This is a modern-English version of My Memoirs, Vol. V, 1831 to 1832, originally written by Dumas, Alexandre.
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MY MEMOIRS
BY
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
TRANSLATED BY
E. M. WALLER
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ANDREW LANG
IN SIX VOLUMES
VOL. V
1831 TO 1832
WITH A FRONTISPIECE
NEW YORK
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1908
CONTENTS
Organisation of the Parisian Artillery—Metamorphosis of my uniform of a Mounted National Guardsman—Bastide—Godefroy Cavaignac—Guinard—Thomas—Names of the batteries and of their principal servants—I am summoned to seize the Chamber—How many of us came to the rendez-vous 1
Organization of the Parisian Artillery—Update on my uniform as a Mounted National Guardsman—Bastide—Godefroy Cavaignac—Guinard—Thomas—Names of the batteries and their key personnel—I’ve been asked to take over the Chamber—How many of us showed up for the meeting 1
Odilon Barrot, Préfet of the Seine—His soirées—His proclamation upon the subject of riots—Dupont (de l'Eure) and Louis-Philippe—Resignation of the ministry of Molé and Guizot—The affair of the forest of Breteuil—The Laffitte ministry—The prudent way in which registration was carried out 10
Odilon Barrot, Prefect of the Seine—His meetings—His comments on riots—Dupont (de l'Eure) and Louis-Philippe—Resignation of the Molé and Guizot ministries—The incident with the Breteuil forest—The Laffitte ministry—The careful approach to registration 10
Death of Benjamin Constant—Concerning his life—Funeral honours that were conferred upon him—His funeral—Law respecting national rewards—The trial of the ministers—Grouvelle and his sister—M. Mérilhou and the neophyte—Colonel Lavocat—The Court of Peers—Panic—Fieschi 38
Death of Benjamin Constant—About his life—The honors at his funeral—His burial—Laws on national awards—The trial of the ministers—Grouvelle and his sister—M. Mérilhou and the newcomer—Colonel Lavocat—The Court of Peers—Panic—Fieschi 38
The artillerymen at the Louvre—Bonapartist plot to take our cannon from us—Distribution of cartridges by Godefroy Cavaignac—The concourse of people outside the Luxembourg when the ministers were sentenced—Departure of the condemned for Vincennes—Defeat of the judges—La Fayette and the riot—Bastide and Commandant Barré on guard with Prosper Mérimée 50
The artillerymen at the Louvre—Bonapartist plot to seize our cannons—Distribution of cartridges by Godefroy Cavaignac—The crowd outside the Luxembourg when the ministers were sentenced—Departure of the condemned to Vincennes—Defeat of the judges—La Fayette and the riot—Bastide and Commandant Barré on duty with Prosper Mérimée 50
We are surrounded in the Louvre courtyard—Our ammunition taken by surprise—Proclamation of the Écoles—Letter of Louis-Philippe[Pg vi] to La Fayette—The Chamber vote of thanks to the Colleges—Protest of the École polytechnique—Discussion at the Chamber upon the General Commandership of the National Guard—Resignation of La Fayette—The king's reply—I am appointed second captain 59
We are in the Louvre courtyard—Our surprise attack is in progress—Announcement from the Écoles—Letter from Louis-Philippe[Pg vi] to La Fayette—The Chamber thanks the Colleges—Protest from the École polytechnique—Debate in the Chamber about the General Command of the National Guard—La Fayette resigns—The king's response—I’ve been appointed second captain 59
The Government member—Chodruc-Duclos—His portrait—His life at Bordeaux—His imprisonment at Vincennes—The Mayor of Orgon—Chodruc-Duclos converts himself into a Diogenes—M. Giraud-Savine—Why Nodier was growing old—Stibert—A lesson in shooting—Death of Chodruc-Duclos 68
The government member—Chodruc-Duclos—His portrait—His life in Bordeaux—His imprisonment in Vincennes—The Mayor of Orgon—Chodruc-Duclos becomes a Diogenes—M. Giraud-Savine—Why Nodier was aging—Stibert—A lesson in shooting—Death of Chodruc-Duclos 68
Alphonse Rabbe—Madame Cardinal—Rabbe and the Marseilles Academy—Les Massénaires—Rabbe in Spain—His return—The Old Dagger—The Journal Le Phocéen—Rabbe in prison—The writer of fables—Ma pipe 77
Alphonse Rabbe—Madame Cardinal—Rabbe and the Marseille Academy—Les Massénaires—Rabbe in Spain—His return—The Old Dagger—The Journal Le Phocéen—Rabbe in prison—The fables writer—Ma pipe 77
Rabbe's friends—La Sœur grise—The historical résumés—M. Brézé's advice—An imaginative man—Berruyer's style—Rabbe with his hairdresser, his concierge and confectioner—La Sœur grise stolen—Le Centaure 88
Rabbe's friends—La Sœur grise—The historical summaries—M. Brézé's advice—An imaginative man—Berruyer's style—Rabbe with his hairdresser, his concierge, and his candy maker—La Sœur grise stolen—Le Centaure 88
Adèle—Her devotion to Rabbe—Strong meat—Appel à Dieu—L'âme et la comédie humaine—La mort—Ultime lettere—Suicide—À Alphonse Rabbe, by Victor Hugo 99
Adèle—Her loyalty to Rabbe—Serious topics—Call to God—The Soul and the Human Comedy—Death—Final letters—Suicide—To Alphonse Rabbe, by Victor Hugo 99
Chéron—His last compliments to Harel—Obituary of 1830—My official visit on New Year's Day—A striking costume—Read the Moniteur—Disbanding of the Artillery of the National Guard—First representation of Napoléon Bonaparte—Delaistre—Frédérick-Lemaître 109
Chéron—His last messages to Harel—Obituary of 1830—My official visit on New Year's Day—A memorable outfit—Read the Moniteur—Disbandment of the Artillery of the National Guard—First performance of Napoléon Bonaparte—Delaistre—Frédérick-Lemaître 109
The Abbé Châtel—The programme of his church—The Curé of Lèves and M. Clausel de Montals—The Lévois embrace the religion of the primate of the Gauls—Mass in French—The Roman curé—A dead body to inter 117
The Abbé Châtel—The plan for his church—The Curé of Lèves and M. Clausel de Montals—The people of Lèves adopt the faith of the primate of the Gauls—Mass in French—The Roman curé—A deceased person to bury 117
Fine example of religious toleration—The Abbé Dallier—The Circes of Lèves—Waterloo after Leipzig—The Abbé Dallier is kept as hostage—The barricades—The stones of Chartres—The outlook—Preparations for fighting 124
Excellent example of religious tolerance—The Abbé Dallier—The Circes of Lèves—Waterloo after Leipzig—The Abbé Dallier is held as a hostage—The barricades—The stones of Chartres—The outlook—Preparations for fighting 124
Attack of the barricade—A sequel to Malplaquet—The Grenadier—The Chartrian philanthropists—Sack of the bishop's palace—A fancy dress—How order was restored—The culprits both small and great—Death of the Abbé Ledru—Scruples of conscience of the former schismatics—The Dies iræ of Kosciusko 130
Clash at the barricade—A follow-up to Malplaquet—The Grenadier—The Chartrain philanthropists—Looting of the bishop's palace—A costume party—How order was restored—The guilty parties, both minor and major—Death of Abbé Ledru—Conscience issues of the former schismatics—The Dies iræ of Kosciusko 130
The Abbé de Lamennais—His prediction of the Revolution of 1830—Enters the Church—His views on the Empire—Casimir Delavigne, Royalist—His early days—Two pieces of poetry by M. de Lamennais—His literary vocation—Essay on Indifference in Religious Matters—Reception given to this book by the Church—The academy of the château de la Chesnaie 138
The Abbé de Lamennais—His prediction of the 1830 Revolution—Joins the Church—His views on the Empire—Casimir Delavigne, a Royalist—His early life—Two poems by M. de Lamennais—His love for literature—Essay on Indifference in Religious Matters—The Church's response to this book—The academy at the château de la Chesnaie 138
The founding of l'Avenir—L'Abbé Lacordaire—M. Charles de Montalembert—His article on the sacking of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—l'Avenir and the new literature—My first interview with M. de Lamennais—Lawsuit against l'Avenir—MM. de Montalembert and Lacordaire as schoolmasters—Their trial in the Cour des pairs—The capture of Warsaw—Answer of four poets to a word spoken by a statesman 148
The founding of Avenir—Abbé Lacordaire—Mr. Charles de Montalembert—His article on the looting of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—Avenir and the new literature—My first meeting with Mr. de Lamennais—Lawsuit against Avenir—Messrs. de Montalembert and Lacordaire as teachers—Their trial in the Cour des pairs—The capture of Warsaw—Response of four poets to a comment made by a statesman 148
Suspension of l'Avenir—Its three principal editors present themselves at Rome—The Abbé de Lamennais as musician—The trouble it takes to obtain an audience of the Pope—The convent of Santo-Andrea della Valle—Interview of M. de Lamennais with Gregory XVI.—The statuette of Moses—The doctrines of l'Avenir are condemned by the Council of Cardinals—Ruin of M. de Lamennais—The Paroles d'un Croyant 160
Suspension of Avenir—Its three main editors appear in Rome—The Abbé de Lamennais as a musician—The effort to get an audience with the Pope—The convent of Santo-Andrea della Valle—M. de Lamennais's meeting with Gregory XVI.—The statuette of Moses—The doctrines of Avenir are condemned by the Council of Cardinals—The fall of M. de Lamennais—The Paroles d'un Croyant 160
Who Gannot was—Mapah—His first miracle—The wedding at Cana—Gannot, phrenologist—Where his first ideas on phrenology came from—The unknown woman—The change wrought in Gannot's life—How he becomes Mapah 167
Who Gannot was—Mapah—His first miracle—The wedding at Cana—Gannot, phrenologist—The source of his first ideas on phrenology—The unknown woman—The change that occurred in Gannot's life—How he became Mapah 167
The god and his sanctuary—He informs the Pope of his overthrow—His manifestoes—His portrait—-Doctrine of escape—Symbols of that religion—Chaudesaigues takes me to the Mapah—Iswara and Pracriti—Questions which are wanting in actuality—-War between the votaries of bidja and the followers of sakti—My last interview with the Mapah 176
The god and his sanctuary—He tells the Pope about his downfall—His manifestos—His portrait—Doctrine of escape—Symbols of that religion—Chaudesaigues takes me to the Mapah—Iswara and Pracriti—Questions that lack relevance—War between the followers of bidja and the supporters of sakti—My final meeting with the Mapah 176
Apocalypse of the being who was once called Caillaux186
Apocalypse of the person who was once known as Caillaux186
The scapegoat of power—Legitimist hopes—The expiatory mass—The Abbé Olivier—The Curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—Pachel—Where I begin to be wrong—General Jacqueminot—Pillage of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—The sham Jesuit and the Préfet of Police—The Abbé Paravey's room 203
The scapegoat of power—Legitimist hopes—The expiatory mass—The Abbé Olivier—The Curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—Pachel—Where I start to go wrong—General Jacqueminot—Pillage of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—The fake Jesuit and the Préfet of Police—The Abbé Paravey's room 203
The Préfet of Police at the Palais-Royal—The function of fire—Valérius, the truss-maker—Demolition of the archbishop's palace—The Chinese album—François Arago—The spectators of the riot—The erasure of the fleurs-de-lis—I give in my resignation a second time—MM. Chambolle and Casimir Périer 211
The Police Chief at the Palais-Royal—The role of fire—Valérius, the truss maker—Demolition of the archbishop's palace—The Chinese album—François Arago—The spectators of the riot—The removal of the fleurs-de-lis—I resign for the second time—MM. Chambolle and Casimir Périer 211
My dramatic faith wavers—Bocage and Dorval reconcile me with myself—A political trial wherein I deserved to figure—Downfall of the Laffitte Ministry—Austria and the Duc de Modena—Maréchal Maison is Ambassador at Vienna—The story of one of his dispatches—Casimir Périer Prime Minister—His reception at the Palais-Royal—They make him the amende honorable 220
My intense belief is faltering—Bocage and Dorval help me reconcile with myself—A political trial where I should have been involved—The fall of the Laffitte Ministry—Austria and the Duke of Modena—Marshal Maison is the Ambassador in Vienna—The story of one of his messages—Casimir Périer is the Prime Minister—His reception at the Palais-Royal—They give him the amende honorable 220
Trial of the artillerymen—Procureur-général Miller—Pescheux d'Herbinville—Godefroy Cavaignac—Acquittal of the accused—The ovation they received—Commissioner Gourdin—The cross of July—The red and black ribbon—Final rehearsals of Antony 229
Trial of the artillerymen—Public Prosecutor Miller—Pescheux d'Herbinville—Godefroy Cavaignac—Acquittal of the defendants—The celebration they received—Commissioner Gourdin—The cross of July—The red and black ribbon—Final rehearsals of Antony 229
The first representation of Antony—The play, the actors, the public—Antony at the Palais-Royal—Alterations of the dénoûment 238
The first performance of Antony—The play, the actors, the audience—Antony at the Palais-Royal—Changes to the dénoûment 238
The inspiration under which I composed Antony—The Preface—Wherein lies the moral of the piece—Cuckoldom, Adultery and the Civil Code—Quem nuptiæ demonstrant—Why the Critics exclaimed that my Drama was immoral—Account given by the least malevolent among them—How prejudices against bastardy are overcome 249
The inspiration behind my play Antony—The Preface—What the moral of the piece is—Cuckoldry, Adultery, and the Civil Code—Quem nuptiæ demonstrant—Why critics claimed my drama was immoral—An explanation from the least biased of them—How biases against illegitimacy are challenged 249
A word on criticism—Molière estimated by Bossuet, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau and by Bourdaloue—An anonymous libel—Critics of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries—M. François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon—Origin of the word Tartuffe—M. Taschereau and M. Étienne 256
A word on criticism—Molière evaluated by Bossuet, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and by Bourdaloue—An anonymous slander—Critics of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries—Mr. François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon—Origin of the word Tartuffe—Mr. Taschereau and Mr. Étienne 256
Thermometer of Social Crises—Interview with M. Thiers—His intentions with regard to the Théâtre-Français—Our conventions—Antony comes back to the rue de Richelieu—The Constitutionnel—Its leader against Romanticism in general, and against my drama in particular—Morality of the ancient theatre—Parallel between the Théâtre-Français and that of the Porte-Saint-Martin—First suspension of Antony 265
Thermometer of Social Crises—Interview with M. Thiers—His aims regarding the Théâtre-Français—Our agreements—Antony returns to the rue de Richelieu—The Constitutionnel—Its position against Romanticism in general and against my play in particular—Morality of the ancient theater—Comparison between the Théâtre-Français and the Porte-Saint-Martin—First suspension of Antony 265
My discussion with M. Thiers—Why he had been compelled to suspend Antony—Letter of Madame Dorval to the Constitutionnel—M. Jay crowned with roses—My lawsuit with M. Jouslin de Lasalle—There are still judges in Berlin! 278
My conversation with M. Thiers—Why he had to put Antony on hold—Letter from Madame Dorval to the Constitutionnel—M. Jay wearing a crown of roses—My legal dispute with M. Jouslin de Lasalle—There are still judges in Berlin! 278
Republican banquet at the Vendanges de Bourgogne—The toasts—To Louis-Philippe!—Gathering of those who were decorated in July—Formation of the board—Protests—Fifty yards of ribbon—A dissentient—Contradiction in the Moniteur—Trial of Évariste Gallois—His examination—His acquittal 289
Republican banquet at the Vendanges de Bourgogne—The toasts—To Louis-Philippe!—Gathering of those decorated in July—Formation of the board—Protests—Fifty yards of ribbon—A dissenting voice—Contradiction in the Moniteur—Trial of Évariste Gallois—His examination—His acquittal 289
The incompatibility of literature with riotings—La Maréchale d'Ancre—My opinion concerning that piece—Farruck le Maure—The début of Henry Monnier at the Vaudeville—I leave Paris—Rouen—Havre—I[Pg x] meditate going to explore Trouville—What is Trouville?—The consumptive English lady—Honfleur—By land or by sea 299
The disconnect between literature and riots—La Maréchale d'Ancre—My thoughts on that work—Farruck le Maure—Henry Monnier's debut at the Vaudeville—I’m leaving Paris—Rouen—Havre—I’m considering visiting Trouville—What’s Trouville?—The sickly English woman—Honfleur—By land or by sea 299
Appearance of Trouville—Mother Oseraie—How people are accommodated at Trouville when they are married—The price of painters and of the community of martyrs—Mother Oseraie's acquaintances—How she had saved the life of Huet, the landscape painter—My room and my neighbour's—A twenty-franc dinner for fifty sous—A walk by the sea-shore—Heroic resolution 308
Appearance of Trouville—Mother Oseraie—How people are accommodated at Trouville when married—The cost of painters and the community of martyrs—Mother Oseraie's acquaintances—How she saved Huet, the landscape painter—My room and my neighbor's—A twenty-franc dinner for fifty sous—A walk along the seashore—Heroic resolution 308
A reading at Nodier's—The hearers and the readers—Début—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and the Abbé Desiderio—Genealogy of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho—Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's 317
A reading at Nodier's—the audience and the readers—Debut—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and Abbé Desiderio—Origin of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho—Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I give Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar 317
Poetry is the Spirit of God—The Conservatoire and l'École of Rome—Letter of counsel to my Son—Employment of my time at Trouville—Madame de la Garenne—The Vendéan Bonnechose—M. Beudin—I am pursued by a fish—What came of it 336
Poetry is the Spirit of God—The Conservatory and the School of Rome—Letter of advice to my Son—How I spent my time in Trouville—Madame de la Garenne—The Vendéan Bonnechose—Mr. Beudin—I am chased by a fish—What happened 336
Why M. Beudin came to Trouville—How I knew him under another name—Prologue of a drama—What remained to be done—Division into three parts—I finish Charles VII.—Departing from Trouville—In what manner I learn of the first performance of Marion Delorme 345
Why M. Beudin came to Trouville—How I knew him by a different name—Prologue of a drama—What was still needed—Division into three parts—I finish Charles VII.—Leaving Trouville—How I found out about the first performance of Marion Delorme 345
The feudal edifice and the industrial—The workmen of Lyons—M. Bouvier-Dumolard—General Roguet—Discussion and signing of the tariff regulating the price of the workmanship of fabrics—The makers refuse to submit to it—Artificial prices for silk-workers—Insurrection[Pg xi] of Lyons—Eighteen millions on the civil list—Timon's calculations—An unlucky saying of M. de Montalivet 376
The feudal system and the industrial age—The workers of Lyons—M. Bouvier-Dumolard—General Roguet—Discussion and signing of the tariff that sets the price for fabric workmanship—The makers refuse to comply—Artificial prices for silk workers—Insurrection[Pg xi] in Lyons—Eighteen million on the civil list—Timon's calculations—An unfortunate remark by M. de Montalivet 376
Death of Mirabeau—The accessories of Charles VII.—A shooting party—Montereau—A temptation I cannot resist—Critical position in which my shooting companions and I find ourselves—We introduce ourselves into an empty house by breaking into it at night—Inspection of the premises—Improvised supper—As one makes one's bed, so one lies on it—I go to see the dawn rise—Fowl and duck shooting—Preparations for breakfast—Mother Galop 388
Death of Mirabeau—The supporters of Charles VII.—A hunting trip—Montereau—An irresistible temptation—The tricky situation my shooting buddies and I were in—We break into an empty house at night—Exploring the place—Makeshift dinner—You get what you give—I go to watch the sunrise—Shooting birds—Getting ready for breakfast—Mother Galop 388
Who Mother Galop was—Why M. Dupont-Delporte was absent— How I quarrelled with Viardot—Rabelais's quarter of an hour—Providence No. I—The punishment of Tantalus—A waiter who had not read Socrates—Providence No. 2—A breakfast for four—Return to Paris 397
Who Mother Galop was—Why M. Dupont-Delporte wasn’t there—How I got into a fight with Viardot—Rabelais's moment—Providence No. I—The punishment of Tantalus—A waiter who hadn’t read Socrates—Providence No. 2—A breakfast for four—Back to Paris 397
Le Masque de fer—Georges' suppers—The garden of the Luxembourg by moonlight—M. Scribe and the Clerc de la Basoche—M. d'Épagny and Le Clerc et le Théologien—Classical performances at the Théâtre-Français—Les Guelfes, by M. Arnault—Parenthesis—Dedicatory epistle to the prompter 406
The Iron Mask—Georges' dinners—The Luxembourg garden by moonlight—Mr. Scribe and the Clerk of the Basoche—Mr. d'Épagny and The Clerk and the Theologian—Classic performances at the Théâtre-Français—The Guelphs, by Mr. Arnault—Parenthesis—Dedicatory letter to the prompter 406
M. Arnault's Pertinax—Pizarre, by M. Fulchiron—M. Fulchiron as a politician—M. Fulchiron as magic poet—A word about M. Viennet—My opposite neighbour at the performance of Pertinax—Splendid failure of the play—Quarrel with my vis-à-vis—The newspapers take it up—My reply in the Journal de Paris—Advice of M. Pillet 419
M. Arnault's Pertinax—Pizarre, by M. Fulchiron—M. Fulchiron as a politician—M. Fulchiron as a magical poet—A note about M. Viennet—My neighbor at the performance of Pertinax—A grand failure of the play—Dispute with my vis-à-vis—The newspapers cover it—My response in the Journal de Paris—Advice from M. Pillet 419
Chateaubriand ceases to be a peer of France—He leaves the country—Béranger's song thereupon—Chateaubriand as versifier—First night of Charles VII.—Delafosse's vizor—Yaqoub and Frédérick-Lemaître—La Reine d'Espagne—M. Henri de Latouche—His works, talent and character—Interlude of La Reine d'Espagne—Preface of the play—Reports of the pit collected by the author 432
Chateaubriand ceases to be a peer of France—He leaves the country—Béranger's song follows—Chateaubriand as a poet—First night of Charles VII.—Delafosse's visor—Yaqoub and Frédérick-Lemaître—La Reine d'Espagne—M. Henri de Latouche—His works, talent, and character—Interlude of La Reine d'Espagne—Preface of the play—Audience reviews collected by the author 432
First performance of Robert le Diable—Véron, manager of the Opéra—His opinion concerning Meyerbeer's music—My opinion concerning Véron's intellect—My relations with him—His articles and Memoirs—Rossini's judgment of Robert le Diable—Nourrit, the preacher—Meyerbeer—First performance of the Fuite de Law, by M. Mennechet—First performance of Richard Darlington—Frédérick—Lemaître—Delafosse—Mademoiselle Noblet 446
First performance of Robert le Diable—Véron, manager of the Opéra—His opinion on Meyerbeer's music—My thoughts on Véron's intellect—My relationship with him—His articles and Memoirs—Rossini's views on Robert le Diable—Nourrit, the preacher—Meyerbeer—First performance of Fuite de Law, by M. Mennechet—First performance of Richard Darlington—Frédérick—Lemaître—Delafosse—Mademoiselle Noblet 446
Collaboration—A whim of Bocage—Anicet Bourgeois—Teresa—Drama at the Opéra-Comique—Laferrière and the eruption of Vesuvius—Mélingue—Fancy-dress ball at the Tuileries—The place de Grève and the barrière Saint-Jacques—The death penalty 491
Collaboration—A whim of Bocage—Anicet Bourgeois—Teresa—Drama at the Opéra-Comique—Laferrière and the eruption of Vesuvius—Mélingue—Fancy ball at the Tuileries—The place de Grève and the barrière Saint-Jacques—The death penalty 491
The peregrinations of Casimir Delavigne—Jeanne Vaubernier—Rougemont—His translation of Cambronne's mot—First representation of Teresa—Long and short pieces—Cordelier Delanoue and his Mathieu Luc—Closing of the Taitbout Hall and arrest of the leaders of the Saint-Simonian cult 500
The travels of Casimir Delavigne—Jeanne Vaubernier—Rougemont—His translation of Cambronne's word—First performance of Teresa—Short and long works—Cordelier Delanoue and his Mathieu Luc—Closure of the Taitbout Hall and the arrest of the leaders of the Saint-Simonian movement 500
THE MEMOIRS OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
Organisation of the Parisian Artillery—Metamorphosis of my uniform of a Mounted National Guardsman—Bastide—Godefroy Cavaignac—Guinard—Thomas—Names of the batteries and of their principal servants—I am summoned to seize the Chamber—How many of us came to the rendez-vous
Organization of the Paris Artillery—Change of my uniform as a Mounted National Guardsman—Bastide—Godefroy Cavaignac—Guinard—Thomas—Names of the batteries and their main personnel—I’m appointed to manage the Chamber—How many of us attended the meeting
I am obliged to retrace my steps, as the putting out to nurse of Antony at the Porte-Sainte-Martin has carried me further than I intended.
I have to go back, as sending Antony to the Porte-Sainte-Martin has taken me further than I planned.
Bixio had given me a definite answer with regard to my joining the artillery, and I was incorporated in the fourth battery under Captain Olivier.
Bixio had given me a clear answer about joining the artillery, and I was assigned to the fourth battery under Captain Olivier.
Just a word or two upon the constitution of this artillery.
Just a few words about the makeup of this artillery.
The order creating the Garde Nationale provided for a legion of artillery comprised of four batteries.
The order establishing the Garde Nationale included a legion of artillery made up of four batteries.
General La Fayette appointed Joubert provisional colonel of the legion, which consisted of four batteries. It was the same Joubert at whose house, in the Passage Dauphine, a quantity of powder had been distributed and many bullets cast in the July Days. La Fayette had also appointed four captains to enlist men. When the men were enlisted, these captains were replaced by picked officers.
General La Fayette appointed Joubert as provisional colonel of the legion, which had four batteries. This was the same Joubert whose house in the Passage Dauphine had seen a large amount of powder distributed and many bullets cast during the July Days. La Fayette also designated four captains to recruit soldiers. Once the soldiers were enlisted, these captains were replaced by selected officers.
Arnoux was appointed head captain of the first battery. I have already mentioned that the Duc d'Orléans was entered in this battery. Guinard was appointed first captain, and Godefroy Cavaignac second captain, of the second battery. Bastide was appointed senior captain, and Thomas junior captain, of the third battery. Finally, Olivier was first captain, and Saint-Évre second captain, of the fourth battery.
Arnoux was named head captain of the first battery. I've already mentioned that the Duc d'Orléans was part of this battery. Guinard was named first captain, and Godefroy Cavaignac second captain, of the second battery. Bastide was named senior captain, and Thomas junior captain, of the third battery. Finally, Olivier was first captain, and Saint-Évre second captain, of the fourth battery.
The first and second battery formed a squadron; the third and fourth a second squadron.
The first and second batteries made up one squadron; the third and fourth formed a second squadron.
The first squadron was commanded by Thierry, who has since become a municipal councillor, and is now Medical Superintendent of Prisons, I believe. The second squadron was commanded by a man named Barré, whom I lost sight of after 1830, and I have forgotten what has become of him. Finally, the whole were commanded by Comte Pernetti, whom the king had appointed our colonel.
The first squadron was led by Thierry, who has since become a city council member and is now the Medical Superintendent of Prisons, as far as I know. The second squadron was led by a guy named Barré, whom I lost track of after 1830, and I can't remember what happened to him. Lastly, the entire force was commanded by Comte Pernetti, who was appointed our colonel by the king.
I had, therefore, reached the crown of my wishes: I was an artilleryman!
I had, therefore, reached the peak of my dreams: I was an artilleryman!
There only remained for me to exchange my uniform as a mounted national guardsman for an artillery uniform, and to make myself known to my commanding officers. My exchange of uniform was not a long job. My jacket and trousers were of the same style and colour as those of the artillery, so I only had to have a stripe of red cloth sewed on the trousers instead of the silver one; then, to exchange my epaulettes and my silver cross-belt at a military outfitter's for epaulettes and a red woollen foraging rope. The same with regard to my schako, where the silver braid and aigrette of cock's feathers had to be replaced by woollen braiding and a horse-hair busby. We did not need to trouble ourselves about carbines, for the Government lent us these; "lent them" is the exact truth, for twice they took them away from us! I lighted upon a very honest military outfitter, who gave me woollen braid, kept all my silver trimmings, and only asked me for twenty francs in return; though, it is true, I paid for my sword separately. The day after I had received my complete costume, at eight o'clock in the morning, I made my appearance[Pg 3] at the Louvre to take my part in the manœuvres. We had there twenty-four pieces of eight, and twenty thousand rounds for firing.
I just needed to swap my national guardsman uniform for an artillery one and introduce myself to my commanding officers. Changing my uniform didn’t take long. My jacket and pants were the same style and color as the artillery ones, so I just had to sew a red cloth stripe onto the pants instead of the silver one; then I exchanged my epaulettes and silver cross-belt at a military outfitter for epaulettes and a red wool foraging rope. The same went for my shako, where the silver braid and cock's feather aigrette had to be replaced with wool braiding and a horse-hair busby. We didn’t have to worry about carbines since the government lent us those; “lent” is the right word because they took them back from us twice! I found a very honest military outfitter who gave me the wool braiding, kept all my silver trimmings, and only charged me twenty francs; though, I did pay separately for my sword. The day after I got my complete uniform, at eight in the morning, I showed up[Pg 3] at the Louvre to participate in the maneuvers. We had twenty-four cannons and twenty thousand rounds ready to fire.
The Governor of the Louvre was named Carrel, but he had nothing in common with Armand Carrel, and I do not think he was any relation to him.
The Governor of the Louvre was named Carrel, but he had nothing in common with Armand Carrel, and I don't think he was related to him.
The artillery was generally Republican in tone; the second and third battery, in particular, affected these views. The first and fourth were more reactionary; there would be quite fifty men among them who, in the moment of danger, would unite with the others.
The artillery mostly had a Republican vibe; the second and third batteries, in particular, were aligned with these views. The first and fourth were more conservative; there would be around fifty men among them who, in a moment of danger, would team up with the others.
As my opinions coincided with those of Bastide, Guinard, Cavaignac and Thomas, it is with them that I shall principally deal; as for Captains Arnoux and Olivier, I knew them but little then and have never had occasion to see them again. May I, therefore, be allowed to say a few words of these men, whose names, since 1830, are to be found in every conspiracy that arose? Their names have become historic; it is, therefore, fitting that the men who bore them, or who, perhaps, bear them still, should be made known in their true light.
As my views matched those of Bastide, Guinard, Cavaignac, and Thomas, I will focus mainly on them. As for Captains Arnoux and Olivier, I didn't know them well back then and haven't had the chance to see them again. So, let me say a few words about these men, whose names have been associated with every conspiracy since 1830. Their names have become historic, so it’s important that we understand the true nature of the men behind them, or who may still carry them today.
Let us begin with Bastide, as he played the most considerable part, having been Minister of Foreign Affairs in 1848. Bastide was already at this time a man of thirty, with an expression of countenance that was both gentle and yet firm; his face was long and pale, and his black hair was close cut; he had a thick black moustache, and blue eyes, with an expression of deep and habitual melancholy. He was tall and thin, extremely deft-handed, although he looked rather awkward on account of the unusual length of his neck; in conclusion, he was an adept in the use of sword and pistol, especially the latter, and in what is called in duelling terms, la main malheureuse.[1]
Let’s start with Bastide, as he played the biggest role, having been the Minister of Foreign Affairs in 1848. At this time, Bastide was already thirty years old, with a face that was both gentle and firm; his face was long and pale, and his black hair was cropped short. He had a thick black mustache and blue eyes that conveyed a deep, constant sadness. He was tall and thin, very skilled with his hands, although he appeared somewhat awkward due to his unusually long neck; overall, he was proficient with both sword and pistol, particularly the latter, and in what is known in dueling as la main malheureuse.[1]
So much for his physical characteristics. Morally, Bastide was a thorough Parisian, a thorough native of the rue Montmartre, wedded to his gutter, and, like Madame de Staël, he[Pg 4] preferred it to the lake of Geneva; unable to do without Paris no matter how dirty it was, physically, morally, or politically; preferring imprisonment in Paris to exile in the most beautiful country in the universe. He had been exiled for several years, and spent two or three years in London. I have heard him say since, that, rather than return there even for two or three months, he would let himself get shot. He has a delightful country house in the neighbourhood of Paris, to which he never goes. Beneath an extremely unsophisticated manner, Bastide concealed real knowledge; but you had to discover it for yourself; and, when he took the trouble to be amusing, his conversation was full of witty sallies but, as he always spoke very low, only his near neighbour benefited by it. It must be admitted that this quite satisfied him, for I never saw a less ambitious man than he in this respect. He was a bundle of contradictions: he seemed to be nearly always idle, but was, in reality, nearly always busy, often over trifles, as Horace in the Roman forum, and, like Horace, he was completely absorbed in his trifling for the time being; more often still he was occupied over difficult and serious problems in mathematics or mechanics. He was brave without being conscious of the fact, so simple and natural a quality did bravery seem to his temperament and character. I shall have occasion later to record the miraculous feats of courage he performed, and the deliciously cool sayings he uttered while actually under fire, between the years 1830 to 1852. During deliberations Bastide usually kept silent; if his opinion were asked and he gave it, it was always to advise that the question in hand be put into execution as promptly and as openly, and even as brutally, as possible. For example, let us refer to the interview between the Republicans and the king on 30 July 1830; Bastide was among them, awaiting the arrival of the king, just as were the rest. This interval of waiting was put to good use by the representatives of Republican opinion. Little accustomed to the presence of crowned heads or of those on the eve of coronation, they discussed among themselves as to what they ought to do when the lieutenant-general should appear.[Pg 5] Each person gave his opinion, and Bastide was asked for his. "What must we do?" he said. "Why, open the window and chuck him into the street."
So much for his physical traits. Morally, Bastide was a true Parisian, completely at home on rue Montmartre, attached to his gritty surroundings, and like Madame de Staël, he preferred it to the lake of Geneva; he couldn’t imagine living without Paris, no matter how dirty it was in every sense—physically, morally, or politically; he’d rather be trapped in Paris than exiled in the most beautiful part of the world. He had been exiled for several years and spent two or three years in London. I've heard him say that rather than go back there even for a couple of months, he’d rather get shot. He has a lovely country house near Paris, but he never visits it. Beneath his very unpretentious demeanor, Bastide held genuine knowledge; you had to find it out for yourself; and when he bothered to be entertaining, his conversation sparkled with witty remarks, but since he always spoke very softly, only the person next to him caught it. It has to be said that this suited him just fine; I never saw a man less concerned with ambition in that way. He was a walking contradiction: he seemed almost always idle, yet he was nearly always busy, often with trivial matters, like Horace in the Roman forum, and just like Horace, he was completely engrossed in his little tasks at the moment; more often, he was deep in complex and serious math or mechanics problems. He was brave without even realizing it, as bravery seemed like such a natural part of his character and temperament. I’ll have the chance later to share some of his miraculous acts of courage and some cool quips he made while under fire between the years 1830 and 1852. During discussions, Bastide usually stayed quiet; if someone asked for his opinion and he offered it, it was always to suggest that whatever was being discussed should be carried out as quickly, openly, and even as harshly as possible. For example, let’s look at the meeting between the Republicans and the king on July 30, 1830; Bastide was among them, waiting for the king to arrive, just like the others. They made good use of the waiting time, as the Republican representatives were not used to being in the presence of royalty or those about to be crowned, and they debated among themselves about what to do when the lieutenant-general showed up.[Pg 5] Each person shared their thoughts, and Bastide was asked for his. "What should we do?" he said. "Well, open the window and throw him into the street."
If this advice had been as honestly that of the others as it was his own, he would have put it into execution. He had a facile, and even a graceful, pen. In the National it was he who had to write impossible articles; he succeeded, as Méry did, in the matter of bouts-rimés with an almost miraculous cleverness. When Minister of Foreign Affairs, he took upon himself the business of everybody else, and he a minister, not only did his own work, but that, also, of his secretaries. We must look to diplomatic Europe to pronounce upon the value of his work.
If this advice had been as genuinely that of the others as it was his own, he would have acted on it. He had a smooth, even stylish way of writing. In the National, he was the one writing the impossible articles; he managed, like Méry, to tackle bouts-rimés with almost miraculous skill. When he was Minister of Foreign Affairs, he took on everyone else's responsibilities; as a minister, he not only did his own work but also that of his secretaries. We need to look to diplomatic Europe to assess the value of his work.
Godefroy Cavaignac, as he had recalled to the memory of the Duc d'Orléans, was the son of the member of the convention, Jean Baptiste Cavaignac; and, we will add, brother to Eugène Cavaignac, then an officer in the Engineers at Metz, and, later, a general in Algeria, finally dictator in France from June to December 1848; a noble and disinterested character, who will remain in history as a glittering contrast to those that were to succeed him. Godefroy Cavaignac was then a man of thirty-five, with fair hair, and a long red moustache; although his bearing was military, he stooped somewhat; smoked unceasingly, flinging out sarcastic clever sayings between the clouds of smoke; was very clear in discussion, always saying what he thought, and expressing himself in the best words; he seemed to be better educated than Bastide, although, in reality, he was less so; he took to writing from fancy, and then wrote a species of short poems, or novelettes, or slight dramas (I do not know what to call them) of great originality, and very uncommon strength. I will mention two of these opuscules: one that is known to everybody—Une Guerre de Cosaques, and another, which everybody overlooks, which I read once, and could never come across again: it was called Est-ce vous! One of his chansons was sung everywhere in 1832, entitled À la chie-en-lit! which was the funniest thing in the world. Like Bastide he was extremely brave, but[Pg 6] perhaps less determined; there always seemed to me to be great depths of indifference and of Epicurean philosophy in his character. After being very intimate, we were ten years without seeing one another; then, suddenly, one day, without knowing it, we found ourselves seated side by side at the same table, and the whole dinner-time was spent in one long happy gossip over mutual recollections. We separated with hearty handshakes and promises not to let it be such a long time before seeing one another again. A month or two after, when I was talking of him, some one said, "But Godefroy Cavaignac is dead!" I knew nothing of his illness, death or burial.
Godefroy Cavaignac, as he had reminded the Duc d'Orléans, was the son of Jean Baptiste Cavaignac, a member of the convention. He was also the brother of Eugène Cavaignac, who was then an officer in the Engineers at Metz and later became a general in Algeria, serving as dictator in France from June to December 1848. Eugène was a noble and selfless figure who will be remembered in history as a stark contrast to those who followed him. At the time, Godefroy Cavaignac was thirty-five, with light hair and a long red mustache; despite his military demeanor, he had a slight stoop. He smoked constantly, tossing out sarcastic clever remarks amidst clouds of smoke. He was clear in discussions, always honest about his views and articulate in his expression. He appeared to be better educated than Bastide, although he was actually less so. He wrote for pleasure, producing a kind of short poems, novelettes, or light dramas (I’m not sure what to call them) that were highly original and quite powerful. I’ll mention two of his works: one well-known—*Une Guerre de Cosaques*—and another that everyone overlooks, which I read once and could never find again: it was called *Est-ce vous!* One of his songs was famous everywhere in 1832, titled *À la chie-en-lit!* which was the funniest thing imaginable. Like Bastide, he was very brave, but perhaps a bit less resolute; there always seemed to be deep layers of indifference and Epicurean philosophy in his character. After being very close, we didn’t see each other for ten years; then, one day, without realizing it, we ended up sitting next to each other at the same table, and we spent the whole dinner chatting happily about old memories. We parted with warm handshakes and promises not to wait so long to meet again. A month or two later, when I mentioned him, someone said, "But Godefroy Cavaignac is dead!" I had no idea about his illness, death, or burial.
Our passage through this world is, indeed, a strange matter, if it be not merely a preliminary to another life!
Our journey through this world is really strange, especially if it's just a step to another life!
Guinard was notable for his warm-hearted, loyal characteristics; he would weep like a child when he heard of a fine deed or great misery. A man of marvellous despatch, you could have said of him, as Kléber did of Scheswardin. "Go there and get killed and so save the army!" I am not even sure he would have considered it necessary to answer: "Yes, general"; he would have said nothing, but he would have gone and got killed. His life, moreover, was one long sacrifice to his convictions; he gave up to them all he held most dear—liberty, his fortune and health.
Guinard was known for his warm-hearted and loyal nature; he would cry like a child when he heard of a good deed or terrible suffering. A man of remarkable speed, you could say of him, as Kléber did of Scheswardin, "Go there and get killed to save the army!" I’m not even sure he would have thought it necessary to respond with "Yes, general"; he would have said nothing, but he would have gone and gotten himself killed. His life, in fact, was one long sacrifice to his beliefs; he gave up everything he valued most—freedom, his wealth, and his health.
From the single sentence we have quoted of Thomas, when he was accosted by M. Thiers on 30 July, my readers can judge of his mind and character. Bastide and he were in partnership, and possessed a woodyard. He was stout-hearted and upright, and had a clever head for business. Unaided, alone, and simply by his wonderful and honest industry, he kept the National afloat when it was on the verge of shipwreck after the death of Carrel, from the year 1836 until 1848, when the long struggle bore successful fruit for everybody except himself.
From the single sentence we quoted from Thomas, when he was approached by M. Thiers on July 30, my readers can get a sense of his mindset and character. He was in a partnership with Bastide, and they owned a lumber yard. He was brave and principled, and he had a sharp mind for business. On his own, through his remarkable and honest hard work, he kept the National going when it was on the brink of collapse after Carrel's death, from 1836 until 1848, when the long struggle finally paid off for everyone except him.
But now let us pass on from the artillerymen to the composition of their batteries.
But now let’s move on from the artillerymen to the makeup of their batteries.
Each battery was dubbed by a name derived from a special characteristic.
Each battery was given a name based on a unique characteristic.
Thus the first was called The Aristocrat. Its ranks contained, as we already know, M. le Duc d'Orléans, then MM. de Tracy, Jal, Paravey (who was afterwards a councillor of state), Étienne Arago, Schoelcher, Loëve-Weymars, Alexandre Basset and Duvert.
Thus the first was called The Aristocrat. Its ranks included, as we already know, M. le Duc d'Orléans, then MM. de Tracy, Jal, Paravey (who later became a councillor of state), Étienne Arago, Schoelcher, Loëve-Weymars, Alexandre Basset, and Duvert.
The second was called The Republican. We are acquainted with its two captains, Guinard and Cavaignac; the principal artillerymen were—Guiaud, Gervais, Blaize, Darcet fils and Ferdinand Flocon.
The second was called The Republican. We know its two captains, Guinard and Cavaignac; the main artillerymen were—Guiaud, Gervais, Blaize, Darcet fils and Ferdinand Flocon.
The third was called La Puritaine, and it was thus named after its captain, Bastide. Bastide, who was on the staff of the National, was the champion of the religious questions, which this newspaper had a tendency to attack after the manner of the Constitutionnel. Thence originated the report of his absolute submission to the practices of religion. The Puritaine counted amongst its gunners—Carral, Barthélemy-Saint-Hilaire, Grégoire, Séchan.
The third was called La Puritaine, named after its captain, Bastide. Bastide, who worked for the National, was a strong advocate for religious issues, which this newspaper often criticized in a way similar to the Constitutionnel. This led to the perception of his complete commitment to religious practices. The Puritaine had among its gunners—Carral, Barthélemy-Saint-Hilaire, Grégoire, Séchan.
The fourth was called La Meurtrière, on account of the large number of doctors it contained. We have mentioned its captains; these are the names of the chief "murderers"—Bixio, medical student; Doctors Trélat, Laussedat, Jules Guyot, Montègre, Jourdan, Houet and Raspail, who was half a doctor. The others were Prosper Mérimée, Lacave-Laplagne, who has since become Minister of Finance; Ravoisié, Baltard, the architect; Desvaux, student, afterwards a lieutenant in the July revolution, and, later still, one of the bravest and most brilliant officers in the whole army; lastly, Bocage and myself. Of course, there were many others in these batteries, for the artillery, I believe, numbered eight hundred men, but we are here only mentioning those whose names survived.
The fourth was called La Meurtrière, because of the large number of doctors it had. We’ve mentioned its captains; here are the names of the main "murderers"—Bixio, a medical student; Doctors Trélat, Laussedat, Jules Guyot, Montègre, Jourdan, Houet, and Raspail, who was kind of a doctor. The others were Prosper Mérimée, Lacave-Laplagne, who later became Minister of Finance; Ravoisié, Baltard, the architect; Desvaux, a student, who became a lieutenant in the July revolution, and later one of the bravest and most accomplished officers in the whole army; finally, Bocage and I. Of course, there were many others in these batteries, since the artillery had about eight hundred men, but we’re just mentioning those whose names have stuck.
The discipline was very strict: three times a week there was drill from six to ten in the morning, in the quadrangle of the Louvre, and twice a month shooting practice at Vincennes.
The discipline was really strict: three times a week, there were drills from six to ten in the morning in the courtyard of the Louvre, and twice a month, there was shooting practice at Vincennes.
I had given a specimen of my strength in lifting—with either five, three, or one other, when the other servants were supposed to be either killed, or hors de combat,-—pieces of eight weighing from three to four hundred kilogrammes, when, one[Pg 8] day, I received an invitation to be at the Palais-Bourbon at four o'clock in the afternoon, fully armed. The business in hand was the taking of the Chamber. We had taken a sort of oath, after the manner of Freemasons and Carbonari, by which we had engaged to obey the commands of our chiefs without questioning. This one appeared rather high-handed, I must admit; but my oath was taken! So, at half-past three, I put on my artillery dress, placed six cartridges in my pouch and one in my carbine, and made my way towards the pont de la Concorde. I noticed with as much surprise as pride, that I was the first arrival. I only strutted about the more proudly, searching along the quays and bridges and streets for the arrival of my seven hundred and ninety-nine comrades who, four o'clock having struck, seemed to me to be late in coming, when I saw a blue and red uniform coming towards me. It was worn by Bixio. Two of us then here alone to capture four hundred and forty-nine deputies! It was hardly enough; but patriotism attempts ambitious things!
I had shown off my strength by lifting—with either five, three, or one other person—when the other workers were either out of commission or incapacitated—pieces of eight weighing between three and four hundred kilograms. One day, I got an invite to be at the Palais-Bourbon at four o'clock in the afternoon, fully geared up. The task was to take the Chamber. We had taken an oath, like the Freemasons and Carbonari, vowing to follow our leaders' orders without question. I must say, this one seemed a bit over the top; but my oath was binding! So, at half-past three, I donned my artillery uniform, packed six cartridges in my pouch, loaded one into my carbine, and headed towards the Pont de la Concorde. I noticed, with a mix of surprise and pride, that I was the first to arrive. I walked around more confidently, searching the quays, bridges, and streets for the arrival of my seven hundred and ninety-nine comrades who, once four o'clock struck, seemed to be late. Then I spotted a blue and red uniform coming my way. It was Bixio. Just the two of us here to take on four hundred and forty-nine deputies! It was hardly enough; but patriotism aims for ambitious goals!
Half-past four, five, half-past five and six o'clock struck.
Half past four, five, half past five, and six o'clock chimed.
The deputies came out and filed past us, little suspecting that these two fierce-eyed artillerymen who watched them pass, as they leant against the parapet of the bridge, had come to capture them. Behind the deputies appeared Cavaignac in civilian dress. We went up to him.
The deputies walked out and filed past us, completely unaware that the two fierce-looking artillerymen watching them from the bridge's parapet were there to capture them. Behind the deputies, Cavaignac appeared in civilian clothes. We approached him.
"It will not take place to-day," he said to us; "it is put off until next week."
"It won't happen today," he told us; "it's postponed until next week."
"Good!" I replied; "next week, then!"
"Great!" I said; "next week, then!"
He shook hands and disappeared. I turned to Bixio.
He shook hands and then left. I turned to Bixio.
"I hope this postponement till next week will not prevent us from dining as usual?" I said.
"I hope this delay until next week won't stop us from having dinner like we usually do?" I said.
"Quite the reverse. I am as hungry as a wolf! Nothing makes one so empty as conspiring."
"Actually, it's the opposite. I'm starving! Nothing makes you feel emptier than plotting."
So we went off and dined with that careless appetite which is the prerogative of conspirators of twenty-eight years of age.
So we went off and had dinner with that carefree appetite that comes with being a twenty-eight-year-old conspirator.
I have always suspected my new chiefs of wishing to, what[Pg 9] they call in regimental parlance, test me; in which case Cavaignac can only have come just to make sure of my faithfulness in answering to his summons.
I’ve always thought my new bosses wanted to, what[Pg 9] they call in military terms, test me; in which case Cavaignac must have come just to confirm my loyalty in responding to his call.
Was or was not Bixio in his confidence? I never could make out.
Was Bixio confident or not? I could never figure it out.
[1] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—Applied to a duellist who always kills or wounds his opponent.
[1] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—Refers to a duelist who consistently kills or injures their opponent.
CHAPTER II
Odilon Barrot, Préfet of the Seine—His soirées—His proclamation upon the subject of riots—Dupont (de l'Eure) and Louis-Philippe—Resignation of the ministry of Molé and Guizot—The affair of the forest of Breteuil—The Laffitte ministry—The prudent way in which registration was carried out
Odilon Barrot, Prefect of the Seine—His meetings—His comments on riots—Dupont (de l'Eure) and Louis-Philippe—The resignation of the Molé and Guizot ministry—The Breteuil forest incident—The Laffitte ministry—The careful way registration was managed.
Now, the session of the Chamber had been an animated one that day, and if we had burst into the parliament hall we should have found the deputies in heated discussion over a proclamation issued by Odilon Barrot.
Now, the session of the Chamber had been energetic that day, and if we had burst into the parliament hall, we would have found the deputies in a heated debate over a proclamation issued by Odilon Barrot.
It was a singular position for a man, outwardly so upright and unbending as was Odilon Barrot, which was created by, on the one hand, his duties as Préfet of the Seine about the person of the king and, on the other, the good terms of friendship existing between him and most of us. He held soirées at his house, to which we flocked in large numbers; at which his wife, then still quite young, who seemed a more ardent Republican than her husband, did the honours with the correctness of a Cornelia that was not without a charm of its own. We of course discussed nothing but politics at these gatherings; and especially did we urge Odilon Barrot, in his official capacity as Préfet of the Seine, to hunt for the famous programme of the Hôtel de Ville, which had disappeared on 2 August, and had become more invisible even than the famous provisional government which was represented by a round table, empty bottles and a clerk who never stopped writing except when the pen was snatched out of his hands. That programme had never been discovered from that day to this! Our suggestion worried him much, for our insistence placed him in the following dilemma:—
It was a unique situation for a man like Odilon Barrot, who appeared so upright and inflexible. This was due to his role as Préfet of the Seine, closely tied to the king, and the friendly relationships he maintained with most of us. He hosted soirées at his home, where we gathered in large numbers. His wife, still quite young at the time and seemingly a more passionate Republican than her husband, graciously served as the perfect hostess with a charm reminiscent of Cornelia. Naturally, our conversations revolved entirely around politics; we particularly pressed Odilon Barrot, in his role as Préfet of the Seine, to search for the elusive programme of the Hôtel de Ville, which had vanished on August 2nd, becoming even more elusive than the famous provisional government symbolized by a round table, empty bottles, and a clerk who only paused his writing when his pen was forcefully taken from him. That programme has never been found to this day! Our suggestion troubled him greatly, as our persistence put him in a difficult position:—
"My dear Odilon" (we would say), "all the strength of the Government is vested in La Fayette and Dupont (de l'Eure) and yourself; if you, for instance, were to withdraw, we are persuaded that La Fayette and Dupont, the two blind men whom you, good dog, lead by the string, will also retire.... So we are going to compel you to retire."
"My dear Odilon," we would say, "all the power of the Government is in La Fayette, Dupont (de l'Eure), and you. If you were to step back, we're convinced that La Fayette and Dupont, the two blind men you, good dog, are guiding, would also step back... So we’re going to make you leave."
"But how?"
"But how?"
"Oh, it is simple enough! We are going to raise a disturbance to carry off the king from the Palais-Royal.... Either you fire upon us, in which case you make yourself unpopular; or you abstain from firing on us, in which case we carry off the king, take him to Ham and proclaim the Republic."
"Oh, it’s pretty straightforward! We’re going to create a distraction to take the king from the Palais-Royal.... Either you shoot at us, which will make you unpopular; or you don’t shoot at us, in which case we take the king, bring him to Ham, and declare the Republic."
Odilon was well aware that this dilemma was only a joke; but he also knew that there was a feverish spirit in us which any unlooked for spark might kindle into a blaze and lead to the maddest enterprises being attempted.
Odilon knew this dilemma was just a joke, but he also realized that there was a restless energy in us that any unexpected spark could ignite into a full-blown fire and push us toward the craziest adventures.
One day we drove him into a corner, and he promised that, on the first opportunity, he would make his views known both to the court and to us. This opportunity was the procession which, as I have mentioned, marched through Paris, and proceeded to the Palais-Royal, and to the château de Vincennes, shouting, "Death to the ministers!" It will be recollected that the king and Odilon Barrot had appeared upon the terrace, and that the men who led the procession had thereupon shouted, "Vive Odilon Barrot!" forgetting to shout "Vive le roi!" Whereat Louis-Philippe, as we know, had replied: "These are the sons of the men whom, in 1792, I heard shouting: 'Vive Pétion!'"
One day we cornered him, and he promised that at the first chance, he would share his thoughts with both the court and us. That chance came during the procession that, as I mentioned, marched through Paris and headed to the Palais-Royal and the château de Vincennes, chanting, "Death to the ministers!" It's important to note that the king and Odilon Barrot appeared on the terrace, and the leaders of the procession then shouted, "Vive Odilon Barrot!" forgetting to say "Vive le roi!" To which Louis-Philippe replied, "These are the sons of the men who, in 1792, I heard shouting: 'Vive Pétion!'"
The allusion had annoyed Odilon Barrot considerably, and he decided to issue a proclamation of his own. He promised to give us this explicit proclamation.
The reference had really annoyed Odilon Barrot, so he decided to release a statement of his own. He promised to provide us with this clear proclamation.
It is a mania with every man who wants to be looked upon as a statesman to produce a proclamation, in fact he does not consider himself entitled to the name of statesman until he has. His proclamation is issued and received by the people, who read it and see in it the sanction of some power or other, which they either obey or disobey according to their individual[Pg 12] views of politics. Unfortunately, this proclamation, upon which Odilon was counting greatly, demonstrated the fact that the Préfet of the Seine took a middle course, which offended at the same time both the Court party and the Republicans. We will reproduce it here in its entirety. Be it understood that our readers are free to read only the sentences in italics, or to pass it over altogether unread—
It’s a common obsession for any guy who wants to be seen as a statesman to put out a proclamation. In fact, he doesn’t feel worthy of being called a statesman until he does. His proclamation is published and received by the public, who read it and perceive it as the endorsement of some authority, which they either follow or ignore based on their personal[Pg 12] political beliefs. Unfortunately, this proclamation, which Odilon was counting on, showed that the Préfet of the Seine took a neutral stance, angering both the Court party and the Republicans at the same time. We will present it here in full. Readers can choose to read only the sentences in italics or skip it entirely—
"Citizens, your magistrates are deeply distressed at the disorders which have recently been disturbing the public peace, at a time when commerce and industry, which are in much need of protection, are beginning to rise above a long crisis of depression.
"Citizens, your leaders are very concerned about the disruptions that have recently been affecting public order, especially now that commerce and industry, which truly need protection, are beginning to recover from a long period of economic downturn."
"It is not vengeance that this people of Paris, who are the bravest and most generous in the world, are demanding, but justice! Justice, in fact, is a right, a necessity, to strong men; vengeance is but the delight of the weak and cowardly. The proposition of the Chamber is an INOPPORTUNE STEP calculated to make the people imagine that there is a concerted design to interfere with the ordinary course of justice with respect to the ex-ministers. Delays have arisen, which are merely the carrying out of those forms which surround justice with greater solemnity of character; and these delays but sanction and strengthen the opinion of which our ungovernable enemies, ever lying in wait to disunite us, persistently take advantage. Hence has arisen that popular agitation, which men of rectitude and good citizens regard as an actual mistake. I swear to you in all good faith, fellow-citizens, that the course of justice has neither been suspended, nor interrupted, nor will it be. The preparation of the accusation brought against the ex-ministers still continues: they have come under the law and the law alone shall decide their fate.
"What the people of Paris, the bravest and most generous in the world, are asking for is not revenge, but justice! Justice is a right and a necessity for strong individuals; revenge is merely the pleasure of the weak and cowardly. The proposal from the Chamber is an INOPPORTUNE STEP that aims to make people believe there's a plan to interfere with the normal course of justice regarding the former ministers. There have been delays, which are simply part of the procedures that give justice a more serious character; these delays only validate and reinforce the idea that our uncontrollable enemies, always lurking to divide us, continuously exploit. This has led to public unrest, which honorable people and good citizens see as a real mistake. I assure you sincerely, fellow citizens, that the course of justice has neither been stopped nor interrupted, and it won’t be. The preparation of the charges against the former ministers is still ongoing: they are subject to the law, and only the law will determine their fate."
"No good citizen could wish or demand anything else; and yet cries of "death" are uttered in the streets and public places; but what are such instigations, such placards, but violent measures against justice? We merely desire to do as we would ourselves be done by, namely, be judged dispassionately and impartially. Well, there are certain misguided or malevolent persons who threaten the judges before the trial has begun. People of Paris, you will not stand by such violent conduct; the accused should be sacred in your eyes; they are placed under the protection of the law; to insult them,[Pg 13] to hinder their defence, to anticipate the decrees of justice, is to violate the laws of every civilised society; it is to be wanting in the first principles of liberty; it is worse than a crime; it is cowardly! There is not a single citizen among this great and glorious people who cannot but feel that it is his honoured duty to prevent an outrage that will be a blot upon our Revolution. Let justice be done! But violence is not justice. And this is the cry of all well-meaning people, and will be the principle guiding the conduct of our magistrates. Under these grave circumstances they will count upon the concurrence and the assistance of all true patriots to uphold the measures that are taken to bring about public order."
"No good citizen would want or demand anything else; yet shouts of "death" are heard in the streets and public spaces. But what are these calls, these posters, if not violent attacks against justice? We simply want to treat others as we wish to be treated, meaning we want to be judged fairly and without bias. Unfortunately, some misguided or malicious individuals are threatening the judges before the trial has even started. People of Paris, you will not tolerate such violent behavior; the accused should be respected in your eyes; they are under the protection of the law. To insult them, [Pg 13], to obstruct their defense, to jump to conclusions about justice, is to break the laws of any civilized society; it's lacking in the basic principles of freedom; it's worse than a crime; it's cowardly! Every citizen in this great and proud city should feel it is their duty to prevent a shameful act that could stain our Revolution. Let justice prevail! But violence is not justice. This is the call of all well-meaning citizens and will guide the actions of our officials. In these serious times, they will rely on the support and help of all true patriots to maintain the measures needed for public order."
This proclamation is, perhaps, a little too lengthy and diffuse and tedious; but we should remember that Odilon Barrot was a barrister before he became Préfet of the Seine. However, in the midst of this ocean of words, a flood of language by which the préfet had, perhaps, hoped that the king would be mystified, His Majesty noted this sentence—"The proposal of the Chamber was an inopportune step leading people to suppose it was a concerted thing...." And the Republicans caught hold of this one—"Our ungovernable enemies, ever on the watch to disunite us," etc.
This proclamation is probably a bit too long, scattered, and boring; but we should keep in mind that Odilon Barrot was a lawyer before he became the Prefect of the Seine. However, in the midst of this sea of words, a deluge of language that the prefect may have hoped would confuse the king, His Majesty picked up on this sentence—"The proposal of the Chamber was an inopportune step leading people to suppose it was a concerted thing...." And the Republicans latched on to this one—"Our ungovernable enemies, ever on the watch to disunite us," etc.
The step that the Préfet of the Seine blamed was the king's own secret wish, interpreted by the address of the Chamber; so that, by finding fault with the address of the Chamber, the Préfet of the Seine allowed himself to blame the secret wish of the king.
The Préfet of the Seine criticized the step as being driven by the king's hidden desire, as interpreted by the Chamber's address; therefore, by criticizing the Chamber's address, the Préfet of the Seine indirectly accused the king of having a secret wish.
From that moment, the fall of the Préfet of the Seine was decided upon. How could Louis-Philippe, with his plans for reigning and governing at the same time, keep a man in his service who dared to find fault with his own secret wishes? It was useless for M. Odilon Barrot to try to deceive himself; from that hour dates the king's dislike to him: it was that proclamation of 1830, which postponed his three hours' ministry to 1848. Then, on the other hand, he broke with the Republican party because he spoke of them as his ungovernable enemies.
From that moment, the downfall of the Prefect of the Seine was inevitable. How could Louis-Philippe, who had plans for ruling and governing at the same time, keep a man in his service who dared to criticize his secret desires? It was pointless for M. Odilon Barrot to try to fool himself; from that hour, the king’s dislike for him began: it was that proclamation of 1830 that delayed his three-hour ministry until 1848. Then, on the other hand, he severed ties with the Republican party because he referred to them as his unmanageable enemies.
The same night, or the day after the appearance of this[Pg 14] proclamation, Godefroy Cavaignac cast Odilon Barrot's horoscope in these pregnant words—
The same night, or the day after the appearance of this[Pg 14] proclamation, Godefroy Cavaignac created Odilon Barrot's horoscope in these significant words—
"My dear friend, you are played out!"
"My dear friend, you are exhausted!"
This is what really passed at the Palais-Royal. The king was furious with the audacity of the pettifogging little lawyer. The little lawyer, however, was to take his revenge for this epithet two years later, by annulling the sentence on the young artist Geoffroy, who had been illegally condemned to death by the court-martial that had been instituted on account of the state of siege at the time. It was a splendid and noble method of being revenged, which won back for Odilon ten years popularity! So his fall was decided at the Palais-Royal. But it was not a matter that was very painful to the ministry which was in power in November 1830; this was composed only of M. Molé, a deserter from the Napoléonic camp; of M. de Broglie, a deserter from the Royalist camp; of M. Guizot, the man of the Moniteur de Gand; M. Casimir Périer, the banker whose bank closed at four o'clock, and who, up to the last, had struggled against the Revolution; M. Sébastiani, who, on the 30th, had announced that the white flag was his standard; and finally, General Gérard, the last minister of Charles X., who, to keep in power, had only had to get the Ordinance, which the flight of the Elder Branch left blank, signed by the Younger Branch. It will be understood that none of these men had the least personal attachment to Odilon Barrot. So, when the king proposed the dismissal of the Préfet of the Seine, they all unanimously exclaimed, "Just as you wish, seigneur!" Only one voice cried, "Veto!" that of Dupont (de l'Eure). Now, Dupont had this one grand fault in the eyes of politicians (and the king was the foremost politician of his day), he persisted in sticking both to his own opinions and to his friends.
This is what really happened at the Palais-Royal. The king was furious with the nerve of the petty little lawyer. The little lawyer, however, would get his revenge for this term two years later by overturning the sentence on the young artist Geoffroy, who had been unjustly sentenced to death by the court-martial established during the state of siege at that time. It was a brilliant and honorable way to take revenge, which gave Odilon back ten years of popularity! So his downfall was set at the Palais-Royal. But this didn’t really bother the government in power in November 1830; it consisted only of M. Molé, who was from the Napoleonic side; M. de Broglie, who was from the Royalist side; M. Guizot, the man behind the Moniteur de Gand; M. Casimir Périer, the banker whose bank closed at four o'clock, and who had fought against the Revolution until the end; M. Sébastiani, who on the 30th had said that the white flag was his standard; and finally, General Gérard, the last minister of Charles X., who, to stay in power, just needed to get the Ordinance, which the departure of the Elder Branch left blank, signed by the Younger Branch. It’s clear that none of these men had the slightest personal connection to Odilon Barrot. So, when the king suggested firing the Préfet of the Seine, they all agreed, saying, "As you wish, sire!" Only one voice said, "Veto!" and that was Dupont (de l'Eure). Now, Dupont had one major flaw in the eyes of politicians (and the king was the biggest politician of his time); he stubbornly held onto his own opinions and his friends.
"If Odilon Barrot goes, I also depart!" said the honest old man flatly.
"If Odilon Barrot goes, I'm leaving too!" said the honest old man firmly.
This was a more serious matter, for if the withdrawal of Odilon Barrot involved that of Dupont (de l'Eure), the withdrawal of Dupont would also mean that of La Fayette with him. Now, La Fayette's resignation might very well, in the[Pg 15] end, involve that of the king himself. It would, moreover, cause ill-feeling between the king and Laffitte, who was another staunch friend of Odilon Barrot. True, the king was not disinclined for a rupture with Laffitte: there are certain services so great that they can only be repaid by ingratitude; but the king only wished to quarrel with Laffitte in his own time and at his own convenience, when such a course would be expedient and not prejudicial. The grave question was referred to a consensus of opinion for solution.
This was a more serious issue because if Odilon Barrot stepped down, that would mean Dupont (de l'Eure) would too, and if Dupont left, La Fayette would follow. Now, La Fayette’s resignation could eventually lead to the king’s resignation as well. Additionally, it would create tension between the king and Laffitte, who was another strong supporter of Odilon Barrot. True, the king wasn't opposed to a break with Laffitte: sometimes, the greatest services can only be repaid with ingratitude; however, the king wanted to have a conflict with Laffitte on his own schedule, when it would be beneficial and not harmful. The serious matter was brought to a group for their input on how to resolve it.
M. Sébastiani won the honours of the sitting by his suggestion of himself making a personal application to M. Odilon Barrot to obtain his voluntary resignation. Of course, Dupont (de l'Eure) was not present at this secret confabulation. They settled to hold another council that night. The king was late, contrary to his custom. As he entered the cabinet, he did not perceive Dupont (de l'Eure) talking in a corner of the room with M. Bignon.
M. Sébastiani gained recognition during the meeting by proposing that he personally approach M. Odilon Barrot to request his voluntary resignation. Naturally, Dupont (de l'Eure) was absent from this secret discussion. They decided to hold another meeting that night. The king arrived late, which was unusual for him. As he entered the room, he didn't notice Dupont (de l'Eure) chatting in a corner with M. Bignon.
"Victory, messieurs!" he exclaimed, in an exulting voice; "the resignation of the Préfet of the Seine is settled, and General La Fayette, realising the necessity for the resignation, himself consented to it."
"Victory, gentlemen!" he shouted, with a triumphant voice; "the resignation of the Préfet of the Seine is confirmed, and General La Fayette, understanding the need for the resignation, agreed to it himself."
"What did you say, sire?" said Dupont (de l'Eure) hastily, coming out of the darkness into the circle of light which revealed his presence to the king.
"What did you say, sir?" Dupont (de l'Eure) asked quickly, stepping out of the shadows into the light that made his presence known to the king.
