TOWER; _Louise, your shirt is coming out_; STEP ALONG; _The Mysterious
Bar_; HUNDREDTH TO THE RIGHT; _The Magician_; THE GUELF; _I am going to
kill you_; MY PRINCE; _The Artichoke_; THE SCHOOL FOR LAWYERS; _The
Torch-bearer!_
Good-bye, sir, don't thank me.
A GREAT CRITIC
Gentlemen, I have come to give you a report of the triumph, last night.
Are you ready? I begin:
GRIT AND GRIP
A play in three acts by Messrs. Julien Tandis, Jean de la Fente, Prosper
Mordus and Mmes Nathalie de l'Angoumois, Jane Fontaine and the countess
M. Des Etangs, etc. Sets by Messrs. Alfred Mone, Leon Minie, Al. de
Lemere. Costumes by Jeanette, hats by Wilhelmine, properties by the
MacTead Company, phonographs by Hernstein and Company, sanitary napkins
by Van Feuler Brothers.
I recall the captive who dared to p... before Sesostris. I never saw a
more poignant scene than this from the play of Messrs, and Mmes etc. I
must speak of the scene which made such a great hit at the opening night
and in which the financier Prominoff bursts into a fit of rage against
the coroner.
The play, which was very good, otherwise, did not accomplish all that
was expected of it. The courtesan wife who feathers her nest out of the
green old age of a vulgar brewer, remains, however, an unforgettable and
touching figure which leaves in the shadow that of Cleopatra and Mme de
Pompadour. M. Layol is an excellent comedian. He acted the father of a
family in every sense of the expression. Mlle Jeannine Letrou, a young
star of tomorrow, has very pretty legs. But the real revelation was Mme
Perdreau whose sensitive nature we know so well. She acted the scene of
the reconciliation with the most perfect naturalism. In short a great
evening and prospects for a hundred night run.[10]
THE THEATRE
Young man we are going to give some subjects for plays. If they were
signed by famous names we would play them, but they are masterpieces by
unknowns which were given to us and which we are generously turning over
to you because of your nice face.
PLAY WITH A THESIS--The prince of San Meco finds a louse on his wife's
head and makes a scene. The princess has not slept with the viscount of
Dendelope for the past six months. The couple make a scene before the
viscount, who, not having slept with anyone but the princess and Mme
Lafoulue, wife of a Secretary of State, causes the ministry to fall and
overwhelms Mme Lafoulue with his scorn.
Mme Lafoulue makes a scene with her husband. Everything becomes clear,
however, when Monsieur Bibier, the Deputy, arrives. He scratches his
head. He is stripped. He accuses his electors of being lousy. Finally
everything is in order once more. Title: _Parliamentarism._
COMEDY OF MANNERS--Isabelle Lefaucheux promises her husband that she
will be faithful to him. Then she remembers that she has promised the
same thing to Jules, the boy who works in their store. She suffers from
not being able to grant her faith and her love.
However, Lefaucheux fires Jules. This event precipitates a dramatic
triumph of love, and we soon find Isabelle cashier in a department store
where Jules is salesman. Title: _Isabelle Lefaucheux._
HISTORICAL PLAY--The famous novelist Stendhal is the ringleader of a
Bonapartist plot which ends in the heroic death of a young singer during
a presentation of _Don Juan_ at the Scala Theatre in Milan. Since
Stendhal had hidden his identity under a pseudonym, he withdraws from
the affair admirably. Grand marches, procession of historical
personages.
OPERA--Buridan's ass hesitates to satisfy his hunger and his thirst. The
she-ass of Balaam prophesies that the ass will die. The golden ass
comes, eats and drinks. The Wild-Ass's-Skin comes and displays his
nudity to this asinine herd. Passing by, Sancho's ass thinks that he can
prove his robustness by carrying off the child, but the traitor, Melo,
warns the Genius of la Fontaine. He proclaims his jealousy and beats the
golden ass. Metamorphoses. The Prince and the Infant make their entrance
on horseback. The King abdicates in their favor.
PATRIOTIC PLAY--The Swedish government lays suit against the French
Government for manufacturing an imitation of "Swedish matches." In the
last act they exhume the remains of an alchemist of the XIVth Century
who invented these matches, at La Ferté-Gaucher, a village in France,
not far from Paris.
COMEDY----
_The handsome chauffeur
Cried to his neighbor
If you will show me your salon
I wilt show you my kitchen._
Here is enough to nourish a whole career of playwriting, sir.
