Conclusion of _Christine_--A patron, after a fashion--Nodier
recommends me to Taylor--The Royal Commissary and the author of
_Hécube_--Semi-official reading before Taylor--Official reading before
the Committee--I am received with acclamation--The intoxication of
success--How history is written--M. Deviolaine's incredulity--Picard's
opinions concerning my play--Nodier's opinion--Second reading at the
Théâtre-Français and definite acceptance
But none of these hindrances prevented me from finishing _Christine._ I
had, however, scarcely written the famous last line--
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père ... Qu'on l'achève!"
when I found myself in as embarrassing a situation as any poor girl
who has just given birth to a child outside the pale of legitimate
matrimony. What was I to do with this bastard child of my creation,
born outside the gates of the Institute and the Academy? Was I to
stifle her as I had smothered her elders? That would have been hard
lines indeed! Besides, this little girl was strong, and quite capable
of living; it seemed good, therefore, to acknowledge her; but first it
was necessary to find a theatre to receive her, actors to clothe her
and a public to adopt her!
Oh! if only Talma were living! But Talma was dead and I did not know
anyone at the Théâtre-Français. Perhaps it might be possible for me
to manage it through M. Arnault. But he would ask to see the work on
behalf of which his services were requested, and he would not have read
ten lines before he would fling it as far from him as poor M. Drake had
the rattlesnake that bit him at Rouen. I went to look for Oudard. I
told him that my play was completed and I boldly asked him for a letter
of introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Oudard refused under pretence
that he did not know anyone there. I had the courage to tell him that
his introduction as head of the Secretariat of the Duc d'Orléans would
be all-powerful.
He replied, after the manner of Madame Méchin, when she did not incline
to promote any particular end--
"I will never lend my _influence_ in that direction."
I had several times noticed a man with thick eyebrows and a long nose,
in the Secretarial Department, who took his tobacco Swiss-fashion. This
man periodically brought the ninety theatre tickets to all parts of the
house that M. Oudard had the prerogative of giving away every month,
at the rate of three per day. I did not know who this man was, but I
asked. I was told that he was the prompter.
I lay in wait for this prompter, took him by surprise in the corridor
and begged him to tell me what steps were necessary to obtain the
honour of a reading before the Committee of the Théâtre-Français. He
told me I must first deposit my play with the Examiner; but he warned
me that so many other works were already deposited there that I must
expect to wait at least a year. As though it were possible for me to
wait a year!
"But," I asked, "is there no short cut through all these formalities?"
"Oh dear me, yes!" he replied, "if you know Baron Taylor."
I thanked him.
"There is nothing to thank me for," he said.
And he was right; there wasn't anything to thank him for, for I did not
know Baron Taylor in the slightest.
"Do you know Baron Taylor?" I asked Lassagne.
"No," he answered; "but Charles Nodier is his intimate friend."
"What of that?"
"Well, did you not tell me that you once talked with Charles Nodier a
whole evening at a representation of the _Vampire?_"
"Certainly."
"Write to Charles Nodier."
"Bah! he will have forgotten all about me."
"He never forgets anything; write to him."
I wrote to Charles Nodier, recalling to his memory the Elzevirs, the
rotifer, the vampires, and in the name of his well-known kindliness
towards young people I entreated him to introduce me to Baron Taylor.
It can be imagined with what impatience I awaited the reply. Baron
Taylor himself replied, granting my request and fixing an appointment
with me five or six days later. He apologised at the same time for the
hour he had fixed; but his numerous engagements left him so little time
that seven o'clock in the morning was the only hour at which he could
see me. Although I am probably the latest riser in Paris, I was ready
at the appointed hour. True, I had kept awake all the night. Taylor
then lived at No. 42 rue de Bondy, fourth floor. His suite of rooms
consisted of an anteroom filled with books and busts; a dining-room
full of pictures and books; a drawing-room full of weapons and books;
and a bedroom full of manuscripts and books. I rang at the door of
the antechamber, my heart beating at a terrible rate. The good or ill
natured mood of a man who knew nothing about me, who had no inducement
to be kindly disposed towards me, who had received me out of pure
good-nature, was to decide my future life. If my play displeased him,
it would stand in the way of anything I could bring him later, and I
was very nearly at the end of my courage and strength. I had rung the
bell, gently enough, I admit, and no one had answered it; I rang a
second time, as gently as at first; again no one took any notice of me.