"Oh! you are there, are you, Monsieur Dupont," said the king, rather embarrassed. "Well, I was saying that General La Fayette has ceased to oppose the resignation of M. Barrot."
"Oh! So you’re here, are you, Monsieur Dupont," said the king, a bit awkwardly. "Well, I was just saying that General La Fayette has stopped opposing M. Barrot's resignation."
"Sire," replied Dupont, "the statement your Majesty has done me the honour to make is quite impossible of belief."
"Sire," replied Dupont, "the statement your Majesty has honored me with is completely unbelievable."
"I had it from the general's own lips, monsieur," replied the king.
"I heard it directly from the general himself, sir," replied the king.
"Your majesty must permit me to believe he is labouring under a mistake," insisted Dupont, with a bow; "for the general told me the very reverse, and I cannot believe him capable of contradicting himself in this matter."
"Your majesty has to allow me to think he's making a mistake," Dupont insisted, bowing. "Because the general told me the exact opposite, and I can't believe he's capable of contradicting himself in this situation."
A flash of anger crossed the king's face; yet he restrained himself.
A flash of anger crossed the king's face, but he held it back.
"However," continued Dupont, "I will speak for myself alone ... If M. Odilon Barrot retires, I renew my request to the king to be good enough to accept my resignation."
"However," Dupont continued, "I'll speak only for myself... If M. Odilon Barrot steps down, I once again ask the king to kindly accept my resignation."
"But, monsieur," said the king hastily, "you promised me this very morning, that whatever happened, you would remain until after the trial of the ministers."
"But, sir," the king said quickly, "you promised me this very morning that no matter what happened, you would stay until after the ministers' trial."
"Yes, true, sire, but only on condition that M. Barrot remained too."
"Yes, that's true, sir, but only if Mr. Barrot stays as well."
"Without any conditions, monsieur."
"No conditions, sir."
It was now Dupont's turn to flush red.
It was now Dupont's turn to turn red.
"I must this time, sire," he said, "with the strength of conviction, positively assert that the king is in error."
"I have to say this time, Your Majesty," he said, "with strong conviction, that the king is definitely mistaken."
"What! monsieur," exclaimed the king, "you give me the lie to my face? Oh! this is really too much! And everybody shall hear how you have been lacking in respect to me."
"What! sir," exclaimed the king, "you’re calling me a liar to my face? Oh! this is really too much! And everyone will hear how you’ve disrespected me."
"Take care, sire," replied the chancellor coldly; "when the king says yes and Dupont (de l'Eure) says no, I am not sure which of the two France will believe."
"Take care, sir," replied the chancellor coldly; "when the king says yes and Dupont (de l'Eure) says no, I’m not sure which one France will believe."
Then, bowing to the king, he proceeded to the door of exit.
Then, bowing to the king, he headed to the exit.
But on the threshold the unbending old man met the Duc d'Orléans, who was young and smiling and friendly; he took him by both hands and would not let him go further.
But at the door, the stubborn old man encountered the Duc d'Orléans, who was young, smiling, and friendly; he grabbed his hands and wouldn’t let him go any farther.
"Father," said the duke to the king, "there has surely been some misunderstanding ... M. Dupont is so strictly honourable that he could not possibly take any other course."
"Father," the duke said to the king, "there must have been some sort of misunderstanding... M. Dupont is so strictly honorable that he couldn't possibly choose any other path."
The king was well aware of the mistake he had just made, and held out his hand to his minister; the Duc d'Orléans pushed him into the king's open arms, and the king and his minister embraced. Probably nothing was forgotten on either side, but the compact was sealed.
The king knew exactly the mistake he had just made and reached out his hand to his minister; the Duc d'Orléans nudged him into the king's waiting arms, and the king and his minister hugged. It’s likely that nothing was overlooked by either party, but the agreement was finalized.
Odilon Barrot was to remain Préfet of the Seine, and, consequently, Dupont (de l'Eure) was to remain chancellor, and La Fayette, consequently, would remain generalissimo of the National Guard throughout the kingdom.
Odilon Barrot would continue as Prefect of the Seine, and as a result, Dupont (de l'Eure) would stay on as chancellor, meaning La Fayette would still be the commander of the National Guard across the kingdom.
But we shall see how these three faithful friends were politely[Pg 17] dismissed when the king had no further need of them. It will, however, readily be understood that all this was but a temporary patching up, without any real stability underneath. M. Dupont (de l'Eure) consented to remain with MM. de Broglie, Guizot, Molé and Casimir Périer, but these gentlemen had no intention whatever of remaining in office with him. Consequently, they sent in their resignation, which involved those of MM. Dupin and Bignon, ministers who held no offices of state.
But we will see how these three loyal friends were politely[Pg 17] let go when the king no longer needed them. It will be clear that all of this was just a temporary fix without any real stability underneath. M. Dupont (de l'Eure) agreed to stay with MM. de Broglie, Guizot, Molé, and Casimir Périer, but these gentlemen had no plans to stay in office with him. As a result, they submitted their resignations, which also included MM. Dupin and Bignon, ministers who didn’t hold any government positions.
The king was placed in a most embarrassing quandary, and had recourse to M. Laffitte. M. Laffitte urged the harm that it would do his banking house, and the daily work he would be obliged to give to public affairs, if he accepted a position in the Government, and he confided to the king the worry which the consequences of the July Revolution had already caused him in his business affairs. The king offered him every kind of inducement. But, with extreme delicacy of feeling, M. Laffitte would not hear of accepting anything from the king, unless the latter felt inclined to buy the forest of Breteuil at a valuation. The only condition M. Laffitte made to this sale was that it should be by private deed and not publicly registered, as registration would naturally reveal the fact of the sale and the seller's difficulties. They exchanged mutual promises, and the forest of Breteuil was valued at, and sold for, eight millions, I believe, and the private deeds of sale and purchase were executed and signed upon this basis.
The king found himself in an awkward situation and turned to M. Laffitte for help. M. Laffitte highlighted the negative impact it would have on his banking firm and the additional public responsibilities he would have to take on if he accepted a government position. He shared with the king the stress the July Revolution had already caused his business. The king tried to entice him with various offers, but M. Laffitte, being very considerate, refused to accept anything from the king unless he was willing to buy the forest of Breteuil at a fair price. The only condition M. Laffitte set for this sale was that it needed to be a private agreement, not publicly registered, as registration would expose the sale and his financial troubles. They made mutual promises, and the forest of Breteuil was valued at, and sold for, I believe, eight million, with the private sales documents executed and signed accordingly.
M. Laffitte's credit thus made secure, he consented to accept both the office of Minister for Finance and the Presidency of the Cabinet Council.
M. Laffitte's credit was now secure, so he agreed to take on both the role of Minister for Finance and the Presidency of the Cabinet Council.
The Moniteur published, on 2 November, the list of newly elected ministers. They were—MM. Laffitte, for Finance and President of the Council; Dupont (de l'Eure), Minister of Justice; Gérard, for War; Sébastiani, at the Admiralty; Maison, for Foreign Affairs; Montalivet, at the Home Office; Mérilhou, for Education.
The Moniteur published the list of newly elected ministers on November 2. They were—MM. Laffitte, for Finance and President of the Council; Dupont (de l'Eure), Minister of Justice; Gérard, for War; Sébastiani, at the Admiralty; Maison, for Foreign Affairs; Montalivet, at the Home Office; Mérilhou, for Education.
The king, therefore, had attained his end; the doctrinaires (as they were nicknamed, probably because they had no real[Pg 18] political principles) had done him great service by their resignation, and given him the opportunity of forming a ministry entirely devoted to him. In the new coalition, Louis-Philippe ranked Laffitte as his friend, Sébastiani and Montalivet, as his devoted servants; Gérard and Maison, his subservient followers; while Mérilhou fell an easy prey to his influence. There was only Dupont (de l'Eure) left, and he took his cue from La Fayette.
The king had achieved his goal; the doctrinaires (as they were called, likely because they lacked solid political principles) had greatly assisted him by stepping down, allowing him to create a government completely loyal to him. In the new coalition, Louis-Philippe considered Laffitte his friend, Sébastiani and Montalivet his loyal servants, Gérard and Maison his obedient followers, while Mérilhou easily fell under his influence. The only one left was Dupont (de l'Eure), and he took his lead from La Fayette.
Now, do not let us lose sight of the fact that this ministry might be called the Trial Ministry (ministère du procès), and that La Fayette, who had been proscribed by M. de Polignac, wanted to take a noble revenge upon him by saving his life. His speech in the Chamber did not leave the slightest doubt of his intentions.
Now, let’s not forget that this ministry could be referred to as the Trial Ministry, and that La Fayette, who had been banished by M. de Polignac, aimed to take a noble revenge by saving his life. His speech in the Chamber left no doubt about his intentions.
On 4 October, the Chamber of Peers constituted itself a Court of Justice, ordered the removal of the ex-ministers to the prison of the petit Luxembourg and fixed 15 December for the opening of the trial. But between 4 October and 15 December (that is to say, between the constitution of the Court of Peers and the opening of the trial) M. Laffitte received the following curt note from Louis-Philippe:—
On October 4, the Chamber of Peers set itself up as a Court of Justice, ordered the ex-ministers to be taken to the petit Luxembourg prison, and scheduled the trial to start on December 15. However, between October 4 and December 15 (that is, between the establishment of the Court of Peers and the beginning of the trial), M. Laffitte received the following brief note from Louis-Philippe:—
"MY DEAR MONSIEUR LAFFITTE,—After what has been told me by a mutual friend, of whom I need not say anything further, you know quite well why I have availed myself, at M. Jamet's[1] urgent instigation, to whom the secret of the purchase was entrusted by yourself and not by me, of taking the opportunity of having the private deed of sale registered, as secretly as possible.—Yours affectionately,
"MY DEAR MR. LAFFITTE,—Given what a mutual friend has told me, which I don’t need to explain further, you understand perfectly why I seized the chance, at M. Jamet's__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ urging—he was the one you trusted with the secret of the purchase, not me—to have the private deed of sale registered as discreetly as possible.—Yours affectionately,"
LOUIS-PHILIPPE."
LOUIS-PHILIPPE."
M. Laffitte was stunned by the blow; he did not place any belief in the secrecy of the registration; and he was right. The sale became known, and M. Laffitte's downfall dated from that moment. But the deed of sale bore a special date! M. Laffitte took up his pen to send in his resignation, and this involved that of Dupont (de l'Eure), La Fayette and Odilon Barrot. He reflected that Louis-Philippe would be disarmed[Pg 19] in face of a future political upheaval. But the revenge appeared too cruel a one to the famous banker, who now acted the part of king, while the real king played that of financier. Nevertheless, the wound rankled none the less deeply in his heart.
M. Laffitte was shocked by the blow; he didn't believe in the secrecy of the registration, and he was right. The sale became public knowledge, and M. Laffitte's downfall started from that moment. But the deed of sale had a specific date! M. Laffitte picked up his pen to submit his resignation, which also meant Dupont (de l'Eure), La Fayette, and Odilon Barrot would resign. He thought about how Louis-Philippe would be powerless in the face of a future political crisis. However, the revenge seemed too harsh for the famous banker, who now played the role of king, while the actual king took on the role of financier. Still, the wound festered deeply in his heart.
CHAPTER III
Béranger as Patriot and Republican
Béranger as Patriot and Republican
When Laffitte became minister, he wanted to bear with him up to the political heights he was himself compelled to ascend, a man who, as we have said, had perhaps contributed more to the accession of Louis-Philippe even than had the celebrated banker himself. That man was Béranger. But Béranger, with his clear-sighted common sense, realised that, for him as well as for Laffitte, apparent promotion really meant ultimate downfall. He therefore let all his friends venture on that bridge of Mahomet, as narrow as a thread of flax, called power; but shook his head and took farewell of them in the following verses:—
When Laffitte became minister, he wanted to bring along someone who could help him reach the political heights he had to climb, a person who, as we've mentioned, might have played an even bigger role in Louis-Philippe's rise than the famous banker himself. That person was Béranger. However, Béranger, with his sharp common sense, understood that, for both him and Laffitte, what looked like a promotion was really a path to eventual downfall. So, he let all his friends take a risk on that precarious bridge of Mûhammad, as thin as a flax thread, called power; but he shook his head and said goodbye to them in the following verses:—
"Non, mes amis, non, je ne veux rien être;
Semez ailleurs places, titres et croix.
Non, pour les cours Dieu ne m'a point fait naître:
Oiseau craintif, je fuis la glu des rois!
Que me faut-il? Maîtresse à fine taille,
Que me faut-il? Maîtresse à fine taille,
Petit repas et joyeux entretien!
De mon berceau près de bénir la paille,
En me créant, Dieu m'a dit: 'Ne sois rien!'
Un sort brillant serait chose importune
Pour moi rimeur, qui vis de temps perdu.
N'est-il tombé, des miettes de fortune,
Tout has, j'ai dit: 'Ce pain ne m'est pas dû.
Quel artisan, pauvre, hélas! quoi qu'il fasse,
N'a plus que moi droit à ce peu de bien?
Sans trop rougir, fouillons dans ma besace.
[Pg 21]
En me créant, Dieu m'a dit: 'Ne sois rien!'
Sachez pourtant, pilotes du royaume,
Combien j'admire un homme de vertu
Qui, désertant son hôtel ou son chaume,
Monte au vaisseau par tous les vents battu,
De loin, ma vois lui crie: 'Heureux voyage!'
Priant de cœur pour tout grand citoyen;
Mais, au soleil, je m'endors sur la plage
En me créant, Dieu m'a dit: 'Ne sois rien!'
Votre tombeau sera pompeux sans doute;
J'aurai, sous l'herbe, une fosse à l'écart.
Un peuple en deuil vous fait cortège en route;
Du pauvre, moi, j'attends le corbillard.
En vain l'on court ou votre étoile tombe;
Qu'importe alors votre gîte ou le mien?
La différence est toujours une tombe.
En me créant, Dieu m'a dit: 'Ne sois rien!'
De ce palais souffrez donc que je sorte,
À vos grandeurs je devais un salut;
Amis, adieu! j'ai, derrière la porte,
Laissé tantôt mes sabots et mon luth.
Sous ces lambris, près de vous accourue,
La Liberté s'offre à vous pour soutien ...
Je vais chanter ses bienfaits dans la rue.
En me créant, Dieu m'a dit: 'Ne sois rien!'"
"Not, my friends, not, I don’t want to be anything;
Sow places, titles, and crosses elsewhere.
No, for the courts God didn’t make me to be born:
Timid bird, I flee the glue of kings!
What do I need? A mistress with a fine figure,
What do I need? A mistress with a fine figure,
A little meal and cheerful conversation!
From my cradle I’m close to blessing the straw,
When creating me, God said: 'Be nothing!'
A brilliant fate would be a burden
For me, a poet, who lives on lost time.
Hasn't he dropped, from the crumbs of fortune,
All that I have, I said: 'This bread isn’t mine.
What craftsman, poor, alas! whatever he does,
Has more right than me to this little good?
Without too much shame, let’s rummage through my bag.
[Pg 21]
When creating me, God said: 'Be nothing!'
Know, however, leaders of the kingdom,
How much I admire a man of virtue
Who, leaving his hotel or thatch,
Goes out to the ship battered by all the winds,
From afar, my voice cries out to him: 'Safe travels!'
Praying from the heart for every great citizen;
But, in the sun, I fall asleep on the beach
When creating me, God said: 'Be nothing!'
Your tomb will surely be grand;
I’ll have, under the grass, a pit apart.
A grieving people escorts you on your way;
From the poor, I wait for the hearse.
It’s in vain to run or your star falls;
What matters then your resting place or mine?
The difference is always a grave.
When creating me, God said: 'Be nothing!'
From this palace allow me to leave,
To your greatness I owed a greeting;
Friends, farewell! I’ve left, behind the door,
My wooden shoes and my lute.
Under these beams, close to you rushing,
Liberty offers itself to you for support ...
I’m going to sing its benefits in the street.
When creating me, God said: 'Be nothing!'"
So Béranger retired, leaving his friends more deeply entangled in the web of power than was La Fontaine's raven in the sheep's wool. Even when he is sentimental, Béranger finds it difficult not to insert a touch of mischief in his poetry, and, perhaps, while he is singing in the street the blessings of liberty, he is laughing in his sleeve; exemplifying that disheartening maxim of La Rochefoucauld, that there is always something even in the very misfortunes of our best friends which gives us pleasure. Yet how many times did the philosophic singer acclaim in his heart the Government he had founded. We say in his heart, for whether distrustful of the stability of human institutions, or whether he deemed it a good thing to set up kings, but a bad one to sing their praises in poetry, Béranger never, thank goodness! consecrated by a single line of praise[Pg 22] in verse the sovereignty of July which he had lauded in his speech.
So Béranger retired, leaving his friends more entangled in the web of power than La Fontaine's raven in the sheep's wool. Even when he’s being sentimental, Béranger finds it hard not to add a bit of mischief to his poetry, and maybe, while he’s singing in the street about the blessings of liberty, he’s secretly laughing; illustrating that discouraging saying of La Rochefoucauld, that there’s always something in the misfortunes of our best friends that brings us pleasure. Yet how many times did the philosophical singer celebrate in his heart the Government he had established. We say in his heart, because whether skeptical about the stability of human institutions or believing it's one thing to set up kings but another to praise them in poetry, Béranger never, thankfully! wrote even a single line of praise[Pg 22] for the sovereignty of July which he had celebrated in his speech.
Now let us take stock of the length of time his admiration of, and sympathy with, the royal cause lasted. It was not for long! In six months all was over; and the poet had taken the measure of the king: the king was only fit to be put away with Villon's old moons. If my reader disputes this assertion let him listen to Béranger's own words. The man who, on 31 July, had flung a plank across the stream, as the petits Savoyards do, is the first to try to push it off into the water: it is through no fault of his if it do not fall in and drag the king with it.
Now let's consider how long his admiration for and sympathy with the royal cause lasted. It wasn't long! In six months, it was all over; the poet had figured out the king: the king was only good to be discarded like Villon's old moons. If you disagree with this statement, just listen to Béranger's own words. The man who, on July 31, had thrown a plank across the stream, like the petits Savoyards, is the first to try to push it off into the water: it’s not his fault if it doesn’t fall in and take the king down with it.
"Oui, chanson, muse, ma fille,
J'ai déclaré net
Qu'avec Charle et sa famille,
On le détrônait;
Mais chaque loi qu'on nous donne
Te rappelle ici:
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
Je croyais qu'on allait faire
Du grand et du neuf,
Même étendre un peu la sphère
De quatre-vingt-neuf;
Mais point: on rebadigeonne
Un troûe noirci!
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
Depuis les jours de décembre,[1]
Vois, pour se grandir,
La chambre vanter la chambre,
La chambre applaudir!
À se prouver qu'elle est bonne,
Elle a réussi ...
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
[Pg 23]—Messieurs, grand merci!
Basse-cour des ministères
Qu'en France on honnit,
Nos chapons héréditaires,
Sauveront leur nid;
Les petits que Dieu leur donne
Y pondront aussi ...
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
La planète doctrinaire
Qui sur Gand brillait
Vent servir la luminaire
Aux gens de juillet:
Fi d'un froid soleil d'automne
De brume obscurci!
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
Nos ministres, qu'on peut mettre
Tous au même point,[2]
Voudraient que la baromètre
Ne variât point:
Pour peu que là-bas il tonne,
On se signe ici ...
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
Pour être en état de grâce
Que de grands peureux
Ont soin de laisser en place
Les hommes véreux!
Si l'on ne touche à personne,
C'est afin que si ...
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
Te voilà donc restaurée,
Chanson mes amours!
Tricolore et sans livrée,
[Pg 24]Montre-toi toujours!
Ne crains plus qu'on l'emprisonne,
Du moins à Poissy ...
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!
Mais, pourtant, laisse en jachère
Mon sol fatigué;
Mes jeunes rivaux, ma chère,
Ont un ciel si gai!
Chez eux la rose foisonne,
Chez moi le souci.
Chanson, reprends ta couronne!
—Messieurs, grand merci!"
"Yes, song, muse, my daughter,
I’ve made it obvious
That with Charle and his family,
We're claiming the crown;
But every law they give us
Just a reminder:
Song, take back your crown!
—Thanks a lot, gentlemen!
I thought we were going to create
Something exciting and fresh,
Even expand a bit the scope
Of 89;
But no: we’re just refurbishing
A black hole!
Song, take back your crown!
—Thanks a lot, gentlemen!
Since the days of December,[1]
See, to lift itself,
The chamber praises the chamber,
The chamber claps!
To prove it's good,
It has succeeded...
Song, take back your crown!
[Pg 23]—Thanks a lot, everyone!
Backyard of the ministries
That we dislike in France,
Our hereditary capons,
Will protect their nest;
The little ones God gives them
Will also establish ...
Song, take back your crown!
—Guys, thank you so much!
The doctrinaire planet
That shone on Ghent.
Now serves the luminary
To the July crew:
Forget a cold autumn sun
Covered in fog!
Song, take back your crown!
—Thanks a lot, gentlemen!
Our ministers, who can be grouped
All at the same time, __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
Would like the barometer
Not to change:
Whenever it storms over there,
Sign here ...
Song, take back your crown!
—Thanks a lot, gentlemen!
To be in a state of grace
How many huge cowards
Make sure to keep in place
The corrupt guys!
If no one is touched,
It's to ensure that if ...
Song, take back your crown!
—Guys, thank you so much!
So you’re back, then,
Song, my love!
Tricolor and without livery,
[Pg 24]Always be yourself!
Don’t be afraid of being imprisoned,
At least in Poissy...
Song, take back your crown!
—Thanks a lot, gentlemen!
But, still, leave fallow
My exhausted soil;
My young rivals, my dear,
What a bright sky!
With them, roses bloom,
Stay with me, don't worry.
Song, take back your crown!
"Thanks, gentlemen!"
These verses were nothing short of a declaration of war, but they escaped unnoticed, and those poets who talked of them seemed to talk of them as of something fallen from the moon, or some aerolite that nobody had picked up.
These lines were basically a declaration of war, but they went unnoticed, and those poets who mentioned them seemed to speak about them like they were something that fell from the moon, or some meteorite that no one had collected.
A song of Béranger? What was it but a song by him? The public had not read this particular one, though it was aware of the existence of a poet of that name who had written Le Dieu des bonnes gens, L'Ange Gardien, Le Cinq mai, Les Deux Cousins, Le Ventru, all songs that more or less attacked Louis XVIII. and Charles X.; but they did not recognise a poet of the name of Béranger who allowed himself to go so far as to attack Louis-Philippe. Why this ignorance of the new Béranger? Why this deafness as to his new song? We will explain.
A song by Béranger? What was it but a song written by him? The public hadn’t read this particular one, but they knew there was a poet by that name who had written Le Dieu des bonnes gens, L'Ange Gardien, Le Cinq mai, Les Deux Cousins, Le Ventru, all songs that somewhat criticized Louis XVIII and Charles X.; however, they didn’t recognize a poet named Béranger who dared to go as far as to criticize Louis-Philippe. Why this unawareness of the new Béranger? Why this inability to hear his new song? We’ll explain.
There comes a reactionary period after every political change, during which material interests prevail over national, and shameful appetites over noble passions; during such a period,—as Louis-Philippe's reign, for example—that government is in favour which fosters these selfish interests and surfeits ignoble passions. The acts of such a government, no matter how outrageously illegal and tyrannical and immoral, are looked upon as saving graces! They praise and approve them, and make as much noise at the footstool of power, as the priests of Cybele, who clashed their cymbals round Jupiter's cradle. Throughout such a period as this, the only thing the masses[Pg 25] fear, who, living by such a reaction, have every interest in upholding it, is, lest daylight break on the scene of Pandemonium, and light shine into the sink where speculators and moneymakers and coiners of crowns and paper money jostle, and crowd and hustle one another amid that jingling of money which denotes the work they are engaged in. Whether such a state of things lasts long or only briefly, we repeat that, while it endures until an honest, pure and elevated national spirit gets the upper hand, nothing can be done or said or hoped for; everything else is cried up and approved and extolled beforehand! It is as though that fine popular spirit which inspires nations from time to time to attempt great deeds has vanished, has gone up to the skies, or one knows not where. Weaker spirits despair of ever seeing it come back, and nobler minds alone, who share its essence, know that it ever lives, as they possess a spark of that divine soul, believed to be extinct, and they wait with smiling lips and calm brow. Then, gradually, they witness this political phenomenon. Without apparent cause, or deviation from the road it had taken, perhaps for the very reason that it is still pursuing it, such a type of government, which cannot lose the reputation it has never had, loses the factitious popularity it once possessed; its very supporters, who have made their fortunes out of it, whose co-operation it has rewarded, gradually fall away from it, and, without disowning it altogether, already begin to question its stability. From this very moment, such a government is condemned; and, just as they used to approve of its evil deeds, they criticise its good actions. Corruption is the very marrow of its bones and runs through it from beginning to end and dries up the deadly sap which had made it spread over a whole nation, branches like those of the upas tree, and shade like that of the manchineel. Into this atmosphere, which, for five, ten, fifteen, twenty years, has been full of an impure element that has been inhaled together with other elements of the air, there comes something antagonistic to it, something not immediately recognised. This is the returning spirit of social probity, entering the political[Pg 26] conscience; it is the soul of the nation, in a word, that was thought to have fainted, risen to the sky, gone, no one knew where, which comes back to reanimate the vast democratic masses, which it had abandoned to a lethargy that surrounding nations, jealous and inimical, had been all too eager to proclaim as the sleep of death! At such a crisis the government, by the mere returning of the masses to honesty, seems like a ship that has lost its direction, which staggers and wavers and knows not where it is going! It has withstood fifteen years of tempests and storms and now it founders in a squall. It had become stronger by 5 and 6 June, on 13 and 14 April and 15 May, but falls before 24 February.
There’s always a reactionary period after every political change, when material interests take precedence over national concerns and shameful desires overshadow noble aspirations. During this time—like in Louis-Philippe's reign—governments that support these selfish interests and indulge in base passions are favored. The actions of such a government, no matter how illegally, tyrannically, or immorally they occur, are seen as necessary! People praise and support these actions, making as much noise at the feet of power as the priests of Cybele, who clanged their cymbals around Jupiter's cradle. Throughout such a period, the only thing the masses fear, since they rely on this reaction and have every reason to uphold it, is that daylight might shine on the chaos—the spotlight on the gutter where speculators, moneymakers, and counterfeiters hustle one another amid the clinking of money that signifies their dealings. Whether this state lasts long or is only brief, we stress that, while it continues until an honest, pure, and elevated national spirit takes over, nothing can be done, said, or hoped for; everything else is hailed, supported, and celebrated in advance! It’s as if that fine popular spirit, which occasionally inspires nations to undertake great acts, has vanished, gone up to the skies, or who knows where. The weaker souls despair of its return, while the nobler ones, who embody its essence, know that it always exists, retaining a spark of that supposedly extinct divine spirit, waiting with serene expressions. Gradually, they begin to witness this political phenomenon. Without clear reason or deviation from its path, perhaps simply because it continues on that path, the type of government that has no real reputation loses the fake popularity it once had; its very supporters, who have profited from it and whose collaboration it has rewarded, gradually drift away, and while they don’t completely reject it, they start to question its stability. From this moment on, such a government is doomed; and just as they once approved of its wrongdoings, they now criticize its good actions. Corruption is embedded in its very core, present from start to finish, draining the toxic essence that had allowed it to spread over an entire nation, like the branches of the upas tree with excessive shade like that of the manchineel. Into this atmosphere, which for five, ten, fifteen, or twenty years has been filled with a harmful element inhaled alongside the air, comes something opposing it, something not immediately recognized. This is the resurgence of social integrity, reentering the political conscience; it’s the soul of the nation, thought to have faded, risen to the sky, gone who knows where, coming back to revive the vast democratic masses that it had left in a lethargy that jealous and hostile surrounding nations were eager to label as the sleep of death! At such a moment, the government, simply by the masses returning to honesty, resembles a ship that has lost its way, staggering and uncertain about its direction! It has weathered fifteen years of tempests and storms, and now it’s sinking in a squall. It became more robust by June 5 and 6, on April 13 and 14, and May 15, but it falters before February 24.
Such a government or rather governments show signs of their decline when men of heart and understanding refuse to rally to their help, or when those who had done so by mistake quit it from disgust. It does not follow that these desertions bring about an immediate fall—it may not be for years after, but it is a certain sign that they will fall some day, alone, or by their own act, and the public conscience, at this stage of their decline, needs but to give it a slight push to complete the ruin!
Such a government, or rather governments, show signs of their decline when people with conviction and insight refuse to support them, or when those who previously did so out of mistake withdraw in disgust. This doesn't mean that these abandonments lead to an immediate collapse—it might take years—but it's a clear indication that they will eventually fall, either on their own or through their own actions. At this point in their decline, the public conscience just needs a little nudge to finish the job!
Now Béranger, with his fine instinct of right and wrong, of good and evil, knew all this; not in the self-saving spirit of the rat which leaves the ship where it has fattened, when it is about to sail. As we have seen, he would receive nothing at the hands of the Government or from the friends who formed its crew; but, like the swift, white sea-bird, which skims the crests of the rising waves, he warned the sailors of coming storms. From this very moment, Béranger decides that royalty in France is condemned, since this same royalty, which he has kneaded with his own hands, with the democratic element of a Jacobin prince in 1791, a commandant of the National Guard, a Republican in 1789 and a popular Government in 1830, is turning to a middle-class aristocracy, the last of the aristocracies, because it is the most selfish and the most narrow-minded,—and he dreams of a Republic!
Now Béranger, with his sharp sense of right and wrong, of good and evil, understood all of this; not in the self-serving way of a rat abandoning a sinking ship after it has thrived there. As we’ve seen, he wouldn’t accept anything from the Government or from the friends who made up its crew; instead, like the swift, white seabird that glides over the crests of rising waves, he warned the sailors of impending storms. From this very moment, Béranger decides that royalty in France is doomed, since this very royalty, which he has shaped with his own hands, mixing the democratic spirit of a Jacobin prince in 1791, a commander of the National Guard, a Republican in 1789, and a popular Government in 1830, is now transforming into a middle-class aristocracy, the last of the aristocracies, because it is the most selfish and the most narrow-minded—and he dreams of a Republic!
But how was he to attack this popular king, this king of the[Pg 27] bourgeois classes and of material interests, the king who had saved society? (Every form of government in France as it arose has made that claim!) The king was invulnerable; the Revolution of '89, which was looked upon as his mother, but was only his nurse, had dipped him in the furnace of the Three Days, as Thetis dipped her son Achilles in the river Styx; but he, too, had his weak spot like Homer's hero.
But how was he supposed to go after this popular king, this king of the[Pg 27] middle class and material interests, the king who had saved society? (Every government that has come about in France has made that claim!) The king was untouchable; the Revolution of '89, which was seen as his creator but was really just his caretaker, had put him through the fires of the Three Days, just as Thetis dipped her son Achilles in the river Styx; yet, he also had his vulnerable spot like Homer's hero.
Is it the head? Is it the heel? Is it the heart? The poet, who will not lose his time in manufacturing gunpowder, which might easily be blown away, before it was used, will look for this weak spot, and, never fear, he will find it.
Is it the head? Is it the heel? Is it the heart? The poet, who won’t waste time making gunpowder that could easily blow away before it’s used, will seek out this weak spot, and rest assured, he will find it.
[1] We shall talk about these directly, but, desiring to dedicate a chapter or two now to Béranger, who, as poet and politician, took a great part in the Revolution of July, we are obliged to take a step in advance.
[1] We will discuss these directly, but we want to dedicate a chapter or two now to Béranger, who, as both a poet and a politician, played a significant role in the July Revolution. Therefore, we need to move forward a bit.
[2] What would have become of Béranger if he had followed the power of the ministers who could be put all on the same level? For notice that the ministers he speaks of here are his friends, who did not send in their resignation till 13 March.
[2] What would have happened to Béranger if he had aligned himself with the ministers who could all be considered equal? Keep in mind that the ministers he refers to here are his friends, who didn't submit their resignations until March 13.
CHAPTER IV
Béranger, as Republican
Béranger, as a Republican
This vulnerable spot was the Republican feeling, ever alert in France, whether it be disguised under the names of Liberalism, Progress or Democracy. Béranger discovered it, for, just when he was going to bid farewell to poetry, he once more took up his song; like the warrior who, in despair, had flung down his arms, he resumed them; but he has changed his aim and will slay with principles rather than bullets, he will no longer try to pierce the velvet of an ancient throne, but he will set up a new statue of marble upon a brazen altar! That statue shall be the figure of the Republic. He who was of the advanced school under the Elder Branch, hangs back under the Younger. But what matters it! He will accomplish his task and, though it stand alone, it will be none the less powerful. Listen to him: behold him at his moulding: like Benvenuto Cellini, he flings the lead of his old cartridges into the smelting-pot: he will throw in his bronze and even the two silver dinner-services which he brings out of an old walnut chest on grand occasions when he dines with Lisette, and which he has once or twice lent to Frétillon to put in pawn. While he works, he discovers that those whom he fought in 1830 were in the right, and that it was he himself who was wrong; he had looked upon them as madmen, now he makes his frank apologies to them in this song—
This sensitive point was the Republican sentiment, always alert in France, whether it's disguised as Liberalism, Progress, or Democracy. Béranger recognized it, for just when he was about to say goodbye to poetry, he picked up his song again; like a warrior who, in despair, had thrown down his weapons, he took them up again; but he's changed his target and will fight with principles instead of bullets, no longer trying to pierce the velvet of an ancient throne, but instead will erect a new marble statue on a brazen altar! That statue will represent the Republic. He who formerly was part of the progressive side under the Elder Branch now hangs back under the Younger. But what does it matter! He will complete his mission and, even if it stands alone, it will be powerful nonetheless. Listen to him: watch him as he shapes it: like Benvenuto Cellini, he melts down the lead from his old cartridges: he'll toss in his bronze and even the two silver dinner sets he brings out of an old walnut chest on special occasions when he dines with Lisette, and which he has lent to Frétillon to pawn once or twice. As he works, he realizes that those he opposed in 1830 were right, and that he himself was wrong; he had seen them as madmen, and now he makes his sincere apologies to them in this song—
"Vieux soldats de plomb que nous sommes,
Au cordeau nous alignant tous,
Si des rangs sortant quelques hommes,
[Pg 29]
Tous, nous crions: 'À bas les fous!'
On les persécute, on les tue,
Sauf, après un lent examen,
À leur dresser une statue
Pour la gloire du genre humain!
Combien de tempo une pensée.
Vierge obscure, attend son époux!
Les sots la traitent d'insensée,
Le sage lui dit: 'Cachez-vous!'
Mais, la rencontrant loin du monde,
Un fou qui croit au lendemain
L'épouse; elle devient féconde,
Pour le bonheur du genre humain!
J'ai vu Saint-Simon, le prophète,
Riche d'abord, puis endetté,
Qui, des fondements jusqu'au faite,
Refaisait la société.
Plein de son œuvre commencée,
Vieux, pour elle il tendais la main,
Sur qu'il embrassait la pensée
Qui doit sauver le genre humain!
Fourier nous dit: 'Sors de la fange,
Peuple en proie aux déceptions!
Travaille, groupé par phalange,
Dans un cercle d'attractions.
La terre, après tant de désastres,
Forme avec le ciel un hymen,
Et la loi qui régit les astres
Donne la paix au genre humain!'
Enfantin affranchit la femme,
L'appelle à partager nos droits.
'Fi! dites-vous, sous l'épigramme
Ces fous rêveurs tombent tous trois!'
Messieurs, lorsqu'en vain notre sphère
Du bonheur cherche le chemin,
Honneur au fou qui ferait faire
Un rêve heureux au genre humain!
Qui découvrit un nouveau monde?
Un fou qu'on raillait en tout lieu!
Sur la croix, que son sang inonde,
[Pg 30]
Un fou qui meurt nous lègue un Dieu!
Si, demain, oubliant d'élcore,
Le jour manquait, eh bien! demain,
Quelque fou trouverait encore
Un flambeau pour le genre humain!"
"Old toy soldiers that we are,
All lined up in a row,
If from the ranks a few men emerge,
[Pg 29]
We all shout: 'Down with the crazy ones!'
They are persecuted, they are killed,
Except, after a slow examination,
To build them a statue
For the glory of humankind!
How long a thought waits,
An obscure virgin waits for her groom!
Fools call her insane,
The wise say: 'Hide yourself!'
But, meeting her far from the world,
A fool who believes in tomorrow
Marries her; she becomes fruitful,
For the happiness of humankind!
I saw Saint-Simon, the prophet,
Rich at first, then in debt,
Who, from the foundation to the roof,
Was rebuilding society.
Full of his unfinished work,
Old, he reaches out for her,
As he embraces the thought
That must save humankind!
Fourier tells us: 'Rise from the muck,
People caught in disappointment!
Work, grouped in phalanxes,
In a circle of attractions.
The earth, after so many disasters,
Forms with the sky a union,
And the law that governs the stars
Brings peace to humankind!'
Child-like, he frees women,
Calls her to share our rights.
'Oh! you say, under the epigram,
These dreaming fools all fall flat!'
Gentlemen, when our sphere
Seeks the path to happiness in vain,
Honor the fool who would make
A happy dream for humankind!
Who discovered a new world?
A fool who was mocked everywhere!
On the cross, drenched in his blood,
[Pg 30]
A fool who dies leaves us a God!
If tomorrow, forgetting the encore,
The day were to fail, well! tomorrow,
Some fool would still find
A torch for humankind!"
You have read this song. What wonderful sense and rhythm of thought and poetry these lines contain! You say you didn't know it? Really? and yet you knew all those which, under Charles X., attacked the throne or the altar. Le Sacre de Charles le Simple, and L'Ange Gardien. How is it that you never knew this one? Because Béranger, instead of being a tin soldier drawn up to defend public order, as stock-jobbers and the bourgeois and grocers understand things, was looked upon as one of those fanatics who leave the ranks in pursuit of mad ideas, which they take unto themselves in marriage and perforce therefrom bring forth offspring! Only, Béranger was no longer in sympathy with public thought; the people do not pick up the arrows he shoots, in order to hurl them back at the throne; his poems, which were published in 1825, and again in 1829, and then sold to the extent of thirty thousand copies, are, in 1833, only sold to some fifteen hundred. But what matters it to him, the bird of the desert, who sings for the love of singing, because the good God, who loves to hear him, who prefers his poetry to that of missionaries, Jesuits and of those jet-black-dwarfs whom he nourishes, and who hates the smoke of their censers, has said to him, "Sing, poor little bird, sing!" So he goes on singing at every opportunity.
You’ve read this song. What amazing sense and rhythm of thought and poetry these lines have! You say you didn’t know it? Really? Yet you knew all those that, under Charles X, criticized the throne or the altar. Le Sacre de Charles le Simple and L'Ange Gardien. How come you never knew this one? Because Béranger, instead of being a tin soldier lined up to defend public order, as stock traders, the middle class, and grocers see it, was seen as one of those fanatics who leave the ranks in pursuit of wild ideas, which they take as their own and then inevitably give birth to offspring! However, Béranger was no longer aligned with public opinion; people don’t pick up the arrows he shoots to throw them back at the throne; his poems, which were published in 1825 and again in 1829, and sold around thirty thousand copies, are down to about fifteen hundred in 1833. But what does it matter to him, the desert bird, who sings for the joy of singing, because the good Lord, who loves to listen to him, who prefers his poetry to that of missionaries, Jesuits, and those jet-black-dwarfs whom he feeds, and who despises the smoke of their censers, has told him, "Sing, poor little bird, sing!" So he keeps singing whenever he gets the chance.
When Escousse and Lebras died, he sang a melancholy song steeped in doubt and disillusionment; he could not see his way in the chaos of society. He only felt that the earth was moving like an ocean; that the outlook was stormy; that the world was in darkness, and that the vessel called France was drifting further and further towards destruction. Listen. Was there ever a more melancholy song than this? It is like the wild seas that break upon coasts bristling with rocks and covered with heather, like the bays of Morlaix and the cliffs of Douarnenez.
When Escousse and Lebras died, he sang a sad song filled with doubt and disappointment; he couldn’t see his way through the chaos of society. He only felt that the ground was shifting like an ocean; that the forecast was turbulent; that the world was in darkness, and that the ship called France was drifting further and further toward destruction. Listen. Was there ever a more sorrowful song than this? It’s like the wild seas crashing against coasts lined with rocks and covered in heather, like the bays of Morlaix and the cliffs of Douarnenez.
"Quoi! morts tous deux dans cette chambre close
Où du charbon pèse encor la vapeur!
Leur vie, hélas! était à peine éclose;
Suicide affreux! triste objet de stupeur!
Ils auront dit: 'Le monde fait naufrage;
Voyez pâlir pilote et matelots!
Vieux bâtiment usé par tous les flots,
Il s'engloutit, sauvons-nous à la nage!'
Et, vers le ciel se frayant un chemin,
Ils sont partis en se donnant la main!
. . . . .
. . . . .
Pauvres enfants! quelle douleur amère
N'apaisent pas de saints devoirs remplis?
Dans la patrie on retrouve une mère,
Et son drapeau vous couvre de ses plis!
Ils répondaient: 'Ce drapeau, qu'on escorte,
Au toit du chef le protège endormi;
Mais le soldat, teint du sang ennemi,
Veille, et de faim meurt en gardant la porte!'
Et, vers le ciel se frayant un chemin,
Ils sont partis en se donnant la main!
. . . . .
. . . . .
Dieu créateur, pardonne à leur démence!
Ils s'étaient fait les échos de leurs sous,
Ne sachant pas qu'en une chaîne immense,
Non pour nous seuls, mais pour tous nous naissons.
L'humanité manque de saints apôtres
Qui leur aient dit: 'Enfants, suivez ma loi!
Aimer, aimer, c'est être utile à soi!
Se faire aimer, c'est être utile aux autres!'
Et, vers le ciel se frayant un chemin,
Ils sont partis en se donnant la main!"
"Wow! both dead in this closed room
Where the steam from the coal still hangs heavy!
Their lives, alas! barely began;
Awful suicide! a sad sight of shock!
They must have said: 'The world is sinking;
Look how pale the captain and crew are!
Old ship worn down by all the waves,
It's going under, let's swim to safety!'
And, finding a path to the sky,
They went away holding hands!
. . . . .
. . . . .
Poor kids! what bitter pain
Isn't soothed by fulfilled duties?
Back home, you find a mother,
And her flag wraps you in its folds!
They replied: 'This flag, which is escorted,
Protects the sleeping chief at his home;
But the soldier, stained with enemy blood,
Stands watch, dying of hunger at the gate!'
And, finding a path to the sky,
They went away holding hands!
. . . . .
. . . . .
Creator God, forgive their madness!
They were just echoing their own desires,
Not knowing that in a vast chain,
We are born not just for ourselves, but for all.
Humanity lacks holy messengers
Who would have told them: 'Children, follow my way!
To love, to love is to be useful to oneself!
To be loved is to be useful to others!'
And, finding a path to the sky,
They went away holding hands!"
At what a moment,—consider it!—did Béranger prophesy that the world would suffer shipwreck to the terror of pilots and sailors? When, in February 1832, the Tuileries was feasting its courtiers; when the newspapers, which supported the Government, were glutted with praise; when the citizen-soldiers of the rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin were enthusiastic in taking their turn on guard; when officers were clamouring for crosses for themselves and invitations to court for their wives; when, out of the thirty-six millions of the French people, thirty millions were bellowing at the top of[Pg 32] their voices, "Vive Louis-Philippe, the upholder of order and saviour of society!" when the Journal des Débats was shouting its HOSANNAHS! and the Constitutionnel its AMENS!
At what moment—think about it!—did Béranger predict that the world would face disaster, shocking both pilots and sailors? When, in February 1832, the Tuileries was hosting its courtiers; when the newspapers that supported the Government were overflowing with praise; when the citizen-soldiers of the streets Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin were excitedly taking their turn on guard; when officers were demanding medals for themselves and invitations to the palace for their wives; when, out of the thirty-six million French people, thirty million were shouting at the top of their lungs, "Long live Louis-Philippe, the defender of order and savior of society!" when the Journal des Débats was proclaiming its Hallelujahs! and the Constitutionnel its AMENs!
By the powers! One would have been out of one's mind to die at such a time; and only a poet would talk of the world going to wrack and ruin!
By the powers! You’d have to be crazy to die at a time like this; only a poet would say the world is falling apart!
But wait! When Béranger perceived that no one listened to his words, that, like Horace, he sang to deaf ears, he still went on singing, and now still louder than before—
But wait! When Béranger noticed that no one was paying attention to him, that, like Horace, he was singing to deaf ears, he kept singing, and now even louder than before—
"Société, vieux et sombre édifice,
Ta chute, hélas! Menace nos abris:
Tu vas crouler! point de flambeau qui puisse
Guider la foule à travers tes débris:
Où courons-nous! Quel sage en proie au doute
N'a sur son front vingt fois passé la main?
C'est aux soleils d'être sûrs de leur route;
Dieu leur a dit: 'Voilà votre chemin!'"
"Society, old and dark building,
Your fall, alas! Threatens our shelters:
You're going to crumble! no torch to guide
The crowd through your ruins:
Where should we run! Which wise person, caught in doubt,
Hasn't run their hand over their forehead twenty times?
It's for the suns to be sure of their path;
God has told them: 'Here is your way!'"
Then comes the moment when this chaos is unravelled, and the night is lifted, and the dawn of a new day rises; the poet bursts into a song of joy as he sees it! What did he see? Oh! be not afraid, he will be only too ready to tell you—
Then comes the moment when this chaos unravels, the night lifts, and a new day dawns; the poet breaks into a joyful song as he sees it! What did he see? Oh! don’t worry, he’ll be more than happy to share—
"Toujours prophète, en mon saint ministère,
Sur l'avenir j'ose interroger Dieu.
Pour châtier les princes de la terre,
Dans l'ancien monde un déluge aura lieu.
Déjà près d'eux, l'Océan, sur les grèves,
Mugit, se gonfle, il vient.... 'Maîtres, voyez,
Voyez!' leur dis-je. Ils répondent: 'Tu rêves!'
Ces pauvres rois, ils seront tous noyés!
. . . . .
. . . . .
Que vous ont fait, mon Dieu, ces bons monarques?
Il en est tant dont on bénit les lois!
De jougs trop lourds si nous portons les marques,
C'est qu'en oubli le peuple a mis ses droits.
Pourtant, les flots précipitent leur marche
Contre ces chefs jadis si bien choyés.
Faute d'esprit pour se construire une arche,
[Pg 33]
Ces pauvres rois, ils seront tous noyés!
'Un océan! quel est-il, ô prophète?'
Peuples, c'est nous, affranchis de la faim,
Nous, plus instruits, consommant la défaite
De tant de rois, inutiles, enfin!...
Dieu fait passer sur ces fils indociles
Nos flots mouvants, si longtemps fourvoyés;
Puis le ciel brille, et les flots sont tranquilles.
Ces pauvres rois, ils seront tous noyés!"
"Always a prophet in my sacred ministry,
I dare to question God about the future.
To punish the princes of the earth,
An ancient-world flood will occur.
Already near them, the Ocean, on the shores,
Roars, swells, it is coming.... 'Masters, look,
Look!' I say to them. They respond: 'You're dreaming!'
These poor kings, they will all drown!
. . . . .
. . . . .
What have these good monarchs done to you, my God?
There are so many whose laws we bless!
If we bear the marks of such heavy yokes,
It's because the people have forgotten their rights.
Yet the waves hasten their march
Against those leaders once so cherished.
Lacking the wisdom to build an ark,
[Pg 33]
These poor kings, they will all drown!
'An ocean! What is it, oh prophet?'
People, we, freed from hunger,
We, more informed, consuming the defeat
Of so many kings, finally useless!...
God sends our restless waves over these unruly children,
So long misled;
Then the sky shines, and the waves are calm.
These poor kings, they will all drown!"
It will be observed that it was not as in les Deux Cousins, a simple change of fortune or of dynasty, but the overturning of every dynasty that the poet is predicting; not as in Les Dieu des bonnes gens, the changing of destinies and tides, but the revolution of both towards ultimate tranquillity. The ocean becomes a vast lake, without swell or storms, reflecting the azure heavens and of such transparent clearness that at the bottom can be seen the corpses of dead monarchies and the débris of wrecked thrones.
It can be noted that, unlike in les Deux Cousins, it's not just a simple shift in fortune or dynasty that the poet is predicting; rather, it's the complete overturning of every dynasty. It's not like in Les Dieu des bonnes gens, where destinies and tides change, but rather the revolution of both leading to ultimate peace. The ocean transforms into a vast lake, calm and without storms, reflecting the blue sky and so clear that you can see the remains of fallen monarchies and the ruins of shattered thrones at the bottom.
Then, what happens on the banks of this lake, in the capital of the civilised world, in the city par excellence, as the Romans called Rome? The poet is going to tell you, and you will not have long to wait to know if he speaks the truth: a hundred and sixty-six years, dating from 1833, the date at which the song appeared. What is a hundred and sixty-six years in the life of a people? For, note carefully, the prophecy is for the year 2000, and the date may yet be disputed!
Then, what happens on the shores of this lake, in the heart of the civilized world, in the city par excellence, as the Romans referred to Rome? The poet is about to reveal it, and you won't have to wait long to find out if he's telling the truth: a hundred and sixty-six years, starting from 1833, when the song was published. What does a hundred and sixty-six years mean in the life of a nation? Because, pay close attention, the prophecy is for the year 2000, and that date could still be debated!
"Nostradamus, qui vit naître Henri-Quatre,
Grand astrologue, a prédit, dans ses vers,
Qu'en l'an deux mil, date qu'on peut débattre,
De la médaille on verrait le revers:
Alors, dit-il, Paris, dans l'allégresse,
Au pied du Louvre ouïra cette voix:
'Heureux Français, soulagez ma détresse;
Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!'
Or, cette voix sera celle d'un homme
Pauvre, à scrofule, en haillons, sans souliers,
Qui, né proscrit, vieux, arrivant de Rome,
[Pg 34]
Fera spectacle aux petits écoliers.
Un sénateur crira: 'L'homme à besace,
Les mendiants sont bannis par nos lois!
—Hélas! monsieur, je suis seul de ma race;
Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!'
'Es-tu vraiment de la race royale?'
—Oui, répondra cet homme, fier encor;
J'ai vu dans Rome, alors ville papale,
À mon aïeul couronne et sceptre d'or;
Il les vendit pour nourrir le courage
De faux agents, d'écrivains maladroits!
Moi, j'ai pour sceptre un bâton de voyage....
Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!
'Mon père, âgé, mort en prison pour dettes,
D'un bon métier n'osa point me pouvoir;
Je tends la main ... Riches, partout vous êtes
Bien durs au pauvre, et Dieu me l'a fait voir!
Je foule enfin cette plage féconde
Qui repoussa mes aïeux tant de fois!
Ah! par pitié pour les grandeurs du monde,
Faites l'aumône au dernier de vos rois!'
Le sénateur dira: 'Viens! je t'emmène
Dans mon palais; vis heureux parmi nous.
Contre les rois nous n'avons plus de haine;
Ce qu'il en reste embrasse nos genoux!
En attendant que le sénat décide
À ses bienfaits si ton sort a des droits,
Moi, qui suis né d'un vieux sang régicide,
Je fais l'aumône au dernier de nos rois!'
Nostradamus ajoute en son vieux style:
'La République au prince accordera
Cent louis de rente, et, citoyen utile,
Pour maire, un jour, Saint-Cloud le choisira.
Sur l'an deux mil, on dira dans l'histoire,
Qu'assise au trône et des arts et des lois,
La France, en paix, reposant sous sa gloire,
A fait l'aumône au dernier de ses rois!'"
"Nostradamus, who saw the birth of Henry IV,
Great astrologer, predicted in his verses,
That 'in the year two thousand, a date open for debate,
We would see the reverse of the medal:
Then, he says, Paris, in joy,
At the foot of the Louvre will hear this voice:
'Happy French, relieve my distress;
Give alms to the last of your kings!'
Now, this voice will belong to a man
Poor, with scrofula, in rags, without shoes,
Who, born an outlaw, old, coming from Rome,
[Pg 34]
Will put on a show for the little schoolboys.
A senator will write: 'The man with the satchel,
The beggars are banned by our laws!
—Alas! sir, I am the last of my kind;
Give alms to the last of your kings!'
'Are you really of royal blood?'
—Yes, this man will respond, still proud;
I saw in Rome, then a papal city,
My ancestor with a crown and golden scepter;
He sold them to feed the courage
Of false agents, of clumsy writers!
I have a traveler's staff for a scepter....
Give alms to the last of your kings!
'My father, aged, died in prison for debt,
Did not dare to give me a good trade;
I extend my hand... Rich, you are everywhere
Very hard on the poor, and God has shown me this!
I finally tread upon this fertile shore
That drove away my ancestors so many times!
Ah! out of pity for the grandeur of the world,
Give alms to the last of your kings!'
The senator will say: 'Come! I will take you
To my palace; live happily among us.
Against kings, we no longer harbor hatred;
Whatever remains kneels before us!
While waiting for the senate to decide
If your fate has rights to its benefits,
I, who am born of old regicides,
Give alms to the last of our kings!'
Nostradamus adds in his old style:
'The Republic will grant the prince
One hundred louis in rent, and, as a useful citizen,
One day, Saint-Cloud will choose him as mayor.
In the year two thousand, it will be said in history,
That seated on the throne of arts and laws,
France, at peace, resting under its glory,
Gave alms to the last of its kings!'"
It is quite clear this time, and the word Republic is pronounced; the Republic in the year 2000 will give alms to the last of its kings! There is no ambiguity in the prophecy.[Pg 35] Now, how long will this Republic, strong enough to give alms to the last of its kings, have been established? It is a simple algebraic calculation which the most insignificant mathematician can arrive at, by proceeding according to rule, from the known to the unknown.
It’s clear this time, and the word Republic is spoken; the Republic in the year 2000 will offer charity to the last of its kings! There’s no confusion in the prophecy.[Pg 35] Now, how long will this Republic, strong enough to give charity to the last of its kings, have been around? It’s a straightforward math calculation that even the most basic mathematician can solve by following the rules, moving from what’s known to what’s unknown.
It is in the year 2000 that Paris will hear, at the foot of the Louvre, the voice of a man in tatters shouting, "Give alms to the last of your kings!"
It is in the year 2000 that Paris will hear, at the foot of the Louvre, the voice of a man in rags shouting, "Give money to the last of your kings!"
This voice will belong to a man born an outlaw, old, arriving from Rome, which leads one to suppose he would be about sixty or seventy years of age. Let us take a mean course and say sixty-five @ 65
This voice belongs to a man born an outlaw, old, arriving from Rome, which implies he is around sixty or seventy years old. Let’s average it out and say sixty-five @ 65.
This man, a born outlaw, saw in Rome, then a papal city, the crown and golden sceptre of his grandfather. How long ago can that have been? Let us say fifty years @ 50
This man, a natural outlaw, saw in Rome, which was then a papal city, the crown and golden scepter of his grandfather. How long ago could that have been? Let's estimate fifty years @ 50.
For how long had this grandfather been exiled? It cannot have been long, because he had his sceptre and gold crown still, and sold them to feed the courage of false agents and luckless writers. Let us reckon it at fifteen years and say no more about it @ 15
How long has this grandfather been in exile? It can't have been long since he still had his scepter and gold crown, which he sold to boost the confidence of fake agents and unfortunate writers. Let's say it was fifteen years and stick with that. @ 15
Let us add to that the twenty years that have rolled by since 1833 @ 20
Let’s also account for the twenty years that have passed since 1833 @ 20.
And we shall have to take away a total from 166 of 150
And we will need to subtract a total of 166 from 150.
Now he who from 166 pays back 150 keeps 16 as remainder,—and yet, and yet the poet said the year 2000 is open to doubt. Do not let us dispute the question, but let us even allow more time.
Now the person who gets back 150 from 166 has 16 left over—and still, the poet said the year 2000 is open to doubt. Let's not argue about it, but let's just give it more time.
We return thee thanks, Béranger, thou poet and prophet!
We thank you, Béranger, you poet and prophet!
What happened upon the appearance of these prophecies which were calculated to wound many very different interests? That the people who knew the old poems of Béranger by heart, because their ambition, their hopes and desires, had[Pg 36] made weapons of them wherewith to destroy the old throne, did not even read his new songs, whilst those who did read them said to each other, "Have you read Béranger's new songs? No. Well, don't read them. Poor fellow, he is going off!" So they did not read them, or, if they had read them, the word was passed round to say, that the song-writer was going off. No, on the contrary, the poet was growing greater, not deteriorating! But just as from song-writer he had become poet, so, from poet, he was becoming a prophet. I mean that, to the masses, he was becoming more and more unintelligible. Antiquity has preserved us the songs of Anacreon, but has forgotten the prophecies of Cassandra.
What happened when these prophecies appeared, which were bound to upset many different interests? The people who knew Béranger's old poems by heart, because they had turned their ambition, hopes, and desires into weapons to take down the old throne, didn't even read his new songs. Those who did read them told each other, "Have you seen Béranger's new songs? No? Well, don’t bother. Poor guy, he's losing it!" So they ignored the songs, or if they had read them, they spread the word that the songwriter was fading away. In reality, the poet was growing stronger, not weaker! But just as he had progressed from songwriter to poet, he was now evolving from poet to prophet. I mean that, to the masses, he was becoming increasingly hard to understand. Antiquity has preserved the songs of Anacreon, but has forgotten the prophecies of Cassandra.
And why? Homer tells us: the Greeks refused to put faith in the prophetic utterances of the daughter of Priam and Hecuba.
And why? Homer tells us: the Greeks didn't trust the prophetic words of the daughter of Priam and Hecuba.
Alas! Béranger followed her in this and held his peace; and a whole world of masterpieces on the eve of bursting forth was arrested on his silent lips. He smiled with that arch smile of his, and said—
Alas! Béranger followed her in this and stayed silent; a whole world of masterpieces ready to unfold was held back on his quiet lips. He smiled with that playful smile of his and said—
"Ah! I am declining, am I? Well, then, ask for songs of those who are rising!"
"Ah! I'm declining, am I? Well, then, request songs from those who are on the rise!"
Rossini had said the same thing after Guillaume Tell, and what was the result? We had no more operas by him, and no more songs from Béranger.
Rossini said the same thing after Guillaume Tell, and what happened? We got no more operas from him, and no more songs from Béranger.
Now it may be asked how it happens that Béranger, a Republican, resides peacefully in the avenue de Chateaubriand (No. 5), at Paris, whilst Victor Hugo is living in Marine Terrace, in the island of Jersey. It is simply a question of age and of temperament. Hugo is a fighter, and scarcely fifty: while Béranger, take him all in all, is an Epicurean and, moreover, seventy years of age;[1] an age at which a man begins to prepare his bed for his eternal sleep, and Béranger (God grant he may live many years yet, would he but accept some years of our lives!) wishes to die peacefully upon the bed of flowers and bay leaves that he has made for himself. He has earned the right to do so—he has struggled hard[Pg 37] enough in the past, and, rest assured, his work will continue in the future!
Now you might wonder why Béranger, a Republican, is living peacefully on Avenue de Chateaubriand (No. 5) in Paris, while Victor Hugo is residing on Marine Terrace in Jersey. It comes down to age and temperament. Hugo is a fighter and barely fifty, while Béranger, all things considered, is an Epicurean and seventy years old; an age when a man starts to prepare for his eternal rest. Béranger (may he live for many more years, if he would only accept some of ours!) wants to die peacefully on the bed of flowers and bay leaves he has created for himself. He has earned that right—he has fought hard enough in the past, and rest assured, his work will continue in the future!
Let us just say, in conclusion, that those who were then spoken of as the young school (they are now men of forty to fifty) were not fair to Béranger. After Benjamin Constant had exalted him to the rank of a great epic poet, they tried to reduce him to the level of a writer of doggerel verses. By this action, criticism innocently made itself the accomplice of the ruling powers; it only intended to be severe, but was, really, both unjust and ungrateful! It needs to be an exile and a poet living in a strange land, far from that communion of thought which is the food of intellectual life, to know how essentially French, philosophical and consolatory, the muse of the poet of Passy really was. In the case of Béranger, there was no question of exile, and each exile can, while he sings his songs, look for the realisation of that prophecy which Nostradamus has fixed for the year 2000.
Let’s just say, in conclusion, that those who were once referred to as the young school (now in their forties to fifties) weren’t fair to Béranger. After Benjamin Constant praised him as a great epic poet, they tried to bring him down to the level of a writer of silly verses. In doing so, criticism unwittingly sided with those in power; it meant to be harsh, but was actually both unfair and ungrateful! You have to be an exile, a poet in a foreign land, far from the shared ideas that nourish intellectual life, to fully understand how inherently French, philosophical, and comforting the muse of the poet from Passy truly was. In Béranger’s case, there was no exile, and every exile can, while singing their songs, look forward to the fulfillment of that prophecy Nostradamus set for the year 2000.
But we are a very long way from the artillery, which we were discussing, and we must return to it again and to the riot in which it was called upon to play its part.
But we are really far from the artillery we were discussing, and we need to go back to it and the riot where it was needed.
Let us, then, return to the riot and to the artillery. But, dear Béranger, dear poet, dear father, we do not bid you adieu, only au revoir. After the storm, the halcyon!—the halcyon, white as snow, which has passed through all the storms, its swan-like plumage as spotless as before.
Let’s go back to the riot and the artillery. But, dear Béranger, dear poet, dear father, we don't say adieu, only au revoir. After the storm, there’s calm!—the calm, white as snow, that has weathered all the storms, its swan-like feathers just as pristine as before.
CHAPTER V
Death of Benjamin Constant—Concerning his life—Funeral honours that were conferred upon him—His funeral—Law respecting national rewards—The trial of the ministers—Grouvelle and his sister—M. Mérilhou and the neophyte—Colonel Lavocat—The Court of Peers—Panic—Fieschi
Death of Benjamin Constant—About his life—Funeral honors given to him—His funeral—Law concerning national rewards—The trial of the ministers—Grouvelle and his sister—Mr. Mérilhou and the newcomer—Colonel Lavocat—The Court of Peers—Panic—Fieschi
The month of December 1830 teemed with events. One of the gravest was the death of Benjamin Constant. On the 10th we received orders to be ready equipped and armed by the 12th, to attend the funeral procession of the famous deputy. He had died at seven in the evening of 8 December. His death created a great sensation throughout Paris. Benjamin Constant's popularity was a strange one, and it would be hard to say upon what it was founded. He was a Swiss Protestant, and had been brought up in England and Germany. He could speak English, German and French with equal ease; but he composed and wrote in French. He was young, good-looking, strong in body, but weak in character. From the time he set foot in France, Constant did nothing unless under the influence of women: they were his rulers in literature and his guides in politics. He was taken up by three of the most celebrated women of his time; by Madame Tallien, Madame de Beauharnais and Madame de Staël, and he was completely under their influence; the latter, especially, had an immense influence over his life. Adolphe was he himself, and the heroine in it was Madame de Staël. Besides, the life of Benjamin was not by any means the life of a man, but that of a woman, that is to say, a mixture of inconsistencies and weaknesses. Raised to the Tribunal after the overturning of the Directory, he opposed Bonaparte when he[Pg 39] was First Consul, not, as historians state, because he had no belief in the durability of Napoléon's good fortune, but because Madame de Staël, with whom he was then on most intimate terms, detested the First Consul. He was expelled from the Tribunal in 1801, and exiled from France in 1802, and went to live near his mistress (or rather master) at Coppet. About the year 1806 or 1807 this life of slavery grew insufferable to him, and, weak though he was, he broke his chains. Read his novel Adolphe, and you will see how heavily the chain galled him! He settled at Hanover, where he married a German lady of high birth, a relative of the Prince of Hardenberg, and behold him an aristocrat, moving in the very highest aristocratic circles in Germany, never leaving the princes of the north, but living in the heart of the coalition which threatened France, directing foreign proclamations, writing his brochure, De l'esprit de conquête et d'usurpation, upon the table of the Emperor Alexander; and, finally, re-entering France with Auguste de Staël, in the carriage of King Charles-John. How can one escape being a Royalist in such company!
The month of December 1830 was filled with significant events. One of the most serious was the death of Benjamin Constant. On the 10th, we were ordered to be prepared, equipped, and armed by the 12th to attend the funeral procession of the well-known deputy. He passed away at seven in the evening on December 8. His death stirred a strong reaction throughout Paris. Benjamin Constant's popularity was unusual, and it’s hard to pinpoint the reason for it. He was a Swiss Protestant who had been raised in England and Germany. He could speak English, German, and French fluently, but he wrote and composed in French. He was young, handsome, physically strong, but weak in character. From the moment he arrived in France, Constant acted only under the influence of women: they were his literary leaders and political guides. He was involved with three of the most famous women of his time: Madame Tallien, Madame de Beauharnais, and Madame de Staël, and he was completely swayed by them; the latter, in particular, had a huge impact on his life. Adolphe was essentially him, and the heroine in it was Madame de Staël. Additionally, Benjamin's life was not really that of a man, but rather that of a woman—full of inconsistencies and weaknesses. After the fall of the Directory, he was appointed to the Tribunal and opposed Bonaparte when he[Pg 39] became First Consul, not, as historians suggest, because he doubted Napoleon's luck, but because Madame de Staël, with whom he was very close at the time, hated the First Consul. He was removed from the Tribunal in 1801 and exiled from France in 1802, moving to live near his mistress (or rather his master) in Coppet. Around 1806 or 1807, this life of servitude became unbearable for him, and despite his weaknesses, he broke free. Read his novel Adolphe, and you'll see how much the chains weighed him down! He settled in Hanover, where he married a German noblewoman, a relative of the Prince of Hardenberg, and suddenly found himself an aristocrat, mingling in the highest aristocratic circles in Germany, never leaving the northern princes, yet living at the heart of the coalition that threatened France, directing foreign proclamations, writing his brochure, De l'esprit de conquête et d'usurpation, on the table of Emperor Alexander; and finally, returning to France with Auguste de Staël, in the carriage of King Charles-John. How could one avoid becoming a Royalist in such company!
