"Le Monomane."
As a distinguished specimen of fashionable horror, I went last night
to the Porte St. Martin to see "The Monomane," a drama in five acts,
from the pen of a M. Duveyrier. I hardly know whether to give you a
sketch of this monstrous outrage against common sense or not; but I
think I will do so, because I flatter myself that no one will be silly
enough to translate it into English, or import it in any shape into
England; and, therefore, if I do not tell you something about it, you
may chance to die without knowing to what prodigious lengths a search
after absurdity may carry men.
But first let me mention, as not the least extraordinary part of the
phenomenon, that the theatre was crowded from floor to roof, and that
Shakspeare was never listened to with attention more profound.
However, it does not follow that approval or admiration of any kind
was either the cause or the effect of this silent contemplation of the
scene: no one could be more devoted to the business of the hour than
myself, but most surely this was not the result of approbation.
If I am not very clear respecting the plot, you must excuse me, from
my want of habitual expertness in such an analysis; but the main
features and characters cannot escape me.
An exceedingly amiable and highly intellectual gentleman is the hero
of this piece; a part personated by a M. Lockroi with a degree of
ability deserving a worthier employment. This amiable man holds at
Colmar the office of _procureur du roi_; and, from the habit of
witnessing trials, acquires so vehement a passion for the shedding of
blood on the scaffold, that it amounts to a mania. To illustrate this
singular trait of character, M. Balthazar developes his secret
feelings in an opening speech to an intimate friend. In this speech,
which really contains some very good lines, he dilates with much
enthusiasm on the immense importance which he conceives to attach to
the strict and impartial administration of criminal justice. No man
could deliver himself more judge-like and wisely; but how or why such
very rational and sober opinions should lead to an unbounded passion
for blood, is very difficult to understand.
The next scene, however, shows the _procureur du roi_ hugging himself
with a kind of mysterious rapture at the idea of an approaching
execution, and receiving with a very wild and mad-like sort of agony
some attempts to prove the culprit innocent. The execution takes
place; and after it is over, the innocence of the unfortunate victim
is fully proved.
The amiable and excellent _procureur du roi_ is greatly moved at this;
but his repentant agony is soon walked off by a few well-trod
melodramatic turns up and down the stage; and he goes on again,
seizing with ecstasy upon every opportunity of bringing the guilty to
justice.
What the object of the author can possibly be in making out that a man
is mad solely because he wishes to do his duty, I cannot even guess.
It is difficult to imagine an honest-minded magistrate uttering more
common-place, uncontrovertible truths upon the painful duties of his
station, than does this unfortunate gentleman.
M. Victor Hugo, speaking of himself in one of his prefaces, says, "Il
(Victor Hugo) continuera donc fermement; et chaque fois qu'il croira
nécessaire de faire bien voir à tous, dans ses moindres détails, une
idée utile, une idée sociale, une idée humaine, il posera le théâtre
déssus comme un verre grossissant."[3]
It strikes me that M. Duveyrier, the ingenious author of the Monomane,
must work upon the same principle, and that in this piece he thinks
he has put a magnifying-glass upon "une idée sociale."
But I must return to my analysis of this drama of five mortal
acts.--After the execution, the real perpetrator of the murder for
which the unfortunate victim of legal enthusiasm has innocently
suffered appears on the scene. He is brought sick or wounded into the
house of a physician, with whom the _procureur du roi_ and his wife
are on a visit. Balthazar sees the murderer conveyed to bed in a
chamber that opens from that of his friend the doctor. He then goes to
bed himself with his wife, and appears to have fallen asleep without
delay, for we presently see him in this state come forth from his
chamber upon a gallery, from whence a flight of stairs descends upon
the stage. We see him walk down these stairs,--take some instrument
out of a case belonging to the doctor,--enter the apartment where the
murderer has been lodged,--return,--replace the instrument,--wash his
bloody hands and wipe them upon a hand-towel,--then reascend the
staircase and enter his lady's room at the top of it; all of which is
performed in the silence of profound sleep.
The attention which hung upon the whole of this long silent scene was
such, that one might have supposed the lives of the audience depended
upon their not waking this murderous sleeper by any sound; and the
applause which followed the mute performance, when once the awful
_procureur du roi_ was again safely lodged in his chamber, was
deafening.
The following morning it is discovered that the sick stranger has been
murdered; and instantly the _procureur du roi_, with his usual ardour
in discovering the guilty, sets most ably to work upon the
investigation of every circumstance which may throw light upon this
horrible transaction. Everything, particularly the case of
instruments, of which one is bloody, and the hand-towel found in his
room, stained with the same accusing dye--all tends to prove that the
poor innocent physician is the murderer: he is accordingly taken up,
tried, and condemned.
This unfortunate young doctor has an uncle, of the same learned
profession, who is addicted to the science of animal magnetism. This
gentleman having some suspicion that Balthazar is himself the guilty
person, imagines a very cunning device by which he may be made to
betray himself if guilty. He determines to practise his magnetism upon
him in full court while he is engaged in the duties of his high
office, and flatters himself that he shall be able to throw him into a
sleep or trance, in which state he may _par hasard_ let out something
of the truth.
This admirable contrivance answers perfectly. The attorney-general
does fall into a most profound sleep the moment the old doctor begins
his magnetising manoeuvres, and in this state not only relates aloud
every circumstance of the murder, but, to give this confession more
sure effect, he writes it out fairly, and sets his name to it, being
profoundly asleep the whole time.