And yet, putting my ear close, I seemed to hear a noise indicative of
something unusual taking place inside: confused sounds and snarls which
now sounded like bursts of anger, and now, decreasing in pitch, seemed
like a continuous monotonous bass accompaniment. I could not imagine
what it could be; I was afraid to disturb Taylor at such a moment and
yet it was the very hour he had himself fixed for my coming. I rang
louder. I heard a door open, and simultaneously the mysterious noise
from inside that had greatly roused my curiosity for the last ten
minutes sounded louder than ever. At last the door was opened by an old
serving-woman.
"Ah! monsieur," she said, with a flustered manner, "your coming will do
M. le Baron an excellent turn. He is waiting anxiously for you; go in."
"What do you mean?"
"Go in, go in ... do not lose a minute."
I went quickly into the sitting-room, where I found Taylor caught in
his bath-tub like a tiger in his den, a gentleman near him reading
a tragedy called _Hécube._ This gentleman had forced his entrance,
no matter what was said to him. He had surprised Taylor as Charlotte
Corday had surprised Marat when she stabbed him in his bath; but the
agony that the King's Commissary endured was more prolonged than that
of the Tribune of the People. The tragedy was two thousand four hundred
lines long! When the gentleman caught sight of me, he realised that his
victim was to be snatched away from him; he clutched hold of the bath,
exclaiming--
"There are only two more acts, monsieur,--there are only two more acts!"
"Two sword-cuts, two stabs with a knife, two thrusts with a dagger!
Select from among the arms round about--there are all kinds
here--choose the one that will slice the best and kill me straight off!"
"Monsieur," replied the author of _Hécube_, "the Government appointed
you _commissaire du roi_ on purpose to listen to my play; it is your
duty to listen to my play--you shall hear my play!"
"Ah! that is just where the misfortune comes in!" cried Taylor,
wringing his hands. "Yes, monsieur, to my sorrow I am _commissaire
du roil_ ... But you and such people as you will make me hand in my
resignation; you and your like will force me to give it up and leave
France. I have had an offer to go to Egypt, I will accept it; I will
explore the sources of the Nile as far as Nubia, right to the Mountains
of the Moon,--and I will go at once and get my passport."
"You can go-to China, if you like," replied the gentleman, "but you
shall not go until you have heard my play."
Taylor gave one long moan, like a vanquished athlete, made a sign to
me to go into his bedroom and, falling back into his bath-tub, he
bowed his head in resignation upon his breast. The gentleman went on.
Taylor's precaution of putting a door between him and his reader and me
was quite useless; I heard every word of the last two acts of _Hécube._
The Almighty is great and full of compassion--may He bestow peace on
that author! At last, when the play was finished, the gentleman got up
and, at Taylor's earnest entreaty, consented to depart. I heard the old
woman double lock the door after him. The bath-water had made good use
of the time spent on the reading to grow cold, and Taylor came back
into his bedroom shivering. I would have sacrificed a month's pay for
him to have found a warmed bed to creep into. And the reason is not far
to seek; for, naturally, a man who is half frozen, after just listening
to five acts, is not in a favourable mood to hear five more acts.
"Alas! monsieur," I said to him, "I have happened upon a most
unsuitable time, and I fear you will not be in the least disposed to
listen to me, at least with the patience I could desire."
"Oh, monsieur, I will not admit that, since I do not yet know your
work," Taylor replied; "but you can guess what a trial it is to have
to listen to-such stuff as I have just heard, every blessed day of my
life."
"Every day?"
"Yes, indeed, and oftener! See, here is my agenda for to-day's
Committee. We are to hear an _Épaminondas._"
I heaved a sigh. My poor _Christine_ was caught between two cross-fires
of classicism.
"M. le Baron," I ventured to say, "would you rather I came another
day?"
"Oh! certainly not," said Taylor, "now we are here...."
"Very well," I said, "I will just read you one act, and if that tires
you or bores you, you must stop me."