He was also admitted to the Journal des Débats, and became one of the most active editors of that periodical. When Bonaparte landed at the gulf of Juan and marched on Paris, Benjamin Constant's first impulse was to take himself off. He began by hiding himself at the house of Mr. Crawford, ex-ambassador to the United States; then he went to Nantes with an American who undertook to get him out of France. But, on the journey, he learned of the insurrection in the West and retraced his steps and returned to Paris after a week's absence. In five more days' time, he went to the Tuileries at the invitation of M. Perregaux, where the emperor was awaiting an audience with him in his private room. Benjamin Constant was to be bought by any power that took the trouble to flatter him; he was in politics, literature and morality what we will call a courtezan, only Thomas, of the National, used a less polite word for it. Two days later, the newspaper announced the appointment of Benjamin Constant as a[Pg 40] member of the State Council. Here it was that he drew up the famous Acte additionnel in conjunction with M. Molé, a minister whom we had just thrown out of Louis-Philippe's Government. At the Second Restoration, it was expedient for Benjamin Constant to get himself exiled; and it regained him his popularity, so great was the public hatred against the Bourbons! He went to England and published Adolphe. In 1816, the portals of France were re-opened to him and he started the Minerve, and wrote in the Courrier and Constitutionnel and in the Temps. I met him at this time at the houses of Châtelain and M. de Seuven. He was a tall, well-built man, excessively nervous, pale and with long hair, which gave his face a strangely Puritanical expression; he was as irritable as a woman and a gambler to the pitch of infatuation! He had been a deputy since 1819, and each day he was one of the first arrivals at the Chamber, punctiliously clad in uniform, with its silver fleurs-de-lis, and always, summer and winter, carrying a cloak over his arm; his other hand was always full of books and printer's proofs; he limped and leant upon a sort of crutch, stumbling along frequently till he reached his seat. When seated, he began upon his correspondence and the correcting of his proofs, employing every usher in the place to execute his innumerable commissions. Ambitious in all directions, without ever succeeding in anything, nor even getting into the Academy, where he failed in his first attempt against Cousin, and in the second against M. Viennet! by turns irresolute and courageous, servile and independent, he spent his ten years as deputy under every kind of vacillation. The Monday of the Ordinances he was away in the country, where he had been undergoing a serious operation; he received a letter from Vatout, short and significant—
He was also admitted to the Journal des Débats, becoming one of the most active editors of that publication. When Bonaparte landed at the Gulf of Juan and headed to Paris, Benjamin Constant's first instinct was to leave. He initially hid at the home of Mr. Crawford, a former ambassador to the United States; then he went to Nantes with an American who promised to help him escape France. However, during the journey, he heard about the uprising in the West and turned back, returning to Paris after a week away. Five days later, he went to the Tuileries at M. Perregaux's invitation, where the emperor was waiting for him in his private room. Benjamin Constant could be swayed by any power that took the time to flatter him; in politics, literature, and morality, he could be considered a type of courtesan, although Thomas from the National used a less polite term for it. Two days later, the newspaper announced Benjamin Constant's appointment as a[Pg 40] member of the State Council. Here, he drafted the famous Acte additionnel alongside M. Molé, a minister recently ousted from Louis-Philippe's government. At the Second Restoration, it was necessary for Benjamin Constant to go into exile; this decision restored his popularity due to the widespread public animosity towards the Bourbons! He went to England and published Adolphe. In 1816, France reopened its doors to him, and he started the Minerve, contributing to the Courrier, Constitutionnel, and Temps. I met him during this time at the homes of Châtelain and M. de Seuven. He was tall, well-built, very nervous, pale, and had long hair that gave his face a strangely Puritanical look; he was as irritable as a woman and a gambler to the extreme! He had been a deputy since 1819, one of the first to arrive at the Chamber each day, meticulously dressed in uniform adorned with silver fleurs-de-lis, always carrying a cloak over his arm, and an armful of books and printer's proofs. He limped and leaned on a sort of crutch, frequently stumbling until he reached his seat. Once seated, he would dive into his correspondence and the proofreading, enlisting every usher in the place for his countless tasks. Ambitious in many areas without achieving much, he even failed to get into the Academy, losing his first attempt to Cousin and the second to M. Viennet! He was at once indecisive and brave, servile yet independent, spending his ten years as a deputy caught in every kind of uncertainty. On the Monday of the Ordinances, he was away in the countryside, where he had undergone a serious operation; he received a brief but significant letter from Vatout—
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—A terrible game is being played here with heads as stakes. Be the clever gambler you always are and come and bring your own head to our assistance."
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—We're in a risky situation that could cost us everything. Be the savvy person you always are and come lend us your skills."
The summons was tempting and he went. On the Thursday, he reached Montrouge, where the barricades[Pg 41] compelled him to leave his carriage and to cross Paris upon the arm of his wife, who was terrified when she saw what men were guarding the Hôtel de Ville, and frightened her husband as well as herself.
The call was alluring, so he went. On Thursday, he arrived in Montrouge, where the barricades[Pg 41] forced him to abandon his carriage and cross Paris on his wife’s arm. She was scared when she saw who was guarding the Hôtel de Ville, which also frightened her husband.
"Let us start for Switzerland instantly!" exclaimed Benjamin Constant; "and find a corner of the earth where not even the cover of a newspaper can reach us!"
"Let’s head to Switzerland right now!" exclaimed Benjamin Constant; "and find a place on earth where not even a newspaper can reach us!"
He was actually on the point of doing so when he was recognised, and some one called out "Vive Benjamin Constant!" lifted him in his arms and carried him in triumph. His name was placed last on the list of the protest of the deputies, and is to be found at the end of Act 30, conferring the Lieutenant-generalship upon the Duc d'Orléans; these two signatures, supported by his immense reputation and increasing popularity, once more took him into the State Council. Meanwhile, he was struggling against poverty, and Vatout induced the king to allow him two hundred thousand francs, which Constant accepted on condition, so he said to him who gave him this payment, that he was allowed the right of free speech. That's exactly how I understand it, said the king. At the end of four months, the two hundred thousand francs were all gambled away, and Constant was poorer than ever. A fortnight before his death, a friend went to his house, one morning at ten o'clock, and found him eating dry bread, soaked in a glass of water. That crust of bread was all he had had since the day before, and the glass of water he owed to the Auvergnat who had filled his cistern that morning. His death was announced to the Chamber of Deputies on 9 December.
He was just about to do it when someone recognized him and called out, "Long live Benjamin Constant!" They lifted him up and carried him in triumph. His name was added last to the list of the deputies' protest, found at the end of Act 30, which granted the Lieutenant-generalship to the Duc d'Orléans; these two signatures, backed by his great reputation and rising popularity, once again brought him into the State Council. In the meantime, he was struggling with poverty, and Vatout convinced the king to give him two hundred thousand francs, which Constant agreed to on the condition that he could speak freely. "That's exactly how I understand it," said the king. After four months, the two hundred thousand francs were all gambled away, and Constant was poorer than ever. A fortnight before his death, a friend visited him at his home one morning at ten o'clock and found him eating dry bread soaked in a glass of water. That piece of bread was all he had eaten since the day before, and the glass of water was thanks to the Auvergnat who had filled his cistern that morning. His death was announced to the Chamber of Deputies on December 9.
"What did he die of?" several members asked.
"What did he die from?" several members asked.
And a melancholy accusing voice that none dared contradict replied—
And a sad, accusing voice that no one dared to challenge replied—
"Of hunger!"
"Of hunger!"
This was not quite the truth, but there was quite enough foundation for the statement to be allowed to pass unchallenged.
This wasn't exactly the truth, but there was enough basis for the statement to go unchallenged.
Then they set to work to arrange all kinds of funeral celebrations; they brought in a bill respecting the honours[Pg 42] that should be bestowed upon great citizens by a grateful country, and, as this Act could not be passed by the following day, they bought provisionally a vault in the Cemetery de l'Est.
Then they got to work organizing all kinds of funeral celebrations; they introduced a bill regarding the honors[Pg 42] that should be given to great citizens by a thankful country, and since this Act couldn't be passed by the next day, they temporarily purchased a vault in the Cemetery de l'Est.
Oh! what a fine thing is the gratitude of a nation! True, it does not always secure one against death by starvation; but, at all events, it guarantees your being buried in style when you are dead—unless you die either in prison or in exile.
Oh! what a wonderful thing is the gratitude of a nation! It might not always protect you from dying of hunger, but at least it ensures you'll have a proper funeral when you're gone—unless you die in prison or in exile.
We had the privilege of contributing to the pomp of this cortège formed of a hundred thousand men; shadowed by flags draped in crêpe; and marching to the roll of muffled drums, and the dull twangings of the tam-tams. At one time, the whole boulevard was flooded by a howling sea like the rising tide, and, soon, the storm burst. As the funeral procession came out of the church, the students tried to get possession of the coffin, shouting, "To the Panthéon!" But Odilon Barrot came forward; the Panthéon was not in the programme, and he opposed their enthusiasm and, as a struggle began, he appealed to the law.
We had the honor of being part of the grand procession made up of a hundred thousand people, covered with flags draped in black, marching to the sound of muffled drums and the low thudding of tam-tams. For a moment, the entire boulevard was filled with a roaring crowd like a rising tide, and soon, the storm erupted. As the funeral procession exited the church, the students tried to take control of the coffin, shouting, "To the Panthéon!" But Odilon Barrot stepped in; the Panthéon wasn't on the agenda, and he challenged their enthusiasm. As a struggle began, he appealed to the law.
"The law must be enforced!" he cried. And he called to his aid that strength which people in power generally apply less to the maintenance of law than to the execution of their own desires; which, unfortunately, is not always the same thing.
"The law has to be enforced!" he shouted. And he called upon that strength which those in power usually use more for fulfilling their own desires than for upholding the law; which, unfortunately, isn't always the same thing.
Eighteen months later, these very same words, "The law must be enforced!" were pronounced over another coffin, but, in that instance, the law was not enforced until after two days of frightful butchery.
Eighteen months later, these very same words, "The law must be enforced!" were said over another coffin, but in that case, the law wasn't enforced until two days of terrible violence had passed.
At the edge of Benjamin Constant's grave, La Fayette nearly fainted from grief and fatigue, and was obliged to be held up and pulled backward or he would have lain beside the dead before his time.
At the edge of Benjamin Constant's grave, La Fayette almost fainted from sadness and exhaustion, and had to be supported and pulled back, or he would have fallen beside the deceased before his time.
We shall relate how the same thing nearly happened to him at the grave of Lamarque, but, that time, he did not get up again.
We will tell how the same thing almost happened to him at Lamarque's grave, but that time, he didn't get up again.
Every one returned home at seven that evening, imbued with some of the stormy electricity with which the air during the whole of that day had been charged.
Everyone went home at seven that evening, filled with some of the stormy energy that had charged the air all day.
Next day, the Chamber enacted a law, which, in its turn, led to serious disturbances. It was the law relative to national pensions.
Next day, the Chamber passed a law that caused significant disruptions. It was the law regarding national pensions.
On 7 October, M. Guizot had ascended the tribune and said—
On October 7, M. Guizot stepped up to the podium and said—
"GENTLEMEN,—The king was as anxious as you were to sanction by a legislative act the great debt of national gratitude, which our country owes to the victims of the Revolution.
"GENTLEMEN,—The king is just as eager as you are to approve a legislative act that acknowledges the significant debt of national gratitude our country owes to the victims of the Revolution."
"I have the honour to put before you a bill to that effect. Our three great days cost more than five hundred orphans the loss of fathers, five hundred widows their husbands, and over three hundred old people have lost the affection and support of children. Three hundred and eleven citizens have been mutilated and made incapable of carrying on their livelihood, and three thousand five hundred and sixty-four wounded people have had to endure temporary disablement."
"I have the honor to present a bill on this matter. Our three significant days have resulted in more than five hundred orphans losing their fathers, five hundred widows losing their husbands, and over three hundred elderly people losing the love and support of their children. Three hundred and eleven citizens have been injured and are now unable to support themselves, and three thousand five hundred and sixty-four wounded individuals are facing temporary disabilities."
A Commission had been appointed to draw up this bill and, on 13 December, the bill called the Act of National Recompense was carried. It fixed the amounts to be granted to the widows, fathers, mothers and sisters of the victims; and decreed that France should adopt the orphans made during the Three Days fighting; among other dispositions it contained the following—
A Commission had been set up to create this bill, and on December 13, the bill known as the Act of National Recompense was passed. It determined the amounts to be given to the widows, fathers, mothers, and sisters of the victims; and declared that France would take care of the orphans created during the Three Days of fighting; among other provisions, it included the following—
"ARTICLE 8.—Resolved that those who particularly distinguished themselves during the July Days shall be made non-commissioned officers and sub-lieutenants in the army, if they are thought deserving of this honour after the report of the Commission, provided that in each regiment the number of sub-lieutenants does not exceed the number of two and that of non-commissioned officers, four.
ARTICLE 8.—It is decided that those who especially distinguished themselves during the July Days will be promoted to non-commissioned officers and sub-lieutenants in the army, if they are considered worthy of this honor after the Commission's report, ensuring that in each regiment, the number of sub-lieutenants does not exceed two and the number of non-commissioned officers does not exceed four.
"ARTICLE 10.—A special decoration shall be granted to every citizen who distinguished himself during the July Days; the list of those who are permitted to wear it shall be drawn up by the Commission, and submitted to the King's approval; this decoration will rank in the same degree as the Légion d'honneur."
"ARTICLE 10.—A special honor will be given to every citizen who excelled during the July Days; the Commission will create a list of those permitted to wear it and submit it for the King's approval; this honor will be equivalent to the Légion d'honneur."
This law appeared in the Moniteur on the 17th.
This law was published in the Moniteur on the 17th.
Just as the bill had been introduced the day after M. de Tracy's proposition with respect to the death penalty, this bill was adopted the day before the trial of the ex-ministers. It was as good as saying—"You dead, what more can you lay claim to? We have given your widows, fathers, mothers and sisters pensions! You, who live, what more can you want? We have made you non-commissioned officers and sub-lieutenants and given you the Cross! You would not have enjoyed such privileges if the ministers of Charles X. had not passed the Ordinances; therefore praise them instead of vilifying them!"
Just as the bill was introduced the day after M. de Tracy’s proposal about the death penalty, this bill was passed the day before the trial of the former ministers. It was basically saying—“You’re dead, what more can you ask for? We’ve given pensions to your widows, fathers, mothers, and sisters! You, who are still alive, what else do you want? We’ve made you non-commissioned officers and sub-lieutenants and awarded you the Cross! You wouldn’t have had these privileges if the ministers of Charles X hadn’t enacted the Ordinances; so instead of criticizing them, you should be praising them!”
But the public was in no mood to praise Polignac and his accomplices; instead, it applauded the Belgian revolution and the Polish insurrection. All eyes were fixed upon the Luxembourg. If the ministers were acquitted or condemned to any other sentence than that of death, the Revolution of July would be abjured before all Europe, and by the king who won his crown by means of the barricades.
But the public wasn't in the mood to praise Polignac and his allies; instead, they celebrated the Belgian revolution and the Polish uprising. Everyone was focused on the Luxembourg. If the ministers were either found not guilty or given a sentence other than death, the July Revolution would be rejected throughout Europe, including by the king who gained his crown through the barricades.
Mauguin, one of the examining judges, when questioned concerning the punishment that ought to be served to the prisoners, replied unhesitatingly—"Death!"
Mauguin, one of the examining judges, when asked about the punishment that should be given to the prisoners, replied without hesitation—"Death!"
Such events as the violation of our territory by the Spanish army; the death of Benjamin Constant and refusal to allow his body to be taken to the Panthéon; the Belgian revolution and Polish insurrection; were so many side winds to swell the storm which was gathering above the Luxembourg.
Such events as the Spanish army invading our territory, the death of Benjamin Constant and the refusal to let his body be taken to the Panthéon, the Belgian revolution, and the Polish uprising were all side issues that fueled the growing storm over the Luxembourg.
On 15 December, two days after the vote upon the National Pensions Bill, and two days before its promulgation in the Moniteur, the prosecutions began. The trial lasted from the 15th to the 21st; for six days we never changed our uniform. We did not know what we were kept in waiting for; we were rallied together several times, either at Cavaignac's or Grouvelle's, to come to some decision, but nothing definite was proposed, beyond that our common centre should be the Louvre, where our arms and ammunition were stored, and that we should be guided by circumstances and act as the impulse of the moment directed.
On December 15th, two days after the vote on the National Pensions Bill and two days before it was published in the Moniteur, the prosecutions began. The trial lasted from the 15th to the 21st; for six days we didn’t change out of our uniforms. We didn’t know why we were kept waiting; we were gathered several times, either at Cavaignac’s or Grouvelle’s, to make some decisions, but nothing concrete was suggested, other than that our main base should be at the Louvre, where our weapons and ammunition were stored, and that we should follow the situation and act on impulse as it came.
I have already had occasion to mention Grouvelle; but let us dwell for a moment upon him and his sister. Both were admirable people, with hearts as devoted to the cause of Republicanism as any Spartan or Roman citizens. We shall meet them everywhere and in everything connected with politics until Grouvelle disappears from the arena, at the same time that his sister dies insane in the hospice de Montpellier. They were the son and daughter of the Grouvelle who made the first complete edition of the Lettres de Madame de Sévigné, and the same who, as secretary of the Convention, had read to Louis XVI. the sentence of death brought him by Garat. At the time I knew him, Grouvelle was thirty-two or three, and his sister twenty-five, years of age. There was nothing remarkable in his external appearance; he was very simply dressed, with a gentle face and scanty fair hair, and upon his scalp he wore a black band, no doubt to hide traces of trepanning. She, too, was fair and had most lovely hair, with blue eyes below white eyelashes, which gave an extremely sweet expression to her face, an expression, however, which assumed much firmness if you followed the upper lines to where they met round her mouth and chin. A charming portrait of herself hung in her house, painted by Madame Mérimée, the wife of the artist who painted the beautiful picture, l'innocence et le Serpent; the mother of Prosper Mérimée, author of Le Vase Étrusque, Colomba, Vénus d'Ile and of a score of novels which are all of high merit. The mother of Laure Grouvelle was a Darcet, sister, I believe, of Darcet the chemist, who had invented the famous joke about gelatine; consequently, she was cousin to the poor Darcet who died a horrible death, being burnt by some new chemical that he was trying to substitute for lamp-oil; cousin also to the beautiful Madame Pradier, who was then simply Mademoiselle Darcet or at most called madame. They both had a small fortune, sufficient for their needs, for Laure Grouvelle had none of the usual feminine coquetry about her, but was something akin to Charlotte Corday.
I’ve already mentioned Grouvelle, but let’s take a moment to focus on him and his sister. Both were remarkable individuals, deeply committed to the cause of Republicanism, much like any Spartan or Roman citizens. We will encounter them in every political matter until Grouvelle fades from the scene, while his sister sadly succumbs to madness in the hospice de Montpellier. They were the children of the Grouvelle who created the first complete edition of the Lettres de Madame de Sévigné, and the same person who, as secretary of the Convention, read Louis XVI the death sentence delivered by Garat. At the time I knew him, Grouvelle was about thirty-two or thirty-three, and his sister was twenty-five. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance; he dressed very simply, had a gentle face with sparse fair hair, and wore a black band on his head, probably to cover the scars from trepanning. She was also fair, with beautiful hair and blue eyes framed by white eyelashes, which gave her face a sweet expression—though that expression became quite firm when you looked at the lines around her mouth and chin. A charming portrait of her was displayed in her home, painted by Madame Mérimée, the wife of the artist who created the beautiful painting l'innocence et le Serpent; she was the mother of Prosper Mérimée, the author of Le Vase Étrusque, Colomba, Vénus d'Ile, and many other highly regarded novels. Laure Grouvelle’s mother was a Darcet, who I believe was the sister of the chemist Darcet, known for his famous joke about gelatine; so she was also related to the unfortunate Darcet who died a terrible death while experimenting with a new chemical that he was trying to replace lamp oil; she was also a relative of the beautiful Madame Pradier, who was then simply Mademoiselle Darcet or at most called madame. They both had a small fortune that met their needs, as Laure Grouvelle possessed none of the typical feminine vanity, but was more akin to Charlotte Corday.
It was a noticeable fact that all the men of 1830 and the[Pg 46] Carbonari of 1821 and 1822 were either wealthy or of independent means, either from private fortunes or industry or talent. Bastide and Thomas were wealthy; Cavaignac and Guinard lived on their incomes; Arago and Grouvelle had posts; Loëve-Weymars possessed talent and Carrel, genius. I could name all and it would be seen that none of them acted from selfish ends, or needed to bring about revolutions to enrich himself; on the contrary, all lost by the revolutions they took part in, some losing their fortunes, others their liberty, some their lives.
It was clear that all the men of 1830 and the[Pg 46] Carbonari from 1821 and 1822 were either wealthy or financially independent, whether from personal fortunes, business, or talent. Bastide and Thomas were rich; Cavaignac and Guinard lived off their incomes; Arago and Grouvelle held positions; Loëve-Weymars had talent, and Carrel had genius. I could name them all, and it would be evident that none acted out of selfish motives or needed revolutions to get richer; on the contrary, all suffered losses from the revolutions they were involved in, some losing their fortunes, others their freedom, and some their lives.
Mademoiselle Grouvelle had never married, but it was said that Étienne Arago had proposed to her when she was a young girl; that was a long while back, in 1821 or 1822. Étienne Arago was then, in 1821, a student in chemistry at the École polytechnique, and was about twenty years of age; he made the acquaintance of Grouvelle at Thénard's house. He was a fiery-hearted son of the South; his friends were anxious to make him a propagandist, and through his instrumentality principally, to introduce the secret society of the Charbonnerie into the École; Grouvelle, Thénard, Mérilhou and Barthe being its chief supporters.
Mademoiselle Grouvelle had never married, but it was said that Étienne Arago had proposed to her when she was a young girl; that was a long time ago, in 1821 or 1822. Étienne Arago was then, in 1821, a chemistry student at the École polytechnique, and about twenty years old; he met Grouvelle at Thénard's house. He was a passionate young man from the South; his friends were eager to make him a spokesperson and mainly through him, to bring the secret society of the Charbonnerie into the École; Grouvelle, Thénard, Mérilhou, and Barthe were its main supporters.
These germs of Republicanism, sown by the young chemical student, and, even more, by the influence of Eugène Cavaignac, also a student at the École at that time, produced in after life such men as Vanneau, Charras, Lothon, Millotte, Caylus, Latrade, Servient and all that noble race of young men who, from 1830 to 1848, were to be found at the head of every political movement.
These seeds of Republicanism, planted by the young chemistry student, and even more so by the influence of Eugène Cavaignac, who was also a student at the École during that time, led to the emergence of notable figures like Vanneau, Charras, Lothon, Millotte, Caylus, Latrade, Servient, and all those remarkable young men who, from 1830 to 1848, were at the forefront of every political movement.
A year later, La Charbonnerie was recruited by Guinard, Bastide, Chevalon, Thomas, Gauja and many more, who were always first in the field when fighting began.
A year later, La Charbonnerie was recruited by Guinard, Bastide, Chevalon, Thomas, Gauja, and many others, who were always at the front lines when the fighting started.
The question of how to introduce the principles of La Charbonnerie into Spain in the teeth of the cordon sanitaire was being debated, in order to establish relations between the patriots of the army and those who were taking refuge in the peninsula. Étienne Arago was thought of, but as he was too poor to undertake the journey, they went to Mérilhou. Mérilhou,[Pg 47] as I have said, was one of the ringleaders of Charbonarism. He was then living in the rue des Moulins. Cavaignac and Grouvelle introduced Étienne, and Mérilhou gazed at the neophyte, who did not look more than eighteen.
The discussion on how to bring the principles of La Charbonnerie into Spain despite the cordon sanitaire was underway, with the aim of establishing connections between the patriots in the army and those taking refuge in the peninsula. Étienne Arago came to mind, but since he was too broke to make the trip, they approached Mérilhou. Mérilhou,[Pg 47] as I mentioned, was one of the leaders of Charbonarism. At that time, he was living on rue des Moulins. Cavaignac and Grouvelle introduced Étienne, who looked no older than eighteen, to Mérilhou, who examined the newcomer.
"You are very young, my friend," said the cautious lawyer to him.
"You’re really young, my friend," said the careful lawyer to him.
"That may be, monsieur," Étienne responded, "but young though I am, I have been a Charbonist for two years."
"That might be true, sir," Étienne replied, "but even though I'm young, I've been a Charbonist for two years."
"Do you realise to what dangers you would expose yourself if you undertook this propagandist mission?"
"Do you realize what dangers you'd put yourself in if you took on this propaganda mission?"
"Certainly, I do; I expose myself to death on the scaffold."
"Absolutely, I do; I put myself at risk of death on the scaffold."
Whereupon the future minister of Louis-Philippe and peer of France, and presiding judge at the Barbés' trial, laid his hand upon Étienne's shoulder, and said, in the theatrical manner barristers are wont to assume—
Whereupon the future minister of Louis-Philippe and peer of France, and the presiding judge at the Barbés' trial, put his hand on Étienne's shoulder and said, in the dramatic way that lawyers often do—
"Made animo, generose puer!" And gave him the necessary money.
"Stay strong, noble boy!" And handed him the necessary money.
We shall come across M. Mérilhou again at Barbés' trial, and the made animo will not be thrown away upon us.
We will encounter M. Mérilhou again at Barbés' trial, and the made animo won't be wasted on us.
For the moment, however, we must go back to the trial of the ministers.
For now, though, we need to return to the trial of the ministers.
La Fayette had declared his views positively; he had offered himself as guarantee to the High Court; he had sworn to the king to save the heads of the ministers, if they were acquitted. Thereupon ensued a strange revival of popularity in favour of the old general; fear made his greatest enemies sing his praises on all sides; the king and Madame Adélaïde showered favours upon him; he was indispensable; the monarchy could not survive without his support.... If Atlas failed this new Olympus, it would be overthrown!
La Fayette had clearly stated his views; he had offered himself as a guarantor to the High Court; he had promised the king to protect the ministers if they were found not guilty. This led to a surprising resurgence of popularity for the old general; even his biggest enemies were praising him everywhere out of fear; the king and Madame Adélaïde lavished favors on him; he had become essential; the monarchy couldn't survive without his backing.... If Atlas let down this new Olympus, it would all come crashing down!
La Fayette saw through it all and laughed to himself and shrugged his shoulders significantly. None of these flatteries and favours had induced him to act as he did, but simply the dictates of his own conscience.
La Fayette saw right through it all and chuckled to himself, shrugging his shoulders with meaning. None of these compliments or favors had influenced his actions; it was solely his own conscience that guided him.
"General," I said to him on 15 December, "you know you are staking your popularity to save the heads of these ministers?"
"General," I said to him on December 15th, "you realize you’re risking your reputation to protect these ministers?"
"My boy," he replied, "no one knows better than I the price to be put upon popularity; it is the richest and most inestimable of treasure, and the only one I have ever coveted; but, like all other treasures, in life, when the moment comes, one must strip oneself to the uttermost farthing in the interest of public welfare and national honour."
"My boy," he said, "no one understands better than I how much popularity is worth; it's the most valuable and priceless treasure, and the only thing I've ever wanted. But, like all other treasures in life, when the time comes, you have to give everything you have for the sake of public good and national honor."
General La Fayette certainly acted nobly, much too nobly, indeed, for the deserts of those for whom he made the sacrifice, for they only attributed it to weakness instead of to devotion to duty.
General La Fayette definitely acted with great nobility, far too nobly, in fact, for the worthiness of those he sacrificed for, as they only saw it as weakness rather than as a commitment to duty.
The streets in the vicinity of the Luxembourg were dreadfully congested by the crowds waiting during the trial, so that the troops of the National Guard could scarcely circulate through them. Troops of the line and National Guards were, at the command of La Fayette, placed at his disposition with plenary power; he had the police of the Palais-Royal, of the Luxembourg and of the Chamber of Peers. He had made Colonel Lavocat second in command at the Luxembourg, with orders to watch over the safety of the peers; those same peers who had once condemned Lavocat to death. If he could but have evoked the shade of Ney, he would have placed him as sentinel at the gates of the palace!
The streets around the Luxembourg were packed with crowds waiting during the trial, making it nearly impossible for the National Guard troops to move through. Troops from the line and National Guards were put under La Fayette's command with full authority; he had control over the police at the Palais-Royal, the Luxembourg, and the Chamber of Peers. He appointed Colonel Lavocat as second in command at the Luxembourg, tasked with ensuring the safety of the peers—those same peers who had once sentenced Lavocat to death. If only he could have summoned the ghost of Ney, he would have stationed him as a guard at the palace gates!
Colonel Feisthamel was first in command. Lavocat was one of the oldest members of the Carbonari. Every kind of political party was represented in the crowd that besieged the gates of the Luxembourg, except Orléanist; we all rubbed against one another. Republicans, Carlists, Napoléonists, awaiting events in the hope of being able to further each his own interests, opinions and principles. We had tickets for reserved seats. I was present on the last day but one, and heard the pleading of M. de Martignac and also that of M. de Peyronnet, and I witnessed M. Sauzet's triumph and saw M. Crémieux fall ill.
Colonel Feisthamel was in charge. Lavocat was one of the oldest members of the Carbonari. Every type of political party was represented in the crowd that surrounded the gates of the Luxembourg, except for the Orléanists; we all jostled against each other. Republicans, Carlists, Napoléonists were waiting for events to unfold, hoping to advance their own interests, opinions, and principles. We had tickets for reserved seats. I was there on the day before the last, and I heard M. de Martignac's passionate speech and M. de Peyronnet's as well, and I witnessed M. Sauzet's success and saw M. Crémieux fall ill.
Just at that second the sound of the beating of drums penetrated right into the Chamber of Peers. They were beating the rappel in a wild sort of frenzy.
Just then, the sound of drums crashed into the Chamber of Peers. They were beating the rappel in a wild frenzy.
I rushed from the hall; the sitting was almost suspended,[Pg 49] half on account of the accident that had happened to M. Crémieux, half because of the terrible noise that made the accused men shiver on their benches and the judges in their seats. My uniform as artilleryman made way for me through the crowds, and I gained the courtyard; it was packed. A coach belonging to the king's printers had come into the principal court and the multitude had angrily rushed in after it. It was the sound of their angry growls combined with the drumming which had reached the hall. A moment of inexpressible panic and confusion succeeded among the peers, and it was quite useless for Colonel Lavocat to shout from the door—
I rushed out of the hall; the session was practically on hold,[Pg 49] partly because of the incident with M. Crémieux, and partly due to the deafening noise that made the accused shiver in their seats and the judges uneasy. My artillery uniform helped me navigate through the crowd as I made my way to the courtyard, which was crowded. A coach belonging to the king's printers had entered the main court, and the mob had angrily followed in behind it. Their furious murmurs mixed with the banging that had echoed into the hall. There was a moment of intense panic and confusion among the peers, and it was pointless for Colonel Lavocat to shout from the door—
"Have no fear! I will be answerable for everything. The National Guard is and will remain in possession of all the exits."
"Don't worry! I'll take responsibility for everything. The National Guard is and will stay in control of all the exits."
M. Pasquier could not hear him, and his little thin shrill voice could be heard saying—
M. Pasquier couldn't hear him, and his small, high-pitched voice could be heard saying—
"Messieurs les pairs, the sitting is dissolved. M. le Commandant de la Garde Nationale warns me that it will be unwise to hold a night sitting."
"Men of the Senate, the session is over. Mr. Commander of the National Guard alerts me that it would be unwise to hold a night session."
It was exactly the opposite of what Colonel Lavocat had said, but, as most of the peers were just as frightened as their illustrious president, they rose and left the hall hurriedly, and the sitting was deferred until the morrow.
It was exactly the opposite of what Colonel Lavocat had said, but, as most of the peers were just as scared as their distinguished president, they got up and left the hall quickly, and the meeting was postponed until tomorrow.
As I went out I pushed against a man who seemed to be one of the most furious of the rioters; he was shouting in a foreign accent and his mouth was hideous and his eyes were wild.
As I stepped outside, I bumped into a man who looked like one of the angriest rioters; he was yelling in a foreign accent, and his face was ugly while his eyes were crazed.
"Death to the ministers!" he was yelling.
"Death to the ministers!" he shouted.
"Oh! by Jove!" I said to the chief editor of The Moniteur, a little white-haired man called Sauvo, who, like myself, was also watching him. "I bet twenty-five louis that that man is a spy!"
"Oh! I swear!" I said to the chief editor of The Moniteur, a little old man named Sauvo, who, like me, was also watching him. "I bet twenty-five louis that guy is a spy!"
I don't know whether I was right at the time; but I do know that I found the very same man again five years later in the dock of the Court of Peers. He was the Corsican Fieschi.
I don't know if I was right back then; but I do know that I found the same man again five years later in the dock of the Court of Peers. He was the Corsican Fieschi.
CHAPTER VI
The artillerymen at the Louvre—Bonapartist plot to take our cannon from us—Distribution of cartridges by Godefroy Cavaignac—The concourse of people outside the Luxembourg when the ministers were sentenced—Departure of the condemned for Vincennes—Defeat of the judges—La Fayette and the riot—Bastide and Commandant Barré on guard with Prosper Mérimée
The gunners at the Louvre—Bonapartist plan to seize our cannons—Godefroy Cavaignac distributing cartridges—The crowd outside the Luxembourg when the ministers were sentenced—The condemned leaving for Vincennes—The judges' failure—La Fayette and the riot—Bastide and Commandant Barré on duty with Prosper Mérimée
I returned to the Louvre to learn news and to impart it. It is quite impossible to depict the excitement which reigned in this headquarters of the artillery. Our chief colonel, Joubert, had been taken away from us, and, as the choice of a colonel was not in our hands, he had been replaced by Comte Pernetti.
I went back to the Louvre to get updates and share information. It's really hard to describe the excitement that filled this artillery headquarters. Our main colonel, Joubert, had been taken away from us, and since we didn't have a say in who our new colonel would be, he was replaced by Comte Pernetti.
Comte Pernetti was devoted to the court, and the court, with just cause, mistrusted us, and looked for a chance to disband us.
Comte Pernetti was loyal to the court, and the court, with good reason, was suspicious of us and looked for an opportunity to break us up.
But we, on our side, every minute kept meeting men whom we had seen upon the barricades, who stopped us to ask—
But we, on our side, kept running into guys we had seen on the barricades, who stopped us to ask—
"Do you recognise us? We were there with you...."
"Do you recognize us? We were there with you...."
"Yes, I recognise you. What then?"
"Yeah, I see you. So what now?"
"Well, if it came to marching against the Palais-Royal as we did against the Tuileries, would you desert us?"
"Well, if it came down to marching against the Palais-Royal like we did against the Tuileries, would you abandon us?"
And then we clasped hands and looked at one another with excited eyes and parted, the artillerymen exclaiming—
And then we held hands and looked at each other with excited eyes and said goodbye, the artillerymen shouting—
"The people are rising!" While the populace repeated to one another, "The artillery is with us!"
"The people are rising!" The crowd echoed to each other, "The artillery is with us!"
All these rumours were floating in the air, and seemed to stop like mists at the highest buildings.
All these rumors were in the air, and they seemed to settle like fog on the tallest buildings.
The Palais-Royal was only a hundred and fifty yards from the Louvre, in which were twenty-four pieces of artillery, twenty[Pg 51] thousand rounds of ammunition, and out of eight hundred artillerymen six hundred were Republicans.
The Palais-Royal was just a hundred and fifty yards from the Louvre, which housed twenty-four pieces of artillery, twenty[Pg 51] thousand rounds of ammunition, and out of eight hundred artillerymen, six hundred were Republicans.
No scheme of conspiracy had been arranged; but it was plainly evident that, if the people rose, the artillery would support them. M. de Montalivet, brother of the minister, warned his brother, about one o'clock that afternoon, that there was a plot arranged for carrying off our guns from us. General La Fayette immediately warned Godefroy Cavaignac of the information that had been given him.
No conspiracy had been planned, but it was clear that if the people rebelled, the artillery would back them up. M. de Montalivet, the minister's brother, informed his brother around one o'clock that afternoon that there was a scheme to take our guns. General La Fayette quickly alerted Godefroy Cavaignac about the information he had received.
Now, we were quite willing to go with the people to manage our own guns, and incur the risks of a second revolution, as we had run the risks of the first; but the guns were, in a measure, our own property, and we felt responsible for their safe keeping, so we did not incline to have them taken out of our hands.
Now, we were more than willing to go with the people to handle our own guns and take on the risks of a second revolution, just as we had faced the risks of the first. However, the guns were partly our own property, and we felt responsible for keeping them safe, so we weren't inclined to let them be taken from us.
This rumour of a sudden attack upon the Louvre gained the readier credence as, for two or three days past, there had been much talk of a Bonapartist plot; and, although we were all ready to fight for La Fayette and the Republic, we had no intentions of risking a hair of our heads for Napoléon II. Consequently, Godefroy Cavaignac, being warned, had brought in a bale of two or three hundred cartridges, which he flung on one of the card-tables in the guardroom. Every man then proceeded to fill his pouch and pockets. When I reached the Louvre, the division had been made, but it did not matter, as my pouch had been full since the day I had been summoned to seize the Chamber.
This rumor of a sudden attack on the Louvre gained credibility since, for the past couple of days, there had been a lot of talk about a Bonapartist plot; and while we were all prepared to fight for La Fayette and the Republic, we had no intention of risking our lives for Napoléon II. As a result, Godefroy Cavaignac, having been warned, brought in a bundle of two or three hundred cartridges, which he tossed onto one of the card tables in the guardroom. Every man then began to fill his pouch and pockets. By the time I reached the Louvre, the division had already been made, but that didn’t matter, as my pouch had been full since the day I was called to take over the Chamber.
As would be expected, we had no end of spies among us, and I could mention two in particular who received the Cross of the Légion d'honneur for having filled that honourable office in our ranks.
As expected, we had no shortage of spies among us, and I could specifically name two who were awarded the Cross of the Légion d'honneur for serving in that honorable position in our ranks.
An hour after this distribution of cartridges they were warned at the Palais-Royal. A quarter of an hour after they had been warned there, I received a letter from Oudard, begging me, if I was at the Louvre, to go instantly to his office. I showed the letter to our comrades and asked them what I was to do.
An hour after they handed out the cartridges, they got a warning at the Palais-Royal. Fifteen minutes after that warning, I received a letter from Oudard, asking me to come right away to his office if I was at the Louvre. I showed the letter to our friends and asked them what I should do.
"Go, of course," answered Cavaignac.
"Sure, go ahead," answered Cavaignac.
"But if they question me—?"
"But what if they ask me—?"
"Tell the truth. If the Bonapartists want to seize our guns we will fire our last cartridges to defend them; but, if the people rise against the Luxembourg, or even against any other palace, we will march with them."
"Be honest. If the Bonapartists try to take our guns, we will use our last bullets to protect them; but if the people are against the Luxembourg, or any other palace, we will join them."
"That suits me down to the ground. I like plain speaking."
"That works perfectly for me. I appreciate straightforward talk."
So I went to the Palais-Royal. The offices were crowded with people; one could feel the excitement running through from the centre to the outlying extremities, and, judging from the state of agitation of the extremities, the centre must have been very much excited. Oudard questioned me; that was the only reason why he had sent for me. I repeated what Cavaignac had told me, word for word. As far as I can recollect, this happened on the evening of the 20th. On the 21st I resumed my post in the rue de Tournon. The crowd was denser than ever: the rue de Tournon, the rues de Seine, des Fossés-Monsieur-le-Prince, Voltaire, the places de l'Odéon, Saint-Michel and l'École-de-Médecine, were filled to overflowing with National Guards and troops of the line. The National Guard had been made to believe that there was a plot for plundering the shops; that the people of the July Revolution, when pulled up by the appointment of the Duc d'Orléans to the Lieutenant-generalship, had vowed to be revenged; now, the bourgeois, ever ready to believe rumours of this kind, had rushed up in masses and uttered terrible threats against pillagers, who had never pillaged either on the 27th, the 28th, or the 29th, but who would have pillaged on the 30th, if the creation of the Lieutenant-generalship had not restored order just in time.
So I went to the Palais-Royal. The offices were packed with people; you could feel the excitement spreading from the center to the outer edges, and judging by the restlessness of those edges, the center must have been really fired up. Oudard asked me questions; that was the only reason he called me in. I repeated what Cavaignac had told me, word for word. As far as I can remember, this was on the evening of the 20th. On the 21st, I went back to my post on the rue de Tournon. The crowd was thicker than ever: the rue de Tournon, the rues de Seine, des Fossés-Monsieur-le-Prince, Voltaire, and the places de l'Odéon, Saint-Michel, and l'École-de-Médecine were overflowing with National Guards and troops. The National Guard had been led to believe there was a plot to loot the shops; that the people from the July Revolution, outraged by the appointment of the Duc d'Orléans as Lieutenant-general, had sworn revenge; and so, the bourgeoisie, always quick to believe rumors like this, surged in masses and uttered fierce threats against looters, who had never plundered on the 27th, 28th, or 29th, but would have looted on the 30th if the establishment of the Lieutenant-generalship hadn't restored order just in time.
It is but fair to mention that all those excellent fellows, who were waiting there, with rifles at rest, would not have put themselves out to wait unless they had really believed that the trial would end in a sentence of capital punishment.
It’s only fair to mention that all those great guys who were waiting there with their rifles at the ready wouldn’t have bothered to wait if they didn't truly believe that the trial would result in a death sentence.
About two o'clock it was announced that the counsels' speeches were finished and the debates closed, and that sentence was going to be pronounced. There was an intense[Pg 53] silence, as though each person was afraid that any sound might prevent him from hearing the great voice, that, no doubt, like that of the angel of the day of judgment, should pronounce the supreme sentence of that High Court of Justice.
About two o'clock, it was announced that the lawyers' speeches were done and the debates were over, and that the sentence was about to be given. There was a tense[Pg 53] silence, as if everyone was afraid that any noise might stop them from hearing the powerful voice that would, like the angel on judgment day, deliver the final verdict of that High Court of Justice.
Suddenly, some men rushed out of the Luxembourg and dashed down the rue de Tournon crying—
Suddenly, some guys bolted out of the Luxembourg and ran down the rue de Tournon shouting—
"To death! They are sentenced to death!"
"To death! They’re sentenced to death!"
A stupendous uproar went up in response from every ray of that vast constellation of streets that centres in the Luxembourg.
A tremendous noise erupted from every corner of that vast network of streets that converges in the Luxembourg.
Everybody struggled to make a way out to his own quarter and house to be the first to carry the bitter news. But they soon stayed their progress and the multitude seemed to be driven back again and to press towards the Luxembourg like a stream flowing backwards. Another rumour had got abroad; that the ministers, instead of being condemned to death, had only been sentenced to imprisonment for life; and that the report of the penalty of death had been purposely spread to give them a chance to escape.
Everyone tried to get back to their own neighborhoods and homes to be the first to share the bad news. But they quickly halted and the crowd seemed to be pushed back, moving toward the Luxembourg like a river flowing in reverse. Another rumor started circulating; that the ministers, instead of facing the death penalty, were only sentenced to life in prison, and that the report of the death sentence had been intentionally spread to give them a chance to escape.
The expression of people's faces changed and menacing shouts began to resound; the National Guards struck the pavements with the butt-end of their rifles. They had come to defend the peers but seemed quite ready when they heard the news of the acquittal (and any punishment short of death was acquittal) to attack the peers.
The looks on people's faces changed, and threatening shouts started to echo; the National Guards hit the ground with the butts of their rifles. They had come to protect the peers but seemed more than ready to turn on them when they heard the news of the acquittal (and any punishment less than death was considered acquittal).
Meanwhile, this is what was happening inside. It was known beforehand, in the Palais-Royal, that the sentence was to be one of imprisonment for life. M. de Montalivet, Minister of the Interior, had received orders from the king to have the ex-ministers conducted safe and sound to Vincennes. The firing of a cannon when they had crossed the drawbridge of the château was to tell the king of their safety. M. de Montalivet had chosen General Falvier and Colonel Lavocat to share this dangerous honour with him. When he saw the four ministers appearing, who had been removed from the hall in order that, according to custom, sentence should be pronounced in their absence—
Meanwhile, this is what was going on inside. It was already known at the Palais-Royal that the sentence would be life imprisonment. M. de Montalivet, the Minister of the Interior, had received orders from the king to ensure the ex-ministers were safely taken to Vincennes. A cannon would be fired once they crossed the drawbridge of the château to inform the king of their safe arrival. M. de Montalivet had picked General Falvier and Colonel Lavocat to share this risky responsibility with him. When he saw the four ministers appearing, who had been removed from the hall so that, according to custom, the sentence could be pronounced in their absence—
"Messieurs," said General Falvier to Colonel Lavocat,[Pg 54] "take heed! we are going to make history; let us see to it that it redounds to the glory of France!"
" gentlemen," General Falvier said to Colonel Lavocat,[Pg 54] "pay attention! We're about to make history; let’s ensure it brings glory to France!"
A light carriage awaited the prisoners outside the wicket-gate of the petit Luxembourg. It was at this juncture that some men, set there by M. de Montalivet, rushed through the main gateway, shouting, as we have mentioned—
A light carriage was waiting for the prisoners outside the small gate of the petit Luxembourg. It was at this point that some men, placed there by M. de Montalivet, rushed through the main gate, shouting, as we have mentioned—
"Death.... They are sentenced to death!"
"Death... They’re facing the death penalty!"
The prisoners could hear the tremendous shout of triumph that went up at that false report. But the carriage, surrounded by two hundred horsemen, had already set off, and was driving towards the outlying boulevards with the speed and noise of a hurricane.
The prisoners could hear the enormous cheer of victory that erupted from that false report. But the carriage, flanked by two hundred horsemen, had already taken off and was racing toward the outskirts with the speed and noise of a hurricane.
MM. de Montalivet and Lavocat galloped at each side of the doors.
MM. de Montalivet and Lavocat rode alongside the doors.
The judges assembled in the Rubens gallery to deliberate. From there, they could see, as far as eye could reach, the bristling of cannons and bayonets and the seething agitation of the crowds. Night was fast approaching, but the inmates of every house had put lamps in their windows and a bright illumination succeeded the waning daylight, adding a still more lurid character to the scene.
The judges gathered in the Rubens gallery to discuss their decisions. From that spot, they could see, as far as the eye could reach, the array of cannons and bayonets and the restless crowds. Night was quickly approaching, but every household had placed lamps in their windows, and a bright light filled the space, making the scene even more intense as daylight faded.
Suddenly, the peers heard an uproar; they saw, one might almost say they felt, the terrible agitation going on outside: each wave of that sea, that had broken or was just ready to break, rose higher than the last; and the tide that one thought was at the ebb, returned with greater and more threatening force than ever, beating against the powerfully built walls of the Médicis palace: but the judges were fully aware that no walls or barriers or ramparts could stand against the strength of the ocean; they each tried to find some pretext or other for slipping away: some did not even attempt any excuse for so doing. M. Pasquier, by comparison, was the bravest, and felt ashamed of their retreat.
Suddenly, the group heard a commotion; they saw, or rather felt, the intense turmoil happening outside: each wave of that sea, which had crashed or was about to crash, rose higher than the last; and the tide that they thought was receding came back with an even greater and more threatening force, crashing against the strong walls of the Médicis palace. The judges knew that no walls, barriers, or fortifications could withstand the power of the ocean; they each tried to find some excuse to leave: some didn’t even bother to come up with a reason. M. Pasquier, in comparison, was the bravest and felt ashamed of their retreat.
"It is unseemly!" he exclaimed; "shut the doors!"
"It’s unacceptable!" he shouted; "close the doors!"
But La Layette was informed, at the same time, that the people were rushing upon the palace.
But La Layette was informed, at the same time, that the crowd was storming the palace.
"Messieurs," he said, turning to the three or four persons[Pg 55] who awaited his commands, "will you come with me to see what is going on?"
"Gentlemen," he said, turning to the three or four people[Pg 55] who were waiting for his orders, "will you follow me to see what's happening?"
Thus, whilst M. Pasquier was returning to the audience chamber, which was nearly deserted, to pronounce, by the dismal light of a half-lighted chandelier, the sentence condemning the accused to imprisonment for life and punishing the Prince de Polignac to civil death, the man of 1789 and of 1830 was making his appearance in the streets, as calm on that 21 December, as he announced to the people the quasi-absolution of the ex-ministers, as he had been forty years before, when he announced, to the fathers of those who were listening to him then, the flight of the king to Varennes.
Thus, while M. Pasquier was making his way back to the nearly empty audience chamber to deliver, by the dim light of a half-lit chandelier, the sentence condemning the accused to life imprisonment and punishing the Prince de Polignac with civil death, the spirit of 1789 and 1830 was emerging in the streets, as calm on that December 21 as he had been when he announced to the people the near-absolution of the former ministers, just as he had been forty years earlier when he informed the fathers of those now listening about the king's flight to Varennes.
For a single instant it seemed as though the noble old man had presumed too much on the magnanimity of the crowd and on his popularity: for the waves of that ocean which, at first, made way respectfully before him, now gathered round him angrily. A threatening growl ran through the multitude, which knew its power and had but to make a move to grind everything to powder or smash everything like glass.
For a brief moment, it felt like the noble old man had overestimated the generosity of the crowd and his own popularity: the waves of that ocean, which had initially parted respectfully for him, now surged around him in anger. A menacing murmur spread through the crowd, which recognized its strength and could easily crush everything to dust or shatter it like glass with just a slight action.
Cries of "Death to the ministers! Put them to death! Put them to death!" were uttered on all sides.
Cries of "Death to the ministers! Kill them! Kill them!" were heard everywhere.
La Fayette tried to speak but loud imprecations drowned his voice.
La Fayette tried to speak, but loud curses drowned him out.
At last he succeeded in being heard, and, "Citizens, I do not recognise among you the heroes of July!" he said to the people.
At last, he managed to get their attention and said, "Citizens, I don’t see the heroes of July among you!"
"No wonder!" replied a voice; "how could you, seeing you were not on their side!"
"No surprise!" replied a voice; "how could you, since you weren't on their side!"
It was a critical moment; there were only four or five of us artillerymen all together. M. Sarrans, who accompanied the general, signed to us to come up to him, and thanks to our uniform, which the people held in respect as a sign of the opposition party, we managed to make our way to the general, who, recognising me, took me by the arm; other patriots joined us, and La Fayette found himself surrounded by a party of friends, amongst whom he could breathe freely.
It was a crucial moment; there were only four or five of us artillerymen together. M. Sarrans, who was with the general, signaled for us to join him, and because of our uniform, which people respected as a symbol of the opposition party, we were able to get to the general, who, recognizing me, took me by the arm; other supporters joined us, and La Fayette found himself surrounded by a group of friends, among whom he could feel relaxed.
But, on all sides, the National Guards were furious, and were[Pg 56] deserting their posts, some loading their rifles, others flinging them down and all crying out treason.
But, all around, the National Guards were furious and were[Pg 56] deserting their posts, some loading their rifles, others throwing them down and all shouting treason.
At this moment, the sound of a cannon pierced the air like the explosion of a thunderbolt. It was M. de Montalivet's signal announcing to the king that the ministers were in safety; but we in our ignorance, thought it was a signal sent us by our comrades in the Louvre; we left the general and, drawing our poinards, we rushed across the Pont Neuf, crying: "To arms!" At our shouts and the sight of our uniform and the naked swords, the people opened way for us at once and soon began running in all directions, yelling: "To arms!" We reached the Louvre just as the porters were closing the gates and, pushing back both keepers and gates, we entered by storm. Let them shut the gates behind us, once inside what would it matter? There were about six hundred artillerymen inside the Louvre. I flew into the guardroom on the left of the entrance by the gateway in the place Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois.
At that moment, the sound of a cannon split the air like a thunderclap. It was M. de Montalivet's signal letting the king know that the ministers were safe; but in our ignorance, we thought it was a signal from our friends in the Louvre. We left the general and, drawing our daggers, rushed across the Pont Neuf, shouting, "To arms!" At our cries and the sight of our uniforms and drawn swords, the crowd cleared a path for us and soon began running in every direction, yelling, "To arms!" We arrived at the Louvre just as the porters were closing the gates, and pushing back both the guards and the gates, we forced our way in. Once inside, what would it matter if they shut the gates behind us? There were about six hundred artillerymen inside the Louvre. I dashed into the guardroom on the left of the entrance by the gateway in place Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois.
The news of the discharge of the ministers was already known and had produced its effect. Every one looked as though he were walking upon a volcano. I saw Adjutant Richy go up to Bastide and whisper something into his ear.
The news about the ministers being let go was already out and had made an impact. Everyone looked like they were walking on eggshells. I saw Adjutant Richy approach Bastide and whisper something in his ear.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Bastide.
"That's impossible!" Bastide exclaimed.
"See for yourself, then," Richy added.
"See for yourself, then," Richy said.
Bastide went out hurriedly and, almost immediately after, we heard him shout: "Help, men of the Third Artillery!"
Bastide rushed out, and almost right after, we heard him shout, "Help, guys from the Third Artillery!"
But before he had time to cross the threshold of the guardroom he had climbed over the park chains and was making straight for a group of men, who, in spite of the sentry's orders, had got into the enclosure reserved for the guns.
But before he had a chance to step into the guardroom, he had climbed over the park chains and was heading straight for a group of men who, despite the sentry's orders, had entered the area reserved for the guns.
"Out of the park!" shrieked Bastide; "out of the park instantly or I will put my sword through the bodies of every one of you!"
"Get out of the park!" yelled Bastide; "get out of the park right now or I'll run my sword through all of you!"
"Captain Bastide," said one of the men to whom he had addressed his threat, "I am Commandant Barré ..."
"Captain Bastide," said one of the men he had threatened, "I am Commandant Barré ..."
"If you are the very devil himself it makes no difference![Pg 57] Our orders are that no one shall enter the park, so out you go!"
"If you're the devil himself, it doesn't matter![Pg 57] Our rules say no one can enter the park, so you need to leave!"
"Excuse me," said Barré, "but I should much like to know who is in command here, you or I?"
"Excuse me," Barré said, "but I'd really like to know who's in charge here, you or me?"
"Whoever is the stronger commands here at present.... I do not recognise you.... Help, artillerymen!"
"Whoever is in charge here now is the strongest.... I don’t recognize you.... Help, artillerymen!"
Fifty of us surrounded Bastide with poinards in hand. Several had found time to take their loaded muskets from their racks. Barré gave in to us.
Fifty of us surrounded Bastide with daggers in hand. Some had taken the time to grab their loaded muskets from their racks. Barré gave in to us.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"To take any gun that comes handiest and make it ready for firing!" exclaimed Bastide.
"To grab any gun that's closest and get it ready to fire!" exclaimed Bastide.
We flung ourselves on the first that came; but, at the third revolution of the wheels, the washer broke and the wheel came off.
We threw ourselves on the first one that came; but, on the third turn of the wheels, the washer broke and the wheel came off.
"I want you to fetch me the linch-pins of the guns you have just carried off."
"I want you to bring me the linchpins of the guns you just took."
"Really ..."
"Seriously ..."
"Those linch-pins, or, I repeat, I will pass my sword through your body!"
"Those linchpins, or I swear, I will run my sword through you!"
Barré emptied a sack in which some ten linch-pins had been already put. We rushed at them and put our guns in order again.
Barré dumped out a sack that already had about ten linch-pins inside. We rushed at them and organized our guns again.
"Good," said Bastide. "Now, out of the park!"
"Good," said Bastide. "Now, let’s get out of the park!"
Every one of them went out and Barré went straight off to offer his command to Comte Pernetti, who declined to take it.
Every one of them went out, and Barré went right away to offer his command to Comte Pernetti, who refused to accept it.
Bastide left me to keep guard over the park with Mérimée: our orders were to fire on anybody who came near it, and who, at our second qui vive, did not come up at command.
Bastide left me to watch over the park with Mérimée: we were instructed to shoot anyone who approached it and who, when we called out a second time, did not come forward as commanded.
From that hour on sentry-duty (they had reduced the length of sentry hours to one, on account of the gravity of events) dated my acquaintance with Mérimée; we conversed part of the time, and strange to say, under those circumstances, of art and literature and architecture.
From that hour on sentry duty (they had shortened the sentry hours to one, because of the seriousness of events) began my friendship with Mérimée; we talked for part of the time, and oddly enough, under those circumstances, about art, literature, and architecture.
Ten years later, Mérimée, who, no doubt, recollecting what he had wished to tell me that night, namely, that I had the most dramatic imagination he had ever come across, thought[Pg 58] fit to suggest to M. de Rémusat, then Minister of the Interior, that I should be asked to write a comedy for the Théâtre-Français.
Ten years later, Mérimée, who surely remembered what he wanted to tell me that night—that I had the most dramatic imagination he had ever encountered—thought[Pg 58] it would be a good idea to suggest to M. de Rémusat, who was then the Minister of the Interior, that I should be invited to write a comedy for the Théâtre-Français.
M. de Rémusat wrote to ask me for a play, enclosing an order for an advance of five thousand francs. A month afterwards, Un Marriage sous Louis XV. was composed, read and rejected by the Théâtre-Français. In due order, I will relate the story of Un Manage sous Louis XV. (the younger brother of Antony) at greater length; it proved as difficult to launch as Antony. But, meanwhile, let us return to that night at the Louvre.
M. de Rémusat wrote to request a play, including a request for an advance of five thousand francs. A month later, Un Marriage sous Louis XV. was written, read, and turned down by the Théâtre-Français. In due course, I will tell the story of Un Marriage sous Louis XV. (the younger sibling of Antony) in more detail; it turned out to be just as hard to get published as Antony. But for now, let’s go back to that night at the Louvre.
CHAPTER VII
We are surrounded in the Louvre courtyard—Our ammunition taken by surprise—Proclamation of the Écoles—Letter of Louis-Philippe to La Fayette—The Chamber vote of thanks to the Colleges—Protest of the École polytechnique—Discussion at the Chamber upon the General Commandership of the National Guard—Resignation of La Fayette—The king's reply—I am appointed second captain
We're gathered in the Louvre courtyard—Our supplies surprised us—Announcement from the Schools—Letter from Louis-Philippe to La Fayette—The Chamber thanks the Colleges—Protest from the École polytechnique—Debate in the Chamber about the General Command of the National Guard—La Fayette's resignation—The king's response—I’ve been appointed as second captain.
During my hour on sentry-go, a great number of artillerymen had come in; we were almost our full complement. Some, cloaked in mantles, had gained entrance by the gate on the Carrousel side, although we had been told it had been closed by order of the Governor of the Louvre. We were afterwards assured that the Duc d'Orléans was among the number of the cloaked artillerymen; doubtless, with his usual courage, he wanted to judge for himself of the temper of the corps to which he was attached. Just as I re-entered the guardroom, everything was in a frightful state of commotion; it looked as though the battle was going to break out in the midst of the very artillery itself, and as though the first shots would be exchanged between brothers-in-arms. One artilleryman, whose name I have forgotten, jumped up on a table and began to read a proclamation that he had just drawn up: it was an appeal to arms. Scarcely had he read a line before Grille de Beuzelin, who belonged to the reactionary party, snatched it from his hands and tore it up. The artilleryman drew his dagger and the affair would probably have ended tragically, when one of our number rushed into the guardroom, shouting—
During my hour on watch, a lot of artillerymen had come in; we were almost at full strength. Some, draped in cloaks, managed to get in through the gate on the Carrousel side, even though we had been told it was closed by the Governor of the Louvre. We were later told that the Duc d'Orléans was among those cloaked artillerymen; surely, with his usual bravery, he wanted to assess the mood of the unit he was part of. Just as I walked back into the guardroom, everything was in chaos; it looked like a battle was about to break out right among the artillery, as if the first shots would be fired between comrades. One artilleryman, whose name I've forgotten, jumped up on a table and started reading a proclamation he had just written: it was a call to arms. He had barely read a line when Grille de Beuzelin, who was with the reactionary party, snatched it from him and ripped it up. The artilleryman drew his dagger, and things were about to get serious when one of our guys burst into the guardroom, shouting—
"We are surrounded by the National Guard and troops of the line!"
"We're surrounded by the National Guard and regular troops!"
There was a simultaneous cry of "To our guns!"
There was a simultaneous shout of "To our guns!"
To make a way through the cordon that surrounded us did not disconcert us at all, for we had more than once vied in skill and quickness with the artillerymen of Vincennes. Moreover, at the first gunshot in Paris, as we knew very well, the people would rally to our side. They had come to see what terms we could offer. The artillerymen who were not of our opinion had withdrawn to that portion of the Louvre nearest the Tuileries: there were about a hundred and fifty of them. Unfortunately, or, rather, fortunately, we learned all at once that the cellars where we kept our ammunition were empty. The Governor of the Louvre, foreseeing the events that I have just related, had had it all taken away during the day. We had therefore no means of attack or defence beyond our muskets and six or eight cartridges per man. But these means of defence would seem to have been formidable enough to make them do nothing more than surround us. We spent the night in expectation of being attacked at any moment. Those of us who slept did so with their muskets between their legs. The day broke and found us still ready for action. The situation gradually turned from tragedy to comedy: the bakers, wine-sellers and pork—butchers instantly made their little speculation out of the position of things and assured us we should not have to surrender from famine. We might be compared to a menagerie of wild beasts shut up for the public safety. The resemblance was the more striking when the people began to gaze at us through the barred windows. Amongst those who came were friends who brought us the latest news. Drums were beating in every quarter—though that was not news to us, for we could hear them perfectly well for ourselves—but the drummers did not grow tired.
Making our way through the cordon surrounding us didn’t faze us at all, since we had competed multiple times in skills and speed with the artillerymen from Vincennes. Plus, we knew that when the first gunshot went off in Paris, the people would rally to our side. They had come to see what terms we could offer. The artillerymen who disagreed with us had moved to the part of the Louvre closest to the Tuileries: there were about a hundred and fifty of them. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, we suddenly found out that the cellars where we stored our ammunition were empty. The Governor of the Louvre, anticipating the events I just described, had had it all removed during the day. We therefore had no means of attack or defense beyond our muskets and six or eight cartridges per person. Yet, these means of defense seemed formidable enough to deter them from doing anything more than surrounding us. We spent the night anticipating an attack at any moment. Those of us who slept did so with our muskets between our legs. Daybreak found us still ready for action. The situation gradually shifted from tragedy to comedy: bakers, wine-sellers, and pork-butcher shops quickly took advantage of our predicament and assured us we wouldn’t have to surrender due to starvation. We could be compared to a menagerie of wild beasts kept for public safety. The resemblance became even more striking when people began to peer at us through the barred windows. Among those who came were friends bringing us the latest news. Drums were beating in every neighborhood—though that was no surprise to us, as we could hear them perfectly well ourselves—but the drummers did not grow tired.
Up to noon, the situation of the king, politically, was serious; at that hour no decision had been arrived at either for or against him. General La Fayette had, however, published this proclamation—
Up until noon, the king's political situation was serious; by that time, no decision had been made either in his favor or against him. General La Fayette had, however, released this proclamation—
"Order of the Day, 21 December
"Order of the Day, December 21"
"The Commander-in-Chief is unable to find words to express the feelings of his heart in order to show to his brethren in arms of the National Guard and of the line his admiration and his gratitude for the zeal, the steadiness and the devotion they displayed during the painful events of yesterday. He was quite aware that his confidence in their patriotism would be justified on every occasion; but he regrets exceedingly the toils and discomforts to which they are exposed; he would gladly forestall them hut he can only share them. We all of us feel equally the need of protecting the capital against its enemies and against anarchy, of assuring the safety of families and property, of preventing our revolution from being stained by crimes and our honour impugned. We are all as one man jointly and severally answerable for the carrying out of these sacred duties; and, amidst the sorrow which yesterday's disorders and those promised for to-day cause him, the Commander-in-Chief finds great consolation and perfect security in the kindly feelings he bears towards his brave and dear comrades of liberty and public order.
"The Commander-in-Chief struggles to find the right words to express his heartfelt feelings and show his fellow soldiers in the National Guard and regular army his admiration and gratitude for their enthusiasm, reliability, and commitment during the challenging events of yesterday. He knows his trust in their patriotism will always be validated; however, he deeply regrets the hardships and discomforts they endure. He wishes he could spare them from these challenges, but all he can do is share in their struggles. We all feel the same urgency to protect the capital from its enemies and from chaos, to ensure the safety of families and property, and to prevent our revolution from being tarnished by crimes and our honor being questioned. We are all collectively responsible for fulfilling these essential duties; and amidst the sorrow caused by yesterday’s unrest and the potential troubles of today, the Commander-in-Chief finds great comfort and reassurance in the strong feelings he holds for his brave and valued comrades in the fight for freedom and public order."
"LA FAYETTE"
"LA FAYETTE"
At one o'clock we learnt that students, with cards in their hats, and students from the École in uniform were going all over the town together with the National Guards of the 12th legion, urging all to moderation. At the same time, placards, signed by four students (one from each College), were stuck up on all the walls. Here is the literal rendering of one of them—
At one o'clock, we found out that students, wearing cards in their hats, along with students from the École in uniforms, were going around the town together with the National Guards of the 12th legion, encouraging everyone to be moderate. At the same time, posters signed by four students (one from each College) were put up on all the walls. Here is the exact wording of one of them—
(Then followed the four signatures.)"Those patriots who have devoted their lives and labours throughout crises of all kinds to the cause of our independence are still in our midst standing steadfast in the path of liberty; they, in common with others, want large concessions on behalf of liberty; but it is not necessary to use force to obtain them. Let us do things lawfully and then—a more Republican basis will be sought for in all our institutions and we shall obtain it; we shall be all the more powerful if we act openly. But if these concessions be not granted, then all patriots and students who side with democratic Principles will call upon the people to[Pg 62] insist on gaining their demands. Remember, though, that foreign nations look with admiration upon our Revolution because we have exercised generosity and moderation; let them not say that we are not yet fit to have liberty in our hands, and by no means let them profit by our domestic quarrels, of which they, perhaps, are the authors."
(Then followed the four signatures.)"The patriots who have dedicated their lives and efforts during various crises for our independence are still here, standing strong in the fight for freedom. They, along with others, are seeking important concessions for liberty, but there’s no need to use force to achieve them. Let’s operate within the law, and then we can build a stronger Republican foundation for all our institutions, and we will succeed. We will be even more powerful if we act transparently. However, if these concessions are not granted, then all patriots and students who support democratic principles will urge the people to [Pg 62] demand what they deserve. Remember, foreign nations admire our Revolution because we have shown generosity and moderation; let them not claim that we are not yet ready to handle liberty ourselves, and let them not exploit our internal conflicts, which they might even be instigating."
The parade in the streets of Paris and these placards on every wall about the city had the effect of soothing the public mind. The absence, too, of the artillery, the reason for which they did not know, also contributed to re-establish tranquillity. The king received a deputation from the Colleges with great demonstration of affection, which sent the deputies home delighted, with full assurance that the liberties they longed for were as good as granted. That night the National Guard and troops of the line, who had been surrounding us, fell into rank and took themselves off; and the gates of the Louvre opened behind them. We left the ordinary guard by the cannon and all dispersed to our various homes. Things were settled, at all events, for the time being.
