“_It was to take from the Ministers all idea of my ambition, to conjure
the storm, that I began again to amuse myself with frivolous theatrical
plays, while guarding a profound silence upon my political actions._”
_Petition to MM. the Representatives of the Commune of Paris by P. A.
Caron de Beaumarchais._
The _Mariage de Figaro_—Its Composition—Difficulties Encountered
in Getting it Produced—It is Played at Grennevilliers—The First
Representation—Its Success—_Institut des mères
nourrices_—Beaumarchais at Saint Lazare.
Several years before Beaumarchais had written in answer to the
question,—“What gives you so gay a philosophy?”
“The habit of misfortune, I hasten to laugh at everything so as not to
be obliged to weep.”
So now in 1778 after seeing Deane recalled, his own service ignored, and
jealousies aroused even among the ministers themselves he turned from
all this bitterness, to develop in his own inimitable way, the gay
scenes of his _Mariage de Figaro_.
“In this piece,” says Gudin, “the combinations were so new, the
situations so varied that one would be tempted to believe that such a
work would have absorbed all the faculties of the mind of its author
during many years, but for him it was only a relaxation from the many
and diverse affairs in which he was engaged.”
M. de Maurepas said to him one day, “And how, occupied as you are, have
you been able to write it?”
“I, M. le Comte! I composed it the day when the ministers of the King
had sufficient leisure to go together to the Redoute.”
“Are there many repartees equal to that in your comedy? If so, I answer
for its success,” retorted Maurepas; for just the day before all the
ministers had gone in a body to spend several hours at one of the new
and fashionable pleasure gardens of Paris known as the Redoute.
But having written his play was very far from having it produced, for
the daring boldness of the author since the marvelous success of his
first comedy was known not to have diminished. The authorities rightly
suspected that the new play would contain even more pointed criticisms
upon the existing social order than had the _Barbier_. To be produced in
public it must first pass the censors and have the approbation of the
king.
La Harpe has said of this play, “It took much wit to write it—but not so
much as to get it played.”
Letters given by Loménie show that already in October, 1781, the actors
of the Théâtre-Français had seen the piece and were discussing with
Beaumarchais the distribution of the parts. The author had appealed to
the lieutenant of police to name a censor and asked as a special favor
that the play should not leave his office. Six weeks later Beaumarchais
learned that the king had read his play and that it had been condemned.
Madame Campan in her Memoires speaks of the incident.
Marie Antoinette who had always liked and protected Beaumarchais said to
the King,
“Will the piece not be played?”
“Certainly not,” answered the King, “it is detestable. Why, the Bastille
would have to be pulled down if that were allowed!”
The situation against which the versatile author had to contend was the
positive prohibition by the supreme head of authority—the King himself,
but who was seconded, however, by very few of those personages who were
nearest to him. In fact this very prohibition excited the curiosity of
the court to such an extent that everyone from the loftiest personages
down, and notably the Duke d’Artois, brother of Louis XVI, was demanding
the favor of hearing Beaumarchais read his play.
“Every day,” explained Madame de Campan, “one hears on every side, ‘I
have heard,’ or ‘I shall hear the piece of Beaumarchais.’”
Flattered as the author must have been by the enthusiasm of the
courtiers, he was far too clever to lose his head or grant lightly the
privilege of a reading.
“Even the most considerable personages of the realm,” says Loménie,
“obtained the privilege on condition that they asked at least twice. The
Princess Lamballe, for instance, personal friend of the queen, had a
violent desire to have Beaumarchais read the _Mariage de Figaro_ in her
salon. She sent an ambassador to him, one of the greatest nobles of the
court, the oldest son of the Maréchal de Richelieu, the Duc de
Fronsac—an ardent patron of the _Mariage_.—Beaumarchais refused to see
him. The duc wrote next day:
“You closed your door against me yesterday which was not well.
