Gudin says, “This sentence had been so badly received by the multitude

assembled at the doors of the chamber, the judges had been so hissed on

breaking up the audience, although many of them took themselves out of the

way by passing through the long corridors unknown to the public, which are

called les _détours du palais_, they saw so many marks of discontentment

that they were not tempted to execute to the letter the sentence which

attracted to them only the _blâme universel_.”

Before speaking of the veritable triumph which the public accorded to

Beaumarchais in return for this cruel sentence, let us finish with the

parliament Maupeou.

“It was not destined,” says Loménie, “long to survive this act of anger

and vengeance. In striking with civil death a man whom public opinion

carried in triumph, it had struck its own death-blow. The opposition which

had slept, now roused, let itself loose upon the parliament with redoubled

fury. Pamphlets in prose and verse took on a new virility, the end of the

reign assured its fall, and one of the first acts of the new king, Louis

XVI was to establish the old parliament.” Louis XV died in May, 1774, the

old parliament was re-established in August of the same year.

“There were not lacking those,” says Bonnefon, “who called the destruction

of the parliament Maupeou, the Saint-Bartholomew of the ministers.”

The Spanish ambassador, quick at repartee, added, “that in any case it was

not the massacre of the Innocents.”

But to return to Beaumarchais. “All the gentlemen at court,” says Gudin,

“all the most distinguished persons of Paris, inscribed themselves at his

door. No one spoke of anything but of him.”

“It was at the very moment,” says Beaumarchais, “when they declared that I

was no longer anything, that everyone seemed the most eager to count me

for something. Everywhere I was welcomed, sought after; offers of every

nature were showered upon me.” The Prince of Conti was the first to set

the example.

“We are of a sufficiently illustrious house,” he said, “to show the nation

what is her duty toward one who has deserved so well of his country.” He

left his name the same day at the door of the man whom the parliament had

attempted to degrade, inviting him to a princely festival the next day

where some forty or more of the greatest personages of the realm were

present. The Duke of Chartres showed a like attention. It was in the midst

of all these ovations that M. de Sartine wrote to him:

“‘I counsel you not to show yourself any more publicly. What has happened

is irritating to many people. It is not enough to be blamed, one must be

modest as well. If an order came from the king I should be obliged to

execute it in spite of myself. Above everything do not write anything,

because the king wishes that you publish nothing more upon this affair.’”

Gudin says: “Determined as was Beaumarchais to break this iniquitous

sentence, he was yet conscious that the royal power was a rock against

which prudence might well fear to throw herself. He therefore took the

wise policy of submitting to the weakness of the king, to obey him and to

keep silent.”

“Wishing, however, to show to the world,” says Lintilhac, “that his

silence was not cowardice, he withdrew from France and retired into an

obscure place in Flanders.”

“It could not be expected,” says Bonnefon, “that Beaumarchais would rest

tranquilly under the blow of a condemnation which struck him with civil

death and ruined his career.” His first thought was to appeal for a second

judgment. But he feared lest the parliament might confirm the sentence by

a second act and foreseeing that it was already doomed, his great desire

was to secure from the king a reprieve, which would allow him the right of

appeal, no matter how long the period of time elapsed since the decree was

issued.

Several days after the judgment he wrote to his friend La Borde, banker at

court and particular friend of Louis XV.

“They have at last rendered it; this abominable sentence, chef-d’oeuvre

of hatred and iniquity. Behold me cut off from society and dishonored in

the midst of my career. I know, my friend, that the pains of opinion

should trouble only those who merit them; I know that iniquitous judges

have all power against the person of an innocent man and nothing against

his reputation. All France has inscribed itself at my door since Saturday!

The thing which has most pierced my heart on this sinister occasion is the

unhappy impression which has been given the king concerning me. It has

been said to him that I was pretending to a seditious celebrity; but no

one has told him that I only have defended myself, that I never ceased to

make my judges feel the consequences which might result from this

ridiculous suit.

“You know my friend that I always have led a quiet life, and that I should

never have written upon public matters if a host of powerful enemies had

not united to ruin me. Ought I to have allowed myself to be crushed

without attempting self-justification? If I have done it with too much

vivacity is that a reason for dishonoring me and my family, and cutting

off from society an honest subject whose talents might perhaps have been

employed usefully for the service of the king and the state? I have

courage to support a misfortune which I have not merited, but my father

with his seventy-five years of honor and work upon his head and who is

dying of sorrow, my sisters who are women and weak, their condition is

what kills me, and renders me inconsolable. Receive, my generous friend,

the sincere expression of the ardent gratitude with which I am, etc.

“Beaumarchais.”

A second letter to La Borde, written from his retreat in Flanders, shows

that the much desired reprieve had been granted him. He wrote, “The

sweetest thing in the world to my heart, my dear La Borde, is the

generosity of your sincere friendship. Everyone tells me that I have a

reprieve; you add to this the news that it is the king’s free will that I

obtain it. May God hear your prayers, my generous friend!”

To be sure the king had granted the reprieve but he set a price upon this

favor. “Judging from the very dexterity which Beaumarchais had displayed

in the Goëzman affair,” says Loménie, “Louis XV felt that he had need of

such skill and promised letters of relief to put him in a position to

recover his civil estate, if he should fulfill with zeal and success a

difficult mission to which the king attached a great importance. So it was

that the vanquisher of the Parliament Maupeou presently went to London in

the capacity of secret agent of the king.”

But before entering into a consideration of this new phase of adventure,

let us ask the faithful historian, Gudin, to relate to us a charming

incident which came at the moment of the triumph of Beaumarchais, to add

sweetness to its brilliancy. Gudin wrote:

“The celebrity of Beaumarchais attracted to him the attention of a woman

endowed with wit and beauty, a tender heart and a firmness of character

capable of supporting him in the cruel combats that were destined to come

to him. She did not know him at all, but her soul, touched by reading his

memoirs, by the fame of his courage, called to that of this celebrated

man. She burned with a desire to see him. I was with him when, under the

frivolous pretext of busying herself with music, she sent a man of her

acquaintance, and of that of Beaumarchais, to beg him to lend her his harp

for a short time. Such a demand under such circumstances disclosed her

intentions. Beaumarchais comprehended, he replied, ‘I lend nothing, but if

the lady wishes to come with you I will hear her play and she may hear

me.’ She came, I was witness to their first interview.

“I already have said that it was difficult to see Beaumarchais without

loving him. What an impression must he have produced when he was covered

with the applause of the whole of Paris; when he was regarded as the

defender of an oppressed liberty, the avenger of the public. It was still

more difficult to resist the charm attached to the looks, the voice, the

hearing, the discourse of Mademoiselle de Willermawlaz. The attraction of

the first moment was augmented from hour to hour, by the variety of their

agreeable accomplishments and the host of excellent qualities which each

discovered in the other as their intimacy increased. Their hearts were

united from that moment by a bond which no circumstance could break and

which love, esteem, time, and the law rendered indissoluble.”

Of the charming woman here described who subsequently became the third

wife of Beaumarchais we shall have occasion to speak later. For the

present, his situation was such that marriage was out of the question,

their union was not solemnized until later. Their one and only daughter,

Eugénie, was born in 1777. She was the darling of her father, the source

of his deepest happiness and the cause of his cruelest suffering. It was

for her that we shall find him, old and broken in health, setting himself

with almost juvenile vigor, at the time of his return from exile after the

Reign of Terror, to gather together the shattered remains of his fortune.

At the moment of his triumph in 1774, flattered, praised, and loved as we

have seen him, this condition was offset not only by the judgment of

parliament which ruined his career, but by a domestic trouble which was at

that moment preparing for him.

His father’s health had been so shattered by the terrible strain through

which he had been obliged to pass by the succession of calamities which

had befallen his son that in the end the vigor of his mind became

impaired.

It was thus that shortly before his death in 1775, at seventy-seven years

of age, without the knowledge of his son, he united himself in marriage

with the woman who had been provided for him, as caretaker. M. de Loménie

says of this individual, “She was a cunning old maid, who made him marry

her in the hope of being ransomed by Beaumarchais.

“Profiting by the weakness of the old man, she had had assigned to her in

their contract of marriage, the dowry and the part of a child. However,

the elder Caron left no fortune. The portion which he had received from

his second wife had gone towards partly covering the advances made to him

by his son who in addition gave him a lifetime pension. A written

settlement guaranteed Beaumarchais; but the third wife of the elder Caron,

speculating upon the celebrity of the son and his repugnance to a suit of

such a nature at the very moment when he had scarcely recovered himself

from the suit Goëzman, threatened to attack the settlement and to make a

noise.

“For the first time in his life,” continues Loménie, “Beaumarchais

capitulated before an adversary and disembarrassed himself by means of

6,000 francs of the person in question, a person, by the way, very subtle,

very daring, and _assez spirituelle,_ to judge from her letters.

“Upon the package of documents relating to this affair I find written in

the hand of Beaumarchais these words: _‘Infamie de la veuve de mon père

pardonnée’_ (Infamy of the widow of my father, pardoned). It is to the

influence of this _rusée commère_ that we must attribute the only moment

of misunderstanding between the father and the son during an intimate

correspondence which embraced the last fifteen years of the life of the

former; and it must be added that the misunderstanding lasted but a

moment, because the letter of the father on his death-bed which has

already been cited proves that harmony had been completely re-established

between them at the time of the death of the elder Caron towards the end

of August, 1775.”

CHAPTER XII

_“Il n’y a pas de conte absurde qu’on ne fasse adopter aux oisifs d’une

grande ville, on s’y prenant bien.”_

_Le Barbier de Séville, Act II, Scene VIII_

Beaumarchais Goes to London in Quality of Secret Agent of Louis

XV--Theveneau de Morande and His Gazetier Cuirassé--The King

Dies--Beaumarchais’s Second Mission Under Louis XVI--Playing

Figaro upon the Stage of Life--Visits the Empress of Austria--

Is Imprisoned at Vienna--Addresses Memoir to the King--

Confers with the Ministers upon the Recall of the

Parliaments.

“If at the end of a cultivated education and a laborious youth, my parents

could have left me an entire liberty as to the choice of a vocation, my

invincible curiosity, my dominant taste for the study of mankind and its

great interests, my insatiable desire to learn new things, and to form new

combinations, would have led me to throw myself into politics.” So

Beaumarchais had written in 1764, at a time when his intimacy with the

diplomatic circle of the court of Madrid had opened up a vista of possible

future usefulness in the world of politics and of vast business

enterprises, connected with matters of national importance. When his hopes

in both these directions had been blighted, we have seen him returning

home, bent only upon giving up his appointments at court and retiring with

Pauline to the West Indies, there to lead the life of a planter. This

dream having likewise dissolved, his next thought was to find consolation

in literature. Happy at last in his second marriage, prosperous and rich,

his ambition limited itself for a time to the following of a literary

career. Suddenly robbed of all these blessings by the untimely death of

his wife and infant son, attacked by powerful enemies, forced to defend

his honor and his life, we have followed him to where he now stands, a

civilly degraded man, powerless in the grasp of overwhelmingly adverse

circumstances.

As we already have seen in this narrative, Beaumarchais was no stranger to

adversity, whose only effect upon his character seems to have been to

rouse him to ever greater and greater efforts to overcome the obstacles

that would have seemed to another insurmountable. So in this case we find

him turning at once the whole force of his being to outside conditions in

order to discover what still remains to be done.

The path which opened before him was one that could have presented itself

only under such conditions of abuse of authority and of misrule as

characterized the declining years of Louis XV, a condition which allowed

justice to be given over into the hands of the infamous parliament of

which it has just been question, and which tolerated by the side of the

King of France a woman, Madame du Barry, who had begun her career as a

girl of the streets.

In the occult diplomacy of the court of Louis XV there was need enough for

secret agents, and it was in this capacity that we find our civilly

degraded man entering upon that new phase of his career which was so soon

to place him where he could take a hand in directing the destinies of

nations.

