English actors in Paris--Literary importations--_Trente Ans_, or
_la Vie d'un Joueur_--The _Hamlet_ of Kemble and Miss Smithson--A
bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau--Visit to Frédéric Soulié--He
declines to write _Christine_ with me--A night attack--I come across
Adèle d'Alvin once more--I spend the night _au violon_
Somewhere about 1822 or '23, I believe, a company of English actors
attempted to give a series of representations in the theatre of the
Porte-Saint-Martin, but they were received with so much opposition
and hooting, and so many apples and oranges had been flung at the
unfortunate actors from the pit, that they were compelled to abandon
the field of battle under the heavy firing of projectiles. And that
was how the national spirit expressed itself in 1822. But then, in
1822, it was considered degrading for any theatre where the productions
of MM. Caignez and Pixérécourt were performed (not to mention those
of Corneille and Molière) to lend its boards to such a barbarian as
Shakespeare, and to the train of _œuvres immondes_ which followed in
his wake.
Only five years had gone by since that period, and now the second
Théâtre-Français greatly astonished everybody by advertising that
a company of English actors was going to act the chief plays of
Shakespeare. So quickly did ideas mature in the burning sun of the
nineteenth century that only five years were necessary to bring about
such an enlightenment of public opinion as this. However, the example
of courtesy had been set us by our neighbours across the Channel.
Mademoiselle Georges had just succeeded--thanks, no doubt, to the
political reminiscences that surrounded her--in obtaining what Talma
never obtained, in spite of his Anglo-French descent, namely, a public
non-subsidised performance of a French play.
On 28 June 1827, Mademoiselle Georges gave a most successful
representation of _Sémiramis_, under the patronage of the Duke of
Devonshire. The receipts amounted to eight hundred pounds sterling
(20,000 francs). A few days later, again with similar success, she
played _Mérope._ This twofold triumph suggested to the director of the
Odéon the idea of inviting a company of English actors over, and a
series of performances, announced for the beginning of September, was
looked forward to eagerly. In fact, opinion had changed from complete
disdain of English literature to enthusiastic admiration of it. M.
Guizot, who did not then know a word of English--and who has known it
but too well since--had re-translated Shakespeare with the help of
Letourneur. Walter Scott, Cooper and Byron were in everybody's hands.
M. Lemercier had made a tragedy out of _Richard III._; M. Liadière had
produced another on _Jane Shore. Kenilworth Castle_ had been played at
the Porte-Saint-Martin; _Louis XI. à Péronne_ at the Théâtre-Français;
_Macbeth_ at the Opéra. People talked of Frédéric Soulié's _Juliette_
and of Alfred de Vigny's _Othello._ Assuredly, the wind had veered
round to the west and pointed to a literary revolution. Nor was this
all: a play was produced at the Porte-Saint-Martin, with a denouement
borrowed from Werner's _Vingt-Quatre Février_, which had brought about
a revolution both by its style and its execution.
We should like to say a few words with reference to _Trente Ans_, or
_la Vie d'un Joueur_, by MM. Victor Ducange and Goubaux. Besides the
dramatic importance of this work, it brought to light two eminent
artistes, Frédérick and Madame Dorval. It is rarely one finds two
actors so highly endowed, the one as good as the other. He, as a matter
of fact, was the wretched tragedian who, three years before, had played
one of the brothers Macchabée at the Odéon! She was the little girl,
forgotten as soon as she had played the thankless part of Malvina, in
the _Vampire!_
Popular drama had its Talma, and boulevard tragedy its Mademoiselle
Mars. Everybody has become familiar with _Trente Ans_; everybody has
seen it played by the two artistes I have just named. But not everybody
witnessed the fever of excitement that mastered both actors and
spectators during those first representations.
So the English artistes found Parisian playgoers warmly enthusiastic,
eagerly demanding new emotions to take the place of those they had just
experienced. Such moments as these are experienced at various times and
seasons when everything is quiet outside the realms of imagination.
As physical life is in no danger, minds sigh after imaginary dangers;
human sympathy must exercise itself on something. Twelve years of calm
caused everyone to cry out for emotion; ten years of laughter called
aloud for tears. With a national spirit restless and adventurous by
nature, we must ever express ourselves dramatically, whether on the
stage or in real life.
In 1827 the theatre had things all its own way. On 7 September the
English actors gave their first performance. Abbott opened the
proceedings with a short speech in very carefully pronounced French,
and they played _The Rivals_ by poor Sheridan, who had just been buried
amidst financial difficulties; then Allingham's _Caprice of Fortune._
The comic actors of the company carried off the honours of the first
night, and, although one noticed a comic actor called Liston, and a
sweetheart played by Miss Smithson, we felt quite certain that the much
longed for company had not been brought across the Channel just for
this exhibition of its powers. I had made up my mind to attend these
English performances with some assiduity, and as Porcher had nearly got
back the advances he had lent me, I asked him for two hundred francs,
a hundred and fifty of which went towards our housekeeping expenses,
and fifty were intended to initiate me into the beauties revealed
in the English drama. I already nearly knew Shakespeare by heart at
this period; but plays, according to the Germans, are meant to be
seen and not read. So I resisted the temptation of going to the first
representation, and waited to see the English company in Shakespeare.
