The incompatibility of literature with riotings--_La
Maréchale L'Ancre_--My opinion concerning that
piece--_Farruck le Maure_--The début of Henry Monnier at the
Vaudeville--I leave Paris--Rouen--Havre--I meditate going
to explore Trouville--What is Trouville?--The consumptive
English lady--Honfleur--By land or by sea
It was a fatiguing life we led: each day brought its emotions, either
political or literary. _Antony_ went on its successful course in the
midst of various disturbances. Every night, without any apparent motive
whatsoever, a crowd gathered on the boulevard. The rallying-place
varied between the Théâtre-Gymnase and that of the Ambigu. At first
composed of five or six persons, it grew progressively; policemen would
next appear and walk about with an aggressive air along the boulevard;
the gutter urchins threw cabbage stumps or carrot ends at them, which
was quite sufficient after half an hour or an hour's proceedings to
cause a nice little row, which began at five o'clock in the afternoon
and lasted till midnight. This daily popular irritation attracted many
people to the boulevard and very few to the plays. _Antony_ was the
only piece which defied the disturbances and the heat, and brought
in sums of between twelve thousand and fifteen thousand francs. But
there was such stagnation in business, and so great was the fear that
spread over the book-trade, that the same publishers who had offered me
six thousand francs for _Henri III._, and twelve thousand francs for
_Christine_, hardly dared offer to print _Antony_ for half costs and
half profits. I had it printed, not at half costs by a publisher, but
entirely at my own expense.
There was no way possible for me to remain in Paris any longer: riots
swallowed up too much time and money. _Antony_ did not bring in enough
to keep a man going; also, I was being goaded by the demon of poetry,
which urged me to do something fresh. But how could one work in Paris,
in the midst of gatherings at the _Grande-Chaumière_, dinners at the
_Vendanges de Bourgogne_ and lawsuits at the Assize Courts? I conferred
with Cavaignac and Bastide. I learnt that there would be nothing
serious happening in Paris for six months or a year, and I obtained a
holiday for three months. Only two causes kept me still in Paris: the
first production of the _Maréchale d'Ancre_ and the début of Henry
Monnier. De Vigny, who had not yet ventured anything at the theatre
but his version of _Othello_, to which I referred in its right place,
was about to make his real entry in the _Maréchale d'Ancre._ It was a
fine subject; I had been on the point of treating it, but had renounced
it because my good and learned friend Paul Lacroix, better known then
under the name of the bibliophile Jacob, had begun a drama on the same
subject.
Louis XIII., that inveterate hunter after _la pie-grièche_, escaping
from the guardianship of his mother by a crime, proclaiming his coming
of age to the firing of pistols which killed the favourite of Marie de
Médicis, resolving upon that infamous deed whilst playing at chess with
his favourite, de Luynes, who was hardly two years older than himself;
a monarch timid in council and brave in warfare, a true Valois astray
among the Bourbons, lean, melancholy and sickly-looking, with a profile
half like that of Henri IV. and half like Louis XIV., without the
goodness of the one and the dignity of the other; this Louis XIII. held
out to me the promise of a curious royal figure to take as a model,
I who had already given birth to _Henri III._ and was later to bring
_Charles IX._ to the light of day. But, as I have said, I had renounced
it. De Vigny, who did not know Paul Lacroix, or hardly knew him, had
not the same reason for abstaining, and he had written a five-act drama
in prose on this subject, which had been received at the Odéon. Here
was yet another battle to fight.