In speaking of this, M. de Loménie has said, “The history of the secret

missions of Beaumarchais is instructive if we would attempt to understand

absolute governments. The weak side of liberal governments, and the

consequences of the abuse sometimes made of liberty, have of late years

been sufficiently exposed for it to be interesting to see what went on

behind the scenes of absolute power.... and to note by what complicated

ways an unjustly condemned man was obliged to pass to obtain his

rehabilitation, and how in revenge, this same man, stricken with civil

death by a tribunal, was able to become the confidential agent of two

kings and their ministers, and little by little make himself so useful

that he reconquered his civil state and obtained control of a great

transaction, one worthy of himself and of his intelligence.” This

transaction was of course no other than his intervention in the cause of

American Independence.

But now in regard to his secret mission, it will be remembered that after

the parliament had pronounced its crushing sentence, silence had been

imposed upon him by the authority of the King. Strange as it may seem,

Louis XV was not unfriendly to the petulant man who had so warmly defended

himself. He had followed the suit with interest, had read the memoirs, and

even amused himself at the expense of the magistracy, which he had himself

established in defiance of the whole nation. The indolence and levity of

the King’s character showed themselves clearly in this attitude. So long

as things lasted _tant que lui_ he was satisfied to amuse himself in any

way that offered, regardless of the future. One day he said to La Borde

(first _valet de chambre_ of the King and friend of Beaumarchais), “They

say that your friend has a superior talent for negotiation; if he could be

successfully and secretly employed in an affair which interests me, his

own affairs would be the better for it.” The matter which weighed upon

the old king, the settlement of which was to be the price of the

rehabilitation of Beaumarchais, was one that had been troubling him for

more than a year.

There was at this time, established in London, a certain French

adventurer, Theveneau de Morande, who, says Loménie, “had taken refuge in

England, where, speculating upon scandal, he composed coarse libels which

he clandestinely introduced into France, and in which he defamed, outraged

and calumniated without distinction, every name, more or less known, which

presented itself under his pen. He had published amongst other works,

under the impudent title of _le Gazetier cuirassé_, a collection of

atrocities, perfectly in accord with the impudence of the title. Profiting

from the terror he inspired, he sent from time to time across the Channel,

demands for money, from those who feared his attacks.... For a

manufacturer of this kind, Madame du Barry was a mine of gold; so he wrote

to that lady announcing the near publication (except in case of a handsome

ransom) of an interesting work of which her life was the subject, under

the alluring title of _Mémoires secrets d’une femme publique_. Anyone else

but Madame du Barry might have disdained the insults of the pamphleteer,

or have brought him to justice before the English tribunals; it can easily

be understood that Madame du Barry could take neither of these

alternatives. Alarmed and furious, she communicated her anger and her

fears to Louis XV.”

The King began by demanding George III to give up the adventurer. The

English Government had no desire to harbor such a character and replied

that if the French King did not wish to pursue legally the pamphleteer, he

might arrest him, but only on condition that it was done with absolute

secrecy and without arousing the susceptibilities of the English populace.

Louis XV then set about preparing for his capture.

Theveneau de Morande was on the alert, and having been warned, he

forestalled the King by posing publicly as a persecuted political refugee,

placing himself under the protection of the London public. He had not

misjudged the temper of the people amongst whom he had sought refuge.

Furious at the thought of such a desecration of English law, a band of

supporters of Morande lay in wait, so that the secret agents on arriving

in London were known and followed. They were on the point of being seized

and thrown into the Thames when they learned of their betrayal, and so

were obliged to hurry with all possible speed back to France, with their

object unaccomplished.

Gloating over his triumph, the unprincipled adventurer hastened on his

publication, becoming daily more insolent in his demands. Louis XV sent

numerous agents across the channel to attempt to treat with him, but all

to no purpose, for the wily Morande, posing now before the public as a

defender of public morality, retained the protection of the people and

thus escaped the agents in question. Things were at this pass when the

thought occurred to the King of employing the talents of Beaumarchais in

terminating this difficult negotiation.

The sentence of the Parliament Maupeou, it will be remembered, had been

rendered the 26th of February, 1774; early in March the civilly degraded

man started for London, and as his own name was too widely known through

his memoirs to admit of secrecy, he assumed that of Ronac, anagram of

Caron. The firmness, tact, and above all the persuasiveness of his

character, enabled him in a few days completely to gain the confidence of

Morande, so that he reappeared almost immediately at Versailles to the

unbounded astonishment of the King, bringing a specimen of the libel, and

prepared to receive final orders for the termination of the affair. The

King sent him back to London in quality of his confidential agent to see

that the entire scandalous publication was destroyed by fire, and the

future silence of Morande secured. Both objects were speedily

accomplished.

Immediately following the destruction of the Memoirs of Mme. du Barry,

Beaumarchais wrote to Morande, “You have done your best, Monsieur, to

prove to me that you return in good faith to the sentiments and the

conduct of an honest Frenchman, from which your heart reproached you long

before I did, of having deviated; it is in persuading myself that you have

the design of persisting in these praiseworthy resolutions, that I take

pleasure in corresponding with you. What difference in our two destinies!

It happened to fall into my way to arrest the publication of a scandalous

libel; I work night and day for six weeks; I travel nearly two thousand

miles. I spend 500 louis to prevent innumerable evils. You gain at this

work, 100,000 francs and your tranquillity, while as for me, I do not even

know that my traveling expenses will be repaid.”

When Beaumarchais arrived in Paris he hastened to Versailles to receive

the reward of his activity. He found the old King attacked by a fatal

disease, and in a few days he was no more. “I admire,” he wrote the same

day, “the strangeness of the fate which follows me. If the King had lived

in health eight days longer, I would have been reinstated in the rights

which iniquity has taken from me, I had his royal word.”

A few days later he wrote to Morande, “Restored to my family and friends,

my affairs are quite as little advanced as before my voyage to England,

through the unexpected death of the King. I seize the first instant of

repose to write to you and to compliment you, Monsieur, very sincerely

upon your actual condition. Each one of us has done his best; I to tear

you from the certain misfortune which menaced you and your friends, and

you to prove a return with good faith to the sentiments and conduct of a

true Frenchman.... There only remains to me for total recompense the

satisfaction of having fulfilled my duty as an honest man and a good

citizen.... What consoles me is that the time of intrigue and cabal is

over. Restored to my legal defense the new King will not impose silence on

my legitimate reclamations; I shall obtain, _by force of right_, and _by

title of justice_ that which the late King was only willing to accord me

as a favor.” (Quoted from Lintilhac, _Beaumarchais et ses oeuvres_, p.

62.)

Here as elsewhere, true to the instincts of his nature, he accepted the

inevitable, while looking about him to see what remained to be done.

Realizing that the service accomplished for Louis XV could have small

interest for the virtuous young monarch just ascending the throne, he had

no thought for the moment of pressing for his rehabilitation, but

preferred to wait until some opportunity offered for making himself

useful, and if possible necessary, to the young King.

In November of the same year, he had the satisfaction of seeing the

parliament abolished which had degraded him. More than this, his opinion

was sought as to the best means to be employed in the re-establishment of

the ancient magistracy. Gudin, in his life of Beaumarchais says, “The

ministers were divided in opinion as to the best means to employ in

recalling the parliaments; they consulted Beaumarchais, and demanded of

him a short, elementary memoir, where his principles should be exposed in

a way proper to instruct every clear mind.... He obeyed and gave them

under the title of--_Idées élementaires sur le rappel du parlement_--a

memoir, which contains the most just ideas, the purest principles upon

the establishment of that body, and the limitations of its powers....” The

Ministers, however, did not dare to follow the simplicity of the

principles he laid down. After much discussion the parliaments were

recalled, and though the liberties of the people received but slight

attention, “Everyone was too flattered by the return of the ancient

magistracy, to think of the future.”

In the midst of his correspondence with the ministers over this matter of

public import, Beaumarchais did not forget his own private interests. He

wrote to M. de Sartine, “I have cut out the fangs of three monsters in

destroying two libels, and stopping the impression of a third, and in

return I have been deceived, robbed, imprisoned, my health is destroyed;

but what is that if the King is satisfied? Let him say ‘I am content,’ and

I shall be completely so, other recompense I do not wish. The King is

already too much surrounded by greedy askers. Let him know that in a

corner of Paris he has one disinterested servitor--that is all I ask.

“I hope that you do not wish me to remain _blâmé_ by that vile Parliament

which you have just buried under the debris of its dishonor. All Europe

has avenged me of its odious and absurd judgment, but that is not enough.

There must be a decree to destroy the one pronounced by it. I shall not

cease to work for this end, but with the moderation of a man who fears

neither intrigue nor injustice. I expect your good offices for this

important object.

“Your devoted

Beaumarchais.”

Gudin, after quoting this letter, adds “According to the immemorial custom

of all courts, they were much more eager to make use of the zeal of a

servitor than to render him justice. Nevertheless they repealed the

prohibition to play his _Barbier de Séville_.”

This was near the end of 1774. Already Beaumarchais again had been

appealed to, to suppress another scandalous publication, the appearance of

which was announced immediately after the accession of Louis XVI to the

throne of France. It had for title, _Avis à la branche espagnole sur ses

droits à la couronne de France, à défaut d’héritiers_ (Advice to the

Spanish branch, upon its claims to the crown of France in default of

heirs.) Although in appearance political, it was in reality a libel

directed against the young queen Marie Antoinette. In a memoir addressed

to the King after the suppression of the publication, Beaumarchais

accounts for its appearance in the following manner, he says, “As soon as

your Majesty had mounted the throne, several changes made, several

courtiers disgraced, having caused strong resentments to germinate,

suddenly there appeared in England and Holland a new libel against you,

Sire, and against the Queen. I went with all haste, and an express order

of your Majesty augmenting my courage, I followed up the book and the

editor to the point of extinction.”

[Illustration: Louis XVI]

[Illustration: Marie Antoinette]

“All that was known of this pamphlet,” says Loménie, “was that its

publication was confided to an Italian named Guillaume Angelucci, who in

England went under the name of William Atkinson, and who used a host of

precautions to insure his incognito. He had at his disposition enough

money to enable him to produce two editions at the same time, one in

England and the other in Holland. In order to ensure success to his

enterprise and still more no doubt, to heighten the importance of the rôle

he was about to play, Beaumarchais in accepting this second undesirable

mission had demanded a written order from the King, bearing the royal

signature. This had been refused. Beaumarchais started for London without

delay, but had by no means given up the idea of obtaining the written

order which seemed to him so important.”

“I have seen the Lord Rochford,” he wrote to M. de Sartine, “and found him

as affectionate as usual, but when I explained to him this affair, he

remained cold as ice. I turned and returned it in every way, I invoked our

friendship, reclaimed his confidence, warmed his _amour-propre_ by the

hope of being agreeable to our King, but I could judge from the nature of

his replies that he regarded my commission as an affair of police, of

espionage, in a word of _sous-ordre...._

“You should do the impossible to bring the King to send me an order or

mission signed by him, in about the terms which I have indicated at the

end of this letter. This need is as delicate, as it is essential for you

to-day. So many agents have been sent to London in relation to the last

libel, they were often of so questionable a character, that anyone who

seems to belong to the same order, cannot expect to be looked upon except

with contempt. This is the basis of your argument with the King. Tell him

of my visit to the Lord. It is certain that one cannot decently expect

that minister, however friendly he may be, to lend himself to the service

of my master, if that master puts no difference between the delicate and

secret mission with which he honors an honest man, and an order with which

a police officer is charged.”

M. de Sartine seemed to have been convinced, at all events he succeeded in

inducing the young king to copy with docility the model which Beaumarchais

had drawn up, and which ran as follows:

“The sieur de Beaumarchais, charged by my secret orders, will start for

his destination as soon as possible; the discretion and vivacity which he

will put into their execution will be the most agreeable proofs which he

can give me of his zeal for my service.

“Louis.

Marly, July 10, 1774.”

Beaumarchais, exultant, wrote at once to the minister, “The order of my

master is still virgin, that is to say, it has been seen by no one; but if

it has not yet served me in relation to others, it has none the less been

of a marvelous help to myself, in multiplying my powers and redoubling my

courage.”

