First representation of Soulié's _Roméo et Juliette_--Anaïs and
Lockroy--Why French actresses cannot act Juliet--The studies of the
Conservatoire--A second _Christine_ at the Théâtre-Français--M.
Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey--Conspiracy against me--I give
up my turn to have my play produced--How I found the subject of _Henri
III._--My opinion of that play
Meantime, we had reached the beginning of June 1828, and I was informed
by Soulié that the Odéon had accepted his _Roméo_, were rehearsing
it and were nearly ready to perform it. We had not seen each other
since the night when we had agreed each to write our own version of
_Christine._ But he had not forgotten me, and I received two gallery
stall tickets for the first night. As my mother had often heard me talk
of Soulié, and as she knew that Soulié was one of my friends, it was
by way of preparing her for the first representation of my work that
I took her to see the first representation of Soulié's. Poor mother!
It was a great treat to her to go out with me. Alas! I had neglected
her sadly for months past. We become so accustomed to those guardian
angels, our mothers, that we never dream, as we leave them to pursue
all the foolish fancies of youth, that a moment will come--a terrible
and unanticipated moment--when they, in their turn, will leave us! Then
only do we recollect, with tears in our eyes and remorse at our hearts,
those many thoughtless and cruel absences and we exclaim, "Good God!
why did I so often leave her for this and that, now to be separated
from her by you for ever?"
We made our way to the Odéon. A first representation was a great
affair in those days--especially when the play to be acted for the
first time was by a man belonging to the new school. Nevertheless,
this play of Soulié was not epoch-making: had it been produced before
the visit of the English company to Paris, it would have been looked
upon as extremely advanced, but, coming after their representations,
it was by no means up to date. There was no fear, indeed, of its
being an out-and-out failure, but there was no chance, either, of its
being a grand success. Observe, too, that it was to be played on the
same stage, and, probably, with the same _mise-en-scène_ that had
accompanied Kemble's and Miss Smithson's acting of Shakespeare's _chef
d'œuvre._ Anaïs and Lockroy were entrusted with the principal parts. It
was almost Lockroy's first appearance. He was handsome, young, romantic
and daring--an actor of whom great things were expected, especially
in this particular kind of rôle. But it was otherwise with regard to
Anaïs. In comedy she was admirable and delightful, unfailing in taste,
in wit, in delicacy of style and of interpretation; but in drama and
tragedy she was entirely inadequate. And she was to appear on those
same boards, before that same audience, in the same part of Juliet
which Miss Smithson had presented with wonderful skill, and with all
the qualities that go to the making of a great tragedienne! Besides,
there was not a single woman in Paris in those days who could act
Juliet, nor, we may add, have we anyone who could do it now. What is
the reason for our lack of that charming type, the woman who combines
gaiety of spirit with dramatic and poetic faculties? Why have we never
produced, and probably never shall until some far distant future,
anyone who will recall to both eyes and memory the personalities of
Miss Smithson and Miss Faucett? Why was Mademoiselle Mars unequal to
the part of Desdemona, and Madame Dorval herself unequal to Juliet?
Because the dramatic education of our actresses is only conducted on
the lines of three masters, without doubt of great merit, but whose
genius does not include, as Shakespeare's did, that happy mixture of
natural, dramatic and poetic expression to be found in most of the
works of the English poet. Moreover, at the Conservatoire, pupils are
only prepared for a single branch of the art, either tragedy or comedy,
never for tragedy and comedy combined. Why, again? Because in the
masters studied--Molière, Corneille and Racine--these two styles are
never found intermingled. It is a fatal mistake to exclude comedy from
the education of the tragedienne, and tragedy from the training of the
comedienne; it makes the tragedienne heavy in comedy, the comedienne
affected in tragedy. Our seventeenth and eighteenth century theatres
knew nothing beyond the realism of Molière's women, the boorishness of
Corneille's women; the rage or the gentleness of the women of Racine;
the Agnès and Célimène of Molière; Corneille's Émilie and Rodogune;
Racine's Hermione and Aricie. You will search in vain among them all
for anything which resembles the nurse, balcony and tomb scenes, all
of which centre round the single character of Juliet. To attain to the
standard of the English actors it would be necessary either not to be
trained at the Conservatoire--which I, for one, should look upon as a
distinct advantage--or that the Conservatoire should allow, combined
with the study of the French masters, the study of foreign masters
or contemporary authors, whose dramatic works contain the threefold
elements of nature, dramatic art and poetic feeling. It would be a very
simple matter to arrange; it would, I am quite well aware, annoy MM.