The parade in the streets of Paris and the signs on every wall around the city helped calm the public's mind. The absence of artillery, whose reason they didn't know, also played a part in restoring peace. The king welcomed a delegation from the Colleges with a lot of warmth, which sent the deputies home happy and confident that the freedoms they desired were practically promised. That night, the National Guard and regular troops, who had been surrounding us, fell into formation and left; the gates of the Louvre opened behind them. We left the usual guard by the cannon, and everyone dispersed to their respective homes. For now, things were settled.
Next day, came an "order of the day" from La Fayette containing a letter from the king. We will put aside the "order of the day" and quote the letter only. We beg our readers to notice the words that are italicised:—
Next day, we received an "order of the day" from La Fayette that included a letter from the king. We will skip the "order of the day" and only quote the letter. We ask our readers to pay attention to the words that are italicized:—
"TUESDAY MORNING,
"22 December"TUESDAY MORNING,
"22 December"It is to you I address myself, my dear general, to transmit to our brave and indefatigable National Guard the expression of my admiration for the zeal and energy with which it has maintained public order and prevented all trouble. But it is you, especially, that I ought to thank, my dear general, you who have just given a fresh example of courage, patriotism and respect for law, in these days of trial, as you have done many times besides throughout your long and noble career. Express in my name how much I rejoice at having seen the revival of that splendid institution, the National Guard, which had been almost entirely taken away from us, and which has risen up again brilliantly powerful and patriotic, finer and more[Pg 63] numerous than it has ever been, as soon as the glorious Days of July broke the trammels by which its enemies flattered themselves they had crushed it. It is this great institution to which we certainly owe the triumph amongst us of the sacred cause of liberty, which both causes our national independence to be respected abroad, whilst preserving the action of laws from all attack at home. Do not let us forget that there is no liberty without law, and that there can be no laws where any power of whatever kind succeeds in paralysing its action and exalting itself beyond the reach of laws.
"I'm addressing you, my dear general, to express my admiration for our brave and dedicated National Guard, who have worked tirelessly to maintain public order and prevent any disturbances. However, I especially want to thank you, my dear general, for recently showing courage, patriotism, and respect for the law during these difficult times, just as you have done many times in your long and honorable career. Please let them know how glad I am to see the revival of the wonderful institution, the National Guard, which had almost been lost to us but has risen again, strong and patriotic, larger and more numerous than ever, as soon as the glorious Days of July dismantled the constraints imposed by its enemies. We owe the victory of our sacred cause of liberty to this great institution, which has ensured that our national independence is respected abroad and protected the enforcement of laws from all attacks at home. Let us not forget that there is no liberty without law, and that laws can't exist if any power can paralyze them and place itself above the law."
"These, my dear general, are the sentiments I beg you to express to the National Guard on my behalf. I count on the continuation of its efforts AND ON YOURS, so that nothing may disturb that public peace which Paris and France need greatly, and which it is essential to preserve. Receive, at the same time, my dear general, the assurance of the sincere friendship you know I hold towards you,
LOUIS-PHILIPPE""These are the sentiments I ask you to share with the National Guard on my behalf, my dear general. I count on their ongoing efforts AND ON YOURS, so that nothing disturbs the public peace that Paris and France desperately need, and which is crucial to uphold. Please accept, at the same time, my dear general, the assurance of my sincere friendship for you,
LOUIS-PHILIPPE"
As can be seen, on 22 December, the thermometer indicated gratitude.
As can be seen, on December 22, the thermometer showed gratitude.
On the 23rd, upon the suggestion of M. Laffitte, the Chamber of Deputies passed a vote of thanks to the young students, couched in these terms—
On the 23rd, following M. Laffitte's suggestion, the Chamber of Deputies passed a vote of thanks to the young students, stated in these terms—
"A vote of thanks is given to the students of the College for the loyalty and noble conduct shown by them the day before in maintaining public order and tranquillity."
"We extend our thanks to the students of the College for their loyalty and admirable behavior shown yesterday in keeping public order and peace."
Unluckily, there was a sentence in M. Laffitte's speech requesting the Chamber to pass this vote of thanks which offended the feelings of the École polytechnique. The phrase was still further emphasised by the remarks he made—
Unluckily, there was a line in M. Laffitte's speech asking the Chamber to approve this vote of thanks that hurt the feelings of the École polytechnique. His comments made the phrase even more significant—
"The three Colleges," the minister said, "which sent deputations to the king displayed very noble sentiments and great courage and entire subjection to law and order, and have given proof of their intentions to make every effort to ensure the maintenance of order."
"The three Colleges," the minister said, "that sent delegations to the king showed very noble feelings, great bravery, and complete commitment to law and order, and have proven their intentions to do everything possible to maintain order."
"On what conditions?" then inquired the deputies, who bore in mind the sentences that we have underlined in the proclamation issued by the Colleges.
"On what conditions?" the deputies asked, keeping in mind the statements we've highlighted in the proclamation issued by the Colleges.
"NONE ... NO CONDITIONS WERE MADE AT ALL," M. Laffitte replied. "If there were a few individuals who had proposals to make or conditions to offer, such never came to the knowledge of the Government."
"NONE ... NO CONDITIONS WERE SET AT ALL," M. Laffitte replied. "If there were some individuals who had proposals or conditions to suggest, the Government was never made aware of them."
The next day a protest, signed by eighty-nine students of the Polytechnique, replied to the thanks of the Chamber and to M. Laffitte's denial in the following terms:—
The next day, a protest signed by eighty-nine students from the Polytechnique responded to the Chamber's thanks and Mr. Laffitte's denial, stating the following:—
"A portion of the Chamber of Deputies has condescended to pass a vote of thanks to the École polytechnique with reference to certain facts that were very accurately reported.
"A part of the Chamber of Deputies has agreed to pass a vote of thanks to the École polytechnique regarding certain facts that were very accurately reported."
"We, students of the Polytechnique, the undersigned, deny in part these facts and we decline to receive the thanks of the Chamber.
"We, the students of the Polytechnique, the undersigned, partially deny these facts and do not accept the thanks from the Chamber."
"The students have been traduced, said the protest issued by the School of Law; we have been accused of wishing to place ourselves at the head of malcontent artizans, and of obtaining by brute force the consequences of principles for which we have sacrificed our very blood.
"The students have been slandered, stated the protest issued by the School of Law; we have been accused of attempting to lead disgruntled workers and of using brute force to achieve the principles for which we have sacrificed our very blood."
"We have solemnly protested, we who paid cash for the liberty they are now haggling over; we preached public order, without which liberty is impossible; but we did not do so in order to procure the thanks and applause of the Chamber of Deputies. No, indeed! we only fulfilled our duty. Doubtless, we ought to be proud and elated at the gratitude of France, but we look in vain for France in the Chamber of Deputies, and we repudiate the praises offered us, the condition of which is the assumed disavowal of a proclamation, the terms and meaning whereof we unhesitatingly declare that we adopt in the most formal manner."
"We have firmly protested, we who paid in full for the freedom they are now negotiating over; we advocated for public order, without which freedom is impossible; but we didn’t do this to earn thanks and applause from the Chamber of Deputies. No, not at all! We simply did our duty. Of course, we should feel proud and honored by France's gratitude, but we search in vain for France in the Chamber of Deputies, and we reject the praise given to us, the condition of which is the assumed denial of a proclamation, the terms and meaning of which we confidently declare we accept in the most official way."
Of course, the Minister for War at once arrested these eighty-nine students, but their protest had been issued, and the conditions under which they had consented to support the Government were kept to themselves. It will, therefore, be seen that the harmony between His Majesty Louis-Philippe and the students of the three Colleges was not of long duration. It was not to last much longer either between His Majesty and poor General La Fayette, for whom he now had no further use. He had staked his popularity during the troubles in December[Pg 65] and had lost. From that time, he was of no more use to the king, and what was the good of being kind to a useless person? Two days after that on which La Fayette received the letter from the king, thanking him for his past services and expressing the hope for the continuance of those services, the Chamber proposed this amendment to Article 64 of the law concerning the National Guard, which the deputies had under discussion—
Of course, the Minister of War immediately arrested these eighty-nine students, but their protest had already been made public, and the conditions they had agreed to in order to support the Government remained private. So, it’s clear that the relationship between His Majesty Louis-Philippe and the students from the three Colleges didn’t last long. It wouldn’t last much longer for His Majesty and poor General La Fayette either, who he no longer found useful. La Fayette had risked his popularity during the troubles in December[Pg 65] and had lost. From then on, he was of no more use to the king, and what’s the point in being nice to someone who’s not useful? Two days after La Fayette received the king's letter thanking him for his past services and hoping for the continuance of those services, the Chamber proposed an amendment to Article 64 of the law regarding the National Guard, which the deputies were discussing—
"As the office of commander-general of the National Guard of the kingdom will cease with the circumstances that rendered the office necessary, that office can never be renewed without the passing of a fresh law, and no one shall be appointed to hold the position without such a special law."
"The position of commander-general of the National Guard of the kingdom will come to an end once the reasons for its existence are no longer valid. This role can only be re-established with the passing of a new law, and no one will be appointed to this position without such specific legislation."
This simply meant the deposition of General La Fayette. The blow was the more perfidious as he was not present at the sitting. His absence is recorded by this passage from the speech which M. Dupin made in support of the amendment—
This just meant the removal of General La Fayette. The act was even more treacherous since he wasn’t there at the meeting. His absence is noted in this part of the speech that M. Dupin gave in favor of the amendment—
"I regret that our illustrious colleague is not present at the sitting; he would himself have investigated this question; he would, I have no doubt, have declared, as he did at the Constituent Assembly, that the general command of the regiments of the National Guard throughout the kingdom is an impossible function which he would describe as dangerous."
"I regret that our respected colleague isn’t at the meeting; he would have addressed this issue personally. I'm sure he would have said, just like he did at the Constituent Assembly, that overall control of the National Guard regiments throughout the kingdom is an impossible task that he would view as dangerous."
M. Dupin forgot that the Constituent Assembly, at any rate, had had the modesty to wait until the general sent in his resignation. Now, perhaps it will be said that it was the Chamber which took the initiative, and that the Government had nothing to do with this untoward blow given on the cheek of the living programme going on at the Hôtel de Ville. This would be a mistake. Here is an article of the bill which virtually implied the resignation of La Fayette—
M. Dupin overlooked the fact that the Constituent Assembly, at least, had the decency to wait until the general submitted his resignation. Now, it might be argued that it was the Chamber that initiated this, and that the Government had no part in this unexpected setback to the ongoing agenda at the Hôtel de Ville. That would be incorrect. Here’s a section of the bill that essentially suggested La Fayette’s resignation—
"ARTICLE 50.—In the communes or cantons where the National Guard will form several legions, the king may appoint a superior commander; but a superior commander of the National Guards of a whole department, or even of an arrondissement of a sous-préfecture, cannot be appointed."
ARTICLE 50.—In the towns or areas where the National Guard will establish several legions, the king can designate a higher commander; however, a higher commander for the National Guards of an entire department, or even for a region of a sub-prefecture, cannot be appointed.
The next day after that scandalous debate in the Chamber, General La Fayette wrote this letter to the king, in his own handwriting this time, for I have seen the rough draft—
The day after that shocking debate in the Chamber, General La Fayette wrote this letter to the king, in his own handwriting this time, because I have seen the rough draft—
"SIRE,—The resolution passed yesterday by the Chamber of Deputies with the consent of the king's ministers, for the suppression of the general commandantship of the National Guards at the very same moment that the law is going to be voted upon, expresses exactly the feeling of the two branches of the legislative power, and in particular that of the one of which I have the honour of being a member. I am of opinion that it would be disrespectful if I awaited any formal information before sending in my resignation of the prerogatives entrusted to me by royal command. Your Majesty is aware, and the staff correspondence bill proves the fact, if needful, that the exercise of the office down to the present time has not been such a sinecure as was stated in the Chamber. The king's patriotic solicitude will provide for it, and it will be important, for instance, to set at rest, by Ordinances which the law puts at the king's disposal, the uneasiness that the sub-dividing of the provincial battalions and the fear of seeing the highly valuable institution of the artillery throughout the kingdom confined to garrison or coast towns.
"Your Majesty,—The resolution that was passed yesterday by the Chamber of Deputies with the agreement of the king's ministers to eliminate the general command of the National Guards just as the law is about to be voted on reflects the sentiment of both branches of the legislative power, especially that of the one I am proud to be part of. I believe it would be disrespectful to wait for any formal notification before submitting my resignation from the responsibilities given to me by royal authority. Your Majesty knows, and the staff correspondence bill shows, if needed, that fulfilling this role has not been the easy position some suggested in the Chamber. The king's compassionate concern will address this issue, and it will be crucial to clarify, through Ordinances that the law allows the king to enact, the worries about reorganizing the provincial battalions and the concern that the invaluable institution of artillery across the kingdom might be limited to garrison or coastal towns."
"The President of the Council was so good as to offer to give me the honorary commandership; but he himself and your Majesty will judge that such nominal honours are not becoming to either the institutions of a free country or to myself.
"The President of the Council kindly offered me the honorary commandership; but he and your Majesty will agree that such nominal honors are not fitting for either the institutions of a free country or for me."
"In respectfully and gratefully handing back to the king the only mandate that gives me any authority over the National Guards, I have taken precautions that the service shall not suffer. General Dumas[1] will take his orders from the Minister of the Interior; General Carbonnel will control the service in the capital until your Majesty has been able to find a substitute, as he, too, wishes to resign.
"In respectfully and gratefully returning to the king the only mandate that grants me any authority over the National Guards, I've ensured that the service won't be impacted. General Dumas__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ will receive his orders from the Minister of the Interior; General Carbonnel will manage the service in the capital until your Majesty can find a replacement, as he also wishes to resign."
"I beg your Majesty to receive my cordial and respectful regards,
LA FAYETTE""I sincerely ask your Majesty to accept my warm and respectful regards,
LA FAYETTE"
Louis Blanc, who is usually well informed, said of General La Fayette that he was a gentleman even in his scorn, and took care not to let the monarch detect in his letter his profound feelings of personal injury.
Louis Blanc, who is usually well informed, said of General La Fayette that he was a gentleman even in his scorn and made sure not to let the monarch see in his letter his deep feelings of personal injury.
He would not have said so if he had seen the letter to which he refers, the one, namely, that we have just laid before our readers. But Louis Blanc may be permitted not to know the contents of this letter, which were kept secret, and only communicated to a few of the General's intimate friends. Louis Philippe sent this reply on the same day—
He wouldn't have said that if he had seen the letter he's talking about, the one we've just shared with our readers. But Louis Blanc can be excused for not knowing what’s in that letter, as its contents were kept secret and only shared with a few of the General’s close friends. Louis Philippe sent this reply on the same day—
"MY DEAR GENERAL,—I have just received your letter. The decision you have taken has surprised me as much as it has pained me. I HAVE NOT YET HAD TIME TO READ THE PAPERS. The cabinet meets at one o'clock; I shall, therefore, be free between four and five, and I shall hope to see you and to be able to induce you to withdraw your decision. Yours, my dear general, etc.,
LOUIS-PHILIPPE""MY DEAR GENERAL,—I just received your letter. Your decision has surprised me as much as it has upset me. I HAVEN'T HAD TIME TO READ THE PAPERS YET. The cabinet meets at one o'clock; I will be available between four and five, and I hope to see you then and persuade you to reconsider your decision. Yours, my dear general, etc.,
LOUIS-PHILIPPE"
We give this letter as a sequel to that of M. Laffitte, and we give them without commentary of our own; but we cannot, however, resist the desire to point out to our readers that King Louis-Philippe must have read the papers in order to know what was going on in the Chamber, and that at noon on 25 December he had not yet done so! How can anyone think after this proof of the king's ignorance of his ministers' doings that he was anything more than constitutional monarch, reigning but not ruling! But let us note one fact, as M. de Talleyrand remarks on the end of the reign of the Bourbon dynasty, that on 25 December 1830 the political career of General La Fayette was over. Another resignation there was at this time which made less stir, but which, as we shall see on 1 January 1831, had somewhat odd consequences for me; it was given in the same day as General La Fayette's and it was that of one of our two captains of the fourth battery.
We present this letter as a follow-up to M. Laffitte's, and we share them without our own commentary; however, we can't help but highlight to our readers that King Louis-Philippe must have read the news to stay informed about what was happening in the Chamber, and that at noon on December 25, he still hadn't done so! How can anyone believe, after this clear indication of the king's lack of awareness about his ministers' actions, that he was anything more than a constitutional monarch—reigning but not really in control? But let's note one thing, as M. de Talleyrand points out regarding the end of the Bourbon dynasty: on December 25, 1830, General La Fayette's political career came to an end. There was another resignation around this time that caused less of a commotion, but as we'll see on January 1, 1831, it had some rather strange consequences for me; it was submitted on the same day as General La Fayette’s and was that of one of our two captains from the fourth battery.
As soon as this resignation was known, the artillerymen held a special meeting to appoint another captain and, as the majority of the votes were in favour of me, I was elected second captain. Within twenty-four hours my lace, epaulettes and worsted cordings were exchanged for the same in gold. On the 27th, I took command on parade, clad in the insignia of my new office. We shall soon see how long I was to wear them.
As soon as this resignation was announced, the artillerymen held a special meeting to choose a new captain. Since most of the votes were for me, I was elected second captain. Within twenty-four hours, my lace, epaulettes, and cordings were switched to gold. On the 27th, I took command on parade, dressed in the insignia of my new position. We’ll soon find out how long I was to wear them.
CHAPTER VIII
The Government member—Chodruc-Duclos—His portrait—His life at Bordeaux—His imprisonment at Vincennes—The Mayor of Orgon—Chodruc-Duclos converts himself into a Diogenes—M. Giraud-Savine—Why Nodier was growing old—Stibert—A lesson in shooting—Death of Chodruc-Duclos
The government official—Chodruc-Duclos—his portrait—his life in Bordeaux—his imprisonment in Vincennes—the Mayor of Orgon—Chodruc-Duclos becomes a Diogenes—M. Giraud-Savine—why Nodier was getting older—Stibert—a shooting lesson—death of Chodruc-Duclos
Let us bid a truce to politics of which, I daresay, I am quite as tired as is my reader. Let us put on one side those brave deputies of whom Barthélemy makes such a delightful portrait, and return to matters more amusing and creditable. Still, these Memoirs would fail of their end, if, in passing through a period, they did not reveal themselves to the public tinged with the colour of that particular period. So much the worse when that period be dirty; the mud that I have had beneath my feet has never bespattered either my hands or my face. One quickly forgets, and I can hear my reader wondering what that charming portrait is that Barthélemy drew of the deputy. Alas! it is the misfortune of political works; they rarely survive the time of their birth; flowers of stormy seasons, they need, in order to live, the muttering of thunder, the lightning of tempests: they fade when calm is restored; they die when the sun re-appears.
Let’s call a truce to politics, which I must admit, I’m just as tired of as my reader is. Let’s set aside those brave representatives that Barthélemy paints such a delightful picture of, and get back to topics that are more entertaining and respectable. Still, these Memoirs wouldn’t serve their purpose if, while covering a certain time period, they didn’t reflect the mood of that time. It’s unfortunate when that time is grim; the muck I’ve walked through has never stained my hands or face. One quickly forgets, and I can hear my reader asking what charming portrait Barthélemy painted of the deputy. Unfortunately, that’s the fate of political writings; they rarely last beyond their time of creation; like flowers of chaotic periods, they require the rumble of thunder and the flash of storms to survive: they wilt when calm returns; they perish when the sun comes back.
Ah, well! I will take from the middle of La Némésis one of those flowers which seem to be dead; and, as all poetry is immortal, I hold that it was but sleeping and that, by breathing upon it, it will come to life again. Therefore, I shall appeal to the poets of 1830 and 1831 more than once.
Ah, well! I will take one of those flowers from the middle of La Némésis that seems dead; and, since all poetry is immortal, I believe it was just sleeping and that, by breathing on it, it will come back to life. Therefore, I will refer to the poets of 1830 and 1831 more than once.
LE DÉPUTÉ MINISTÉRIEL
"C'était un citoyen aux manières ouvertes,
Ayant un œil serein sous des lunettes vertes;
Il lisait les journaux à l'heure du courrier;
Et, tous les soirs, au cercle, en jouant cœur ou pique,
Il suspendait le whist avec sa philippique
Contre le système Perrier.
Il avait de beaux plans dont il donnait copie;
C'était, de son aveu, quelque belle utopie,
Pièce de désespoir pour tous nos écrivains;
Baume qui guérirait les blessures des villes,
En nous sauvant la guerre et la liste civiles,
Et l'impôt direct sur les vins.
Il disait: 'En prenant mon heureux antidote,
Notre pays sera comme une table d'hôte
Où l'on ne verra plus, après de longs repas,
Quand les repus du centre ont quitté leurs serviettes,
Les affamés venir pour récolter les miettes,
Que souvent ils ne trouvent pas!'
Les crédules bourgeois, que ce langage tente,
Les rentiers du jury, les hommes à patente,
L'écoutaient en disant: 'Que ce langage est beau!
Voilà bien les discours que prononce un digne homme!
Si pour son député notre ville le nomme,
Il fera pâlir Mirabeau!'
Il fut nommé! Bientôt, de sa ville natale,
Il ne fit qu'un seul bond jusqu'à la capitale,
S'installant en garni dans le quartier du Bac.
On le vit à la chambre assis au côté gauche,
Muet ou ne parlant qu'à son mouchoir de poche,
Constellé de grains de tabac.
Grave comme un tribun de notre République,
Parfois il regardait evec un œil oblique
Ce centre où s'endormaient tant d'hommes accroupis.
Quel déchirant tableau pour son cœur patriote!
En longs trépignements les talons de sa botte
[Pg 70]Fanaient les roses du tapis.
Lorsque Girod (de l'Ain), qui si mal les préside,
Disait: 'Ceux qui voudront refuser le subside
Se lèveront debout': le tribun impoli,
Foudroyant du regard le ministre vorace,
Bondissait tout d'un bloc sur le banc de sa place
Comme une bombe à Tivoli.
Quand il était assis, c'était Caton en buste;
Le peuple s'appuyait sur ce torse robuste;
De tous les rangs du cintre on aimait à le voir ...
Qui donc a ramolli ce marbre de Carrare?
Quel acide a dissous cette perle si rare
Dans la patère du pouvoir?
Peut-être avez-vous vu, dans le cirque hippodrome,
Martin, l'imitateur de l'Androclès de Rome,
Entre ses deux lions s'avancer triomphant;
Son œil fascinateur domptait les bêtes fauves;
Il entrait, sans pâlir, dans leurs sombres alcôves,
Comme dans un berceau d'enfant.
Aujourd'hui, nous avons la clef de ces mystères.
Il se glissait, la nuit, au chevet des panthères;
Sous le linceul du tigre il étendait la main;
Il trompait leur instinct dans la nocturne scène,
Et l'animal, sans force, à ce jongleur obscène
Obéissait le lendemain!
Voilà par quels moyens l'Onan du ministère
Énerve de sa main l'homme le plus austère,
Du tribun le plus chaste assouplit la vertu;
Il vient à lui, les mains pleines de dons infâmes;
'Que veux-tu? lui dit-il; j'ai de l'or, j'ai des femmes,
Des croix, des honneurs! que veux-tu?'
Eh! qui résisterait à ces dons magnifiques?
Hélas! les députés sont des gens prolifiques;
Ils ont des fils nombreux, tous visant aux emplois,
Tous rêvant, jour et nuit, un avenir prospère,
Tous, par chaque courrier, répétant: 'O mon père!
Placez-nous en faisant des lois!'
Et le bon père, ému par ces chaudes missives,
[Pg 71]Dépose sur son banc les armes offensives,
Se rapproche du centre, et renonce au combat.
Oh! pour faire au budget une constante guerre,
Il faudrait n'avoir point de parents sur la terre,
Et vivre dans le célibat!
Ou bien, pour résister à ce coupable leurre,
Il faut aller, le soir, où va Dupont (de l'Eure),
Près de lui retremper sa vertu de tribun;
Là veille encor pour nous une pure phalange,
Cénacle politique où personne ne mange
Au budget des deux cent vingt-un!"
THE DEPUTY MINISTER
"He was a citizen with open manners,
With a calm eye behind green glasses;
He read the newspapers during mail time;
And every evening, at the club, while playing hearts or spades,
He would pause the whist with his speech
Against the Perrier model.
He had grand plans of which he shared copies;
It was, by his own admission, quite a beautiful utopia,
A desperate piece for all our writers;
A balm that would heal the wounds of cities,
By saving us from war and civil lists,
And the direct tax on wine.
He said: 'By taking my fortunate antidote,
Our country will be like a dining table
Where we won’t see, after long meals,
When the satisfied from the center have left their napkins,
The hungry coming to collect the crumbs,
That they often can't find!
The gullible bourgeois, tempted by this language,
The rentiers of the jury, the licensed men,
Listened to him saying: 'What beautiful words!
These are indeed the speeches an honorable man would give!
If our city names him as its deputy,
He'll outshine Mirabeau!
He was appointed! Soon, from his hometown,
He made just one leap to the capital,
Settling into a rented room in the Bac neighborhood.
He was seen in the chamber sitting on the left side,
Silent or only speaking to his handkerchief,
Covered in tobacco specks.
Serious like a tribune of our Republic,
Sometimes he looked with a sideways glance
At the center where so many men sat crouched asleep.
What a heartbreaking sight for his patriotic heart!
With long stomps, the heels of his boots
[Pg 70]Withering the roses on the carpet.
When Girod (of the Ain), who presides so poorly,
Said: 'Those who wish to refuse the grant
Will stand up': the rude tribune,
Striking down the greedy minister with his gaze,
Would leap in one motion from his seat
Like a bomb in Tivoli.
When he sat, he was like Cato in bust;
The people leaned on this sturdy torso;
From all ranks in the gallery, people loved to see him ...
Who has softened this Carrara marble?
What acid has dissolved this rare pearl
In the realm of power?
Maybe you have seen, in the hippodrome circus,
Martin, the impersonator of the Androcles of Rome,
Advance triumphantly between his two lions;
His captivating eye tamed the wild beasts;
He entered, without turning pale, into their dark alcoves,
Like into a baby crib.
Today, we have the key to these mysteries.
He would sneak out at night, to the leopards' side;
Under the tiger's shroud, he would extend his hand;
He deceived their instincts in the night scene,
And the animal, powerless, to this lewd juggler
Followed orders the next day!
This is how the Onan of the ministry
Paralyzes the most austere man with his hand,
Softens the virtue of the most chaste tribune;
He approaches him, hands full of disgraceful gifts;
'What do you want?' he says; 'I have gold, I have women,
"Crosses, honors! What do you want?"
Ah! who could resist such magnificent gifts?
Alas! the deputies are prolific folks;
They have many sons, all aiming for positions,
All dreaming, day and night, of a prosperous future,
All, with each piece of mail, repeating: 'Oh my father!
"Help us get set up by creating laws!"
And the good father, moved by these heartfelt letters,
[Pg 71]Sets aside his offensive weapons,
Moves closer to the center, and renounces the fight.
Oh! to wage a constant war on the budget,
One would need not have any relatives on this earth,
And remain celibate!
Or, to resist this guilty lure,
One must go, in the evening, where Dupont (of Eure) goes,
To rekindle his virtue as a tribune;
There still waits for us a pure phalanx,
A political gathering where no one eats
"From the budget of two hundred twenty-one!"
This cénacle referred to our evenings at La Fayette's. Since his resignation, the general was to be found amidst his young, warm, and true friends the Republicans, and, more than once, as said Barthélemy, our callow wrath invigorated the patriotism of the two old men.
This cénacle referred to our evenings at La Fayette's. Since he stepped down, the general was often found among his young, passionate, and genuine friends, the Republicans. More than once, as Barthélemy noted, our youthful anger boosted the patriotism of the two older men.
Another man received his dismissal at the same time as La Fayette: this was Chodruc-Duclos, the Diogenes of the Palais-Royal, the long-bearded man of whom we have promised to say a few words.
Another man received his dismissal at the same time as La Fayette: this was Chodruc-Duclos, the Diogenes of the Palais-Royal, the long-bearded man of whom we have promised to say a few words.
One morning, the frequenters of those stone galleries were amazed to see Chodruc-Duclos go by, clad in shoes and stockings, in a coat only a very little worn and an almost new hat! We will borrow the portrait of Chodruc-Duclos from Barthélemy; and complete it by a few anecdotes, gleaned from personal experience, and by others which we believe are new. When the poet has described all those starving people who swarm round the cellars of Véfour and of the Frères-Provençaux, he proceeds to the king of the beggars—Chodruc-Duclos. These are Barthélemy's lines; they depict the man with that happy touch and that faithfulness of description which are such characteristic features of the talented author of La Némésis—
One morning, the regulars of those stone galleries were surprised to see Chodruc-Duclos walk by, wearing shoes and socks, in a coat that was barely worn and an almost new hat! We'll borrow the portrait of Chodruc-Duclos from Barthélemy and add a few anecdotes from personal experience, along with some we think are new. After the poet describes all those starving people who hang around the basements of Véfour and the Frères-Provençaux, he moves on to the king of the beggars—Chodruc-Duclos. These lines are from Barthélemy; they capture the man with that joyful touch and the accuracy of description that are such hallmarks of the talented author of La Némésis—
"Mais, autant qu'un ormeau s'élève sur l'arbuste,
[Pg 72]Autant que Cornuet domine l'homme-buste,[1]
Sur cette obscure plèbe errante dans l'enclos,
Autant plane et surgit l'héroïque Duclos.
Dans cet étroit royaume où le destin les parque,
Les terrestres damnés l'ont élu pour monarque:
C'est l'archange déchu, le Satan bordelais,
Le Juif-Errant chrétien, le Melmoth du palais.
Jamais l'ermite Paul, le virginal Macaire,
Marabout, talapoin, faquir, santon du Caire,
Brahme, Guèbre, Parsis adorateur du feu,
N'accomplit sur la terre un plus terrible vœu!
Depuis sept ans entiers, de colonne en colonne,
Comme un soleil éteint ce spectre tourbillonne;
Depuis le dernier soir que l'acier le rasa,
Il a vu trois Véfour et quatre Corazza;
Sous ses orteils, chaussés d'eternelles sandales,
Il a du long portique usé toutes les dalles;
Être mystérieux qui, d'un coup d'œil glaçant,
Déconcerte le rire aux lèvres du passant,
Sur tant d'infortunés, in fortune célèbre!
Des calculs du malheur c'est la vivante algèbre.
De l'angle de Terris jusqu'à Berthellemot,
Il fait tourner sans fin son énigme sans mot.
Est-il un point d'arrêt à cette ellipse immense?
Est-ce dédain sublime, ou sagesse, ou démence?
Qui sait? Il vent peut-être, au bout de son chemin,
Par un enseignement frapper le genre humain;
Peut-être, pour fournir un dernier épisode,
Il attend que Rothschild, son terrestre antipode,
Un jour, dans le palais, l'aborde sans effroi,
En lui disant: 'Je suis plus malheureux que toi!'"
"Just as a young oyster stands out from the bush,
[Pg 72]Just as Cornuet stands out from the bust of man,[1]
Among this obscure crowd wandering in the enclosure,
So too does the heroic Duclos rise and soar.
In this narrow kingdom where fate confines them,
The damned of the earth have chosen him as their king:
He is the fallen archangel, the Bordeaux Satan,
The Christian Wandering Jew, the Melmoth of the palace.
Never did hermit Paul, the virginal Macaire,
Marabout, talapoin, fakir, or Cairo saint,
Brahma, the fire-worshipping Guèbre, or Parsis,
Fulfill a more terrible vow on this earth!
For seven whole years, from column to column,
Like an extinguished sun, this specter whirls about;
Since the last evening when steel shaved him away,
He has seen three Véfour and four Corazza;
Beneath his toes, shod in eternal sandals,
He has worn down all the slabs of the long portico;
A mysterious being who, with a chilling glance,
Disorients the laughter on the lips of passersby,
Over so many unfortunate souls, they are famously unlucky!
From the calculations of misfortune, he is the living algebra.
From the angle of Terris to Berthellemot,
He endlessly spins his wordless riddle.
Is there a stopping point to this vast ellipse?
Is it sublime disdain, or wisdom, or madness?
Who knows? He may, perhaps, at the end of his journey,
Through a lesson, strike humanity;
Maybe, to provide a final episode,
He waits for Rothschild, his earthly opposite,
One day, in the palace, to approach him fearlessly,
Saying to him: 'I am more unfortunate than you!'"
We will endeavour to be the Œdipus to that Sphinx, and guess the riddle, the mystery whereof was hidden for a long time.
We will strive to be the Oedipus to that Sphinx and solve the riddle, the mystery of which was hidden for a long time.
Chodruc-Duclos was born at Sainte-Foy, near Bordeaux. He would be about forty-eight when the Revolution of July took place; he was tall and strong and splendidly built; his beard hid features that must have been of singular beauty; but he used ostentatiously to display his hands, which were always very clean. By right of courage, if not of skill, he was looked upon as the principal star of that Pleiades of duellists which flourished at Bordeaux, during the Empire, under the[Pg 73] title of les Crânes (Skulls). They were all Royalists. MM. Lercaro, Latapie and de Peyronnet were said to be Duclos' most intimate friends. These men were also possessed of another notable characteristic: they never fought amongst themselves. Duclos was suspected of carrying on relations with Louis XVIII. in the very zenith of the Empire, and was arrested one morning in his bed by the Chief of the Police, Pierre-Pierre. He was taken to Vincennes, where he was kept a prisoner until 1814. Set free by the Restoration, he entered Bordeaux in triumph, and as, during his captivity, he had come into a small fortune, he resumed his old habits and interlarded them with fresh diversions. The Royalist government, which recompensed all its devoted adherents (a virtue that was attributed to it as a crime), would, no doubt, have been pleased to reward Duclos for his loyalty, but it was very difficult to find a suitable way of doing so, for he had the incurable habits of a peripatetic: he was only accustomed to a nomadic life of fencing, political intrigue, theatre-going, women and literature. King Louis XVIII., therefore, could not entrust him with any other public function than that of an everlasting walker, or, as Barthélemy dubbed it, "Chrétien errant."
Chodruc-Duclos was born in Sainte-Foy, near Bordeaux. He would have been about forty-eight when the July Revolution happened; he was tall, strong, and well-built; his beard concealed features that must have been quite handsome, but he liked to show off his hands, which were always very clean. By courage, if not skill, he was seen as the main star of the group of duelists known as the[Pg 73] les Crânes (Skulls) that thrived in Bordeaux during the Empire. They were all Royalists. MM. Lercaro, Latapie, and de Peyronnet were said to be Duclos' closest friends. These men had another notable trait: they never fought among themselves. Duclos was suspected of having connections with Louis XVIII. at the height of the Empire and was arrested one morning in bed by the Chief of Police, Pierre-Pierre. He was taken to Vincennes, where he remained a prisoner until 1814. Released by the Restoration, he entered Bordeaux in triumph, and as he had inherited a small fortune during his captivity, he returned to his old lifestyle, adding new pursuits. The Royalist government, which rewarded all its loyal supporters (a trait that was viewed as a crime), would have liked to reward Duclos for his loyalty, but it was challenging to find a suitable way to do so, as he was inescapably used to a wandering life filled with fencing, political intrigue, theater, women, and literature. Therefore, King Louis XVIII. couldn't assign him any public role other than that of a constant walker, or as Barthélemy called it, "Chrétien errant."
Unfortunately, money, however considerable its quantity, comes to an end some time. When Duclos had exhausted his patrimony, he recollected his past services for the Bourbon cause and came to Paris to remind them. But he had remembered too late and had given the Bourbons time to forget. The business of soliciting for favours, at all events, exercised his locomotive faculties to the best possible advantage. So, every morning, two melancholy looking pleaders could be seen to cross the Pont Royal, like two shades crossing the river Styx, on their way to beg a good place in the Elysian fields from the minister of Pluto. One was Duclos, the other the Mayor of Orgon. What had the latter done? He had thrown the first stone into the emperor's carriage in 1814, and had come to Paris, stone in hand, to demand his reward. After years of soliciting, these two faithful applicants,[Pg 74] seeing that nothing was to be obtained, each arrived at a different conclusion. The Mayor of Orgon, completely ruined, tied his stone round his own neck and threw himself into the Seine. Duclos, much more philosophically inclined, decided upon living, and, in order to humiliate the Government to which he had sacrificed three years of his liberty, and M. de Peyronnet, with whom he had had many bouts by the banks of the Garonne, bought old clothes, as he had not the patience to wait till his new ones grew old, bashed in the top of his hat, gave up shaving himself, tied sandals over his old shoes, and began that everlasting promenade up and down the arcades of the Palais-Royal which exercised the wisdom of all the Œdipuses of his time. Duclos never left the Palais-Royal until one in the morning, when he went to the rue du Pélican, where he lodged, to sleep, not exactly in furnished apartments, but, more correctly speaking, in unfurnished ones. In the course of his promenading, which lasted probably a dozen years, Duclos (with only three exceptions, which we are about to quote, one of them being made in our own favour) never went up to anyone to speak to him, no matter who he was. Like Socrates, he communed alone with his own familiar spirit; no tragic hero ever attempted such a complete monologue!—One day, however, he departed from his habits, and walked straight towards one of his old friends, M. Giraud-Savine, a witty and learned man, as we shall find out later, who afterwards became deputy to the Mayor of Batignolles. M. Giraud's heart stood still with fright for an instant, for he thought he was going to be robbed of his purse; but he was wrong: for Duclos never borrowed anything.
Unfortunately, money, no matter how much you have, eventually runs out. When Duclos had spent his inheritance, he remembered his past contributions to the Bourbon cause and came to Paris to remind them. But he was too late and the Bourbons had forgotten. Nevertheless, his efforts to ask for favors allowed him to put his walking skills to good use. So, every morning, two gloomy petitioners could be seen crossing the Pont Royal, like two spirits crossing the River Styx, on their way to ask for a good position in the Elysian fields from the minister of the underworld. One was Duclos, the other the Mayor of Orgon. What did the latter do? He threw the first stone at the emperor's carriage in 1814 and came to Paris, stone in hand, to demand his reward. After years of begging, these two loyal applicants, seeing that nothing was forthcoming, drew different conclusions. The Mayor of Orgon, completely ruined, tied his stone around his neck and jumped into the Seine. Duclos, with a more philosophical outlook, chose to live, and to embarrass the Government to which he had sacrificed three years of his freedom, and M. de Peyronnet, with whom he had had many disputes by the Garonne, he bought old clothes since he didn't have the patience to wait for his new ones to become worn out, smashed the top of his hat, stopped shaving, tied sandals over his old shoes, and began his endless strolling up and down the arcades of the Palais-Royal, which tested the wisdom of all the thinkers of his time. Duclos never left the Palais-Royal until one in the morning, when he went to the rue du Pélican, where he stayed, not exactly in furnished apartments, but more accurately in unfurnished ones. Over the course of his strolling, which probably lasted about twelve years, Duclos (with only three exceptions, one of which we will mention shortly, including one in our own favor) never approached anyone to talk to them, regardless of who they were. Like Socrates, he communed solely with his own inner thoughts; no tragic hero ever attempted such a complete monologue!—One day, however, he broke his routine and walked directly towards one of his old friends, M. Giraud-Savine, a witty and knowledgeable man, as we will discover later, who later became the deputy to the Mayor of Batignolles. M. Giraud's heart stopped for a moment out of fear, thinking he was about to be robbed, but he was mistaken: Duclos never borrowed anything.
"Giraud," he asked in a deep bass voice, "which is the best translation of Tacitus?"
"Giraud," he asked in a deep voice, "what's the best translation of Tacitus?"
"There isn't one!" replied M. Giraud.
"There isn't one!" replied M. Giraud.
Duclos shook his treasured rags in sad dejection, then returned, like Diogenes, to his tub. Only, his tub happened to be the Palais-Royal.
Duclos shook his beloved rags in deep disappointment, then went back, like Diogenes, to his tub. Only, his tub just so happened to be the Palais-Royal.
On another occasion, whilst I was chatting with Nodier, opposite the door of the café de Foy, Duclos passed and stared[Pg 75] attentively at Nodier. Nodier, who knew him, thought he must want to speak to him, and took a step towards him. But Duclos shook his head and went on his way without saying anything. Nodier then gave me various details of the life of this odd being; after which we separated. During our talk, Duclos had had time to make the round of the Palais-Royal; so, going back by the Théâtre-Français, I met him very nearly opposite the café Corazza. He stopped right in front of me.
On another occasion, while I was chatting with Nodier outside the café de Foy, Duclos walked by and stared[Pg 75] intently at Nodier. Nodier, who recognized him, thought he wanted to talk and took a step toward him. But Duclos shook his head and continued on his way without saying a word. Nodier then shared various details about the life of this peculiar person; after that, we parted ways. During our conversation, Duclos had managed to make his way around the Palais-Royal; so, on my way back past the Théâtre-Français, I nearly ran into him right in front of the café Corazza. He stopped directly in front of me.
"Monsieur Dumas," he said to me, "Do you know Nodier?"
"Monsieur Dumas," he said to me, "Do you know Nodier?"
"Very well."
"Sounds good."
"Do you like him?"
"Do you like him?"
"With all my heart I do."
"Of course, I do."
"Do you not think he grows old very fast?"
"Don't you think he’s aging pretty quickly?"
"I must confess I agree with you that he does."
"I have to admit, I agree with you that he does."
"Do you know why?"
"Do you know why?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Well, I will tell you: Because he does not take care of himself! Nothing ages a man more quickly than neglecting his health!"
"Well, I’ll tell you: Because he doesn’t take care of himself! Nothing ages a man faster than ignoring his health!"
He continued his walk and left me quite stunned; not by his observation, sagacious as it was; but by the thought that it was Chodruc-Duclos who had made it.
He kept walking and left me completely shocked; not because of his insight, wise as it was, but because it was Chodruc-Duclos who had come up with it.
The Revolution of July 1830 had, for the moment, interrupted the inveterate habits of two men—Stibert and Chodruc-Duclos.
The Revolution of July 1830 had, at least for now, disrupted the long-standing routines of two men—Stibert and Chodruc-Duclos.
Stibert was as confirmed a gambler as Duclos was an indefatigable walker. Frascati's, where Stibert spent his days and nights, was closed; the Ordinances had suspended the game of trente-et-un, until the monarchy of July should suppress it altogether. Stibert had not patience to wait till the Tuileries was taken: on 28 July, at three in the afternoon, he compelled the concierge at Frascati's to open its doors to him and to play picquet with him. Duclos, for his part, coming from his rooms to go to his beloved Palais-Royal, found the Swiss defending the approaches to it. Some youths had begun a struggle with them, and one of them, armed with a regulation[Pg 76] rifle, was firing on the red-coats with more courage than skill. Duclos watched him and then, growing impatient that anyone should risk his life thus wantonly, he said to the youth—
Stibert was as much of a gambler as Duclos was an energetic walker. Frascati's, where Stibert spent his days and nights, was closed; the authorities had suspended the game of trente-et-un until the July monarchy would eliminate it entirely. Stibert didn’t have the patience to wait for the Tuileries to fall: on July 28, at three in the afternoon, he forced the concierge at Frascati's to open the doors for him and play picquet with him. Duclos, on his way to his beloved Palais-Royal, found the Swiss guarding the entrances. Some young men had started a fight with them, and one of them, armed with a standard[Pg 76] rifle, was shooting at the soldiers with more bravery than skill. Duclos observed him and then, growing frustrated that anyone would risk their life so recklessly, said to the young man—
"Hand me your rifle. I will show you how to use it."
"Give me your rifle. I'll show you how to use it."
The young fellow lent it him and Duclos took aim.
The young guy lent it to him, and Duclos took aim.
"Look!" he said; and down dropped a Swiss.
"Look!" he said; and down dropped a Swiss.
Duclos returned the youth his rifle.
Duclos handed the young man back his rifle.
"Oh," said the latter, "upon my word! if you can use it to such good purpose as that, stick to it!"
"Oh," said the latter, "I swear! If you can use it for such a good purpose, stick with it!"
"Thanks!" replied Duclos, "I am not of that opinion," and, putting the rifle into the youth's hands, he crossed right through the very centre of the firing and re-entered the Palais-Royal, where he resumed his accustomed walk past the bronze Apollo and marble Ulysses, the only society he had the chance of meeting during the 27, 28 and 29 July. This was the third and last time upon which he opened his mouth. Duclos, engrossed as he was with his everlasting walk, would, doubtless, never have found a moment in which to die; only one morning he forgot to wake up. The inhabitants of the Palais-Royal, astonished at having been a whole day without meeting the man with the long beard, learnt, on the following day, from the Cornuet papers, that Chodruc-Duclos had fallen into the sleep that knows no waking, upon his pallet bed in the rue du Pélican.
"Thanks!" replied Duclos, "I don't agree with that," and, handing the rifle to the young man, he walked straight through the middle of the gunfire and went back into the Palais-Royal, where he continued his usual stroll past the bronze Apollo and marble Ulysses, the only company he had while wandering during July 27, 28, and 29. This was the third and last time he spoke. Duclos, so absorbed in his endless walking, would likely never have found a moment to die; he just forgot to wake up one morning. The residents of the Palais-Royal, surprised to go an entire day without seeing the man with the long beard, learned the next day from the Cornuet papers that Chodruc-Duclos had fallen into a sleep from which he would never wake, on his pallet bed in rue du Pélican.
For three or four years, Duclos, as we have said, had clad himself in garments more like those of ordinary people. The Revolution of July, which exiled the Bourbons, and the trial of the ex-ministers, which ostracised M. de Peyronnet to Ham, removed every reason for his ragged condition, and set a limit to his revenge. In spite of, perhaps even on account of, this change of his outward appearance, Duclos, like Epaminondas, left nothing wherewith to pay for his funeral. The Palais-Royal buried him by public subscription.
For three or four years, Duclos, as we've mentioned, dressed more like regular people. The July Revolution, which exiled the Bourbons, and the trial of the former ministers, which banished M. de Peyronnet to Ham, eliminated any justification for his shabby state and set a boundary to his revenge. Despite, or perhaps because of, this change in his appearance, Duclos, like Epaminondas, left nothing to cover his funeral expenses. The Palais-Royal buried him through public donations.
General La Fayette resigned his position, and Chodruc-Duclos his revenge. A third notability resigned his life; namely, Alphonse Rabbe, whom we have already briefly mentioned, and who deserves that we should dedicate a special chapter to him.
General La Fayette stepped down from his position, and Chodruc-Duclos gave up his quest for revenge. A third notable figure let go of his life; that is, Alphonse Rabbe, whom we've already mentioned briefly and who deserves a dedicated chapter.
[1] Cornuet occupied one of those literary pavilions which were erected at each end of the garden of the Palais-Royal; the other was occupied by a dwarf who was all body and seemed to crawl on almost invisible legs.
[1] Cornuet was in one of those literary pavilions that were set up at each end of the garden of the Palais-Royal; the other was taken by a dwarf who was all torso and appeared to move on nearly invisible legs.
CHAPTER IX
Alphonse Rabbe—Madame Cardinal—Rabbe and the Marseilles Academy—Les Massénaires—Rabbe in Spain—His return—The Old Dagger—The Journal Le Phocéen—Rabbe in prison—The writer of fables—Ma pipe
Alphonse Rabbe—Madame Cardinal—Rabbe and the Marseilles Academy—Les Massénaires—Rabbe in Spain—His return—The Old Dagger—The Journal Le Phocéen—Rabbe in prison—The fable writer—My Pipe
Alphonse Rabbe was born at Riez, in the Basses-Alpes. As is the case with all deep and tender-hearted people, he was greatly attached to his own country; he talked of it on every opportunity, and, to believe him, its ancient Roman remains were as remarkable as those of Arles or Nîmes. Rabbe was one of the most extraordinary men of our time; and, had he lived, he would, assuredly, have become one of the most remarkable. Alas! who remembers anything about him now, except Méry, Hugo and myself? As a matter of fact, poor Rabbe gave so many fragments of his life to others that he had not time, during his thirty-nine years, to write one of those books which survive their authors; he whose words, had they been taken down in shorthand, would have made a complete library; he who brought into the literary and political world, Thiers, Mignet, Armaud Carrel, Méry and many others, who are unaware of it, has disappeared from this double world, without leaving any trace beyond two volumes of fragments, which were published by subscription after his death, with an admirable preface in verse by Victor Hugo. Furthermore, in order to quote some portions of these fragments that I had heard read by poor Rabbe himself, compared with whom I was quite an unknown boy (I had only written Henri III. when he died), I wanted to procure those two volumes: I might as well have set to work to find Solomon's ring! But I found them at last, where one finds everything, in the rue des[Pg 78] Cannettes, in Madame Cardinal's second-hand bookshop. The two volumes had lain there since 1835; they were on her shelves, in her catalogue, had been on show in the window! but they were not even cut! and I was the first to insert an ivory paper-knife between their virgin pages, after eighteen years waiting! Unfortunate Rabbe; this was the last touch to your customary ill-luck! Fate seemed ever against him; all his life long he was looking for a revolution. He would have been as great as Catiline or Danton at such a crisis. When 1830 dawned, he had been dead for twenty-four hours! When Rabbe was eighteen, he competed for an academic prize. The subject was a eulogy of Puget. A noble speech, full of new ideas, a glowing style of southern eloquence, were quite sufficient reasons to prevent Rabbe being successful, or from even receiving honourable mention; but, in this failure, his friends could discern the elements of Rabbe's future brilliancy, should Fortune's wheel turn in his favour. Alas! fortune was academic in Rabbe's case, and Rabbe had Orestes for his patron.
Alphonse Rabbe was born in Riez, in the Basses-Alpes. Like many sensitive and caring people, he was deeply attached to his homeland; he spoke of it at every chance, and if you believed him, its ancient Roman ruins were just as impressive as those in Arles or Nîmes. Rabbe was one of the most remarkable individuals of his time, and if he had lived longer, he would surely have become even more notable. Unfortunately, who really remembers him now, except for Méry, Hugo, and me? The fact is, poor Rabbe devoted so many pieces of his life to others that he didn't have the time, during his thirty-nine years, to write one of those books that outlive their authors; he whose words, if they had been transcribed, could have filled a whole library; he who introduced figures like Thiers, Mignet, Armaud Carrel, Méry, and many others—who are completely unaware of it—has faded from this dual world, leaving behind only two volumes of fragments published by subscription after his death, accompanied by an admirable verse preface by Victor Hugo. Additionally, to quote some parts of these fragments that I had heard read by poor Rabbe himself, compared to whom I was just an unknown kid (I had only written Henri III. when he passed away), I wanted to get those two volumes: finding them was like searching for Solomon's ring! But I finally found them, in the usual place, in Madame Cardinal's second-hand bookstore on rue des[Pg 78] Cannettes. The two volumes had been there since 1835; they were on her shelves, listed in her catalog, displayed in the window! Yet they hadn’t even been opened! I was the first to use an ivory paper knife to break their untouched pages after eighteen years of waiting! Poor Rabbe; this was the final blow to your constant misfortune! Fate always seemed against him; throughout his life, he was searching for a revolution. He would have been as significant as Catiline or Danton in such a moment. When 1830 arrived, he had been dead for twenty-four hours! When Rabbe turned eighteen, he entered an academic competition. The topic was a eulogy of Puget. A noble speech, full of fresh ideas and a vibrant style of southern eloquence, were exactly the reasons Rabbe didn't succeed or even receive an honorable mention; yet, in this setback, his friends could see the seeds of Rabbe’s future brilliance, should fortune smile upon him. Alas! In Rabbe's case, fortune was academic, and he had Orestes for a patron.
Gifted with a temperament that was carried away by the passion of the moment, Rabbe took it into his head to become the enemy of Masséna in 1815. Why? No one ever really knew, not even Rabbe! He then published his Massénaires, written in a kind of prose iambics, in red-hot zeal. This brochure set him in the ranks of the Royalist party. A fortnight later, he became reconciled with the conqueror of Zurich, and he set out on a mission to Spain. From thence dated all poor Rabbe's misfortunes; it was in Spain that he was attacked by a disease which had the sad defect of not being fatal. What was this scourge, this plague, this contagious disease? He shall tell us in his own words; we will not deprive him of his right to give the particulars himself—
Gifted with a temperament that was easily swayed by the excitement of the moment, Rabbe decided to become an enemy of Masséna in 1815. Why? No one really knew, not even Rabbe! He then published his Massénaires, which he wrote in a kind of rhythmic prose, full of intense enthusiasm. This brochure aligned him with the Royalist party. Two weeks later, he made amends with the conqueror of Zurich, and was sent on a mission to Spain. That’s where all of Rabbe’s misfortunes began; it was in Spain that he was struck by an illness that, unfortunately, wasn’t deadly. What was this affliction, this plague, this contagious disease? He will tell us in his own words; we won’t take away his chance to share the details himself—
"Alas! O my mother, thou couldst not make me invulnerable when thou didst bear me, by dipping me in the icy waters of the Styx! Carried away by a fiery imagination and imperious desires, I wasted the treasures and incense of my youth upon the altars of criminal voluptuousness; pleasure,[Pg 79] which should be the parent of and not the destroyer of human beings, devoured the first springs of my youth. When I look at myself, I shudder! Is that image really myself? What hand has seared my face with those hideous signs?... What has become of that forehead which displayed the candour of my once pure spirit? of those bleared eyes, which terrify, which once expressed the desires of a heart that was full of hope and without a single regret, and whose voluptuous yet serious thoughts were still free from shameful trammels? A kindly tolerant smile ever lighted them up when they fell on one of my fellows; but, now, my bold and sadly savage looks say to all: 'I have lived and suffered; I have known your ways and long for death!' What has become of those almost charming features which once graced my face with their harmonious lines? That expression of happy good nature, which once gave pleasure and won me love and kindly hearts, is now no longer visible! All has perished in degradation! God and nature are avenged! When, hereafter, I shall experience an affectionate impulse, the expression of my features will betray my soul; and when I go near beauty and innocence, they will fly from me! What inexpressible tortures! What frightful punishment! Henceforth, I must find all my virtues in the remorse that consumes my life; I must purify myself in the unquenchable fires of never-dying sorrow; and ascend to the dignity of my being by means of profound and poignant regret for having sullied my soul. When I shall have earned rest by my sufferings, my youth will have gone.... But there is another life and, when I cross its threshold, I shall be re-clothed in the robe of immortal youth!"
"Oh no! Mom, you couldn’t make me invincible when you dipped me in the icy waters of the Styx! Caught up in a fiery imagination and overwhelming desires, I wasted the precious gifts and joys of my youth on sinful indulgence; pleasure, [Pg 79] which should be a source of life, not its destroyer, consumed my early happiness. When I look at myself, I’m horrified! Is that really me? What hand has scarred my face with those ugly marks?... What has happened to the forehead that once reflected the purity of my spirit? To those bloodshot eyes that once expressed the hopes of an untroubled heart and were filled with passionate yet sincere thoughts free from shame? A warm, friendly smile used to light them up when they met my peers; but now, my wild and painful gaze screams to everyone: 'I have lived and suffered; I’ve seen your ways and long for death!' What has happened to the almost charming features that once filled my face with harmony? That happy expression, which once brought joy and earned me love and kindness, is now gone! Everything has perished in degradation! God and nature are taking their revenge! In the future, when I feel love, my expression will betray my soul; and when I approach beauty and innocence, they will turn away from me! What unbearable torture! What terrible punishment! From now on, I must find all my virtues in the remorse that consumes my life; I must purify myself in the unquenchable fires of endless sorrow; and elevate my being through deep and painful regret for having tainted my soul. When I have earned rest through my suffering, my youth will have vanished.... But there is another life, and when I cross into it, I will once again be clothed in the robe of eternal youth!"
Take notice, reader, that, before that unfortunate journey to Spain, Alphonse Rabbe was never spoken of otherwise than as the Antinous of Aix. An incurable melancholy took possession of him from this period.
Take note, reader, that before that unfortunate trip to Spain, Alphonse Rabbe was only referred to as the Antinous of Aix. An unshakeable sadness took hold of him from that time on.
"I have outlived myself!" he said, shaking his head sadly. Only his beautiful hair remained of his former self. Accursed be the invention of looking-glasses! By thirty, he had already stopped short of two attempts at suicide. But his hands were not steady enough and the dagger missed his heart. We have all seen that dagger to which Rabbe offered a kind of worship, as the last friend to whom he looked for the[Pg 80] supreme service. He has immortalised this dagger. Read this and tell me if ever a more virile style sprung from a human pen—
"I've outlived myself!" he said, shaking his head sadly. Only his beautiful hair was left of his former self. Damn the invention of mirrors! By the age of thirty, he had already made two unsuccessful suicide attempts. But his hands weren't steady enough, and the dagger missed his heart. We’ve all seen that dagger which Rabbe nearly worshipped, as the last friend he hoped would provide the[Pg 80] ultimate service. He has made this dagger immortal. Read this and tell me if any more powerful style has ever come from a human pen—
THE OLD DAGGER
"Thou earnest out of the tomb of a warrior, whose fate is unknown to us; thou wast alone, and without companion of thy kind, hung on the walls of the wretched haunt of a dealer in pictures, when thy shape and appearance struck my attention. I felt the formidable temper of thy blade; I guessed the fierceness of thy point through the sheath of thick rust which covered thee completely. I hastened to bargain so as to have thee in my power; the low-born dealer, who only saw in thee a worthless bit of iron, will give thee up, almost for nothing, to my jealous eagerness. I will carry thee off secretly, pressed against my heart; an extraordinary emotion, mingled with joy, rage and confidence, shook my whole being. I feel the same shuddering every time I seize hold of thee.... Ancient dagger! We will never leave one another more!
"You came out of the tomb of a soldier, whose fate we don’t know; you were alone, without any companion of your kind, hanging on the walls of a shabby picture dealer's shop when your shape and look caught my eye. I felt the strength of your blade; I sensed the sharpness of your point through the thick layer of rust that covered you completely. I quickly worked to make you mine; the poor dealer, who saw you as just a useless piece of metal, would hand you over, nearly for nothing, to satisfy my eager desire. I will secretly carry you with me, pressed against my heart; a strong feeling, mixed with joy, anger, and confidence, shook my entire being. I tremble the same way every time I hold you.... Ancient dagger! We will never be apart again!"
"I have rid thee of that injurious rust, which, even after that long interval of time, has not altered thy form. Here, thou art restored to the glories of the light; thou flashest as thou comest forth from that deep darkness. I did not imprudently entrust thee to a mercenary workman to repair the injustice of those years: I myself, for two days, carefully worked to repolish thee; it is I who preserved thee from the injurious danger of being at the first moment confused with worthless old iron, from the disgrace, perhaps, of going to an obscure forge, to be transformed into a nail to shoe the mule of an iniquitous Jesuit.
"I have removed that harmful rust, which, even after all this time, hasn’t changed your shape. Here, you are restored to your brilliance; you shine as you emerge from that deep darkness. I didn’t foolishly give you to someone else to fix the mistakes of those years: I personally spent two days carefully polishing you; it’s me who protected you from the serious risk of being mistaken for worthless old iron, from the shame, perhaps, of ending up at some unknown forge, to be turned into a nail for the mule of a corrupt Jesuit."
"What is the reason that thy aspect quickens the flow of my blood, in spite of myself?... Shall I not succeed in understanding thy story? To what century dost thou belong? What is the name of the warrior whom thou followedst to his last resting-place? What is the terrible blow which bent thee slightly?...
"What is it about your appearance that makes my heart race, even against my will?... Will I never understand your story? What era do you come from? Who was the warrior you followed to his final resting place? What was the terrible blow that knocked you off balance?...
"I have left thee that mark of thy good services: to efface that imperceptible curve which made thy edge uneven, thou wouldst have had to be submitted to the action of fire; but who knows but that thou mightst have lost thy virtue? Who, then, would have given me back the secret of that blade, strong and obedient to that which the breastplate did not[Pg 81] always withstand, when the blow was dealt with a valiant arm?
"I've left you a reminder of your good service: to fix that barely noticeable curve that made your edge uneven, you would have needed to be exposed to fire; but who knows if that would have made you lose your strength? Who, then, would have returned to me the secret of that blade, strong and responsive to what the breastplate didn’t always withstand when the blow was struck by a brave arm?"
"Was it in the blood of a newly killed bull that thy point was buried on first coming out of the fire? Was it in the cold air of a narrow gorge of mountains? Was it in the syrup prepared from certain herbs or, perhaps, in holy oil? None of our best craftsmen, not Bromstein himself, could tell.
"Was it in the blood of a freshly killed bull that your point was buried when it first came out of the fire? Was it in the cold air of a narrow mountain gorge? Was it in the syrup made from certain herbs or maybe in holy oil? None of our best craftsmen, not even Bromstein himself, could say."
"Tell me whom thou hast comforted and whom punished? Hast thou avenged the outlaw for the judicial murder of his father? Hast thou, during the night, engraved on some granite columns the sentence of those who passed sentence? Thou canst only have obeyed powerful and just passions; the intrepid man who wanted to carry thee away with him to his last resting-place had baptized thee in the blood of a feudal oppressor.
"Tell me whom you have comforted and whom you have punished? Have you avenged the outlaw for the wrongful execution of his father? Have you, during the night, carved into some granite columns the verdict of those who passed judgment? You must have only followed strong and righteous passions; the brave man who wanted to take you with him to his final resting place had baptized you in the blood of a feudal oppressor."
"Thou art pure steel; thy shape is bold, but without studied grace; thou wast not, indeed, frivolously wrought to adorn the girdle of a foppish carpet-knight of the court of Francis I., or of Charles-Quint; thou art not of sufficient beauty to have been thus commonplace; the filigree-work which ornaments thy hilt is only of red copper, that brilliant shade of red which colours the summit of the Mont de la Victoire on long May evenings.
"You're pure steel; your shape is bold, but not delicately graceful; you weren’t made just to adorn the waist of a flashy nobleman at the court of Francis I or Charles V; you're not beautiful enough to be that ordinary; the intricate design that decorates your hilt is just red copper, that brilliant shade of red that colors the top of Mont de la Victoire on long May evenings."
"What does this broad furrow mean which, a quarter of the length down thy blade to the hilt, is pierced with a score of tiny holes like so many loop-holes? Doubtless they were made so that the blood could drip through, which shoots and gushes along the blade in smoking bubbles when the blow has gone home. Oh! if I shed some evil blood I too should wish it to drain off and not to soil my hands.... If it were the blood of a powerful enemy to one's country, little would it matter if it was left all blood smeared; I should have settled my accounts with this wretched world beforehand, and then thou wouldst not fail me at need; thou wouldst do me the same service as thou renderest formerly to him whose bones the tomb received along with thee.
"What does this wide groove mean which, a quarter of the way down your blade to the hilt, is filled with a bunch of tiny holes like little openings? They were probably made so the blood could drip through, which shoots and gushes along the blade in steaming bubbles when the strike lands. Oh! If I were to spill some wicked blood, I too would want it to drain away and not stain my hands... If it were the blood of a powerful enemy of my country, it wouldn’t matter much if it was all bloodied; I would have settled my score with this miserable world beforehand, and then you would not fail me in my time of need; you would serve me just as you once did for the one whose bones the tomb accepted along with you."
"In storms of public misfortunes, or in crises of personal adversity, the tomb is often the only refuge for noble hearts; it, at any rate, is impregnable and quiet: there one can brave accusers and the instruments of despotism, who are as vile as the accusers themselves!
"In times of public disaster or personal hardship, the grave often becomes the only safe haven for noble souls; it is, at least, secure and peaceful: there one can stand against accusers and the tools of oppression, who are just as despicable as the accusers themselves!"
"Open the gates of eternity to me, I implore thee! Since it[Pg 82] needs must be, we will go together, my old dagger, thou and I, as with a new friend. Do not fail me when my soul shall ask transit of thee; afford to my hand that virile self-reliance which a strong man has in himself; snatch me from the outrages of petty persecutors and from the slow torture of the unknown!"
"Open the gates of eternity for me, I beg you! Since it[Pg 82] must be, we will go together, my old dagger, you and I, like with a new friend. Don’t let me down when my soul seeks passage from you; give my hand that strong confidence that a powerful man possesses; rescue me from the harassment of petty tormentors and from the slow agony of the unknown!"
Although this dagger was treasured by the unhappy Rabbe, as we have mentioned, it was not by its means that the accursed one, as he called himself, was to put an end to his miseries. Rabbe was only thirty and had strength enough in him yet to go on living.
Although this dagger was cherished by the unhappy Rabbe, as we mentioned, it wasn't going to be the way the cursed one, as he referred to himself, ended his suffering. Rabbe was only thirty and still had enough strength to keep on living.
So, in despair, he dragged out his posthumous existence and flung himself into the political arena, as a gladiator takes comfort to himself by showing himself off between two tigers.
So, in despair, he pulled himself through his afterlife and threw himself into the political scene, like a gladiator finding solace by facing off against two tigers.
1821 began; the death of the Duc de Berry served as an excuse for many reactionary laws; Alphonse Rabbe now found his golden hour; he came to Marseilles and started Le Phocéen, in a countryside that was a very volcano of Royalism. Would you hear how he addresses those in power? Then listen. Hear how he addressed men of influence—
1821 began; the death of the Duc de Berry acted as a pretext for many conservative laws; Alphonse Rabbe now found his moment of opportunity; he came to Marseilles and launched Le Phocéen, in an area that was a hotbed of Royalism. Do you want to hear how he speaks to those in power? Then listen. Hear how he addressed influential men—
"Oligarchies are fighting for the rays of liberty across the dead body of an unfortunate prince.... O Liberty! mark with thy powerful inspirations those hours of the night which William Tell and his friends used to spend in striking blows to redress wrongs!..."
"Oligarchies are fighting for the freedom over the powerless body of an unfortunate prince... O Freedom! inspire us strongly during those hours of the night that William Tell and his friends took action to make things right!..."
When liberty is invoked in such terms she rarely answers to the call. One morning, someone knocked at Rabbe's door; he went to open it, and two policemen stood there who asked him to accompany them to the prison. When Rabbe was arrested, all Marseilles rose up in a violent Royalist explosion against him. An author who had written a couple of volumes of fables took upon himself to support the Bourbon cause in one of the papers. Rabbe read the article and replied—
When freedom is talked about like this, it seldom responds to the call. One morning, someone knocked on Rabbe's door; he went to answer it, and there were two police officers asking him to come with them to the jail. When Rabbe got arrested, all of Marseille erupted in a fierce Royalist outburst against him. An author who had published a couple of volumes of fables decided to back the Bourbon cause in one of the newspapers. Rabbe read the article and replied—
"Monsieur, in one of your apologues you compare yourself to a sheep; well and good. Then, monsieur le mouton, go on, cropping your tender grass and stop biting other things!"
"Mister, in one of your stories you compare yourself to a sheep; that's fine. So, mister sheep, keep on grazing on your tender grass and quit nipping at other things!"