However, I do not hold against you enough malice to prevent me
from speaking of the negotiation with which I am charged by Mme.
the Princess of Lamballe—and I propose you come next Wednesday
to Versailles to dine with me, after which we will go to her.
Your very humble servant, etc.
“Le duc de Fronsac.”
Beaumarchais evidently refused a second time for again the Duke wrote
another letter, more urgent, to which the author finally yielded.
The grand Duke (afterward Paul I) and Duchess of Russia, while visiting
Versailles in the spring of 1782, also became ardent supporters of the
piece, after Beaumarchais had accorded them the privilege of a reading.
Strong now with the support of so many notables, he took occasion to
write a vigorous letter to M. the _Garde des Sceaux_, to which august
personage he began by apologizing for bothering him with such a
“frivolous subject” but ended by a very ardent plea that his play be
permitted to appear before the public.
“In June of 1783,” says Loménie, “Beaumarchais, who, it must not be
forgotten, conducted twenty other operations at the same time, seemed on
the point of succeeding.... By the influence of some one unknown, the
comedians received an order to learn the piece so that it might be
played before the court of Versailles. Later it was decided that it
should be performed in Paris itself at the _hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs_.”
Everything was ready, even the tickets were out, when suddenly an
express order of the king arrived, forbidding the performance. “This
prohibition of the king,” says Madame de Campan, “seemed like an attack
upon the liberty of the public. The disappointed hopes of the people
excited discontent to such an extent that the words, ‘_oppression_,’
‘_tyranny_’ were never pronounced in the days before the fall of the
throne, with so much passion and vehemence.”
Beaumarchais could well afford, as he writes, “to put his piece back in
its portfolio, waiting until some event should draw it out again,” for
the prohibition of the king had acted only as the most serviceable
advertisement. Therefore he had not long to wait.
Being in England on business the latter part of the summer, he received
a letter from the Duc de Fronsac, from which the following is an
extract:
“Paris, the 4th of September, 1783.
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will not object that I shall write to
obtain your consent to have the _Mariage de Figaro_ played at
Grennevilliers.... You know that I have for several years turned
over my estate of Grennevilliers to M. de Vaudreuil. M. le Comte
d’Artois comes there to hunt the 18th and Madame the Duchess de
Polignac with her society comes to supper. Vaudreuil has asked me
to arrange a spectacle, for there is a good enough hall. I told
him that there was nothing more charming than the _Mariage de
Figaro_, but that we must have the consent of the king. _We have
secured that and_ I went running to find you and was astonished
and distressed to find that you were far away in the north.
“Will you not give your consent that the piece be played? I
promise you that I will do my utmost to have it well given. M. le
Comte d’Artois and his whole society are waiting with the
greatest eagerness to see it, and certainly it will be a great
step in advance towards having it given at Fontainebleau and
Paris.... I, in particular, have the greatest desire and I beg
you to reply quickly, quickly. Let it be favorable, I beg you,
and never doubt my gratitude and the esteem and friendship with
which I shall always be, Monsieur, yours, etc.
“Le duc de Fronsac.”
“While the duc de Fronsac,” says Loménie, “sent after Beaumarchais, the
comte de Vaudreuil who was arranging the festival in honor of the comte
d’Artois and Madame de Polignac, waited with impatience for the consent
of Beaumarchais. We have under our eyes a letter of the comte written to
the duc de Fronsac which was found among the papers of Beaumarchais,
apparently because the latter fearing some sudden change of feeling in
the King, had requested that the duc give him the entire correspondence,
in order that he might be in a position to prove that he had acted only
at the urgent solicitations of the courtiers.
“This circumstance enables us to observe closely what was passing in
those frivolous heads that were soon to be stricken off, and to realize
with what blind impatience those thoughtless patricians aspired to be
pointed out by Figaro for the contempt of the masses.”