He even went so far as to address the King personally. He wrote, “A lover

wears about his neck the portrait of his mistress; a miser, his keys; a

devotee, his reliquary--while as for me, I have had made a flat oval case

of gold, in which I have enclosed the order of your Majesty, and which I

have suspended about my neck with a chain of gold, as the thing the most

necessary for my work, and the most precious for myself.”

Satisfied at last in his ambition to have in his possession a written

order from the King, Beaumarchais set about arranging with redoubled zeal

for the suppression of the publication mentioned before. “He succeeded,”

says Loménie, “through great supply of eloquence, but also through great

supply of money. For 1,400 pounds sterling, the Jew renounced the

speculation. The manuscript and four thousand copies were burned in

London. The two contractors then betook themselves to Amsterdam for the

purpose of destroying the Holland edition. Beaumarchais secured the

written engagement of Angelucci, and then free from care, he gave himself

up to the pleasure of visiting Amsterdam _en tourist_.”

Up to this point the authority of M. de Loménie seems to hold good upon

this mission of Beaumarchais, which of late years has given rise to much

bitter controversy. “This obscure affair Angelucci--Atkinson,” says

Lintilhac, “has caused as much ink to flow in the last twenty years, as

the chefs-d’oeuvre of our author.”

We shall not attempt here to enter into the intricacies of this case, and

shall scarcely blame our hero, even supposing we should find him playing a

bit of comedy, very much _à la Figaro_, upon the stage of real life; for

it is necessary to recall the fact that under the cloak of philosophic

acceptance of his fate, Beaumarchais was all the while, at heart, a

desperate man. The death of the old King at the moment when he had every

reason to expect a speedy restitution to his rights as citizen, had been a

cruel blow which left him in a state of inward desperation. When we

consider the intense mental excitement in which he had been living from

the day of his frightful adventure with the duc de Chaulnes, his

imprisonment, the loss of his property, the dissolution of his family, the

execration of his enemies, the adulation of a nation; when we consider all

this and the events immediately following, our wonder is, not that

Beaumarchais lost for a time his sense of proportion and the true relation

of things, but rather that he had not been a thousand times over, crushed

and broken by the overwhelming combination of circumstances against which

he had struggled.

There is no doubt that now, at the moment of the termination of his

mission, his one idea was to exaggerate to the utmost the apparent value

of what he had accomplished, so that it would seem worth the price which

he desired for it, in the eyes of the young master whom he served. It was

no favor that he wanted; he desired nothing but to be allowed to work, but

his rehabilitation he must have at whatever cost. He knew only too well

that to the young King it was, after all, a matter of supreme

indifference whether or not he, Beaumarchais, regained his civil rights.

The affair of the libel even, had scarcely penetrated his consciousness;

that was a matter for the ministers to attend to. Beaumarchais felt,

therefore, that something must be done to force himself upon the attention

of the royal pair, both so young and so unconscious, not to say heedless,

of the duties of their station; the young Queen thinking of nothing but

the amusement of the hour, the King asking only to be relieved from the

responsibilities of state and of individual action. How was Beaumarchais

then to arouse in them sufficient interest to cause them to give a

moment’s attention to his wrongs? The spirit of adventure which always

animated him, his taste for intrigue, his talent of _mis en scène_, all

combined to aid him in what he undertook. He decided before he returned to

France, to present himself therefore before the Empress of Austria, sure

that by his talents, his address, and show of fervent zeal in the interest

of his Queen, he would win the tender heart of that tenderest of mothers.

To give a show of reason to his appearance before the Empress, and to

enhance the interest he might arouse, he imagined a wild and romantic

story, the heroic part of which he was himself to have acted. On his way

down the Danube, he wrote a detailed account of this supposed happening,

sending several copies to friends--among others to Gudin, who were asked

to inform his extended circle of acquaintances, of this rare new adventure

which had befallen him. It may be stated briefly as follows: After having

destroyed the libel in London and Amsterdam, and relieved from all further

responsibility, he supposed himself suddenly to have discovered that the

wily Angelucci had retained a copy of the libel, and that he had gone on

to Nuremberg with the intention of there issuing another publication.

Furious at this breach of faith, Beaumarchais hurriedly followed after,

stopping neither night nor day. He overtook Angelucci in the forest of

Neustadt, not far from Nuremberg. The rattling of the chaise attracted the

attention of the Jew, who, turning round, recognized his pursuer, and

being on horseback, dashed into the forest, hoping thereby to make good

his escape. Beaumarchais, however, springing from the chaise, followed

after on foot. The density of the forest enabled him to overtake

Angelucci, whom he dragged from his horse. In the depths of his traveling

sack, the infamous libel was discovered. Then he let Angelucci go. As

Beaumarchais was returning to the highway, he was fallen upon by two

robbers who attacked him savagely and from whom he defended himself with

bravery. He was delivered from them by their taking fright at the noise of

the postilion, who, uneasy at the long delay, had come to see what had

happened to the traveler. The latter was found, with face and hands badly

wounded. He passed the night in Nuremberg, and next morning, without

waiting to have his wounds dressed, he hastened on to Vienna.

So much for the romance--what follows is authentic history.

In a _procès-verbal_, under date of September 7, 1774, held by the

Burgomaster of Nuremberg, under order of Marie Thérèse, Empress of

Austria, the bourgeois Conrad Gruber, keeping the inn of the Coq Rouge at

Nuremberg, explained how M. de Ronac arrived at his inn, wounded in the

face and hands, the evening of August 14th, after a scene in the woods,

and he added “that it was remarked that M. de Ronac seemed to be very

uneasy, that he had risen very early in the morning, and wandered all over

the house, in such a way that from this and his general manner, it

appeared that his wits were a little disordered.”

As we said, Beaumarchais immediately hastened on to Vienna. Once arrived

in the capital, the question was, how to penetrate to the august presence

of the Empress. Absolutely without recommendation of any sort, traveling

as an inconspicuous M. de Ronac--anyone but Beaumarchais would have

renounced so wild and impossible a project from the beginning. In a very

lengthy memoir addressed to Louis XVI by Beaumarchais after his return to

France, the latter gives a minute account of this most singular adventure.

The following extracts will enable us to follow him:

“My first care at Vienna was to write a letter to the Empress. The fear

that the letter might be seen by other eyes prevented me from explaining

the motive of the audience which I solicited. I attempted simply to excite

her curiosity. Having no possible access to her, I went to her secretary,

M. le baron de Neny, who, on my refusing to tell him what I desired, and

judging from my slashed face, took me for a wild adventurer.... He

received me as badly as was possible, refused to take charge of my letter,

and would have entirely rejected my advances had I not assumed a tone as

proud as his own, and assured him that I made him responsible to the

Empress for all the evil which his refusal might make to an operation of

the greatest importance, if he did not instantly take my letter and give

it to the sovereign. More astonished by my tone than he had been by my

face, he took my letter unwillingly, and said that for all that, I need

not hope that the Empress would see me. ‘It is not this, Monsieur, that

need disquiet you. If the Empress refuses me an audience, you and I will

have done our duty....’

“The next day I was conducted to Schoenbrunn, and into the presence of Her

Majesty.... I first presented to the Empress the order of your Majesty,

Sire, of which she perfectly recognized the writing.... She then

permitted me to speak.... ‘Madame,’ I said, ‘it is here less a matter of

state interest, properly speaking, than the efforts which black intrigues

are making in France to destroy the happiness of the King.’ Here I recited

the details of my negotiation, and the incidents of my voyage to Vienna.

“At every circumstance, the Empress, joining her hands in surprise,

repeated, ‘But, Monsieur, where have you found so ardent a zeal for the

interests of my son-in-law, and above all, of my daughter?’

“‘Madame, I was the most unfortunate man of France during the last reign;

the queen in that terrible time did not disdain to show an interest in my

fate. In serving her to-day, I am only acquitting an immense debt; the

more difficult the enterprise, the more my ardor is inflamed....’

“‘But, Monsieur, what necessity had you to change your name?’

“‘Madame, I am unfortunately too well known in Europe under my own name to

permit me to employ it while undertaking so delicate and important a

mission as the one in which I am engaged.’

“The Empress seemed to have a great curiosity to read the work whose

destruction had caused me so much trouble. The reading immediately

followed our explanation. Her Majesty had the goodness to enter with me

into the most intimate details of this subject; she had also that of

listening a great deal to what I had to say. I remained with her more than

three hours and a half, and I implored her not to waste a moment in

sending to Nuremberg and securing the person of Angelucci....

“The Empress had the goodness to thank me for the ardent zeal which I had

shown; she begged me to leave the pamphlet with her until the next day.

‘Go and repose yourself,’ she said, with infinite grace, ‘and see that

you are promptly bled....’”

Whatever pleasing effect the ardor and enthusiasm of Beaumarchais may have

produced upon Marie Thérèse, it was soon dispelled by the Chancellor

Kaunitz, to whom she at once showed the libel, and related the adventure

as she had heard it from Beaumarchais. Kaunitz not only pronounced the

whole story an invention, but at once suspected that Beaumarchais himself

was the author of the libel, and that the Jew Angelucci was a fabrication

of his own brain. At the Chancellor’s instigation, Beaumarchais was at

once arrested and kept in custody until the matter could be cleared up. To

continue the narrative as given by Beaumarchais in his report to the King:

“I returned to Vienna, my head still hot with the excitement of that

conference. I threw upon paper a host of observations which seemed to me

very important relative to the subject in question; I addressed them to

the Empress.... The same day at nine o’clock I saw enter my room, eight

grenadiers, bayonets and guns, two officers with naked swords, and a

secretary of the regency bringing me word which invited me to allow myself

to be arrested, reserving all explanations. ‘No resistance,’ said the

officer to me.

“‘Monsieur,’ I replied coldly, ‘I sometimes have resisted robbers, but

never Empresses.’ I was made to put all my papers under seal. I demanded

permission to write to the Empress, and was refused. All my effects were

taken from me, knives, scissors, even to my buckles, and a numerous guard

was left in my room, where it remained _thirty-one days_ or _forty-five

thousand, six hundred_ and _forty minutes_; because, while the hours fly

so rapidly for happy people that they scarcely note their succession,

those who are unfortunate count time by minutes and seconds, and find it

flows slowly when each one is noted separately....

“One may judge of my surprise, of my fury! The next day the person who

arrested me came to tranquilize me. ‘Monsieur,’ I replied, ‘there is no

repose for me until I have written to the Empress. What happened to me is

inconceivable. Give me paper and pens or prepare to chain me, for here is

surely enough to drive one mad.’

“At last permission was given me to write; M. de Sartine has all my

letters; read them, and the nature of my sorrows will be seen.... I wrote,

I supplicated--no reply. ‘If I am a scoundrel, send me back to France, let

me there be tried and judged....’

“When, on the thirty-first day of my detention, I was set at liberty, they

told me that I might return to France or remain in Vienna, as I wished.

And if I should die on the way, I would not have remained another quarter

of an hour in Vienna. A thousand ducats were presented to me which I

firmly refused. ‘You have no money, all your belongings are in France.’

“‘I will give my note and borrow what is absolutely necessary for my

journey.’

“‘Monsieur, an Empress does not make loans.’

“‘And _I_ accept no favors but from my master; he is sufficiently great to

recompense me if I have served him well.’

“‘Monsieur, the Empress will think that you are taking a great liberty to

refuse her favors.’

“‘Monsieur, the only liberty which cannot be taken from a very respectful

but cruelly outraged man is the liberty to refuse favors. For the rest, my

master will decide whether I am right or wrong in this conduct, but as to

my decision--it remains as I have said.’

“The same evening I left Vienna, and traveling day and night, I arrived

the ninth day, hoping at last for an explanation. All that M. de Sartine

has been willing to say to me is: ‘_Que voulez-vous?_ The Empress took you

for an adventurer....’

“Sire, be so good as not to disapprove of my refusal to accept the money

of the Empress, and permit me to return it to Vienna. I should, however,

be willing to accept an honorable word, or her portrait, or any similar

token which I could oppose to the reproach which is everywhere made me of

having been arrested in Vienna as a suspicious character.... I await the

orders of your Majesty.

