it, "De toutes les causes dont je ne me soucie pas, c'est la plus
belle;" and then adds, quite in her own vein, "Du moins, les mots de
patrie et de liberté sont harmonieux--tandis que ceux de légitimité et
d'obéissance sont grossiers, mal-sonnans, et faits pour des oreilles
de gendarmes."... "Aduler une bûche couronnée," is, she declares,
"renoncer à sa dignité d'homme, et se faire académicien."
However, she quizzes her political friend for being "le martyr des
nobles ambitions;" adding, "Gouvernez-moi bien tous ces vilains idiots
... je vais chanter au soleil sur une branche, pendant ce tems-là."
In another place, she says that she is "bonne à rien qu'à causer avec
l'écho, à regarder lever la lune, et à composer des chants
mélancoliques ou moqueurs pour les étudians poètes et les écoliers
amoureux."
As a specimen of what this writer's powers of description are, I will
give you a few lines from a little story called "Mattéa,"--a story, by
the way, that is beautiful, one hardly knows why,--just to show you
how she can treat a theme worn threadbare before she was born. Is
there, in truth, any picture much less new than that of a gondola,
with a guitar in it, gliding along the canals of Venice? But see what
she makes of it.
"La guitare est un instrument qui n'a son existence véritable qu'à
Venise, la ville silencieuse et sonore. Quand une gondole rase ce
fleuve d'encre phosphorescente, où chaque coup de rame enfonce un
éclair, tandis qu'une grêle de petites notes légères, nettes, et
folâtres, bondit et rebondit sur les cordes que parcourt une main
invisible, on voudrait arrêter et saisir cette mélodie faible mais
distincte qui agace l'oreille des passans, et qui fuit le long des
grandes ombres des palais, comme pour appeler les belles aux fenêtres,
et passer en leur disant--Ce n'est pas pour vous la sérénade; et vous
ne saurez ni d'où elle vient, ni où elle va."
Could Rousseau himself have chosen apter words? Do they not seem an
echo to the sound she describes?
The private history of an author ought never to mix itself with a
judgment of his works. Of that of George Sand I know but little; but
divining it from the only source that the public has any right to
examine,--namely, her writings,--I should be disposed to believe that
her story is the old one of affection either ill requited, or in some
way or other unfortunate; and there is justice in quoting the passages
which seem to indicate this, because they are written in a spirit
that, let the circumstances be what they will, must do her honour.
In the "Lettres d'un Voyageur" already mentioned, the supposed writer
of them is clearly identified with George Sand by this passage:--"Meure
le petit George quand Dieu voudra, le monde n'en ira pas plus mal pour
avoir ignoré sa façon de penser. Que veux-tu que je te dise? Il faut
que je te parle encore de moi, et rien n'est plus insipide qu'une
individualité qui n'a pas encore trouvé le mot de sa destinée. Je n'ai
aucun intérêt à formuler une opinion quelconque. Quelques personnes
qui lisent mes livres ont le tort de croire que ma conduite est une
profession de foi, et le choix des sujets de mes historiettes une
sorte de plaidoyer contre certaines lois: bien loin de là, je
reconnais que ma vie est pleine de fautes, et je croirais commettre
une lâcheté si je me battais les flancs pour trouver un système
d'idées qui en autorisât l'exemple."