In this letter of the count, after running over a half dozen plays that
do not satisfy him, he says:
“Fearing the permission of M. de Beaumarchais would not reach us
in time we will postpone the spectacle for three or four days so
it will not be given until the 21st or the 22nd. Will you please
see that the comedians hold themselves ready for that date? But
_hors du ‘Mariage de Figaro,’ point de salut_ (our only salvation
is in the _Mariage de Figaro_). Thank you a thousand times, my
dear Fronsac, for all your trouble. I know that it is for these
ladies and M. the comte d’Artois, who join in my gratitude.
Receive the renewed expression of my deep regard which is yours
for life;
“Le comte de Vaudreuil.”
Again to quote Loménie:
“Beaumarchais, then in England, learned that nothing was now lacking but
his own consent to play the piece prohibited by the king several months
before. He returned immediately to Paris and it was he now who was the
one to make the conditions. He was not satisfied simply to amuse the
court, but wished rather to reach the public and to make them laugh at
the expense of the court, which was a very different matter. If,
however, the one would lead to the other, Beaumarchais would be charmed
to gratify MM. de Vaudreuil and de Fronsac, but before consenting to the
representation taking place at Grennevilliers, he required that the
favor be accorded him of a new censure. Singular request!
“‘But,’ they said to him, ‘your play has already been censored,
approved, and we have the permission of the king.’
“‘No matter, it must be censored again.’
“To M. de Breteuil he wrote, ‘they found me a little difficult in my
turn and they said it was only because I was so sought after; but since
I desired _absolutely_ to _fix public opinion_ by a new examination of
the piece, I insisted, and so they have accorded me the severe
historian, Gaillard of the French Academy.’
“This,” continues Loménie, “was well thought out. Just before a court
festival, where all were eagerly awaiting the representation, what
censor, no matter how arbitrary, would dare interfere by spoiling their
joy and provoking the anger of the powerful lords who ordered the
festival? And so, as was to be expected, the report of the censure was
‘completely favorable.’”
But Beaumarchais was not yet satisfied. “The play approved once more,”
he wrote in his memoirs to M. de Breteuil, “I carried my precaution so
far that I required before I would consent to its being played at the
festival, the express promise of the magistracy that the
Comédie Française might consider it as belonging to their theater and I
dare certify that that assurance was given by M. Lenoir, who certainly
believed everything complete as did I myself.”
“To appreciate the diplomatic value,” continues Loménie, “of this
passage, and the art with which Beaumarchais in the suppleness of his
tenacity knew how to bind over the people who inconvenienced him, and
that he could not openly attack, it is well to recall that at this
moment he was struggling against an express prohibition of the
representation of his play by the king, a prohibition that his majesty
consented to lift only for one day, in a particular house and that only
to gratify his brother the Comte d’Artois and M. de Vaudreuil.”
Beaumarchais, on his side, was sincere in not wishing to let it be
played at Grennevilliers except on condition that he be formally
promised that sooner or later it would be given to the public; but since
he did not dare to push the matter so far, he saw the way to take one
step in advance, by inventing the beautiful paraphrase that had just
been read, which became a sort of vague engagement contracted with him
and upon which he would depend very soon to push matters still further.
On these conditions he finally accorded the permission asked, and M. de
Vaudreuil thanked him in a letter which proves as far as he was
concerned, that he accepted the engagement in the sense understood by
Beaumarchais. He wrote:
[Illustration: JOHN JAY]
“The comte de Vaudreuil has the honor to thank M. de Beaumarchais for
the kindness which he has shown in allowing his piece to be played at
Grennevilliers. The comte de Vaudreuil has seized with alacrity this
opportunity of giving to the public a chef d’œuvre which it awaits with
impatience. The presence of Monseigneur the comte d’Artois and the real
merit of this charming piece will in the end destroy all the obstacles
which have retarded its representation. The comte de Vaudreuil hopes
very soon to be able to thank M. de Beaumarchais personally.
“This Monday, Sept. 15th, 1783.”