“Caron de Beaumarchais.”

The money was subsequently returned, and in its place a valuable diamond

ring was sent by the Empress. This ring shone on its possessor’s finger,

from henceforth, on all occasions of ceremony. As for the suspicions of

Kaunitz, which have been shared by many, we can do no more than refer the

reader to the special literature on this subject. The story of the

brigands is unquestionably an invention, as for proofs of forgery, or real

guilt of any kind,--after the most exhaustive investigations, none has

ever been found.

In his edition of the History of Beaumarchais, by Gudin, 1888, Maurice

Tourneux in a lengthy note points out the fallacies in the story of this

adventure as told by Gudin. After speaking of the most recent accusations

against Beaumarchais, he says, “But it must be admitted, this is to

venture upon a series of very serious as well as practically gratuitous

accusations.”

Lintilhac does not hesitate to assert that Angelucci did exist, and that

not a line of the libel is from the pen of Beaumarchais. As this is the

most recent study of the subject which has appeared, it attempts to answer

all the arguments set forth by the adversaries of Beaumarchais, and

through before unpublished documents, to prove the fallacy of all their

conjectures. (See _Beaumarchais et ses oeuvres_, by E. Lintilhac, Paris,

1889.)

What is, however, of vital importance for the life of Beaumarchais, and

above all for the very important rôle which he is about to play in the War

of American Independence, is that the adventure just related did not in

the least bring upon him the dislike of Marie Antoinette, who had always

protected him, or of Louis XVI, or his ministers. On the contrary, he had

hardly returned when he found himself summoned to confer with the heads of

the government upon the recall of the parliaments. A greater honor could

scarcely have been paid to the sound judgment of the man who passed for

the wittiest, the most fascinating, in a word the most brilliant man of

his time. While conferring with the ministers upon weighty matters of

state, Beaumarchais took pains at the same time to obliterate as far as

possible from the public mind the impression made by the news of his

imprisonment at Vienna. Immediately on his arrival, he launched forth a

song which he had composed for this purpose, a song which became at once

universally popular, and which renewed the admiration of the people for

its author.

The song in question begins with the following stanza:

_“Toujours, toujours, il est toujours le même,

Jamais Robin,

Ne connut le chagrin,

Le temps sombre on serein,

Les jours gras, le carême;

Le matin ou le soir;

Dites blanc, dites noir,

“Toujours, toujours, il est toujours le même.”_

In previous chapters, we have spoken already of the intimacy of

Beaumarchais with Lenormant D’Etioles. The latter’s fête happening a few

days after Beaumarchais’s return from Vienna, he suddenly appeared

unannounced in the midst of the gay festival, to the unbounded joy of his

old friends. As the entertainment progressed, Beaumarchais absented

himself for half an hour, returning with a song in dialect, which he had

just composed in honor of his host. A young man present sang it before the

company. Its success was complete, and along with the one previously

mentioned, it soon spread all over Paris. This song contained a verse

which recalled in a very pleasing way, the personal affair which was of

such great importance to the author, and which had served to make him

popular. He was thus kept fresh in the public mind and its sympathetic

interest was conserved.

_“Mes chers amis, pourriez-vous m’enseigner

J’im bon seigneur don cha’un parle?

Je ne sais pas comment vous l’designer

C’pendent, on dit qu’il a nom Charle ..._

...

_L’hiver passé j’eut un mandit procès

Qui m’donna bien d’la tablature.

J’m’en vais vous l’dire: ils m’avons mis exprès

Sous c’te nouvelle magistrature;

Charlot venait, jarni,

Me consolait, si fit;

Ami, ta cause est bonne et ronde ..._

...

_Est ce qu’on blâme ainsi le pauvre monde?”_

CHAPTER XIII

_Le Barbier De Séville--_

_“J’ai donc eu la faiblesse autrefois, Monsieur, de faire des drames qui

n’etaient pas du bon genre; et je m’en repens beaucoup._

_“Pressé depuis, par les événements, j’ai hasardé de malheureux mémoires

que mes ennemis n’ont pas trouvés de bon style; j’en ai le remords cruel._

_“Aujourd’hui je fais glisser sous vos yeux, une comédie fort gaie, que

certains maîtres de goût n’estiment pas du bon ton; et je ne m’en console

point._

...

_“Je ne voudrais pas jurer qu’il en fut seulement question dans cinq ou

six siècles; tant notre nation est inconstante et légère.”_

_Préface du Barbier de Séville._

The Character of Figaro--The First Performance of _Le Barbier

de Séville_--Its Success after Failure--Beaumarchais’s

Innovation at the Closing of the Theatre--His First Request

for an Exact Account from the Actors--_Barbier de Séville_ at

the Petit-Trianon.

Aside from Beaumarchais’s participation in the affairs of the War of

American Independence, the chief title to glory which his admirers can

claim for him is his creation of the character of Figaro.

“Certainly no comic personage,” says Gudin, “has more the tone, the

_esprit_, the gaiety, the intelligence, the lightness, that kind of

insouciance and intrepid self-confidence which characterizes the French

people.”

So long and lovingly had Beaumarchais carried about with him this child of

his _esprit_, that the two at last practically had become one. Gudin says,

“The handsome, the gay, the amiable Figaro, daring and philosophical,

making sport of his masters and not able to get on without them, murmuring

under the yoke and yet bearing it with gaiety” is no other than

Beaumarchais in person. “Welcomed in one city, imprisoned in another, and

everywhere superior to events, praised by these, blamed by those, enduring

evil, making fun of the stupid, braving the wicked, laughing at misery and

shaving all the world, you see me at last in Seville.”

“Le Comte--‘Who gave thee so gay a philosophy?’

“Figaro--‘The habit of misfortune, I hasten to laugh at everything for

fear of being obliged to weep.’ (’_Le Barbier de Séville_,’ Act I, Scene

II) or again--

“Le Comte--‘Do you write verses, Figaro?’

“Figaro--‘That is precisely my misfortune, your Excellency. When it became

known to the ministers that I sent enigmas to the journals, that madrigals

were afloat of my making, in a word that I had been printed alive, they

took it tragically, and deprived me of my position under the pretext that

the love of letters is incompatible with _l’esprit des affaires_.’”

When Figaro re-appears a few years later, we shall see all his

characteristics intensified in proportion as the experiences and success

of Beaumarchais had heightened his daring and address.

We must not make the mistake however of identifying Beaumarchais with his

creation, for to create Figaro required one greater than he. There is

undoubtedly a strongly developed Figaro side to Beaumarchais’s nature and

it is this which always had prevented him from being taken seriously, and

which made him an unfathomable being even to those very persons who

depended upon and profited most by his rare gifts.

With such limitless resources, such power of combination, such insight,

incapable of taking offense at any injury, so generous, forgiving,

laughing at misfortune, how could he be taken seriously? With

Beaumarchais, as with Figaro, it is the very excess of his qualities and

gifts which alarms. As one of his biographers has said, “What deceives is,

that in seeing Figaro display so much _esprit_, so much daring, we

involuntarily fear that he will abuse his powers in using them for evil;

this fear is really a kind of homage; Figaro in the piece, like

Beaumarchais in the world, gives a handle to calumny but never justifies

it. The one and the other never interfere except for good, and if they

love intrigue it is principally because it gives them occasion to use

their _esprit_.”

The first conception of Figaro dates very far back in the history of

Beaumarchais. Already before his return from Spain the character was

beginning to take form in his mind. Its first appearance was in a farce

produced at the Château d’Étioles. We have spoken already of its rejection

by the _Comédie des Italiens_, after it had assumed the form of a comic

opera. Made over into a drama, it had soon after been accepted by the

_Théâtre-Français_.

It will perhaps be remembered that following the frightful adventure with

the duc de Chaulnes, Beaumarchais had spent the evening of that same day

in reading his play to a circle of friends. It had at that time passed the

censor and had been approved. Permission for its presentation had been

signed by M. de Sartine, then lieutenant of police, and it was advertised

for the thirteenth of February of that year, 1773. The affair with the

Duke happened on the 11th, two days before the piece was to be performed.

The difficulties which immediately followed were of a nature to cause the

performance to be postponed indefinitely.

A year later, however, when the great success of the memoirs of

Beaumarchais had made him so famous, “the comedians,” says Loménie,

“wished to profit by the circumstance. They solicited permission to play

the _Barbier de Séville_.”

But the police, fearing to find in it satirical allusions to the suit then

in progress, caused a new censorship to be appointed, before permission

could be obtained. Their report was, “The play has been censored with the

greatest rigor but not a single word has been found which applies to the

present situation.”

The representation was announced for Saturday, the 12th of February, 1774.

Two days before this date, however, came an order from the authorities

which prohibited the presentation. The noise had gone abroad that the

piece had been altered and that it was full of allusions to the suit.

Beaumarchais denied this rumor in a notice which terminates thus:

“I implore the court to be so good as to order that the manuscript of my

piece, as it was consigned to the police a year ago, and as it was to be

performed, be presented; I submit myself to all the rigor of the

ordinances if in the context, or in the style of the work, anything be

found which has the faintest allusion to the unhappy suit which M. Goëzman

has raised against me and which would be contrary to the profound respect

which I profess for the parliament.

“Caron de Beaumarchais”

The prohibition was not removed and the piece was not presented until

after the return of the author from Vienna in December, 1774.

“He then obtained permission,” says Loménie, “to have his _Barbier_

played. Between the obtaining of the permission and the presentation he

put himself at his ease; his comedy had been prohibited because of

pretended allusions which did not exist; he compensated himself for this

unjust prohibition by inserting precisely all the allusions which the

authorities feared to find in it and which were not there. He reinforced

it with a great number of satirical generalities, with a host of more or

less audacious puns. He added a good many lengthy passages, increased it

by an act and overcharged it so completely that it fell flat the day of

its first appearance before the public.”

The defeat was all the more striking because of the fame of the author;

the public curiosity so long kept in abeyance had brought such a crowd to

the first presentation as had never before been equalled in the annals of

the theater.

“Never,” says Grimm, “had a first presentation attracted so many people.”

The surprise of himself and his friends was extreme, for Beaumarchais

instead of applause received the hisses of the parterre. Anyone else might

have been discouraged, or at least disturbed by so unexpected a turn, not

so Beaumarchais.

In his own account of the defeat, wittily told in the famous preface to

the Barbier, published three months later, he says, “The god of Cabal is

irritated; I said to the comedians with force, ‘Children, a sacrifice here

is necessary,’ and so giving the devil his part, and tearing my

manuscript, ‘god of the hissers, spitters, coughers, disturbers,’ I cried,

‘thou must have blood, drink my fourth act and may thy fury be appeased.’

In the instant you should have heard that infernal noise which made the

actors grow pale, and falter, weaken in the distance and die away.” But

Beaumarchais did more than simply renounce an act, he set instantly to

work to rearrange and purify the whole play.

“Surely it is no common thing,” says Loménie, “to see an author pick up a

piece justly fallen, and within twenty-four hours ... transform it so that

it becomes a charming production, full of life and movement....”

At its second production, “everyone laughed, and applauded from one end to

the other of the piece; its cause was completely gained.” (Gudin)

What Beaumarchais did, was to restore the piece to about the form which

had been approved and signed by the censors.

Some of the best of the satirical portions which are to be found in the

printed play, nevertheless, were inserted before the first presentation,

these he dared to retain in the final form.

In accounting for its fall, Gudin says, “A superabundance of _esprit_

produced satiety and fatigued the audience. Beaumarchais then set about

pruning his too luxuriantly branching tree, pulled off the leaves which

hid the flowers--thus allowing one to taste all the charm of its details.”

As might be expected, the success of the play after its first presentation

produced a storm of opposition; critics and journals vied with each other

to prove to the public that they had again been deceived. Gudin says, “His

facility to hazard everything and receive applause awakened jealousy and

unchained against him cabals of every kind.”