The writer of fables paid a polite call upon Rabbe; they shook hands and all was forgotten.
The fable writer created
However, the Phocéen had been suspended the very day its chief editor was arrested. Rabbe was set free after a narrow escape of being assassinated by those terrible Marseillais Royalists who, during the early years of the Restoration, left behind them such wide traces of bloodshed. He went to Paris, where his two friends, Thiers and Mignet, had already won a high position in the hôtels of Laffite and of Talleyrand. If Rabbe had preserved the features of Apollo and the form of Antinous, he would have won all Parisian society by his charm of manner and his delightful winning mental attainments; but his mirror condemned him to seclusion more than ever. His sole, his only, friend was his pipe; Rabbe smoked incessantly. We have read the magnificent prose ode he addressed to his dagger; let us see how, in another style, he spoke to his pipe, or, rather, of his pipe.
However, the Phocéen had been shut down the very day its chief editor was arrested. Rabbe was released after a narrow escape from being killed by those terrible Marseillais Royalists who, during the early years of the Restoration, left behind a trail of bloodshed. He went to Paris, where his two friends, Thiers and Mignet, had already secured prominent positions in the circles of Laffite and Talleyrand. If Rabbe had kept the features of Apollo and the form of Antinous, he would have captivated all of Parisian society with his charming demeanor and his delightful intellectual abilities; but his reflection condemned him to isolation more than ever. His sole, his only, friend was his pipe; Rabbe smoked constantly. We have read the magnificent prose ode he wrote to his dagger; now let’s explore how, in a different style, he spoke about his pipe, or rather, his relationship with it.
MY PIPE
"Young man, light my pipe; light it and give it to me, so that I can chase away a little of the weariness of living, and give myself up to forgetfulness of everything, whilst this imbecile people, eager after gross emotions, hastens its steps towards the pompous ceremony of the Sacred-Heart in opulent and superstitious Marseilles.
"Young man, light my pipe; light it and hand it to me, so I can relieve some of life's fatigue and forget everything while this foolish crowd, hungry for cheap thrills, rushes towards the grand ceremony of the Sacred Heart in the lavish and superstitious Marseille."
"I myself hate the multitude and its stupid excitement; I hate these fairs either sacred or profane, these festivals with all their cheating games, at the cost of which an unlucky people consents readily to forget the ills which overwhelm it; I hate these signs of servile respect which the duped crowd lavishes on those who deceive and oppress it; I hate that worship of error which absolves crime, afflicts innocence and drives the fanatic to murder by its inhuman doctrines of exclusiveness!
"I personally can't stand the crowd and its mindless excitement; I dislike these fairs, sacred or secular, filled with deceitful games where unfortunate people willingly forget the hardships they face; I resent the displays of servile respect that the deceived crowd shows to those who exploit and oppress them; I detest the worship of falsehood that excuses wrongdoing, harms the innocent, and drives fanatics to commit murder with its cruel doctrines of exclusivity!"
"Let us forgive the dupes! All those who go to these festivals are promised pleasure. Unfortunate human beings! We pursue this alluring phantom along all kinds of roads. To be elsewhere than one is, to change place and affections, to leave the supportable for worse, to go after novelty upon novelty, to[Pg 84] obtain one more sensation, to grow old, burdened with unsatisfied desires, to die finally without having lived, such is our destiny!
"Let's forgive the fools! Everyone who goes to these festivals is promised enjoyment. Poor souls! We chase this tempting illusion down many paths. Wanting to be somewhere else, to swap places and emotions, to leave what's manageable for something worse, to pursue one novelty after another, to experience one more thrill, to grow old burdened by unfulfilled wishes, and ultimately to die without truly having lived—this is our fate!
"What do I myself look for at the bottom of thy little bowl, O my pipe! Like an alchemist, I am searching how to transmute the woes of the present into fleeting delights; I inhale thy smoke with hurried draughts in order to carry happy confusion to my brain, a quick delirium, that is preferable to cold reflection; I seek for sweet oblivion from what is, for the dream of what is not, and even for that which cannot be.
"What am I looking for at the bottom of your little bowl, O my pipe! Like an alchemist, I'm trying to turn today's troubles into brief pleasures; I inhale your smoke with quick puffs to bring happy confusion to my mind, a quick delirium that is better than cold reflection; I seek sweet oblivion from what is, the dream of what isn't, and even from what can't be."
"Thou makest me pay dear for thy easy consolations; the brain is possibly consumed and weakened by the daily repetition of these disordered emotions. Thought becomes idle, and the imagination runs riot from the habit of depicting such wandering agreeable fictions.
"You make me pay dearly for your easy comforts; my mind is probably worn out and weakened by the daily cycle of these chaotic emotions. My thoughts become idle, and my imagination runs wild from the habit of dreaming up these wandering, pleasant fantasies."
"The pipe is the touch-stone of the nerves, the true dynamometer of slender tissues. Young people who conceal a delicate and feminine organisation beneath a man's clothing do not smoke, for they dread cruel convulsions, and, what would be still more cruel, the loss of the favours of Venus. Smoke, on the contrary, unhappy lovers, ardent and restless spirits tormented with the weight of your thoughts.
"The pipe is the true test of the nerves, the real gauge of delicate tissues. Young people who hide a sensitive and gentle nature under men's clothing don't smoke, as they fear painful convulsions and, even worse, losing the favors of love. Smoke, on the other hand, is for unhappy lovers, passionate and restless souls troubled by your thoughts."
"The savants of Germany keep a pipe on their desks; it is through the waves of tobacco smoke that they search after truths of the intellectual and the spiritual order. That is why their works, always a little nebulous, exceed the reach of our French philosophers, whom fashion, and the salons, compel to inhale more urbane and gracious perfumes.
"The scholars in Germany have a pipe on their desks; it's through the clouds of tobacco smoke that they seek truths about the mind and spirit. That’s why their works, always a bit unclear, go beyond what our French philosophers can grasp, who are pressured by trends and social gatherings to prefer more sophisticated and pleasant scents."
"When Karl Sand, the delegate of the Muses of Erlangen, came to Kotzebue's house, the old man, before joining him, had him presented with coffee and a pipe. This token of touching hospitality did not in the least disarm the dauntless young man: a tear moistened his eyelid; but he persisted. Why? He sacrificed himself for liberty!
"When Karl Sand, the representative of the Muses of Erlangen, arrived at Kotzebue's house, the old man, before sitting down with him, offered him coffee and a pipe. This gesture of heartfelt hospitality did not weaken the fearless young man at all: a tear glistened in his eye; but he pressed on. Why? He was sacrificing himself for freedom!"
"The unhappy man works during the day; and, at night, his bread earned, with arms folded, before his tumble-down doorway, with the smoke of his pipe he drives away the few remaining thoughts that the repose of his limbs may leave him.
"The unhappy man works during the day; and at night, after earning his bread, he sits with his arms crossed in front of his rundown doorway, using the smoke from his pipe to push away the few lingering thoughts that the rest of his tired body may leave him."
"O my pipe! what good things I owe to thee! If an importunate person, a foolish talker, a despicable fanatic, comes and addresses me, I quickly draw a cigar from my case and begin to smoke, and, henceforth, if I am condemned to the affliction[Pg 85] of listening, I at least escape the penalty of replying to him. At intervals, a bitter smile compresses my lips, and the fool flatters himself that I approve him! He attributes to the effect of the rash cigar the equivocal heed I pay to his babble.... He redoubles his loquacity; but, stifled by his impertinence, I suddenly emit the clouds of thick smoke which I have collected in my mouth, like the scorn within my breast.
"O my pipe! What good things I owe to you! If an annoying person, a foolish talker, or a ridiculous fanatic approaches me, I quickly pull a cigar from my case and start smoking. From that moment on, if I have to endure the torture of listening, at least I escape the burden of having to respond to him. Occasionally, a bitter smile crosses my lips, and the fool thinks I approve of him! He mistakenly believes that the effect of my hastily lit cigar is why I pay any attention to his nonsense... He talks even more; but, overwhelmed by his arrogance, I suddenly exhale the thick clouds of smoke I've gathered in my mouth, just like the disdain inside me."
"I exhale both at once, burning vapour and repressed indignation. Oh! how nauseating is the idiocy of others to him who is already out of love with, and wearied of, his own burdens!... I smother him with smoke! If only I could asphyxiate the fool with the lava from my tiny volcano!
"I let out a breath of burning smoke and held-back anger together. Oh! How sickening is the stupidity of others to someone who's already tired of his own struggles!... I drown him in smoke! If only I could suffocate the idiot with the lava from my little volcano!
"But when a friend who is lovable alike in mind and heart comes to me, the pleasure of the pipe quickens the happiness of the meeting. After the first talk, which rapidly flows along, whilst the lighted punch scatters the spirituous particles which abound in the sparkling flame of the liqueur, the glasses clink together: Friend, from this day and for a year hence, let us drain the brotherly cup under the happiest auspices!
"But when a friend who is just as lovely in mind and spirit comes to me, the enjoyment of the pipe enhances the joy of our meeting. After our first conversation flows easily, while the warm punch spreads the spirited particles that dance in the sparkling flame of the liqueur, the glasses clink together: Friend, from this day and for a year to come, let’s enjoy this brotherly drink under the best of circumstances!
"Then we light two cigars, just alike; incited by my friend to talk on a thousand different topics, I often let mine go out, and he gives me a light again from his own.... I am like an old husband who relights a score of times from the lips of a young beauty the flame of his passion, as impotent as many times over. O my friend! when, then, will happier days shine forth?
"Then we light two cigars that are just the same; encouraged by my friend to chat about a thousand different things, I often let mine go out, and he lights it again from his own... I feel like an old husband who repeatedly reignites his passion from the lips of a young beauty, as powerless each time. Oh my friend! When will happier days finally come?"
"Tell me, my friend, in those parts from whence thou comest, are men filled with hope and courage? Do they keep constant and faithful to the worship of our great goddess, Liberty? ... Tell me, if thou knowest, how long we must still chafe at the humiliating bit which condemns us to silence?...
"Tell me, my friend, in the places you're from, are people filled with hope and courage? Do they remain dedicated and faithful to the worship of our great goddess, Liberty? ... Tell me, if you know, how much longer we have to endure the humiliating restraints that force us into silence?..."
"How it hinders me from flinging down my part of servitude! How it delays me from seeing the vain titles of tyranny, which oppress us, reduced to powder; from seeing the ashes of a dishonoured diadem scattered at the breath of patriots as the ashes of my pipe are scattered by mine! My soul is weary of waiting, friend; I warn thee, and with horror I meditate upon the doings of such sad waywardness. See how this people, roused wholly by the infamous sect of Loyola, rushes to fling itself before their strange processions! Young and old, men and women, all hasten to receive their hypocritical and futile benedictions! The fools! if the plague passed under a canopy[Pg 86] they would run to see it pass by and kneel before it! Tell me, friend, is such a people fit for liberty? Is it not rather condemned to grow old and still be kept in the infantine swaddling clothes of a two-fold bondage?
"How it keeps me from throwing off my burden of servitude! How it stops me from seeing the empty titles of tyranny that oppress us, reduced to dust; from witnessing the ashes of a dishonored crown scattered by the breath of patriots just like the ashes of my pipe are scattered by mine! My soul is tired of waiting, friend; I warn you, and with dread I think about the actions of such sad waywardness. Look how this people, completely stirred up by the infamous sect of Loyola, rushes to throw themselves before their strange processions! Young and old, men and women, all hurry to receive their hypocritical and pointless blessings! The fools! If the plague passed under a canopy, they would run to see it go by and kneel before it! Tell me, friend, is such a people ready for liberty? Are they not rather doomed to grow old and still be kept in the childish swaddling clothes of a two-fold bondage?"
"Men are still but children. Nevertheless, the human race increases and goes on progressing continually, and meanwhile stretches its bonds till they break. The time draws near when it will no longer listen to the lame man who calls upon it to stop, when it will no longer ask its way of the blind. May the world become enlightened! God desires it!... And we, my friend, we will smoke whilst we watch for the coming dawn. Happily, friend, liberty has her secrets, her resources. This people, which seems to us for ever brutalised, is, however, educating itself and every day becomes more enlightened! Friend, we will forgive the slaves for running after distractions; we will bear with the immodest mother who prides herself that her daughters will pass for virgins when they have been blessed. We will not be surprised that old scoundrels hope to sweat out the seeds of their crimes, exhausting themselves to carry despicable images.
"Men are still just children. However, humanity keeps growing and progressing continuously, while also pushing its limits until they break. The time is approaching when it will no longer heed the lame man urging it to stop, nor will it ask the blind for directions. May the world become enlightened! God wants it!... And we, my friend, will smoke while we wait for the dawn to arrive. Luckily, friend, liberty has her secrets and resources. This people, which seems forever brutalized, is actually educating itself and becoming more enlightened every day! Friend, we will forgive the slaves for chasing after distractions; we will tolerate the shameless mother who boasts that her daughters will be seen as virgins when they have been blessed. We will not be surprised that old scoundrels expect to atone for their crimes by exhausting themselves with despicable images."
"O my pipe! every day do I owe thee that expressive emblem of humility which religion only places once a year on the brow of the adoring Christian: Man is but dust and ashes.... That, in fact, is all which remains at the last of the tenderest or most magnanimous heart, of hearts over-intoxicated with joy or pride, or those consumed with the bitterest pains.
"O my pipe! Every day I owe you that heartfelt symbol of humility that religion puts on the devoted Christian's forehead just once a year: Man is but dust and ashes.... In the end, that's all that’s left of even the kindest or most generous heart, whether it's overflowing with joy or pride, or those filled with the deepest sorrows."
"These small remnants of men, these ashes, the lightest zephyr scatter into the empty air.... Where, then, is the dust of Alexander, where the ashes of Gengis? They are nothing more than vain historic phantoms; those great subduers of nations, those terrible oppressors of men, what are they but fine-sounding names, objects of vain enthusiasm or of useless malediction!
"These small remnants of men, these ashes, the lightest breeze scatters into empty air.... Where, then, is the dust of Alexander, where the ashes of Genghis? They are nothing more than empty historical shadows; those great conquerors of nations, those terrible oppressors of people, what are they but impressive-sounding names, objects of futile admiration or pointless curses!"
"I, too, shall soon perish; all that makes up my being, my very name, will disappear like light smoke.... In a few days' time, perhaps at the very spot where I now write, it will not even be known that I have ever existed.... Now, does something imperishable breathe forth and rise up on high from this perishable body? Does there dwell in man one spark worthy to light the calumet of the angels upon the pavements of the heavens?... O my pipe! chase away, banish[Pg 87] this ambitious and baneful desire after the unknown and the impenetrable!"
"I, too, will soon be gone; everything that makes me who I am, my very name, will vanish like wisps of smoke.... In just a few days, maybe right here where I'm writing, it won't even be remembered that I ever existed.... Now, does something eternal rise up from this temporary body? Is there a spark in humanity that’s worthy enough to light the angels' pipe on the roads of heaven?... Oh my pipe! Drive away this ambitious and harmful desire for the unknown and the unknowable!"
We may be mistaken, but it seems to us that one would search in vain for anything more melancholy in Werther or more bitter in Don Juan, than the pages we have just read.
We might be wrong, but it feels like you couldn't find anything more sad in Werther or more bitter in Don Juan than the pages we just read.
CHAPTER X
Rabbe's friends—La Sœur grise—The historical résumés—M. Brézé's advice—An imaginative man—Berruyer's style—Rabbe with his hairdresser, his concierge and confectioner—La Sœur grise stolen—Le Centaure.
Rabbe's friends —La Sœur grise — The historical summaries — M. Brézé's advice — A creative person — Berruyer's style — Rabbe with his hairdresser, his building manager, and his pastry chef — La Sœur grise stolen —Le Centaure.
Alphonse Rabbe's most assiduous disciples were Thiers and Mignet;[1] they came to see him most days and treated him with the respect of pupils towards their master. But Rabbe was independent to the verge of intractability; and always ready to rear even under the hand that caressed him. Now, Rabbe discerned that these two writers were already on the way to become historians, had no desire to make a third in a trio with them and resolved to be more true to life than the historians and to write a novel. Walter Scott was then all the rage in London and Paris.
Alphonse Rabbe's most dedicated disciples were Thiers and Mignet;[1] they visited him nearly every day and treated him with the respect that students have for their teacher. However, Rabbe was fiercely independent and often resistant, even when someone was being kind to him. Rabbe realized that these two writers were already becoming historians and had no intention of joining them, so he decided to stay true to life in a way that historians might not and to write a novel. Walter Scott was very popular in London and Paris at that time.
Rabbe seized paper and pen and wrote the title of his novel on the first leaf, La Sœur grise. Then he stopped, and I dare go so far even as to say that this first page was never turned over. True, what Rabbe did in imagination was much more real to him than what he actually did.
Rabbe grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote the title of his novel on the first page, La Sœur grise. Then he paused, and I would even say that this first page was never turned. It's true that what Rabbe envisioned in his mind felt much more real to him than what he actually did.
Félix Bodin had just begun to inaugurate the era of Résumés historiques; the publishers, Lecointe and Roret, went about asking for summaries from anyone at all approaching an author; résumés showered in like hail; the very humblest scholar felt himself bound to send in his résumé.
Félix Bodin had just started the era of Résumés historiques; the publishers, Lecointe and Roret, were asking everyone who even somewhat resembled an author for summaries; résumés came pouring in like hail; even the most modest scholar felt compelled to submit his résumé.
There was a regular scourge of them; even the most harmless of persons were attacked with the disease. Rabbe eclipses all those obscure writers at abound; he published, successively, résumés of the history of Spain, of Portugal and of Russia; all extending to several editions. These three volumes showed admirable talent for the writing of history, and their only defect was the commonplace title under which they were published.
There was a constant problem with them; even the most innocent people caught the disease. Rabbe outshines all those lesser-known writers around; he published, one after the other, summaries of the history of Spain, Portugal, and Russia; all of these went through several editions. These three volumes displayed remarkable skill in writing history, and their only flaw was the bland title under which they were released.
"What are you working at?" Thiers often asked Alphonse Rabbe, as they saw the reams of paper he was using up.
"What are you working on?" Thiers often asked Alphonse Rabbe, as they saw the piles of paper he was going through.
"I am at work on my Sœur grise," he replied.
"I’m working on my Sœur grise," he replied.
In the summer of 1824, Mignet made a journey to Marseilles where, before all his friends, he spread the praises of Rabbe's forthcoming novel, La Sœur grise, which Mignet believed to be nearly completed. Besides these fine books of history, Alphonse Rabbe wrote excellent articles in the Courrier-Français on the Fine Arts. On this subject, he was not only a great master but, in addition, a great critic. He was possibly slightly unfair to Vaudeville drama and a little severe on its exponents; he carried this injustice almost to the point of hatred. A droll adventure arose out of his dislike. A compatriot of Rabbe, a Marseillais named M. Brézé (you see we sometimes put Monsieur) was possessed by an ardent desire for giving Rabbe advice. (Let us here insert, parenthetically, the observation that the Marseillais are born advisers, specially when their advice is unsolicited.)
In the summer of 1824, Mignet took a trip to Marseilles where, in front of all his friends, he praised Rabbe's upcoming novel, La Sœur grise, which Mignet thought was almost finished. In addition to these great historical books, Alphonse Rabbe wrote excellent articles for the Courrier-Français about the Fine Arts. On this topic, he was not only a master but also a sharp critic. He might have been a bit unfair to Vaudeville drama and a little harsh on its performers; he took this unfairness nearly to the point of hatred. A funny situation arose from his dislike. A fellow Marseillais named M. Brézé (you see, we sometimes use Monsieur) was eager to give Rabbe advice. (Let's insert, parenthetically, that Marseillais people tend to give advice, especially when it's not asked for.)
Well, M. Brézé had given endless advice to Rabbe while he was still at Marseilles, advice which we can easily guess he took good care not to follow. M. Brézé came to Paris and met Barthélemy, the poet, at the Palais-Royal. The two compatriots entered into conversation with one another—
Well, M. Brézé had given Rabbe a ton of advice while he was still in Marseilles, advice that we can easily assume he was careful not to follow. M. Brézé arrived in Paris and ran into Barthélemy, the poet, at the Palais-Royal. The two fellow countrymen started chatting with each other—
"What is Rabbe doing?" asked M. Brézé.
"What is Rabbe doing?" asked Mr. Brézé.
"Résumés."
"Resumes."
"Ah! so Rabbe is doing résumés?" repeated M. Brézé. "Hang it all!"
"Ah! so Rabbe is making résumés?" repeated M. Brézé. "Damn it!"
"Quite so."
"Definitely."
"What are these résumés?"
"What are these resumes?"
"The quintessence of history compressed into small volumes instead of being spun out into large ones."
"The essence of history packed into small books instead of being spread out over large ones."
"How many such résumés does he do in the year?"
"How many of these résumés does he create in a year?"
"Perhaps one and a half or two at the most."
"Maybe one and a half or two at most."
"And how much does a résumé bring in?"
"And how much does a resume make?"
"I believe twelve hundred francs."
"I think twelve hundred francs."
"So, if Rabbe works all the year and has only done one résumé and a half, he has earned eighteen hundred francs?"
"So, if Rabbe works all year and has only done one and a half résumés, he has earned eighteen hundred francs?"
"Eighteen hundred francs, yes! by Jove!"
"1800 francs, yes! Wow!"
"Hum!"
"Hmm!"
And M. Brézé began to reflect. Then, suddenly, he asked—"Do you think Rabbe is as clever as M. Scribe?"
And M. Brézé started to think. Then, suddenly, he asked—"Do you think Rabbe is as smart as M. Scribe?"
The question was so unlooked for and, above all, so inappropriate, that Barthélemy began to laugh.
The question was so unexpected and, more importantly, so out of place, that Barthélemy started to laugh.
"Why, yes," he said; "only it is cleverness of a different order." "Oh! that does not matter!"
"Sure," he said, "but it's a different kind of cleverness." "Oh, that doesn't matter!"
"Why does it not matter?"
"Why doesn't it matter?"
"If he has as much talent as M. Scribe it is all that is necessary."
"If he has as much talent as M. Scribe, that's all he needs."
Again he fell into reflection; then, after a pause he said to Barthélemy—
Again he fell into thought; then, after a moment, he said to Barthélemy—
"Is it true that M. Scribe earns a hundred thousand francs a year?"
"Is it true that M. Scribe makes a hundred thousand francs a year?"
"People say so," replied Barthélemy.
"People say that," replied Barthélemy.
"Well, then," said M. Brézé, "in that case I must offer Rabbe some advice."
"Well, then," said M. Brézé, "in that case, I need to give Rabbe some advice."
"You?"
"You?"
"Yes, I."
"Yes, I am."
"You are quite capable of doing so—what will it be?"
"You can definitely do that—what do you want to choose?"
"I must tell him to leave off writing his résumés and take to writing vaudevilles."
"I need to tell him to stop writing his résumés and start writing vaudevilles."
The advice struck Barthélemy as a magnificent joke.
The advice seemed to Barthélemy like a great joke.
"Say that again," he said to M. Brézé.
"Say that again," he told M. Brézé.
"I must advise Rabbe to leave off writing his résumés and take to writing vaudevilles."
"I have to suggest to Rabbe that he stop writing his résumés and start writing vaudevilles."
"My goodness!" exclaimed Barthélemy, "do offer him that advice, Monsieur Brézé."
"My goodness!" Barthélemy exclaimed, "please give him that advice, Mr. Brézé."
"I will."
"I will."
"When?"
"When?"
"The first time I see him."
"The first time I see him."
"You promise me you will?"
"Will you promise me?"
"On my word of honour."
"I swear."
"Whatever you do don't forget!"
"Don't forget whatever you do!"
"Make your mind quite easy."
"Put your mind at ease."
Barthélemy and M. Brézé shook hands and separated. M. Brézé very much delighted with himself for having conceived such a splendid idea; Barthélemy with only one regret, that he could not be at hand when he put his idea into execution.
Barthélemy and Mr. Brézé shook hands and parted ways. Mr. Brézé was quite pleased with himself for coming up with such a brilliant idea; Barthélemy had just one regret: that he couldn't be there when he put the idea into action.
As a matter of fact, M. Brézé met Rabbe one day, upon the Pont des Arts. Rabbe was then deep in Russian history: he was as pre-occupied as Tacitus.
As it turns out, M. Brézé ran into Rabbe one day on the Pont des Arts. Rabbe was totally absorbed in Russian history; he was as focused as Tacitus.
"Oh! I am pleased to see you, my dear Rabbe!" said M. Brézé, as he came up to him.
"Oh! I'm so glad to see you, my dear Rabbe!" said M. Brézé as he approached him.
"And I to see you," said Rabbe.
"And I to see you," said Rabbe.
"I have been looking for you for the past week."
"I've been searching for you for the past week."
"Indeed."
"Definitely."
"Upon my word, I have!"
"I swear, I have!"
"What for?"
"Why?"
"My dear Rabbe, you know how attached I am to you?"
"My dear Rabbe, you know how close I am to you?"
"Why, yes!"
"Yes!"
"Well, then, in your own interest ... you understand? In your interest ..."
"Well, then, for your own benefit ... you get what I mean? For your benefit ..."
"Certainly, I understand."
"Sure, I get it."
"Well, I have a piece of advice to offer you."
"Well, I have some advice for you."
"To offer me?"
"To give me?"
"Yes, you."
"Yeah, you."
"Give it me, then," said Rabbe, looking at Brézé over his spectacles, as he was in the habit of doing, when he felt great surprise or people began to bore him.
"Give it to me, then," said Rabbe, looking at Brézé over his glasses, as he usually did when he was really surprised or people started to annoy him.
"Believe me, I speak as a friend."
"Trust me, I'm speaking as a friend."
"I do not doubt it; but what is the advice?"
"I don't doubt it; but what’s the advice?"
"Rabbe, my friend, instead of making résumés, write vaudevilles!"
"Rabbe, my friend, instead of making summaries, write skits!"
A deep growl sounded from the historian's breast. He seized the offerer of advice by the arm, and in an awful voice he said to him—
A low growl came from the historian's chest. He grabbed the person giving advice by the arm and said to him in a menacing voice—
"Monsieur, one of my enemies must have sent you to insult me."
"Mister, one of my rivals must have sent you to offend me."
"One of your enemies?"
"One of your rivals?"
"It was Latouche!"
"It’s Latouche!"
"Why, no ..."
"Not at all..."
"Then it was Santo-Domingo!"
"Then it was Santo Domingo!"
"No."
"Nope."
"Or Loëve-Weymars!"
"Or Love-Weymars!"
"I swear to you it was none of them."
"I promise you it wasn't any of them."
"Tell me the name of the insulting fellow."
"Tell me the name of the rude guy."
"Rabbe! my dear Rabbe!"
"Rabbi! my dear Rabbi!"
"Give me his name, monsieur, or I will take you by the heels and pitch you into the Seine, as Hercules threw Pirithous into the sea."
"Give me his name, sir, or I will grab you by the ankles and throw you into the Seine, just like Hercules tossed Pirithous into the ocean."
Then, perceiving that he had got mixed in his quotation—
Then, realizing that he had messed up his quote—
"Pirithous or some other, it is all the same!"
"Pirithous or someone else, it doesn't matter!"
"But I take my oath ..."
"But I promise ..."
"Then it is you yourself?" exclaimed Rabbe, before Brézé had time to finish his sentence. "Well, monsieur, you shall account to me for this insult!"
"Is it really you?" Rabbe exclaimed, cutting off Brézé before he could finish his sentence. "Well, sir, you will answer to me for this insult!"
At this proposition, Brézé gave such a jump that he tore himself from the pincer-like grip that held him and ran to put himself under the protection of the pensioner who took the toll at the bridge.
At this suggestion, Brézé jumped so suddenly that he broke free from the grip that had him and ran to place himself under the protection of the pensioner who collected the toll at the bridge.
Rabbe took himself off after first making a gesture significant of future vengeance. Next day he had forgotten all about it. Brézé, however, remembered it ten years afterwards!
Rabbe left, first making a gesture that hinted at future revenge. The next day, he had forgotten all about it. Brézé, however, remembered it ten years later!
Two explanations must follow this anecdote which ought really to have preceded it. From much study of the Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Rabbe had imbibed something of the character of the susceptible Genevese; he thought there was a general conspiracy organised against him: that his Catiline and Manlius and Spartacus were Latouche, Santo-Domingo and Loëve-Weymars; he even[Pg 93] went so far as to suspect his two Pylades, Thiers and Mignet.
Two explanations should come after this story, which really should have come before it. From extensive reading of the Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Rabbe had absorbed some of the traits of the sensitive Genevese; he believed there was a widespread conspiracy against him: that his Catiline and Manlius and Spartacus were Latouche, Santo-Domingo, and Loëve-Weymars; he even[Pg 93] went so far as to doubt his two Pylades, Thiers and Mignet.
"They are my d'Alembert and Diderot!" he said.
"They're my d'Alembert and Diderot!" he said.
It was quite evident he believed Brézé's suggestion was the result of a conspiracy that was just breaking out.
It was clear he thought Brézé's suggestion was part of a conspiracy that was just starting to unfold.
Rabbe's life was a species of perpetual hallucination, an existence made up of dreams; and sleep, itself, the only reality. One day, he button-holed Méry; his manner was gloomy, his hand on his breast convulsively crumpled his shirt-front.
Rabbe's life was like a constant illusion, a life filled with dreams; and sleep, in itself, was the only reality. One day, he cornered Méry; he seemed downcast, his hand on his chest nervously wrinkling his shirt.
"Well," he exclaimed, shaking his head up and down, "I told you so!"
"Well," he said, nodding his head, "I told you so!"
"What?"
"What?"
"That he was an enemy of mine."
"That he was not on my side."
"Who?"
"Who's there?"
"Mignet."
"Mignet."
"But, my dear Rabbe, he is nothing of the kind.... Mignet loves and admires you."
"But, my dear Rabbe, he's not like that at all.... Mignet loves and admires you."
"Ah! he love me!"
"Ah! he loves me!"
"Yes."
Yes.
"He admire me!"
"He admires me!"
"No doubt of it."
"Definitely."
"Well, do you know what the man who professes to love and admire me said of me?"
"Well, do you know what the guy who claims to love and admire me said about me?"
"What did he say?"
"What did he say?"
"Why, he said that I was a man of IMAGINATION, yes, he did."
"Why, he said that I was a man of Creativity, yes, he did."
Méry assumed an air of consternation to oblige Rabbe. Rabbe, to revenge himself for Mignet's insult, wrote in the preface of a second edition of his résumés these crushing words—
Méry assumed an expression of shock to please Rabbe. Rabbe, seeking revenge for Mignet's insult, wrote in the preface of the second edition of his summaries these stinging words—
"The pen of the historian ought not to be like a leaden pipe through which a stream of tepid water flows on to the paper."
"The historian's pen shouldn't be like a heavy pipe that lets a stream of lukewarm water trickle onto the page."
From this moment, his wrath against historians,—modern historians, that is, of course: he worshipped Tacitus,—knew no bounds; and, when there were friends present at his house and all historians were absent, he would declaim in thunderous tones—
From this moment, his anger towards historians—modern historians, of course; he admired Tacitus—knew no limits; and, when friends were at his house and all historians were missing, he would rant in booming tones—
"Would you believe it, gentlemen, there are in France, at the present moment and of our generation and rank, historians who take it into their heads to copy the style of the veterans, Berruyer, Catrou and Rouille? Yes, in each line of their modern battles they will tell you that thirty thousand men were cut in pieces, or that they bit the dust, or that they were left lying strewn upon the scene. How behind the times these youngsters are! The other day, one of them, in describing the battle of Austerlitz, wrote this sentence: 'Twenty-five thousand Russians were drawn up in battle upon a vast frozen lake; Napoléon gave orders that firing should be directed against this lake. Bullets broke through the ice and the twenty-five thousand Russians BIT THE DUST!'"
"Can you believe it, guys? Right now in France, there are historians from our generation who think it’s a good idea to mimic the old-timers like Berruyer, Catrou, and Rouille. Seriously, in every line of their modern battle accounts, they insist on saying things like thirty thousand men were cut to pieces, or that they bit the dust, or that they were left sprawled across the battlefield. These kids are so outdated! Just the other day, one of them described the Battle of Austerlitz like this: 'Twenty-five thousand Russians were lined up in battle on a huge frozen lake; Napoléon ordered that shots be fired at the lake. Bullets broke through the ice and the twenty-five thousand Russians Kicked the bucket!'"
It is curious to note that such a sentence was actually written in one of the résumés of that date. The second remark that we ought to have made will explain the comparison that Rabbe had hazarded when he spoke of himself as Hercules and of Brézé as Pirithous. He had so effectually contracted the habit of using grand oratorical metaphor and stilted language, that he could never descend to a more familiar style of speech in his relations with more ordinary people. Thus, he once addressed his hairdresser solemnly in the following terms:—
It’s interesting to observe that such a statement was actually written in one of the résumés from that time. The second point we should have made will clarify the comparison Rabbe made when he referred to himself as Hercules and Brézé as Pirithous. He had become so accustomed to using grand oratorical metaphors and overly formal language that he could never switch to a more casual way of speaking with regular people. For instance, he once spoke to his hairdresser in a serious manner with these words:—
"Do not disarrange the economy of my hair too much; let the strokes of your comb fall lightly on my head, and take care, as Boileau says, that 'L'ivoire trop hâté ne se brise en vos mains!'"
"Don't mess up my hair too much; let the strokes of your comb glide gently over my head, and be careful, as Boileau says, that 'the ivory handled too roughly won’t break in your hands!'"
He said to his porter—
He told his porter—
"If some friend comes and knocks at my hospitable portal, deal kindly with him.... I shall soon return: I go to breathe the evening air upon the Pont des Arts."
"If a friend comes and knocks at my welcoming door, treat him kindly... I’ll be back soon; I’m going to enjoy the evening air on the Pont des Arts."
He said to his pastry-cook, Grandjean, who lived close by him in the rue des Petits-Augustins—
He said to his pastry chef, Grandjean, who lived nearby on rue des Petits-Augustins—
"Monsieur Grandjean, the vol-au-vent that you did me the honour to send yesterday had a crust of Roman cement, obstinate to the teeth; give a more unctuous turn to your culinary art and people will be grateful to you."
"Monsieur Grandjean, the vol-au-vent you kindly sent me yesterday had a crust as tough as cement; please make your cooking a bit softer and people will appreciate it."
While all these things were happening, Rabbe fully imagined that he was writing his novel, La Sœur grise.
While all this was happening, Rabbe completely envisioned that he was writing his novel, La Sœur grise.
One day, Thiers came in to see him, as was his custom.
One day, Thiers came in to see him, as he usually did.
"Well, Rabbe," he said, "what are you at work upon now?"
"Well, Rabbe," he said, "what are you working on now?"
"Parbleu!" replied Rabbe, "the same as usual, you know! My Sœur grise."
"Wow!" replied Rabbe, "the same as always, you know! My Sœur grise."
"It ought to be nearly finished by now."
"It should be almost done by now."
"It is finished."
"Done."
"Oh, indeed!"
"Oh, for sure!"
"Do you doubt me?"
"Do you not believe me?"
"No."
"Nope."
"But you do doubt it?"
"But you really doubt it?"
"Of course not."
"Definitely not."
"Stay," he said, picking up an exercise-book full of sheets of paper, "here it is."
"Wait," he said, grabbing a notebook filled with sheets of paper, "here it is."
Thiers took it from him.
Thiers took it from him.
"But what is this? You have given me blank sheets of paper, my dear fellow!"
"But what is this? You've handed me blank sheets of paper, my friend!"
Rabbe sprang like a tiger upon Thiers, and might, perhaps, in 1825, have demolished the Minister of the First of March, had not Thiers opened the book and showed him the pages as white as the dress worn by M. Planard's shepherdess. Rabbe tore his hair with both hands.
Rabbe lunged at Thiers like a tiger, and might have taken down the Minister of the First of March back in 1825, if Thiers hadn't opened the book and revealed the pages as white as the dress worn by M. Planard's shepherdess. Rabbe grabbed at his hair in frustration.
"Do you know what has happened to me?" he shouted.
"Do you know what happened to me?" he shouted.
"No."
"Nope."
"Someone has stolen the MS. of my Sœur grise!"
"Someone has stolen the manuscript of my Sister Gray!"
"Oh! my God!" exclaimed Thiers, who did not want to vex him; "do you know who is the thief?"
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Thiers, who didn't want to upset him. "Do you know who the thief is?"
"No ... stay, yes, indeed, I think I do ... it is Loëve-Weymars! He shall perish by my own hand; I will send him my two seconds!"
"No ... stay, yes, I really think I do ... it’s Loëve-Weymars! He will die by my own hand; I’ll send him my two seconds!"
Loëve-Weymars was not in Paris. For upwards of a fortnight Rabbe laboured under the delusion that he had written La Sœur grise from cover to cover, and that Loëve-Weymars was jealous of him and had robbed him of his manuscript.
Loëve-Weymars was not in Paris. For over two weeks, Rabbe was under the impression that he had written La Sœur grise from start to finish, and that Loëve-Weymars was jealous of him and had stolen his manuscript.
When such petulant insults fell upon friends like Loëve-Weymars, Thiers, Mignet, Armaud Carrel and Méry, it did not matter; but, when they were directed at strangers less acquainted with Rabbe's follies, affairs sometimes assumed a more tragic aspect. Thus, about this period, he had two duels; one with Alexis Dumesnil, the other with Coste; he received a sword-cut from both of these gentlemen; but these wounds did not cure him of his passion for quarrelling. He used to say that, in his youth, he had been very clever at handling the javelin; unluckily, however, his adversaries always declined that weapon, which refusal Rabbe, with his enthusiasm for antiquity, never could understand.
When rude insults were thrown at friends like Loëve-Weymars, Thiers, Mignet, Armaud Carrel, and Méry, it didn’t really matter; but when they were aimed at strangers who were less familiar with Rabbe's nonsense, things sometimes took a more serious turn. Around this time, he had two duels; one with Alexis Dumesnil and the other with Coste. He got cut with a sword from both of these guys, but those injuries didn’t stop his love for fighting. He used to say that when he was young, he was great at throwing the javelin; unfortunately, though, his opponents always refused to use that weapon, which Rabbe, with his love for the past, could never understand.
But if Rabbe admired antiquity madly, it was because he felt it strongly; his piece, Le Centaure, is André Chénier in prose. Let us give the proof of what we have been stating—
But if Rabbe was crazy about the past, it was because he experienced it intensely; his work, Le Centaure, is like André Chénier in prose. Let us provide evidence for what we’ve been saying—
THE CENTAUR
"Swift as the west wind, amorous, superb, a young centaur comes to carry off the beauteous Cymothoë from her old husband. The impotent cries of the old man are heard afar.... Proud of his prey, impotent with desire, the ravisher stops beneath the deep shade of the banks of the river. His flanks still palpitate from the swiftness of his course; his breath comes hard and fast. He stops; his strong legs bend under him; he stretches one forth and kneels with agility on the other. He lovingly raises his beautiful prey whom he holds trembling across his powerful thighs; he takes her and presses her against his manly breast, sighs a thousand sighs and covers her tear-dewed eyelids with kisses.
"Quick as the west wind, passionate and grand, a young centaur rushes to take the beautiful Cymothoë away from her older husband. The old man’s desperate cries echo in the distance... Proud of his catch and filled with desire, the centaur stops beneath the cool shade by the riverbank. His sides heave from his run; he breathes heavily. He halts, his strong legs weaken; he stretches one out and kneels gracefully on the other. He gently lifts his beautiful prize, trembling as he holds her across his powerful thighs; he pulls her against his strong chest, sighing deeply and showering her tear-streaked eyelids with kisses."
"'Fear not,' he says to her, 'O Cymothoë! Be not terrified of a lover who offers to thy charms the united quality of both man and war-horse. Believe me! my heart is worth more than that of a vile mortal who dwells in your towns. Tame my wild independence; I will bear thee to the freshest rivers, beneath the loveliest of shade; I will carry thee over the green prairies, which are bathed by the Pene or patriarchal Achelous. Seated on my broad back, with thy arms intertwined in the rings of my black hair, thou canst entrust thy charms to the gambols of the waves, without fear that a jealous[Pg 97] god will venture to seize thee to take thee to the depths of his crystal grotto.... I love thee, O young Cymothoë! Drive away thy tears; thou canst try thy power: thou hast me in subjection!'
"'Don't be afraid,' he says to her, 'O Cymothoë! Don’t fear a lover who combines the best of both man and war-horse for you. Trust me! My heart is worth more than any worthless mortal in your towns. Tame my wild independence; I’ll take you to the freshest rivers, under the loveliest shade; I’ll carry you over green prairies washed by the Pene or the ancient Achelous. Sitting on my broad back, with your arms tangled in my black hair, you can trust your beauty to the playful waves, without worrying that a jealous [Pg 97] god will try to drag you down to his crystal grotto.... I love you, O young Cymothoë! Wipe away your tears; you have power over me: I am yours!'
"'Splendid monster!' replies the weeping Cymothoë, 'I am struck with amazement. Thy accents are full of gentleness, and thou speakest words of love! Why, thou talkest like a man! Thy fearful caresses do not slay me! Tell me why! But dost thou not hear the cries of Dryas, my old husband? Centaur, fear for thy life! His kisses are like ice, but his vengeance is cruel; his hounds are flying in thy tracks; his slaves follow them; haste thee to fly and leave me!'
"'Amazing creature!' replies the weeping Cymothoë, 'I’m astonished. Your voice is so gentle, and you speak words of love! You sound just like a man! Your fierce embraces don’t hurt me! Why is that? But can’t you hear the cries of Dryas, my old husband? Centaur, be afraid for your life! His kisses are cold as ice, but his revenge is brutal; his hounds are chasing you; his slaves are following them; hurry and run away and leave me!'
"'I leave thee!' replies the Centaur. And he stifles a plaintive murmur on the lips of his captive. 'I leave thee! Where is the Pirithous, the Alcides who dare come to dispute my conquest with me? Have I not my javelins? Have I not my heavy club? Have I not my swift speed? Has not Neptune given to the Centaur the impetuous strength of the storm?'
"'I’m leaving you!' replies the Centaur, silencing the sorrowful murmur on his captive's lips. 'I'm leaving you! Where are Pirithous and Alcides, who dare challenge my victory? Don’t I have my javelins? Don’t I have my heavy club? Don’t I have my swift speed? Isn’t Neptune the one who gives the Centaur the fierce strength of a storm?'"
"Then suddenly he bounded away full of courage, confidence and happiness. Cymothoë balanced as if she was hung in a moving net under these green vaults, or like as though borne in a chariot of clouds by Zephyrus, henceforth rids herself of her useless terrors and abandons herself to the raptures of this strange lover.
"Suddenly, he leaps away, filled with courage, confidence, and joy. Cymothoë sways as if she’s hanging in a moving net under the green canopies, or as if carried in a chariot of clouds by Zephyrus; from that moment on, she lets go of her unnecessary fears and surrenders to the ecstasy of this unusual lover."
"Again he stops and she admires the way nature has delighted to mate in him the lovely form of a horse with the majestic features of a man. Intelligent thought animates his glance, so proud and yet so gentle; beneath that broad breast dwells a heart touched by her charms.... What a splendid slave to Cymothoë and to love!
"Once again he stops, and she admires how nature has beautifully combined the elegant shape of a horse with the noble features of a man. Intelligent thought sparkles in his gaze, so proud yet gentle; beneath that broad chest lies a heart captivated by her beauty.... What a magnificent companion for Cymothoë and for love!"
"She soon stops looking; a burning blush covers her cheeks and her eyelids droop; then, as her lover redoubles his caresses, and unfastens her girdle—
"She quickly stops looking; a hot blush spreads across her cheeks and her eyelids droop; then, as her lover intensifies his touches and loosens her belt—
"'Stay!' she says to him, 'stay, beauteous Centaur! Dost thou not hear the fiery pack of hounds? Do not the arrows whistle in thy ears.... I do not indeed hate thee; but leave me! Leave me!'
"'Stay!' she says to him, 'stay, beautiful Centaur! Don’t you hear the fierce pack of hounds? Don’t the arrows whistle in your ears.... I really don’t hate you; just leave me! Leave me!'"
"But neither Dryas nor his hounds nor slaves come that way, and those were not the reason of Cymothoë's fears. He, smiling—
"But neither Dryas nor his hounds nor the slaves came that way, and they weren’t the source of Cymothoë's fears. He, smiling—
"'Calm thy fright; come, let us cross the river, and do not[Pg 98] dread the sacrifice we are about to offer to the powerful Venus on the other side!... Soon, alas! the forests will see no more such nuptials. Our fathers have succumbed, betrayed by the wedding of Thetis and Peleus; we are now few in number, solitary, fugitive, not from man, weaker and less noble than we, but before Death who pursues us. The laws of a mysterious nature have thus decreed it; the reign of our race is nearly over!
"Calm your fear; come, let’s cross the river, and don’t [Pg 98] be afraid of the sacrifice we’re about to make to powerful Venus on the other side!... Soon, unfortunately, the forests will no longer witness such weddings. Our ancestors have fallen, betrayed by the marriage of Thetis and Peleus; we are now few in number, alone, and fleeing, not from man, who is weaker and less noble than us, but from Death, who is chasing us. The laws of some mysterious nature have decided this; the reign of our people is almost over!
"'This globe, deprived of the love of the gods who made it, must grow old and the weak replace the strong; debased mortals will have nothing but vain memories of the early joys of the world. Thou art perhaps the last daughter of men destined to be allied with our race; but thou wilt at least have been the most beautiful and the happiest! Come!'
"This world, stripped of the love of the gods that created it, will grow old, and the weak will replace the strong; diminished humans will have only empty memories of the past joys of life. You are perhaps the last daughter of humanity meant to be linked with our kind; but at least you will have been the most beautiful and the happiest! Come!'"
"Thus speaks the man-horse, and replacing his delightsome burden on his bare back, he runs to the river and rushes into the midst of the waves, which sparkle round him in diamond sheaves burning with the setting fire of a summer sun. His eyes fixed on those of the beauty which intoxicates him, he swims across the stream and is lost to sight in the green depths which stretch from the other side to the foot of the high mountains...."
"Thus speaks the man-horse, and putting his joyful burden back on his bare back, he races to the river and dives into the waves, which sparkle around him like diamond clusters lit by the setting summer sun. His eyes fixed on the beauty that mesmerizes him, he swims across the stream and disappears into the green depths that stretch from the other side to the base of the high mountains...."
Is this not a genuine bit of antiquity without a modern touch in it, like a bas-relief taken from the temple of Hercules at Thebes or of Theseus at Athens?
Isn't this a true piece of history without any modern influence, like a bas-relief from the temple of Hercules in Thebes or Theseus in Athens?
[1] Do not let it be thought for one moment that it is in order to make out any intimacy whatsoever with the two famous historians, whom I have several times mentioned, that I say Thiers and Mignet; theirs are names which have won the privilege of being presented to the public without the banal title of monsieur.
[1] Don't think for a second that I'm trying to suggest any closeness with the two renowned historians I've mentioned several times, Thiers and Mignet; their names have earned the right to be presented to the public without the dull title of mister.
CHAPTER XI
Adèle—Her devotion to Rabbe—Strong meat—Appel à Dieu—L'âme et la comédie humaine—La mort—Ultime lettere—Suicide—À Alphonse Rabbe, by Victor Hugo
Adèle—Her loyalty to Rabbe—Generous meals—Call to God—The Soul and the Human Comedy—Death—Final Letters—Suicide—To Alphonse Rabbe, by Victor Hugo
We have been forgetful, more than forgetful, even ungrateful, in saying that Rabbe's one and only consolation was his pipe; there was another.
We have been forgetful, more than just forgetful, even ungrateful, to say that Rabbe's one and only comfort was his pipe; there was another.
A young girl, named Adèle, spent three years with him; but those three happy years only added fresh sorrows to Rabbe, for, soon, the beautiful fresh girl drooped like a flower at whose roots a worm is gnawing; she bowed her head, suffered for a year, then died.
A young girl named Adèle spent three years with him, but those three happy years only brought more sorrow to Rabbe. Soon, the beautiful, vibrant girl began to wither like a flower being eaten away at its roots; she hung her head, suffered for a year, and then passed away.
History has made much stir about certain devoted attachments; no devotion could have been purer or more disinterested than the unnoticed devotion of this young girl, all the more complete that she crowned it with her death.
History has made a big deal about certain loyal attachments; no devotion could have been purer or more selfless than the silent devotion of this young girl, made all the more complete by her death.
A subject of this nature is either stated in three brief lines of bald fact, or is extended over a couple of volumes as a psychological study. Poor Adèle! We have but four lines, and the memory of your devotion to offer you! Her death drove Rabbe to despair; from that time dates the most abandoned period of his life. Rabbe found out not only that the seeds of destruction were in him, but that they emanated from him. His wails of despair from that moment became bitter and frequent; and his thoughts turned incessantly towards suicide so that they might become accustomed to the idea. Certain memoranda hung always in his sight; he called them his pain des forts; they were, indeed, the spiritual bread he fed himself on.
A topic like this is either summed up in three brief lines of plain fact, or stretched out over a couple of volumes as a psychological study. Poor Adèle! We have only four lines, and the memory of your devotion to offer you! Her death drove Rabbe to despair; from that point on, he entered the darkest period of his life. Rabbe realized not only that the seeds of his destruction were within him, but that they also came from him. His cries of despair became both bitter and frequent from that moment on, and his thoughts turned constantly to suicide so he could get used to the idea. Certain notes were always in his view; he called them his pain des forts; they were, in fact, the spiritual bread he sustained himself with.
We will give a few examples of his most remarkable thoughts from this lugubrious diary:—
We will provide a few examples of his most notable thoughts from this sad diary:—
"The whole life of man is but one journey towards death."
"A person's entire life is just one journey toward death."
**
**
"Man, from whence comes thy pride? It was a mistake for thee to have been conceived; thy birth is a misfortune; thy life a labour; thy death inevitable."
"Man, where does your pride come from? It was a mistake for you to be born; your birth is a misfortune; your life is a struggle; your death is certain."
**
**
"Thou living corpse! When wilt thou return to the dust? O solitude! O death! I have drunk deep of thy austere delights. You are my loves! the only ones that are faithful to me!"
"You're a living corpse! When will you return to dust? Oh solitude! Oh death! I've deeply experienced your harsh pleasures. You are my loves! The only ones who stay loyal to me!"
**
**
"Every hour that passes by drives us towards the tomb and is hastened by the advance of those that precede it."
"Every hour that passes brings us closer to the grave and is hastened by the progress of those who go before us."
**
**
"Bitter and cruel is the absence of God's face from me. How much longer wilt Thou make me suffer?"
"Bitter and cruel is the absence of God's presence from me. How much longer will You make me suffer?"
**
**
"Reflect in the morning that by night you may be no longer here; and at night, that by morning you may have died."
"Think in the morning that by night you might not be here; and at night, that by morning you might have passed away."
**
**
"Sometimes there is a melancholy remembrance of the glorious days of youth, of that happiness which never seems so great or so bitter as when remembered in the days of misfortune; at times, such collections confront the unfortunate wretch whose aspirations are towards death. Then, his despair turns to melancholy—almost even to hope."
"Sometimes there’s a sad reflection on the glorious days of youth, on that happiness which never feels as intense or painful as it does when remembered in hard times; occasionally, such memories confront the unfortunate person whose desires lean toward death. In those moments, his despair shifts to melancholy—almost even to hope."
**
**
"But these illusions of the beautiful days of youth pass and vanish away! Oh! what bitterness fills my soul! Inexorable nature, fate, destiny of providence give me back the cup of life and of happiness! My lips had scarcely touched it before you snatched it out of my trembling hands. Give me back the cup! Give it back! I am consumed by burning thirst; I have deceived myself; you have deceived me; I have never drunk, I have never satisfied my thirst, for the liquid evaporated like blue flame, which leaves behind it nothing but the smell of sulphur and volcanoes."
"But these illusions of the beautiful days of youth fade away and disappear! Oh! what bitterness fills my soul! Relentless nature, fate, the destiny of providence, give me back the cup of life and happiness! My lips barely touched it before you snatched it from my trembling hands. Give me back the cup! Give it back! I am consumed by burning thirst; I have deceived myself; you have deceived me; I have never drunk, I have never satisfied my thirst, for the liquid evaporated like blue flame, which leaves only the smell of sulfur and volcanoes."
**
**
"Lightning from heaven! Why dost thou not rather strike the lofty tops of those oaks and fir trees whose robust old age[Pg 101] has already braved a hundred winters? They, at least, have lived; and have satiated themselves with the sweets of the earth!"
"Lightning from heaven! Why don't you strike the tall tops of those oak and fir trees that have weathered a hundred winters in their strong old age? They, at least, have lived and enjoyed the pleasures of the earth!"
**
**
"I have been struck down in my prime; for nine years I have been a prey, fighting against death.... Miserable wretch why has not the hand of God which smote me annihilated me altogether?"
"I've been brought low in my prime; for nine years, I've been a victim, battling against death.... What a miserable wretch I am—why hasn't the hand of God that struck me down completely destroyed me?"
Then, in consequence of his pains, the soul of the unhappy Rabbe rises to the level of prayer; he, the sceptic, loses faith in unbelief and returns to God—
Then, as a result of his suffering, the soul of the unfortunate Rabbe rises to the level of prayer; he, the skeptic, loses faith in disbelief and returns to God—
"O my God!" he exclaims in the solitudes of night, which carries the plaint of his groans and tears to the ears of his neighbours. "O my God! If Thou art just, Thou must have a better world in store for us! O my God! Thou who knowest all the thoughts that I bare here before Thee and the remorse to which my scalding tears give expression; O my God! if the groanings of an unfortunate soul are heard by Thee, Thou must understand, O my God! the heart that Thou didst give me, thou knowest the wishes it formed, and the insatiable desires that still possess it. Oh! if afflictions have broken it, if the absence of all consolation and tenderness, if the most horrible solitude, have withered it, O my God! help Thy wretched creature; give me faith in a better world to come! Oh! may I find beyond the grave what my soul, unrecognised and bewildered, has unceasingly craved for on this earth...."
"Oh my God!" he cries out into the stillness of the night, where his groans and tears reach the ears of his neighbors. "Oh my God! If You are just, You must have a better world prepared for us! Oh my God! You who know all my thoughts laid bare before You and the remorse expressed by my burning tears; Oh my God! if the cries of a suffering soul reach You, You must understand, Oh my God! the heart You gave me, You know the dreams it formed, and the endless desires that still consume it. Oh! if suffering has broken it, if the lack of all comfort and tenderness, if the most terrible loneliness, has withered it, Oh my God! help Your wretched creature; give me faith in a better world to come! Oh! may I find beyond the grave what my soul, unrecognized and lost, has constantly yearned for on this earth...."
Then God took pity on him. He did not restore his health or hope, his youth, beauty and loves in this life; those three illusions vanished all too soon: but God granted him the gift of tears. And he thanked God for it. Towards the close of the year 1829, the disease made such progress that Rabbe resolved he would not live to see the opening of the year 1830. Thus, as he had addressed God, as he had addressed his soul, so he now addresses death—
Then God felt sorry for him. He didn’t give him back his health or hope, his youth, beauty, and loves in this life; those three illusions faded away too quickly: but God gave him the gift of tears. And he was grateful for it. By the end of 1829, the illness had advanced so much that Rabbe decided he wouldn’t live to see the start of 1830. So, just as he had spoken to God and to his soul, he now speaks to death—
DEATH
"Thou diest! Thou hast reached the limit to which all things comes at last; the end of thy miseries, the beginning of[Pg 102] thy happiness. Behold, death stands face to face with thee! Thou wilt not longer be able to wish for, nor to dread it. Pains and weakness of body, sad heart-searchings, piercing spiritual anguish, devouring griefs, all are over! Thou wilt never suffer them again; thou goest in peace to brave the insolent pride of the successful evil-doer, the despising of fools and the abortive pity of those who dare to style themselves good.
"You're dying! You've reached the end we all come to: the end of your suffering and the beginning of your happiness. Look, death is right in front of you! You won’t be able to wish for it or fear it anymore. The pain and weakness in your body, the sadness in your heart, the deep spiritual torment, the overwhelming grief—they’re all over! You will never experience them again; you go in peace to confront the arrogant pride of those who do wrong, the scorn of fools, and the misguided sympathy from those who dare to call themselves good.
"The deprivation of many evils will not be an evil in itself; I have seen thee chafing at thy bit, shaking the humiliating chains of an adverse fate in despair; I have often heard the distressing complaints which issued from the depths of thy oppressed heart.... Thou art satisfied at last. Haste thee to empty the cup of an unfortunate life, and perish the vase from which thou wast compelled to drink such bitter draughts.
"The end of many hardships won’t be a hardship in itself; I’ve seen you struggle against your limitations, shaking off the humiliating chains of an unfortunate fate in despair; I've often heard the painful cries from the depths of your oppressed heart.... You are finally at peace. Hurry and drink the last drops of an unhappy life, and destroy the cup from which you had to drink such bitter drinks."
"But thou dost stop and tremble! Thou dost curse the duration of thy suffering and yet dost dread and regret that the end has come! Thou apprisest without reason or justice, and dost lament equally both what things are and what they cease to be. Listen, and think for one moment.
"But you hesitate and tremble! You curse how long you've suffered, and yet you fear and regret that the end has come! You complain without reason or fairness, and you mourn both what things are and what they will no longer be. Listen, and think for just a moment."
"In dying, thou dost but follow the path thy forefathers have trodden; thousands of generations before thee have fallen into the abyss into which thou hast to descend; many thousands will fall into it after thee. The cruel vicissitude of life and death cannot be altered for thee alone. Onward then towards thy journey's end, follow where others have gone, and be not afraid of straying from it or losing thyself when thou hast so many other travelling companions. Let there be no signs of weakness, no tears! The man who weeps over his own death is the vilest and most despicable of all beings. Submit unmurmuringly to the inevitable; thou must die, as thou hast had to live, without will of thy own. Give back, therefore, without anxiety, thy life which thou receivest unconsciously. Neither birth nor death are in thy power. Rather rejoice, for thou art at the beginning of an immortal dawn. Those who surround thy deathbed, all those whom thou hast ever seen, of whom thou hast heard speak or read, the small number of those thou hast known especially well, the vast multitude of those who have lived formerly or been born or are to be born in ages to come throughout the world, all these have gone or will go the road thou art going. Look with wise eyes upon the long[Pg 103] caravan of successive generations which have crossed the deserts of life, fighting as they travel across the burning sands for one drop of the water which inflames their thirst more than it appeases it! Thou art swallowed up in the crowd directly thou fallest: but look how many others are falling too at the same time with thee!
"In dying, you’re simply following the path your ancestors have traveled; thousands of generations before you have fallen into the abyss that you now face; many thousands will come after you. The harsh ups and downs of life and death can’t be changed just for you. So move forward towards the end of your journey, follow where others have gone, and don’t be afraid of straying from it or losing yourself when you have so many fellow travelers. Show no signs of weakness, no tears! A person who cries over their own death is the lowest and most despicable of all beings. Accept the inevitable without complaint; you must die, just as you had to live, without your own will. Therefore, return your life, which you received without thought, without worry. Neither birth nor death are in your control. Instead, rejoice, for you’re at the beginning of an eternal dawn. Those around your deathbed, everyone you've ever seen, those you've heard speak or read about, the few you've known very well, the vast multitude of those who lived before and will be born in the future, all these have gone or will go the path you are now on. Look wisely at the long caravan of successive generations that have crossed the deserts of life, struggling as they journey across the burning sands, thirsting for a single drop of water that fuels their thirst even more than it quenches it! You’ll be consumed by the crowd as soon as you fall: but see how many others are also falling at the same moment as you!"
"Wouldst thou desire to live for ever? Wouldst thou only wish thy life to last for a thousand years? Remember the long hours of weariness in thy short career, thy frequent fainting under the burden. Thou wast aghast at the limited horizon of a short, uncertain and fugitive life: what wouldst thou have said if thou hadst seen an immeasurable, inevitably long future of weariness and sorrow stretch before thy eyes!
"Do you want to live forever? Would you want your life to last for a thousand years? Remember the long hours of exhaustion in your short time here, your frequent fainting under the burden. You were shocked by the narrow limits of a short, uncertain, and fleeting life: what would you have said if you'd seen an endless future of weariness and sorrow stretching before you?"
"O mortals! you weep over death, as though life were something great and precious! And yet the vilest insects that crawl share this rare treasure of life with you! All march towards death because all yearn towards rest and perfect peace.
"O mortals! You mourn death as if life is something significant and valuable! Yet the most despicable insects that crawl share this rare gift of life with you! Everyone is heading towards death because everyone longs for rest and complete peace."
"Behold! the approach of the day that thou fain wouldst have tried to bring nearer by thy prayers, if a jealous fate had not deferred it; for which thou didst often sigh; behold the moment which is to remove the capricious yoke of fortune from the trammels of human society, from the venomous attacks of thy fellow-creatures. Thou thinkest thou wilt cease to exist and that thought torments thee.... Well, but what proves to thee that thou wilt be annihilated? All the ages have retained a hope in immortality. The belief in a spiritual life was not merely a dogma of a few religious creeds; it was the need and the cry of all nations that have covered the face of the earth. The European, in the luxuries of his capital towns, the aboriginal American-Indian under his rude huts, both equally dream of an immortal state; all cry to the tribunal of nature against the incompleteness of this life.
"Look! The day you wished to bring closer with your prayers is finally here, even though a jealous fate delayed it, for which you often sighed; see the moment that will lift the unpredictable burden of fortune from the chains of human society, from the toxic attacks of your fellow beings. You think you will cease to exist, and that thought torments you.... But what makes you believe you will be annihilated? All ages have held onto hope for immortality. The belief in a spiritual life wasn’t just a dogma of a few religious faiths; it was the need and the cry of all nations that have ever walked the earth. The European, in the luxury of his capital cities, and the Indigenous American under his simple huts, both dream of an immortal existence; all call out to nature's tribunal against the incompleteness of this life."
"If thou sufferest, it is well to die; if thou art happy or thinkest thou art so, thou wilt gain by death since thy illusion would not have lasted long. Thou passest from a terrestrial habitation to a pure and celestial one. Why look back when thy foot is upon the threshold of its portals? The eternal distributor of good and evil, our Sovereign Master, calls thee to Himself; it is by His desire thy prison flies open; thy heavy chains are broken and thy exile is ended; therefore rejoice! Thou wilt soar to the throne of thy King and Saviour!
"If you’re suffering, it’s okay to die; if you’re happy or think you are, you’ll benefit from death since your illusion wouldn’t have lasted long. You move from a worldly home to a pure and heavenly one. Why look back when you’re at the door? The eternal giver of good and evil, our Sovereign Master, is calling you to Himself; it’s by His will that your prison door swings open, your heavy chains are broken, and your exile is over; so rejoice! You will rise to the throne of your King and Savior!
"Ah! if thou art not shackled with the weight of some unexpiated crime, thou wilt sing as thou diest; and, like the Roman emperor, thou wilt rise up in thy agony at the very thought, and thou wouldst die standing with eyes turned towards the promised land!
"Ah! If you are not burdened by the weight of unresolved guilt, you will sing as you die; and, like the Roman emperor, you will rise in your agony at the very thought, and you would die standing with your eyes turned toward the promised land!"
"O Saint Preux and Werther! O Jacob Ortis! how far were you from reaching such heights as that! Orators even to the death agony, your brains alone it is which lament; man in his death throes, this actually dying creature, it is his heart that groans, his flesh that cries out, his spirit which doubts. Oh! how well one feels that all that hollow philosophising does not reassure him as to the pain of the supreme moment, and especially against that terror of annihilation, which brought drops of sweat to the brow of Hamlet!
"O Saint Preux and Werther! O Jacob Ortis! How far you were from reaching such heights! Orators even in the face of death, it’s only your minds that mourn; it’s the man in his death throes, this dying being, whose heart is heavy, whose body cries out, whose spirit doubts. Oh! How clear it is that all that empty philosophizing doesn't comfort him about the pain of the final moment, especially against the fear of annihilation, which brought sweat to Hamlet's brow!"
"One more cry—the last, then silence shall fall on him who suffered much."
"One more shout—the final one, then silence will settle on him who endured so much."
Moreover, Alphonse Rabbe wished there to be no doubt of how he died; hear this, his will, which he signed; there was to his mind no dishonour in digging himself a grave with his own hands between those of Cato of Utica and of Brutus—
Moreover, Alphonse Rabbe wanted to make it clear how he died; listen to this, his will, which he signed; in his view, there was no shame in digging his own grave between those of Cato of Utica and Brutus—
"31 December 1829
"December 31, 1829
"Like Ugo Foscolo, I must write my ultime lettere. If every man who had thought and felt deeply could die before the decline of his faculties from age, and leave behind him his philosophical testament, that is to say, a profession of faith bold and sincere, written upon the planks of his coffin, there would be more truths recognised and saved from the regions of foolishness and the contemptible opinion of the vulgar.
"Like Ugo Foscolo, I need to write my last letters. If every person who has thought and felt deeply could pass away before their abilities fade with age, and leave behind their philosophical testament, which is a bold and honest statement of beliefs inscribed on the boards of their coffin, there would be more truths recognized and saved from ignorance and the poor views of the masses."
"I have other motives for executing this project. There are in the world various interesting men who have been my friends; I wish them to know how I ended my life. I desire that even the indifferent, namely, the bulk of the general public (to whom I shall be a subject of conversation for about ten minutes—perhaps even that is an exaggerated supposition), should know, however poor an opinion I have of the majority of people, that I did not yield to cowardice, but that the cup of my weariness was already filled, when fresh wrongs came and overthrew it. I wish, in conclusion, that my friends, those indifferent to me, and even my enemies, should know that I have but exercised quietly and with dignity the privilege that[Pg 105] every man acquires from nature—the right to dispose of himself as he likes. This is the last thing that has interest for me this side the grave. All my hopes lie beyond it ...if perchance there be anything beyond."
"I have other reasons for pursuing this project. There are many interesting men in the world who have been my friends; I want them to know how I ended my life. I hope that even those who are indifferent—meaning the majority of the general public (who will probably only talk about me for about ten minutes—maybe even that's generous)—should understand, despite my low opinion of most people, that I didn't succumb to cowardice; rather, my weariness reached its breaking point when new injustices came and pushed it over. Finally, I want my friends, those indifferent to me, and even my enemies, to know that I have quietly and proudly exercised the right that[Pg 105] every man naturally has—the right to choose for himself as he wishes. This is the last thing that matters to me before I die. All my hopes lie beyond this... if there even is anything beyond."
