_20 Oct. '10_
Henri Becque, one of the greatest dramatists of the nineteenth century,
and certainly the greatest realistic French dramatist, died at the close
of the century in all the odour of obliquity. His work is now the chief
literary topic in Paris; it has indeed rivalled the Portuguese revolution
and the French railway strike as a subject of conversation among people
who talk like sheep run. This dizzy popularity has been due to an
accident, but it is, nevertheless, a triumph for Becque, who until
recently had won the esteem only of the handful of people who think for
themselves. I should say that no first-class modern French author is more
perfectly unknown and uncared-for in England than Henri Becque. I once met
a musical young woman who had never heard of Ibsen (she afterwards married
a man with twelve thousand a year--such is life!), but I have met dozens
and scores of enormously up-to-date persons who had never heard of Henri
Becque. The most fantastic and the most exotic foreign plays have been
performed in England, but I doubt if the London curtain has ever yet risen
on a play of Becque's. Once in Soho, a historic and highly ceremonious
repast took place. I entertained a personage to afternoon tea in a
restaurant where afternoon tea had never been served before. This
personage was the President of the Incorporated Stage Society. He asked me
if I knew anything about a French play called "La Parisienne." I replied
that I had seen it oftener than any other modern play, and that it was the
greatest modern play of my acquaintance. He then inquired whether I would
translate it for the Stage Society. I said I should be delighted to
translate it for the Stage Society. He expressed joy and said the
Committee would sit on the project. I never heard any more.
* * * * *
Becque wrote two absolutely first-class modern realistic plays. One is "La
Parisienne." The other is "Les Corbeaux." Once, when I was in Paris, I saw
exposed among a million other books in front of the window of Stock's shop
near the Théâtre Français, a copy of "Les Corbeaux." Opening it, I
perceived that it was an example of the first edition (1882). I asked the
price, and to my horror the attendant hesitated and said that he would
"see." I feared the price was going to be fancy. He came back and named
four francs, adding, "It's our last copy." I paid the four francs
willingly. On examining my trophy I saw that it was published by Tresse.
Now Stock became Tresse's partner before he had that business to himself.
I had simply bought the play at the original house of its publication. And
it had fallen to me, after some twenty-five years, to put the first
edition of "Les Corbeaux" out of print! I went home and read the play and
was somewhat disappointed with it. I thought it very fine in its direct
sincerity, but not on the same plane as "La Parisienne."
* * * * *
Antoine, founder of the Théâtre Libre, director of the Théâtre Antoine
during brilliant years, and now director of the Odéon (which he has raised
from the dead), was always a tremendous admirer of Becque. It was through
Antoine that Paris had such magnificent performances of "La Parisienne."
He had long expressed his intention of producing "Les Corbeaux," and now
he has produced "Les Corbeaux" at the Odéon, where it has been definitely
accepted and consecrated as a masterpiece. I could not refrain from going
to Paris specially to see it. It was years since I had been in the Odéon.
Rather brighter, perhaps, in its more ephemeral decorations, but still the
same old-fashioned, roomy, cramped, provincial theatre, with pit-tier
boxes like the cells of a prison! The audience was good. It was startingly
good for the Odéon. The play, too, at first seemed old-fashioned--in
externals. It has bits of soliloquies and other dodges of technique now
demoded. But the first act was not half over before the extreme modernness
of the play forced itself upon you. Tchehkoff is not more modern. The
picture of family life presented in the first act was simply delightful.
All the bitterness was reserved for the other acts. And what superb
bitterness! No one can be so cruel as Becque to a "sympathetic" character.
He exposes every foolishness of the ruined widow; he never spares her for
an instant; and yet one's sympathy is not alienated. This is truth. This
is a play. I had not read the thing with sufficient imagination, with the
result that for me it "acted" much better than it had "read." Its sheer
beauty, truth, power, and wit, justified even the great length of the last
act. I thought Becque had continued to add scenes to the play after it
was essentially finished. But it was I who was mistaken, not he. The final
scene began by irritating and ended by completely capturing the public.
Teissier, the principal male part, was played by M. Numès in a manner
which amounted to genius.
* * * * *
"Les Corbeaux" was originally produced at the Théâtre Français, where it
was not a success. All Becque's recent fame is due, after Becque, to
Antoine. But now that Antoine has done all the hard work, Jules Claretie,
the flaccid director of the Français, shows a natural desire to share in
the harvest. Becque left a play unfinished, "Les Polichinelles." Becque's
executor, M. Robaglia, handed this play to M. Henri de Noussanne to
finish--heaven knows why! M. de Noussanne has written novels entirely
bereft of importance, and he is the editor of _Gil Blas_, a daily paper
whose importance it would not be easy to underestimate; and his
qualifications for finishing a play by Becque are in the highest degree
mysterious. The finished play was to be produced at the Français. The
production would have been what the French call a solemnity. But M.
Robaglia suddenly jibbed. He declared M. de Noussanne's work to be
unworthy, and he declined to permit the performance of the play. Then
followed a grand and complicated shindy--one of those charming Parisian
literary rows which excite the newspapers for days! In the end it was
settled that neither M. de Noussanne's version nor any other version of
"Les Polichinelles" should ever be produced, but that the journal
_L'Illustration_, which gives away the text of a new play as a supplement
about twice a month, should give, one week, Becque's original incomplete
version exactly as it stands, and M. de Noussanne's completed version the
next week, to the end that "the public might judge." Then Stock, the
publisher, came along and sought to prevent the publication on the
strength of a contract by which Becque had bound himself to give Stock his
next play. (Times change, but not publishers!) However, _L'Illustration_,
being wealthy and powerful, rode over M. Stock. And the amateurs of Becque
have duly had the pleasure of reading "Les Polichinelles." Just as "Les
Corbeaux" was the result of experiences gained in a domestic smash-up, and
"La Parisienne" the result of experiences gained in a feverish liaison,
so "Les Polichinelles" is the result experiences gained on the Bourse. It
is in five acts. The first two are practically complete, and they are
exceedingly fine--quite equal to the very best Becque. The other acts are
fragmentary, but some of the fragments are admirable. I can think of no
living author who would be equal to the task of completing the play
without making himself ridiculous.
* * * * *
Becque was unfortunate in death as in life. At his graveside, on the day
of his funeral, his admirers said with one accord: "Every year on this day
we will gather here. His name shall be a flag for us." But for several
years they forgot all about Becque. And when at length they did come back,
with a wreath, they could not find the grave. It was necessary to question
keepers and to consult the official register of the cemetery. In the end
the grave was rediscovered and every one recognized it, and speeches were
made, and the wreath piously deposited. The next year the admirers came
again, with another wreath and more speeches. But some one had been before
them. A wreath already lay on the grave; it bore this inscription: "To my
dear husband defunct." Now Becque, though worried by liaisons, had lived
and died a bachelor. The admirers had discoursed, the year before, at the
grave of a humble clerk. After this Paris put up a statue to Becque. But
it is only a bust. You can see it in the Avenue de Villiers.