In the brilliant preface already alluded to, which Beaumarchais published

with the play after its success was established, he allowed himself the

pleasure of mocking, not only at the journalists and critics, but at the

public itself. “You should have seen,” he wrote, “the feeble friends of

the _Barbier_, dispersing themselves, hiding their faces, or disappearing;

the women, always so brave when they protect, burying themselves in hoods,

and lowering their confused eyes; the men running to make honorable amends

for the good they had said of my piece and throwing the pleasure which

they had taken in it upon my execrable manner of reading things. Some

gazing fixedly to the right when they felt me pass to the left, feigned

not to see me, others more courageous, but looking about to assure

themselves that no one saw them, drew me into a corner to ask, ‘Eh? how

did you produce such an illusion? Because you must admit my friend that

you have produced the greatest platitude in the world.’”

Beaumarchais could afford to indulge in such pleasantries, for his piece

was not only continuing to draw vast crowds, but it had begun already a

triumphant progress over Europe. In St. Petersburg alone it went through

fifty representations.

But the revenge of Beaumarchais did not stop here; most of the cuttings

which he had been forced to make in the play, the witticisms, jests and

tirades were far too good to be lost. He saved them for future use and

made the public laugh over and applaud what it first hissed. When Figaro

made his second appearance, on the mad day of his marriage, he used them

nearly all. Beaumarchais’s revenge then was complete. But while waiting

for this, he had the audacity to make the comedians themselves mock at

their own playing, as we shall see presently.

The story of the _Barbier de Séville_ is of the simplest: “Never,” says

Lintilhac, “did any one make a better thing out of nothing.”

A young nobleman, the count Almaviva, tired of the conquests which

interest, convention, and vanity make so easy, has left Madrid to follow

to Seville a charming, sweet, and fresh young girl Rosine, with whom he

has never been able to exchange a word owing to the constant oversight of

her guardian, the Doctor Bartholo, who is on the point of marrying her and

securing to himself her fortune. In the words of Figaro, the doctor is a

“beautiful, fat, short, young, old man, slightly gray, cunning, sharp,

cloyed, who watches, ferrets, scolds and grumbles all at the same time and

so naturally inspires only aversion in the charming Rosine.” The count, on

the contrary, is a sympathetic figure, who, although disguised as a

student and only seen from afar, has already won the heart of the young

girl.

Figaro, the gay and resourceful barber to Bartholo has long ago succeeded

in making himself indispensable to the latter and to his whole household,

while at the same time taking advantage of the avarice and cunning of the

doctor and turning them to his own account. It is he who recognizes the

disguise of the student, his old master, the count Almaviva, loitering

under Rosine’s window, and offers his services in outwitting the doctor

whose arrangements are made for the consummation of his marriage on that

self-same day.

It is no easy matter which he here undertakes, for with all his

resourcefulness, Figaro has to deal with a suspicious old man, subtle and

cunning, who is almost as resourceful as himself.

The count obtains entrance to the house as a music teacher sent by

Rosine’s usual instructor whom the count announces as ill.

A most amusing scene ensues when Basile, the true instructor, appears,

unconscious that he has a substitute and where, by the quick wit of the

others, even the old doctor is made to laugh him out of the house, before

the situation is spoiled. Basile goes, utterly mystified by the whole

proceeding, but carrying with him “one of the irresistible arguments with

which the count’s pockets are always filled.”

The embroglio thickens. Although Bartholo is constantly on his guard and

suspicious of everyone, especially of Figaro, the latter succeeds in

getting the key to Rosine’s lattice from the old man’s possession, almost

under his very eyes, and then shows it to him, but at a moment when

Bartholo is too much taken up with watching the new music teacher to

notice the key, or the gesture of Figaro.

In the end, it is by the very means which Bartholo has taken to outwit the

others, that the count succeeds in replacing him by the side of Rosine,

and leading her before the notary, who arrives, after he has been sent for

by Doctor Bartholo. The ceremony is concluded, as the doctor arrives on

the scene. The fury of the latter is appeased, however, when he learns

that he may keep the fortune of Rosine, while the count leads her off

triumphant, happy in the “sweet consciousness of being loved for himself.”

It is to be sure an old, old story, but made into something quite new by

the genius of the author. The situation of Basile in the third act, as

already described, is absolutely without precedent, while numerous other

scenes offer a _comique_ difficult to surpass.

“The style lends wings to the action,” says Lintilhac, “and is so full and

keen that the prose rings almost like poetry while his phrases have become

proverbs.”

Perhaps the most remarkable passage of the whole play is that upon

slander, which Beaumarchais puts into the mouth of Basile,

“Slander, sir! You scarcely know what you are disdaining. I have seen the

best of men almost crushed under it. Believe me, there is no stupid

calumny, no horror, not an absurd story that one cannot fasten upon the

idle people of a great city if one only begins properly, and we have such

clever folks!

“First comes a slight rumor, skimming the ground like a swallow before the

storm, _pianissimo_, it murmurs and is gone, sowing behind its empoisoned

traits.

“Some mouth takes it up, and _piano, piano_, it slips adroitly into the

ear. The evil is done, it germinates, it grows, it flourishes, it makes

its way, and _rinforzando_, from mouth to mouth it speeds onward; then

suddenly, no one knows how, you see slander, erecting itself, hiss, swell,

and grow big as you gaze. It darts forward, whirls, envelops, tears up,

drags after it, thunders and becomes a general cry; a public _crescendo_,

a universal chorus of hatred and proscription.”

The _Barbier de Séville_ had gone through thirteen presentations when the

time arrived for the closing of the theater for the three weeks before

Easter. It was a time-honored custom on this occasion for one of the

actors to come forward after the last performance was over, and deliver a

discourse which was called the _compliment de clôture_. “Beaumarchais,”

says Loménie, “lover of innovation in everything, had the idea of

replacing this ordinarily majestic discourse by a sort of proverb of one

act, which should be played in the costumes of the _Barbier_.” In

explaining the composition of the proverb he says further, “It has not

been sufficient for Beaumarchais to restore to the _Théâtre-Français_ some

of the vivid gaiety of the olden time,--he wished for more, he desired

not only that the people be made to laugh immoderately, but that one

should sing in the theater of _Messieurs les comédiens du roi_.” This was

an enormity and essentially contrary to the dignity of the

_Comédie-Française_. Nevertheless, as Beaumarchais had an obstinate will,

the comedians to please him undertook to sing at the first representation

the airs introduced into the _Barbier_; but whether the actors acquitted

themselves badly at this unaccustomed task, or whether it was that the

public did not like the innovation, all the airs were hissed without pity

and it had been necessary to suppress them in the next presentation. There

was one air in particular to which the author was strongly attached; it

was the air of spring sung by Rosine in the third act. “_Quand dans la

plaine_,” etc. The amiable actress, Mademoiselle Doligny, who had created

the rôle of Rosine, little used to singing in public, and still less to

being hissed, refused absolutely to recommence the experiment and

Beaumarchais had been forced to resign himself to the sacrifice of the

air.

But as in everything he only sacrificed himself provisionally.

At the approach of the day of the _clôture_, he proposed to the comedians

to write for them the compliment which it was the custom to give, but on

condition that they sing his famous air which he proposed to bring into

the compliment, that was to be played by all the actors of the _Barbier_.

As Mademoiselle Doligny still refused to sing the bit in question,

Beaumarchais suppressed the _rôle_ of Rosine, and replaced it by the

introduction of another actress more daring, who sang very agreeably,

namely, Mademoiselle Luzzi.

This amusing proverb in the style of the _Barbier_ had a great success and

the delicious little spring song as sung by Mademoiselle Luzzi received

at last its just applause. In the scene in which it was produced the

daring author has dialogued thus:

Scene III

Mlle. Luzzi--“Very well, gentlemen, isn’t the compliment given yet?”

Figaro--“It’s worse than that, it isn’t made.”

Mlle. Luzzi--“The compliment?”

Bartholo--“A miserable author had promised me one, but at the instant of

pronouncing it, he sent us word to serve ourselves elsewhere.”

Mlle. Luzzi--“I am in the secret, he is annoyed that you suppressed in his

piece his air of spring.”

Bartholo--“What air of spring? What piece?”

Mlle. Luzzi--“The little air of Rosine in the _Barbier de Séville_.”

Bartholo--“That was well done, the public does not want any one to sing at

the _Comédie-Française_.”

Mlle. Luzzi--“Yes, Doctor, in tragedies; but when did it wish that a gay

subject should be deprived of what might increase its agreeableness?

Believe me, gentlemen, Monsieur _le Public_ likes anything which amuses

him.”

Bartholo--“More than that is it our fault if Rosine lost courage?”

Mlle. Luzzi--“Is it pretty, the song?”

Le Comte--“Will you try it?”

Figaro--“In a corner under your breath.”

Mlle. Luzzi--“But I am like Rosine, I shall tremble.”

Le Comte--“We will judge if the air might have given pleasure.”

Mlle. Luzzi sings.

_“Quand dans la plaine

L’amour ramène

Le printemps

Si chéri des amants,

Tout reprend l’être

Son feu pénètre

Dans les fleurs

Et dans les jeunes coeurs.

On voit les troupeaux

Sortir des hameaux;

Dans tous les coteaux

Les cris des agneaux

Retentissent;

Ils bondissent;

Tout fermente,

Tout augmente;

Les brebis paissent

Les fleurs qui naissent;

Les chiens fidèles

Veillent sur elles;

Mais Lindor enflammé

Ne songe guère

Qu’au bonheur d’être aimé

De sa bergère.”_

Le Comte--“Very pretty, on my honor.”

Figaro--“It is a charming song.”

Beaumarchais was so far content. He had proved his point and had triumphed

over friends and enemies alike. A far more difficult matter remained,

however, to be settled. It was one that would have frightened a less

intrepid character than that of our author, but obstacles, as we have seen

in many previous instances, only served to strengthen his determination

to conquer, which in this instance, as in most others, he did in the end.

When Beaumarchais demanded of the _Théâtre-Français_ a statement verified

and signed as to his share of the profits from the representation of the

_Barbier de Séville_, no one knew better than he the magnitude of the

innovation which he was committing.

The alarmed comedians, who had never in their lives made out an accurate

account and who had not the remotest intention of yielding to the demand,

endeavored by every possible means to put him off. The money that they

sent and the unsigned memoranda which accompanied it, were all promptly

but politely returned with the reiterated statement, most obligingly and

cleverly turned and always in some new form, that it was not the money

which was wanted, but a verified and signed account which could serve as a

model for all future occasions, when it became a matter of business

transaction between authors and comedians.

For fifteen years he pursued his object with unfaltering perseverance.

Unable to establish a new order of things under the old _régime_, we shall

find him in 1791 presenting a petition in regard to the rights of authors

to the _Assemblée Nationale_.

But to return to the _Barbier de Séville_, let us anticipate a period of

ten years and accompany Beaumarchais to a representation of this famous

piece played upon another stage than that of the _Théâtre-Français_, and

by actors very different from the comedians of the king.

It was in 1785. The aristocracy of France, all unconscious of what they

were doing towards the undermining of the colossal structure of which they

formed the parts, were bent upon one thing only and that was amusement.

From the insupportable _régime_ which etiquette enforced, Marie

Antoinette fled the vast palace of Versailles on every possible occasion,

seeking refuge in her charming and dearly loved retreat, the

_Petit-Trianon_.

[Illustration: _Le Petit-Trianon_]

In the semi-seclusion of her palace and its adjoining pleasure grounds,

her rôle of queen was forgotten. It was there that she amused herself with

her ladies of honor, in playing at being shepherdess, or dairy maid.

Whatever ingenuity could devise to heighten the illusion, was there

produced. Innocent and harmless sports one might say, and in itself that

was true, but for a Queen of France! A queen claiming still all the

advantages of her rank, renouncing only what was burdensome and dull!

Innocent she was, of all the crimes that calumnies imputed to her, and of

what crimes did they not try to make her appear guilty; but innocent in

the light of history she was not. More than any other victim perhaps of

the French Revolution, she brought her doom upon herself. The sublimity,

however, with which she expiated to the uttermost those thoughtless

follies of her youth, enables us to pardon her as woman, though as queen,

we must recognize that her fate was inevitable.