“The success of this representation at Grennevilliers was such,” to
continue the account of Loménie, “that a complete change operated in
Beaumarchais’s attitude toward the piece. Resigned hitherto under the
royal prohibition, working slowly and carefully to gain ground, he now
became impatient, pressing and almost imperious. It is clear to anyone
who will reflect, that on the day when Louis XVI permitted at the
insistence of the Queen, the Comte d’Artois and M. de Vaudreuil to the
representation at Grennevillier, he placed himself where he would be
unable long to resist public curiosity, carried now to the heights by
that very representation, of which everyone spoke, and by the address of
Beaumarchais.” It was not, however, until March, 1784, that the desired
permission was given.
“The picture of that representation of _Le Mariage de Figaro_,” says
Loménie, “is in all the chronicles of the times, it is the best
remembered scene of the eighteenth century. All Paris from earliest
morning, pressed the doors of the Théâtre-Français; the greatest ladies
dining in the boxes of the actresses so as to be sure of their
places—the guards dispersed, the doors broken down, the iron railings
giving way before the crowd of assailants. When the curtain rose upon
the scene, the finest reunion of talent which the Théâtre-Français had
ever possessed was there with but one thought, to bring out to the best
advantage a comedy, flashing with _esprit_, carrying one away in its
movement and audacity, which if it shocks some of the boxes, enchants,
stirs, enflames and electrifies the parterre.”
And what is this play that roused such wild enthusiasm a century and
more ago, and which to-day, although its political significance has long
vanished, would still give its author, had he done nothing but create
its characters, a right to a place among the immortals?
“The _Mariage de Figaro_,” to quote his own words, “was the most trivial
of intrigues:
“A great Spanish nobleman, in love with a young girl whom he wishes to
seduce, and the efforts of that same girl and of him to whom she is
engaged, and of the wife of the nobleman united to outwit his
designs—and he an absolute master whose rank, fortune and prodigality
render all powerful its accomplishment—that and nothing more.”
The characters are those in the main of the _Barbier_: the Comte
Almaviva, the Comtesse Rosine, and the valet Figaro, are old friends.
But there are new ones, the page Cherubim, and Suzanne, lady’s maid to
the Comtesse—“Always laughing, tender, full of gaiety, of _esprit_, of
love and delicious!—but good.”
“Like the _Barbier_,” says Lintilhac, “it is here a question of
marriage, but it is the valet this time who is to marry and the
obstacles which retard this desired _dénouement_ arise, not from the
jealousy of a guardian, or the resistance of a father but from the
covetousness of a young libertine master.... It is the master who is
outwitted, the valet and his fiancée who triumph, and in this
_dénouement_ lies the whole secret of the wild enthusiasm with which the
piece was greeted. Right here lies the Revolution.”
But the master is as truly painted in the play as the other characters.
“The Comte Almaviva,” says Imbert de Saint Amand, “is the old régime,
Figaro is the new society. Almaviva is corrupt, but he is always _comme
il faut_. Even in his anger he remains the man of good society; no doubt
his faults are great; he is a libertine from ennui, jealous from
vanity, but he is not odious, not ridiculous.”
But to return to Lintilhac:
“We may see that Figaro, by the aid of two clever women and his
own _esprit_ has the opportunity to interest the public and to
bring all to a happy ending.
“‘Be on your guard that day, M. Figaro! First put the clocks in
advance so as to be a little surer of marrying. Get rid of
Marceline who wants to marry you herself—take all the money and
the presents, let the count have his way, in little things; drub
Basil roundly, ... (Act I, Scene II). And let us finish the
programme which the fat doctor interrupts,—giving yourself full
rein, invective politics, graft and those who live by it;
ridicule censorship, and the law, as well as those who abuse
both—banter privileges and the privileged and all that attaches
itself to either, in a word—open the way for the men of genius
who are preparing there below in the obscure crowd, and who wish
to emerge.