"All right," Taylor murmured; "you are more merciful than your
confrères. And that is a good sign.... Go on, go on; I am listening."
Tremblingly I drew my play from my pocket;--it looked a terribly big
volume. Taylor cast a glance on the immense bulk with such an alarmed
expression that I cried out to him--
"Oh, monsieur, do not be afraid! The manuscript is only written on one
side of the paper."
He breathed again. I began. I was so nervous I could not see to read;
my voice shook so that I could not hear my own voice. Taylor reassured
me; he was unaccustomed to such modesty! I resumed my reading, and I
managed somehow to get through my first act.
"Well, monsieur, shall I go on?" I asked in a faint voice, without
daring to raise my eyes.
"Certainly, certainly," Taylor replied, "go on. Upon my word, it is
excellent!"
Fresh life came to me, and I read my second act with more confidence
than the first. When I had finished, Taylor himself told me to
go on with the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. I felt an
inexpressible desire to embrace him; but I refrained, for fear of the
consequences.
When the reading was finished, Taylor leapt from his bed.
"You must come to the Théâtre-Français with me," he said.
"But what must I do there?"
"Why, get your turn to read your play as soon as possible."
"Do you really mean it? Shall I read it to the Committee?"
"Not a day later than next Saturday." And Taylor called out, "Pierre!"
An old man-servant came in.
"Give me all my clothes, Pierre."
Then turning to me, he said, "You will excuse me?"
"Oh, there is nothing to excuse!..." I replied.
On the following Thursday (for Taylor would not wait until the
Saturday, but had called a special Committee) the Committee, whether
from chance or because Taylor had praised my play extravagantly,
was a very large one; there were as many well-dressed men and women
present as though a dance were on the way. The ladies decked out in
gay hats and flowers, the gentlemen in fashionable dress, the large
green carpet, the inquisitive looks which were fixed upon me, every
detail down to the glass of water which Granville solemnly placed by my
side--which struck me as very ludicrous--all this combined to inspire
me with profound emotion.
_Christine_ was then quite different from what it is to-day: it was a
simple play, romantic in style, but founded on classical traditions.
It was confined to five acts; the action took place entirely at
Fontainebleau, and it conformed with the unity of time, place and
action laid down by Aristotle. Stranger still! it did not contain the
character of Paula, which is now the best creation in the play, and
the real dramatic mainspring of the whole work. Monaldeschi betrayed
Christine's ambition, but not her love. And yet I have rarely known
any work to have such a successful first reading. They made me read
the monologue of Sentinelli and the scene with Monaldeschi three
times over. I was intoxicated with delight. My play was received with
acclamation. Only, three or four of the agenda papers contained the
following cautious phrase:--
"_A second, reading, or the manuscript to be submitted to an author in
whom the Committee has confidence._"
The result of the deliberations of the Comédie-Française was that the
tragedy of _Christine_ was accepted; but, on account of the great
innovations which it contained, they would not undertake to perform it
until after another reading, or the manuscript had been submitted to
another author, to be named by them.
The whole thing had passed before my eyes like a mist. I had seen
face to face for the first time the kings and queens of the tragic
and comic stage: Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Leverd, Mademoiselle
Bourgoin, Madame Valmonzey, Madame Paradol and Mademoiselle Demerson,
an engagingly clever _soubrette_, who played Molière with great
freshness, and Marivaux with such finished style as I never saw in
anyone else. I knew I was accepted and that was all I wished to know:
the conditions I would fulfil, the difficulties I would overcome.
Therefore I did not wait until the conclusion of the conference. I
thanked Taylor, and I left the theatre as proud and as light-hearted
as though my first mistress had said to me, "I love you." I made off
for the faubourg Saint-Denis, ogling everybody I met, as much as to
say, "You haven't written _Christine_; you haven't just come away from
the Théâtre-Français; you haven't been received with acclamation, you,
you, you!" And, in the joyful preoccupation of my thoughts, I did not
take care to measure my steps across a gutter but stumbled into the
middle of it; I took no notice of carriages, I jostled in and out among
the horses. When I reached the faubourg Saint-Denis I had lost my
manuscript; but that did not matter! I knew my play by heart. With one
leap, I bounded into our rooms, and my mother cried out, for she never
saw me back before five o'clock.
