send all the party to bed
early, and have come upstairs myself, but I still hear the click of the
billiard balls, and sounds of merriment downstairs. It is a splendid
starlight night, the sky quite blue over the pines. I think we shall
have beautiful weather for our fête. I have very vague ideas as to how
many people we shall have for breakfast and dinner to-morrow, but the
"office" is warned. I hope we shan't starve.
April 24th. Monday.
We had a beautiful and most successful day yesterday. All the household
was stirring fairly early, as we had to get ourselves in to La Ferté
before 12 o'clock. We started in all sorts of conveyances--train,
carriage, voiturette--and found the Grande Rue full of people. The
official breakfast was over, also the visit to the Mairie, where there
are a few souvenirs of the poet--his picture, acte de naissance,[12]
and signature. The procession was just forming to climb up the steep,
little street that leads to the church, so we took a short cut (still
steeper), and waited outside the doors to see them arrive. It was a
pretty sight to see the cortège wind up the path--the Bishop of
Soissons and several other ecclesiastics in their robes, blackcoated
officials, some uniforms--the whole escorted by groups of children
running alongside, and a fair sprinkling of women in light dresses,
with flowers on their hats, making patches of colour. The church was
crowded--one didn't remark the absence of certain "esprits forts" who
gloried in remaining outside--and the service was most interesting.
The lecture or rather "Éloge de Racine" was beautifully given by the
Abbé Vignot. It was not very easy for a priest to pronounce from the
pulpit an eulogium on the poet and dramatic author who had strayed so
far from the paths of grace and the early teachings of Port Royal,
where the "petit Racine" had been looked upon as a model pupil
destined to rise high in the ecclesiastical world; but the orator made
us see through the sombre tragedies of Phèdre, Britannicus and others
the fine nature of the poet, who understood so humanly the passions
that tempt and warp the soul, and showed a spirit of tolerance very
remarkable in those days. He dwelt less upon the courtier; spoke more
of the Christian of his last days. He certainly lent to the "charm of
the poet, the beauty of his voice," for it was impossible to hear
anything more perfect than the intonation and diction of the speaker.
[12] Birth certificate.
There was a short address from Monseigneur Deramecourt, Bishop of
Soissons--a stately figure seated on the Episcopal throne in the
chancel. The music was quite beautiful. We had the famous "Chanteurs de
St. Gervais," and part of the chæurs d'Esther, composed by Moreau, and
sung in splendid style by Mme. Jeanne Maunay, M. Vincent d'Indy
accompanying on the organ. The simple sixteenth century chaunts sung by
the St. Gervais choir sounded splendidly in the fine old cathedral. The
tones seemed fuller and richer than in their Paris church.
We went out a little before the end to see what was going on on the
green. It was still quite a climb from the church, and all the people of
the upper town had turned out to see the sight. It is quite a distinct
population from the lower town. They are all canal hands, and mostly a
very bad lot. The men generally drink--not enough to be really
intoxicated (one rarely sees that in France), but enough to make them
quarrelsome; and the women almost all slatternly and idle. They were
standing at their doors, babies in their arms, and troops of dirty,
ragged, pretty little children playing on the road, and accompanying us
to the green, begging for "un petit sou."
We saw the cortège winding down again, the robes and banners of the
clergy making a great effect, and we heard in the distance the strains
of the military band stationed on the Mail--echoes of the Marseillaise
and the "Père la Victoire" making a curious contrast to the old-world
music we had just been listening to in the church. Our party scattered
a little. Francis went down to the station with his auto to get the
Duc and Duchesse d'Albufera, who had promised to come for the Comédie
and dinner. They are neighbours, and have a beautiful place not very
far off--Montgobert, in the heart of the Villers-Cotteret forest. He
is a descendant of Suchet, one of Napoleon's Marshals, and they have a
fine picture of the Marshal in uniform, and various souvenirs of the
Emperor. Francis had some difficulty in making his way through the
Grande Rue which was packed with people very unwilling to let any
vehicle pass. However, they had a certain curiosity about the little
carriage, which is the first one to appear in this part of the
country--where one sees only farmers' gigs on two high wheels, or a
tapissière, a covered carriage for one horse. However, as every one
knew him they were good natured enough, and let him pass, but he could
not get any further than the foot of the street--too steep for any
carriage to venture.
It was a pretty sight as we got to the Place. Quantities of people
walking about--many evident strangers, seeing the ruins for the first
time. There was a band of schoolboys, about twenty, with a priest, much
excited. They wanted to go in the tent and get good places, but were
afraid of missing something outside, and were making little excursions
in every direction, evidently rather worrying their Director. The tent,
fairly large, looked small under the shadow of the great walls. We
looked in and found a good many people already in their places, and saw
that the first two or three rows of red arm-chairs were being kept for
the quality. One of the sights was our two tall men standing at the door
of the rather dirty, dilapidated "Cafe des Ruines," piloting our friends
past the groups of workmen smoking and drinking in the porch, and up the
dark, rickety staircase. I don't think any one would have had the
courage to go up, if Henrietta hadn't led the way--once up, the effect
of our banqueting-hall was not bad. The servants had made it look very
well with china and silver brought from the house, also three or four
fresh pictures taken from the illustrated papers to cover those which
already existed, and which looked rather the worse for smoke and damp.