“But the time to laugh, _la folle journée_ commences. _Quel
imbroglio!_ Twenty times everything seems finished, and suddenly,
an unexpected incident, but always arising out of the situation,
throws forward in rapid movement that brilliant group of
personages. They seek, they evade one another, group themselves
in tableaux turn by turn, animated and gracious, laughing or
grotesque....
“And the new song to the old music! And the scene which a moment
ago framed these charming groups, suddenly fills with the noise
of the crowd and the whole village which sings. _Quel crescendo_
of gaiety!...
“Take the most ingenious comedy of Lope de Vega, or Calderon, add
the gaiety of Regnard, the comique of George Dandin, the amusing
of Vadé, and one will scarcely have in imagination the
equivalent of the scene on the night which terminates the
_Mariage de Figaro_.”
And his faithful friend Gudin says of it: “In this piece the
parterre applauded not only scenes founded upon true
_comique_—that of situations, new characters, like Cherubim and
Bridoison—but also the courageous man who dared undertake to
combat by ridicule the libertinage of the great lords, the
ignorance of magistrates, the venality of officers and the
unbecoming way of pleading of lawyers.
“Beaumarchais might perhaps consider himself more authorized in
this than anyone else since he had been calumniated so
outrageously by great lords, and injured by the insolent
pleadings of lawyers, and _blâmé_ by bad judges.... Let us dare
to say what is true, that since Molière no author had better
understood the human heart, or better painted the manners of his
time.”
And his latest critic, Lintilhac, a hundred years after Gudin,
corroborates his judgment. “By the creation of Figaro, Beaumarchais is
the first comic French author after Molière, the incomparable painter of
character.”
Of the famous monologue of the piece, Gudin says, “I remember that when
the author composed it in a moment of enthusiasm, he was alarmed himself
at its extent. We examined it together; I regarded it with severe
attention. Everything seemed to me in its place; not a word could be
omitted without regretting it. Every phrase had a moral or a useful
object proper to cause the spectator to reflect either on human nature
or on the abuses of society.”
Of its moral significance Beaumarchais has commented in his preface to
the play: “An author has but one duty; to correct men in making them see
themselves as they are, whether he moralizes in laughing or weeps in
moralizing.”
And let us now close this brief summary of the famous play by the
description given by Imbert de Saint-Amand in “_La fin de l’ancien
Régime_.”
“Beaumarchais, that marvelous wit, was scarcely aware perhaps of the
weight of his attacks and of the gravity of the piece. He did not desire
the fall of the throne any more than the overturning of the altar, at
heart he was monarchic.... The first representation was given April 27,
1784, by the Comédie Française.... The success went to the stars.
Beaumarchais himself could not help crying out, ‘There is something more
astounding than my piece, it is its success.’ ... Actors and actresses
surpassed themselves. Every word told. Each bit of satire was welcomed
by acclamations and bravos without end. The public recognized itself in
the portrait of Figaro. ‘Never angry, always gay, giving over the
present to joy and not worrying about the future any more than the
past,—lively, generous, _generous_!’
“‘Like a robber,’ says Bartolo.
“‘Like a lord,’ replies Marceline.
“What joy for all that assembly, his definition of a courtier:
“Figaro—‘I was born to be a courtier.’
“Suzanne—‘They say it is a very difficult business.’
“Figaro—‘Receive, take, ask, that is the secret in three words.’
“What joyous laughter at the reflection, very true, by the way:
“Le Comte—‘The domestics here take longer to dress than their masters.’
“Figaro—‘That is because they have no valets to help them.’
“What an excellent remark upon the chances for functionaries:
“Le Comte—‘With character and intelligence you may one day be promoted
in office.’
“Figaro—‘Intelligence will advance me? Monsieur is making sport of
mine—to be mediocre and cringing, one can arrive at anything.’
“And after this very subtle observation, what a picture of diplomacy:
“‘Pretend to be ignorant of what everyone knows, and to know what others
do not know, seem to understand what nobody comprehends, not to hear
what all hear, and most of all appear able to do the impossible. Seem
profound when one is only empty; spread spies, pension traitors, loosen
seals, and intercept letters; magnify the poverty of the methods by the
importance of the object,—that’s politics, or I’m a dead man.’