"Received with acclamation, mother! received with acclamation!" I
shouted. And I began to dance round our rooms, which allowed but little
space for such exercise. My mother thought I must have gone mad; I had
not told her I was going to the reading for fear of disappointment.
"And what will M. Fossier say?" my poor mother exclaimed.
"Oh!" I replied, suiting my words to the tune of _Malbrouck_, "M.
Fossier can say whatever he likes, and if he is not satisfied, I will
send him about his business!"
"Take care, my dear lad," my mother replied, shaking her head; "it will
be you who will be sent packing and in good earnest, too."
"All right, mother; so much the better! It will give me time to attend
my rehearsals."
"And suppose your play is a failure, and you have lost your situation,
what will become of us?"
"I will write another play that will succeed."
"But in the meantime we must live."
"Ah yes! it's very unfortunate that one has to live; happily, in seven
or eight days we shall receive something on account."
"Yes, but while we are waiting for that, which you have not yet got, my
lad, take my advice and return to your desk, so that no one may suspect
anything, and do not boast of what has happened to a single person."
"I fancy you are in the right, mother; and although I asked the whole
day off from M. Deviolaine, I will return to my desk. It is half-past
two. Why, I shall yet have time to despatch my day's work."
And I set forth at a run to the rue Saint-Honoré. The exercise did me
good, for I needed fresh air and action; I felt stifled in our tiny
rooms. I found a pile of reports ready for me; I set to my task, and by
six o'clock everything was finished. But by this time Féresse's anger
against me amounted to hatred: I had compelled him to stay till the
stroke of six before I had finished the last lines. I had never written
so fast or so well. I re-read everything twice for fear I might have
interpolated some lines from _Christine_ in the reports. But, as usual,
they were innocent of poetic effusions. I gave them back to Féresse,
who went with them to M. Fossier's office, growling like a bear. I then
went home to my dear mother, quite spent and utterly exhausted with the
great events of that day. It was 30 April 1828. I spent the evening,
the night and the morning of the next day in rewriting my manuscript
afresh. By ten o'clock, when I reached the Administration, I found
Ferésse at the door of his office. He had been looking out for me since
eight o'clock that morning, although he knew well enough that I never
came before ten.
"Ah! there you are," he said. "So you have been writing a tragedy, I
hear."
"Who told you that?"
"Why, good gracious, it is in the newspaper."
"In the paper?"
"Yes, read it for yourself."
And he handed me a paper which did, indeed, contain the following
lines:--
"The Théâtre-Français to-day accepted with acclamation and
unanimity a five-act tragedy in verse, by a young man who
has not yet produced anything. This young man is in the
administrative offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans, who made his
path easy for him and who strongly recommended him to the
Reading Committee."
You see how accurately the daily press gauged the situation! it has
not lost the tradition even to-day. Nevertheless, although inaccurate
enough in detail, the news was fundamentally true; and it circulated
from corridor to corridor and from storey to storey. It flew from
office to office, by means of people coming in and going out, just
as though Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans had given birth to twins. I
was congratulated by all my colleagues, some with sincerity, others
mockingly; only the chief of my office hid himself from view. But,
since he kept me going with four times my usual amount of work, it
was quite evident he had seen the paper. M. Deviolaine came in at two
o'clock and at five minutes past two he sent for me. I walked into his
office with my head in the air and my hands perched jauntily on my hips.
"Ah! there you are, you young blade!" he said.
"Yes, here I am."
"So you asked me for a holiday yesterday in order to play pranks!"
"Have I neglected my work?"
"That is not the question."
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine, on the contrary it is the only question."
"But don't you see that they have been making game of you?"
"Who has?"
"The Comedians."
"Nevertheless, they have accepted my play."
"Yes, but they will not put it on the stage."
"Ah! we shall see!"
"And if they do produce your play...."
"Yes?"
"You will still need the approbation of the public."
"Why should you imagine it will not please the public since it has
pleased the Comedians?"
"Come now, do you want to make me believe that you, who only had an
education that cost three francs a month, will be successful when such
people as M. Viennet and M. Lemercier and M. Lebrun fall flat?... Go
along with you!"