And here it is impossible to avoid remarking on the extreme ill
fortune which attends the sleeping hours of this amiable
attorney-general. At one time he takes a nap, and kills a man without
knowing anything of the matter; and then, in a subsequent state of
oblivion, he confesses it, still without knowing anything of the
matter.
As soon as the unfortunate gentleman has finished the business for
which he was put to sleep, he is awakened, and the paper is shown to
him. He scruples not immediately to own his handwriting, which,
sleeping or waking, it seems, was the same; but testifies the greatest
horror and astonishment at the information the document contains,
which was quite as unexpected to himself as to the rest of the
company.
His high office, however, we must presume, exempts him from all
responsibility; for the only result of the discovery is an earnest
recommendation from his friends, particularly the old and young
doctors, that he should travel for the purpose of recovering his
spirits.
There is a little episode, by the way, from which we learn, that once,
in one of his alarming slumbers, this amiable but unfortunate man
gave symptoms of wishing to murder his wife and child; in consequence
of which, it is proposed by the doctors that this tour for the
restoration of his spirits should be made without them. To this
separation Balthazar strongly objects, and tells his beautiful wife,
with much tenderness, that he shall find it very dull without her.
To this the lady, though naturally rather afraid of him, answers with
great sweetness, that in that case she shall be extremely happy to go
with him; adding tenderly, that she would willingly die to prove her
devotion.
Nothing could be so unfortunate as this expression. At the bare
mention of his hobby-horse, _death_, his malady revives, and he
instantly manifests a strong inclination to murder her,--and this time
without even the ceremony of going to sleep.
Big with the darling thought, his eyes rolling, his cheek pale, his
bristling hair on end, and the awful genius of Melodrame swelling in
every vein, Balthazar seats himself on the sofa beside his trembling
wife, and taking the comb out of her (Mademoiselle Noblet's) beautiful
hair, appears about to strangle her in the rope of jet that he pulls
out to its utmost length, and twists, and twists, and twists, till one
really feels a cold shiver from head to foot. But at length, at the
very moment when matters seem drawing to a close, the lady throws
herself lovingly on his bosom, and his purpose changes, or at least
for a moment seems to change, and he relaxes his hold.
At this critical juncture the two doctors enter. Balthazar looks at
them wildly, then at his wife, then at the doctors again, and finally
tells them all that he must beg leave to retire for a few moments. He
passes through the group, who look at him in mournful silence; but as
he approaches the door, he utters the word 'poison,' then enters, and
locks and bolts it after him.
Upon this the lady screams, and the two doctors fly for a crow-bar.
The door is burst open, and the _procureur du roi_ comes forward, wide
awake, but having swallowed the poison he had mentioned.
This being "the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful
history," the curtain falls upon the enthusiastic attorney-general as
he expires in the arms of his wife and friends.
We are always so apt, when we see anything remarkably absurd abroad,
to flatter ourselves with the belief that nothing like it exists at
home, that I am almost afraid to draw a parallel between this
inconceivable trash, and the very worst and vilest piece that ever was
permitted to keep possession of the stage in England, lest some one
better informed on the subject than myself should quote some British
enormity unknown to me, and so prove my patriotic theory false.
Nevertheless, I cannot quit the subject without saying, that as far as
my knowledge and belief go, English people never did sit by hundreds
and listen patiently to such stuff as this. There is no very atrocious
vice, no terrific wickedness in the piece, as far as I could
understand its recondite philosophy; but its silliness surely
possesses the silliness of a little child. The grimaces, the dumb
show, the newly-invented passions, and the series of impossible
events, which drag through these five longsome acts, seem to show a
species of anomaly in the human mind that composed the piece, to which
I imagine no parallel can be found on record.
Is this the result of the march of mind?--is it the fruit of that
universal diffusion of knowledge which we are told is at work
throughout the world, but most busily in France?... I shall never
understand the mystery, let me meditate upon it as long as I will. No!
never shall I understand how a French audience, lively, witty, acute,
and prone to seize upon whatever is ridiculous, can thus sit night
after night with profound gravity, and the highest apparent
satisfaction, to witness the incredible absurdity of such a piece as
"Le Monomane."
There is one way, and one way only, in which the success of this drama
can be accounted for intelligibly. May it not be, that "LES JEUNES
GENS," wanton in their power, have determined in merry mood to mystify
their fellow-citizens by passing a favourable judgment upon this
tedious performance? And may they not now be enjoying the success of
their plot in ecstasies of private laughter, at seeing how meekly the
dutiful Parisians go nightly to the Porte St. Martin, and sit in
obedient admiration of what it has pleased their youthful tyrants to
denominate "a fine drama"?
But I must leave off guessing; for, as the wise man saith, "the
finding out of parables is a wearisome labour of the mind."
Some critic, speaking of the new school of French dramatists, says
that "they have heaved the ground under the feet of Racine and
Corneille." If this indeed be so, the best thing that the lovers of
tragedy can do is to sit at home and wait patiently till the earth
settles itself again from the shock of so deplorable an earthquake.
That it will settle itself again, I have neither doubt nor fear.
Nonsense has nothing of immortality in its nature; and when the storm
which has scattered all this frothy scum upon us shall have fairly
blown over and passed away, then I suspect that Corneille and Racine
will still find solid standing-ground on the soil of France;--nay,
should they by chance find also that their old niches in the temple of
her great men remain vacant, it is likely enough that they may be
again invited to take possession of them; and they may keep it too
perhaps for a few more hundred years, with very little danger that any
greater than they should arrive to take their places.