After witnessing the performance given by the Comédie Française in the
antique theatre at Orange, we determined—my companion and I—if ever
another opportunity of the kind offered, to attend, be the material
difficulties what they might.
The theatrical “stars” in their courses proved favorable to the
accomplishment of this vow. Before the year ended it was whispered to us
that the “Cadets de Gascogne” were planning a tram through the Cevennes
Mountains and their native Languedoc—a sort of lay pilgrimage to famous
historic and literary shrines, a voyage to be enlivened by much crowning
of busts and reciting of verses in the open air, and incidentally, by the
eating of Gascony dishes and the degustation of delicate local wines; the
whole to culminate with a representation in the arena at Béziers of
_Déjanire_, Louis Gallet’s and Saint-Saëns’s latest work, under the
personal supervision of those two masters.
A tempting programme, was it not, in these days of cockney tours and
“Cook” couriers? At any rate, one that we, with plenty of time on our
hands and a weakness for out-of-the-way corners and untrodden paths,
found it impossible to resist.
Rostand, in _Cyrano de Bergerac_, has shown us the “Cadets” of Molière’s
time, a fighting, rhyming, devil-may-care band, who wore their hearts on
their sleeves and chips on their stalwart shoulders; much such a
brotherhood, in short, as we love to imagine that Shakespeare, Kit
Marlowe, Greene, and their intimates formed when they met at the “Ship”
to celebrate a success or drink a health to the drama.
The men who compose the present society (which has now for many years
borne a name only recently made famous by M. Rostand’s genius) come
delightfully near realizing the happy conditions of other days, and—less
the fighting—form as joyous and picturesque a company as their historic
elders. They are for the most part Southern-born youths, whose interests
and ambitions centre around the stage, devotees at the altar of
Melpomene, ardent lovers of letters and kindred arts, and proud of the
debt that literary France owes to Gascony.
It is the pleasant custom of this coterie to meet on winter evenings in
unfrequented _cafés_, transformed by them for the time into clubs, where
they recite new-made verses, discuss books and plays, enunciate paradoxes
that make the very waiters shudder, and, between their “bocks,” plan vast
revolutions in the world of literature.
As the pursuit of “letters” is, if anything, less lucrative in France
than in other countries, the question of next day’s dinner is also much
discussed among these budding Molières, who are often forced to learn
early in their careers, when meals have been meagre, to satisfy
themselves with rich rhymes and drink their fill of flowing verse.
From time to time older and more successful members of the corporation
stray back into the circle, laying aside their laurel crowns and Olympian
pose, in the society of the new-comers to Bohemia. These honorary
members enjoy nothing more when occasion offers than to escape from the
toils of greatness and join the “Cadets” in their summer journeys to and
fro in France, trips which are made to combine the pleasures of an outing
with the aims of a literary campaign. It was an invitation to join one
of these tramps that tempted my friend and me away from Paris at the
season when that city is at its best. Being unable, on account of other
engagements, to start with the cohort from the capital, we made a dash
for it and caught them up at Carcassonne during the fêtes that the little
Languedoc city was offering to its guests.
After having seen Aigues Mortes, it was difficult to believe that any
other place in Europe could suggest more vividly the days of military
feudalism. St. Louis’s tiny city is, however, surpassed by Carcassonne!
Thanks to twenty years of studious restoration by Viollet le Duc, this
antique jewel shines in its setting of slope and plain as perfect to-day
(seen from the distance) as when the Crusaders started from its
crenelated gates for the conquest of the Holy Sepulchre. The acropolis
of Carcassonne is crowned with Gothic battlements, the golden polygon of
whose walls, rising from Roman foundations and layers of ruddy Visigoth
brick to the stately marvel of its fifty towers, forms a whole that few
can view unmoved.