De Vigny, at that time, as I believe he still does, belonged to the
Royalist party. He had therefore two things to fight--the enemies
which his opinions brought him, and those who were envious of his
talent,--a talent cold, sober, charming, more dreamy than virile, more
intellectual than passionate, more nervous than strong. The piece was
excellently well put on: Mademoiselle Georges took the part of the
Maréchale d'Ancre; Frédérick, that of Concini; Ligier, Borgia; and
Noblet, Isabelle. The difference between de Vigny's way of treating
drama and mine shows itself in the very names of the characters. One
looked in vain for Louis XIII. I should have made him my principal
personage. Perhaps, though, the absence of Louis XIII. in de Vigny's
drama was more from political opinion than literary device. The author
being, as I say, a Royalist, may have preferred to leave his royalty
behind the wings than to show it in public with a pale and bloodstained
face. The _Maréchale d'Ancre_ is more of a novel than a play; the
plot, so to speak, is too complicated in its corners and too simple
in its middle spaces. The Maréchale falls without a struggle, without
catastrophe, without clinging to anything: she slips and falls to the
ground; she is seized; she dies. As to Concini, as the author was much
embarrassed to know what to do with him, he makes him spend ten hours
at a Jew's, waiting for a young girl whom he has only seen once; and,
just when he learns that Borgia is with his wife, and jealousy lends
him wings to fly to the Louvre, he loses himself on a staircase. During
the whole of the fourth act, whilst his wife is being taken to the
Bastille, and they are trying her and condemning her, he is groping
about to find the bannisters and seeking the door; when he comes out of
Isabelle's room at the end of the third act, he does not re-appear again
on the stage till the beginning of the fifth, and then only to die in
a corner of the rue de la Ferronnerie. That is the principal idea of
the drama. According to the author, Concini is the real assassin of
Henry IV.; Ravaillac is only the instrument. That is why, instead of
being killed within the limits of the court of the Louvre, the Maréchal
d'Ancre is killed close to the rue de la Ferronnerie, on the same spot
where the assassin waited to give the terrible dagger-stroke of Friday,
14 May 1610. In other respects I agree with the author; I do not think
it at all necessary that a work of art should possess as hall-mark,
"un parchemin par crime et un in-folio par passion." For long I have
held that, in theatrical matters specially, it seems to me permissible
to violate history provided one begets offspring thereby; but to let
Concini kill Henri IV. with no other object than that Concini should
reign, after the death of Béarnais, by the queen and through the queen,
is to give a very small reason for so great a crime. Put Concini
behind Ravaillac if you will, but, behind Concini, place the queen and
Épernon, and behind the queen and Épernon place Austria, the eternal
enemy of France! Austria, who has never put out her hand to France
save with a knife in it, the blade of Jacques Clément, the dagger of
Ravaillac and the pen-knife of Damiens, knowing well it would be too
dangerous to touch her with a sword-point.
It did not meet with much success, in spite of the high order of
beauty which characterised the work, beauty of style particularly. An
accident contributed to this: after the two first acts, the best in my
opinion, I do not know what caprice seized Georges, but she pretended
she was ill, and the stage-manager came on in a black coat and white
tie to tell the spectators that the remainder of the representation
was put off until another day. As a matter of fact, the _Maréchale
d'Ancre_ was not resumed until eight or ten days later. It needs a
robust constitution to hold up against such a check! The _Maréchale
d'Ancre_ held its own and had quite a good run. Between the _Maréchale
d'Ancre_ and Henry Monnier's first appearance a three-act drama was
played at the Porte-Saint-Martin, patronised by Hugo and myself: this
was _Farruck le Maure_, by poor Escousse. The piece was not good, but
owing to Bocage it had a greater success than one could have expected.
It afterwards acquired a certain degree of importance because of the
author's suicide, who, in his turn, was better known by the song, or
rather, the elegy which Béranger wrote about him, than by the two plays
he had had played. We shall return to this unfortunate boy and to
Lebras his fellow-suicide.