Thus, poor Rabbe, after all thy philosophy, sifted as fine as ripe grain; after all thy philosophising; after many prayers to God and dialogues with thy soul, and many conversations with death, these supreme interlocutors have taught thee nothing and thy last thought is a doubt!
Thus, poor Rabbe, after all your philosophy, sifted as finely as ripe grain; after all your thinking; after many prayers to God and talks with your soul, and many discussions with death, these ultimate conversation partners have taught you nothing and your last thought is a doubt!
Rabbe had said he would not see the year 1830: and he died during the night of the 31 December 1829.
Rabbe had said he wouldn’t make it to 1830: and he died during the night of December 31, 1829.
Now, how did he die? That gloomy mystery was kept locked in the hearts of the last friends who were present with him. But one of his friends told me that, the evening before his death, his sufferings were so unendurable, that the doctor ordered an opium plaster to be put on the sick man's chest. Next day, they hunted in vain for the opium plaster but could not find it....
Now, how did he die? That dark mystery was kept hidden in the hearts of the last friends who were with him. But one of his friends told me that, the evening before his death, his pain was so unbearable that the doctor ordered an opium plaster to be placed on the sick man's chest. The next day, they searched in vain for the opium plaster but couldn’t find it...
On 17 September 1835, Victor Hugo addresses these lines to him:—
On September 17, 1835, Victor Hugo wrote these lines to him:—
À ALPHONSE RABBE
Mort le 31 décembre 1829
"Hélas! que fais tu donc, ô Rabbe, ô mon ami,
Sévère historien dans la tombe endormi?
Je l'ai pensé souvent dans les heures funèbres,
Seul, près de mon flambeau qui rayait les ténèbres,
O noble ami! pareil aux hommes d'autrefois,
Il manque parmi nous ta voix; ta forte voix,
Pleine de l'équité qui gonflait ta poitrine.
Il nous manque ta main, qui grave et qui burine,
Dans ce siècle où par l'or les sages sont distraits,
Où l'idée est servante auprès des intérêts;
Temps de fruits avortés et de tiges rompues,
D'instincts dénaturés, de raisons corrompues,
Où, dans l'esprit humain tout étant dispersé,
[Pg 106]Le présent au hasard flotte sur le passé!
Si, parmi nous, ta tête était debout encore,
Cette cime où vibrait l'éloquence sonore,
Au milieu de nos flots tu serais calme et grand;
Tu serais comme un pont posé sur le courant.
Tu serais pour chacun la boix haute et sensée
Qui fait que, brouillard s'en va de la pensée,
Et que la vérité, qu'en vain nous repoussions,
Sort de l'amas confus des sombres visions!
Tu dirais aux partis qu'ils font trop be poussière
Autour de la raison pour qu'on la voie entière;
Au peuple, que la loi du travail est sur tous,
Et qu'il est assez fort pour n'être pas jaloux;
Au pouvoir, que jamais le pouvoir ne se venge,
Et que, pour le penseur, c'est un spectacle étrange.
Et triste, quand la loi, figure au bras d'airain,
Déesse qui ne doit avoir qu'un front serein,
Sort, à de certains jours, de l'urne consulaire,
L'œil hagard, écumante et folle de colère!
Et ces jeunes esprits, à qui tu souriais,
Et que leur âge livre aux rêves inquiets,
Tu leur dirais: Amis nés pour des temps prospères,
Oh! n'allez pas errer comme ont erré vos pères!
Laissez murir vos fronts! gardez-vous, jeunes gens,
Des systèmes dorés aux plumages changeants,
Qui, dans les carrefours, s'en vont faire la roue!
Et de ce qu'en vos cœurs l'Amérique secoue,
Peuple à peine essayé, nation de hasard,
Sans tige, sans passé, sans histoire et sans art!
Et de cette sagesse impie, envenimée,
Du cerveau de Voltaire éclose tout armée,
Fille de l'ignorance et de l'orgueil, posant
Les lois des anciens jours sur les mœurs d'à présent;
Qui refait un chaos partout où fut un monde;
Qui rudement enfoncé,—ô démence profonde!
Le casque étroit de Sparte au front du vieux Paris;
Qui, dans les temps passés, mal lus et mal compris,
Viole effrontément tout sage, pour lui faire
Un monstre qui serait la terreur de son père!
Si bien que les héros antiques tout tremblants
S'en sont voilé la face, et qu'après deux mille ans,
Par ses embrassements réveillé sous la pierre,
[Pg 107]Lycurgue, qu'elle épouse, enfante Robespierre!"
Tu nous dirais à tous: 'Ne vous endormez pas!
Veillez et soyez prêts! Car déjà, pas à pas,
La main de l'oiseleur dans l'ombre s'est glissée
Partout où chante un nid couvé par la pensée!
Car les plus nobles fronts sont vaincus ou sont las!
Car la Pologne, aux fers, ne peut plus même, hêlas!
Mordre le pied tartare appuyé sur sa gorge!
Car on voit, chaque jour, s'allonger dans la forge
La chaîne que les rois, craignant la liberté,
Font pour cette géante, endormie à côté!
Ne vous endormez pas! travaillez sans relâche!
Car les grands ont leur œuvre et les petits leur tâche;
Chacun a son ouvrage à faire, chacun met
Sa pierre à l'édifice encor loin du sommet—
Qui croit avoir fini, pour un roi qu'on dépose,
Se trompe: un roi qui tombe est toujours peu de chose;
Il est plus difficile et c'est un plus grand poids
De relever les mœurs que d'abattre les rois.
Rien chez vous n'est complet: la ruine ou l'ébauche!
L'épi n'est pas formé que votre main le fauche!
Vous êtes encombrés de plans toujours rêvés
Et jamais accomplis ... Hommes, vous ne savez,
Tant vous connaissez peu ce qui convient aux âmes,
Que faire des enfants, ni que faire des femmes!
Où donc en êtes-vous? Vous vous applaudissez
Pour quelques blocs de lois au hasard entassés!
Ah! l'heure du repos pour aucun n'est venue;
Travaillez! vous cherchez une chose inconnue;
Vous n'avez pas de foi, vous n'avez pas d'amour;
Rien chez vous n'est encore éclairé du vrai jour!
Crépuscule et brouillards que vos plus clairs systèmes
Dans vos lois, dans vos mœurs et dans vos esprits
mêmes,
Partout l'aube blanchâtre ou le couchant vermeil!
Nulle part le midi! nulle part le soleil!'
Tu parlerais ainsi dans des livres austères,
Comme parlaient jadis les anciens solitaires,
Comme parlent tous ceux devant qui l'on se tait,
Et l'on t'écouterait comme on les écoutait;
Et l'on viendrait vers toi, dans ce siècle plein d'ombre,
Où, chacun se heurtant aux obstacles sans nombre
Que, faute de lumière, on tâte avec la main,
[Pg 108]Le conseil manque à l'âme, et le guide au chemin!
Hélas! à chaque instant, des souffles de tempêtes
Amassent plus de brume et d'ombre sur nos têtes;
De moment en moment l'avenir s'assombrit.
Dans le calme du cœur, dans la paix de l'esprit,
Je l'adressais ces vers, où mon âme sereine
N'a laissé sur ta pierre écumer nulle haine,
À toi qui dors couché dans le tombeau profond,
À toi qui ne sais plus ce que les hommes font!
Je l'adressais ces vers, pleins de tristes présages;
Car c'est bien follement que nous nous croyons sages.
Le combat furieux recommence à gronder
Entre le droit de croître et le droit d'émonder;
La bataille où les lois attaquent les idées
Se mêle de nouveau sur des mers mal sondées;
Chacun se sent troublé comme l'eau sous le vent ...
Et moi-même, à cette heure, à mon foyer rêvant,
Voilà, depuis cinq ans qu'on oubliait Procuste,
Que j'entends aboyer, au seuil du drame auguste,
La censure à l'haleine immonde, aux ongles noirs,
Cette chienne au front has qui suit tous les pouvoirs,
Vile et mâchant toujours dans sa gueule souillée,
O muse! quelque pan de ta robe étoilée!
Hélas! que fais-tu donc, ô Rabbe, ô mon ami!
Sévère historien dans la tombe endormi?"
TO ALPHONSE RABBE
Died on December 31, 1829
"Oh! What are you doing, dear Rabbe, my friend,
Serious historian, sleeping in the grave?
I often thought of this in dark hours,
Alone, by my candle that pierced the darkness,
Oh noble friend! like the great men of the past,
We miss your voice among us; your strong voice,
Full of the fairness that filled your heart.
We miss your hand, which carves and shapes,
In this age where wise men are distracted by gold,
Where ideas serve the interests at hand;
A time of stunted fruits and broken stems,
Of unnatural instincts, corrupted reasons,
Where, in the human mind, everything is scattered,
[Pg 106]The present floats randomly on the past!
If, among us, your head were still raised,
That peak where resonated the powerful eloquence,
In the midst of our waves, you would be calm and grand;
You would be like a bridge over the current.
You would be for each one the sensible voice
That clears the fog from their thoughts,
And that the truth, which we've pushed away,
Emerges from the confuseness of dark visions!
You would tell the parties they stir too much dust
Around reason for us to see it clearly;
To the people, that the law of labor is for all,
And that they are strong enough not to be jealous;
To power, that power never seeks revenge,
And that, for the thinker, it's a strange sight.
And sad, when the law, a figure with a bronze arm,
A goddess who should have a serene face,
Emerges, on certain days, from the consular urn,
With wild eyes, raging and filled with anger!
And those young minds, to whom you smiled,
And whom their age delivers to anxious dreams,
You would tell them: Friends born for better times,
Oh! do not wander like your fathers did!
Let your minds mature! Guard yourselves, young ones,
From golden systems with shifting feathers,
That prance around the corners!
And from what stirs in your hearts, America,
A barely tried people, a nation of chance,
Without roots, without a past, without history and art!
And from this impious wisdom, venomous,
Born fully armed from Voltaire's mind,
Child of ignorance and pride, laying down
The laws of ancient times on today's morals;
Who creates chaos wherever a world once was;
Who roughly forces,—oh deep madness!
The narrow helmet of Sparta on old Paris;
Who, in times past, misread and misunderstood,
Openly violates every wise man, to make him
A monster that would frighten his father!
So much so that ancient heroes, trembling,
Veiled their faces, and that after two thousand years,
Awakened beneath the stone,
[Pg 107]Lycurgus, that she weds, gives birth to Robespierre!"
You would tell us all: 'Don't fall asleep!
Stay awake and be ready! For already, step by step,
The hand of the snare has slipped in the shadows
Wherever a nest is warmed by thought!
For the noblest heads are either subdued or tired!
For Poland, in chains, can no longer, alas!
Bite the Tartar foot pressing on its throat!
For we see, every day, lengthening in the forge
The chain that kings, fearing liberty,
Forge for this giant, sleeping beside them!
Don't fall asleep! Work tirelessly!
For the great have their work and the small their task;
Everyone has their job to do, each puts
Their stone in the building still far from the top—
Whoever thinks they have finished, for a king they dethrone,
Is mistaken: a fallen king is always little;
It is more difficult and a heavier weight
To lift the morals than to overthrow the kings.
Nothing among you is complete: ruin or rough draft!
The grain isn't formed before your hand reaps it!
You are burdened with plans always dreamed
And never fulfilled ... Men, you do not know,
For you know so little what souls require,
What to do with children or what to do with women!
So where are you? You applaud yourselves
For a few random blocks of laws piled up!
Ah! the hour of rest has not come for anyone;
Work! you seek something unknown;
You have no faith, you have no love;
Nothing among you is yet illuminated by the true light!
Twilight and fogs mark your clearest systems
In your laws, in your morals, and in your minds
itself,
Nowhere is midday! Nowhere is the sun!'
You would speak like this in austere books,
As once the ancient hermits spoke,
As do all those before whom silence falls,
And you would be listened to as they were;
And people would come to you, in this shadowy century,
Where each one collides with countless obstacles
That, lacking light, one feels with their hands,
[Pg 108]The counsel is missing for the soul, and the guide for the way!
Alas! every moment, bursts of storms
Gather more mist and shadow over our heads;
From moment to moment, the future grows dim.
In the calm of the heart, in the peace of the mind,
I addressed these verses to you, where my serene soul
Has left no hatred foaming over your stone,
To you who sleep buried in the deep grave,
To you who no longer know what men do!
I addressed these verses, full of sad omens;
For it's indeed foolish that we believe ourselves wise.
The furious battle begins to rumble again
Between the right to grow and the right to prune;
The fight where laws attack ideas
Mixes once more on poorly charted seas;
Everyone feels disturbed like water under the wind ...
And I too, at this hour, dreaming at home,
Here, for five years since Procuste was forgotten,
I hear barking, at the threshold of the august drama,
Censorship with a filthy breath, with black nails,
That dog whose wrinkled forehead follows all powers,
Vile and always chewing in its soiled mouth,
Oh muse! some piece of your starry robe!
Alas! what are you doing, dear Rabbe, my friend!
Serious historian, sleeping in the grave?"
If anything of poor Rabbe still survives, he will surely tremble with joy in his tomb at this tribute. Indeed, few kings have had such an epitaph!
If anything of poor Rabbe still exists, he will definitely be shaking with joy in his grave at this tribute. Honestly, few kings have had such a memorial!
CHAPTER XII
Chéron—His last compliments to Harel—Obituary of 1830—My official visit on New Year's Day—A striking costume—Read the Moniteur—Disbanding of the Artillery of the National Guard—First representation of Napoléon Bonaparte—Delaistre—Frédérick Lemaître
Chéron—His last respects to Harel—Obituary of 1830—My official visit on New Year’s Day—A standout outfit—Read the Moniteur—Dissolution of the National Guard's Artillery—First performance of Napoléon Bonaparte—Delaistre—Frédérick Lemaître
Meantime, throughout the course of that glorious year of 1830, death had been gathering in a harvest of celebrated men.
Meantime, during that remarkable year of 1830, death had been collecting a toll of renowned individuals.
It had begun with Chéron, the author of Tartufe de Mœurs. We learnt his death in a singular fashion. Harel thought of taking up the only comedy that the good fellow had written, and had begun its rehearsals the same time as Christine. They rehearsed Chéron's comedy at ten in the morning and Christine at noon. One morning, Chéron, who was punctuality itself, was late. Harel had waited a little while, then given orders to prepare the stage for Christine. Steinberg had not got further than his tenth line, when a little fellow of twelve years came from behind one of the wings and asked for M. Harel.
It all started with Chéron, the author of Tartufe de Mœurs. We found out about his death in a strange way. Harel decided to revive the only comedy the good guy wrote and began rehearsals at the same time as Christine. They practiced Chéron's comedy at ten in the morning and Christine at noon. One morning, Chéron, who was always on time, was late. Harel waited a bit and then instructed the crew to set up the stage for Christine. Steinberg hadn’t even gotten past his tenth line when a twelve-year-old boy came out from behind one of the wings and asked for M. Harel.
"Here I am," said Harel, "what is it?"
"Here I am," Harel said. "What's going on?"
"M. Chéron presents his compliments to you," said the little man, "and sends word that he cannot come to his rehearsal this morning."
"M. Chéron sends his regards to you," said the little man, "and lets you know that he can't make it to his rehearsal this morning."
"Why not, my boy?" asked Harel.
"Why not, my boy?" Harel asked.
"Because he died last night," replied the little fellow.
"Because he passed away last night," replied the little guy.
"Ah! diable!" exclaimed Harel; "in that case you must take back my best compliments and tell him that I will attend his funeral to-morrow."
"Ah! damn it!" exclaimed Harel; "in that case, you need to take back my best regards and let him know that I'll be at his funeral tomorrow."
That was the funeral oration the ex-government inspector to the Théâtre-Français pronounced over him.
That was the funeral speech the former government inspector gave at the Théâtre-Français for him.
I believe I have mentioned somewhere that Taylor succeeded Chéron.
I think I’ve mentioned somewhere that Taylor took over from Chéron.
At the beginning of the year, on 15 February, Comte Marie de Chamans de Lavalette had also died; he it was who, in 1815, was saved by the devotion of his wife and of two Englishmen; one of whom, Sir Robert Wilson, I met in 1846 when he was Governor of Gibraltar. Comte de Lavalette lived fifteen years after his condemnation to death; caring for his wife, in his turn, for she had gone insane from the terrible anxiety she suffered in helping her husband to escape.
At the beginning of the year, on February 15, Comte Marie de Chamans de Lavalette also passed away; he was the one who, in 1815, was rescued by the loyalty of his wife and two Englishmen. One of them, Sir Robert Wilson, I met in 1846 when he was the Governor of Gibraltar. Comte de Lavalette lived fifteen years after being sentenced to death, taking care of his wife, who had gone mad from the immense stress she endured while helping him escape.
On 11 March the obituary list was marked by the death of the Marquis de Lally-Tollendal, whom I knew well: he was the son of the Lally-Tollendal who was executed in the place de Grève as guilty of peculation, upon whom it will be recollected Gilbert wrote lines that were certainly some of his best. The poor Marquis de Lally-Tollendal was always in trouble, but this did not prevent him from becoming enormously stout. He weighed nearly three hundred pounds; Madame de Staël called him "the fattest of sentient beings."
On March 11, the obituary list included the death of the Marquis de Lally-Tollendal, someone I knew well. He was the son of the Lally-Tollendal who was executed in the Place de Grève for embezzlement, and it’s worth remembering that Gilbert wrote some of his best lines about him. The poor Marquis de Lally-Tollendal was always in trouble, but that didn’t stop him from becoming incredibly overweight. He weighed almost three hundred pounds; Madame de Staël referred to him as "the fattest of sentient beings."
Perhaps I have already said this somewhere. If so, I ask pardon for repeating it.
Perhaps I’ve already mentioned this somewhere. If so, I apologize for repeating it.
The same month Radet died, the doyen of vaudevillists. During the latter years of his life he was afflicted with kleptomania, but his friends never minded; if, after his departure they missed anything they knew where to go and look for the missing article.
The same month Radet died, the top performer in vaudeville. In his later years, he struggled with kleptomania, but his friends didn’t care; if they noticed anything missing after he left, they knew exactly where to find it.
Then, on 15 April, Hippolyte Bendo died. He was behindhand, for death, who was out of breath with running after him, caught him up at the age of one hundred and twenty-two. He had married again at one hundred and one!
Then, on April 15, Hippolyte Bendo passed away. He was lagging behind, as death, exhausted from chasing him, finally caught up to him at the age of one hundred and twenty-two. He had remarried at one hundred and one!
Then, on 23 April, died the Chevalier Sue, father of Eugène Sue; he had been honorary physician in chief to the household of King Charles X. He was a man of great originality of mind and, at times, of singular artlessness of expression; those who heard him give his course of lectures on conchology will bear me out in this I am very sure.
Then, on April 23, the Chevalier Sue, father of Eugène Sue, passed away; he had been the honorary chief physician to King Charles X’s household. He was a man of unique intellect and, at times, had a simple way of expressing himself; I'm sure those who attended his lectures on conchology would agree with me on this.
On 29 May that excellent man Jérôme Gohier passed away, of whom I have spoken as an old friend of mine; and who could not forgive Bonaparte for causing the events of 18 Brumaire, whilst he, Gohier, was breakfasting with Josephine.
On May 29, that wonderful man Jérôme Gohier passed away, whom I have referred to as an old friend of mine; and who could never forgive Bonaparte for triggering the events of 18 Brumaire, while he, Gohier, was having breakfast with Josephine.
On 29 June died good old M. Pieyre, former tutor and secretary to the duc d'Orléans; author of l'École des pères; and the same who, with old Bichet and M. de Parseval de Grandmaison, had shown such great friendship to me and supported me to the utmost at the beginning of my dramatic career.
On June 29, the good old M. Pieyre passed away. He was a former tutor and secretary to the duc d'Orléans and the author of l'École des pères. He, along with old Bichet and M. de Parseval de Grandmaison, had shown me immense friendship and supported me wholeheartedly at the start of my acting career.
Then, on 29 July, a lady named Rosaria Pangallo died; she was born on 3 August 1698, only four years after Voltaire, whom we thought belonged to a past age, as he had died in 1778! The good lady was 132, ten years older than her compatriot Hippolyte Bendo, of whom we spoke just now.
Then, on 29 July, a woman named Rosaria Pangallo passed away; she was born on 3 August 1698, just four years after Voltaire, whom we considered part of a bygone era, since he died in 1778! The kind lady was 132, ten years older than her fellow countryman Hippolyte Bendo, whom we just talked about.
On 28 August Martainville died, hero of the Pont du Pecq, whom we saw fighting with M. Arnault over Germanicus.
On August 28, Martainville passed away, the hero of the Pont du Pecq, who we saw battling with M. Arnault over Germanicus.
On 18 October Adam Weishaupt died, that famous leader of the Illuminati whose ashes I was to revive eighteen years later in my romance Joseph Balsamo.
On October 18, Adam Weishaupt died, the famous leader of the Illuminati whose ashes I would bring back to life eighteen years later in my novel Joseph Balsamo.
Then, on 30 November, Pius VIII. passed to his account; he was succeeded by Gregory XVI., of whom I shall have much to say.
Then, on November 30, Pius VIII passed away; he was succeeded by Gregory XVI, about whom I will have a lot to say.
On 17 December Marmontel's son died in New York, America, in hospital, just as a real poet might have done.
On December 17, Marmontel's son died in a hospital in New York, America, just like a true poet might have.
Then, on the 31st of the same month, the Comtesse de Genlis died, that bogie of my childhood, whose appearances at the Château de Villers-Hellon I related earlier in these Memoirs, and who, before she died, had the sorrow of seeing the accession to the throne of her pupil, badly treated by her, as a politician, in a letter which we printed in our Histoire de Louis-Philippe.
Then, on the 31st of that month, the Comtesse de Genlis passed away, that figure from my childhood, whose visits to the Château de Villers-Hellon I mentioned earlier in these Memoirs, and who, before her death, had the sadness of witnessing her pupil's ascent to the throne, poorly handled by her, as a politician, in a letter that we published in our Histoire de Louis-Philippe.
Finally, on the last night of the old year, the artillery came to its end, killed by royal decree; and, as I had not heard of this decree soon enough, it led me to make the absurd blunder I am about to describe, which was probably among all the grievances King Louis-Philippe believed he had against me[Pg 112] the one that made him cherish the bitterest rancour towards me. The reader will recollect the resignation of one of our captains and my election to the rank thus left vacant; he will further remember that, owing to the enthusiasm which fired me at that period, I undertook the command of a manœuvre the day but one after my appointment. This made the third change I had had to make in my uniform in five months: first, mounted National Guard; then, from that, to a gunner in the artillery; then, from a private to a captain in the same arm of the service. In due course New Year's day was approaching, and there had been a meeting to decide whether we should pay a visit of etiquette to the king or not. In order to avoid being placed upon the index for no good reason, it was decided to go. Consequently, a rendez-vous was made for the next day, 1 January 1831, at nine in the morning, in the courtyard of the Palais-Royal. Whereupon we separated. I do not remember what caused me to lie in bed longer than usual that New Year's morning 1831; but, to cut a long story short, when I looked at my watch, I saw that I had only just time, if that, to dress and reach the Palais-Royal. I summoned Joseph and, with his help, as nine o'clock was striking, I flew down stairs four steps at a time from my third storey. I need hardly say that, being in such a tremendous hurry, of course there was no cab or carriage of any description to be had. Thus, I reached the courtyard of the Palais-Royal by a quarter past nine. It was crowded with officers waiting their turn to present their collective New Year's congratulations to the King of the French; but, in the midst of all the various uniforms, that of the artillery was conspicuous by its absence. I glanced at the clock, and seeing that I was a quarter of an hour late, I thought the artillery had already taken up its position and that I should be able to join it either on the staircases or in one of the apartments. I rushed quickly up the State stairway and reached the great audience chamber. Not a sign of any artillerymen! I thought that, like Victor Hugo's kettle-drummers, the artillerymen must have passed and I decided to go in alone.
Finally, on the last night of the old year, the cannon fire came to an end, halted by royal decree; and since I didn’t hear about this decree soon enough, it led me to make the ridiculous mistake I'm about to describe, which was probably the main reason King Louis-Philippe held such deep resentment towards me[Pg 112]. The reader will remember the resignation of one of our captains and my election to the vacant rank; he will also recall that, due to my enthusiasm at that time, I took command of a maneuver the day after my appointment. This was the third time I had to change my uniform in five months: first, from mounted National Guard; then to a gunner in the artillery; and finally, from a private to a captain in the same branch. As New Year’s Day approached, there was a meeting to decide whether we should pay a courtesy visit to the king or not. To avoid getting into trouble for no good reason, it was decided we should go. So, a meeting was set for the next day, January 1, 1831, at nine in the morning, in the courtyard of the Palais-Royal. We then dispersed. I can't remember why I stayed in bed longer than usual that New Year's morning in 1831; but to make a long story short, when I checked my watch, I realized I barely had enough time to get dressed and make it to the Palais-Royal. I called for Joseph, and with his help, just as the clock struck nine, I rushed down the stairs four steps at a time from my third-floor apartment. I hardly need to say that, being in such a frantic rush, there was no cab or carriage available. So, I arrived at the courtyard of the Palais-Royal by a quarter past nine. It was packed with officers waiting their turn to offer their collective New Year's greetings to the King of the French; but amid all the different uniforms, the artillery was notably absent. I glanced at the clock, and realizing I was fifteen minutes late, I figured the artillery must have already taken its place and that I would be able to join them either on the staircases or in one of the rooms. I hurried up the main staircase and reached the grand audience chamber. Not a sign of any artillerymen! I thought that, like Victor Hugo's kettle-drummers, the artillerymen must have come and gone, so I decided to go in alone.
Had I not been so pre-occupied with my unpunctuality, I should have remarked the strange looks people cast at me all round; but I saw nothing, thanks to my absent-mindedness, except that the group of officers, with whom I intermingled to enter the king's chamber, made a movement from centre to circumference, which left me as completely isolated as though I was suspected of bringing infection of cholera, which was beginning to be talked about in Paris. I attributed this act of repulsion to the part the artillery had played during the recent disturbances, and as I, for my part, was quite ready to answer for the responsibility of my own actions, I went in with my head held high. I should say, that out of the score of officers who formed the group I had honoured with my presence, I seemed to be the only one who attracted the attention of the king; he even gazed at me with such surprise that I looked around to find the cause of this incomprehensible stare. Among those present some put on a scornful smile, others seemed alarmed; and the expression of others, again, seemed to say: "Seigneur; pardon us for having come in with that man!" The whole thing was inexplicable to me. I went up to the king, who was so good as to speak to me.
If I hadn’t been so worried about being late, I would have noticed the strange looks people were giving me; but I saw nothing, thanks to my absent-mindedness, except that the group of officers I mingled with to enter the king's chamber had moved away from me, leaving me feeling completely isolated as if I were suspected of spreading cholera, which was starting to be discussed in Paris. I thought their reaction was due to the artillery's involvement in the recent disturbances, and since I was ready to take responsibility for my own actions, I walked in with my head held high. I should mention that out of the group of officers I had joined, I seemed to be the only one who caught the king's attention; he looked at me with such surprise that I glanced around to find out why he was staring at me like that. Some people present wore scornful smiles, others looked worried, and some seemed to think: "Your Highness, forgive us for coming in with that man!" The entire situation was confusing to me. I approached the king, who kindly spoke to me.
"Ah! good day, Dumas!" he said to me; "that's just like you! I recognise you well enough! It is just like you to come!"
"Ah! Good day, Dumas!" he said to me; "that's so typical of you! I know it’s you! It’s just like you to show up!"
I looked at the king and, for the life of me, I could not tell what he was alluding to. Then, as he began laughing, and all the good courtiers round imitated his example, I smiled in company with everybody else, and went on my way. In the next room where my steps led me I found Vatout, Oudard, Appert, Tallencourt, Casimir Delavigne and a host of my old comrades. They had seen me through the half-open door and they, too, were all laughing. This universal hilarity began to confuse me.
I looked at the king, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what he meant. Then, as he started laughing and all the other courtiers followed suit, I cracked a smile along with everyone else and continued on my way. In the next room I entered, I found Vatout, Oudard, Appert, Tallencourt, Casimir Delavigne, and a bunch of my old friends. They had spotted me through the half-open door, and they were all laughing too. This widespread laughter started to throw me off.
"Ah!" said Vatout. "Well, you have a nerve, my friend!"
"Ah!" said Vatout. "Wow, you really have some nerve, my friend!"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, you have just paid the king a New Year's visit in a dress of dissous."
"Why, you just paid the king a New Year's visit wearing a dress made of dissous."
By dissous understand dix sous (ten sous).
By dissous understand 10 cents.
Vatout was an inveterate punster.
Vatout was a constant punster.
"I do not understand you," I said, very seriously.
"I don't understand you," I said, very seriously.
"Come now," he said. "You aren't surely going to try to make us believe that you did not know the king's order!"
"Come on," he said. "You can't really expect us to believe that you didn't know about the king's order!"
"What order?"
"What do you mean?"
"The disbandment of the artillery, of course!"
"The disbandment of the artillery, of course!"
"What! the artillery is disbanded?"
"What! The artillery is gone?"
"Why, it is in black and white in the Moniteur!"
"Well, it's clearly stated in the Moniteur!"
"You are joking. Do I ever read the Moniteur?"
"You must be joking. Do I even read the Moniteur?"
"You are right to say that."
"You’re correct about that."
"But, by Jove! I say it because it is true!"
"But, seriously! I say it because it’s true!"
They all began laughing again.
They all started laughing again.
I will acknowledge that, by this time, I was dreadfully angry; I had done a thing that, if considered in the light of an act of bravado, might indeed be regarded as a very grave impertinence, and one in which I, least of any person, had no right to indulge towards the king. I went down the staircase as quickly as I had gone up it, ran to the café du Roi, and asked for the Moniteur with a ferocity that astonished the frequenters of the café. They had to send out and borrow one from the café Minerve. The order was in a prominent position; it was short, but explicit, and in these simple words—
I have to admit that by this point, I was incredibly angry; I had done something that, if seen as an act of defiance, could definitely be viewed as a serious insult, one that I, more than anyone, had no right to direct toward the king. I rushed down the staircase as quickly as I had gone up, dashed to the café du Roi, and demanded the Moniteur with a fervor that surprised the regulars at the café. They had to go out and borrow one from the café Minerve. The order was in a prominent position; it was brief, but clear, and in these simple words—
"LOUIS-PHILIPPE, KING OF THE FRENCH,—To all, now and hereafter, Greeting. Upon the report of our Minister, the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, we have ordained and do ordain as follows:—
"LOUIS-PHILIPPE, KING OF THE FRENCH—To everyone, present and future, Greetings. Following the report from our Minister, the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, we have decided and hereby declare the following:—"
"ARTICLE I.—The corps of artillery of the National Guard of Paris is disbanded.
"ARTICLE I.—The artillery unit of the National Guard of Paris is disbanded."
"ARTICLE 2.—Proceedings for the reorganisation of that corps shall begin immediately.
"ARTICLE 2.—The process for reorganizing that group will begin immediately."
"ARTICLE 3.—A commission shall be appointed to proceed with that reorganisation."
"ARTICLE 3.—A commission will be established to oversee that reorganization."
After seeing this official document I could have no further doubts upon the subject. I went home, stripped myself of my seditious clothing, put on the dress of ordinary folk, and went off to the Odéon for my rehearsal of Napoléon Bonaparte,[Pg 115] which was announced for its first production the next day. As I came away after the rehearsal, I met three or four of my artillery comrades, who congratulated me warmly. My adventure had already spread all over Paris; some-thought it a joke in the worst possible taste, others thought my action heroic. But none of them would believe the truth that it was done through ignorance. To this act of mine I owed being made later a member of the committee to consider the national pensions lists, of the Polish committee and of that for deciding the distribution of honours to those who took conspicuous part in the July Revolution, and of being re-elected as lieutenant in the new artillery,—honours which naturally led to my taking part in the actions of 5 June 1832, and being obliged to spend three months' absence in Switzerland and two in Italy.
After seeing this official document, I had no more doubts about the situation. I went home, changed out of my rebellious clothes, put on the outfit of an everyday person, and headed to the Odéon for my rehearsal of Napoléon Bonaparte,[Pg 115] which was set to debut the next day. As I was leaving the rehearsal, I ran into three or four of my artillery friends, who congratulated me enthusiastically. My story had already spread throughout Paris; some thought it was a tasteless joke, while others deemed my actions heroic. But none of them believed the truth that it was done out of ignorance. Because of this act, I later became a member of the committee that reviewed the national pensions list, the Polish committee, and the committee that decided the distribution of honors for those who played a significant role in the July Revolution, and I was re-elected as a lieutenant in the new artillery—honors that naturally led to my involvement in the events of June 5, 1832, and forced me to spend three months away in Switzerland and two in Italy.
But, in the meantime, as I have said, Napoléon was to be acted on the following day, a literary event that was little calculated to restore me to the king's political good books. This time, the poor duc d'Orléans did not come and ask me to intercede with his father to be allowed to go to the Odéon. Napoléon was a success, but only from pure chance: its literary value was pretty nearly nil. The rôle of the spy was the only real original creation; all the rest was done with paste and scissors. There was some hissing amongst the applause, and (a rare thing with an author) I was almost of the opinion of those who hissed. But the expenses, with Frédérick playing the principal part, and Lockroy and Stockleit the secondary ones; with costumes and decorations and the burning of the Kremlin, and the retreat of Bérésina, and especially the passion of five years at Saint Helena, amounting to a hundred thousand francs; how could it, with all this, have been anything but a success? Delaistre acted the part of Hudson Lowe. I remember they were obliged to send the theatre attendants back with him each night to keep him from being stoned on his way home. The honours of the first night belonged by right to Frédérick far more than to me. Frédérick had just begun to make his fine and great reputation, a reputation[Pg 116] conscientiously earned and well deserved. He had made his first appearances at the Cirque; then, as we have stated, he came to act at the Odéon, in the part of one of the brothers in Les Macchabées, by M. Guiraud; he next returned to the Ambigu, where he created the parts of Cartouche and of Cardillac, and, subsequently, he went to the Porte-Saint-Martin, where his name had become famous by his Méphistophélès, Marat and Le Joueur. He was a privileged actor, after the style of Kean, full of defects, but as full, also, of fine qualities; he was a genius in parts requiring violence, strength, anger, sarcasm, caprice or buffoonery. At the same time, in summing up the gifts of this eminent actor, it is useless to expect of him attributes that Bocage possessed in such characters as the man Antony, and in La Tour de Nesle. Bocage and Frédérick combined gave us the qualities that Talma, in his prime, gave us by himself. Frédérick finally returned to the Odéon, where he played le Duresnel in La Mère et la Fille most wonderfully; and where he next played Napoléon. But Frédérick's great dramatic talents do not stand out most conspicuously in the part of Napoléon. To speak of him adequately, we must dwell upon his Richard Darlington, Lucrèce Borgia, Kean and Buy Bias.
But, in the meantime, as I mentioned, Napoléon was set to be performed the next day, a literary event that wasn’t likely to help me regain the king's favor. This time, the poor duc d'Orléans did not come to me asking for help to convince his father to let him go to the Odéon. Napoléon was a hit, but it was mostly due to luck: its literary quality was nearly nonexistent. The role of the spy was the only truly original part; everything else was pieced together. There was some hissing mixed in with the applause, and (something rare for a writer) I found myself almost agreeing with those who booed. But the expenses, with Frédérick in the lead role and Lockroy and Stockleit in supporting ones; along with costumes, sets, the burning of the Kremlin, the retreat from Bérésina, and especially the five years of hardship at Saint Helena, totaling one hundred thousand francs; with all this, how could it not be considered a success? Delaistre played Hudson Lowe. I remember they had to send theater staff back with him every night to protect him from being attacked on his way home. The honors of opening night belonged more to Frédérick than to me. Frédérick had just started to build his impressive reputation, a reputation[Pg 116] earned conscientiously and well deserved. He made his debut at the Cirque; then, as mentioned, he performed at the Odéon as one of the brothers in Les Macchabées by M. Guiraud; he then returned to the Ambigu, where he created the roles of Cartouche and Cardillac, and later moved to the Porte-Saint-Martin, where he became famous for his portrayals of Méphistophélès, Marat, and Le Joueur. He was a standout actor, reminiscent of Kean, full of flaws but also rich in remarkable qualities; he excelled in roles that required intensity, strength, anger, sarcasm, unpredictability, or humor. At the same time, when summarizing this gifted actor's talents, it’s unnecessary to expect from him the same traits that Bocage displayed in parts like the man Antony and in La Tour de Nesle. Bocage and Frédérick together provided us with the qualities that Talma delivered solo in his prime. Frédérick eventually returned to the Odéon, where he played le Duresnel in La Mère et la Fille spectacularly; and then he took on Napoléon. However, Frédérick's exceptional acting skills don't shine the brightest in the role of Napoléon. To truly appreciate him, we should focus on his performances in Richard Darlington, Lucrèce Borgia, Kean, and Buy Bias.
In this manner did I stride across the invisible abyss that divided one year from another, and passed from the year 1830 to that of 1831, which brought me insensibly to my twenty-ninth year.
In this way, I walked across the unseen gap that separated one year from another, and moved from the year 1830 to 1831, which quietly led me into my twenty-ninth year.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
The Abbé Châtel—The programme of his church—The Curé of Lèves and M. Clausel de Montais—The Lévois embrace the religion of the primate of the Gauls—Mass in French—The Roman curé—A dead body to inter
Abbé Châtel—His church plan—The Curé of Lèves and M. Clausel de Montais—The people of Léves embrace the faith of the primate of the Gauls—Mass in French—The Roman curé—A body to bury
A triple movement of a very remarkable character arose at this time: political, literary and social. It seemed as though after the Revolution of 1793, which had shaken, overturned and destroyed things generally, society grew frightened and exerted all its strength upon a general reorganisation. This reconstruction, it is true, was more like that of the Tower of Babel than of Solomon's Temple. We have spoken about the literary builders and of the political too; now let us say something about the social and religious reconstructors.
A remarkable triple movement emerged during this time: political, literary, and social. It seemed that after the Revolution of 1793, which had shaken, overturned, and destroyed nearly everything, society became scared and pushed hard for a complete overhaul. This reconstruction, to be honest, resembled the Tower of Babel more than Solomon's Temple. We've talked about the literary and political builders; now let's discuss the social and religious reconstructors.
The first to show signs of existence was the Abbé Châtel.
The first to show signs of life was the Abbé Châtel.
On 20 February 1831, the French Catholic Church, situated in the Boulevard Saint-Denis opened with this programme—
On February 20, 1831, the French Catholic Church located on Boulevard Saint-Denis opened with this program—
"The ecclesiastic authorities who constitute the French Catholic Church propose, among other reforms, to celebrate all its religious ceremonies, as soon as circumstances will allow, in the popular tongue. The ministers of this new church exercise the offices of their ministry without imposing any remuneration. The offertory is entirely voluntary; people need not even feel obliged to pay for their seats. No collection of any kind will disturb the meditation of the faithful during the holy offices.
The leaders of the French Catholic Church are proposing, among other changes, that all their religious ceremonies be conducted in the local language whenever possible. The leaders of this new church carry out their roles without receiving any payment. Contributions during the offertory are entirely voluntary; people aren’t even expected to pay for their seats. There will be no collections of any kind that interrupt the congregation's meditation during worship services.
"We do not recognise any other impediments to marriage[Pg 118] than those which are set forth by the civil law. Consequently, we will bestow the nuptial benediction on all those who shall present themselves to us provided with a certificate, proving the marriage to have taken place at the mairie, even in the case of one of the contracting parties being of the reformed or other religious sect."
"We don’t see any other barriers to marriage[Pg 118] apart from those specified by civil law. Therefore, we will bless the marriage of anyone who comes to us with a certificate showing that the marriage occurred at the mairie, even if one of the individuals belongs to a reformed or another religious group."
I need hardly say that the Abbé Châtel was excommunicated, put on the index and pronounced a heretic. But he continued saying mass in French all the same, and marrying after the civil code and not after the canons of the Church, and not charging anything for his seats. In spite of the advantages the new order of religious procedure offered, I do not know that it made great progress in Paris. As for its growth in the provinces, I presume it was restricted, or partially so, to one case that I witnessed towards the beginning of 1833.
I hardly need to mention that Abbé Châtel was excommunicated, banned from the Church, and labeled a heretic. Yet, he kept saying mass in French anyway, performing marriages under the civil code instead of the Church's rules, and he didn't charge anything for his seats. Despite the benefits that the new religious procedures provided, I'm not sure it gained much traction in Paris. As for its expansion in the provinces, I assume it was limited, or at least partly so, to one instance I observed in early 1833.
I was at Levéville, staying at the château of my dear and excellent friend, Auguste Barthélemy, one of those inheritors of an income of thirty thousand francs, who would have created a revolution in society in 1852, if society had not in 1851 been miraculously saved by the coup d'état of 2 December 1851, when news was brought to us that the village of Lèves was in a state of open revolution. This village stands like an outpost on the road from Chartres to Paris and to Dreux; so much for its topography. Now, it had the reputation of being one of the most peaceful villages in the whole of the Chartrian countryside, so much for its morality. What unforeseen event could therefore have upset the village of Lèves? This was what had happened—
I was in Levéville, staying at the château of my dear and wonderful friend, Auguste Barthélemy, one of those people who inherited an income of thirty thousand francs, and who would have sparked a revolution in society in 1852 if society hadn't been unexpectedly saved in 1851 by the coup d'état on December 2, when we heard that the village of Lèves was in open revolt. This village is located like a checkpoint on the road from Chartres to Paris and Dreux; that’s its geography. It had a reputation for being one of the most peaceful villages in the entire Chartrian countryside, so that's its moral standing. So, what could have caused such a disruption in Lèves? Here’s what happened—
Lèves possessed that rare article, a curé it adored! He was a fine and estimable priest of about forty years of age, a bon vivant, giving men handshakes that made them yell with pain; chucking maidens under their chins till they blushed again; on Sundays being present at the dances with his cassock tucked up into his girdle; which permitted of the display, like Mademoiselle Duchesnois in Alzire, of a well-turned sturdy leg; urging his parishioners to shake off the cares of the week, to the sound of the violin and clarionet; pledging a health[Pg 119] with the deepest of the drinkers, and playing piquet with great proficiency. He was called Abbé Ledru, a fine name which, like those of the first kings of France, seemed to be derived both from his physical and mental qualities. All these qualities (to which should be added the absence of the orthodox niece) were extremely congenial to the natives of Lèves, but were not so fortunate as to be properly appreciated by the Bishop of Chartres, M. Clausel de Montais. True, the absence of a niece, which the Abbé Ledru viewed in the light of an advantage, could prove absolutely nothing, or, rather, it proved this—that the Abbé Ledru had never regarded the tithes as seriously abolished, and, consequently, exacted toll with all the goodwill in the world from his parishioners, or, to speak more accurately, from his female parishioners. M. Clausel de Montais was then, as he is still, one of the strictest prelates among the French clergy; only, now he is twenty years older than he was then, which fact has not tended to soften his rigidness. When Monseigneur de Montais heard rumours, whether true or false, he immediately recalled the Abbé Ledru without asking the opinion of the inhabitants of Lèves, or warning a soul. If a thunderbolt had fallen upon the village of Lèves out of a cloudless sky it could not have produced a more unlooked-for sensation. The husbands cried at the top of their voices that they would keep their curé, the wives cried out even louder than their husbands and the daughters exclaimed loudest of all. The inhabitants of Lèves rose up together and gathered in front of their bereft church; they counted up their numbers, men, women and children; altogether there were between eleven and twelve hundred souls. They dispatched a deputation of four hundred to M. Clausel de Montais. It comprised all the men of between twenty and sixty in the village. The deputation set out; it looked like a small army, except that it was without drums or swords or rifles. Those who had sticks laid them against the town doors lest the sight of them should frighten Monseigneur, the bishop. The deputies presented themselves at the bishop's palace and were shown in. They laid the object of their visit before the[Pg 120] prelate and insistently demanded the reinstatement of the Curé Ledru. M. Clausel de Montais replied after the fashion of Sylla—
Lèves had something special: a beloved priest! He was a good and respectable priest in his forties, a true hedonist, shaking hands with such force it made men wince; playfully lifting young women’s chins until they blushed; and on Sundays, joining in the dances with his cassock tucked up, showing off a well-shaped, solid leg like Mademoiselle Duchesnois in Alzire. He encouraged his parishioners to let loose from their week’s worries to the tunes of the violin and clarinet; he toasted with the heaviest drinkers and played piquet like a pro. His name was Abbé Ledru, which, much like those of early French kings, seemed to reflect his physical and mental charm. All these traits (plus the absence of a traditional niece) resonated well with the people of Lèves, but they didn’t meet with the approval of the Bishop of Chartres, M. Clausel de Montais. Although the lack of a niece, which Abbé Ledru saw as a plus, didn’t mean much—or rather, it showed that he didn’t see the tithes as completely gone, and thus, he happily collected them from his parishioners, or more precisely, from the women. M. Clausel de Montais was then, as he remains, one of the strictest bishops in the French clergy; only now he is twenty years older, which hasn’t softened his sternness. When Monseigneur de Montais caught wind of rumors, whether they were true or not, he recalled Abbé Ledru without consulting the people of Lèves or giving anyone a heads-up. The shock to the village of Lèves was akin to a thunderbolt striking an unclouded sky. The husbands shouted at the top of their lungs that they wanted to keep their priest, the wives yelled even louder than their husbands, and the daughters cried the loudest of all. The people of Lèves banded together and gathered in front of their empty church; they counted themselves, men, women, and children, totaling around eleven to twelve hundred individuals. They sent a delegation of four hundred to M. Clausel de Montais. It included all the men aged twenty to sixty in the village. The group set off; it resembled a small army, except without drums, swords, or rifles. Those with sticks leaned them against the town doors to avoid alarming the bishop. The delegates arrived at the bishop's palace and were let in. They expressed their purpose to the prelate and firmly demanded the return of Curé Ledru. M. Clausel de Montais responded like Sylla—
"I can at times alter my plans—but my decrees are like those of fate, unalterable!"
"I can sometimes change my plans—but my decisions are like destiny, unchangeable!"
They entreated and implored—it was useless!
They begged and pleaded—it was pointless!
What was the origin of M. de Montal's hatred towards the poor Abbé Ledru? We will explain it, since these Memoirs were written with the intention of searching to the bottom of things and of laying bare the trifling causes that bring about great results. The Abbé Ledru had subscribed towards those who were wounded during July; he had made a collection in favour of the Poles; he had dressed the drummer of the National Guards of his commune out of his own pocket; in brief, the Abbé Ledru was a patriot; whilst M. de Montals, on the contrary, was not merely an ardent partisan, but also a great friend, of Charles X., and, according to report, one of the instigators of the Ordinances of July. It will be imagined that, after this, the diocese was not large enough to hold both the bishop and the curé within its boundaries. The lesser one had to give in. M. de Montals planted his episcopal sandal upon the Abbé Ledru and crushed him mercilessly!
What was the reason for M. de Montal's hatred towards the poor Abbé Ledru? We'll explain it, as these Memoirs aim to dig deep and reveal the trivial causes that lead to significant effects. The Abbé Ledru had contributed to help those injured during July; he had organized a collection for the Polish cause; he personally supported the drummer of the National Guards in his community; in short, the Abbé Ledru was a patriot. On the other hand, M. de Montals was not just a passionate supporter but also a close ally of Charles X., and reportedly, one of the instigators of the Ordinances of July. It can be imagined that, after this, the diocese could hardly contain both the bishop and the curé. The lesser one had to step aside. M. de Montals asserted his authority over Abbé Ledru and crushed him without mercy!
The deputies returned to those who had sent them. As the Curé Ledru was enjoined to leave the presbytery immediately, a rich farmer in the district offered him a lodging and the church was closed. But, although the church was shut up, the need was still felt for some sort of religion. Now, as the peasantry of Lèves were not very particular as to the sort of religion they had, provided they had something, they made inquiries of the Abbé Ledru if there existed among the many religions of the various peoples of the earth one which would allow them to dispense with M. Clausel de Montals. The Abbé Ledru replied that there was that form of religion practised by the Abbé Châtel, and asked his parishioners if that would suit them. They found it possessed one great advantage in that they could follow the liturgy, which hitherto they had never done, as it was said, in French instead of Latin. The[Pg 121] inhabitants of Lèves pronounced with one common voice, that it was not so much the religion they clung to, as the priest, and that they would be delighted to understand what had hitherto been incomprehensible to them. The Abbé Ledru went to Paris to take a few lessons of the leader of the French church, and, when sufficiently initiated into the new form of religion, he returned to Lèves. His return was made the occasion of a triumphant fête! A splendid barn just opposite their old Roman church, which had been closed more out of the scorn of the Lévois than because of the bishop's anger, was placed at his service and transformed into a place of worship. Everyone, as for the temporary altars at the fête of Corpus Christi, brought his share of adornment; some the covering for the Holy Table, some altar candles, some the crucifix or the ciborium; the carpenter put up the benches; the glazier put glass into the windows; the river supplied the lustral water and all was ready by the following Sunday.
The deputies went back to the people who had sent them. Since Curé Ledru was told to leave the presbytery right away, a wealthy farmer in the area offered him a place to stay, and the church was closed. However, even though the church was shut, there was still a need for some kind of religion. The people of Lèves weren’t very picky about what kind of religion it was, as long as they had something, so they asked Abbé Ledru if there was a religion among the many around the world that would let them do without M. Clausel de Montals. Abbé Ledru said there was a form of religion practiced by Abbé Châtel and asked his parishioners if that would work for them. They discovered that it had one big advantage: they could follow the liturgy, which they had never done before, as it was in French instead of Latin. The inhabitants of Lèves agreed that it wasn't so much the religion they were attached to, but the priest, and they would be thrilled to understand what had previously been incomprehensible to them. Abbé Ledru went to Paris to learn from the leader of the French church, and when he felt ready with the new form of religion, he returned to Lèves. His return was celebrated with a huge festivity! A beautiful barn right across from their old Roman church, which had been closed more out of disdain from the Lévois than because of the bishop’s anger, was made available for him and converted into a place of worship. Everyone contributed decorations, just like they did for the temporary altars at the Corpus Christi feast; some brought coverings for the Holy Table, some altar candles, some the crucifix or the ciborium; the carpenter set up benches, the glazier installed glass in the windows, the river provided the holy water, and everything was ready by the next Sunday.
I have already mentioned that we were staying at the Château de Levéville. I did not know the Abbé Châtel and was ignorant of his religious theories; so I thought it a good opportunity for initiating myself into the doctrine of the primate of the Gauls. I therefore suggested to Barthélemy that we should go and hear the Châtellaisian mass; he agreed and we set off. It was somewhat more tedious than in Latin, as one was almost obliged to listen. But that was the only difference we could discover between the two forms. Of course we were not the only persons in the neighbourhood of Chartres who had been informed of the schism that had broken out between the Church of Lèves and the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church; M. de Montals was perfectly acquainted with what was going on, and had hoped there would be some scandal during the mass for him to carp at: but the mass was celebrated without scandal, and the village of Lèves, which had listened to the whole of the divine office, left the barn quite as much edified as though leaving a proper church.
I already mentioned that we were staying at the Château de Levéville. I didn’t know Abbé Châtel and wasn’t aware of his religious beliefs; so I thought it was a good chance to learn about the teachings of the primate of the Gauls. I suggested to Barthélemy that we go to the Châtellaisian mass; he agreed, and we set off. It was a bit more tedious than a Latin mass, as you pretty much had to pay attention. But that was the only difference we noticed between the two services. Of course, we weren’t the only ones in the Chartres area who had heard about the split between the Church of Lèves and the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church; M. de Montals was fully aware of what was happening and had hoped for some scandal during the mass to criticize: but the mass was held without any scandal, and the village of Lèves, which had listened to the entire divine office, left the barn just as uplifted as if they had come out of a proper church.
But the result was fatal; the example might become infectious—people were strongly inclined towards Voltairism in 1830.[Pg 122] The bishop was seized with great anger and, still more, with holy terror. What would happen if all the flock followed the footsteps of the erring sheep? The bishop would be left by himself alone, and his episcopal crook would become useless. A Roman priest must at once be supplied to the parish of Lèves, who could combat the French curé with whom it had provided itself. The news of this decision reached the Lévois, who again assembled together and vowed to hang the priest, no matter who he was, who should come forward to enter upon the reversion of the office of the Abbé Ledru. An event soon happened which afforded the bishop tip opportunity of putting his plan into execution, and for the Lievois to keep their vow. A Lèves peasant died. This peasant, in spite-of M. de Montal's declaration, had, before he died, asked for the presence of a Catholic priest, which consolation had been refused him; but, as he was not yet buried, the bishop decided that, as compensation, he should be interred with the full rites of the Latin Church. This happened on Monday, 13 March 1833. On the 14th, Monseigneur, the Bishop of Chartres, despatched to Lèves a curate of his cathedral named the Abbé Duval. The choice was a good one and suitable under the circumstances. The Abbé Duval was by no means one of that timid class of men who are soon made anxious and frightened by the least thing; he was, on the contrary, a man of energetic character with a fine carriage, whose tall figure was quite as well adapted to the wearing of the cuirass of a carabinier as of a priest's cassock. So the Abbé Duval started on his journey. He was not in entire ignorance of the dangers he was about to incur; but he was unconscious of the fact that no missionary entering any Chinese or Thibetan town had ever been so near to martyrdom. The report of the Roman priest's arrival soon spread through the village of Lèves. Everybody at once retired into his house and shut his doors and windows. The poor abbé might at first have imagined that he had been given the cure of a city of the dead like Herculaneum or Pompeii. But, when he reached the centre of the village, he saw that all the doors opened surreptitiously and the windows were slily raised a little;[Pg 123] and in a minute he and the mayor, who accompanied him, were surrounded by about thirty peasants who called upon him to go back. We must do the mayor and abbé the justice to say that they tried to offer resistance; but, at the end of a quarter of an hour, the cries became so furious and the threats so terrible, that the mayor took the advantage of being within reach of his house to slink away and shut the door behind him, abandoning the Abbé Duval to his unhappy fate. It was extremely mean on the part of the mayor, but what can one expect! Every magistrate is not a Bailly, just as every president is not a Boissy-d'Anglais—consult, rather, M. Sauzet, M. Buchez and M. Dupin! Luckily for the poor abbé, at this critical moment a member of the council of the préfecture who was well known and much respected by the inhabitants of Lèves passed by in his carriage, inquired the cause of the uproar, pronounced in favour of the abbé, took possession of him and drove him back to Chartres.
But the outcome was disastrous; the example could spread—people were very drawn to Voltairism in 1830.[Pg 122] The bishop was filled with intense anger and, even more, with holy dread. What would happen if all the congregation followed the path of the misguided sheep? The bishop would end up alone, and his episcopal staff would be pointless. A Roman priest needed to be sent to the parish of Lèves immediately, one who could challenge the French curé who was already there. The news of this decision reached the Lévois, who gathered again and swore to hang any priest who came to take over from the Abbé Ledru. Soon after, an event occurred that gave the bishop the chance to carry out his plan, and for the Lévois to keep their oath. A Lèves peasant passed away. This peasant, despite M. de Montal's claim, had requested a Catholic priest before he died, a request that was denied; but since he wasn't buried yet, the bishop decided that he should be laid to rest with all the rites of the Latin Church. This took place on Monday, March 13, 1833. On the 14th, Monseigneur, the Bishop of Chartres, sent a curate from his cathedral named Abbé Duval to Lèves. The choice was a good one given the situation. Abbé Duval was certainly not the type of man who gets anxious or scared by the slightest thing; on the contrary, he was an energetic person with a commanding presence, whose tall stature suited both the armor of a carabinier and the robe of a priest. So, Abbé Duval set out on his journey. He wasn't completely unaware of the risks he faced; however, he didn’t realize that no missionary entering any Chinese or Tibetan town had ever been this close to martyrdom. News of the Roman priest's arrival quickly spread through the village of Lèves. Instantly, everyone retreated into their homes and locked their doors and windows. The poor abbé might initially have thought he was given charge of a ghost town like Herculaneum or Pompeii. However, when he reached the center of the village, he noticed that all the doors opened slightly and windows cracked open;[Pg 123] and in a moment, he and the mayor, who accompanied him, were surrounded by about thirty peasants demanding he leave. We must give the mayor and abbé credit for trying to resist; but after about fifteen minutes, the shouts became so furious and the threats so intense that the mayor seized the chance to slip back to his house and shut the door behind him, leaving Abbé Duval to face his grim fate alone. This was incredibly cowardly of the mayor, but what can you expect? Not every magistrate is a Bailly, just as not every president is a Boissy-d'Anglais—look at M. Sauzet, M. Buchez, and M. Dupin! Fortunately for the poor abbé, at that critical moment, a member of the préfecture council, well-known and respected by the people of Lèves, passed by in his carriage, inquired about the commotion, defended the abbé, took charge of him, and drove him back to Chartres.
Meanwhile the dead man waited on!
Meanwhile, the dead man continued to wait!
CHAPTER II
Fine example of religious toleration—The Abbé Dallier—The Circes of Lèves—Waterloo after Leipzig—The Abbé Dallier is kept as hostage—The barricades—The stones of Chartres—The outlook—Preparations for fighting
A great example of religious tolerance—The Abbé Dallier—The Circes of Lèves—Waterloo after Leipzig—The Abbé Dallier is kept as a hostage—The barricades—The stones of Chartres—The situation—Getting ready for battle
Although the Lévois had liberated their prisoner, they realised, none the less, that war was declared; threats and coarse words had been hurled at the bishop's head, but they knew his grace's character too well to expect that he would consider himself defeated. That did not matter, though! They had made up their minds to push their faith in the new religion to the extreme test of martyrdom, if need be! In the meantime, as there was nothing better to do, they proposed to get rid of the dead man, the innocent cause of all this rumpus. He had, it was said, abjured the Abbé Ledru with his last breath; but it was not an assured fact and the report might even have been set about by the bishop! moreover, new forms of religion are tolerant: the Abbé Ledru knew that he must lay the foundations of his on the side of leniency; he forgave the dead man his momentary defection, supposing he had one, said a French mass for him and buried him according to the rites of the Abbé Châtel! Alas! the poor dead man seemed quite indifferent to the tongue in which they intoned mass over him and the manner in which they buried him! They waited from 24 March until 29 April—nearly six weeks—before receiving any fresh attack from high quarters, and before the bishop showed any signs of his existence. The Abbé Ledru continued to say mass, and the Lévois thought they were fully authorised to follow the rite that suited them best for the good of their souls.
Although the Lévois had freed their prisoner, they realized that war had been declared; threats and harsh words had been thrown at the bishop, but they knew his grace's character well enough to expect he wouldn't see himself as defeated. That didn't really matter, though! They had decided to take their belief in the new religion to the ultimate level of martyrdom if necessary! In the meantime, since there was nothing better to do, they planned to dispose of the dead man, the innocent cause of all this chaos. It was said he had renounced the Abbé Ledru with his last breath, but that wasn't confirmed, and the rumor might have even been spread by the bishop! Moreover, new religions tend to be forgiving: the Abbé Ledru understood he needed to establish his on a foundation of tolerance; he forgave the dead man for his momentary lapse, if he had one, said a French mass for him, and buried him according to the rites of the Abbé Châtel! Unfortunately, the poor dead man seemed completely indifferent to the language in which mass was intoned over him and how he was buried! They waited from March 24 until April 29—nearly six weeks—before they received any new attack from higher authorities, and before the bishop showed any sign of life. The Abbé Ledru continued to say mass, and the Lévois felt fully justified in following the rite that suited them best for the good of their souls.
But Sunday, 29 April, came at last, the date which the bishop and préfet had fixed for the re-opening of the Roman Church and the installation of a new priest. In the morning, a squadron of the 4th regiment of rifles and a half section of the gendarmerie came and took up their position in front of the church. An hour later than the soldiers, the Préfet of Rigny arrived, also the commander-general of the department and the chief of the gendarmerie. They brought with them a new abbé, Abbé Dallier. This priest came supported by a respectable body of armed force to reinstate the true God in the church. Things began to wear the look of a parody from the Lutrin. Notwithstanding all this, the whole of the population of Lèves had gradually collected in the street that we will call La rue des Grands-Prés, although I am very much afraid that we are really its spouses. To prevent the re-opening of the Latin Church, the women, who were even more bitter than the men against the re-opening, had crowded themselves together under the porch. The préfet tried to break through their ranks, followed by a locksmith; for the Lévois threw the keys of the church into the river when the Abbé Duval arrived. As the locksmith possessed no claims of an administrative nature, it was to him they addressed their outcries and threats. These rose to such a swelling diapason that the poor devil took fright and fled. It will be seen that the protection of the préfet only half assured him. The example proved contagious: for, whether the préfet in his turn gave way to fright at these cries, whether, without the locksmith, any attempts to open the church doors were useless, he too beat a retreat. It is true, however, that they had just told him that the riflemen—seduced by the blandishments of the women of Lèves, as the King of Ithaca's companions were by the witchcraft of Circe—had forgotten themselves so far before the arrival of the authorities above mentioned, as to shout: "Vive l'Abbé Ledru!" "Vive l'Église française!" It was rather a seditious cry, at a period when the army neither voted nor deliberated! Whatever the cause, the préfet, as we have said, beat a retreat. Just at this moment the Abbé Ledru[Pg 126] appeared at the door of his barn. Four women at once constituted themselves as alms-collectors, using their outstretched aprons as alms-boxes. The total of the four collections was employed in the purchase of eau-de-vie for the soldiers. Was it the Abbé Ledru who gave such corrupt advice? or was it, indeed, the alms-collectors' own idea? Woman is ever deceitful and the devil sly! The soldiers, after shouting "Vive l'Abbé Ledru!" drank to that abbé's health and to the supremacy of the French Church—this was, indeed, a serious thing! If he had known how to take advantage of the frame of mind the soldiers were in, the Abbé Ledru would have been equal to laying siege to Rome, as did the Constable of Bourbon. But his ambition, probably, fell short of this and he did not even make the suggestion.
But Sunday, April 29, finally arrived, the day set by the bishop and préfet for the reopening of the Roman Church and the installation of a new priest. In the morning, a squad from the 4th regiment of rifles and a half-section of the gendarmerie took their positions in front of the church. An hour later, the Préfet of Rigny arrived, along with the commander-general of the department and the chief of the gendarmerie. They brought with them a new priest, Abbé Dallier. This priest came with a respectable group of armed forces to restore the true God in the church. The situation started to resemble a parody from the Lutrin. Despite all this, the entire population of Lèves gradually gathered on the street we will call La rue des Grands-Prés, although I'm very afraid that we are really its partners. To prevent the reopening of the Latin Church, the women, who were even more opposed than the men, crowded together under the porch. The préfet tried to push through their ranks, followed by a locksmith; the people of Léves had thrown the keys of the church into the river when Abbé Duval arrived. Since the locksmith had no administrative authority, it was to him that the crowd directed their shouts and threats. The noise rose to such an extent that the poor guy got scared and ran away. It became clear that the préfet's protection was only partial. This sense of fear was infectious: whether the préfet was frightened by the crowd's shouts or whether, without the locksmith, attempts to open the church doors were futile, he too retreated. It’s true, however, that they had just informed him that the riflemen—enchanted by the women of Lèves, like Odysseus's crew by Circe's magic—had lost themselves before the arrival of the mentioned authorities, shouting: "Long live Abbé Ledru!" "Long live the French Church!" This was rather a rebellious shout, especially at a time when the army neither voted nor deliberated! Whatever the reason, as mentioned, the préfet retreated. Just at that moment, Abbé Ledru[Pg 126] appeared at the barn door. Four women immediately took on the role of beggars, using their outstretched aprons as collection boxes. The total of their collections was used to buy alcohol for the soldiers. Was it Abbé Ledru who gave such questionable advice? Or was it the alms-collectors’ own idea? Women can often be tricky, and the devil is sly! The soldiers, after shouting "Long live Abbé Ledru!" drank to his health and to the supremacy of the French Church—this was serious! If Abbé Ledru had known how to take advantage of the soldiers' mood, he could have laid siege to Rome, like the Constable of Bourbon. But his ambitions likely didn't go that far, and he didn't even make the suggestion.
Meanwhile, the préfet, the general-commander of the department and the chief of the gendarmerie were debating at the mairie as to the action they should take. The officers of the riflemen felt that their men were almost escaping from their control: the squadron threatened to appoint the primate of the Gauls as its chaplain, and to proclaim that, if the Roman Catholic religion was the ritual of the State the French form should be that of the Army. It was decided to send for the king's attorney, who was supposed to have a shrewd head. He arrived an hour later with two deputies and a judge. The squadron of riflemen continued drinking the health of the Abbé Ledru and to the supremacy of the French Church. Reinforced by four magistrates, the préfet, commander-general of the department and chief of the gendarmerie took their way to the rue des Grands-Prés. The street was now literally packed. They meant to make a second attempt upon the church. They had reckoned that this body of military dignitaries, civil and magisterial, would have an awe-inspiring effect on the crowd. Bah! the people only began shouting at the top of their voices—
Meanwhile, the prefect, the general commander of the department, and the chief of the gendarmerie were debating at the town hall about what action to take. The officers of the riflemen felt like their men were slipping out of their control: the squadron threatened to appoint the primate of the Gauls as its chaplain and to declare that if Roman Catholicism was the state religion, the French form should be the Army's. They decided to call for the king's attorney, who was believed to be sharp. He arrived an hour later with two deputies and a judge. The squadron of riflemen kept raising their glasses to toast Abbé Ledru and the supremacy of the French Church. With four magistrates backing them up, the prefect, the general commander of the department, and the chief of the gendarmerie headed towards rue des Grands-Prés. The street was now absolutely packed. They planned to make a second attempt at the church. They thought that this group of military leaders, civil officials, and magistrates would have an imposing effect on the crowd. But instead, the people just started shouting at the top of their lungs—
"Down with the Carlists!" "Down with the Jesuits!"
"Down with the Carlists!" "Down with the Jesuits!"
"Down with the bishop!" ... "Long live the King and the French Church!"
"Down with the bishop!" ... "Long live the King and the French Church!"