We found the Cadets lunching on the platform of the great western keep,
while a historic pageant organized in their honor was winding through the
steep mediæval streets—a cavalcade of archers, men at arms, and
many-colored troubadours, who, after effecting a triumphal entrance to
the town over lowered drawbridges, mounted to unfurl their banner on our
tower. As the gaudy standard unfolded on the evening air, Mounet-Sully’s
incomparable voice breathed the very soul of the “Burgraves” across the
silent plain and down through the echoing corridors below. While we were
still under the impression of the stirring lines, he changed his key and
whispered:—
_Le soir tombe_. . . . _L’heure douce_
_Qui s’èloigne sans secousse_,
_Pose à peine sur la mousse_
_Ses pieds_.
_Un jour indècis persiste_,
_Et le crèpuscule triste_
_Ouvre ses yeux d’améthyste_
_Mouillès_.
Night came on ere the singing and reciting ended, a balmy Southern
evening, lit by a thousand fires from tower and battlement and moat, the
old walls glowing red against the violet sky.
Picture this scene to yourself, reader mine, and you will understand the
enthusiasm of the artists and writers in our clan. It needed but little
imagination then to reconstruct the past and fancy one’s self back in the
days when the “Trancavel” held this city against the world.
Sleep that night was filled with a strange phantasmagoria of crenelated
châteaux and armored knights, until the bright Provençal sunlight and the
call for a hurried departure dispelled such illusions. By noon we were
far away from Carcassonne, mounting the rocky slopes of the Cevennes amid
a wild and noble landscape; the towering cliffs of the “Causses,” zebraed
by zig-zag paths, lay below us, disclosing glimpses of fertile valley and
vine-engarlanded plain.
One asks one’s self in wonder why these enchanting regions are so
unknown. _En route_ our companions were like children fresh from school,
taking haphazard meals at the local inns and clambering gayly into any
conveyance that came to hand. As our way led us through the Cevennes
country, another charm gradually stole over the senses.
“I imagine that Citheron must look like this,” murmured Catulle Mendès,
as we stood looking down from a sun-baked eminence, “with the Gulf of
Corinth there where you see that gleam of water.” As he spoke he began
declaiming the passage from Sophocles’s _Œdipus the King_ descriptive if
that classic scene.
Two thousand feet below lay Ispanhac in a verdant valley, the River Tarn
gleaming amid the cultivated fields like a cimeter thrown on a Turkish
carpet. Our descent was an avalanche of laughing, singing “Cadets,” who
rolled in the fresh-cut grass and chased each other through the ripening
vineyards, shouting lines from tragedies to groups of open-mouthed
farm-hands, and invading the tiny inns on the road with song and tumult.
As we neared our goal its entire population, headed by the curé, came out
to meet us and offer the hospitality of the town.
In the market-place, one of our number, inspired by the antique solemnity
of the surroundings, burst into the noble lines of Hugo’s _Devant Dieu_,
before which the awestruck population uncovered and crossed themselves,
imagining, doubtless, that it was a religious ceremony.
Another scene recurs vividly to my memory. We were at St. Enimie. I had
opened my window to breathe the night air after the heat and dust of the
day and watch the moonlight on the quaint bridge at my feet. Suddenly
from out the shadows there rose (like sounds in a dream) the exquisite
tone of Sylvain’s voice, alternating with the baritone of d’Esparbes.
They were seated at the water’s edge, intoxicated by the beauty of the
scene and apparently oblivious of all else.
The next day was passed on the Tarn, our ten little boats following each
other single file on the narrow river, winding around the feet of mighty
cliffs, or wandering out into sunny pasture lands where solitary
peasants, interrupted in their labors, listened in astonishment to the
chorus thundered from the passing boats, and waved us a welcome as we
moved by.
Space is lacking to give more than a suggestion of those days, passed in
every known conveyance from the antique diligence to the hissing trolley,
in company with men who seemed to have left their cares and their years
behind them in Paris.