After this, it is impossible to read, without being touched by it,
this sublime phrase used in speaking of one who would retire into the
deep solitudes of nature from struggling with the world:--
"_Les astres éternels auront toujours raison_, et l'homme, quelque
grand qu'il soit parmi les hommes, sera toujours saisi d'épouvante
quand il voudra interroger ce qui est au-dessus de lui. _O silence
effrayant, réponse éloquente et terrible de l'éternité!_"
In another place, speaking with less lightness of tone than is
generally mixed throughout these charming letters with the gravest
speculations, George Sand says:--
"J'ai mal vécu, j'ai mal usé des biens qui me sont échus, j'ai négligé
les oeuvres de charité; j'ai vécu dans la mollesse, dans l'ennui,
dans les larmes vaines, dans les folles amours, dans les vains
plaisirs. Je me suis prosterné devant des idoles de chair et de sang,
et j'ai laissé leur souffle enivrant effacer les sentences austères
que la sagesse des livres avait écrites sur mon front dans ma
jeunesse.... J'avais été honnête autrefois, sais-tu bien cela,
Everard? C'est de notoriété bourgeoise dans notre pays; mais il y
avait peu de mérite,--j'étais jeune, et les funestes amours n'étaient
pas éclos dans mon sein. Ils ont étouffé bien des qualités; mais _je
sais qu'il en est auxquelles je n'ai pas fait la plus légère tache au
milieu des plus grands revers de ma vie, et qu'aucune des autres n'est
perdu pour moi sans retour_."
I could go on very long quoting with pleasure from these pages; but I
cannot, I think, conclude better than with this passage. Who is there
but must wish that all the great and good qualities of this gifted
woman (for she must have both) should break forth from whatever cloud
sorrow or misfortune of any kind may have thrown over her, and that
the rest of her days may pass in the tranquil developement of her
extraordinary talents, and in such a display of them to the public as
shall leave its admiration unmixed?
LETTER LXIV.
"Angelo Tyran de Padoue."--Burlesque at the Théâtre du
Vaudeville.--Mademoiselle Mars.--Madame Dorval.--Epigram.
We have seen and enjoyed many very pretty, very gay little pieces at
most of the theatres since we have been here; but we never till our
last visit to the Théâtre Français enjoyed that uncontrollable
movement of merriment which, setting all lady-like nonchalance at
defiance, obliged us to yield ourselves up to hearty, genuine
laughter; in which, however, we had the consolation of seeing many of
those around us join.
And what was the piece, can you guess, which produced this effect upon
us?... It was "Angelo!" It was the "Tyran de Padoue"--_pas doux_ du
tout, as the wits of the parterre aver. But, in truth, I ought not to
assent to this verdict, for never tyrant was so _doux_ to me and mine
as this, and never was a very long play so heartily laughed at to the
end.
But must I write to you in sober earnest about this comic tragedy? I
suppose I must; for, except the Procès Monstre, nothing has been more
talked of in Paris than this new birth of M. Hugo. The cause for this
excitement was not that a new play from this sufficiently well-known
hand was about to be put upon the scene, but a circumstance which has
made me angry and all Paris curious. This tragedy, as you shall see
presently, has two heroines who run neck and neck through every act,
leaving it quite in doubt which ought to come in prima donna.
Mademoiselle Mars was to play the part of one--but who could venture
to stand thus close beside her in the other part?--nobody at the
Français, as it should seem: and so, wonderful to tell, and almost
impossible to believe, a lady, a certain Madame Dorval, well known as
a heroine of the Porte St. Martin, I believe, was enlisted into the
corps of the Français to run a tilt with--Mars.
This extraordinary arrangement was talked of, and asserted, and
contradicted, and believed, and disbelieved, till the noise of it
filled all Paris. You will hardly wonder, then, that the appearance of
this drama has created much sensation, or that the desire to see it
should extend beyond the circle of M. Hugo's young admirers.
I have been told, that as soon as this arrangement was publicly made
known, the application for boxes became very numerous. The author was
permitted to examine the list of all those who had applied, and no
boxes were positively promised till he had done so. Before the night
for the first representation was finally fixed, a large party of
friends and admirers assembled at the poet's house, and, amongst them,
expunged from this list the names of all such persons as were either
known or suspected to be hostile to him or his school. Whatever
deficiencies this exclusive system produced in the box-book were
supplied by his particular partisans. The result on this first night
was a brilliant success.