Samson and Provost; but what would it matter to an intelligent Minister
of the Interior to meet opposition of that kind? It would, of course,
rouse MM. Viennet, Lebrun and Jouy; but M. Viennet is no longer a
member of the Chamber of Deputies, and M. Lebrun is no longer a member
of the Chamber of Peers; M. Jouy no longer belongs to the editorial
staff of the _Constitutionnel_; so what would their remonstrances
matter to a Minister of the Interior who does not care whether he
belong to the Academy or not? At first blush it would seem to be very
easy indeed to discover a clear-headed Minister of the Interior who
thinks lightly of belonging to the Academy; ah, well! we are mistaken.
We have been trying to find such a man for the last thirty years! We
have seen two revolutions without finding such a minister, and we may
have to live through two more revolutions before he appears. I have no
desire to see two other revolutions before I die, but I should much
like to find the minister.
The upshot of all this is that Anaïs, although a charming comedienne
(she was probably trained at the Conservatoire), made an inadequate
Juliette; and Lockroy, who had studied his part from Kemble and
Macready and, above all, had thought about it himself, did marvels
in the part of Romeo. One of these marvellous things was a stroke of
genius. When he sees Juliette rise from her tomb and walk, he retreats
backward, keeping his eyes fixed on her, for fear lest she whom he
takes for a ghost should vanish, and feels in the funeral couch she
has just left, refraining from uttering his cry of joy until he has
assured himself that the bed is empty. The play obtained the literary
success it deserved--a success that culminated in the last act, which
was almost entirely borrowed from Shakespeare.
I do not think I ever felt so much moved at any of my own
representations as I was at this representation of Soulié; I never
suffered more than during these first four acts, when I felt that the
piece dragged along lifeless and dull, realising that this dulness and
lack of life arose from the _excessive good taste_ of the poet, who had
thought it necessary to improve on Shakespeare. However, it was quite
original enough to satisfy the public, and the public was content; but
I am very sure that Soulié himself was not.
Meanwhile, the influence of Picard's criticism on _Christine_ was
making itself felt at the Comédie-Française. Mademoiselle Mars, who
was at first fired with enthusiasm over the part of Christine, cooled
in her study of it; for, incomplete as it then was, she felt it
beneath her powers; Firmin, inspired comedian though he was, lacked a
sense of composition and was beginning to feel uneasy over the part
of Monaldeschi; finally, Ligier, who was to have acted the part of
Sentinelli, left the Comédie-Française and went to the Odéon. Something
still more serious had happened. The Committee of the Théâtre-Français
had received a second play entitled _Christine._
This second _Christine_ had been written by a M. Brault, formerly
a prefect and a friend of M. Decazes, who supported him with all
his might. The principal rôle in this new tragedy, namely, that of
Christine, had been deputed to Madame Valmonzey. In case you do
not know anything about Madame Valmonzey, I will tell you who she
was. Madame Valmonzey was not a good actress, but she was a very
good-looking woman, the mistress of M. Évariste Dumoulin, editor of
the _Constitutionnel._ It may, perhaps, be asked why I mention this
fact. I reply that it is because I must. Heaven forbid I should rake
up a scandal needlessly and needlessly speak ill of the dead; but I
am writing the history of art and the history of literature and the
history of the theatre, and in order that this history may be history
the truth must be told.
This was what happened on the receipt of a second _Christine_ at the
Théâtre-Français and in consequence of the amours of M. Évariste
Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey. M. Évariste Dumoulin let it be known
that if they did not perform the play of his friend M. Brault before
that of M. Alexandre Dumas he would ruin the Théâtre-Français by
means of his journal. This declaration of war greatly frightened the
Théâtre-Français; nevertheless, as it was a serious and unprecedented
thing that M. Évariste Dumoulin demanded of the Committee, they replied
that they were quite ready to play M. Brault's _Christine_, but that,
in order to do so, my consent to cede my turn to him would first have
to be obtained. M. Brault, moreover, was ill of an incurable disease,
from which he died some time after, and it would be a comfort to
the poor dying man to see his play acted before he died. This was
the way the request was put to me by his son, in a most polite and
affable letter, and by the Duc de Decazes in the most friendly terms,
making me also offers of help. On their side, the Comedians of the
Théâtre-Français guaranteed, after a Committee meeting, to play my
piece after they had performed M. Brault's, upon the first request I
should make them to do so.