"But instead of judging me beforehand, wouldn't it be fairer to wait?"
"Oh yes, wait ten years, twenty years! I sincerely hope I shall be
buried before your play is acted, and then I shall never see it."
At this juncture, Ferésse slily opened the door.
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine," he said, "but there is a _Comedian_ here
(he carefully emphasised the word) asking for M. Dumas."
"A Comedian! What Comedian?" M. Deviolaine asked.
"M. Firmin, from the Comédie-Française."
"Yes," I replied quietly; "he takes the part of Monaldeschi."
"Firmin plays in your piece?"
"Yes, he takes Monaldeschi.... Oh, it is admirably cast: Firmin plays
Monaldeschi, Mademoiselle Mars Christine...."
"Mademoiselle Mars plays in your piece?"
"Certainly."
"It is not true."
"Would you like her to tell it you herself?"
"Do you imagine I am going to take the trouble to assure myself you are
lying?"
"No; she will come here."
"Mademoiselle Mars will come here?"
"I am sure she will have the kindness to do that for me."
"Mademoiselle Mars?"
"Yes, you see that Firmin...."
"Stop! Go your own way! for upon my word you are enough to turn my
brain!... Mademoiselle Mars ... Mademoiselle Mars put herself out for
you? Think of it!... Mademoiselle Mars!" and he raised his hands to
heaven in despair that such a mad idea should ever enter the head of
any member of his family.
I took advantage of this theatrical display to escape. Firmin was,
indeed, waiting for me. He had made use of his time in looking round
the office, and he had ascertained that the windows of my office looked
exactly across to those of the Comédie-Française--a circumstance that
offered great facilities for my future communications. He came so that
no time should be lost, to offer to take me to Picard's house, who was
going to read my manuscript. Picard enjoyed the absolute confidence of
the Comédie-Française and the Comédie-Française would rely implicitly
on his decision. I felt an intense aversion towards Picard, who,
according to my views, had retarded the development of real comedy as
much as Scribe had advanced the cause of the vaudeville. It was out of
the question that Picard could understand _Christine_ from the point of
view either of style or of construction. I therefore fought as long as
I could against having to submit to Picard's arbitrament. But Firmin
knew Picard very well and said that he had such a partiality for young
people, and that his advice was so good that, rather than vex Firmin at
the outset of my career, I was persuaded to go. It was arranged that,
at half-past four that evening, Firmin should call for me and take
me to see Picard. At half-past four we set off. _Christine_ had been
neatly re-copied. It may be guessed that since I had taken such pains
over the plays of Théaulon, I took extra care of my own! The manuscript
was rolled and tied up with a pretty new piece of ribbon that my mother
had given me.
Where did Picard live? Upon my word, I could not say and I will not
lose any time in trying to find his address. Wherever he lived, we
arrived at his house. His appearance corresponded exactly with the
idea that I had formed of him: he was a little, deformed man with
long hands, small bright eyes, and a nose as sharp as a weasel's.
He received us with that polite, bantering manner peculiar to him,
which many people take for intellectual good-fellowship. We conversed
for ten minutes and he pretended entire ignorance of the news he had
been possessed of since morning; he laid bare the object of our visit
and he asked us to leave the manuscript with him, and to return a
week later. He gave us his humble advice upon this important matter,
pleading for our leniency beforehand if his judgment were more inclined
to the shorter classic forms of comedy, rather than to the _long
Romantic productions (des grandes machines romantiques)._ This exordium
foreboded no good. We saw Picard a week later; he was expecting us,
and we found him seated in the same arm-chair, with the same smile on
his lips. He bade us be seated and politely inquired after our health;
finally, he stretched his long fingers over his desk and rolled up my
manuscript carefully, wrapped it and tied it up. Then, with a winning
smile, he said to me--
"My dear monsieur, have you any means of subsistence?"
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am a clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year
in the offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans."
"Well, then, my advice to you, my dear lad, is to return to your
desk--to return to your desk!"
After such a declaration, the conversation was, of necessity, brief.