"L'auteur de Cromwell," says the Revue des Deux Mondes, "a proclamé
d'une voix dictatoriale la fusion de la comédie et de la tragédie dans
le drame." It is for this reason, perhaps, that M. Hugo has made his
last tragedy so irresistibly comic. The dagger and the bowl bring on
the catastrophe,--therefore, _sans contredire_, it is a tragedy: but
his playful spirit has arranged the incidents and constructed the
dialogue,--therefore, _sans faute_, it is a comedy.
In one of his exquisite prefaces, M. Hugo says, that he would not have
any audience quit the theatre without carrying with them "quelque
moralité austère et profonde;" and I will now make it my task to point
out to you how well he has redeemed this promise in the present
instance. In order to shake off all the old-fashioned trammels which
might encumber his genius, M. Hugo has composed his "Angelo" in
prose,--prose such as old women love--(wicked old women I
mean,)--lengthy, mystical, gossiping, and mischievous. I will give you
some extracts; and to save the trouble of describing the different
characters, I will endeavour so to select these extracts that they
shall do it for me. Angelo Tyran de Padoue thus speaks of himself:--
"Oui ... je suis le podesta que Venise met sur Padoue.... Et
savez-vous ce que c'est que Venise?... C'est le conseil des dix. Oh!
le conseil des dix!... Souvent la nuit je me dresse sur mon séant,
j'écoute, et j'entends des pas dans mon mur.... Oui, c'est ainsi,
Tyran de Padoue, esclave de Venise. Je suis bien surveillé, allez. Oh!
le conseil des dix!"
This gentleman has a young, beautiful, and particularly estimable
wife, by name Catarina Bragadini, (which part is enacted on the boards
of the Théâtre Français by Madame Dorval, from the Théâtre de la Porte
St. Martin,) but unfortunately he hates her violently. He could not,
however, as he philosophically observes himself, avoid doing so, and
he shall again speak for himself to explain this.
"ANGELO.
"La haine c'est dans notre sang. Il faut toujours qu'un Malipieri
haïsse quelqu'un. Moi, c'est cette femme que je hais. Je ne vaux pas
mieux qu'elle, c'est possible--mais il faut qu'elle meure. C'est une
nécessité--une résolution prise."
This necessity for hating does not, however, prevent the Podesta from
falling very violently in love with a strolling actress called La
Tisbe (personated by Mademoiselle Mars). The Tisbe also is a very
remarkably virtuous, amiable, and high-minded woman, who listens to
the addresses of the Tyrant pas doux, but hates him as cordially as he
hates his lady-wife, bestowing all her tenderness and private caresses
upon a travelling gentleman, who is a prince in disguise, but whom she
passes off upon the Tyrant for her brother. La Tisbe, too, shall give
you her own account of herself.
"LA TISBE (_addressing Angelo_).
"Vous savez qui je suis? ... rien, une fille du peuple, une
comédienne.... Eh bien! si peu que je suis, j'ai eu une mère.
Savez-vous ce que c'est que d'avoir une mère? En avez-vous eu une,
vous?... Eh bien! j'avais une mère, moi."
This appears to be a species of refinement upon the old saying, "It is
a wise child that knows its own father." The charming Tisbe evidently
piques herself upon her sagacity in being quite certain that she had a
mother;--but she has not yet finished her story.
"C'était une pauvre femme sans mari qui chantait des chansons dans
les places publiques." (The "_delicate_" Esmeralda again.) "Un jour,
un sénateur passa. Il regarde, il entendit," (she must have been
singing the _Ça ira_ of 1549,) "et dit au capitaine qui le suivait--A
la potence cette femme! Ma mère fut saisie sur-le-champ--elle ne dit
rien ... a quoi bon? ... m'embrassa avec une grosse larme, prit son
crucifix et se laissa garrotter. Je le vois encore ce crucifix en
cuivre poli, mon nom Tisbe écrit en bas.... Mais il y avait avec le
sénateur une jeune fille.... Elle se jeta aux pieds du sénateur et
obtint la grace de ma mère.... Quand ma mère fut déliée, elle prit son
crucifix, ma mère, et le donna à la belle enfant, en lui disant,
Madame, gardez ce crucifix--il vous portera bonheur."