They announced _Hamlet._ There was no fear of my missing it this time.
Fortunately, it was Ernest's week to make up the portfolio. I left
the office at four o'clock and went to take my position in the queue,
rather better informed, this time, than I had been on my first visit to
Paris. I knew _Hamlet_ so well that I did not need to buy the words;
I could follow the actors, translating the words as soon as they were
uttered. I must admit that the impression made upon me far exceeded my
expectations: Kemble was wonderful as Hamlet, and Miss Smithson made a
divine Ophelia. The stage scene, the screen scene and that of the two
portraits, the mad scene and that in the graveyard electrified me. Only
then did I realise what the drama could be, and from the ruins of my
past feeble attempts, which the shock of this revelation brought about,
I saw what was needed to create a new world.
"And darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God
moved upon the face of the waters"; as the Bible puts it.
This was the first time that I had seen real passions on the stage,
inspiring men and women of real flesh and blood. Now I understood
Talma's moans over each fresh part he created; I understood that
everlasting aspiration for a literature that could give him the chance
of depicting a hero who should be a living being; I understood his
despair at dying before he had given expression to that side of his
genius which perished unknown within him and with him. The present
generation will not understand what I am saying; for its childish
studies have made it as familiar with Walter Scott as with Lesage,
with Shakespeare as with Molière. Our century, which has become
pre-eminently a century of appreciation, smiles incredulously when it
hears that a comedian could be hissed because he was an Englishman, or
a play hooted because it was by Shakespeare.
These representations continued with increasing popularity. After
_Hamlet_ came _Romeo and Juliet_, then _Othello_; then, finally, one
after the other, all the masterpieces of the English stage. To Kemble
and Miss Smithson belonged all the honours of these representations.
It is impossible to describe the scene of Ophelia's madness, the
balcony scene in _Juliet_, the poisoning scene in the vault among the
dead, Othello's jealousy and the death of Desdemona, as played by those
two great artistes. Abbott, also, showed himself a graceful comedian
in the parts he played. His Mercutio, among the rest, was a real
masterpiece of delightful acting.
And now let us notice how strange it is that events which are to
influence a man's life seem to link themselves together. On the 10th,
the English actors gave the last of their series of representations,
leaving me palpitating with fresh impressions, and my mind flooded with
fresh light. On the 4th, six days before, the Salon Exhibition had just
opened. At this Salon, Mademoiselle de Fauveau exhibited two small
bas-reliefs, round which all artists congregated.
One of these bas-reliefs represented a scene from the _Abbé_; the
other, the assassination of Monaldeschi. I came up to look at these
bas-reliefs with the crowd, and I probably appreciated more than most
of the gazers the power and delicacy of the work thus cleverly handled
by a woman's fingers. I had read the _Abbé_, so I knew all about one of
these bas-reliefs; but I was so ignorant on some portions of history
that I not only did not know the incident the other piece of sculpture
depicted, but I was also ignorant who were either Monaldeschi or
Christine; and I left the Musée without venturing to ask anyone to tell
me. As it was Sunday, and as I had not seen Soulié for several days, I
decided to go and spend part of the evening with him at la Gare.
At nine o'clock--after telling my mother that I should probably not be
home until very late--I sweetened a cup of tea in front of a capital
fire (for wood is plentiful in a saw-mill) and began a discussion
with Soulié concerning the alterations his _Juliette_ would need to
undergo since the English acting had come under notice. All at once,
I recollected the bas-relief of the death of Monaldeschi, and, not
daring to ask Soulié for particulars for fear he would make fun of me
because of my ignorance, I asked him if he possessed a _Biographie
universelle._ He had one, and I read the two articles on _Monaldeschi_
and on _Christine._ Then, after a few moments' reflection, in the
depths of which I seemed to see all sorts of tragic characters moving
amid the glitter of swords, I said to Soulié, as though he had been
following my thoughts--
"Do you know, there is a terrible drama in all that?"
"In what?"
"In the assassination of Monaldeschi by Christine."
"I should just think so."
"Shall we do it together?"
"No," Soulié replied emphatically; "I do not mean to work any more with
others."
"Why?"
"Because David has promised me the Cross, through the influence of M.
Portalis, when I write my first important work alone."
I looked at Soulié in utter amazement. I do not think that even he
himself quite realised the nature of his brusque outbursts.
"Therefore," he added, "I intend to use that subject for a tragedy
myself."
"Oh!" I said, laying the volumes down.
"That need not prevent you writing your own drama, you understand, if
you mean to stick to the idea."
"On the same subject as you?"