“The diplomats who were in the audience were transported with pleasure
in hearing their business so exactly judged.
“The great ladies went into ecstacies at the remark of Suzanne to the
countess: ‘I have noticed how a knowledge of the world gives an ease to
ladies well brought up, so they can lie without showing it.’
“They applauded with enthusiasm that democratic observation, but
profoundly true of this same Suzanne: ‘Do you think women of my position
have hysterics? That is a malady which is only to be found in the
boudoir.’
“The great lords, always surrounded with flatterers and parasites,
applauded with transport that phrase of Figaro to Basil: ‘Are you a
prince that you must be servilely flattered? Suffer the truth, wretch,
since you cannot pay a liar.’
“But the moment when the enthusiasm became delirium, frenzy—the moment
when the dukes and peers, the ministers, the _cordons rouges_, the
_cordons bleus_—were transported to the seventh heaven of acclaim, was
when the daring _Barbier_ transformed himself into a tribune and said
to all of them in the monologue under the chestnut tree:
“‘Because you are a great lord you believe yourself a great genius.
Rank, fortune, position, all that make you so proud! What have you done
to deserve so many gifts? You have taken the trouble to be born, nothing
else!’
“The functionaries charged with the censure were particularly enchanted
with this phrase of the same monologue: ‘On condition that I do not
speak in my writings, either of authority, or religion, or politics, or
morals, or of people in position, or bodies in favor, or anyone who
holds to anything, I am allowed to write, to print everything freely
under the inspection of two or three censors.’
“The ministers charged to fill public functions found the following
phrase very just: ‘They thought of me for a position, but by ill luck I
was suited to it; they needed a calculator, it was a dancer who received
it.’”
“The _Mariage de Figaro_” says Loménie, “was presented sixty-eight times
consecutively, something unheard of in that day. The receipts for the
first presentation amounted to 6,511 livres, that of the sixty-eighth
was 5,483. During eight months, from the 27th of April, 1784, to the
10th of January, 1785, the piece had brought to the Comédie Française
(not counting the fiftieth presentation which at Beaumarchais’s request
had been given for the benefit of the poor) a gross sum of 347,197
livres, which left when all expenses were deducted, a net profit to the
Comedians of 293,755 livres, except the part of the author which was
valued at 41,499 livres....
“This sum the author of the _Mariage de Figaro_, as if to sanctify the
piece, consecrated to works of charity.
“‘I propose,’ he wrote in the _Journal de Paris_, the 12th of August,
1784, ‘_un institut de bienfaisance_, to which any woman recognized as
needy and inscribed in her parish, can come, her infant in her arms and
with her certificate from the parish priest, say to us, “I am a mother
and a wet nurse, I gain twenty sous a day, my infant makes me lose
twelve.” Let us give her nine livres a month in charity.... So if the
comedians have gained two hundred thousand francs from my Figaro, my
nursing mothers will have twenty-eight thousand which with the thirty
thousand of my friends, will produce a whole regiment of _marmots_
stuffed with maternal milk.’”
“This institute,” continues Loménie, “of _les pauvres mères nourrices_,
encountered obstacles at Paris which prevented its establishment in that
city; but since the idea was good it did not remain fruitless. The
Archbishop of Lyon, M. de Montazet, adopted it. He accepted the help and
money of Beaumarchais, and the _Institut de bienfaisance maternelle_, if
I am not mistaken still in existence in Lyon, was the outcome of the
_Mariage de Figaro_. Beaumarchais was one of its most constant
protectors and in 1790 he sent six thousand francs to it and received in
return the following letter signed by three of the most respectable and
important inhabitants of Lyon:
“‘Lyon, the 11th of April, 1790.