I have always been easily moved by appeals of this kind. But this
postponement was a serious matter to my mother and to me, for we were
literally looking to the production of this play for the wherewithal to
live. The bonuses of which I had told my mother had been distributed,
but my share was fifty francs less than those my fellow-clerks
received--a warning that I must behave myself better. Furthermore, I
was under M. Deviolaine, who had predicted that my piece would never
be played, and who pretty well leapt for joy when he saw that his
prophecy was likely to be fulfilled. Finally, this promise to play my
piece as soon as I should ask for it was illusory, for after the first
_Christine_ had been performed I could hardly ask the Comedians to play
a second until at least a year had passed by. But, as a matter of fact,
I could not do anything save yield, for I was surrounded on all sides
by solicitations, even among the Villenave family, and besides, my own
instinct fell into line with these solicitations. So I gave way and
yielded place to M. Brault.
No reward attended my sacrifice. The very next day, the papers
announced that the Committee of the Théâtre-Français, having discerned
more chances in M. Brault's play than in mine, had decided that M.
Brault's piece should be performed, while mine was to be indefinitely
postponed. I could have objected publicly, produced the letter of
M. Brault's son and revealed the engagement entered into by the
Comédie-Française. I did nothing of the kind, and from that day to
this, I have never taken any notice of the petty intrigues of the
papers; I can boast with pride, and without fear of contradiction,
that I have never soiled my hands either to gain my own ends or to
injure other people. Of course, neither M. Brault, the poor dying poet,
nor his son, nor M. Decazes, had any hand in all these intriguing
announcements. I even believe that M. Brault's son had the decency to
write and tell the true version of the facts, and to thank me publicly,
as he had thanked me privately. But although I treated these hardships
with disdain, they had their annoyances. My mother never read the
papers, but the Deviolaine family read them, and everybody in the
offices read them, and charitable souls took care to say to my mother--
"Upon my word, your son is getting himself talked about!"
"What about?" my mother would ask, trembling with fright.
And then they hastened to inform her, and saddened her poor heart, for
I was her all in all, and she was far more anxious about me than I was
about myself.
The rehearsals of M. Brault's _Christine_ were pushed on as fast as
mine had been delayed--though everybody knows what rapidity means at
the Théâtre-Français; M. Brault had ample time in which to die before
the representation of his play, which had only an indifferent success.
As to Madame Valmonzey, she did not even achieve any success. All the
same, my piece was delayed indefinitely.
Soulié had finished his _Christine_ and got it accepted at the Odéon,
with Mademoiselle Georges and Ligier to play the principal parts. And
what was happening to me all this time?...
One of those chances which fate deals out only to those marked out
by destiny gave me the subject of _Henri III._ by just such another
accident as had led me to _Christine._ The only cupboard I had in my
office--the office, it will be remembered, that I ardently coveted--I
had to share with Féresse: I put my paper in it, he put his bottles
there. One day, whether by inadvertence or to play a trick on me,
or to show his superior rights over mine, he took away the key of
this cupboard when going an errand. During his absence I used up all
the paper lying about in my office, and, as I still had three or
four reports to copy out, I went to get some more paper. A volume of
Anquetil lay open, on a desk: I mechanically cast my eyes on it, and at
page 95 I read the following lines:--
"Although attached to the king, and by rank an enemy of the
Duc de Guise, Saint-Mégrin was none the less in love with
the duchess, Catherine de Clèves, and it was said that she
returned his love. The author of this anecdote gives us to
understand that the husband was indifferent on the subject
of his wife's actual or supposed infidelity. He opposed the
entreaties of his relations that he should avenge himself,
and only punished the indiscretion or the crime of the
duchess by a joke. One day he entered her room early in the
morning, holding a potion in one hand and a dagger in the
other; after rudely awaking his wife and reproaching her, he
said in tones of fury--
"Decide, madame, whether to die by dagger or poison!'