M. LACOUFF, SCHOLAR
Young man, it is also important to know theatrical anecdotes; they help
to fill out the conversation of a young dramatic author; here are a few:
Frederick the Great was accustomed to having his court actresses whipped
before each presentation. He believed that flagellation communicated a
rosy tint to their skin which was not without its charm.
At the court of the Grand Turk, the _Bourgeois Gentilhomme_ was being
played, but in order to adapt it to the taste of the environment the
_mamamouchi_ became a Knight of the Garter.[9]
Cecile Vestris, while returning to Mayence, one day, had her carriage
held up by the famous Rhenish bandit Schinderhans. She rallied her
spirits against this ill-fortune and danced for Schinderhans in the hall
of a roadside tavern.
Ibsen was sleeping one time with a young Spanish lady who cried out at
the proper moment:
"Now!... now!... Mr. Dramatist!"
An erudite actor admitted to me that he had liked only one statue in all
his life: _The Squatting Scribe_, sculptured by an Egyptian, long before
Jesus-Christ, and which he saw in the Louvre. But they are beginning to
talk much less of Scribe, and yet he still reigns over the theatre.
THE THEATRE
Do not forget the final scene, nor the words at the end, nor the fact
that the more crust you have the more you shine, nor that a number that
is cited must end in 7 or 3 in order to seem accurate; nor not to lend
money to anybody who says: "I have five acts at the Odéon," or "I have
three acts at the Comédie-Française," nor to say carelessly: "If you
want some free passes, I have so many of them, that I am obliged to give
them to my concierge;" that doesn't lead to anything.
A young man at this point made good the occasion to come and sing with
equivocal gestures and a lascivious air, some childish and entrancing
songs.
M. PINGU
What juice, sir!
M. LACOUFF
Juice of the hat?
M. PINGU
No-no! I am mistaken. What a fluid!
He trembles like the paunch of an archbishop.
M. LACOUFF
Use the proper word, not your paunch.
M. PINGU
What a joy, sir, what a joy! It would soften a crocodile to tears and
would please a scholar as well as a financier.
CRONIAMANTAL
Good-bye, gentlemen, I am your devoted servant. With your permission I
will return in a few days. I feel that my play is not in proper shape
yet.
[Illustration 04]
XII. LOVE
On a spring morning, Croniamantal, following the instructions of the
Bird of Benin, reached the Meudon woods and stretched himself out in the
shade of a tree whose branches hung very low.
CRONIAMANTAL
God I am tired, not of walking but of being alone. I am thirsty--not for
wine, hydromel or beer, but for water, fresh water from that lovely wood
where the grass and the trees are rose at every dawn, but where no
spring arrests the progress of the parched traveller. The walk has
sharpened my appetite; I am hungry, though not for the flesh nor for
fruit, but for bread, good solid bread, swollen like mammals, bread,
round as the moon and gilded as she.
He arose then. He went deep into the woods and came to the clearing,
where he was to meet Tristouse Ballerinette. The damsel had not yet
arrived. Croniamantal longed for a fountain and his imagination, or
perhaps some sorcerer's talent in himself which he had never suspected,
caused a limpid water suddenly to flow among the grass.
Croniamantal flung himself down and drank avidly, when he heard the
voice of a woman singing far off:
_Dondidondaine
'Tis the shepherdess beloved of the king
Who has gone to the fountain
Dondidondaine
In the dewy fields, all blossoming
To the fountain
But here comes Croquemitaine
To the fountain
And Hickorydock! advance no further._
CRONIAMANTAL
Dost thou think already of her who sings? Thou laughest dully in this
clearing. Dost thou believe that she has been rounded like a round table
for the equality of men and weeks? Thou knowest well, the days do not
resemble each other.
About the round table, the good are no longer equal; one has the sun in
his face, it dazzles him and soon quits him for his neighbor. Another
has his shadow before him. All are good, and good thou art thyself, but
they are no more equal than the day and the night.
THE VOICE
_Croquemitaine
Wears the rose and the lilac
The king rides off--Hello Germaine
--Croquemitaine
Thou wilt come back again_
CRONIAMANTAL
The voices of women are always ironical. Is the weather always fair?
Someone is already damned instead of me. It is nice in the deep woods.
Hearken no longer to the voice of woman! Ask! Ask!
THE VOICE
--_Hello Germaine
I come to love between thine arms
--Ah! Sire, our cow is full
--Really Germaine
--Your servant also, I believe._
CRONIAMANTAL
She who sings in order to lure me will be ignorant as I, and dancing
with lassitudes.
THE VOICE
_The cow is full
When autumn comes she'll calve
Farewell my king Dondidondaine
The cow is full
And my heart empty without thee_
Croniamantal stands on the tip of his toes to see if he can perceive
through the branches the so-beloved who comes.