We were actually obliged to cover General Boulanger and his famous
black charger with a "Bois de Boulogne le Matin," with carriages,
riders, bicycles, pretty women and children strolling about.
The view from the windows was charming, and it was amusing to watch all
the people toiling up the path. We recognised many friends, and made
frantic signs to them to come and have tea. We had about three-quarters
of an hour before the Comédie began, and when we got to the tent it was
crowded--all the dignitaries--Bishop, Préfet, Senator, Deputy (he didn't
object to the theatrical performance), M. Henri Houssaye, Académician;
M. Roujon, Directeur des Beaux Arts, sitting in the front row in their
red arm-chairs, and making quite as much of a show for the villagers as
the actors.
The performance began with the third act of "Les Plaideurs," played with
extraordinary entrain. There were roars of laughter all through the
salle, or tent--none more amused than the band of schoolboys, and their
youthful enjoyment was quite contagious. People turned to look at them,
and it was evident that, if they didn't see, they _heard_, as they never
missed a point--probably knew it all by heart. Then came a recitation by
Mlle. Moreno, who looked and spoke like a tragic muse the remorse and
suffering of Phèdre. The end of the performance--the two last acts of
Bérénice--was enchanting. Mme. Bartet looked charming in her floating
blue draperies, and was the incarnation of the resigned, poetic, loving
woman; Paul Mounet was a grand, sombre, passionate Titus, torn between
his love for the beautiful Queen and his duty as a Roman to choose only
one of his own people to share his throne and honours. The Roman Senate
was an all-powerful body, and a woman's love too slight a thing to
oppose to it. Bartet was charming all through, either in her long
plaintes to her Confidante, where one felt that in spite of her repeated
assurances of her lover's tenderness there was always the doubt of the
Emperor's faith or in her interviews with Titus--reproaching him and
adoring him, with all the magic of her voice and smile. It was a triumph
for them both, and their splendid talent. With no décor, no room, no
scenic illusions of any kind, they held their audience enthralled. No
one minded the heat, nor the crowd, nor the uncomfortable seats, and all
were sorry when the well-known lines, said by Mme. Bartet, in her
beautiful, clear, pathetic voice
"Servons tous trois d'exemple à l'Univers
De l'amour la plus tendre et la plus malheureuse
Dont il puisse garder l'histoire douloureuse,"
brought to a close the fierce struggle between love and ambition.
As soon as it was over, I went with Sebline to compliment the actors. We
found Bartet, not in her dressing-room, but standing outside, still in
her costume, very busy photographing Mounet, superb as a Roman Emperor.
He was posing most impatiently, watching the sun slowly sinking behind
the ruins, as he wanted to photograph Bérénice before the light failed,
and the time was short. They were surrounded by an admiring crowd, the
children much interested in the "beautiful lady with the stars all over
her dress." We waited a few moments, and had a little talk with them.
They said the fête had interested them very much and they were very glad
to have come. They were rather taken aback at first when they saw the
tent, the low small stage, and the very elementary scenery--were afraid
the want of space would bother them, but they soon felt that they held
their audience, and that their voices carried perfectly. They were
rather hurried, as they were all taking the train back to Paris, except
Bartet, who had promised to stay for the banquet. I had half hoped she
would come to me, but of course I was obliged to waive my claim. When I
saw how much the Préfet and the official world held to having her--when
I heard afterwards that she had had the seat of honour next to the
Bishop I was very glad I hadn't insisted, as she certainly doesn't often
have the opportunity of sitting next to a Bishop. It seems he was
delighted with her.
We loitered about some little time, talking to all our friends. The view
from the terrace was beautiful--directly at our feet the little town,
which is literally two streets forming a long cross, the Grande Rue a
streak of light and color, filled with people moving about, and the air
alive with laughter and music. Just beyond, the long stretches of green
pasture lands, cut every now and then by narrow lanes with apple trees
and hawthorn in flower, and the canal winding along between the green
walls of poplars--the whole hemmed in by the dark blue line of the
Villers-Cotteret forest, which makes a grand sweep on the horizon.
It was lovely driving back to Mareuil, toward the bright sunset clouds.
We had a gay dinner and evening. I never dared ask where the various men
dressed who came to dinner. The house is not very large, and every room
was occupied--but as they all appeared most correctly attired, I suppose
there are resources in the way of lingerie and fumoir which are
available at such times, and Francis's valet de chambre is so accustomed
to having more people than the house can hold that he probably took his
precautions. Francis started off for the banquet at the Sauvage in his
voiturette, but that long-suffering vehicle having made hundreds of
kilomètres these last days, came to grief at the foot of "la Montagne de
Marolles," and he was towed back by a friendly carter and arrived much
disgusted when we were half through dinner.
We heard all the details of the dinner from the Abbé Maréchal. Certainly
the banqueting hall of the Sauvage will not soon again see such a
brilliant assembly. Madame Bartet was the Queen of the Fête, and sat
between the Bishop and the Préfet. There were some pretty speeches from
M. Henri Houssaye, M. Roujon--and of course the toast of the President
accompanied by the Marseillaise.
The departure to the train was most amusing--all the swells, including
Bartet, walking in the cortége, escorted by a torch-light procession,
and surrounded by the entire population of La Ferté.
The Grande Rue was illuminated from one end to the other, red Bengal
lights throwing out splendidly the grand old château and the towers of
Notre Dame.