WHEN CHENAL SINGS THE "MARSEILLAISE"
I went to the Opéra Comique one day to hear Marthe Chenal sing the
"Marseillaise." For several weeks previous I had heard a story going
the rounds of what is left of Paris life to the effect that if one
wanted a regular old-fashioned thrill he really should go to the Opéra
Comique on a day when Mlle. Chenal closed the performance by singing
the French national hymn. I was told there would be difficulty in
securing a seat.
I was rather skeptical. I also considered that I had had sufficient
thrills since the beginning of the war, both old-fashioned and new. I
believed also that I had already heard the "Marseillaise" sung under
the best possible circumstances to produce thrills. One of the first
nights after mobilization 10,000 Frenchmen filled the street beneath
the windows of the _New York Times_ office where I was at work. They
sang the "Marseillaise" for two hours, with a solemn hatred of their
national enemy sounding in every note. The solemnity changed to a wild
passion as the night wore on. Finally, cuirassiers of the guard rode
through the street to disperse the mob. It was a terrific scene.
So I was willing to admit that the "Marseillaise" is probably the most
thrilling and most martial national song ever written, but I was just
not keen on the subject of thrills.
Then one day a sedate friend went to the Opéra Comique and it was a
week before his ardor subsided. He declared that this rendition of a
song was something that will be referred to in future years. "Why,"
he said, "when the war is over the French will talk about it in the
way Americans still talk about Jenny Lind at Castle Garden, or De Wolf
Hopper reciting 'Casey at the Bat.'"
This induced me to go. I was convinced that whether I got a thrill or
not the singing of the "Marseillaise" by Chenal had become a distinct
feature of Paris life during the war.
I never want to go again. To go again might deepen my impression--might
better register the thrill. But then it might not be just the same. I
would be keyed to such expectancy that I might be disappointed. Persons
in the seats behind me might whisper. And just as Chenal got to the
"Amour sacré de la patrie" some one might cough. I am confident that
something of the sort would surely happen. I want always to remember
that ten minutes while Chenal was on the stage just as I remember it
now. So I will not go again.
The first part of the performance was Donizetti's "Daughter of the
Regiment," beautifully sung by members of the regular company. But
somehow the spectacle of a fat soprano nearing forty in the rôle of
the twelve-year-old vivandière, although impressive, was not sublime.
A third of the audience were soldiers. In the front row of the top
balcony were a number of wounded. Their bandaged heads rested against
the rail. Several of them yawned.
After the operetta came a "Ballet of the Nations." The "nations," of
course, represented the Allies. We had the delectable vision of the
Russian ballerina dancing with arms entwined about several maids of
Japan. The Scotch lassies wore violent blue jackets. The Belgian girls
carried large pitchers and rather wept and watered their way about the
stage. There were no thrills.
[Illustration: MDLLE. CHENAL SINGING THE MARSEILLAISE]
After the intermission there was not even available space. The majority
of the women were in black--the prevailing color in these days. The
only touches of brightness and light were in the uniforms of the
officers liberally sprinkled through the orchestra and boxes.
Then came "Le Chant du Depart," the famous song of the Revolution. The
scene was a little country village. The principals were the officer,
the soldier, the wife, the mother, the daughter and the drummer boy.
There was a magnificent soldier chorus and the fanfare of drums and
trumpets. The audience then became honestly enthusiastic. I concluded
that the best Chenal could do with the "Marseillaise," which was next
on the program, would be an anti-climax.
The orchestra played the opening bars of the martial music. With the
first notes the vast audience rose. I looked up at the row of wounded
leaning heavily against the rail, their eyes fixed and staring on the
curtain. I noticed the officers in the boxes, their eyes glistening. I
heard a convulsive catch in the throats of persons about me. Then the
curtain lifted.
I do not remember what was the stage setting. I do not believe I saw
it. All I remember was Chenal standing at the top of a short flight of
steps, in the center near the back drop. I indistinctly remember that
the rest of the stage was filled with the soldier chorus and that near
the footlights on either side were clusters of little children.
"Up, sons of France, the call of glory--"
Chenal swept down to the footlights. The words of the song swept over
the audience like a bugle call. The singer wore a white silk gown
draped in perfect Grecian folds. She wore the large black Alsatian
head dress, in one corner of which was pinned a small tricolored
cockade. She has often been called the most beautiful woman in Paris.
The description was too limited. With the next lines she threw her
arms apart, drawing out the folds of the gown into the tricolor of
France--heavy folds of red silk draped over one arm and blue over
the other. Her head was thrown back. Her tall, slender figure simply
vibrated with the feeling of the words that poured forth from her lips.
She was noble. She was glorious. She was sublime. With the "March
on, march on," of the chorus, her voice arose high and fine over the
full orchestra, and even above her voice could be sensed the surging
emotions of the audience that seemed to sweep over the house in waves.
I looked up at the row of wounded. One man held his bandaged head
between his hands and was crying. An officer in a box, wearing the
gorgeous uniform of the headquarters staff, held a handkerchief over
his eyes.
Through the second verse the audience alternately cheered and stamped
their feet and wept. Then came the wonderful "Amour sacré de la
patrie"--sacred love of home and country--verse. The crashing of the
orchestra ceased, dying away almost to a whisper. Chenal drew the folds
of the tricolor cloak about her. Then she bent her head and, drawing
the flag to her lips, kissed it reverently. The first words came
like a sob from her soul. From then until the end of the verse, when
her voice again rang out over the renewed efforts of the orchestra,
one seemed to live through all the glorious history of France. At the
very end, when Chenal drew a short jeweled sword from the folds of her
gown and stood, silent and superb, with the folds of the flag draped
around her, while the curtain rang slowly down, she seemed to typify
both Empire and Republic throughout all time. All the best of the past
seemed concentrated there as that glorious woman, with head raised
high, looked into the future.
And as I came out of the theater with the silent audience I said
to myself that a nation with a song and a patriotism such as I had
witnessed could not vanish from the earth--nor again be vanquished.
THE END
[Illustration: FRONT D'ARTOIS]
NOTE
The attached map of the "Front d'Artois" is the first of the kind ever
presented to the public. The author of this book has been specially
authorized to reproduce it by the French Ministry of War, under whose
direction it was first executed from photographs by French airmen taken
on their trips over the German lines.
It bears the date September 25, 1915, that being the day when the
great offensive was launched against the Germans both in Artois and
Champagne. On that occasion the map was given only to French officers.
The heavy blue zigzag line shows the front line of the German trenches.
The thin blue lines running to the rear show the communication trenches
extending back to the second and even the third lines of defense.
The French trenches are naturally not shown, but were to the west of
the Germans, in some places not over fifteen yards of barbed wire
entanglements separating them. At the time of the September attack all
these trenches were captured by the French.
The Artois front, which is often called "the sector north of Arras,"
is one of the most important on the entire line, inasmuch as the army
holding the plateau holds also the key to the channel ports. The
bloodiest and most desperate battles of the war have occurred there.