It was on 5 July that Henry Monnier came out. I doubt if any début
ever produced such a literary sensation. He was then about twenty-six
or twenty-eight years of age; he was known in the artistic world on
three counts. As painter, pupil of Girodet and of Gros, he had, after
his return from travel in England, been instrumental in introducing
the first wood-engraving executed in Paris, and he published _Mœurs
administratives, Grisettes_ and _Illustrations de Béranger._ As author,
at the instigation of his friend Latouche, he printed his _Scènes
populaires_, thanks to which the renown of the French _gendarme_ and of
the Parisian _titi_[1] spread all over the world. Finally, as a private
actor in society he had been the delight of supper-parties, acting for
us, with the aid of a curtain or a folding-screen, his _Halte d'une
diligence_, his _Étudiant_ and his _Grisette_, his _Femme qui a trop
chaud_ and his _Ambassade de M. de Cobentzel._
On the strength of being applauded in drawing-rooms, he thought he
would venture on the stage, and he wrote for himself and for his own
début, a piece called _La Famille improvisée_, which he took from his
_Scènes populaires._ Two types created by Henry Monnier have lasted and
will last: his Joseph Prudhomme, professor of writing, pupil of Brard
and Saint-Omer; and Coquerel, lover of la Duthé and of la Briand. I
have spoken of the interior of the Théâtre-Français on the day of the
first performance of _Henri III._; that of the Vaudeville was not less
remarkable on the evening of 5 July; all the literary and artistic
celebrities seemed to have arranged to meet in the rue de Chartres.
Among artists and sculptors were, Picot, Gérard, Horace Vernet, Carle
Vernet, Delacroix, Boulanger, Pradier, Desbœufs, the Isabeys, Thiolier
and I know not who else. Of poets there were Chateaubriand, Lamartine,
Hugo, the whole of us in fact. For actresses, Mesdemoiselles Mars,
Duchesnois, Leverd, Dorval, Perlet and Nourrit, and every actor who
was not taking part on the stage that night. Of society notabilities
there were Vaublanc, Mornay, Blanc-ménil, Madame de la Bourdonnaie,
the witty Madame O'Donnell, the ubiquitous Madame de Pontécoulant,
Châteauvillars, who has the prerogative of not growing old either in
face or in mind, Madame de Castries, all the faubourg Saint-Germain,
the Chaussée-d'Antin and the faubourg Saint-Honoré. The whole of the
journalist world was there. It was an immense success. Henry Monnier
reappeared twice, being called first as actor then as author. This, as
I have said, was on 5 July, and from that day until the end of December
the piece was never taken off the bills.
I went away the next day. Where was I going? I did not know. I had
flung a feather to the wind; it blew that day from the south, so my
feather was carried northwards. I set out therefore, for the north, and
should probably go to Havre. There seems to be an invincible attraction
leading one back to places one has previously visited. It will be
remembered that I was at Havre in 1828 and rewrote _Christine_, as
far as the plot was concerned, in the coach between Paris and Rouen.
Then, too, Rouen is such a beautiful town to see with its cathedral,
its church of Saint-Ouen, its ancient houses with their wood-carvings,
its town-hall and hôtel Bourgtheroude, that one longs to see it all
again! I stopped a day there. Next day the boat left at six in the
morning. At that time it still took fourteen hours to get from Paris
to Rouen by diligence, and ten hours from Rouen to Havre by boat. Now,
by _express train_ it only takes three and a half! True, one departs
and arrives--when one does arrive--but one does not really travel;
you do not see Jumiéges, or la Meilleraie or Tancarville, or all that
charming country by Villequier, where, one day, ten years after I was
there, the daughter of our great poet met her death in the midst of a
pleasure party. Poor Léopoldine! she would be at Jersey now, completing
the devout colony which provided a family if not a country for our
exiled Dante, dreaming of another inferno! Oh! if only I were that
mysterious unknown whose elastic arm could extend from one side of the
Guadalquiver to the other, to offer a light to Don Juan's cigar, how
I would stretch out each morning and evening my arm from Brussels to
Jersey to clasp the beloved hand which wrote the finest verse and the
most vigorous prose of this century!
We no longer see Honfleur, with its fascinating bell-tower, built by
the English; an erection which made some bishop or other, travelling
to improve his mind, say, "I feel sure that was not made here!" In
short, one goes to Havre and returns the same day, and one can even
reach Aix-la-Chapelle the next morning. If you take away distance, you
augment the duration of time. Nowadays we do not live so long, but we
get through more.