Our last stop before arriving at Béziers was at La Case, where luncheon
was served in the great hall of the château. Armand Sylvestre presided
at the repast; his verses alternated with the singings of Emma Calvé, who
had come from her neighboring château to greet her old friends and
compatriots, the “Cadets.”
As the meal terminated, more than one among the guests, I imagine, felt
his heart heavy with the idea that to-morrow would end this pleasant
ramble and send him back to the realities of life and the drudgery of
daily bread-winning.
The morning of the great day dawned cloudless and cool. A laughing,
many-colored throng early invaded the arena, the women’s gay toilets
lending it some resemblance to a parterre of fantastic flowers. Before
the bell sounded its three strokes that announced the representation,
over ten thousand spectators had taken their places and were studying the
gigantic stage and its four thousand yards of painted canvas. In the
foreground a cluster of Greek palaces and temples surround a
market-place; higher up and further back the city walls, manned by
costumed sentinels, rise against mountains so happily painted that their
outlines blend with nature’s own handiwork in the distance,—a worthy
setting for a stately drama and the valiant company of actors who have
travelled from the capital for this solemnity.
Three hundred hidden musicians, divided into wind and chord orchestras,
accompany a chorus of two hundred executants, and furnish the music for a
ballet of seventy dancers.
As the third stroke dies away, the Muse, Mademoiselle Rabuteau, enters
and declaims the salutation addressed by Louis Gallet to the City of
Béziers. At its conclusion the tragedy begins.
This is not the place to describe or criticise at length so new an
attempt at classic restoration. The author follows the admirable fable
of antiquity with a directness and simplicity worthy of his Greek model.
The story of Dejanira and Hercules is too familiar to be repeated here.
The hero’s infidelity and the passion of a neglected woman are related
through five acts logically and forcibly, with the noble music of
Saint-Saëns as a background.
We watch the growing affection of the demi-god for the gentle Iole. We
sympathize with jealous, desperate Dejanira when in a last attempt to
gain back the love of Hercules she persuades the unsuspecting Iole to
offer him a tunic steeped in Nessus’s blood, which Dejanira has been told
by Centaur will when warmed in the sun restore the wearer to her arms.
At the opening of the fifth act we witness the nuptial fêtes. Religious
dances and processions circle around the pyre laid for a marriage
sacrifice. Dejanira, hidden in the throng, watches in an agony of hope
for the miracle to be worked.
Hercules accepts the fatal garment from the hands of his bride and calls
upon the sun-god to ignite the altars. The pyre flames, the heat warms
the clinging tunic, which wraps Hercules in its folds of torture.
Writhing in agony, he flings himself upon the burning pyramid, followed
by Dejanira, who, in despair, sees too late that she has been but a tool
in the hands of Nessus.
No feeble prose, no characters of black or white, can do justice to the
closing scenes of this performance. The roar of the chorus, the thunder
of the actors’ voices, the impression of reality left on the breathless
spectators by the open-air reality of the scene, the ardent sun, the
rustling wind, the play of light and shade across the stage, the
invocation of Hercules addressed to the real heavens, not to a painted
firmament, combined an effect that few among that vast concourse will
forget.
At the farewell banquet in the arena after the performance, Georges
Leygues, the captain of the Cadets, in answer to a speech from the
Prefect, replied: “You ask about our aims and purposes and speak in
admiration of the enthusiasm aroused by the passage of our band!
“Our aims are to vivify the traditions and language of our native land,
and the memory of a glorious ancestry, to foster the love of our little
province at the same time as patriotism for the greater country. We are
striving for a decentralization of art, for the elevation of the stage;
but above all, we preach a gospel of gayety and healthy laughter, the
science of remaining young at heart, would teach pluck and good humor in
the weary struggle of existence, characteristics that have marked our
countrymen through history! We have borrowed a motto from Lope de Vega
(that Gascon of another race), and inscribe ‘_Par la langua et par
l’èpée_’ upon our banner, that these purposes may be read by the world as
it runs.”