But in 1785, mirth and gaiety still reigned in the precinct of the

_Petit-Trianon_. In August of the year Marie Antoinette who had always

protected Beaumarchais, wishing to do him a signal honor had decided to

produce upon the little stage of her palace theater the _Barbier de

Séville_.

In his _Fin de l’ancien Régime_, Imbert de Saint-Amand gives the following

narration of that strange incident.

“Imagine who was to take the part of Rosine, that pretty little mignonne,

sweet, tender, affable, fresh and tempting, with furtive foot, artful

figure, well formed, plump arms, rosy mouth, and hands! and cheeks! and

teeth! and eyes! (_Le Barbier de Séville_, Act II, Scene 2). Yes, this

part of Rosine, this charming child, thus described by Figaro, was to be

played by whom? By the most imposing and majestic of women, the queen of

France and Navarre.

“The rehearsals began under the direction of one of the best actors of the

_Comédie-Française_, Dazincourt, who previously had obtained a brilliant

success in the _Mariage de Figaro_. It was during the rehearsals that the

first rumor of the terrible affair of the diamond necklace reached the

Queen. Nevertheless she did not weaken.--Four days after the arrest of the

Cardinal de Rohan, grand-almoner of France, Marie Antoinette appeared in

the rôle of Rosine.

“Beaumarchais was present. The rôle of Figaro was taken by the Comte

d’Artois....

“A soirée, certainly the most singular. At the very hour when so many

catastrophes were preparing, was it not curious to hear the brother of

Louis XVI, the Comte d’Artois, cry out in the language of the Andalusian

barber, ‘Faith, Monsieur, who knows whether the world will last three

weeks longer?’ (Act III, Scene 5). He the zealous partisan of the old

_régime_, he the future _émigré_, he the prince who would one day bear the

title of Charles X, it was he who uttered such democratic phrases as

these: ‘I believe myself only too happy to be forgotten, persuaded that a

great lord has done us enough good, when he has done us no harm.’ (Act I,

Scene 2)

“‘From the virtues required in a domestic, does your Excellency know many

masters who are worthy of being valets?’ (Act I, Scene 2)

“Was there not something like a prediction in these words of Figaro in the

mouth of the brother of Louis XVI, ‘I hasten to laugh at everything for

fear of being obliged to weep’? (Act I, Scene 2)

“Ah, let Marie Antoinette pay attention and listen! At this moment when

the affair of the necklace begins, would not one say that all the

maneuvers of her calumniators were announced to her by Basile: ‘Calumny,

Sir....’ Beautiful and unfortunate Queen, on hearing that definition of

the _crescendo_ of calumny would she not turn pale?

“With this representation of the _Barbier de Séville_, ended the private

theatricals of the _Petit-Trianon_. What was preparing was the drama, not

the fictitious drama, but the drama real, the drama terrible, the drama

where Providence reserved to the unhappy queen the most tragic, the most

touching of all the rôles....” (For the full details of this fatal affair

of the diamond necklace, see _L’ancien Régime_, by Imbert de Saint-Amand.)

Little did Beaumarchais realize the part he was playing in the preparation

for that great drama. The gay utterances of his Figaro were the utterances

of the mass of the people of France. Through Beaumarchais, the _Tiers

État_ was at last finding a voice and rising to self-consciousness; it was

rising also to a consciousness of the effete condition of all the upper

strata of society. Hence the wild enthusiasm with which these productions

were greeted, an enthusiasm in which the aristocracy themselves joined,

eager as the populace to laugh, for exactly the same reason as Figaro, so

that they might not be obliged to weep.

CHAPTER XIV

_“On dit qu’il n’est pas noble aux auteurs de plaider pour le vil intérêt,

eux qui se piquent de prétendre à la gloire. On a raison; la gloire est

attrayante; mais on oublie que, pour en jouir seulement une année, la

nature nous condamne à dîner trois-cents-soixante-cinq fois;... Pourquoi,

le fils d’Apollon, l’amant des Muses, incessammant forcé de compter avec

son boulanger, négligerait-il de compter avec les comédiens?”_

_Compte Rendu, par Beaumarchais_

Beaumarchais Undertakes to Protect the Rights of Dramatic

Authors--Lawsuit with the Comédie-Française--Founder of the

First Society of Dramatic Authors--Jealousies Among

Themselves Retard Success--National Assembly Grants Decree

1791--Final Form Given by Napoleon.

While Beaumarchais was enjoying the triumph of his _Barbier de Séville_,

his other affairs were by no means neglected.

Very soon we shall have occasion to accompany him to London on one of the

most singular missions of which it is possible to conceive. But before

entering into a history of the political and financial operations into

which Beaumarchais plunged after his return from Vienna, it is necessary

to speak of the very important matter which the success of the _Barbier_

emboldened its author to undertake.

As Beaumarchais possessed to such an extraordinary degree the power, as he

himself has expressed it, _“de fermer le tiroir d’une affaire,”_ and

instantly to turn the whole force of his mind into a totally different

channel, we shall not be surprised to find him at one and the same time

undertaking to protect the rights of dramatic authors against the

comedians of the king; settling for Louis XVI a matter of occult diplomacy

of the old king, Louis XV, which had dragged on for years, and which no

one else had been able to adjust; working with unremitting zeal for his

own rehabilitation as citizen; pursuing the interests of his suit with the

Comte de la Blache, which was still in progress; leading a life in London

and Paris which from the point of view of pleasure left little to be

desired; and all the while engaged in constant and almost superhuman

exertions to stir the French government out of its lethargy in regard to

the insurgent American colonies, and later in sending the latter aid,

under the very eyes of the English, exposed to constant danger of

bankruptcy and ruin.

Unlike Beaumarchais, we are unable to give our attention to so many things

at the same time, and we are therefore forced to treat each action

separately.

Beginning then with his action against the comedians, it is necessary to

state that the custom by which that ancient and highly honored institution

the _Théâtre-Français_ regulated its accounts with the author whose plays

were there produced, permitted of so much obscurity that no attempt was

ever made to verify those accounts, so that all the authors practically

were obliged to content themselves with whatever the comedians chose to

give them.

This condition of affairs had arisen in the following manner. The earliest

theatrical representations, since those given in Greece and Rome, were the

Mysteries, or Miracle Plays, which were written by the monks, who went

about presenting them and who, of course, worked gratuitously. Later,

small sums were offered for plays, but it was not until the time of Louis

XIV that an author received any considerable sum for a literary

production. Even during the reign of this liberal monarch it was the

personal munificence of the king that extended itself to the author,

rather than any rights which he possessed. That this munificence was quite

inadequate is proved by the fact that the “grand Corneille,” whose sublime

genius lifted at one stroke, the literature of France to a height which

few nations have surpassed, was allowed to die in poverty and distress.

Finally in 1697, a royal decree had been issued, which gave to the authors

of the _Théâtre-Français_ the right to a ninth part of the receipts of

each representation, after the deduction of the costs of the performance

and certain rights, the limits of which were not clearly defined. It was

stipulated also that if for twice in succession the receipts fell below

the cost of performance, from which presentation the author of course

received no returns, the piece, which was then termed, _tombée dans les

règles_, became the property of the comedians. There was nothing said

about any future performance of the piece. The comedians thus had it in

their power to take it up anew, retaining for themselves the entire

proceeds of the performances.

Innumerable abuses had crept in, so that instead of a ninth, it was well

proved that often the author received less than a twentieth part of the

returns of the play. The position of the comedians was strengthened by the

current opinion that it was degrading to the high art of literature to

bring it down to a financial basis. Profiting by this and abusing their

privileges, the _Comédie-Française_ had gone on confiscating the

productions of authors without serious opposition, although their actions

had given rise in more than one instance to very serious trouble. Such was

the condition of affairs in 1775.

“The richest of the dramatic authors,” says Loménie, “Beaumarchais, for

whom the theater had never been anything but a form of recreation, and who

had made a present of his first two plays to the comedians, could not be

taxed with cupidity in taking in hand the cause of his brothers of the

pen. This is what determined him. We soon shall see him defending, for the

first time, the rights of others more than his own, and hazarding himself

in a new combat against adversaries more difficult to conquer than those

against whom he had fought already; he will conquer nevertheless, but not

for many years, and only with the aid of the Revolution will he succeed in

getting the better of the kings and queens of the theater, in restraining

the cupidity of the directors, and in establishing the rights of authors,

until this time so unjustly despoiled.

“To the end of his life he did not cease to demand that the law surround

with its protection a kind of property, no less inviolable than other

forms, but before his fervid pleadings, completely sacrificed.

“The society of dramatic authors to-day so powerful, so strongly

organized, which rightly, or wrongly is sometimes accused of having

replaced the tyranny of the actors and directors of the theatre by a

tyranny exactly the reverse, do not know perhaps all they owe to the man

who was the first to unite into a solid body the writers who up to that

time had lived entirely isolated.”

Beaumarchais had long lived on terms of intimacy with the comedians of the

_Théâtre-Français_; that he continued to do so during the years when his

suit against them was in progress, is proved by the following letter from

Mlle. Doligny, written in 1779.

The letter to which she alludes was in relation to his drama, _Les Deux

Amis_, which he very much desired to have brought a second time before the

public. The piece, it will be remembered, had never succeeded in Paris.

Beaumarchais professed a special fondness for it, however, and desired now

to have it revived. The letter of Mlle. Doligny is as follows:

“Monsieur: I do not know how to thank you enough for all that you said of

me in the letter which you wrote to the _Comédie_ on the subject of _Les

Deux Amis_. All my comrades were enchanted with the gaiety and _esprit_

which shone in your letter. I was more enchanted than anyone, because of

your friendship and goodness to me.” Then follows a special request in

regard to two friends, after which she terminates thus:

“It is your Eugénie, your Pauline, your Rosine, who solicits this; I dare

hope that you will pay some attention to their recommendations. Receive

the testimony of esteem, of attachment and of gratitude with which I am

for life, Monsieur, your, etc.

Doligny.”

In 1775, Beaumarchais and the comedians were living on the best of terms

as well may be supposed. Never had the _Comédie_ received such fabulous

returns from any play heretofore produced. Never had actors entered with

more spirit into the views of their author.

“As many times as you please, Messieurs, to give the _Barbier de Séville_,

I will endure it with resignation. And may you burst with people for I am

the friend of your successes and the lover of my own!--If the public is

contented and if you are, I shall be also. I should like to be able to

say as much for the critics; but though you have done all that is

possible to give the piece to the best advantage and played like angels,

you will have to renounce their support; one cannot please everybody.”

During the summer the matter of the _Barbier de Séville_ seems to have

dropped, owing no doubt to the fact that Beaumarchais was occupied

completely with his secret mission and with his ardent addresses to the

king in relation to the insurgent colonies. It will be remembered also

that it was in August of this same year that the elder Caron breathed his

last. We have given already the letter written on his death-bed where the

venerable old watchmaker with expiring breath blessed his son who always

had been his pride and honor, as well as his devoted friend.

And so to return to the case of the _Comédie-Française_. In December,

1775, being for a short time in Paris, Beaumarchais addressed himself to

the comedians, in a letter the tone and matter of which show that his

solicitude as an author had been aroused by a suspicion that they were

trying to make his piece _tomber dans les règles_, and so confiscate it,

by giving it on a day when some special performance at Versailles was

liable to attract thither a large portion of the theater-going public. He

wrote in a spirited way demanding that something be substituted for the

_Barbier_ on that night. The letter terminates thus, “All the good days

except Saturday, the 23rd of December, 1775, you will give me the greatest

pleasure to satisfy with the _Barbier_, the small number of its admirers.

For that day only, it will be easy to admit the validity of my excuses,

recognized by the _Comédie_ itself. I have the honor to be, etc.

“Caron de Beaumarchais.”

“In re-reading my letter I reflect that the _Comédie_ may be embarrassed

for Saturday because all the great tragedians are at Versailles. If that

is the reason--Why did you not tell me simply how the matter stood? He who

seems strict and rigorous in discussing his affairs is often the man who

is the easiest in obliging his friends.--I should be distressed if the

_Comédie_ had the smallest occasion to complain of me, as I hope always to

have nothing but praise for it.