The préfet tried to speak, the king's attorney tried to demand, the deputies tried threats, the judge to open the code, the general tried to draw his sword, the chief of the gendarmerie attempted to flourish his sabre; but every one of their efforts were frustrated and drowned in the singing of La Parisienne and La Marseillaise. These gentlemen had a good mind to make the call to arms, but the attitude of the troop was too doubtful for them to risk the chance. The préfet withdrew a second time, followed by the general, chief of gendarmerie, king's attorney, deputies and the judge. It was a case of Waterloo after Leipzig! A minute later, the troop received orders to quit the rue des Grands-Prés; and, as there was nothing hostile against the population in such an order, the troop obeyed. Soldiers and inhabitants embraced and fraternised and drank together for the third time, then separated. The Lévois believed that the préfet had definitely renounced the idea of opening the church; but their delusion was not of long duration. News came to them that an orderly had been sent off to Chartres, charged with the commission of bringing back another squadron of rifles and all the reinforcements they could possibly muster. Whereupon the cry of "To arms!" was set up. At this war cry, a man in a cassock attempted to fly—it was the Abbé Dallier, who had been completely forgotten by the préfet, general, chief of gendarmerie, king's attorney, the two deputies and the judge, in their precipitation to beat a retreat! The poor abbé was caught by his cassock and made prisoner and shut up in a cellar, while they announced to him, through the grating, that he was to be kept as hostage and that if the slightest injury happened to any inhabitant of the village commune, the penalty of retaliation would be applied to him in full force. They next began to construct barricades at each end of the rue des Grands-Prés, where stood, as we know, both the Latin and French churches. For the material wherewith to build these barricades, which rose up as quick as thought, a wooden shoemaker gave three or four beams, a carter brought two or three waggons, the schoolmaster took his desks and the inhabitants made an[Pg 128] offering of their shutters. The street lads collected heaps of stones.
The prefect tried to speak, the king's attorney tried to make demands, the deputies tried to use threats, the judge attempted to open the law book, the general tried to draw his sword, and the chief of the gendarmerie tried to show off his saber; but all their efforts were drowned out by the singing of La Parisienne and La Marseillaise. These men were considering calling for arms, but the troops were too unsure for them to take the risk. The prefect withdrew a second time, followed by the general, the chief of the gendarmerie, the king's attorney, the deputies, and the judge. It was like Waterloo after Leipzig! A minute later, the troops were ordered to leave the rue des Grands-Prés; and since there was nothing hostile in that order, the troops complied. Soldiers and locals embraced, bonded, and drank together for the third time before parting ways. The Lévois thought the prefect had finally given up on the idea of opening the church; but their illusion didn’t last long. They soon learned that a messenger had been sent to Chartres to bring back another squadron of rifles and as many reinforcements as possible. This sparked the cry of "To arms!" At this war cry, a man in a cassock tried to flee—it was Abbé Dallier, who had been completely overlooked by the prefect, the general, the chief of the gendarmerie, the king's attorney, the two deputies, and the judge in their rush to retreat! The poor abbé was caught by his cassock, taken prisoner, and locked in a cellar, where they informed him through the grating that he would be held as a hostage and that if any harm came to any resident of the village, he would face full retaliation. They then started building barricades at each end of the rue des Grands-Prés, where both the Latin and French churches stood. To construct these barricades, which sprang up quickly, a wooden shoemaker provided three or four beams, a carter brought two or three wagons, the schoolmaster contributed his desks, and the locals offered their shutters. The street kids gathered heaps of stones.
I do not know whether my readers are acquainted with the Chartres stones; they are pretty ones that vary from the size of a pigeon's egg to that of an ostrich, and when broken, either by art or nature, they show an edge as sharp as that of a razor. Chartres is partly paved with these stones, and the paviors are usually careful to place the sharp edges upwards so that the pedestrian's boots may come in contact with them; which makes one think with some justification that the worthy guild of shoemakers must give the paviors a consideration. One of my friends, Noël Parfait, a true Chartrian, and jealous, as are all true-hearted patriots, of the honour of his country, maintains that Chartres was once a seaport, and that these stones are clearly the shingle that the ocean swell threw up on the beach in former times. In an hour's time, there was enough ammunition behind each barricade to hold a siege for eight days. Projectiles, also, grew under the hands, or rather, the feet, of the providers. One individual climbed the church tower, to watch the Chartres road in order to sound the alarm as soon as the troop appeared in sight. The Abbé Ledru blessed the fighters, and invoked the God of armies in French; then they waited, ready for anything that might happen. All these preparations had been made in sight of the riflemen and gendarmes who, withdrawn to the Grand-Rue, looked on at all these preparations for fighting without protest. Truly, the wretched fellows were won over to heresy.
I’m not sure if my readers are familiar with the Chartres stones; they’re beautiful and range from the size of a pigeon’s egg to that of an ostrich. When broken, whether by nature or human hands, they have an edge as sharp as a razor. Part of Chartres is paved with these stones, and the workers usually position the sharp edges facing up so that pedestrians’ shoes make contact with them, leading one to reasonably think that the shoemakers must pay the pavers for this. One of my friends, Noël Parfait, a true local and fiercely proud of his country’s honor, insists that Chartres was once a seaport, and that these stones are the gravel washed up by the ocean long ago. In an hour, there was enough ammunition behind each barricade to withstand a siege for eight days. Projectiles also piled up thanks to the efforts of the providers. One person climbed the church tower to keep an eye on the Chartres road and sound the alarm as soon as the troops were spotted. Abbé Ledru blessed the fighters and prayed to the God of armies in French; then they waited, ready for whatever might come. All of this was happening right in front of the riflemen and police who, retired to the Grand-Rue, watched the preparations for battle without saying a word. Truly, those poor souls had been swayed to heresy.
Ten minutes after the finishing of the barricades, the alarm bell sounded. It signified that troops had left Chartres. These troops were preceded by a locksmith, who was brought under the escort of two gendarmes; but the man was so railed at by the Abbé Ledru's fierce sectaries, as soon as the first houses in Lèves were reached, that he took advantage of a momentary hesitation on the part of the two gendarmes to slip between the legs of the one on his right, reach a garden and disappear into the fields! This was the second locksmith that melted away out of the clutch of authority. It reminds[Pg 129] one of those rearguards of the army of Russia which slipped through Ney's hands! The new troops came on the scene full of alacrity. Care was taken that they did not come into contact with the disaffected squadron, and they decided to take the barricades by main force. But, at the same time, about thirty Chartrain patriots hurried up to the assistance of the insurgents—amateurs, desirous of taking their part in the dangers of their brothers of Lèves. They were greeted with shouts of joy; La Parisienne and La Marseillaise were thundered forth more loudly, and the tocsin rang more wildly than ever! The préfet and the general headed the riflemen, and the force marched up to the barricade.
Ten minutes after the barricades were finished, the alarm bell rang. It meant that troops had left Chartres. These troops were led by a locksmith, who was escorted by two gendarmes; but as soon as they reached the first houses in Lèves, the locksmith was so heckled by Abbé Ledru’s angry followers that he took advantage of a brief hesitation from the gendarmes to slip between the legs of one and dash into a garden, disappearing into the fields! This was the second locksmith to escape from the grip of authority. It reminds one of those Russian rear guards that slipped through Ney’s grasp! The new troops came in with eagerness. They made sure not to come into contact with the rebellious squadron and decided to take the barricades by force. Meanwhile, about thirty local patriots rushed to help the insurgents—enthusiasts eager to share in the dangers faced by their fellow Lèves residents. They were welcomed with cheers; La Parisienne and La Marseillaise were sung more loudly, and the tocsin rang more wildly than ever! The préfet and the general led the riflemen, and the force marched up to the barricade.
CHAPTER III
Attack of the barricade—A sequel to Malplaquet—The Grenadier—The Chartrian philanthropists—Sack of the bishop's palace—A fancy dress—How order was restored—The culprits both small and great—Death of the Abbé Ledru—Scruples of conscience of the former schismatics—The Dies iræ of Kosciusko
Attack of the barricade—A sequel to Malplaquet—The Grenadier—The Chartrian philanthropists—Sack of the bishop's palace—A fancy dress—How order was restored—The culprits, both minor and major—Death of Abbé Ledru—Conscience issues of the former schismatics—The Dies iræ of Kosciusko
At this period it was still usual to summon the insurgents to withdraw, and this the préfet did. They responded by a hailstorm of stones, one of them hitting the general. This time, he lost all patience and shouted—
At this time, it was still common to ask the rebels to stand down, and that’s what the préfet did. They replied with a barrage of stones, one of which struck the general. This time, he completely lost his patience and yelled—
"Forward!" and the men charged the barricade sword in hand. The Lévois made a splendid resistance, but a dozen or more riflemen managed to clear the obstacle; however, when they reached the other side of the barricade, they were overwhelmed with stones, thrown down and disarmed. Blood had flowed on both sides; and temper was roused to boiling point; it would have gone badly with the dozen prisoners if some men, who were either less heated or more prudent than the rest, had not carried them off and thus saved their lives. Let us confess, with no desire whatever of casting a slur on the army, which we would uphold at all times, and, nowadays, more than ever, that, from that moment, every attempt of the riflemen to take the barricade failed! But what else can be said? It is a matter of history; as are Poitiers, Agincourt and Malplaquet! A shower of stones fell, compared with which the one that annihilated the Amalekites was but an April shower.
"Forward!" and the men charged the barricade, sword in hand. The Lévois put up a strong resistance, but a dozen or more riflemen managed to break through. However, once they reached the other side of the barricade, they were bombarded with stones, knocked down, and disarmed. Blood had been shed on both sides, and tempers were running high; it would have gone badly for the dozen prisoners if some men, who were either calmer or wiser than the rest, hadn't taken them away and saved their lives. Let's admit, without any intention of discrediting the army, which we will always support, and especially now, that from that moment on, every attempt by the riflemen to seize the barricade failed! But what more can be said? It's part of history, like Poitiers, Agincourt, and Malplaquet! A hail of stones fell, which made the one that destroyed the Amalekites seem like a light April shower.
The préfet and the general finally decided to give up the enterprise; they sounded the retreat and took their road back[Pg 131] to Chartres. As the insurgents did not know what to do with their prisoners, and being afraid of a siege, and not having any desire to burden themselves with useless mouths, the riflemen were released on parole. They could not believe in the retreat of the troops; it was in vain the watchmen in the tower shouted, "Victory!" The conviction did not really take hold of the minds of the Lévois until their look-out declared that the last soldier had entered Chartres. Such being the case, it was but one step to turn from doubt to boldness: they began by giving aid to the wounded; then, as no signs of any uniforms reappeared upon the high road, by degrees they grew bolder, until they arrived at such a pitch of enthusiasm that one of the insurgents, having ventured the suggestion that they should march the Abbé Dallier round the walls of Chartres, as Achilles had led Hector round the walls of Pergamus, the proposition was received with acclamation. But, as the vanquished man was alive and not dead, they put a rope round his neck instead of round his ankles and the other end was placed in the hands of one of the Abbé Ledru's most excited penitents, who went by the name of the Grenadier. I need hardly add that the penitent's name was, like that of the Abbé Ledru, conspicuous for the physical and moral qualities of a virago. Every man filled his pockets with stones in readiness for attack or defence, and the folk set out for Chartres, escorting the condemned man, who marched towards martyrdom with visible distaste. It is half a league between Lèves and Chartres; and that half league was a real Via Dolorosa to the poor priest. The Lévois had calculated to perfection what they were doing when they gave the rope's end to the care of the Grenadier. When the savages of Florida wish to inflict extreme punishment on any of their prisoners they hand the criminals over to the women and children. When the victors reached Chartres, they did not find the opposition they had looked for; but they found something else equally unexpected: they saw neither préfet, nor general, nor chief of the gendarmerie, nor king's attorney, neither deputies nor judges; but several philanthropists approached them and made them[Pg 132] listen to what was styled, at the end of last century, the language of reason—
The prefect and the general finally decided to abandon the mission; they sounded the retreat and headed back[Pg 131] to Chartres. Since the insurgents didn't know what to do with their prisoners, were afraid of a siege, and didn’t want to burden themselves with unnecessary mouths to feed, they released the riflemen on parole. They couldn’t believe the troops were retreating; despite the watchmen in the tower shouting "Victory!" it was in vain. The Lévois didn’t really buy it until their lookout confirmed that the last soldier had entered Chartres. Given this, it was just a small step from doubt to boldness: they started by helping the wounded; and as no sign of uniforms appeared on the main road, their confidence grew until they became so enthusiastic that one of the insurgents suggested they should parade Abbé Dallier around the walls of Chartres, much like Achilles had with Hector around the walls of Pergamus. The suggestion was met with cheers. However, since the vanquished man was alive and not dead, they placed a rope around his neck instead of his ankles, handing the other end to one of Abbé Ledru's most fervent penitents, known as the Grenadier. It goes without saying that the penitent shared the robust physical and moral traits of a warrior, much like Abbé Ledru. Every man filled his pockets with stones, ready for attack or defense, and the people set off for Chartres, escorting the condemned priest, who marched toward martyrdom with clear discomfort. The distance between Lèves and Chartres is half a league; that half-league was a genuine Via Dolorosa for the poor priest. The Lévois had calculated everything perfectly when they gave the rope to the Grenadier. In Florida, when the natives want to impose severe punishment on their prisoners, they hand the culprits over to women and children. When the victors arrived in Chartres, they didn’t encounter the resistance they expected; instead, they found something equally surprising: they saw neither the prefect, nor the general, nor the chief of police, nor the king’s attorney, nor any deputies or judges; instead, several philanthropists approached and made them[Pg 132] listen to what was referred to, at the end of the last century, as the language of reason—
It was not the poor priest's fault that he had been selected by the bishop to replace the Abbé Ledru; he did not know in what esteem his parishioners held him, he was neither more nor less blameworthy than his predecessor, the Abbé Duval; and when the one had come to a flock of sheep, why should another priest fall among a band of tigers? It was the fault of the bishop, who had instantly and brutally deposed the Abbé Ledru, and then had the audacity to appoint first one and then another successor!
It wasn't the poor priest's fault that the bishop chose him to take over for Abbé Ledru; he had no idea how much his parishioners valued him, and he was just as blameworthy as his predecessor, Abbé Duval. So, when one priest came to a flock of sheep, why should another priest have to deal with a pack of tigers? The blame lay with the bishop, who immediately and harshly removed Abbé Ledru and then had the nerve to appoint one successor after another!
Upon this very reasonable discourse, the scales fell from the eyes of the inhabitants of Lèves, as from Saint Paul's, and they began to see things in their true light. The effect of their enlightenment was to make them untie the rope and to let the Abbé Dallier go free with many apologies. But, at the same time, it was unanimously agreed that, since there was a rope all ready, the bishop should be hanged with it.
Upon hearing this very sensible conversation, the people of Lèves experienced a revelation, similar to Saint Paul's, and they started to see things clearly. The result of their newfound understanding was that they untied the rope and let Abbé Dallier go free with numerous apologies. However, at the same time, they all agreed that, since the rope was already prepared, the bishop should be hanged with it.
When people conceive such brilliant ideas, they lose no time in putting them into execution. So they directed their steps rapidly in the direction of M. Clausel de Montal's sumptuous dwelling-place. But although these avenging spirits had made all diligence, M. Clausel de Montais had made still greater; to such an extent that, when the hangmen arrived at the bishop's palace, they could nowhere find him whom they had come to hang: Monseigneur the bishop had departed, and with very good reason too! We know what happens under such circumstances; things pay for men, and the bishop's palace had to pay instead of the bishop. This was the era of sacrilege; the sacking of the palace of the Archbishop of Paris had set the fashion of the destruction of religious houses. They broke the window panes and the mirrors over the mantelpieces, they tore down the curtains, and transformed them into banners. Finally, they reached the billiard room, where they fenced with the cues, and threw the balls at each other's heads, whilst a sailor neatly cut off the cloth from the billiard table,[Pg 133] which he rolled into a ball and tucked under his arm. Three or four days later, he had made a coat, waistcoat and trousers out of it, and promenaded the streets of Lèves, amidst the enthusiastic applause of his fellow-citizens, clad entirely in green cloth, like one of the Earl of Lincoln's archers! But the life the Lévois led in the palace was too delightful to last for long; authority bestirred itself; they brought the riflemen out of their barracks once more, and beat the rappel, and, a certain number of the National Guard having taken up arms, they directed their combined forces upon the palace. The attack was too completely unexpected for the spoilers to dream of offering resistance. They went further than that, and, instead of the wise retreat one would have expected from men who had vanquished the troops which one is accustomed to call the best in the world, they took to flight as rapidly as possible: leaping out of the windows into the garden and scaling the walls, they ran across the fields and regained Lèves in complete disorder. That same night every trace of barricading disappeared. Next day, each inhabitant of Lèves attended to his work or play or business. They were thinking nothing about the recent events, when, suddenly, they saw quite an army arriving at Chartres from Paris, Versailles and Orléans. This army was carrying twenty pieces of artillery with it. It was commanded by General Schramm, and was coming to restore order. Order had been re-established for the last fortnight, unassisted! That did not matter, however; seeing there had been disorder, they were marching on Lèves to carry out a razzia.
When people come up with such great ideas, they waste no time putting them into action. So they quickly made their way to M. Clausel de Montal's lavish home. But even though these avenging spirits moved fast, M. Clausel de Montais was even quicker; by the time the hangmen arrived at the bishop's palace, they couldn't find the person they had come to execute: Monseigneur the bishop had already left, and with very good reason! We know what happens in such situations; people pay for their actions, and the bishop's palace had to pay instead of the bishop. This was the time of sacrilege; the looting of the Archbishop of Paris's palace had popularized the destruction of religious buildings. They broke the windows and mirrors, tore down the curtains, and turned them into banners. Finally, they reached the billiard room, where they fought with the cues and tossed balls at each other's heads, while a sailor neatly cut the cloth from the billiard table,[Pg 133] rolled it into a ball, and tucked it under his arm. Three or four days later, he had made a coat, vest, and trousers out of it and proudly walked the streets of Lèves, receiving enthusiastic applause from his fellow citizens, dressed entirely in green cloth, like one of the Earl of Lincoln's archers! But the fun the Lévois had in the palace couldn't last forever; authority stirred once again; they called the riflemen out of their barracks and beat the drum to rally them, and some members of the National Guard armed themselves and directed their combined forces toward the palace. The attack was so unexpected that the looters didn't even think about resisting. Instead of the wise retreat one would expect from men who had defeated what are typically known as the best troops in the world, they fled as quickly as they could: jumping out of the windows into the garden and climbing the walls, they ran across the fields and returned to Lèves in complete disarray. That same night, every barricade vanished. The next day, each resident of Lèves went about their work or leisure or business. They were thinking nothing of the recent events when, suddenly, they saw an army arriving at Chartres from Paris, Versailles, and Orléans. This army was bringing twenty pieces of artillery with it. It was led by General Schramm and was coming to restore order. Order had been re-established for the last two weeks without any help! But that didn’t matter; since there had been chaos, they were marching on Lèves to carry out a raid.
The threatened village quietly watched this left-handed justice approach: its eleven to twelve hundred inhabitants modestly stood at their doors and windows. Peace and innocence reigned throughout from east to west, from north to south; anyone entering might have thought it the valley of Tempe, when Apollo tended the flocks of King Admetus. The inhabitants of Lèves looked as though they were the actors in that play (I cannot recall which it is), where Odry had sent for the commissary at the wrong moment and, when the commissary[Pg 134] arrived, everybody was in unity again; so that everybody asked in profound surprise—
The threatened village quietly watched this unconventional justice approach: its eleven to twelve hundred residents modestly stood at their doors and windows. Peace and innocence reigned throughout from east to west, from north to south; anyone entering might have thought it was the valley of Tempe, where Apollo tended the flocks of King Admetus. The residents of Lèves looked like they were actors in that play (I can't remember which one), where Odry had called for the official at the wrong time and, when the official[Pg 134] arrived, everyone was unified again; so that everyone asked in deep surprise—
"Who sent for a commissary? Did you? or you? or you?"
"Who called for a commissary? Was it you? Or you? Or you?"
"No.... I asked for a commissionaire," replied Odry; "just an ordinary messenger, that is all!" and the agent took himself off abashed and with empty hands.
"No.... I asked for a courier," replied Odry; "just an ordinary messenger, that's all!" and the agent left, embarrassed and empty-handed.
That happened in the piece, but not exactly in the same way at Lèves. A score of persons were arrested, and these were divided into two categories: the least guilty and the most guilty. The least guilty were handed over to the jurisdiction of the police; the guiltiest were sent before the Court of Assizes. A very curious thing resulted from this separation. At that time, the police correctionelle always sentenced, whilst the jury acquitted only too eagerly. The least guilty men who appeared before the police correctionnelle were found guilty, while the most culpable, who were tried before a jury, were acquitted. The sailor in the green cloth was one of the most guilty, and was produced before the jury as an indisputable piece of evidence. The jury declared that billiard tables had not a monopoly for clothing in green; that if a citizen liked to dress like a billiard table, why! political opinions were free, so a man surely might indulge his individual fancy in his style of dress. The religious question was decided in favour of the French Church, and this decision lasted as long as the Abbé Ledru himself, namely, four or five years; during which period of time the parish of Lèves was separated from the general religion of the kingdom, in France, without producing any great sensation. At the end of that time, the Abbé Ledru committed the stupidity of dying. I am unaware in what tongue and rites he was interred; but I do know that, the day after his death, the Lévois asked the bishop for another priest, and this bishop proved a kind father to his prodigal children and sent them one.
That happened in the story, but not quite the same way in Lèves. About twenty people were arrested and divided into two groups: the least guilty and the most guilty. The least guilty were handed over to the police, while the most guilty were sent to the Court of Assizes. A very interesting outcome came from this separation. At that time, the police correctionelle always imposed sentences, while the jury was often too quick to acquit. The least guilty men who went before the police correctionnelle were found guilty, whereas the more guilty ones, who faced a jury, were acquitted. The sailor in the green outfit was among the most guilty and was presented to the jury as undeniable evidence. The jury stated that billiard tables didn’t have exclusive rights over green clothing; if a citizen wanted to dress like a billiard table, then political opinions were free, so a man should definitely be able to express his personal style in his clothing. The religious issue was settled in favor of the French Church, and this decision lasted as long as Abbé Ledru himself—about four or five years—during which the parish of Lèves was separated from the general religion of the kingdom in France, without causing much of a stir. After that time, Abbé Ledru made the unfortunate choice to die. I don’t know what language or rites were used for his burial, but I do know that, the day after his death, the people of Lèves asked the bishop for another priest, and this bishop kindly took care of his wayward children and sent them one.
The third was received with as many honours as the two previously appointed had been received with insults on their arrival. The French Church was closed, the Roman Catholic religion re-established, and the new priest returned[Pg 135] to the old presbytery; the Grenadier became the most fervent and humble of his penitents, and the tongue of Cicero and Tacitus again became the dominical one of the Lévois, returned to the bosom of Holy Church.
The third one was welcomed with as much respect as the first two had faced insults upon their arrival. The French Church was shut down, the Roman Catholic faith was reinstated, and the new priest returned[Pg 135] to the old presbytery; the Grenadier became the most devout and humble of his penitents, and the language of Cicero and Tacitus once again became the dominant one of the Lévois, who returned to the embrace of Holy Church.
But Barthélemy wrote to me, a little time ago, that there were serious scruples in some weak minds. Were the infants baptised, the adults married, and the old people buried by the Abbé Ledru during his schism with Gregory XVI., really properly baptised and married and buried? It did not matter to the baptised souls, who could return and be baptised by an orthodox hand; nor again to the married ones, who had but to have a second mass said over them and to pass under the canopy once more, but it mattered terribly to the dead; for they could neither be sought for nor recognised one from another. Happily God will recognise those whom the blindness of human eyes prevents from seeing, and I am sure that He will forgive the Lévois their temporary heresy for the sake of their good intention.
But Barthélemy wrote to me not long ago that some weak minds had serious doubts. Were the infants baptized, the adults married, and the old people buried by Abbé Ledru during his split with Gregory XVI really baptized, married, and buried properly? It didn’t affect the baptized souls, who could come back and be baptized by someone orthodox; nor did it matter to the married ones, who just needed a second mass said over them and to pass under the canopy again. But it was a big deal for the dead, as they couldn’t be sought out or recognized from one another. Fortunately, God will recognize those whom human eyes can’t see, and I’m sure He will forgive the Lévois their temporary heresy because of their good intentions.
This event, and the conversion of Casimir Delavigne to the observances of the French religion, were the culminating points in the fortunes of the Abbé Châtel, primate of the Gauls. Casimir Delavigne, who gave his sanction to all new phases of power; who sanctioned the authority of Louis XVIII. in his play entitled, Du besoin de s'unir après le depart des étrangers; who sanctioned the prerogative of Louis-Philippe in his immortal, or say rather everlasting, Parisienne; Casimir Delavigne sanctioned the authority of the primate of the Gauls by his translation of the Dies irœ, dies ilia, which was chanted by Abbé Châtel's choristers at the mass which the latter said in French at the funeral service of Kosciusko. The Abbé Châtel possessed this good quality, that he openly declared for the people as against kings.
This event, along with Casimir Delavigne's conversion to the practices of the French religion, marked the high point in the career of Abbé Châtel, primate of the Gauls. Casimir Delavigne, who endorsed every new shift in power; who approved the authority of Louis XVIII. in his play titled, Du besoin de s'unir après le depart des étrangers; who supported the prerogative of Louis-Philippe in his timeless, or rather eternal, Parisienne; Casimir Delavigne affirmed the authority of the primate of the Gauls with his translation of the Dies irœ, dies ilia, which was sung by Abbé Châtel's choir during the mass he held in French at the funeral service of Kosciusko. The Abbé Châtel had the admirable trait of openly siding with the people against kings.
Here is the poem; it is little known and deserves to be better known than it is. It is, therefore, in the hope of increasing its reputation that we bring it to the notice of our readers. It was sung at the French Church on 23 February 1831:—
Here is the poem; it's not well known and deserves to be recognized more than it currently is. So, in hopes of boosting its reputation, we are bringing it to our readers' attention. It was performed at the French Church on February 23, 1831:—
"Jour de colère, jour de larmes,
Où le sort, qui trahit nos armes,
Arrêta son vol glorieux!
À tes côtés, ombre chérie,
Elle tomba, notre patrie,
Et ta main lui ferma les yeux!
Tu vis, de ses membres livides,
Les rois, comme des loups avides,
S'arracher les lambeaux épars:
Le fer, dégouttant de carnage,
Pour en grossir leur héritage,
De son cadavre fit trois parts.
La Pologne ainsi partagée,
Quel bras humain l'aurait vengée?
Dieu seul pouvait la secourir!
Toi-même tu la crus sans vie;
Mais, son cœur, c'était Varsovie;
Le feu sacré n'y put mourir!
Que ta grande ombre se relève;
Secoue, en reprenant ton glaive,
Le sommeil de l'éternité!
J'entends le signal des batailles,
Et le chant de tes funérailles
Est un hymne de liberté!
Tombez, tombez, boiles funèbres!
La Pologne sort des ténèbres,
Féconde en nouveaux défenseurs!
Par la liberté ranimée,
De sa chaîne elle s'est armée
Pour en frapper ses oppresseurs.
Cette main qu'elle te présente
Sera bientôt libre et sanglante;
[Pg 137]
Tends-lui la main du haut des deux.
Descends pour venger ses injures,
Ou pour entourer ses blessures
De ton linceul victorieux.
Si cette France qu'elle appelle,
Trop loin—ne pent vaincre avec elle,
Que Dieu, du moins, soit son appui.
Trop haut, si Dieu ne peut l'entendre,
Eh bien! mourons pour la défendre,
Et nous irons nous plaindre à lui!"
"Day of anger, day of tears,
Where fate, betraying our arms,
Stopped its glorious flight!
By your side, dear shadow,
Our homeland fell,
And your hand closed its eyes!
You saw, from its lifeless limbs,
The kings, like greedy wolves,
Tearing apart the scattered rags:
The iron, dripping with carnage,
To fatten their inheritance,
Made three parts of its corpse.
Poland thus divided,
What human hand could avenge her?
Only God could help her!
You yourself thought she was lifeless;
But her heart was Warsaw;
The sacred fire could not die there!
May your great shadow rise;
Shake off, as you take your sword,
The sleep of eternity!
I hear the signal for battles,
And the song of your funeral
Is a hymn of freedom!
Fall, fall, funeral cries!
Poland emerges from darkness,
Fertile in new defenders!
By revived freedom,
She has armed herself from her chains
To strike her oppressors.
This hand she presents to you
Will soon be free and bloody;
[Pg 137]
Extend your hand from above both.
Descend to avenge her injuries,
Or to surround her wounds
With your victorious shroud.
If this France she calls,
Too far—can’t win with her,
Then God, at least, be her support.
Too high, if God cannot hear,
Well then! let us die to defend her,
And we will go to complain to Him!"
We do not believe to-day that the Abbé Châtel is dead; but, if we judge of his health by the cobwebs which adorn the hinges and bolts of the French Church, we shall not be afraid to assert that he is very ill indeed.
We don't believe today that Abbé Châtel is dead; however, if we assess his health by the cobwebs on the hinges and bolts of the French Church, we can confidently say that he is very unwell.
CHAPTER IV
The Abbé de Lamennais—His prediction of the Revolution of 1830—Enters the Church—His views on the Empire—Casimir Delavigne, Royalist—His early days—Two pieces of poetry by M. de Lamennais—His literary vocation—Essay on Indifference in Religious Matters—Reception given to this book by the Church—The academy of the château de la Chesnaie
Abbé de Lamennais—His prediction of the 1830 Revolution—Joins the Church—His views on the Empire—Casimir Delavigne, a Royalist—His early life—Two poems by M. de Lamennais—His literary career—Essay on Indifference in Religious Matters—The Church's reaction to this book—The academy at the château de la Chesnaie
We now ask permission to approach a more serious subject, and to dedicate this chapter (were it only for the purpose of forming a contrast with the preceding chapters) to one of the finest and greatest of modern geniuses, to the Abbé de Lamennais. We speak of a period two months after the Revolution of 1830.
We now seek permission to discuss a more serious topic and dedicate this chapter (if only to contrast it with the previous ones) to one of the finest and greatest modern geniuses, the Abbé de Lamennais. We’re referring to a time two months after the Revolution of 1830.
Out of the wilds of Brittany, that is, from the château de la Chesnaie, there appeared a priest of forty, small of stature, nervous and pale, with stubbly hair, and high forehead, the head compressed at the sides as though it were enclosed by walls of bone; a sign, according to Gall, indicative of the absence in man of cupidity, cunning and acquisitiveness; the nose long, with dilated nostrils, denoting high intelligence, according to Lavater; and, last, a piercing glance and a determined chin. Everything connected with the man's external appearance revealed his Celtic origin. Such was the Abbé DE LA MENNAIS, whose name was written in three different ways, like that of M. DE LA MARTINE, each different way in which he wrote it indicating the different phases of the development of his mind and the progress of his opinion. We say of his opinion and not opinions, for these three phases, as in Raphael's three styles, mean, not a change of style, but a perfecting of style.
Out of the wilds of Brittany, specifically from the château de la Chesnaie, came a priest in his forties, short in stature, anxious and pale, with stubbly hair and a high forehead, his head compressed at the sides as if it were surrounded by walls of bone; a sign, according to Gall, that the man lacked greed, cunning, and a desire for possessions; a long nose with flared nostrils, suggesting high intelligence, as Lavater claimed; and finally, a penetrating gaze and a resolute chin. Everything about his appearance revealed his Celtic roots. This was the Abbé DE LA MENNAIS, whose name he wrote in three different ways, similar to M. de la Martine, with each variation reflecting different stages of his intellectual development and evolution of thought. We refer to his thought as singular, not plural, because these three stages, much like Raphael's three styles, signify not a change in style but an enhancement of it.
Into the thick of the agitation going on in silent thought or[Pg 139] open speech, the austere Breton came to teach the world a word they had not expected; in fact at that time M. de la Mennais was looked upon as a supporter of both Throne and Church. The throne had just fallen, and the Church was shaking violently from the changes which the events of 1830 had wrought in social institutions. But the world was mistaken with regard to the views of the great writer, because it only saw in him the author of L'Essai sur l'indifférence en matière de religion, a strange book, in which that virile imagination strove against his century, struggling with the spirit of the times, as Jacob strove with the angel. People forgot that in 1828, during the Martignac Ministry, the same de Lamennais had hurled a book into the controversy which had predicted a certain degree of intellectual revival: I refer to Du progrès de la Revolution et de la guerre contre l'Église. In this book, the Revolution of 1830 was foretold as an inevitable event. Listen carefully to his words—
Into the heart of the turmoil happening in quiet thought or[Pg 139] open speech, the stern Breton stepped in to teach the world a lesson they weren’t expecting; at that time, M. de la Mennais was seen as a supporter of both the Throne and the Church. The throne had just fallen, and the Church was shaking violently from the changes brought about by the events of 1830 in social institutions. But the world misunderstood the views of this great writer because it only recognized him as the author of L'Essai sur l'indifférence en matière de religion, a strange book in which his strong imagination battled against his century, wrestling with the spirit of the times like Jacob wrestled with the angel. People forgot that in 1828, during the Martignac Ministry, the same de Lamennais had launched a book into the debate that predicted a certain level of intellectual revival: I’m referring to Du progrès de la Revolution et de la guerre contre l'Église. In this book, the Revolution of 1830 was predicted as an unavoidable event. Pay close attention to his words—
"And even to-day when there no longer really exists any government, since it has become the tool and the plaything of the boldest or of the most powerful; to-day, when democracy triumphs openly, is there any more calm in its own breast? Could one find, moreover, no matter what the nature of his opinions may be, one man, one single man, who desires what is, and who desires only that and nothing more? Never, on the other hand, has he more eagerly longed for a new order of things; everybody cries out for, the whole world is calling for, a revolution, whether they admit it or are conscious of it themselves. Yes, it will come, because it is imperative that nations shall be unitedly educated and chastised; because, according to the common laws of Providence, a revolution is indispensable for the preparation of a true social regeneration. France will not be the only scene of action: it will extend everywhere where Liberalism rules either in doctrine or in sentiment; and under this latter form it is universal."
"Even today, when there really isn’t any government left since it’s just a tool and a toy for the boldest or most powerful; today, when democracy openly reigns, is there any real peace within itself? Can anyone, no matter their views, find a single person who truly wants things to be as they are and who wants only that and nothing more? On the contrary, never has anyone yearned for a new order of things more passionately; everyone is calling out for it, the whole world is demanding a revolution, whether they admit it or even realize it themselves. Yes, it will happen because it’s vital for nations to learn and grow together; because, according to the natural laws of Providence, a revolution is necessary for the true renewal of society. France won’t be the only place where this occurs: it will spread wherever Liberalism exists, whether in theory or feeling; and in this latter sense, it is universal."
In the preface to the same book, M. de Lamennais had already said—
In the preface to the same book, M. de Lamennais had already mentioned—
"That France and Europe are marching towards fresh revolutions is now apparent to everybody. The most undaunted[Pg 140] hopes which have fed themselves for long on interest or stupidity give way before the evidence of facts, in the face of which it is no longer possible for anyone to delude himself. Nothing can remain as it is, everything is unsettled, totters towards a change. Conturbatœ sunt gentes et inclinata sunt regna."
"It's clear to everyone that France and Europe are moving towards new revolutions. The boldest hopes that have persisted due to selfishness or ignorance are falling apart in the face of undeniable facts, leaving no room for denial. Nothing can remain the same; everything is unstable, on the edge of change. Conturbatœ sunt gentes et inclinata sunt regna."
We underline nothing in this second paragraph because we should have to underline the whole. Let us pass on to the last words of the book—
We aren't underlining anything in this second paragraph because we'd have to underline everything. Let's move on to the last words of the book—
"The time is coming when it will be said to those who are in darkness: 'Behold the light!' And they will arise, and, with gaze fixed on that divine radiance will, with repentance and surprise, yet filled with joy, worship that spirit which restores all disorder, reveals all truth, enlightens every intelligence: oriens ex alto."
"The moment is coming when it will be said to those who are in darkness: 'Look at the light!' And they will rise up, and, focused on that divine glow, will, filled with both regret and amazement, yet joyfully, worship the spirit that brings order to chaos, reveals all truths, and enlightens every mind: oriens ex alto."
The above expressions are those of a prophet as well as of a poet; they reveal what neither the Guizots, the Molés, the Broglies, nor even the Casimir Périers saw, nor, indeed, any of those we are accustomed to style statesmen foresaw.
The expressions above are those of a prophet as well as a poet; they reveal what neither Guizots, Molés, Broglies, nor even Casimir Périers saw, nor what any of those we usually call statesmen predicted.
In this work M. de Lamennais appealed solemnly "for the alliance of Catholics with all sincere Liberal spirits." This book is really in some measure the hinge on which turned the gate through which M. de Lamennais passed from his first political phase to the second.
In this work, M. de Lamennais seriously called for "the alliance of Catholics with all genuine Liberal spirits." This book is essentially the turning point that led M. de Lamennais from his first political phase to the second.
M. de Lamennais was born at St. Malo, in the house next to that in which Chateaubriand was born, and a few yards only from that in which Broussais came into the world. So that the old peaceful town gave us, in less than fifteen years, Chateaubriand, Broussais and Lamennais, names representative of the better part of the poetry, science and philosophy of the first half of the nineteenth century. M. de Lamennais had, like Chateaubriand, passed his childhood by the sea, had listened to the roar of the ocean, watching the waves which are lost to sight on infinite horizons, eternally returning to break against the cliffs, as the human wave returns to break itself against invincible necessity. He preserved, I recollect (for one feature in my existence coincided with that of the author of Paroles[Pg 141] d'un Croyant), he preserved, I repeat, from his earliest childhood, the vivid and clear recollections which he connected with the grand and rugged scenery of his beloved Brittany.
M. de Lamennais was born in St. Malo, right next door to where Chateaubriand was born, and just a few yards away from where Broussais came into the world. In less than fifteen years, this old peaceful town gave us Chateaubriand, Broussais, and Lamennais—names that represent the best of the poetry, science, and philosophy of the first half of the nineteenth century. M. de Lamennais, like Chateaubriand, spent his childhood by the sea, listening to the roar of the ocean and watching the waves vanish over endless horizons, eternally crashing against the cliffs, just as the human wave returns to collide with unyielding necessity. He held onto, I remember (since one aspect of my life coincided with that of the author of Paroles[Pg 141] d'un Croyant), those vivid and clear memories from his early childhood that he associated with the grand and rugged landscape of his cherished Brittany.
"I can still hear," he said to us, at a dinner where the principal guests were himself, the Abbé Lacordaire, M. de Montalembert, Listz and myself—"the cry of certain sea-birds which passed barking over my head. Some of those rocks, which have looked down pityingly for numberless centuries upon the angry impotent waves which perish at their feet, are stocked with ancient legends."
"I can still hear," he said to us at dinner, where the main guests were him, Abbé Lacordaire, M. de Montalembert, Liszt, and me—"the cry of some sea birds that flew barking over my head. Some of those rocks, which have watched the furious, powerless waves crash at their feet for countless centuries, are filled with ancient legends."
M. de Lamennais related one of these in his une Voix de prison. It is that of a maiden who, overtaken by the tide, on a reef of rocks, tied her hair to the stems of sea-weeds to keep herself from being washed off by the motion of the waves, far away from her native land.
M. de Lamennais shared one of these stories in his une Voix de prison. It's about a young woman who, caught by the tide on a rocky reef, tied her hair to the strands of seaweed to prevent herself from being swept away by the waves, far from her homeland.
M. de Lamennais's youth was stormy and undisciplined. He loved physical exercises, hunting, fencing, racing and riding; strange tastes these, as preparation for an ecclesiastical career! But it was not from personal inclination or of his own impulse that he entered the priesthood, but by compulsion from the noble families in the district. On his part, the bishop of the diocese discerned in the young man a superior intellect, a lofty character, a tendency towards meditation and thoughtfulness, and drew him to himself by all kinds of seductions. They spared him the trials of an ecclesiastical seminary, at which his intractable disposition might have rebelled; but, priest though he was, M. de Lamennais did not discontinue to ride the most fiery horses of the town, or to practise shooting. It was the Empire, that régime of glory and of despotism, which wounded the sensitive nerves of the young priest of stern spirit and Royalist sympathies. Brittany remembered her exiled princes, and the family of M. de Lamennais was among those which faithfully preserved the worship of the past; not that their family was of ancient nobility: the head of the house was a shipowner who had made his wealth by distant voyages, and who was ennobled at the close of the last century for services rendered to the town of St. Malo. The Empire fell, and M. de[Pg 142] Lamennais, casting a bird's-eye view over that stupendous ruin, wrote in 1815—
M. de Lamennais's youth was tumultuous and unruly. He enjoyed physical activities like hunting, fencing, racing, and horseback riding; unusual interests for someone preparing for an ecclesiastical career! But he didn't choose the priesthood out of personal desire or motivation; it was imposed on him by the noble families in the area. The bishop of the diocese recognized the young man’s superior intellect, strong character, and inclination toward contemplation, and he attracted him with various appeals. They spared him the challenges of a seminary, where his rebellious nature might have caused issues; however, even as a priest, M. de Lamennais continued to ride the wildest horses in town and practiced shooting. The Empire—a regime of glory and tyranny—struck a nerve with the sensitive, strong-willed young priest who had royalist sympathies. Brittany remembered her exiled princes, and M. de Lamennais's family was among those who faithfully upheld traditional values; their family wasn’t of ancient nobility, though. The head of the family was a shipowner who gained wealth through long voyages and was ennobled at the end of the last century for his contributions to the town of St. Malo. The Empire crumbled, and M. de[Pg 142] Lamennais, looking at the massive destruction, wrote in 1815—
"Wars of extermination sprang up again; despotism counted her expenditure in men, as people reckon the revenue of an estate; generations were mowed down like grass; and men daily sold, bought, exchanged and given away like flocks of little value, often not even knowing whose property they were, to such an extent did a monstrous policy multiply these infamous transactions! Whole nations were put in circulation like pieces of money!"
"Wars of extermination erupted again; tyrants counted their losses in lives as if they were tallying rental income; entire generations were wiped out like weeds; and people were sold, bought, traded, and given away daily as if they were worthless livestock, often unaware of whose property they belonged to. This horrific policy drove these disgraceful actions to such extremes! Entire nations were treated like money!"
To profess such principles was, of course, equivalent to looking towards the Restoration, that dawn without a sun. Moreover, it should not be forgotten that, in those days, all young men of letters were carried away with the same intoxication for monarchical memories. Poets are like women—I do not at all know who said that poets were women—they make much of a favourable misfortune. This enthusiasm for the person of the king was shared, in different degrees, even by men whose names, later, were connected with Liberalism. Heaven alone knows whether any king was ever less fitted than Louis XVIII. for calling forth tenderness and idolatry! But that did not hinder Casimir Delavigne from exclaiming—
To express such beliefs was, of course, like looking toward the Restoration, that dawn without a sun. Also, it shouldn't be overlooked that back then, all young writers were swept away by the same fascination for monarchical memories. Poets are like women—I really don't know who said that poets were women—they thrive on a favorable misfortune. This admiration for the person of the king was shared, to varying extents, even by men whose names would later be associated with Liberalism. Only heaven knows if any king was ever less suited than Louis XVIII. to inspire tenderness and devotion! But that didn't stop Casimir Delavigne from exclaiming—
"Henri, divin Henri, toi que fus grand et bon,
Qui chassas l'Espagnol, et finis nos misères,
Les partis sont d'accord en prononçant ton nom;
Henri, de les enfants fais un peuple de frères!
Ton image déjà semble nous protéger:
Tu renais! avec toi renaît l'indépendance!
Ô roi le plus Français dont s'honore la France,
Il est dans ton destin de voir fuir l'étranger!
Et toi, son digne fils, après vingt ans d'orage,
Règne sur des sujets par toi-même ennoblis;
Leurs droits sont consacrés dans ton plus bel ouvrage.
Oui, ce grand monument, affermi d'âge en âge,
Doit couvrir de son ombre et le peuple et les lys
Il est des opprimés l'asile impérissable,
La terreur du tyran, du ministre coupable,
[Pg 143]Le temple de nos libertés!
Que la France prospère en tes mains magnanimes;
Que tes jours soient sereins, tes décrets respectés,
Toi qui proclames ces maximes:
'Ô rois, pour commander, obéissez aux lois!
Peuple, en obéissant, sois libre sous tes rois!'"
"Henry, divine Henry, you who were great and good,
Who drove out the Spaniards and ended our suffering,
The factions agree when they speak your name;
Henry, make the children a brotherhood!
Your image already seems to protect us:
You are reborn! With you, independence is reborn!
Oh, the most French king that France prides itself on,
It is in your destiny to see the foreigner flee!
And you, his worthy son, after twenty years of storm,
Reign over subjects ennobled by you;
Their rights are enshrined in your greatest work.
Yes, this great monument, strengthened through the ages,
Must shade both the people and the lilies;
It is the everlasting refuge of the oppressed,
The terror of the tyrant, of the guilty minister,
[Pg 143]The temple of our rights!
May France prosper in your generous hands;
May your days be calm, your decrees respected,
You who share these sayings:
'Oh kings, to rule, obey the laws!
People, in obeying, be free under your kings!'"
True, fifteen years later, the author of La Semaine de Paris sang, almost in the same lines of the accession to the throne of King Louis-Philippe. Rather read for yourself—
True, fifteen years later, the author of La Semaine de Paris celebrated, almost in the same way, the ascension of King Louis-Philippe. Just read for yourself—
"Ô toi, roi citoyen, qu'il presse dans ses bras, Aux cris d'un peuple entier dont les transports sont justes. Tu fus mon bienfaiteur ... Je ne te loûrai pas: Les poètes des rois sont leurs actes augustes. Que ton règne te chante, et qu'on dise après nous: 'Monarque, il fut sacré par la raison publique; Sa force fut la loi; l'honneur, sa politique; Son droit divin, l'amour de tous!'"
"Hey you, citizen king, embraced by an entire nation whose passions are true. You were my supporter... I won’t compliment you: The poets of kings write about their great deeds. May your reign be honored, and may people say after us: 'Ruler, you were crowned by the people's reason; your strength was the law; honor was your principle; your divine right, the love of everyone!'"
Let us read again the lines we have just quoted—those which were addressed to Louis XVIII. we mean—and we shall see that Victor Hugo, Lamartine and Lamennais never expressed their delight at the return of the Bourbons in more endearing terms than did Casimir Delavigne. What, then, was the reason why the Liberals of that day and the Conservatives of to-day bitterly reproached the first three of the above-mentioned authors for these pledges of affection for the Elder Branch, whilst they always ignored or pretended to ignore the covert royalism of the author of Messéniennes? Ah! Heavens! It is because the former were sincere in their blind, young enthusiasm, whilst the latter—let us be allowed to say it—was not. The world forgives a political untruth, but it does not forgive a conscientious recantation of the foolish mistakes of a generously sympathetic heart. In the generous pity of these three authors for the Bourbon family there was room for the shedding of a tear for Marie-Antoinette and for Louis XVII.
Let’s read again the lines we just quoted—those directed at Louis XVIII. We mean—and we’ll see that Victor Hugo, Lamartine, and Lamennais never expressed their joy at the return of the Bourbons in more heartfelt terms than Casimir Delavigne did. So, what was the reason the Liberals of that time and today’s Conservatives harshly criticized the first three authors for their affection toward the Elder Branch, while they always overlooked or pretended to overlook the subtle royalism of the author of Messéniennes? Ah! Goodness! It’s because the former were sincere in their naive, youthful enthusiasm, while the latter—let’s just say it—was not. The world can forgive a political falsehood, but it doesn’t forgive a principled rejection of the foolish mistakes made by a genuinely caring heart. Within the generous compassion of these three authors for the Bourbon family, there was also room to shed a tear for Marie-Antoinette and for Louis XVII.
M. de Lamennais hesitated, for a while, over his literary vocation, or at least, over the direction it should take. The solitude in which he had lived, by the sea, had filled his soul[Pg 144] with floating dreams, like those beauteous clouds he had often watched with his outward eyes in the depths of the heavens. He was within an ace of writing novels and works of fiction; he did even get so far as to write some poetry, which, of course, he never published. Here are two lines, which entered, as far as I can remember, into a description of scholastic theology—
M. de Lamennais hesitated for a while about his writing career, or at least what direction it should take. The solitude he experienced by the sea had filled his soul[Pg 144] with dreams, like beautiful clouds he had often gazed at in the vast sky. He was very close to writing novels and works of fiction; he even went so far as to write some poetry, which he never published, of course. Here are two lines that, as far as I can remember, were part of a description of scholastic theology—
"Elle avait deux grands yeux stupidement ouverts,
Dont l'un ne voyait pas ou voyait de travers!"
"She had two big eyes wide open,
One couldn’t see or saw sideways!"
M. de Lamennais then became a religious writer and a philosopher more from force of circumstances than from inclination. His taste, he assured us in his moments of expansion, upon which we look back with respect and pride, would have led him by preference towards that style of poetical prose-writing which Bernardin de Saint-Pierre had made fashionable in Paul et Virginie, and Chateaubriand in René. So he communed with himself and, with the unerring finger of the implacable genius of the born observer, he touched upon the wound of his century—indifference to religious matters. Surely the cry uttered by that gloomy storm-bird, "the gods are departing!" had good reason for startling the pious folk and statesmen of that period! Were not the churches filled with missions and the high roads crowded with missionaries? Was there not the cross of Migné, the miracles of the Prince of Hohenlohe, the apparitions and trances of Martin de Gallardon and others? What, then, could this man mean? M. de Lamennais took, as the motto for his book, these words from the Bible—
M. de Lamennais then became a religious writer and a philosopher more out of necessity than choice. He claimed that, during his reflective moments, which we remember with respect and pride, he would have preferred to follow the poetic prose style made popular by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre in Paul et Virginie and by Chateaubriand in René. So he engaged in deep introspection and, with the unmistakable insight of a born observer, he pointed out the issue facing his century—indifference to religion. Surely the cry from that sorrowful storm-bird, "the gods are departing!" had good reason to alarm the devout and the leaders of that time! Were the churches not filled with missions and the highways not teeming with missionaries? Was there not the cross of Migné, the miracles of the Prince of Hohenlohe, the appearances and trances of Martin de Gallardon and others? What, then, could this man mean? M. de Lamennais chose these words from the Bible as the motto for his book—
"Impius, cum in profundum venerit contemnit."
"The wicked, when they reach the depths, look down on everything."
In his opinion, contempt was the sign by which he recognised the decline of religious feeling. The seventeenth century believed, the eighteenth denied, the nineteenth doubted.
In his view, contempt was the marker that indicated the decline of religious sentiment. The seventeenth century had faith, the eighteenth rejected it, and the nineteenth questioned it.
The success of the book was immense. France, agitated by vast and conflicting problems, a Babel wherein many voices were speaking simultaneously, in every kind of tongue,[Pg 145] the France of the Empire, of the Restoration, of Carbonarism, of Liberalism and of Republicanism, held its peace to listen to the weighty and inspired utterance of this unknown writer: "et siluit terra in conspectu ejus!" The voice came from the desert. Who had seen, who knew this man? He had dropped from the region where eagles dwell; his name was mentioned by all lips, in the same breath with that of Bossuet. L'Essai sur l'indifférence was little read but much admired; the poets—they are the only people who read—recognised in it a powerful imagination, at times almost an affrighted imagination, which, both by its excesses and its terrors, hugged, as it were, the dead body of religious belief, and shook it roughly, hoping against hope, to bring it back to life again. Of all prose-writers, Tacitus was the one whom the Abbé de Lamennais admired the most; of all poets, Dante was the one he read over and over again the most frequently; of all books, the one he knew by heart was the Bible.
The book was incredibly successful. France, caught up in various intense and conflicting issues, like a Babel with many voices speaking at once in every possible language,[Pg 145] the France of the Empire, of the Restoration, of Carbonarism, of Liberalism, and of Republicanism, paused to listen to the profound and inspired words of this unknown author: "et siluit terra in conspectu ejus!" The voice was like it came from the wilderness. Who had seen or knew this man? He seemed to have emerged from the realm of eagles; his name was mentioned by everyone, in the same breath as Bossuet. L'Essai sur l'indifférence wasn’t widely read but was greatly admired; the poets—they were the only ones who really read—recognized in it a powerful imagination, sometimes almost a fearful imagination, which, through its extremes and fright, clung to the lifeless body of religious faith and shook it roughly, hoping against hope to revive it. Among all prose writers, Tacitus was the one the Abbé de Lamennais admired the most; among all poets, Dante was the one he read most frequently; among all books, the one he knew by heart was the Bible.
Now, it might assuredly have been believed that this citadel, intended to protect the weak walls of Catholicism, L'Essai sur l'indifférence en matière de religion, was viewed with favourable eyes by the French clergy; no such thing! Quite the contrary; a cry went up from the heart of the Church, not of joy or admiration, but of terror. They were scared by the genius of the man; religion was no longer in the habit of having an Origen, a Tertullian, or a Bossuet to defend it; it was afraid of being supported by such a defender and, little by little, the shudder of fear reached even as far as Rome; and the book was very nearly placed on the Index. These suspicions were aroused by the nature of the arguments of which the author made use to repel the attacks of philosophers. The Abbé de Lamennais foresaw, through the gloom, the causes at work undermining the old edifice of orthodoxy, and tried to put it on a wider basis of toleration and to prop it up, as he himself expressed it, by the exercise of common sense. To this end he made incredible flights into metaphysical realms, to prove that Catholicism was, and always had been, the religion of Humanity.
Now, it might have been thought that this citadel, meant to protect the fragile walls of Catholicism, L'Essai sur l'indifférence en matière de religion, would be looked upon favorably by the French clergy; but that was far from the case! On the contrary, a cry rose from the heart of the Church, not of joy or admiration, but of fear. They were intimidated by the man's brilliance; religion was no longer accustomed to having an Origen, a Tertullian, or a Bossuet to defend it; it was anxious about being backed by such a defender, and little by little, the shiver of anxiety reached even to Rome; and the book was very nearly placed on the Index. These fears were sparked by the kind of arguments that the author used to counter the philosophers' attacks. The Abbé de Lamennais foresaw, through the darkness, the forces at work undermining the old structure of orthodoxy, and he tried to establish it on a broader foundation of tolerance and support it, as he put it himself, with common sense. To this end, he ventured into remarkable metaphysical territories to prove that Catholicism was, and always had been, the religion of Humanity.
The Abbé de Lamennais taught in the seminaries, but his teaching was looked upon with suspicion; and young people were forbidden the reading of a work, which the outside world regarded as that of a misguided god who wanted to deny man the right of freedom of thought. No suicide was ever more heroic, never did intellect bring so much courage and logic to the task of self-destruction. But, in reality, and from his point of view, the Abbé de Lamennais was right: if you believe in an infallible Church you must bravely destroy the eyes of your intellect and extinguish the light of your soul, and, having voluntarily made yourself blind, let yourself be led by the hand. But, however high a solitary intellect may be placed, it is very quickly reached by the influence of the times in which it lives.
The Abbé de Lamennais taught in seminaries, but people were suspicious of his teaching; young people were banned from reading a work that the outside world saw as that of a misguided god trying to deny humans the right to think freely. No act of self-destruction was ever more heroic, nor did intellect ever bring so much courage and logic to the act of self-destruction. But in reality, and from his perspective, the Abbé de Lamennais was right: if you believe in an infallible Church, you must bravely shut down your intellect and extinguish the light of your soul, and, having willingly made yourself blind, let yourself be led by the hand. However elevated a solitary intellect may be, it is quickly influenced by the times in which it exists.
Two or three years ago, an aeronautic friend of mine, Petin, seriously propounded to me viva voce, and to the world through the medium of the daily papers, that he had just solved the great problem of serial navigation. He reasoned thus—
Two or three years ago, an aviation friend of mine, Petin, seriously proposed to me out loud and to the world through the daily newspapers that he had just figured out the big issue of continuous navigation. He argued like this—
"The earth turns—E pur si muove!—and in the motion of rotation on its own axis, it successively presents every part of its surface, both inhabited and uninhabited. Now, any person, who could raise himself up into the extreme strata of ambient air, and could find a means to keep himself there, would be able to descend in a balloon and alight upon whatever town on the globe he liked; he would only have to wait until that town passed beneath his feet; in that way he could go to the Antipodes in a dozen hours, and without any fatigue whatsoever, since he would not stir from his position, as it would be the earth which would move for him."
"The earth spins—E pur si muove!—and as it rotates on its own axis, it gradually shows every part of its surface, both inhabited and uninhabited. Now, anyone who could rise up into the highest layers of the atmosphere and find a way to stay there could descend in a hot air balloon and land in any town on the planet they wanted; they would just have to wait until that town passed beneath them. In that way, they could travel to the other side of the world in just a few hours, without any effort at all, since they wouldn’t have to move from their spot—the earth would come to them."
This calculation had but one flaw: it was false. The earth, in its vast motion, carries with it every atom of the molecules of its seething atmosphere. It is the same with great spirits which aim at stability; without perceiving that, at the very moment when they think they have cast anchor in the Infinite, they wake up to find they are being carried away in spite of themselves by the irresistible movement of their age. The spirit of Liberalism, with which the atmosphere of the time was charged, carried away the splendid, obstinate and lonely[Pg 147] reason of the Abbé de Lamennais. It was about the year 1828. Whilst fighting against the Doctrinaire School, for which he showed a scarcely veiled contempt, M. de Lamennais sought to combine the needs of faith with the necessities of progress; with this end in view he had installed at his château at La Chesnaie a school of young people whom he inculcated with his religious ideas. La Chesnaie was an ancient château of Brittany, shaded by sturdy, centenarian oaks—those natural philosophers, which ponder while their leaves rustle in the breeze on the vicissitudes of man, of which changes they are impassive witnesses. There, this priest, who was already troubled by the new spirit abroad, educated and communed with disciples who held on from far or near to the Church; amongst them were the Abbé Gerbert, Cyprien Robert, now professor of Slavonic literature in the College of France, and a few others. Work—methodical and persevering—was carried on within those old walls, which the sea winds rocked and lashed against. This new academy of Pythagoras studied the science of the century in order to combat it; but, at each fresh ray of light, it recoiled enlightened, and its recoil put weapons to be used against itself into the hands of the enemy. That enemy was Human Thought.
This calculation had one flaw: it was incorrect. The earth, in its vast motion, carries with it every atom of the molecules in its turbulent atmosphere. The same goes for great minds that strive for stability; without realizing it, at the very moment they think they’ve anchored themselves in the Infinite, they wake up to find they are being swept away, despite their best efforts, by the unstoppable movement of their time. The spirit of Liberalism, which charged the atmosphere of that era, swept away the brilliant, stubborn, and solitary[Pg 147] reasoning of the Abbé de Lamennais. It was around the year 1828. While battling against the Doctrinaire School, which he regarded with barely concealed disdain, M. de Lamennais sought to blend the needs of faith with the demands of progress; to this end, he set up a school at his château at La Chesnaie, where he instilled his religious ideas in young people. La Chesnaie was an old château in Brittany, shaded by sturdy, centuries-old oaks—those natural philosophers that ponder while their leaves rustle in the breeze about the ups and downs of humanity, of which changes they are indifferent witnesses. There, this priest, already troubled by the new spirit in the world, educated and engaged with disciples who were connected to the Church from near and far; among them were Abbé Gerbert, Cyprien Robert, now a professor of Slavonic literature at the College of France, and a few others. Methodical and persistent work was carried on within those ancient walls, which were rocked and battered by the sea winds. This new academy of Pythagoras studied the science of the century in order to counter it; but with each new insight, it recoiled, enlightened, and this recoil armed the enemy with tools against itself. That enemy was Human Thought.
CHAPTER V
The founding of l'Avenir—L'Abbé Lacordaire—M. Charles de Montalembert—His article on the sacking of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—l'Avenir and the new literature—My first interview with M. de Lamennais—Lawsuit against l'Avenir—MM. de Montalembert and Lacordaire as schoolmasters—Their trial in the Cour des pairs—The capture of Warsaw—Answer of four poets to a word spoken by a statesman
The founding of l'Avenir—Abbé Lacordaire—Mr. Charles de Montalembert—His article on the attack at Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—l'Avenir and the emerging literature—My first encounter with Mr. de Lamennais—The lawsuit against l'Avenir—Messrs. de Montalembert and Lacordaire as educators—Their trial in the Cour des pairs—The capture of Warsaw—Responses from four poets to a remark made by a statesman.
The Revolution of 1830 came as a surprise to M. de Lamennais and his school in the midst of these vague and restless designs. His heart, ready to sympathise with everything that was great and generous, had already been alienated from Royalism; already the man, poet and philosopher, was kicking beneath the priestly robe. The century which had just venerated and extolled his genius, reproached him under its breath for resisting the way of progress. Intractable and headstrong by nature, with a rugged and reclusive intellect, the Abbé de Lamennais was by temperament a free lance. Then 1830 sounded. Sitting upon the ruins of that upheaval, which had just swallowed up one dynasty, and shaken the Church with the same storm and shipwreck in which that dynasty had foundered, the philosophers of La Chesnaie took counsel together; they said among themselves that the opposition against the clergy, with which Liberalism had been animated since 1815, was the result of the prominent protection which had been spread over the Catholic priests, in face of the instability of the Powers, in face of the roaring waves of the Revolution; and they began to question whether it would not be advantageous to the immutable Church to separate herself from all the tottering States. Stated thus, the question was quickly decided. The Abbé de Lamennais[Pg 149] thought the time had come for him to throw himself directly and personally into the struggle. The principles of a journal were settled, and he went. Two men entered that career of publicity with him: the Abbé Lacordaire and Comte Charles de Montalembert.
The Revolution of 1830 caught M. de Lamennais and his followers off guard amid their vague and restless plans. His heart, eager to support everything that was great and noble, had already distanced itself from Royalism; the man, poet, and philosopher was already pushing back against the constraints of the priesthood. The century that had recently celebrated his genius now whispered criticisms of his resistance to progress. Naturally stubborn and fiercely independent, the Abbé de Lamennais was, by nature, a free spirit. Then 1830 rang in. Sitting on the ruins of an upheaval that had just toppled one dynasty and rocked the Church with the same storm that had caused that dynasty's fall, the philosophers of La Chesnaie gathered to discuss. They remarked that the opposition to the clergy, which had fueled Liberalism since 1815, was due to the privileged protection given to Catholic priests in light of the instability of the Powers and the crashing waves of the Revolution; they began to wonder whether it would be beneficial for the unchanging Church to break away from all the shaky states. With this question framed, the decision was made quickly. The Abbé de Lamennais[Pg 149] felt it was time for him to personally dive into the struggle. The principles of a new journal were established, and he set off. Two men joined him in this public endeavor: the Abbé Lacordaire and Comte Charles de Montalembert.
The Abbé Lacordaire was, at the period when I had the honour of finding myself in communication with him on religious and political principles, a young priest who had passed from the Bar at Paris to the Seminary of Saint-Sulpice. After his term of probation, he had spent three harassing years in the study of theology; he left the seminary full of hazy ideas and turbulent instincts. His temper of mind was acrimonious, keen and subtle; he had dark fiery eyes, delicate and mobile features, he was pale with the pallor of the Cenobite and of a sickly complexion, with hard, gaunt, strongly marked outlines,—so much for his face. Attracted by the brilliancy of the Abbé de Lamennais, he fell in with all his political views; he, too, longed for the liberty of the spirit after due control of the flesh; the protection of the State, because of his priesthood, was burdensome to him. He put his hand in his master's and the covenant was sealed.
The Abbé Lacordaire was, at the time I had the privilege of communicating with him about religious and political ideas, a young priest who had transitioned from the Bar in Paris to the Seminary of Saint-Sulpice. After his probation period, he spent three tough years studying theology; he left the seminary filled with unclear ideas and restless instincts. His mindset was sharp, intense, and complex; he had dark, intense eyes, delicate and expressive features, and a pale complexion reminiscent of a monk and a sickly appearance, with sharp, defined edges—so much for his face. Drawn in by the brilliance of the Abbé de Lamennais, he embraced all of his political views; he also yearned for spiritual freedom after proper control of the body; the State’s oversight because of his priesthood felt burdensome to him. He took his master's hand and sealed the pact.
The Comte de Montalembert, on his side, was, at that time, quite a young man, fair, with a face like a girl's, and pink cheeks, shy and blushing; as he was short-sighted, he looked close at people through his eye-glasses. He appealed strongly to the Abbé de Lamennais, who felt drawn to him with a sort of paternal sympathy. Finally, Comte Charles de Montalembert belonged to a family whose devotion to the cause of the Elder Branch of the Bourbons was well known; but he openly declared that he placed France in his affections before a dynasty, and liberty before a crown.
The Comte de Montalembert, at that time, was quite a young man, fair with a girlish face and rosy cheeks, shy and often blushing; since he was short-sighted, he looked closely at people through his glasses. He had a strong appeal to the Abbé de Lamennais, who felt a kind of fatherly sympathy for him. Ultimately, Comte Charles de Montalembert came from a family known for its loyalty to the Elder Branch of the Bourbons; however, he openly stated that he valued France more than any dynasty and liberty more than a crown.
Round these three men, one already famous and the others still unknown, rallied the ecclesiastics and young people of talent, who, in all simple faith, were desirous of combining the majesty of religious traditions with the nobility of revolutionary ideas. That such an alliance was impossible Time—that great tester of things and men—would prove; but the[Pg 150] attempt was none the less noble for all that; it ministered, moreover, to a want which was then permeating the new generations. Already Camille Desmoulins, one of those poets who are specially inspired, had exclaimed to the Revolutionary Tribunal with somewhat penetrative melancholy: "I am the same age, thirty-three years, as the Sans-culotte Jesus!"
Around these three men, one already renowned and the others still unknown, gathered the clergy and talented young people who, with simple faith, wanted to merge the greatness of religious traditions with the nobility of revolutionary ideas. Time—the ultimate judge of things and people—would eventually show that such a partnership was impossible; however, the[Pg 150] attempt was still noble for that reason alone. It also met a growing desire within the new generations. Already, Camille Desmoulins, one of those uniquely inspired poets, had remarked to the Revolutionary Tribunal with a touch of penetrating melancholy: "I am the same age, thirty-three years, as the Sans-culotte Jesus!"