THE VOICE
_Dondidondaine
But when will come my Croquemitaine
At the fountain it is very cold
Dondidondaine
After the winter I shall be less cold._
In the clearing there appeared a young girl, svelte and brunette. Her
countenance was sombre and starred with roving eyes like birds of bright
plumage. Her sparse but short hair left her neck bare; her hair was
tousled and dark, and by the skipping rope which she carried,
Croniamantal recognized her to be Tristouse Ballerinette.
CRONIAMANTAL
No further, child with bare arms! I shall come to you myself. Someone
has just hushed under the pines and will be able to overhear us.
TRISTOUSE
This one is surely the issue of an egg, like Castor and Pollax. I recall
how my mother, who was very foolish, used to talk to me about them of
long evenings. The hunter of serpent's eggs, son of the serpent
himself,--I am afraid of those old memories.
CRONIAMANTAL
Have no fear, woman of the naked arms. Stay with me. My lips are filled
with kisses. Here, here. I lay them on thy brow, on thy hair. I caress
thy hair with its ancient perfume. I caress thy hairs which intertwine
like the worms on the bodies of the dead. O death, o death, hairy with
worms. I have kisses on my lips. Here, here they are, on thy hands, on
thy neck, on thine eyes, thine eyes. I have lips full of kisses, here,
here, burning like a fever, sustained to enchant thee, kisses, mad
kisses, on the ear, the temple, the cheek. Feel my embraces, bend under
the effort of my arm, be languid, be languid. I have kisses upon my
lips, here, here, mad ones, upon thine eyes, upon thy neck, upon thy
brow, upon thy youth, I longed so to love thee, this spring day when
there are no more blossoms on the branches which prepare themselves to
bear fruit.
TRISTOUSE
Leave me, go away. Those who move each other are happy, but I do not
love you. You frighten me. However, do not despair, o poet. Listen, this
is my best advice: Go away!
CRONIAMANTAL
Alas! Alas! To leave again, to wander unto the oceanic limits, through
the brush, the evergreen, in the scum, in the mud, the dust, across the
forests, the prairies, the plantations, and the very happy gardens.
TRISTOUSE
Go away. Go away, far from the antique perfume of my hair, o thou who
belongest to me.
And Croniamantal went off without turning his head once; he could be
seen for a long time through the branches, and then his voice could be
heard growing fainter and fainter as he disappeared from view.
CRONIAMANTAL
Traveller without a stick, pilgrim without staff and poet without a
writing pad, I am more powerless than all other men, I own nothing more
and I know nothing...
And his voice no longer reached Tristouse Ballerinette who was admiring
her image in the pool.
In another age monks cultivated the forest of Malverne.
MONKS
The sun declines slowly, and blessing thee, O Lord; we are going to
sleep in the monastery so that the dawn may find us in the forest.
THE FOREST OF MALVERNE
Every day, every day, flights of anguished birds see their nests crushed
and their eggs broken when the trees sway with shaking branches.
THE BIRDS
It is the happy hour of twilight when the girls and boys come to roll on
the grass. And all of them have kisses that want to fall like over-ripe
fruit or like the egg when it is about to be laid. Do you see them
there, do you see them dance, muse, haunt, chant from dusk to the dawn,
his pale sister?
A RED-HAIRED MONK
(_In the middle of the Cortège_)
I am afraid to live and I should like to die. Convulsions of earth.
Labor! O lost time...
THE BIRDS
_Gay! Gay! the broken eggs
The ready-made omelette cooked on a downy fire
Here! Here!
Take to the right_
_Turn to the left
Straight ahead
Behind the fallen oak
There and everywhere._
CRONIAMANTAL
(_In another age, near the Forest of Malverne and a little before the
passage of the monks._)
The winds disperse before me, the forests fall away and become a wide
track with corpses here and there. The travellers meet with too many
corpses for some time, with garrulous corpses.
THE RED-HAIRED MONK
I don't want to work any more, I want to dream and pray.
He sleeps, his face turned to the sky, on the road bordered with willows
of the color of mist.
The night had come with the moonlight. Croniamantal saw the monks bent
over the nonchalant bodies of their brothers. Then he heard a little
plaint, a feeble cry that died in a last sigh. And slowly they passed in
Indian file before Croniamantal, who was hidden behind a clump of
willows.
THE GLORIDE FOREST
I should love to send this man astray amid the spectres that float among
the bubbles. But he flees toward the times that come, and whither he is
already arrived.
The banging of distant doors changes into the sound of trains in motion.