"In vain did she ask his forgiveness; he compelled her to
make her choice. She drank the concoction and flung herself
on her knees, recommending her soul to God and expecting
nothing short of death. She spent an hour in fear; and then
the duke came back with a serene countenance, and told her
that what she had taken for poison was an excellent soup.
Doubtless this lesson made her more circumspect afterwards."
I gained access to the _Biographie_; the _Biographie_ referred me to
the _Mémoires de l'Estoile._ I did not know what the _Mémoires de
l'Estoile_ were; I asked M. Villenave, who lent me them. The _Mémoires
de l'Estoile_, volume i. page 35, contain these lines--:
"Saint-Mégrin, a young gentleman of Bordeaux, handsome,
wealthy and good-hearted, was one of the curled darlings
kept by the king. One night when coming away, at eleven
o'clock, from the Louvre, where the king was, in the rue
du Louvre, near the rue Saint-Honoré, he was set upon by
some twenty to thirty unknown men, with pistols, swords and
cutlasses, who left him on the pavement for dead; he died,
indeed, the next day, and it was a wonder how he could
have lived so long, for he had received thirty-four or
thirty-five mortal wounds. The king ordered his dead body to
be carried to Boisy, near the Bastille, where Quélus, his
companion, had died, and buried at Saint-Paul with as much
pomp and solemnity as his companions Maugiron and Quélus
had been buried there before him. No inquiries were made
concerning the assassination, His Majesty having been warned
that it had been done through the instrumentality of the Duc
de Guise, because of the reports of intimacy between the
young mignon and the duke's wife, and that the blow had been
dealt by one who bore the beard and features of his brother
the Duc du Maine. When the King of Navarre heard the news,
he said--
"'I am glad to hear that my cousin the Duc de Guise has not
suffered himself to be cuckolded by a _mignon de couchette_
such as Saint-Mégrin; I wish all the other gilded youths
about court who hang round the princesses ogling them and
making love to them could receive the same treatment'...."
Farther on, in the _Mémoires de l'Estoile_, came this passage,
concerning the death of Bussy d'Amboise:--
"On Wednesday, 19 August, Bussy d'Amboise, first
gentle-man-in-waiting of M. le Duc, Governor of Anjou,
Abbé de Bourgueil, who assumed very high and mighty airs,
because of the partiality of his master, and who had done
all kinds of evil deeds and robbed the countries of Anjou
and Maine, was slain by the Seigneur de Monsoreau, together
with the wicked lieutenant of Saumur, in a house belonging
to the said Seigneur de Monsoreau, where, at night, the said
lieutenant, who was his love messenger, had brought him to
sleep that night with the wife of the said Monsoreau, to
whom Bussy had for a long time made love; with whom the said
lady had purposely made this false assignation in order
to have him surprised by her husband, Monsoreau; when he
appeared towards midnight, he was immediately surrounded
and attacked by ten or a dozen men who accompanied the
Seigneur de Monsoreau, and who rushed upon him in fury to
massacre him: this gentleman, seeing himself so contemptibly
betrayed, and that he was alone (as on such expeditions
people usually prefer to be), did not, however, cease to
defend himself to the last, proving, as he had often said,
that _fear had never found room in his heart_;--for so long
as an inch of sword remained in his hand, he fought on
till only the handle was left him, and then he made use of
tables, forms, chairs and stools, with which he disabled
three or four of his enemies, until, overpowered by numbers
and bereft of all arms and means of defending himself, he
was beaten down, close to a window, from which he had tried
to fling himself in the hope of escape. Such was the end of
Captain Bussy...."
It was from these two paragraphs relating to Bussy and to Saint-Mégrin
that I built up my drama. M. Villenave told me that I should find
details as to manners in two valuable books entitled the _Confession de
Sancy_, and the _Ile des Hermaphrodites_.
In connection with _Henri III._ it is easy to see that the dramatic
gift is born with certain people. I was twenty-five years of age,
_Henri III._ was my second serious piece of work: let any conscientious
critic take it and submit it to the most rigorous examination and he
will find plenty to blame in the style, but nothing in the plot. I have
written fifty dramas since _Henri III._, but not one of them is more
cleverly constructed.