“‘Monsieur:
“‘To speak to you of the success of _l’Institut de bienfaisance
maternelle_, is to entertain you in regard to your own work. The
idea of it is yours, therefore the plan of the work belongs to
you. You have aided it with your generous gifts and more than two
hundred children saved to the country, already owe their lives to
you. We consider ourselves happy to have contributed to it and
our gratitude will always equal the respectful sentiments with
which we are Monsieur, etc., _Les administrateurs de l’Institut
de bienfaisance maternelle_.
“‘Palerne de Sacy, Chapp et Tabareau.’”
It was jealousy, Gudin tells us, that prevented the establishment of the
institute at Paris. A storm of protest arose from his enemies on every
hand.
“It is not enough,” they wrote, “to have gained at the bar the crown of
Cicero and Parru; to have received at the theater, from the hands of
Thalie, the laurels of Molière, he must needs add to the just applause
with which he is greeted, the cries of joy and benediction of the
unfortunate!... From this feeble stream of money will flow rivers of
milk and crowds of vigorous infants.” An engraving was circulated
showing Figaro helping mothers and opening the prison doors of poor
debtors....
Gudin says: “The design made known, redoubled the solicitation of the
unfortunates addressed to him as well as the insults which the envious
poured upon him. He scarcely could open a letter which did not contain
either a demand for charity if it was signed, or a series of invectives
if it were anonymous.”
One of these letters contained a curious request, not for money, as was
usually the case, but asking that the author of the _Mariage de Figaro_,
send the applicant a ticket to his play. “Misfortune,” he wrote, “has
driven me to despair, but before ending my life I desire once more to
indulge in unrestrained laughter.”
With characteristic generosity, Beaumarchais sent at once a message, to
inquire into the cause of the young man’s misfortune and not only gave
him the desired ticket but restored hope to his distressed mind, found a
position for him and warmed him back to a desire for life.
“But thus,” Gudin tells us, “while with his wife, his daughter, his
sisters, and a few friends, he was receiving the applause of the people
and the benedictions of the fathers of families—a frightful outrage and
one without motive was inflicted upon him by authority.
“I was supping with him; we were at the table when the commissioner
Chenu was announced and asked to speak privately with Beaumarchais. They
passed into an adjoining room.
“We knew that the commissioner was his friend, still the conference made
us uneasy. At length they came out together. Beaumarchais embraced us,
as he said he would be obliged to go out and perhaps to pass the night
away from home. He begged us not to be uneasy and that the next day we
should be informed as to the cause of his going.
“These words, far from calming, troubled us. We could not doubt that he
had been arrested, but why? Where would they take him? Perhaps to the
Bastille?...
“Not to the Bastille, nor to Vincennes, but to St. Lazare, a prison
house of correction for delinquent youths, he, a man of mature age, of
the constancy, of the fortune of M. de Beaumarchais, treated as a
depraved adolescent! It was a cowardly outrage.
“His enemies were charmed to see him thus humiliated. The consternation
was general. Lafayette, the Prince de Nassau-Siegen, and other noblemen
appealed instantly in his favor. At the end of five days he was
liberated....
“I went with his wife and daughter and the Commissioner Chenu to bring
him the news of his release. His first reaction was to refuse liberty.
“‘I have done nothing to merit having lost it,’ he said, ‘I shall not go
from here until judged and justified....’
“If he had not been husband and father, his obstinacy would no doubt
have carried him to the point of demanding justice of the king against
the king himself ... but he could not permit himself to pierce the
hearts of his wife and daughter by condemning them to eternal tears in
the vain hope of tearing from power the avowal of an injustice....
“Princes, Marshals of France, persons of every rank had inscribed their
names at his door during his detention and came to felicitate him on his
return....”
And what was the cause that had operated to bring about this sudden
outburst of power directed against the author of the _Mariage de
Figaro_?
It was this. In a dispute carried on with vigor in the pages of _le
Journal de Paris_, between Beaumarchais and certain anonymous attacks
directed against him, the former had made use of the expression, “After
having been forced to conquer _lions_ and _tigers_ to have my comedy
played....”