A large, grassy track, barred by trunks and fenced with enormous joined
stones. Life commits suicide. A path that people follow. They never
tire. Subways where the air is poisoned. Corpses. Voices call
Croniamantal. He runs, he runs, he descends.
* * *
In the lovely woods, Tristouse promenaded meditating.
TRISTOUSE
My heart is sad without thee, Croniamantal. I loved thee without knowing
it. All is green. All is green above my head and beneath my feet. I have
lost him whom I loved. I must search this way and that way, here and
yonder. And among them all I shall surely find someone who will please
me.
Returned from other times, Croniamantal cried out at sight of Tristouse
and the fountain again:
CRONIAMANTAL
Goddess! who art thou? Where is thine eternal form?
TRISTOUSE
Oh, there he is again, handsomer than ever... Listen, o poet. I belong
to thee, henceforth.
Without looking at Tristouse, Croniamantal bent over the pool.
CRONIAMANTAL
I love fountains, they are beautiful symbols of immortality when they
never run dry. This one has never run dry. And I seek a divinity, but I
desire her to appear eternal to me. And my fountain has never run dry.
He knelt and prayed to the fountain, while Tristouse, all in tears,
lamented.
O poet, adorest thou the fountain? O Lord, return my lover to me! Come
to me! I know such lovely songs.
CRONIAMANTAL
The fountain hath its murmur.
TRISTOUSE
Very well, then! Sleep with thy cold lover, let her drown thee! But if
thou livest, thou belongest to me and thou shalt obey me.
She was gone, and throughout the forest of twittering birds, the
fountain flowed and murmured, while there arose the voice of
Croniamantal who wept and whose tears mingled with the worshipped flood.
CRONIAMANTAL
O fountain! Thou who springest like a staunchless blood. Thou who art
cold as marble, but living, transparent and fluid. Thou, ever renewed
and ever the same. Thou who makest living thy verdant banks, I love
thee. Thou art my unrivalled goddess. Thou quenchest my thirst. Thou
purifiest me. Thou murmurest to me thine eternal song which rocks me to
sleep in the evenings.
THE FOUNTAIN
At the bottom of my little bed full of an Orient of gems, I hear thee
with contentment, o poet whom I have enchanted. I recall Avallon where
we might have lived, thou as the King Fisher and I awaiting thee under
the apple trees. O islands of apple trees. But I am happy in my precious
little bed. These amethysts are sweet to my gaze. This lapis-lazuli is
more blue than a fair sky. This malachite represents to me a prairie.
Sardonyx, onyx, agate, rock-crystal, you shall scintillate tonight, for
I will give a feast in honor of my lover. I shall come alone as befits a
virgin. The power of my lover has already been manifested and his gifts
are sweet to my soul. He has given me his eyes all in tears, two
adorable fountains, sweet tributaries of my stream.
CRONIAMANTAL
O fecund fountain, thy waters resemble thy hair. Thy flowers are born
about thee and we shall love each other always.
Nothing could be heard but the song of birds and the rustling of leaves,
and at times the plashing of a bird playing in the water.
A dandy appeared in the little wood: It was Paponat the Algerian. He
approached the fountain dancing.
CRONIAMANTAL
I know you. You are Paponat who studied in the Orient.
PAPONAT
Himself. O poet of the Occident, I come to visit you. I have learned of
your enchantment, but I hear that it is not yet too late to converse
with you. How humid it is here! It is not at all surprising that your
voice is harsh, and you will certainly need a medicament to clear it. I
approached you dancing. Is there no way of saving you from the situation
in which you have placed yourself.
CRONIAMANTAL
Bah! But tell me who taught you to dance.
PAPONAT
The angels themselves were my dancing masters.
CRONIAMANTAL
The good or the bad angels? But no matter. I have had enough of all the
dances, save one which the Greeks call _kordax._
PAPONAT
You are gay, Croniamantal, we shall be able to amuse ourselves. I am
glad I came here. I love gaiety. I am happy!
And Paponat, his bright eyes profoundly whirling, rubbed his hands
gleefully.
CRONIAMANTAL
You look like me!
PAPONAT
Not much. I am happy to live, while you die beside the fountain.
CRONIAMANTAL
But the happiness which you proclaim, do you not forget it? and forget
mine? You resemble me! The happy man rubs his hands. Smell them. What do
they smell like?
PAPONAT
The odour of death.
CRONIAMANTAL
Ha! ha! ha! The happy man has the same odour as death! Rub your hands.
What difference between the happy man and the corpse! I am also happy,
although I don't want to rub my hands. Be happy, rub your hands. Be
happy! again! Now do you know it, the odour of happiness?
PAPONAT
Farewell. If you make no case for the living, there is no way of talking
to you.