Imagine Mademoiselle Mars uttering this trash!... Oh, it was grievous!
And if I do not greatly mistake, she admired her part quite as little
as I did, though she exerted all her power to make it endurable,--and
there were passages, certainly, in which she succeeded in making one
forget everything but herself, her voice, and her action.
But to proceed. On this crucifix de cuivre poli, inscribed with the
name of Tisbe, hangs all the little plot. Catarina Bragadini, the wife
of the Tyrant, and the most ill-used and meritorious of ladies, is
introduced to us in the third scene of the second day (new style--acts
are out of fashion,) lamenting to her confidential femme de chambre
the intolerable long absence of her lover. The maid listens, as in
duty bound, with the most respectful sympathy, and then tells her that
another of her waiting-maids for whom she had inquired was at prayers.
Whereupon we have a morsel of naïveté that is _impayable_.
"CATARINA.
"Laisse-la prier.--Hélas! ... moi, cela ne me fait rien de prier!"
This, I suspect, is what is called "the natural vein," in which
consists the peculiar merit of this new style of writing. After this
charming burst of natural feeling, the Podesta's virtuous lady goes on
with her lament.
"CATARINA.
"Il y a cinq semaines--cinq semaines éternelles que je ne l'ai vu!...
Je suis enfermée, gardée, en prison. Je le voyais une heure de tems en
tems: cette heure si étroite, et si vite fermée, c'était le seul
_soupirail_[1] par où entrait un peu d'air et de soleil dans ma vie.
Maintenant tout est muré.... Oh Rodolpho!... Dafné, nous avons passé,
lui et moi, de bien douces heures!... Est-ce que c'est coupable tout
ce que je dis là de lui? Non, n'est-ce pas?"
* * * * *
Now you must know, that this Signor Rodolpho plays the part of gallant
to both these ladies, and, though intended by the author for another
of his estimable personages, is certainly, by his own showing, as
great a rascal as can well be imagined. He loves only the wife, and
not the mistress of Angelo; and though he permits her par complaisance
to be his mistress too, he addresses her upon one occasion, when she
is giving way to a fit of immoderate fondness, with great sincerity.
"RODOLPHO.
"Prenez garde, Tisbe, ma famille est une famille fatale. Il y a sur
nous une prédiction, une destinée qui s'accomplit presque
inévitablement de père en fils. Nous tuons qui nous aime."
From this passage, and one before quoted, it should seem, I think,
that notwithstanding all the innovations of M. Hugo, he has still a
lingering reverence for the immutable power of destiny which overhangs
the classic drama. How otherwise can he explain these two mystic
sentences?--"Ma famille est une famille fatale. Il y a sur nous une
destinée qui s'accomplit de père en fils." And this other: "La haine
c'est dans notre sang: il faut toujours qu'un Malipieri haïsse
quelqu'un."
The only other character of importance is a very mysterious one called
Homodei; and I think I may best describe him in the words of the
excellent burlesque which has already been brought out upon this
"Angelo" at the Vaudeville. There they make one of the dramatis
personæ, when describing this very incomprehensible Homodei, say of
him,--
"C'est le plus grand dormeur de France et de Navarre."
In effect, he far out-sleeps the dozing sentinels in the "Critic;" for
he goes on scene after scene sleeping apparently as sound as a top,
till all on a sudden he starts up wide awake, and gives us to
understand that he too is exceedingly in love with Madame la Podesta,
but that he has been rejected. He therefore determines to do her as
much mischief as possible, observing that "Un Sbire (for such is his
humble rank) qui aime est bien petit--un Sbire qui se venge est bien
grand."