Firmin and I rose, bowed and departed. Or, rather, I departed;
Firmin stayed behind a moment after me: he probably wished a further
explanation. Through the half-opened door I could see Picard shrugging
his shoulders with such violence that his head seemed in danger of
coming off his body. The modern Molière looked extremely repulsive
thus, his expression above all being remarkably malicious. Had Picard
really given us a conscientious opinion? Firmin was convinced he had,
but I doubted it always. It was impossible that an intellectual man, no
matter how narrow his views might be, should not discern--I will not go
so far as to say a remarkable work in _Christine,_ but remarkable works
belonging to the school of _Christine._
Next day, I went to see Taylor, carrying with me my manuscript
containing Picard's annotations. These annotations consisted of
crosses, bracketing and marks of exclamation, which might well be
called marks of stupefaction. Certain lines especially seemed to have
astounded the author of the _Petite Ville_ and the _Deux Philibert._
These had been honoured by three exclamation marks.
CHRISTINE
"Vous êtes Français, vous; mais ces Italiens,
L'idiome mielleux qui détrempe leurs âmes
Semblerait fait exprès pour un peuple de femmes;
D'énergiques accents ont peine à s'y mêler.
Un homme est là; l'on croit qu'en homme il va parler;
Il parle, on se retourne, et, par un brusque échange,
A la place d'un homme, on trouve une louange."-!!!
It was to the last line that the three wretched notes of exclamation
had been affixed, which were intended to express many things. For
the most part, Picard's criticisms were laconically brief. After the
following lines came one huge note of interrogation:--
"Sur le chemin des rois, l'oubli couvre ma trace;
Mon nom, comme un vain bruit, s'affaiblit dans l'espace:
Ce n'est plus qu'un écho par l'écho répété,
Et j'assiste vivante à la postérité.
Je crus que plus longtemps--mon erreur fut profonde!--
Mon abdication bruirait dans le monde ...
Pour le remplir encore un but m'est indiqué;
Je veux reconquérir cet empire abdiqué.
Comme je la donnai, je reprends ma couronne,
Et l'on dira que j'ai le caprice du trône!"--?
a point of interrogation which seemed to say, "Perhaps the author
understands this passage. I, certainly, do not."
After the last line--
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père ... Qu'on l'achève!"
was written the word "IMPOSSIBLE."
Was it the piece which was _impossible_ or only that line? Picard had
had the delicacy to leave me the benefit of the doubt. I related my
adventure to Taylor and showed him Picard's notes.
"All right," he said; "leave the play with me and return to-morrow
morning."
I left the play with him, feeling very subdued in spirits. I was
beginning to learn to my cost that the joys connected with the
theatre are the opposite of those in nature, and belong only to early
days--after that brief period one's real troubles immediately begin. I
took good care to keep my engagement and was with Taylor by eight next
morning. He showed me my manuscript, across which Nodier had written in
his own handwriting--
"Upon my soul and conscience, I declare _Christine_ is one of the most
remarkable works I have read for the last twenty years."
"You realise," said Taylor to me, "I shall need that to back me up. You
must keep yourself in readiness to re-read your play on Saturday."
"Monsieur le Baron," I said to him, "I am in an office, and there they
are all the more strict with me because I go in for literary work,
which bureaucratic eyes look upon as an unpardonable crime. Could I
read it on Sunday, rather than Saturday?"
"It is contrary to all custom, but I will see what I can do."
Three days later, I received my notice for the following Sunday. The
assembly was even larger than the first time and the play was even more
enthusiastically applauded, if that be possible, than it had been on
the previous reading. It was put to the vote and accepted unanimously,
subject to some alterations which I was to arrange after consultation
with M. Samson. Fortunately, M. Samson and I did not see eye to eye; I
say fortunately, since the disagreement led to my recasting the whole
play, which gained, by this re-handling, the prologue, the two acts at
Stockholm, the epilogue at Rome and the entire part of Paula. When we
come to the proper place, we will relate how these transformations
came about; they left the _Metamorphoses_ of Ovid (of which a splendid
edition had just been published by M. Villenave) a very long way
behind. I must say a few words about M. de Villenave, who was one of
the best informed and most original men of his day; and I must say a
little about his wife, his son, his daughter and his home, all of which
personages and things had a great influence on this first part of my
life.