“_Lions_ and _tigers_!” Evidently the daring man meant the King and
Queen of France! The news was brought at once to the royal presence.
Louis XVI, already annoyed beyond measure at the success of the play, to
the performance of which he had been forced to consent in spite of
himself, only needed some pretext to vent his displeasure, “so without
rising from the card table at which he was seated,” says Loménie, “he
wrote, if we may credit the authority of the author of _Souvenirs d’un
Sexagénaire_, M. Arnault, ... upon the back of a seven of spades, in
pencil, the order for the immediate arrest of Beaumarchais and joining
insult to rigor, something which no sovereign is permitted to use, he
ordered him conducted, not to an ordinary prison, but one ridiculous and
shameful for a man of his years, to Saint-Lazare, where depraved
adolescents were detained.
“To treat as a young good-for-nothing, a man of his age and celebrity, a
man to whom confidential missions were entrusted, who carried the
secrets of state, who was charged with the most important operations,
and whose talents were a powerful attraction to the public and to the
aristocracy, was not only a gross injustice, it was a most serious
fault, because it became manifest to everyone how pernicious the
influence of uncontrolled power might become even in the hands of the
best prince. This arbitrary act is the only one of its kind that can be
held as a reproach to Louis XVI....
“The next day, when the motive was demanded for that incarceration, the
government said nothing, as it had nothing to say, for it would have
been difficult to make anyone believe that Beaumarchais intended to
compare Louis XVI to a _tiger_. The public became uneasy and began to
murmur, and the day after to murmur loudly.”
“Every one,” says Arnault, “felt himself menaced, not only in his
liberty but in his reputation.” The fourth day there was a general
movement of indignation.... The fifth day Beaumarchais was turned out of
prison almost in spite of himself ... and Loménie continues:
“A few days’ reflection had made the king realize that he could not
decently admit the intention given to the author, and coming back to the
sentiments of justice and goodness so natural to him, he almost begged
Beaumarchais to come out of prison, and set about in every way to make
up to him for the wrong done him. Grimm affirms that nearly all the
ministers were present at the first performance of the play after his
release, which was made the most brilliant possible, when they had the
slight unpleasantness of hearing this passage of the famous monologue
applauded with fervent energy: ‘Not being able to debase the spirit,
they take revenge in abuse.’”
[Illustration: D’ESTAIGN.]
Louis XVI, very soon after this, hastened to make amends in the noblest
manner and the one most worthy of a sovereign who felt that he had done
wrong. “_Le Barbier de Séville_,” says Grimm, “was given at the little
theater of the Trianon, and the very distinguished favor was accorded
the author to be present at the performance.”
In the chapter on the _Barbier_ we have spoken already of this striking
scene, where the queen herself, the Comte d’Artois, M. de Vaudreuil,
etc., were the actors. There is one more line to this touching picture
which we have from the pen of Gudin.
“A zealous partisan of royalty, after making himself trusted by those in
power and in the guise of a Sans-culotte, had penetrated to the presence
of the unhappy queen, then prisoner in the Temple. He was able to speak
to her and asked if there were anyone of whom she could think who might
help her, and he suggested Beaumarchais. The queen’s countenance
instantly fell.
“‘Alas,’ she said, ‘he now has it in his power to avenge himself for the
insult once offered him.’” And Gudin adds, “She did not know the heart
of Beaumarchais or that if it had been possible, now that she was in
trouble, he would have come to her relief with far more alacrity than in
the hey day of her power.”
But the storm now gathering, that was to sweep the mighty from their
seats, was destined also to vent its fury upon the man of the people
whose riches and honors long had been the objects of their jealous rage.
Twice he owed his safety to the poor whom he had assisted, but in the
general _débâcle_ which followed there was no opportunity for his wit or
his ingenuity to save him; the author of the _Mariage de Figaro_ and the
_Barbier_ was forced himself to bend before the storm.