This great but rejected Sbire, however, is not contented with avenging
himself on Catarina for her scorn, but is pushed, by his destiny, I
presume, to set the whole company together by the ears.
He first brings Rodolpho into the bed-room of Catarina, then brings
the jealous Tisbe there to look at them, and finally contrives that
the Tyrant himself should find out his wife's little innocent love
affair--for innocent she declares it is.
Fortunately, during this unaccountable reunion in the chamber of
Madame, la Tisbe discovers that her mother the ballad-singer's
crucifix is in the possession of her rival Catarina; whereupon she not
only decides upon resigning her claim upon the heart of Signor
Rodolpho in her favour, but determines upon saving her life from the
fury of her jealous husband, who has communicated to the Tisbe, as we
have seen above, his intention of killing his wife, because "il faut
toujours qu'un Malipieri haïsse quelqu'un."
Fortunately, again, it happens that the Tisbe has communicated to her
lover the Tyrant, in a former conversation, the remarkable fact that
another lover still had once upon a time made her a present of two
phials--one black, the other white--one containing poison, the other a
narcotic. After he has discovered Catarina's innocent weakness for
Rodolpho, he informs the Tisbe that the time is come for him to kill
his lady, and that he intends to do it by cutting her head off
privately. The Tisbe tells him that this is a bad plan, and that
poison would do much better.
"ANGELO.
"Oui! Le poison vaudrait mieux. Mais il faudrait un poison rapide, et,
_vous ne me croirez pas_, je n'en ai pas ici.
"LA TISBE.
"J'en ai, moi.
"ANGELO.
"Où?
"LA TISBE.
"Chez moi.
"ANGELO.
"Quel poison?
"LA TISBE.
"Le poison Malispine, _vous savez_: cette boîte que m'a envoyée le
primicier de Saint Marc."
* * * * *
After this satisfactory explanation, Angelo accepts her offer, and she
trots away home and brings him the phial containing the narcotic.
The absurdity of the scene that takes place when Angelo and the Tisbe
are endeavouring to persuade Catarina to consent to be killed is such,
that nothing but transcribing the whole can give you an idea of it:
but it is too long for this. Believe me, we were not the only part of
the audience that laughed at this scene _à gorge déployée_.
Angelo begins by asking if she is ready.
"CATARINA.
"Prête à quoi?
"ANGELO.
"A mourir.
"CATARINA.
"... Mourir! Non, je ne suis pas prête. Je ne suis pas prête. Je ne
suis pas prête _du tout_, monsieur!
"ANGELO.
"Combien de temps vous faut-il pour vous préparer?
"CATARINA.
"Oh! je ne sais pas--beaucoup de temps!"
Angelo tells her she shall have an hour, and then leaves her alone:
upon which she draws aside a curtain and discovers a block and an axe.
She is naturally exceedingly shocked at this spectacle; her soliloquy
is sublime!
"CATARINA (_replacing the curtain_).
"Derrière moi! c'est derrière moi. Ah! vous voyez bien que ce n'est
pas un rêve, et que c'est bien réel ce qui passe ici, puisque _voilà
des choses là derrière le rideau_!"
* * * * *
Corneille! Racine! Voltaire!--This is tragedy,--tragedy played on the
stage of the Théâtre Français--tragedy which it has been declared in
the face of day shall "lift the ground from under you!" Such is the
march of mind!
After this glorious soliloquy, her lover Rodolpho pays Catarina a
visit--again in her bed-room, in her guarded palace, surrounded by
spies and sentinels. How he gets there, it is impossible to guess: but
in the burlesque at the Vaudeville they make this matter much
clearer;--for there these unaccountable entrées are managed at one
time by the falling down of a wall; at another, by the lover's rising
through the floor like a ghost; and at another, by his coming flying
down on a wire from an opening in the ceiling like a Cupid.