“Reply if you please.

Paris, December 20th 1775.”

Time passed on. As Beaumarchais had given to the comedians his first two

dramas, hope was entertained that he would demand no return for his

_Barbier_. Early in May, 1776, to their surprise and dismay, came a polite

request that an exact account of the part due him as the author be made

out and given to him. The play then had been given thirty-two times.

Not wishing to stir up trouble between themselves and their excellent

friend, while at the same time unable and unwilling to grant the request,

the comedians met the difficulty by a profound silence. “At last,” says

Beaumarchais in his _Compte rendu_, written several years later, “one of

them asked me if it was my intention to give the piece to the _Comédie_ or

to require the right of authorship? I replied laughing like Sagnarelle: ‘I

will give it, if I wish to give it, and I will not give it, if I do not

wish to give it; which does not in the least interfere with my receiving

the account; a present has no merit, excepting as he who gives knows its

value.’

“One of the actors insisted and said, ‘If you will not give it, Monsieur,

tell us at least how many times you desire that we play it for your

profit, after that it will belong to us.’

[Illustration: Charles Philippe--Comte D’Artois]

“‘What necessity, messieurs, that it should belong to you?’

“‘A great many authors make similar arrangements with us.’

“‘Those authors are not to be imitated.’

“‘They are very well satisfied, monsieur, because if they do not enjoy the

profits of their piece, at least they have the advantage of seeing it

played more often. Do you wish that we play it for your profit six, eight,

or even ten times? Speak.’

“The proposition seemed to me so amusing that I replied in the same gay

tone, ‘Since you permit me, I ask you to play it a thousand and one

times.’

“‘Monsieur, you are very modest.’

“‘Modest, Messieurs, as you are just. What mania is it that you have, to

wish to inherit from people who are not dead? My piece not belonging to

you until it falls to a very low receipt, you ought to desire that it

never belong to you. Are not eight-ninths of a hundred louis, more than

nine-ninths of fifty? I see, Messieurs, that you love your interests

better than you understand them.’

“I laughingly saluted the assembly, who smiled a little on their side

because their orator was slightly flushed with argument.

“At last, on January 3rd, 1777, M. Desessarts, one of the comedians, came

to my house ... bringing me four thousand, five-hundred, and six livres as

belonging to me from my _droits d’auteur_ for the thirty-two performances

of the _Barbier_. No account being joined, I did not accept the money,

although M. Desessarts pressed me to do so in the most polite way in the

world.

“‘There are a great many points upon which it is impossible for the

_Comédie_ to give MM. the authors anything but _une côte mal taillée_ (in

lump, without detail)’.

“‘What I require very much more than money,’ I replied, ‘is _une côte bien

taillée_, an exact account, which may serve as a type or model for all

future accounts and may bring at last peace between the actors and the

authors.’

“‘I see,’ he said, ‘that you wish to open a quarrel with the _Comédie_.’

“‘On the contrary, Monsieur, nothing would please me so much as to be able

to terminate everything to the equal advantage of both parties.’ And he

took back the money.”

Three days later Beaumarchais sent a polite note explaining why he

returned the money, and clearly stating the nature of the account which he

demanded. Receiving no reply, he wrote again, in the most courteous way,

reminding them of their negligence.

The _Comédie_ then sent a simple memorandum, “following the usages

observed by us with Messieurs, _les auteurs_,” which was without

signature.

Beaumarchais at once returned the memorandum, thanking the comedians for

their pains, but begging that the memorandum be verified and signed.

Receiving no reply, three days later he sent a second missive, in which he

assumed that his first letter had gone astray. “I beg you,” he added, “to

enlighten me as to this matter and send me your account certified. The

messenger has orders to wait.” And he ends thus, “I am ill. I have been

forbidden all serious affairs for several days; I profit by this forced

leisure to occupy myself with this which is not serious at all.”

For the _Comédie_, however, it was, to say the least, a serious

embarrassment. They replied that it was impossible to verify the account

except for the receipt taken at the door, “the other elements can only be

guessed at.”

“The letter,” says Beaumarchais, “was garlanded with as many signatures

as the memorandum had not.”

Assuming that it was their ignorance of affairs that caused the disorder,

he undertook to give, in his own inimitable way, a lesson in bookkeeping.

The letter begins as follows:

“In reading, Messieurs, the obliging letter with which you have just

honored me, signed by a number among you, I am confirmed in the idea that

you are very honest people, and very much disposed to do justice to

authors; but that it is with you, as with all men who are more versed in

the agreeable arts than in the exact sciences, and who make phantoms of

the embarrassing methods of calculation, which the simplest arithmetician

would solve without difficulty.”

Then follows the lesson. The letter ends with, “Eh, believe me, Messieurs,

give no more _côtes mal taillées_ to men of letters; too proud to receive

favors, they are often too much in distress to endure losses.

“So long as you do not adopt the method of an exact account unknown only

to yourselves, you will have the annoyance of being reproached with a

pretended system of usurpation over men of letters which is surely not in

the mind of any one of you.

“Pardon that I take the liberty of rectifying your ideas, but it is

necessary to come to an understanding; and as you seemed to me in your

letter embarrassed to give an exact form to a simple account, I have

permitted myself to propose to you an easy method, capable of being

understood by the simplest accountant.

“Two words, Messieurs, enclose the whole of the present question; if the

account which I returned is not just, rectify it. If you believe it to be

exact, certify it; this is the way we must proceed in all matters of

business.”

“The actors,” says Loménie, “did not relish this lesson in accounts given

with so much complaisance and politeness. They replied that they would

assemble the lawyers forming the council of the _Comédie_ and name four

commissioners from their body to examine the case.”

“To assemble all the council of lawyers,” says Beaumarchais, “and name

commissioners to consult as to whether an exact account should be sent me,

duly signed, seemed to me a very strange proceeding.”

The comedians were, however, in no hurry to act. The 14th of February,

1777, they wrote to their troublesome friend.

“It is still a question of assembling the council. The circumstance of the

carnival joined to the services which we are obliged to perform at court

and in the city have prevented the frequent reunion of different persons

who should occupy themselves in this affair....”

“I concluded from this letter,” says Beaumarchais, “that the _Comédie_ was

contented with me, but that the carnival seemed a bad time to occupy

themselves with business. Letting the comedians, the lawyers, and their

council dance in peace, I waited patiently until the end of Lent, but

either they were still dancing, or doing penance for having danced,

because I heard nothing from them.

“Four months rolled by in a profound sleep from which I was awakened June

1st, 1777.” The cause of Beaumarchais’s awakening was the sudden discovery

that urgent requests from time to time to the comedians to play the

_Barbier_ met with constant refusal.

The 2nd of June he wrote a letter from which we extract the following, “If

patience is a virtue, you have the right, Messieurs, to think me the most

virtuous of men, but if you take the right to forget that you owe me for

two or three years a verified account ... it is I who have the right to

be offended, because there are limits to the patience of even the most

absurd....”

After a spirited recapitulation of his wrongs he continues, “In a word,

Messieurs, you will give the piece, or you will not give it, it is not

that which is important to-day. What is important is to put an end to so

much indecision. Let us agree that if you accept I shall within eight days

receive from you a certified account ... and when that term has expired, I

may regard a silence on your part as an obstinate refusal to do me

justice. You will not then object if, making a pious use of my rights as

author, I confide the interests of the poor to those persons whose zeal

and interests oblige them to discuss these interests more methodically

than I, who profess to be always, with the greatest love of peace,...

Yours, etc.,

“Beaumarchais.”

The comedians in their turn awakened by the letter just quoted replied

before the expiration of the eight days, promising the much desired

meeting. Beaumarchais accepted their proposal with his usual grace and

himself fixed the day for the assembly. Fresh difficulties arose. The

comedians wrote an apologetic letter asking for a further delay of a few

days.

“I thought the comedians very good,” wrote Beaumarchais, “to fear that

after waiting more than a year for their convenience, I should be offended

by a new delay of a few days; I was too used to their manner of proceeding

to lose patience at so small a cost. I resolved, therefore, to await the

moment when it should please the fugitive assembly to meet. I waited until

the 15th of June, when I received a letter from M. le Maréchal de

Duras....”

“The comedians,” says Loménie “brought to the wall had solicited the

support of the duke, who intervened and begged the claimant to discuss the

matter with him. As Beaumarchais demanded nothing better, he hastened to

offer to the Duke of Duras the same lesson in bookkeeping which he had

vainly offered to the comedians.... Beaumarchais wrote to him:

“‘You are too much interested, M. le Maréchal, in the progress of the most

beautiful of the arts, not to admit that if those who play the pieces gain

an income of twenty-thousand livres, those who thus make the fortune of

the comedians should be able to draw from it that which is absolutely

necessary. There is no personal interest, M. le Maréchal, in my demand;

the love of justice and of letters alone determines me. The man whom the

impulsion of a great genius might have carried to a renewal of the

beautiful chefs-d’oeuvre of our masters, certain that he cannot live

three months from the fruits of the vigils of three years, after having

lost five in waiting, becomes a journalist, a libellist or debases himself

in some other trade as lucrative as degrading.’”

M. de Loménie continues, “After a conversation with Beaumarchais, M. de

Duras seemed to enflame himself with ardor for the cause of justice. He

declared that it was time to finish with the debates where authors are at

the discretion of the comedians. He proposed to substitute for the

arbitrary accounts a new regulation where the rights of the two parties

shall be stipulated in the clearest, the most equitable manner. He invited

Beaumarchais to consult with several dramatic authors, and to submit to

him a plan. To this Beaumarchais replied that in a question which

interested all equally, everyone who had written for the Théâtre-Français

had a right to be heard and that all must be assembled.”

The duke consented and the first society of dramatic authors was founded

by a circular, dated June 27th, 1777, in which Beaumarchais invited all to

a dinner.

“To unite men,” says Loménie, “who up to that time had been in the habit

of living isolated and jealous lives, was something far from easy, even

when invoking them to a common interest.”

In order that the reader may judge of the obstacles which this new phase

of his enterprise presented, we subjoin two letters of La Harpe, published

by M. de Loménie, in reply to the invitation of Beaumarchais.

“If the end,” says Loménie, in speaking of the first of these letters,

“announced a man unwilling enough to treat with his fellows, the beginning

seemed equally to indicate a little annoyance that another than himself

should have been given the lead with the consent of M. de Duras.”

“M. le Maréchal de Duras,” wrote La Harpe, “has already done me the honor,

Monsieur, of communicating to me, and even in great detail, the new

arrangements which he projects, and which tend, all of them toward the

perfection of the theater, and the satisfaction of authors. I am none the

less disposed to confer with you and with those who like you, Monsieur,

have contributed to enrich the theater, upon our common interests and on

the means of ameliorating and assuring the fate of dramatic authors. It

enters into my plan of life necessitated by pressing occupations never to

dine away from home but I shall have the honor of coming to you after

dinner. I must warn you, however, that if by chance, M. Sauvigny or M.

Dorat are to be present, I will not come. You know the world too well to

bring me face to face with my declared enemies. I have the honor to be

with the most distinguished consideration, Monsieur, etc.

“De la Harpe.”

Beaumarchais, a little embarrassed because he had also invited Sauvigny

and Dorat, replied to La Harpe by the following letter: “You have imposed

upon me, Monsieur, the unpleasant task of informing you that MM. Sauvigny

and Dorat do me the honor of dining with me to-day. But in a common cause,

permit me to observe to you that in all countries it is the custom to set

aside private quarrels.

“I shall be only too happy, if seconding my pacific views, you do me the

honor to come and forget in the pleasure of an assembly of men of letters

all of whom honor you, small resentments which exist perhaps only through

misunderstanding.

“Do not divide us, Monsieur. We are none too strong with all our forces

united against the great machine of the _Comédie_. We dine at three, and I

shall flatter myself that you are coming even until three-fifteen--so

anxious am I to have you with us.

“I have the honor to be, etc.

“Beaumarchais.”