When I reached Havre I went in search of a place where I could spend
a month or six weeks; I wanted but a village, a corner, a hole,
provided it was close to the sea, and I was recommended to go to
Sainte-Adresse and Trouville. For a moment I wavered between the two
districts, which were both equally unknown to me; but, upon pursuing
my inquiries further, and having learnt that Trouville was even more
isolated and hidden and solitary than Sainte-Adresse, I decided upon
Trouville. Then I recollected, as one does in a dream, that my good
friend Huet, the landscape painter, a painter of marshes and beaches,
had told me of a charming village by the sea, where he had been nearly
choked with a fish bone, and that the village was called Trouville.
But he had forgotten to tell me how to get to it. I therefore had to
make inquiries. There were infinitely more opportunities for getting
from Havre to Rio-de-Janeiro, Sydney or the coast of Coromandel than
there were to Trouville. Its latitude and longitude were, at that time,
almost as little known as those of Robinson Crusoe's island. Sailors,
going from Honfleur to Cherbourg, had pointed out Trouville in the
distance, as a little settlement of fishermen, which, no doubt, traded
with la Délivrande and Pont-l'Évêque, its nearest neighbours; but that
was all they knew about it. As to the tongue those fisherfolk talked
they were completely ignorant, the only relations they had hitherto
had with them had been held from afar and by signs. I have always had
a passion for discoveries and explorations; I thereupon decided, if
not exactly to discover Trouville, at least to explore it, and to do
for the river de la Touque what Levaillant, the beloved traveller of
my childhood, had done for the Elephant River. That resolution taken,
I jumped into the boat for Honfleur, where fresh directions as to the
route I should follow would be given me. We arrived at Honfleur. During
that two hours' crossing at flood-tide, everybody was seasick, except
a beautiful consumptive English lady, with long streaming hair and
cheeks like a peach and a rose, who battled against the scourge with
large glasses of brandy! I have never seen a sadder sight than that
lovely figure standing up, walking about the deck of the boat, whilst
everybody else was either seated or lying down; she, doomed to death,
with every appearance of good health, whilst all the other passengers,
who looked at the point of death, regained their strength directly they
touched the shore again, like many another Antæus before them. If there
are spirits, they must walk and look and smile just as that beautiful
English woman walked and looked and smiled. When we landed at Honfleur,
just as the boat stopped, her mother and a young brother, as fair
and as rosy as she seemed, rose up as though from a battlefield and
rejoined her with dragging steps. She, on the contrary, whilst we were
sorting out our boxes and portmanteaux, lightly cleared the drawbridge
which was launched from the landing-stage to the side of the miniature
steam-packet, and disappeared round a corner of the rue de Honfleur.
I never saw her again and shall never see her again, probably, except
in the valley of Jehoshaphat; but, whether I see her again, there or
elsewhere--in this world, which seems to me almost impossible, or in
the other, which seems to me almost improbable--I will guarantee that I
shall recognise her at the first glance.
We were hardly at Honfleur before we were making inquiries as to the
best means of being transported to Trouville. There were two ways of
going, by land or by sea. By land they offered us a wretched wagon
and two bad horses for twenty francs, and we should travel along a
bad road, taking five hours to reach Trouville. Going by sea, with
the outgoing tide, it would take two hours, in a pretty barque rowed
by four vigorous oarsmen; a picturesque voyage along the coast, where
I should see great quantities of birds, such as sea-mews, gulls and
divers, on the right the infinite ocean, on the left immense cliffs.
Then if the wind was good--and it could not fail to be favourable,
sailors never doubt that!--it would only take two hours to cross. It
was true that, if the wind was unfavourable, we should have to take
to oars, and should not arrive till goodness knows when. Furthermore,
they asked twelve francs instead of twenty. Happily my travelling
companion--for I have forgotten to say that I had a travelling
companion--was one of the most economical women I have ever met;
although she had been very sick in crossing from Havre to Honfleur,
this saving of eight francs appealed to her, and as I had gallantly
left the choice of the two means of transport to her she decided on the
boat. Two hours later we left Honfleur as soon as the tide began to
turn.
[1] Young workman of the Parisian faubourgs.