The lovers have a long talk; but she does not tell him a word about
the killing, for fear it should bring him into mischief,--though
where he got in, it might be easy enough for her to get out. However,
she says nothing about "_les choses_" behind the curtain, but gives
him a kiss, and sends him away in high glee.
No sooner does he disappear, than Angelo and the Tisbe enter, and a
conversation ensues between the three on the manner of the doomed
lady's death that none but M. Victor Hugo could have written. He would
represent nature, and he makes a high-born princess, pleading for her
life to a sovereign who is her husband, speak thus: "Parlons
simplement. Tenez ... vous êtes infâme ... et puis, comme vous mentez
toujours, vous ne me croirez pas. Tenez, vraiment je vous méprise:
vous m'avez épousée pour mon argent...."
Then she makes a speech to the Tisbe in the same exquisite tone of
nature; with now and then a phrase or expression which is quite beyond
even the fun of the Vaudeville to travestie; as for instance--"Je suis
toujours restée honnête--vous me comprenez, vous--mais je ne puis dire
cela à mon mari. _Les hommes ne veulent jamais nous croire_, vous
savez; cependant nous leur disons _quelquefois_ des choses bien
vraies...."
At last the Tyrant gets out of patience.
"ANGELO.
"C'en est trop! Catarina Bragadina, le crime fait, veut un châtiment;
la fosse ouverte, veut un cercueil; le mari outragé, veut une femme
morte. _Tu perds toutes les paroles qui sortent de ta bouche_
(montrant le poison).
"Voulez vous, madame?
"CATARINA.
"Non!
"ANGELO.
"Non?... J'en reviens à ma première idée alors. Les épées! les épées!
Troilo! qu'on aille me chercher.... J'y vais!"
* * * * *
Now we all know that his première idée was not to stab her with one or
more swords, but to cut her head off on a block--and that _les choses_
are all hid ready for it behind the curtain. But this "J'y vais" is
part of the machinery of the fable; for if the Tyrant did not go away,
the Tisbe could have found no opportunity of giving her rival a hint
that the poison was not so dangerous as she believed. So when Angelo
returns, the Tisbe tells him that "elle se résigne au poison."
Catarina drinks the potion, falls into a trance, and is buried.
(Victor Hugo is always original, they say.) The Tisbe digs her up
again, and lays her upon a bed in her own house, carefully drawing the
curtains round her. Then comes the great catastrophe. The lover of the
two ladies uses his privilege, and enters the Tisbe's apartment,
determined to fulfil his destiny and murder her, because she loves
him--as written in the book of fate--and also because she has poisoned
his other and his favourite love Catarina. The Signor Rodolpho knows
that she brought the phial, because one of the maids told him so: this
is another instance of the ingenious and skilful machinery of the
fable. Rodolpho tells the poor woman what he is come for; adding,
"Vous avez un quart d'heure pour vous préparer à la mort, madame!"
There is something in this which shows that M. Hugo, notwithstanding
he has some odd décousu notions, is aware of the respect which ought
to be paid to married ladies, beyond what is due to those who are not
so. When the Podesta announced the same intention to his wife, he
says--"Vous avez devant vous une heure, madame." At the Vaudeville,
however, they give another turn to this variation in the time allowed
under circumstances so similar: they say--
"Catarina eut une heure au moins de son mari:
Le tems depuis tantôt est donc bien renchéri."
The unfortunate Tisbe, on receiving this communication from her dear
Rodolpho, exclaims--"Ah! vous me tuez! Ah! c'est la première idée qui
vous vient?"
Some farther conversation takes place between them. On one occasion he
says--like a prince as he is--"Mentez un peu, voyons!"--and then he
assures her that he never cared a farthing for her, repeating very
often, because, as he says, it is her _supplice_ to hear it, that he
never loved anybody but Catarina. During the whole scene she ceases
not, however, to reiterate her passionate protestations of love to
him, and at last the dialogue ends by Rodolpho's stabbing her to the
heart.