To which La Harpe replied:

“It is absolutely impossible, Monsieur, ever to find myself with two men

whose works and whose persons I equally despise; one of them, Dorat,

insulted me personally ... and the other is an unsociable and ferocious

madman whom no one sees, and who is always ready to fight for his verses.

You feel, Monsieur, that this means to fight for nothing. I cannot

conceive how you can class these among _les plus honnêtes gens de la

littérature_.

“I beg you to accept my excuses, and my sincere regrets. I take very

little account of quarrels where _amour-propre_ alone is concerned, but I

never forget real offenses.

“I have the honor to be ... etc.

“La Harpe.”

“It was necessary to get on without La Harpe,” says Loménie, “at least for

this first meeting, because I see by another note of his that at the next

meeting, where Beaumarchais no doubt sacrificed to the irascible

academician on that day Dorat and Sauvigny, for he accepted the invitation

for dinner and wrote in a more joyful tone.

“‘Your invitation leading me to suppose that the obstacles which kept me

away no longer exist, I willingly consent to join you towards five

o’clock. It is not that I renounce the pleasure of finding myself, glass

in hand, with a man as amiable as you, Monsieur, but you are of too good

company not to have supper and I admit that it is my favorite repast; thus

I say with Horace, “_Arcesse vel imperium fer._”

“‘I have the honor to be--etc.

La Harpe.’”

On the third of July, 1777, twenty-three dramatic authors found themselves

gathered together around the table of Beaumarchais. If several had

absented themselves from personal jealousies, others had stayed away

through indifference. Collé, _homme spirituel_ and author famous in his

time, replied in a letter flattering to Beaumarchais but refusing all

participation in the work of the society. Absent at that time from Paris,

he wrote, “I avow, Monsieur, with my ordinary frankness that even had I

been in Paris I should not have had the honor of finding myself at your

assembly of MM. the dramatic authors. I am old and disgusted to the point

of nausea with that _troupe royale_. For three years I have seen neither

_comédiens_ nor _comédiennes_.

_De tous ces gens-là

J’en ai jusque-là._

I do not any the less, Monsieur, desire the accomplishment of your

project, but permit me to limit myself to wishing you success, of which I

would very much doubt if you were not at the head of the enterprise, which

has all the difficulties which you can desire because you have proved to

the public, Monsieur, that nothing is impossible to you. I have always

thought that you disliked that which was easy.

“I have the honor to be, etc.

Collé.”

A second invitation had no better success. The old poet answers in the

same vein, “M. Collé thanks M. de Beaumarchais for his remembrance. He

begs him anew to be so good as to receive his excuses for the affair of

the comedians. He is too old to bother himself with it. Like the rat in

the fable, he has retired into his Holland cheese and it is not likely

that he will come out to make the world go otherwise than she is going.

For fifteen years he has been saying of the impolite and disobliging

proceedings of the comedians, that verse of Piron in _Callisthène_, ‘From

excess of contempt I have become peaceable. _A force de mépris je me

trouve paisible._’

“M. Collé compliments M. de Beaumarchais a thousand and a thousand times.”

Diderot, the founder of the new school of literature, also refused his

concurrence.

“_Vous voilà_, Monsieur,” he wrote, “at the head of an insurgence of

dramatic poets against the comedians ... I have participated in none of

these things and it will be possible to participate in none that are to

follow. I pass my life in the country, almost as much a stranger to the

affairs of the city as forgotten of its inhabitants. Permit me to limit

myself to desires for your success. While you are fighting, I will hold

my arms elevated to heaven, upon the mountains of Meudon. May those who

devote themselves to the theater owe to you their independence, but to

speak truly I fear that it will be more difficult to conquer a troup of

comedians than a parliament. Ridicule does not have here the same force.

No matter, your attempt will be none the less just and none the less

honest. I salute and I embrace you. You know the sentiments of esteem with

which I have been for a long time, Monsieur, yours, etc.

“Diderot.”

Most of the authors had responded with enthusiasm to the appeal of

Beaumarchais. A few lines from a letter of Chamfort will serve to show the

spirit which animated many of them.

He says, “One can flatter one’s self that your _esprit_, your activity and

intelligence will find a way to remedy the principal abuses which must

necessarily ruin dramatic literature in France. It will be rendering a

veritable service to the nation and join once more your name to a

remarkable epoch.... I hope, Monsieur, that the _états-généraux de l’art

dramatique_, which to-morrow is to come together at your house, will not

meet with the same destiny as other states-general, that of seeing all our

miseries without being able to remedy any. However it be, I firmly believe

that if you do not succeed, we must renounce all hope of reform. For

myself, I shall have at least gained the advantage of forming a closer

bond with a man of so much merit, whom the hazards of society have not

permitted me to meet as often as I should have desired.

“I have the honor to be, etc.

Chamfort.”

“After the dinner,” says Loménie, “they proceeded to the election of four

commissioners charged to defend the interests of the society, and to work

in its name at the new regulations demanded by the duke of Duras.

Beaumarchais, originator of the enterprise, naturally was chosen first.

Two Academedians, Saurin and Marmontel, were joined to him, and besides

them Sedaine, who, without being yet a member of the Academy, enjoyed a

very justly acquired reputation.

“This assembly of _insurgents_, to use the term of Diderot, recalled in a

way the group of colonies who just one year before at the same time of the

year, had declared their independence, but it was easier to conquer the

English than the comedians.

“These latter, learning of the action of the authors, assembled on their

side, called to their aid four or five lawyers, and prepared to make a

vigorous resistance.”

In very truth the troubles of Beaumarchais were only beginning, nor did

these troubles come from the comedians alone; after the first few meetings

complete discord reigned among the authors themselves, so much so that

anyone but Beaumarchais would have given up in despair. The details of

this disheartening undertaking have been given fully in the _Compte

rendu_, published with the works of Beaumarchais. They have interest for

us only so far as they reveal the character of this many-sided man.

Overwhelmed with enterprises of every sort, with losses and disasters that

from time to time brought him to the verge of ruin, he still maintained

the cause of men of letters with unfaltering perseverance, and this

notwithstanding the bickerings, the petty jealousies, the ingratitude of

the most interested in the result of the undertaking. Those appointed

joint-commissioners with him left to him all the work. When anything went

wrong all the blame fell back on his shoulders; nevertheless, with his

usual philosophy he forgave and forgot everything but the end which he

kept constantly in view.

At last, in the spring of 1780, a sort of arrangement was reached which

was indeed an improvement on the regulations of the past, though still far

from satisfactory.

In honor of the reconciliation, authors and comedians were invited to dine

together at the house of the man who for so long had been trying to bring

peace between them. It was not long before a rumor was afloat that

Beaumarchais had gone over to the side of the comedians. His colleague,

Sedaine, hastened to inform him in a thoughtless fashion of the reproaches

which were being made by some of those for whom he had sacrificed so much

of his repose. The tone of the letter of Sedaine was light and flippant.

Beaumarchais, hurt to the quick, replied in the following words:

“Paris, this 3rd of May, 1780.

“I have not at once replied, my dear colleague, to your letter because the

heat which mounted to my head would not have permitted me to do so with

proper moderation. I have passed my entire life in doing my best, to the

sweet murmur of reproaches and outrages from those whom I have served; but

perhaps nothing ever has hurt me so much as this ... Let others do better,

I will congratulate them.... No human consideration can retain me any

longer in the following of this very ungrateful, dramatic literary

association. I salute, honor and love you.

“I realize in re-reading my scribbling that my head is still hot, but I

recommence in vain. I find myself less master of myself than I could

wish.”

“Sedaine,” says Loménie, “recognizing that he had been in the wrong,

replied by an affectionate letter which proved that if the author of _Le

Philosophe sans le Savoir_ loved gossip, he was at heart an excellent

man.”

“Yes, my dear colleague,” he wrote, “your head was still hot when you

replied. Perhaps something in my letter hurt you, because the reproaches

which I had heard uttered had angered me. I cannot, however, believe that

you have taken for my sentiments that which I reported of your ungrateful

and unreasonable _confrères_. Nevertheless, excepting three or four, the

rest do us justice, and it is to you that we pass it on. If I said

anything which pained you, I very sincerely beg your pardon. It is for you

to be moderate, it does you more honor than me, who am older than you.

Continue your beautiful and excellent services; finish your work, and do

them good in spite of their ingratitude. This affair terminated to our

honor by you, I will beg them to assemble at my house and they will order

me to join myself to a deputation to go to thank you for all your pains.

This is all we can offer you now. They will do it, or I shall separate

myself from them for the rest of my life, who have only need of repose and

your friendship.

“I embrace you with all my heart, and let us leave the evilly disposed for

what they are.”

The debates, however, were not over, for the next ten years the struggle

continued with Beaumarchais always in the lead.

“At last,” says Loménie, “the Revolution came to put an end to the old

abusive privileges of the Théâtre-Français, and the usurpation of the

directors of the theaters of the provinces. Following a petition drawn up

by La Harpe, Beaumarchais and Sedaine, representing the society of

dramatic authors and under the influence of numerous memoirs published by

Beaumarchais, the National assembly recognized the right of property of

authors, suppressed all the privileges of the Comédie-Française, and

decreed, on the 13th of January, 1791, that the works of living authors

could not be produced anywhere in France without the consent of the

authors.... To protect these interests was one of the chief occupations of

the old age of Beaumarchais.... To the very end he continued to be the

patron of men of letters; one of his last letters was addressed to the

Minister of the Interior under the Directory, supporting a petition of the

society.”

It was Napoleon who gave the final form to the regulations existing

between dramatic authors and the Théâtre-Français. The honor,

nevertheless, belonged to Beaumarchais, for it was he who conceived and

carried on for so many years one of the most difficult enterprises ever

undertaken by a private individual.

Essentially modern in all his views, his was the rôle of preparing the way

for many of the things that the nineteenth century was to produce. Himself

no revolutionist, at least not in theory, it was yet he who played so

important a part in sustaining on one hand and preparing on the other the

two greatest political and social revolutions which the world has ever

seen.

The establishment of the reign of justice, liberty, and individual rights

was the goal ever before him.

“_Qu’ étais-je donc_,” he writes near the close of his life, “What have I

been after all? I have been nothing by myself and myself as I have

remained, free in the midst of fetters, serene in the greatest dangers,

braving all the storms, sustaining commerce with one hand and war with the

other, indolent as a mule, but always working, the butt of a thousand

calumnies, but happy in my family, never having been of any coterie,

neither literary, nor political, nor mystic, never having paid court to

anyone, and ever repelled by all.” Somewhere else he adds, “It is the

mystery of my life, in vain I try to comprehend it.”

STUDIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY

BEAUMARCHAIS, AND THE WAR OF AMERICAN INDEPENDENCE. Two volumes.

Illustrated. _By Elizabeth S. Kite._

THE POLITICAL HISTORY OF THE PUBLIC LANDS, FROM 1840 TO 1862. FROM

PRE-EMPTION TO HOMESTEAD. _By George M. Stephenson._

GEORGIA AS A PROPRIETARY PROVINCE--THE EXECUTION OF A TRUST. _By James

Ross McCain._

LINCOLN, THE POLITICIAN. _By T. Aaron Levy._

THE AGRICULTURAL PAPERS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON. _Edited by Walter Edwin

Brooke, Ph.B._

RICHARD G. BADGER, PUBLISHER, BOSTON

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Amendments

Transcriber’s Note: Blank pages have been deleted. Footnotes have been

moved. Some illustrations may have been moved. We have rendered consistent

on a per-word-pair basis the hyphenation or spacing of such pairs when

repeated in the same grammatical context. Paragraph formatting has been

made consistent. The publisher’s inadvertent omissions of important

punctuation have been corrected.

The following list indicates additional changes. The page number

represents that of the original publication and applies in this etext

except for footnotes and illustrations because they have been moved.

Page Change

32 {illustration caption} Palace of Versaille[Versailles]

74 as in the famous Goezman[Goëzman] trial,

179 a study of the language and its pronounciation[pronunciation],

231 begin by an unforseen[unforeseen] attack by a greedy legatee,