"There are more theatres than one in Paris; and a dozen ways of
treating a subject."
"But which of us will read it at the Théâtre-Français?"
"Whichever shall finish first."
"Would it not annoy you?"
"What the devil do you think it would do to me?"
"You are not very amiable to-night."
"I am not in a good temper."
"What is the matter with you?"
"This is the matter. If only I had seen the English actors before I had
constructed my _Juliette_ I should either not have done it at all, or
done it differently."
"Will you take my advice?"
"In what way?"
"As the sincere advice of a friend.... Leave your _Juliette_ on one
side as I have left my _Fiesque_, and dream of something else."
"Bah! when it is finished!"
I saw Soulié had made up his mind to go on with it, and I dropped
the subject. Then, as I could not afford to buy the _Biographie
universelle_, I asked Soulié if I might copy out the two articles, and
he let me do so. It was evident my writing on the same subject did
not inspire him with much terror. We separated at midnight; and, as I
went along the boulevard, I dreamt already of my future _Christine._
It was a dark, rainy night, and the boulevard was almost deserted.
When I reached the gate of Saint-Denis, just as I was leaving the
boulevard to re-enter the street, I heard cries thirty steps ahead of
me; then, in the midst of the darkness, I could see what looked like
a group of people struggling violently on the boulevard, and I ran in
the direction of the cries. Two fellows were attacking a man and woman.
The man attacked was trying to defend himself with a cane, the woman
had been thrown down and the thief was trying to snatch a chain that
hung round her neck. I leapt on the thief, and the next moment he was
on the ground in his turn, and I was kneeling on him. When the second
thief saw this, he left off attacking the man and ran away. It would
seem that, unwittingly, I had been squeezing the throat of my thief
unmercifully; for suddenly, to my great surprise, he yelled out--
"Help, help, help!"
This shout, together with those already uttered by the man and
woman assaulted, brought several soldiers from the military station
of Bonne-Nouvelle. I had not loosened my hold of the thief, and
the soldiers dragged him out of my hands. Then only was I able to
respond to the thanks of those whom I had rescued. The woman's voice
struck me strangely. It was Adèle d'Alvin, whom I had not seen since
I left Villers-Cotterets, and the man was her husband. There had
been a special performance at the Porte-Saint-Martin at which _la
Noce et l'Enterrement_ had been played, and knowing I had had a hand
in that masterpiece, they had wanted to see it. The performance
had not finished until late, as is usual in the case of special
representations, and Adèle was hungry. When they came out, they went
to the theatre café for supper, and this had delayed them. Just as
they reached Charlard's chemist's shop they were attacked by the two
ruffians of whom I had rid them, and of whom one had been arrested by
the defenders of the country. Unluckily, these defenders of the country
were not as intelligent as they were brave. They could not distinguish
between robbers and robbed, between thieves and honest folk, and they
took us all to the guard-room, informing us we must stop there till the
morning. At daybreak they sent for a police-officer, who separated the
wheat from the tares.
We tried to explain ourselves, and asked that they should examine
carefully our persons, our countenances, our appearances, and compare
them with those of the man whom I had arrested, and that they should
not keep us till next day before rendering us the justice that was our
due. But to all this the defenders of the country replied imperturbably
that _by night all cats look grey_; and, consequently, one might easily
be deceived, whereas, on the morrow, there would be _daylight_ on the
matter.
The decision was neither logical nor eloquent; but we were the weaker
party. They made us, assaulted and assaulter alike, go into that part
of the guard-house that is called the _violon_, and there was no help
for it but to await the good pleasure of M. _le chef du poste._
We all leant up one against another, as people do in a carriage, and
tried to sleep. As Adèle and her husband had taken one corner of the
camp bed for themselves, there was one left for me. I gazed sadly
at the woman for a long time; she was associated with the earliest
recollections of my life, and now, apparently perfectly happy, she
was falling asleep on the shoulder of another, to whom she spoke in
accents of familiar intercourse. She had two children: motherhood had
consoled her for her lost love. They both fell asleep; but neither
the thief nor I slept at all. Soon my eyes tore themselves away from
watching Adèle and her husband; my thoughts retraced their steps
and I resumed my dream where it had been interrupted. I saw, in my
mind's eye, the bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau as it hung
fastened against the wall, and, in the guard-room of the boulevard
Bonne-Nouvelle, by the side of that woman and her husband, face to face
with the thief who was to get three years' imprisonment at the next
assizes, my imagination conjured up the first scenes of _Christine._
At eight next morning the police-officer entered, took down our
depositions and addresses and then set us at liberty; whilst our
friend the thief was immediately hustled off to the police station. I
returned home to find my poor mother terribly upset. She, like myself,
had never closed her eyes all night. I saw Adèle again once or twice
during her stay in Paris; but, since that time, my imagination, if not
my heart, has been the slave of a mistress who has supplanted all my
past mistresses, and even done injury to those of later years. That
mistress, or rather that master, was Art.