And as Paponat disappeared into the night where glittered the
innumerable eyes of the celestial animals of impalpable flesh,
Croniamantal rose suddenly thinking to himself: "Well--enough of the
beauties of Nature and of the thoughts she evokes. I know enough about
that for a long time; we had better return to Paris and try to find that
exquisite little Tristouse who loves me madly."
XIII. MODES
Paponat who came back that night from the Meudon woods where he had gone
in search of adventure arrived just in time to take the last boat. He
had the good luck to run into Tristouse Ballerinette there.
"How are you, young lady?" he asked. "I just saw your lover,
Croniamantal, in the woods. He is on the verge of going mad."
"My lover?" said Tristouse. "He is not my lover."
"He is said to be. At least they have been saying he is, in our literary
and artistic circles, ever since yesterday."
"They can say whatever they want," said Tristouse firmly. "Anyway I
shall have nothing to be ashamed about in such a lover. Is he not
handsome and has he not a great talent?"
"You are right. But my, what a pretty hat you have, and what a pretty
dress! I am very much interested in the fashions."
"You are always very elegant, Mr. Paponat. Give me the address of your
tailor and I shall tell Croniamantal about it."
"Quite useless, he would not use it," said Paponat laughing. "But tell
me now, what are the women wearing this year? I have just come from
Italy and I am not in touch with things. Please tell me all about it."
"This year," began Tristouse, "the modes are very bizarre and familiar,
simple and yet full of fantasy. All material belonging to the different
processes of Nature may now enter into the composition of a woman's
costume. I have seen a robe made of cork. It was certainly as good as
the charming evening gowns of towel which created such a rage at
premieres. A great couturier is thinking of launching tailor-made
costumes of the backs of old books, bound in calf. Charming! All
literary women will want to wear it, and one can approach them and
whisper into their ears under the guise of reading the titles of the
books. Fish-skeletons are also worn much with hats. You may see
delightful young girls, very often, wearing cloaks à la Saint-Jacques
de Compostelle; their costume, so it is said, is starred with Saint
Jacques shells. Porcelain, stone work and china have suddenly taken an
important place in the sartorial art. These materials are worn in belts,
on hat-pins, etc.; I have had the good luck to see an adorable reticule
all made of the glass eyes that oculists use. Feathers are used not only
to decorate hats with, but shoes, gloves, and next year they will even
be used with umbrellas. Shoes are being made of Venetian glass and hats
out of Bohemian crystal. Not to mention oil-painted gowns, highly
colored woolens, and robes bizarrely spotted with ink. In the Spring
many will wear dresses made of puffed gold leaf, with pleasant shapes,
giving lightness and distinction. Our aviatrices will wear nothing else.
For the races there will be the hat made of toy balloons, about twenty
at a time being used, giving a luxuriant effect, and very diverting
explosions from time to time. The mussel-shell will be worn on slippers.
And note that they are beginning to dress with living animals. I met a
woman who wore on her hat at least twenty birds; canaries, goldfinches,
robins, held by a string tied to their feet, all singing at the top of
their voices and flapping their wings. The head-dress of an
ambassadress, ever since the last Neuilly fair is made up of a coil of
about thirty snakes. 'For whom are those snakes that hiss overhead?'
asked the little Romanian attaché with his Dacian accent, who was
supposed to be quite a ladies' man. I forgot to tell you that last
Wednesday I saw a lady on the boulevards with a ruff having little
mirrors laid together and pasted to the material. In the sunlight the
effect was sumptuous. One might have thought it a gold mine on a
promenade. Later it began to rain and the lady resembled a silver mine.
Nutshells make pretty buttons, especially if they are interspersed with
filberts. A robe embroidered with coffee grains, cloves, cloves of
garlic, onions, and bunches of raisins, is proper to wear when visiting.
Fashion is becoming practical and no longer spurns any object, but
ennobles all. It does for these things what romanticists do with words."
"Thank you," said Paponat, "you have given me a great deal of
information and told it charmingly."
"You are too kind," replied Tristouse.
XIV. ENCOUNTERS
Six months passed. For the last five Tristouse Ballerinette had been the
mistress of Croniamantal, whom she loved passionately for eight days. In
exchange for this love, the lyrical youth had rendered her glorious and
immortal forever by celebrating her in marvellous poems.
"I was unknown," she mused, "and now he has made me illustrious among
all the living.
"I was thought ugly because of my thinness, my large mouth, my bad
teeth, my irregular features, my crooked nose. Now I am beautiful and
all men tell me so. They mocked at my clumsy and jerky gait, at my sharp
elbows which, when I walked, moved like the feet of geese.