The title of the new journal was l'Avenir. The programme of its principles was drawn up equally by them all, and it called upon the government of July for absolute liberty for all creeds and all religious communities, for liberty of the press, liberty in education, the radical separation of the Church from the State and, finally, for the abolition of the ecclesiastical budget. It was 16 October 1830, and the moment was a favourable one. Belgium was about to start her revolution, and, in that revolution, the hand of the clergy was visible; Catholic Poland was sending up under the savage treatment of the Czar one long cry of distress and yet of hope; Ireland, by the voice of O'Connell, was moving all nationalities to whom religion was the motive power and a flag of independence; Ireland shook the air with the words CHRIST and LIBERTY! L'Avenir made itself the monitor of the religious movement, combined with the political movement, as may be judged by these few lines which proceeded from the association, and are taken from its first number—
The new journal was titled l'Avenir. Its guiding principles were created collaboratively, calling on the July government for complete freedom for all beliefs and religious groups, freedom of the press, freedom in education, a complete separation of Church and State, and finally, the elimination of the ecclesiastical budget. It was October 16, 1830, and the timing was right. Belgium was about to begin its revolution, and the influence of the clergy was evident; Catholic Poland, suffering under the brutal treatment from the Czar, was sending out a collective cry of both distress and hope; Ireland, through O'Connell's voice, was inspiring nationalities for whom religion served as a driving force and a symbol of independence; Ireland resonated with the cries of CHRIST and FREEDOM! L'Avenir positioned itself as the advocate for the intertwining of the religious and political movements, as evident from these lines taken from its first issue—
"We have no hidden design whatsoever, we never had; we mean exactly what we say. Hoping, therefore, to be believed in all good faith, we say to those whose ideas differ upon several points of our creed: 'Do you sincerely want religious liberty, liberty in educational matters, in civil and political affairs and liberty of the press, which, do not let us forget, is the guarantee for all types of liberty? You belong to us as we belong to you. Every kind of liberty that the people in the gradual development of their life can uphold is their due, and their progress in civilisation is to be measured by the actual and not the fictitious, progress they make in liberty!'"
"We don't have any hidden agenda; we've never had one. We mean exactly what we say. So, hoping you'll take us at our word, we ask those who disagree with some of our beliefs: 'Do you truly want religious freedom, freedom in education, civil and political rights, and freedom of the press, which ensures all kinds of freedom? You are part of us just like we are part of you. Every kind of freedom that people can attain in their ongoing development is their right, and their progress in civilization should be measured by the real, not the imagined, advances they make in freedom!'"
It was at this juncture that the transformation tool place of the Abbé DE LA MENNAIS to the Abbé de LAMENNAIS.[Pg 151] His opinions and his talents and his name entered upon a new era; he was no more the stern and gloomy priest pronouncing deadly sentence on the human intellect over the tomb of Faith; but a prophet shaking the shrouds of dying nations in the name of liberty, and crying aloud to the dry bones to "Arise!"
It was at this point that the transformation happened from Abbé DE LA MENNAIS to Abbé de LAMENNAIS.[Pg 151] His views, his skills, and his name entered a new phase; he was no longer the stern and gloomy priest condemning the human intellect in the name of Faith, but a prophet stirring the remnants of dying nations for liberty and calling out to the dry bones to "Arise!"
Now, among the young editors of l'Avenir it is worth noticing that the most distinguished of them for talent and for the loftiness of his democratic views, was Comte Charles de Montalembert, whose imprudent impetuosity the stern old man was obliged, more than once, to check. Presently, we shall have to relate the story of the sacking of the church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and the profanation of the sacred contents. The situation was an embarrassing one for l'Avenir: that journal had advised the young clergy to put faith in the Revolution, and here was that self-same Revolution, breaking loose in a moment of anger, throwing mud at the Catholic temples and uprooting the insignia of religion. It was Comte Charles de Montalembert who undertook to be the leader of the morrow. Instead of inveighing against the vandals, he inveighed against the clergy and priests, whose blind and dangerous devotion to the overturned throne had drawn down the anger of the people upon the Christian creed. He had no anathemas strong enough to hurl at "those incorrigible defenders of the ancient régime, and that bastard Catholicism which gave birth to the religion of kings!" The crosses that had been knocked down were those branded with the fleurs-de-lis; he took the opportunity to urge the separation of the Church from the civil authority. Without the fleurs-de-lis, no one—the Comte Charles de Montalembert insisted emphatically—had any quarrel with the Cross.
Now, among the young editors of l'Avenir, it's important to note that the most talented and idealistic one was Comte Charles de Montalembert, whose reckless enthusiasm the stern old man had to rein in more than once. Soon, we'll discuss the surprising events surrounding the sacking of the church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and the desecration of its holy contents. This situation was awkward for l'Avenir: that publication had urged the young clergy to trust in the Revolution, and now that very Revolution was erupting in anger, vandalizing Catholic churches and tearing down religious symbols. Comte Charles de Montalembert stepped up to be the voice of the future. Instead of condemning the vandals, he criticized the clergy and priests, whose blind and reckless loyalty to the fallen monarchy had sparked the wrath of the public against Christianity. He had no harsh enough words to throw at "those unrepentant defenders of the old regime, and that twisted Catholicism which birthed the religion of kings!" The crosses that had been toppled were the ones marked with the fleurs-de-lis; he seized this chance to advocate for the separation of Church and state. Without the fleurs-de-lis, no one—Comte Charles de Montalembert insisted—had any issue with the Cross.
The objective of l'Avenir, then, was both political and literary; it was in sympathy with modern literature, and, in the person of the Abbé de Lamennais, it possessed, besides, one of the leading writers of the day; it was one of those rare papers (rari nantes) in which one could follow the human mind under its two aspects. Liber, in Latin, may be allowed to[Pg 152] mean also libre (free) and livre (book). I have already told how we literary men of the new school had made implacable enemies of all the papers on the side of the political movement. It was all the more strange that the literary revolution had preceded, helped, prepared the way for and heralded the political revolution which was past, and the social revolution which was taking place. For example, we recollect an article upon Notre Dame de Paris, wherein, whilst regretting that the author was not more deeply Catholic, Comte Charles de Montalembert praised the style and poetry of Victor Hugo with the enthusiasm of an adept. It was about this time, and several days, I believe, after the representation of Antony, that M. de Lamennais expressed the desire that I should be introduced to him. This wish was a great honour for me, and I gratefully acquiesced. A mutual friend took me to the house of the famous founder of l'Avenir, who was then living in the rue Jacob—I remember the name of the street, but have forgotten the number of the house. Before that day, I had already joyfully acknowledged an admiration for him which sprang up in my heart and soul fresh, and strong, and unalloyed.
The goal of l'Avenir was both political and literary; it aligned with modern literature and included one of the leading writers of the time, Abbé de Lamennais. It was one of those rare publications (rari nantes) where you could explore the human mind in its two aspects. Liber, in Latin, can also mean libre (free) and livre (book). I've already mentioned how we literary figures of the new school had made relentless enemies of all the publications aligned with the political movement. It was particularly odd that the literary revolution had come before, aided, paved the way for, and announced the political revolution that had passed, and the social revolution that was currently happening. For instance, we remember an article on Notre Dame de Paris, where, while lamenting that the author wasn't more deeply Catholic, Comte Charles de Montalembert praised Victor Hugo's style and poetry with the enthusiasm of a true fan. Around this time, and a few days after the presentation of Antony, M. de Lamennais expressed a desire to meet me. This request was a significant honor for me, and I gladly accepted. A mutual friend brought me to the home of the famous founder of l'Avenir, who was then living on rue Jacob—I remember the street name, but not the house number. Before that day, I had already joyfully acknowledged an admiration for him that had grown in my heart and soul, fresh, strong, and unblemished.
Meanwhile, l'Avenir was successful; this was soon apparent from the anger and hatred launched against its doctrines. Amongst the various advices it gave to the clergy, that of renouncing the emoluments administered by the State, and of simply following Christ in poverty, was not at all relished; and people grew indignant. It was in vain for the solemn voice of the Abbé de Lamennais to exclaim—
Meanwhile, l'Avenir was thriving; this became obvious from the anger and hatred directed at its teachings. Among the many recommendations it made to the clergy, the suggestion to give up the financial benefits provided by the State and to follow Christ in poverty was not well-received, leading to public outrage. It was useless for the serious voice of Abbé de Lamennais to cry out—
"Break these degrading chains! Put away these rags!"
"Break these humiliating chains! Get rid of these rags!"
The clergy replied under their breath: "Call them rags if you wish, but they are rags dear to our hearts."
The clergy whispered, "Call them rags if you want, but they are rags we cherish."
Do my readers desire to know to what degree the journal l'Avenir had its roots buried in what is aristocratically styled Society? Then let us quote the first lines dedicated to the trial of l'Avenir in the l'Annuaire of Lesur—
Do my readers want to know how deep the journal l'Avenir was rooted in what is referred to as Society? Then let's quote the opening lines dedicated to the trial of l'Avenir in the l'Annuaire of Lesur—
"Never were the approaches to the Court of Assizes more largely filled with so affluent and influential a crowd, and never[Pg 153] certainly were so large a number of ladies attracted to a political trial as in the case of this. Immediately the court opened proceedings, the jurymen, defendants, barristers and the magistrate himself were overwhelmed by a multitude of persons who could not manage to find seats. M. l'Abbé de Lamennais, M. Lacordaire, the editors of l'Avenir, and M. Waille, the responsible manager of the paper, were placed on chairs in the centre of the bar; the two first were clad in frockcoats over their cassocks; M. Waille wore the uniform of the National Guard."
"Never before has the Court of Assizes seen such a bustling crowd of wealthy and powerful people, and never have so many ladies been drawn to a political trial as in this case. As soon as the court began its proceedings, the jurors, defendants, lawyers, and even the magistrate were overwhelmed by a crowd of people who couldn't find seats. M. l'Abbé de Lamennais, M. Lacordaire, the editors of l'Avenir, and M. Waille, the paper's manager, were seated on chairs in the middle of the bar; the first two wore frock coats over their cassocks, while M. Waille was dressed in the uniform of the National Guard."
It was one of the first press trials since July. The public prosecutor's speech was very timid, and he apologised for coming, after a revolution carried out in favour of the press, to demand legal penalties against this very press. But l'Avenir had exceeded all limits of propriety. We will quote the incriminating phrase—
It was one of the first press trials since July. The public prosecutor's speech was very hesitant, and he apologized for showing up, after a revolution that favored the press, to seek legal penalties against that very press. But l'Avenir had gone beyond all limits of decency. We will quote the incriminating phrase—
"Let us prove that we are Frenchmen by faithfully defending that which no one can snatch from us without violating the law of the land. Let us say to our sovereigns: 'We will obey you in so far as you yourselves obey that law which has made you what you are, without which you are nothing!'"
"Let’s prove that we are French by honestly defending what no one can take from us without breaking the law. Let’s tell our leaders: 'We will follow you as long as you follow the law that has made you who you are; without it, you are nothing!'"
That was written by M. de Lamennais. We forget the actual phrase, although not the cause, which brought the Abbé Lacordaire to the defendants' bench. M. de Lamennais was defended by Janvier, who has since played a part in politics. Lacordaire defended himself. His speech made a great sensation, and revealed the qualities both of a lawyer and of a preacher. The jury acquitted them.
That was written by M. de Lamennais. We forget the exact phrase, although not the reason that brought Abbé Lacordaire to the defendants' bench. M. de Lamennais was defended by Janvier, who has since become involved in politics. Lacordaire defended himself. His speech caused quite a stir and showcased his skills as both a lawyer and a preacher. The jury found them not guilty.
Some time later, l'Avenir had to submit to the ordeal of another trial in a greater arena and under circumstances which we ought to recall.
Some time later, l'Avenir had to undergo another trial in a bigger arena and under circumstances that we should remember.
MM. de Montalembert and Lacordaire had constituted themselves the champions of liberty in educational matters, as well as of all other liberties, both religious and civil. From words they passed to deeds; and they opened, conjointly, an elementary school which a few poor children attended. The police intervened. Ordered to withdraw, the professors offered resistance, so they were obliged to arrest the "substance of[Pg 154] the offence"—namely, the street arabs who filled the school-room. There was hardly sufficient ground for a trial before the tribunal correctionnel; but, in the meantime, a few days before the promulgation of the law which suppressed the hereditary rights to the peerage, M. Charles de Montalembert's most excellent father died. The matter then assumed unexpected proportions: Charles de Montalembert, a peer of France by the grace of non-retroactivity, was not amenable to ordinary courts of justice, so the trial was carried before the Court of Peers, where it took the dimensions of a political debate upon the freedom of education. Lacordaire, whose cause could not be disconnected from that of his accomplice, was also transferred to the Supreme Court, and he delivered extempore his own counsel's speech. M. de Montalembert, on the contrary, read a speech in which he attacked the university and M. de Broglie in particular.
MM. de Montalembert and Lacordaire became the champions of freedom in education, as well as all other liberties, including religious and civil rights. They moved from words to action and jointly opened an elementary school that a few underprivileged children attended. The police intervened. When ordered to leave, the professors resisted, leading to the arrest of the "substance of[Pg 154] the offence"—specifically, the street kids who filled the classroom. There was barely enough basis for a trial in front of the tribunal correctionnel; however, just days before the law that abolished hereditary peerage rights was published, M. Charles de Montalembert's esteemed father passed away. The situation then took an unexpected turn: Charles de Montalembert, a peer of France due to the principle of non-retroactivity, was not subject to ordinary courts, so the case was moved to the Court of Peers, where it turned into a political debate about educational freedom. Lacordaire, whose case was tied to that of his associate, was also moved to the Supreme Court, where he delivered his own defense on the spot. M. de Montalembert, on the other hand, read a speech attacking the university and specifically M. de Broglie.
"At this point," says the Moniteur, in its report of the trial, "the honourable peer of France put up his eye-glass and looked critically at the young orator."
"At this point," says the Moniteur, in its report of the trial, "the honorable peer of France raised his eyeglass and looked critically at the young speaker."
Less fortunate before the Court of Peers than before the jury, which would certainly have acquitted them, the two editors of l'Avenir lost their case; but they won it in the opinion of the country. The Comte de Montalembert owed it to this circumstance, that he sided with M. de Lamennais, whose Liberal doctrines he shared and professed at that time; he was also equally bound by the unexpected death of his father to find a career ready opened for him in the Upper Chamber. But when questioned by the Chamber as to his profession, he replied—"Schoolmaster."
Less fortunate in front of the Court of Peers than in front of the jury, which would have definitely found them not guilty, the two editors of l'Avenir lost their case; however, they won it in the eyes of the public. The Comte de Montalembert was influenced by this situation because he aligned himself with M. de Lamennais, whose Liberal beliefs he shared and openly supported at that time; he was also compelled by the unexpected death of his father to pursue a career that was already available to him in the Upper Chamber. But when asked by the Chamber about his profession, he answered, "Schoolmaster."
All these trials seemed but to give a handle to M. de Lamennais's religious enemies. Rumours began from below. From the lower clergy, who condemned them, M. de Lamennais and the other editors of l'Avenir appealed to the bishops, who in their turn also condemned them. Then, driven back from one entrenchment after another, like the defenders of a town, who, having vainly defended their advanced positions, and their first and second enceintes, are forced to take refuge within the[Pg 155] citadel itself, the accused men were obliged to look towards the Vatican, and to put their trust in Rome. The mainmast of this storm-beaten vessel, M. de Lamennais, was the first to be struck by the thunders of denunciation.
All these trials seemed to give a boost to M. de Lamennais's religious opponents. Rumors started circulating from below. The lower clergy condemned them, and M. de Lamennais and the other editors of l'Avenir turned to the bishops, who also condemned them. Then, driven back from one defensive position to another, like the defenders of a town who, after unsuccessfully holding their advanced positions and their first and second enceintes, are forced to retreat into the [Pg 155] citadel itself, the accused men had no choice but to look to the Vatican and place their trust in Rome. M. de Lamennais, the mainmast of this storm-tossed vessel, was the first to be hit by the force of denunciation.
On 8 September 1831, a voice rang through the world similar to that of the angel in the Apocalypse, announcing the fall of towns and empires; that voice, as incoherent as a death-rattle or last expiring sigh, formulated itself in these terrible words on 16 September: "Poland has just fallen! Warsaw is taken!" We know how this news was announced to the Chamber of Deputies by General Sébastiani. "Letters I have received from Poland," he said, in the session of 16 September, "inform me that PEACE reigns in Warsaw." There was a slight variation given in the Moniteur, which spoke of ORDER, instead of peace, reigning in Warsaw. Under the circumstances neither word was better than the other: both were infamous! It is curious to come across again to-day the echo which that great downfall awakened in the soul of poets and believers, those living lyres which great national misfortunes cause to vibrate, and from whom the passing breeze of calamity draws exquisite sounds. Here we have four replies to the optimistic phraseology of the Minister for Foreign Affairs—
On September 8, 1831, a voice echoed through the world like that of the angel in the Apocalypse, announcing the fall of towns and empires; that voice, as incoherent as a death rattle or a last expiring sigh, formed into these terrible words on September 16: "Poland has just fallen! Warsaw is taken!" We know how this news was delivered to the Chamber of Deputies by General Sébastiani. "Letters I have received from Poland," he said during the session on September 16, "inform me that Peace reigns in Warsaw." There was a slight variation reported in the Moniteur, which mentioned ORDER instead of peace reigning in Warsaw. In this context, neither word was any better than the other: both were disgraceful! It is interesting to encounter today the echo that this great downfall stirred in the hearts of poets and believers, those living instruments that great national tragedies cause to resonate, whose strings are plucked by the fleeting winds of calamity to produce exquisite melodies. Here we have four responses to the optimistic wording of the Minister for Foreign Affairs—
BARTHÉLEMY
"Destinée à périr! ... L'oracle avait raison!
Faut-il accuser Dieu, le sort, la trahison?
Non, tout était prévu, l'oracle était lucide!...
Qu'il tombe sur nos fronts, le sceau du fratricide!
Noble sœur! Varsovie! elle est morte pour nous;
Morte un fusil en main, sans fléchir les genoux;
Morte en nous maudissant à son heure dernière;
Morte en baignant de pleurs l'aigle de sa bannière,
Sans avoir entendu notre cri de pitié,
Sans un mot de la France, un adieu d'amitié!
Tout ce que l'univers, la planète des crimes,
Possédait de grandeur et de vertus sublimes;
Tout ce qui fut géant dans notre siècle étroit
A disparu! Tout dort dans le sépulcre froid!...
Cachons-nous! cachons-nous! nous sommes des infâmes!
[Pg 156]Rasons nos poils, prenons la quenouille des femmes;
Jetons has nos fusils, nos guerriers oripeaux,
Nos plumets citadins, nos ceintures de peaux;
Le courage à nos cœurs ne vient que par saccades ...
Ne parlons plus de gloire et de nos barricades!
Que le teint de la honte embrase notre front!
Vous voulez voir venir les Russes: ils viendront!..."
BARTHÉLEMY
"Destined to perish! ... The oracle was right!
Should we blame God, fate, or betrayal?
No, it was all foretold; the oracle was clear!...
Let the mark of fratricide fall upon our heads!
Noble sister! Warsaw! She died for us;
Died with a gun in hand, without bending her knees;
Died cursing us at her final hour;
Died bathing the eagle of her banner with tears,
Without hearing our cry of pity,
Without a word from France, a farewell of friendship!
All that the universe, the planet of crimes,
Had of greatness and sublime virtues;
All that was giant in our narrow century
Has vanished! Everything sleeps in the cold tomb!...
Let’s hide! let’s hide! We are infamous!
[Pg 156]Let’s shave our heads, take up women's spindles;
Let’s throw away our rifles, our warrior rags,
Our urban plumes, our leather belts;
Courage only comes to our hearts in fits ...
Let’s speak no more of glory and our barricades!
Let the color of shame burn on our foreheads!
You want to see the Russians coming: they will come!..."
BARBIER
"La Guerre
"Mère! il était une ville fameuse;
Avec le Hun j'ai franchi ses détours;
J'ai démoli son enceinte fumeuse;
Sous le boulet j'ai fait crouler ses tours!
J'ai promené mes chevaux par les rues,
Et, sous le fer de leurs rudes sabots,
J'ai labouré le corps des femmes nues,
Et des enfants couchés dans les ruisseaux!...
Hourra! hourra! j'ai courbé la rebelle!
J'ai largement lavé mon vieil affront:
J'ai vu des morts à hauteur de ma selle!
Hourra! j'ai mis les deux pieds sur son front!...
Tout est fini, maintenant, et ma lame
Pend inutile à côté de mon flanc.
Tout a passé par le fer et la flamme;
Toute muraille a sa tache de sang!
Les maigres chiens aux saillantes échines
Dans les ruisseaux n'ont plus rien à lécher;
Tout est désert; l'herbe pousse aux ruines....
Ô mort! ô mort! je n'ai rien à faucher!"
"Le Choléra-Morbus
"Mère! il était un peuple plein de vie,
Un peuple ardent et fou de liberté;
Eh bien, soudain, des champs de Moscovie,
Je l'ai frappé de mon souffle empesté!
Mieux que la balle et les larges mitrailles,
Mieux que la flamme et l'implacable faim,
J'ai déchiré les mortelles entrailles,
J'ai souillé l'air et corrompu le pain!...
J'ai tout noirci de mon haleine errante;
[Pg 157]De mon contact j'ai tout empoisonné;
Sur le teton de sa mère expirante,
Tout endormi, j'ai pris le nouveau-né!
J'ai dévoré, même au sein de la guerre,
Des camps entiers de carnage filmants;
J'ai frappé l'homme au bruit de son tonnerre;
J'ai fait combattre entre eux des ossements!...
Partout, partout le noir corbeau becquète;
Partout les vers ont des corps à manger;
Pas un vivant, et partout un squelette ...
Ô mort! ô mort! je n'ai rien à ronger!"
"La Mort
"Le sang toujours ne peut rougir la terre;
Les chiens toujours ne peuvent pas lécher;
Il est un temps où la Peste et la Guerre
Ne trouvent plus de vivants à faucher!...
Enfants hideux! couchez-vous dans mon ombre,
Et sur la pierre étendez vos genoux;
Dormez! dormez! sur notre globe sombre,
Tristes fléaux! je veillerai pour vous.
Dormez! dormez! je prêterai l'oreille
Au moindre bruit par le vent apporté;
Et, quand, de loin, comme un vol de corneille,
S'élèveront des cris de liberté;
Quand j'entendrai de pâles multitudes,
Des peuples nus, des milliers de proscrits,
Jeter à has leurs vieilles servitudes
En maudissant leurs tyrans abrutis;
Enfants hideux! pour finir votre somme,
Comptez sur moi, car j'ai l'œil creux ... Jamais
Je ne m'endors, et ma bouche aime l'homme
Comme le czar aime les Polonais!"
BARBER
"The War
"Mother! There was a famous city;
With the Hun I navigated its twists;
I demolished its smoky walls;
Under the cannon, I made its towers crumble!
I led my horses through the streets,
And, under the weight of their harsh hooves,
I plowed the bodies of naked women,
And children lying in the gutters!...
Hooray! Hooray! I’ve brought the rebel to heel!
I’ve avenged my old insult:
I’ve seen corpses at saddle height!
Hooray! I placed both feet on its forehead!...
Everything is over now, and my blade
Hangs useless by my side.
Everything has passed through iron and flame;
Every wall bears its stain of blood!
The skinny dogs with protruding spines
In the gutters have nothing left to lick;
It’s all deserted; grass grows on the ruins....
O death! O death! I have nothing to reap!"
"The Cholera-Morbus
"Mother! There was a people full of life,
A passionate and crazy people for freedom;
Well then, suddenly, from the fields of Moscow,
I struck them with my foul breath!
Better than bullets and heavy shot,
Better than flame and relentless hunger,
I tore apart their mortal insides,
I polluted the air and corrupted the bread!...
I darkened everything with my wandering breath;
[Pg 157]With my touch, I poisoned everything;
On the nipple of its dying mother,
All asleep, I took the newborn!
I devoured entire camps of carnage, even amidst war;
I struck men amidst the sound of their thunder;
I made bones fight against each other!...
Everywhere, the black crow pecks;
Everywhere, worms have bodies to eat;
Not a living soul, and everywhere a skeleton ...
O death! O death! I have nothing to gnaw!"
"The Death
"The blood can’t always redden the earth;
Dogs can’t always lick;
There comes a time when the Plague and War
No longer find any living souls to reap!...
Hideous children! Lie down in my shadow,
And kneel on the stone;
Sleep! Sleep! on our dark globe,
Sad scourges! I will watch over you.
Sleep! Sleep! I will listen
To the slightest sound carried by the wind;
And when, from afar, like a flight of crows,
Cries for freedom rise;
When I hear pale multitudes,
Naked people, thousands of outcasts,
Throwing away their old servitude
While cursing their stupid tyrants;
Hideous children! To finish your count,
Count on me, for I have hollow eyes ... Never
I never fall asleep, and my mouth loves man
Like the czar loves the Poles!"
VICTOR HUGO
"Je hais l'oppression d'une haine profonde;
Aussi, lorsque j'entends, dans quelque coin du monde,
Sous un ciel inclément, sous un roi meurtrier,
Un peuple qu'on égorge appeler et crier;
Quand, par les rois chrétiens aux bourreaux turcs livrée,
La Grèce, notre mère, agonise éventrée;
Quand l'Irlande saignante expire sur sa croix;
[Pg 158]Quand l'Allemagne aux fers se débat sous dix rois;
Quand Lisbonne, jadis belle et toujours en fête,
Pend au gibet, les pieds de Miguel sur sa tête;
Quand Albani gouverne au pays de Caton;
Quand Naples mange et dort; quand, avec son bâton,
Sceptre honteux et lourd que la peur divinise,
L'Autriche casse l'aile au lion de Venise;
Quand Modène étranglé râle sous l'archiduc:
Quand Dresde lutte et pleure au lit d'un roi caduc;
Quand Madrid sa rendort d'un sommeil léthargique;
Quand Vienne tient Milan; quand le lion belgique,
Courbé comme le bœuf qui creuse un vil sillon,
N'a plus même de dents pour mordre son bâillon;
Quand un Cosaque affreux, que la rage transporte,
Viole Varsovie échevelée et morte,
Et, souillant son linceul, chaste et sacré lambeau
Se vautre sur la vierge étendue au tombeau;
Alors, oh! je maudis, dans leur cour, dans leur antre,
Ces rois dont les chevaux ont du sang jusqu'au ventre.
Je sens que le poète est leur juge; je sens
Que la muse indignée, avec ses poings puissants,
Peut, comme au pilori, les lier sur leur trône,
Et leur faire un carcan de leur lâche couronne,
Et renvoyer ces rois, qu'on aurait pu bénir,
Marqués au front d'un vers que lira l'avenir!
Oh! la muse se doit aux peuples sans défense!
J'oublie, alors, l'armour, la famille, l'enfance.
Et les molles chansons, et le loisir serein,
Et j'ajoute à ma lyre une corde d'airain!"
VICTOR HUGO
"I hate oppression with a deep hatred;
So, when I hear, in some corner of the world,
Under a harsh sky, under a murderous king,
A people being slaughtered call out and cry;
When Greece, our mother, is butchered and suffering,
Delivered to Turkish executioners by Christian kings;
When bleeding Ireland expires on its cross;
[Pg 158]When Germany struggles in chains under ten kings;
When Lisbon, once beautiful and always in celebration,
Hangs from the gallows, Miguel's feet on its head;
When Albani governs in Cato’s land;
When Naples eats and sleeps; when, with its staff,
A shameful, heavy scepter that fear glorifies,
Austria breaks the wing of Venice's lion;
When Modena, choked, gasps under the archduke;
When Dresden fights and weeps at the bed of a dying king;
When Madrid sinks back into lethargic slumber;
When Vienna holds Milan; when the Belgian lion,
Bent like an ox digging a vile furrow,
No longer even has teeth to bite its gag;
When a terrifying Cossack, blinded by rage,
Violates a disheveled, lifeless Warsaw,
And, soiling its shroud, a pure and sacred rag,
Rolls on the virgin laid out in the tomb;
Then, oh! I curse, in their court, in their lair,
Those kings whose horses are stained with blood up to their bellies.
I feel that the poet is their judge; I sense
That the outraged muse, with her powerful fists,
Can, like at the pillory, bind them on their throne,
And make a yoke of their cowardly crown,
And send these kings, who might have been blessed,
Marked on their foreheads by a verse that the future will read!
Oh! the muse belongs to the defenseless people!
I then forget love, family, and childhood.
And the soft songs, and the peaceful leisure,
And I add to my lyre a string of bronze!"
"LAMENNAIS
The Taking of Warsaw
The Capture of Warsaw
"Warsaw has capitulated! The heroic nation of Poland, forsaken by France and repulsed by England, has fallen in the struggle she has gloriously maintained for eight months against the Tartar hordes allied with Prussia. The Muscovite yoke is again about to oppress the people of Jagellon and of Sobieski, and, to aggravate her misfortune, the furious rage of various monsters will, perhaps, detract from the horror which the crime of this fresh onslaught ought to inspire. Let every man protect his own property; leave to the cut-throat, murder and treachery! Let the true sons of Poland protect their glory [Pg 159]untarnished, immortal! Leave to the Czar and his allies the curses of everyone who has a human heart, of every man who realises what constitutes a country. To our Ministers their names! There is nothing lower than this. Therefore, generous people, our brothers in faith, and at arms, whilst you were fighting for your lives, we could only aid you with our prayers; and now, when you are lying on the field of battle, all that we can give you is our tears! May they in some degree, at least, comfort you in your great sufferings! Liberty has passed over you like a fleeting shadow, a shadow that has terrified your ancient oppressors: to them it appears as a symbol of justice! After the dark days had passed, you looked heavenwards, and thought you saw more kindly signs there; you said to yourself: 'The time of deliverance approaches; this earth which covers the bones of our ancestors shall yet be our own; we will no longer heed the voice of the stranger dictating his insolent commands to us.... Our altars shall be as free as our fire-sides.' But you have been self-deceived; the time to live has not yet come; it was the time to die for all that was sweet and sacred to men's hearts.... Nation of heroes, people of our affection! rest in peace in the tombs that the crimes and cowardice of others have dug for you; but never forget that hope springs from those tombs; and a cross above them prophesies, 'Thou shalt rise again!'"
"Warsaw has surrendered! The brave nation of Poland, abandoned by France and turned away by England, has fallen after fighting proudly for eight months against the Tartar hordes allied with Prussia. The oppression from Moscow is about to weigh down on the people of Jagellon and Sobieski once again, and to make matters worse, the fierce wrath of various monsters may overshadow the horror that this new attack should inspire. Let every man defend his own property; leave the violence, murder, and betrayal to the wicked! Let the true sons of Poland keep their glory untarnished and immortal! Leave the curses of everyone with a human heart, everyone who understands what a nation is, to the Czar and his allies. To our Ministers their names! There is nothing lower than this. So, noble people, our brothers in faith and arms, while you were fighting for your lives, all we could do was pray for you; and now, as you lie on the battlefield, all we can offer you is our tears! May they at least bring you some comfort in your immense suffering! Liberty has passed over you like a fleeting shadow, a shadow that has frightened your ancient oppressors: to them, it symbolizes justice! After the dark days had gone, you looked to the heavens, hoping for better signs; you thought, 'The time of freedom is near; this land that covers our ancestors' bones shall be ours again; we will no longer listen to the voice of the outsider giving us his arrogant commands... Our altars shall be as free as our homes.' But you deceived yourselves; the time to live has not yet arrived; it was a time to die for all that is dear and sacred to people's hearts... Nation of heroes, people we cherish! Rest in peace in the graves that the crimes and cowardice of others have dug for you; but never forget that hope rises from those graves; and a cross above them proclaims, 'You shall rise again!'"
Let us admit that a nation is fortunate if it possesses poets; for were there only politicians, posterity would gather very odd notions about it.
Let’s acknowledge that a country is lucky if it has poets; because if there were only politicians, future generations would have some very strange ideas about it.
In conclusion, the downfall of Poland included with it that of l'Avenir. We will explain how this was brought about in the next chapter.
In conclusion, Poland's downfall also marked the end of l'Avenir. We will explain how this happened in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VIb
Suspension of l'Avenir—Its three principal editors present themselves at Rome—The Abbé de Lamennais as musician—The trouble it takes to obtain an audience of the Pope—The convent of Santo-Andrea della Valle—Interview of M. de Lamennais with Gregory XVI.—The statuette of Moses—The doctrines of l'Avenir are condemned by the Council of Cardinals—Ruin of M. de Lamennais—The Paroles d'un Croyant
Suspension of l'Avenir—Its three main editors travel to Rome—Abbé de Lamennais as a musician—The effort needed to secure an audience with the Pope—The convent of Santo-Andrea della Valle—M. de Lamennais's meeting with Gregory XVI.—The statuette of Moses—The teachings of l'Avenir are condemned by the Council of Cardinals—The decline of M. de Lamennais—The Paroles d'un Croyant
The position of affairs was no longer tenable for the editors of l'Avenir. If, on the one hand, the religious democracy, overwhelmed with sadness and bitterness, listened with affection to the words of the messengers; on the other hand, the opposition of the heads of the Catholic Church became formidable, and the accusation of heresy ran from lip to lip. The Abbé de Lamennais looked about him and, like the prophet Isaiah, could see nothing but desolation all around. Poland, wounded in her side, her hand out of her winding sheet, slept in the ever deceived expectation of help from the hand of France; and yet she had fallen full of despair and doubt, crying, "God is too high, and France too far off!" Ireland, sunk in misery and dying from starvation, ground down under the heel of England, in vain prostrated herself before its wooden crosses to implore succour from Heaven: none came to her! Liberty seemed to have turned away her face from a world utterly unworthy of her. Poland and Ireland, those two natural allies in all religious democracy, disappeared from the political scenes, dragging down with them in their fall the existence of l'Avenir. The wave of opposition, like an unebbing tide, still rose and ever rose. Some detested M. de Lamennais's opinions; others, his[Pg 161] talent; the latter were as much incensed against him as any. He was obliged to yield. Like every paper which disappears into space, l'Avenir had to announce suspension of publication; this was his farewell from Fontainebleau—
The situation was no longer sustainable for the editors of l'Avenir. On one hand, the religious community, overwhelmed with sadness and bitterness, listened affectionately to the messengers; on the other hand, the opposition from the leaders of the Catholic Church became intense, with accusations of heresy spreading quickly. The Abbé de Lamennais looked around and, like the prophet Isaiah, saw nothing but desolation. Poland, wounded and weak, reached out for help from France, but found herself despondent and doubtful, crying, "God is too distant, and France too far away!" Ireland, suffering from poverty and dying from starvation, pressed down under England’s oppression, desperately begged for divine assistance at its wooden crosses: but none came! Liberty seemed to have turned her back on a world entirely unworthy of her. Poland and Ireland, natural allies in the fight for religious democracy, faded from the political landscape, dragging l'Avenir down with them. The wave of opposition rose and rose like an unrelenting tide. Some people detested M. de Lamennais's views; others resented his talent—both were equally furious with him. He had no choice but to give in. Like every publication that disappears, l'Avenir had to announce its suspension of publication; this was his farewell from Fontainebleau—
"If we withdraw for a while," wrote M. de Lamennais, "it is not on account of weariness, still less from discouragement; it is to go, as the soldiers of Israel of old, to consult the Lord in Shiloh. They have put our faith and our very intentions to the doubt; for what is there that people do not attack in these days? We leave the field of battle for a short time to fulfil another duty equally pressing. Traveller's stick in hand, we pursue our way to the eternal throne to prostrate ourselves at the feet of the pontiff whom Jesus Christ has established as the guide and teacher to His disciples, and we will say to him, 'O Father! condescend to look down upon these, the latest of thy children to be accused of being in rebellion against thy infallibility and gracious authority! O Father! pronounce over us the words which will give life and light, and extend thy hand over us in blessing and in acknowledgment of our obedience and love.'"
"If we take a step back for a bit," wrote M. de Lamennais, "it's not because we're tired, and certainly not out of discouragement; it's to, like the soldiers of ancient Israel, consult the Lord in Shiloh. They've questioned our faith and intentions; what isn't being criticized these days? We’re temporarily leaving the battlefield to fulfill another important responsibility. With a traveler's staff in hand, we're heading to the eternal throne to humble ourselves at the feet of the pontiff whom Jesus Christ appointed as the guide and teacher to His disciples, and we will say to him, 'O Father! Please look down on these, your latest children accused of rebelling against your infallibility and gracious authority! O Father! Speak words that will bring life and light to us, and extend your hand over us in blessing and recognition of our obedience and love.'
It would be puerile to question the sincerity of the author of those lines at this point. For, like Luther, who also promised his submission to Rome, the Abbé de Lamennais meant to persevere in the Catholic faith. If, later, his orthodoxy wavered; if, upon closer view of Rome and her cardinals, his faith in the Vicar of Christ and the visible representation of the Church gave way, we should rather accuse the pagan form under which the religion of Christ was presented to him, as in the case of the monk of Eisleben, when he visited the Eternal City. When I reach that period in my life, I will relate my own feelings, and will give my long conversations on the subject with Pope Gregory XVI.
It would be childish to doubt the sincerity of the author of those lines at this point. Like Luther, who also promised to submit to Rome, the Abbé de Lamennais intended to remain committed to the Catholic faith. If later his orthodoxy wavered; if, upon a closer look at Rome and her cardinals, his faith in the Vicar of Christ and the visible representation of the Church weakened, we should instead point to the pagan form in which the religion of Christ was presented to him, similar to what happened with the monk of Eisleben when he visited the Eternal City. When I reach that period in my life, I will share my own feelings and recount my long conversations on the subject with Pope Gregory XVI.
The three pilgrims of l'Avenir, the Abbé de Lamennais, the Abbé Lacordaire and the Comte Charles de Montalembert, started, then, for Italy, not quite, as one of their number expressed it, with travellers' staffs in their hands, but animated with sincere faith and with sorrow in their hearts. They did not leave behind them the dream of eleven months without[Pg 162] feeling deep regret; l'Avenir had, in fact, lasted from 16 October 1830 to 17 September 1831. We will not relate the travelling impressions of the Abbé de Lamennais, for the author of the Essai sur l'indifférence was not at all the man to notice external impressions. He passed through Italy with unseeing eyes; all through that land of wonders he saw nothing beyond his own thoughts and the object of his journey. Ten years later, when prisoner at Sainte-Pélagie, and already grown quite old, Lamennais discovered a corner in his memory still warm with the Italian sunshine; by a process of photography, which explains the character of the man we are dealing with, the monuments of art and the country itself were transferred to a plate in his brain! It needed meditation, solitude and captivity, just as the silvered plate needs iodine, to bring out of his memory the image of the beautiful things he had forgotton to admire ten years previously. On this account, he writes to us in 1841, under the low ceiling of his cell—
The three pilgrims of l'Avenir, Abbé de Lamennais, Abbé Lacordaire, and Count Charles de Montalembert, set off for Italy, not quite, as one of them put it, with traveler's staffs in hand, but filled with genuine faith and sorrow in their hearts. They didn't leave behind the dream of eleven months without feeling deep regret; l'Avenir had actually lasted from October 16, 1830, to September 17, 1831. We won't recount the travel experiences of Abbé de Lamennais, since the author of the Essai sur l'indifférence was not the type to notice his surroundings. He traveled through Italy with unseeing eyes; in that land of wonders, he saw nothing beyond his own thoughts and the purpose of his journey. Ten years later, while imprisoned at Sainte-Pélagie and already quite old, Lamennais found a corner of his memory still warm with Italian sunshine; through a process reminiscent of photography, which explains the nature of the man we're discussing, the monuments of art and the land itself were etched into his mind! It took meditation, solitude, and captivity, just like a silvered plate needs iodine, to bring back the images of the beautiful things he had forgotten to appreciate a decade earlier. For that reason, he writes to us in 1841, under the low ceiling of his cell—
"I begin to see Italy.... It is a wondrous country!"
"I’m starting to see Italy... It’s an amazing country!"
A curious psychological study might be made of the Abbé de Lamennais, especially by comparing him with other poets of his day. The author of the Essai sur l'indifférence saw little and saw that but imperfectly; there was a cloud over his eyes and on his brain; the sole perception, the only sense he had of the outside world, which seemed to be always alert and awake, was that of hearing, a sense equivalent to the musical faculty: he played the piano and especially delighted in the compositions of Liszt. Hence arose, probably, his profound affection for that great artist. As regards all other outward senses of the objective world, his perceptions seem to have been within him, and when he wishes to see, it is in his own soul that he looks. To this peculiarity is owing the nature of his style, which is psychological in treatment. If he describes scenery, as in his Paroles d'un Croyant, or in the descriptions sent from his prison, it is always the outlines of the infinite that is drawn by his pen in vague horizons; with him it is his thoughts which visualise, not his eyes. M. de Lamennais[Pg 163] belongs to the race of morbid thinkers, of whom Blaise Pascal is a sample. Let not the medical faculty even attempt to cure these sensitive natures: it will be but to deprive them of their genius.
A fascinating psychological study could be done on Abbé de Lamennais, especially when compared to other poets of his time. The author of the Essai sur l'indifférence had limited vision and understood things imperfectly; there was a haze over his eyes and mind. The only perception he had of the outside world, which always seemed active and alive, was through hearing, similar to musical talent: he played the piano and particularly enjoyed Liszt's compositions. This likely contributed to his deep admiration for that great artist. As for all other outward senses of the objective world, his perceptions appeared to arise from within; when he wanted to see, he looked into his own soul. This unique aspect of his nature shaped his style, which is psychological in focus. When he describes landscapes, as in his Paroles d'un Croyant, or in the writings sent from his prison, he sketches the outlines of the infinite with vague horizons; for him, it is his thoughts that create visualizations, not his eyes. M. de Lamennais[Pg 163] belongs to the lineage of morbid thinkers, like Blaise Pascal. Let the medical professionals not attempt to treat these sensitive individuals: doing so would only strip them of their genius.
The journey, with its enforced waits for relays of horses, often afforded the Abbé de Lamennais leisure for the study of our modern school of literature, with which he was but little acquainted. In an Italian monastery, where the pilgrims received hospitality, MM. de Lamennais and Lacordaire read Notre-Dame de Paris and Henri III. for the first time. When they reached Rome, the Abbé de Lamennais put up at the same hotel and suite of rooms that had been occupied a few months previously by the Comtesse Guiccioli. His one fixed idea was to see the Pope and to settle his affairs, those of religious democracy, with him direct. After long delays and a number of fruitless applications, after seven or eight requests for an audience still without result, the Abbé de Lamennais complained; then a Romish ecclesiastic, to whom he poured out his grievances, naively suggested that he had perhaps omitted to deposit the sum of ... in the hands of Cardinal.... The Abbé de Lamennais confessed that he would have been afraid of offending His Eminence by treating him like the doorkeeper of a common courtesan.
The journey, with its forced waits for fresh horses, often gave Abbé de Lamennais time to explore modern literature, which he didn't know much about. In an Italian monastery, where pilgrims were welcomed, Lamennais and Lacordaire read Notre-Dame de Paris and Henri III. for the first time. When they arrived in Rome, Abbé de Lamennais stayed at the same hotel and suite that Comtesse Guiccioli had used just a few months earlier. His main goal was to see the Pope and discuss religious democracy directly with him. After many delays and numerous unsuccessful requests, after asking for an audience seven or eight times without success, Abbé de Lamennais voiced his frustrations. Then a Roman cleric, to whom he expressed his complaints, innocently suggested that he might have forgotten to give a sum of ... to Cardinal... Abbé de Lamennais admitted that he would have been worried about offending His Eminence by treating him like the doorkeeper of a common prostitute.
"You need no longer be surprised at not having been received by His Holiness," was the Italian abbé's reply.
"You shouldn't be surprised anymore at not being welcomed by His Holiness," the Italian abbé replied.
The ignorant traveller had forgotten the essential formality. But, although instructed, he still persisted in trying to obtain an audience of the Pope gratis; by paying, he felt he should be truckling with simony. The editors of l'Avenir had remained for three months unrecognised in the Holy City, waiting until the Pope should condescend to consider a question which was keeping half Catholic Europe in suspense. The Abbé Lacordaire had decided to return to France; the Comte de Montalembert made preparations for setting out for Naples; M. de Lamennais alone remained knocking at the gates of the Vatican, which were more inexorably closed than those of Lydia in her bad days. Father Ventura, then general[Pg 164] of the Theatine, received the illustrious French traveller at Santo-Andrea della Valle.
The clueless traveler had overlooked an important formality. However, even after being advised, he still insisted on trying to get a free audience with the Pope; he believed that paying would be a form of simony. The editors of l'Avenir had been in the Holy City for three months, unnoticed, waiting for the Pope to finally address a question that had half of Catholic Europe on edge. Abbé Lacordaire had decided to return to France; the Comte de Montalembert was preparing to head to Naples; only M. de Lamennais continued to knock at the doors of the Vatican, which were shut tighter than those of Lydia in her worst days. Father Ventura, then general[Pg 164] of the Theatine, welcomed the distinguished French traveler at Santo-Andrea della Valle.
"I shall never forget," says M. de Lamennais in his Affaires de Rome, "those peaceful days I spent in that pious household, surrounded by the most exquisite care, amongst those instructively good and religious people devoted to their duty and aloof from all intrigue. The life of the cloister-regular, calm and, as it were, set apart and self-contained-holds a kind of via media between the purely worldly life and that of the future, which faith reveals to us in but shadowy outlines, and of which every human being possesses within himself a positive assurance."
"I will never forget," says M. de Lamennais in his Affaires de Rome, "those peaceful days I spent in that devout household, surrounded by exceptional care, among those genuinely good and religious people committed to their responsibilities and removed from all intrigue. The life of the cloistered monk, calm and, in a sense, set apart and self-contained, represents a sort of via media between the purely worldly life and the afterlife, which faith only reveals to us in vague outlines, and of which every person has a deep inner certainty."
Finally, after many solicitations, the Abbé de Lamennais was received in private audience by Gregory XVI. He went to the Vatican, climbed the huge staircase often ascended and descended by Raphael and by Michael Angelo, by Leo X. and Julian II.; he crossed the high and silent chambers with their double rows of superposed windows; at the end of that long, splendid and desolate palace he reached, under the escort of an usher, an ante-chamber, where two cardinals, as motionless as statues, sat upon wooden seats, solemnly reading their breviary. At the appointed moment the Abbé de Lamennais was introduced. In a small room, bare, upholstered in scarlet, where a single armchair denoted that only one man had the right to sit there, a tall old man stood upright, calm and smiling in his white garments. He received M. de Lamennais standing, a great honour! The greatest honour which that divine man could pay to another man without violating etiquette. Then the Pope conversed with the French traveller about the lovely sunshine and the beauties of nature in Italy, of the Roman monuments, the arts and ancient history; but of the object of his journey and his own special business in coming there, not a a single word. The Pope had no commission at all for that: the question was being considered somewhere in the dark by the cardinals appointed to inquire into it, whose names were not divulged. A petition had been addressed to the Court of Rome by the editors of l'Avenir; and this petition must necessarily lead to some decision, but all this was shrouded in the[Pg 165] most impenetrable mystery. The Pope himself, however, showed affability to the French priest, whose genius was an honour to the Catholic Church.
Finally, after many requests, Abbé de Lamennais was granted a private audience with Gregory XVI. He went to the Vatican, climbed the grand staircase that had often been ascended and descended by Raphael, Michelangelo, Leo X., and Julius II.; he walked through the lofty, quiet rooms with their two rows of stacked windows; at the end of that long, magnificent, and empty palace, he reached, escorted by an usher, an ante-chamber, where two cardinals, as still as statues, sat on wooden benches, solemnly reading their breviaries. At the appointed moment, Abbé de Lamennais was introduced. In a small, bare room upholstered in scarlet, where a single armchair indicated that only one person had the right to sit there, a tall older man stood upright, calm and smiling in his white robe. He received M. de Lamennais while standing, a great honor! The highest honor that this divine man could extend to another without breaking etiquette. Then the Pope chatted with the French visitor about the lovely sunshine and the natural beauty of Italy, the Roman monuments, the arts, and ancient history; but not a single word was said about the purpose of his journey or his specific business in coming there. The Pope had no instructions on that matter: the issue was being reviewed somewhere in the shadows by the cardinals assigned to investigate it, whose names were not revealed. A petition had been submitted to the Court of Rome by the editors of l'Avenir; and this petition would likely lead to a decision, but all of it was shrouded in the[Pg 165] most impenetrable mystery. The Pope, however, showed friendliness toward the French priest, whose genius was an honor to the Catholic Church.
"What work of art," he asked M. de Lamennais, "has impressed you most?"
"What piece of art," he asked M. de Lamennais, "has had the biggest impact on you?"
"The Moses of Michael Angelo," replied the priest.
"The Moses by Michelangelo," the priest said.
"Very well," replied Gregory XVI.; "then I will show you something which no one sees or which very few indeed, even of the specially favoured, see at Rome." Whilst saying this, the great white-haired old man entered a sort of recess enclosed by curtains, and returned holding in his arms a miniature replica in silver of the Moses done by Michael Angelo himself.
"Alright," replied Gregory XVI. "Then I’ll show you something that no one sees, or very few, even among the specially privileged, get to see in Rome." As he said this, the great white-haired man stepped into a small area blocked by curtains and came back holding a silver miniature replica of the Moses made by Michelangelo himself.
The Abbé de Lamennais admired it, bowed and withdrew, accompanied by the two cardinals who guarded the entrance to that chamber. He was compelled to acknowledge the gracious reception he had been accorded by the Holy Father; but, in all conscience, he had not come all the way from Paris to Rome just to see the statuette of Moses! It was a most complete disillusionment. He shook the dust of Rome off his feet, the dust of graves, and returned to Paris. After a long silence, when the affair of l'Avenir seemed buried in the excavations of the Holy See, Rome spoke: she condemned the doctrines of the men who had tried to reunite Christianity to Liberty.
The Abbé de Lamennais admired it, bowed, and left, followed by the two cardinals who were guarding the entrance to that room. He had to recognize the kind reception he had received from the Holy Father; however, truthfully, he hadn’t traveled all the way from Paris to Rome just to see the statuette of Moses! It was a complete letdown. He shook the dust of Rome off his shoes, the dust of graves, and returned to Paris. After a long pause, when the issue of l'Avenir seemed buried in the workings of the Holy See, Rome spoke up: she condemned the beliefs of those who had tried to bring Christianity and Liberty together.
The distress of the Abbé de Lamennais was profound. The shepherd being smitten, the sheep scattered, the news of censure had scarcely had time to reach La Chesnaie before the disciples were seized with terror and took to flight. M. de Lamennais remained alone in the old deserted château, in melancholy silence, broken only by the murmur of the great oak trees and the plaintive song of birds. Soon, even this retreat was taken from him, and he woke one day to find himself ruined by the failure of a bookseller to whom he had given his note of hand. Then the late editor of l'Avenir began his voyage through bitter waters; anguish of soul prevented his feeling his poverty, which was extreme; his furniture, books, all were sold. Twice he bowed his head submissively under the hand of the Head[Pg 166] of the Church, and twice he raised it, each time sadder than before, each time more indomitable, more convinced that the human mind, progress, reason, the conscience could not be wrong. It was not without profound heart-rendings that he separated himself from the articles of belief of his youth, from his career of priesthood and of tranquil obedience and from great and powerful harmony; in a word, from everything that he had upheld previously; but the new spirit had, in Biblical language, gripped him by the hair commanding him to "go forward!" It was then, in silence, in the midst of persecutions which even his gentleness was unable to disarm, in a small room in Paris, furnished with only a folding-bed, a table and two chairs, that the Abbé de Lamennais wrote his Paroles d'un Croyant. The manuscript lay for a year in the author's portfolio; placed several times in the hands of the editor Renduel, withdrawn, then given back to him to be again withdrawn, this fine book was subjected to all sorts of vicissitudes before its publication and met with all sorts of obstructions; the chief difficulties came from the abbé's own family, especially from a brother, who viewed with terror the launching forth upon the sea of democracy tossed by the storms of 1833. At last, after many delays and grievous hesitations, the author's strength of will carried the day against the entreaties of friendship; and the book appeared. It marked the third transformation of its writer: the ABBÉ DE LA MENNAIS and M. de LAMENNAIS gave place to CITIZEN LAMENNAIS. We shall come across him again on the benches of the Constituent Assembly of 1848. In common with all men of great genius, who have had to pilot their own original course through the religious and political storms that raged for thirty years, M. de Lamennais has been the subject of the most opposite criticisms. We do not undertake here to be either his apologist or denouncer; simply to endeavour to render him that justice which every true-hearted man owes to any man whom he admires: we have tried to show him to others as he appeared to our own eyes.
The distress of Abbé de Lamennais was deep. When the shepherd fell, the sheep scattered; news of the censure barely reached La Chesnaie before the disciples were gripped by fear and ran away. M. de Lamennais was left alone in the old, deserted château, in a sorrowful silence, interrupted only by the rustling of the great oak trees and the sad songs of birds. Soon, he lost even this refuge and woke up one day to find himself ruined by the failure of a bookseller to whom he had given a promissory note. Then the former editor of l'Avenir began his journey through difficult times; the anguish in his soul distracted him from feeling the extent of his poverty, which was severe; all his furniture and books were sold. Twice he bowed his head submissively to the hand of the Head[Pg 166] of the Church, and twice he raised it, each time sadder than before, each time more resilient, more convinced that the human mind, progress, reason, and conscience could not be wrong. It was with great pain that he distanced himself from the beliefs of his youth, from his priestly career and peaceful obedience, and from the powerful harmony he once upheld; in short, from everything he had previously supported. But the new spirit had, to use Biblical language, seized him by the hair and commanded him to "go forward!" It was then, in silence, amidst persecutions that even his gentleness couldn't diffuse, in a small Paris room furnished only with a folding bed, a table, and two chairs, that Abbé de Lamennais wrote his Paroles d'un Croyant. The manuscript sat for a year in the author's portfolio; it was placed in the hands of editor Renduel several times, withdrawn, then returned, only to be taken away again. This remarkable book faced endless challenges before its publication, with most of the obstacles coming from the abbé's own family, especially a brother who feared the launch into the tumultuous sea of democracy in 1833. Finally, after many delays and painful hesitations, the author's will triumphed over the pleas of friends, and the book was published. This marked the third transformation of its writer: the ABBÉ DE LAMENNAIS and M. de LAMENNAIS evolved into CITIZEN LAMENNAIS. We will encounter him again as a member of the Constituent Assembly in 1848. Like all great geniuses who have had to navigate their unique paths through the religious and political turbulence of thirty years, M. de Lamennais faced the most varied criticisms. Our goal here is neither to defend nor condemn him; rather, we aim to offer him the kind of justice that every genuine person owes to someone they admire: we strive to present him as he appeared to us.
CHAPTER VII
Who Gannot was—Mapah—His first miracle—The wedding at Cana—Gannot, phrenologist—Where his first ideas on phrenology came from—The unknown woman—The change wrought in Gannot's life—How he becomes Mapah
Who Gannot was—Mapah—His first miracle—The wedding at Cana—Gannot, phrenologist—The origins of his first ideas on phrenology—The unknown woman—The transformation in Gannot's life—How he becomes Mapah
Let us frame M. de Lamennais, the great philosopher, poet and humanitarian, between a false priest and a false god. Christ was crucified after His bloody passion between two thieves. We are now going to relate the adventures and expose the doctrines of Mapah or of the being who was Gannot. He was one of the most eccentric of the gods produced during the years 1831 to 1845. The ancients divided their gods into dii majores and dii minores; Mapah was a minor god. He was not any the less entertaining on that account. The name of Mapah was the favourite title of the god, and the one under which he wished to be worshipped; but, not forgetting that he had been a man before he became a god, he humbly and modestly permitted himself to be called, and at times even called himself, by his own personal name as, he who was Gannot. He had indeed, or rather he had had, two very distinct existences; that of a man and that of a god. The man was born about 1800, or, at all events, he would seem to have been nearly my own age when I knew him. He gave his age out to be then as between twenty-eight and thirty. I was told that, when he became a god, he maintained he had been contemporaneous with all the ages and even to have preexisted, under a double symbolic form, Adam and Eve, in whom he became incarnate when the father and mother of the human race were yet one and the self-same flesh! The man had been an elegant dandy, a fop and frequenter of the boulevard[Pg 168] de Gand, loving horses and adoring women, and an inveterate gambler; he was an adept at every kind of play, specially at billiards. He was as good a billiard player as was Pope Gregory XVI., and supposing the latter had staked his papacy on his skilful play against Gannot, I would assuredly have bet on Gannot. To say that Gannot played billiards better than other games does not mean that he preferred games of skill to those of chance; not at all: he had a passion for roulette, for la rouge et la blanche, for trente-et-un, for le biribi, and, in fact, for all kinds of games of chance. He was also possessed of all the happy superstitious optimism of the gambler: none knew better than he how to puff at a cigar and to creak about in varnished boots upon the asphalted pavements whilst he dreamt of marvellous fortunes, of coaches, tilburys, tandems harnessed to horses shod in silver; of mansions, hotels, palaces, with soft thick carpets like the grass in a meadow; of curtains, of imitation brocades, tapestries, figured silk, crystal lustres and Boule furniture. Unluckily, the gold he won flowed through his extravagant fingers like water. Unceasingly bandied about from misery to abundance, he passed from the goddess of hunger to that of satiety with regal airs that were a delight to witness. Debauchery was none the less pleasing to him, but it had to be debauchery on a huge scale: the feast of Trimalco or the nuptials of Gamacho. But, in other ways, he was a good friend, ever ready to lend a helping hand—throwing his money broadcast, and his heart among the women, giving his life to everybody not suspecting his future divinity, but already performing all kinds of miracles. Such was Gannot, the future Mapah, when I had the honour of making his acquaintance, about 1830 or 1831, at the café de Paris. Still less than he himself could I foretell his future divinity, and, if anybody had told me that, when I left him at two o'clock in the morning to return to my third storey in the rue de l'Université, I had just shaken the hand of a god, I should certainly have been very much surprised indeed.
Let’s place M. de Lamennais, the great philosopher, poet, and humanitarian, between a fake priest and a fake god. Christ was crucified after His bloody Passion between two thieves. We are now going to share the adventures and reveal the doctrines of Mapah or of the being who was Gannot. He was one of the most eccentric gods produced between 1831 and 1845. The ancients categorized their gods into dii majores and dii minores; Mapah was a minor god. That didn’t make him any less entertaining. The name Mapah was his preferred title, the one he wanted to be worshipped by; but, remembering that he had been a man before becoming a god, he humbly allowed himself to be called by his personal name, he who was Gannot. He had indeed, or rather had had, two very distinct existences: that of a man and that of a god. The man was born around 1800, or at least he seemed to be nearly my age when I met him. He claimed to be between twenty-eight and thirty. I heard that when he became a god, he insisted he had existed alongside all ages and even claimed to have preexisted, in a symbolic way, as Adam and Eve, incarnating when the parents of the human race were still one flesh! He had been a stylish dandy, a fop who often visited the Boulevard[Pg 168] de Gand, loved horses, adored women, and was a dedicated gambler; he was skilled at every kind of game, especially billiards. He was as good a billiard player as Pope Gregory XVI, and if the latter had wagered his papacy on a game against Gannot, I would have definitely bet on Gannot. Saying that Gannot played billiards better than other games doesn’t mean he preferred skill over chance; not at all: he had a passion for roulette, for la rouge et la blanche, for trente-et-un, for le biribi, and for all kinds of games of chance. He was also filled with that cheerful superstitious optimism typical of gamblers: no one could light a cigar and strut around in shiny boots on the pavement better while dreaming of amazing fortunes, coaches, tilburys, and tandems with horses shod in silver; of mansions, hotels, palaces, with soft thick carpets like grass in a meadow; of curtains, imitation brocades, tapestries, patterned silk, crystal chandeliers, and Boule furniture. Unfortunately, the money he won slipped through his extravagant fingers like water. Constantly bouncing between poverty and abundance, he moved from the goddess of hunger to the goddess of plenty with royal flair that was a joy to see. Debauchery was no less appealing to him, but it had to be on a grand scale: the feast of Trimalco or the wedding of Gamacho. Still, in many ways, he was a good friend, always ready to lend a hand—throwing his money around and sharing his heart with women, giving his life to everyone without suspecting his future divinity, but already performing all kinds of miracles. Such was Gannot, the future Mapah, when I had the honor of meeting him around 1830 or 1831 at the café de Paris. Even less than he could I predict his future divinity, and if anyone had told me that when I left him at two o'clock in the morning to return to my third-floor place on the rue de l'Université, I had just shaken hands with a god, I would have certainly been very surprised.
I have said that even before he became a god, Gannot worked miracles; I will recount one which I almost saw him[Pg 169] do. It was somewhere about 1831—to give the precise date of the year is impossible—and a friend of Gannot, an innocent debtor who was as yet only negotiating his first bill of exchange, went to find Gannot to lay before him his distress in harrowing terms. Gannot was the type of man people always consulted in difficult crises,—his mind was quick in suggestions; he was clear-sighted and steady of hand. Unluckily, Gannot was going through one of his periods of poverty, days when he could have given points even to Job. He began, therefore, by confessing his personal inability to help, and when his friend despaired—
I’ve mentioned that even before he became a god, Gannot performed miracles; let me share one that I almost witnessed him do. It was around 1831—pinpointing the exact year is tough—and a friend of Gannot’s, an innocent debtor who was just starting to negotiate his first bill of exchange, went to find Gannot to express his distress in dramatic terms. Gannot was the kind of person people always turned to in tough situations—his mind was quick with suggestions; he was insightful and steady. Unfortunately, Gannot was experiencing one of his poverty spells, days when he could rival Job in suffering. So he started by admitting his inability to help, and when his friend fell into despair—
"Bah!" he said, "we have seen plenty of other people in as bad a plight!"
"Ugh!" he said, "we've seen plenty of other people in just as bad a situation!"
This was a favourite expression with Gannot, who had, indeed, seen all shades of life.
This was a favorite saying of Gannot, who had, in fact, experienced all walks of life.
"All very well," said his friend; "but meantime, how am I to get out of this fix?"
"That’s all good," said his friend, "but in the meantime, how am I supposed to get out of this situation?"
"Have you anything of value you could raise money on, if it were but twenty, ten, or even five francs?"
"Do you have anything valuable that you could sell to raise some money, even if it's just twenty, ten, or even five francs?"
"Alas!" said the young fellow, "there is only my watch ..."
"Unfortunately!" said the young guy, "there’s only my watch..."
"Silver or gold?"
"Silver or gold?"
"Gold."
"Gold."
"Gold! What did it cost?"
"Gold! What was the price?"
"Two hundred francs; but I shall hardly get sixty for it, and the bill of exchange is for five hundred francs."
"Two hundred francs; but I’ll probably only get sixty for it, and the check is for five hundred francs."
"Go and take your watch to the Mont-de-Piété."
"Go and take your watch to the pawn shop."
"And then?"
"And then what?"
"Bring back the money they give you for it here."
"Bring back the money they give you for it here."
"Well?"
"What's up?"
"You must give me half of it."
"You have to give me half of it."
"After that?"
"What's next?"
"Then I will tell you what you must do.... Go, and be sure you do not divert a single son of the amount!"
"Then I'll tell you what you need to do.... Go, and make sure you don't take any part of the amount!"
"The deuce! I shall not think of doing that," said the friend. And off he ran and returned presently with seventy francs. This was a good beginning. Gannot took it and put it with a grand flourish into his pocket.
"The heck! I’m not even considering that," said the friend. And off he ran and came back shortly with seventy francs. This was a great start. Gannot took it and dramatically stuffed it into his pocket.
"What are you doing?" asked his friend.
"What are you up to?" his friend asked.
"You will soon see."
"You'll see soon."
"I thought you said we were to halve it ..."
"I thought you said we were supposed to split it in half ..."
"Later ... meanwhile it is six o'clock; let us go and have dinner."
"Later ... in the meantime, it's six o'clock; let's go have dinner."
"How are we to dine?"
"How are we going to eat?"
"My dear fellow, decent folk must have their dinner and dine well in order to give themselves fresh ideas."
"My dear friend, good people need to have their dinner and enjoy it to refresh their minds."
And Gannot took his way towards the Palais-Royal, accompanied by the young man. When there, he entered the Frères-Provençaux. The youth tried faintly to drag Gannot away by the arm, but the latter pinched his hand tight as in a vice and the young man was obliged to follow. Gannot chose the menu and dined valiantly, to the great uneasiness of his friend; the more dainty the dishes the more he left on his plate untasted. The future Mapah ate enough for both. The Rabelaisian quarter of an hour arrived, and the bill came to thirty-five francs. Gannot flung a couple of louis on the table. They were going to give him the change.
And Gannot made his way to the Palais-Royal, with the young man beside him. Once there, he went into the Frères-Provençaux. The youth weakly tried to pull Gannot away by the arm, but Gannot griped his hand tightly like a vice, forcing him to follow. Gannot picked the menu and ate heartily, much to his friend's growing discomfort; the more delicate the dishes were, the more he left untouched on his plate. The future Mapah ate enough for both of them. The indulgent quarter of an hour came, and the bill totaled thirty-five francs. Gannot tossed a couple of louis onto the table. They were about to give him his change.
"Keep it—the five francs are for the waiter," he said.
"Keep it—the five francs are for the waiter," he said.
The young man shook his head sadly.
The young man shook his head with a sense of sadness.
"That is not the way," he muttered below his breath, "to pay my bill of exchange."
"That's not the way," he muttered under his breath, "to settle my bill of exchange."
Gannot did not appear to notice either his murmurs or his headshakings. They went out, Gannot walking in front, with a toothpick in his mouth; the friend followed silently and gloomily, like some resigned victim. When they reached la Rolonde, Gannot sat down, drew a chair within his friend's reach, struck the marble table with the wood of the framework that held the daily paper, ordered two cups of coffee, an inn-full of assorted liqueurs and the best cigars they possessed. The total amounted to five francs. There were then but twenty-five francs left over from the seventy. Gannot put ten in his friend's hand and restored the remaining fifteen to his pocket.
Gannot didn’t seem to notice his murmurs or head shakes. They went outside, with Gannot walking ahead, a toothpick in his mouth; his friend followed quietly and gloomily, like a resigned victim. When they arrived at la Rolonde, Gannot took a seat, pulled a chair within his friend’s reach, tapped the marble table with the wood from the newspaper holder, ordered two cups of coffee, a bar full of assorted liqueurs, and the best cigars they had. The total came to five francs. That left twenty-five francs from the original seventy. Gannot handed ten to his friend and put the remaining fifteen back in his pocket.
"What now?" asked his friend.
"What now?" his friend asked.
"Take the ten francs," replied Gannot; "go upstairs to that[Pg 171] house you see opposite, No. 113; be careful not to mistake the storey, whatever you do!"
"Take the ten francs," replied Gannot; "go upstairs to that[Pg 171] house you see across the street, No. 113; make sure you don’t get the floor wrong, whatever you do!"
"What is the house?"
"What's the house?"
"It is a gambling-house."
"It's a casino."
"I shall have to play, then?"
"I guess I have to play, then?"
"Of course you must! And at midnight, whatever your gains or losses, bring them here. I shall be there."
"Of course you have to! And at midnight, no matter your wins or losses, bring them here. I’ll be there."
The young man had by this time reached such a pitch of utter exhaustion that, if Gannot had told him to go and fling himself into the river, he would have gone. He carried out Gannot's instructions to the letter. He had never put foot in a gaming-house before; fortune, it is said, favours the innocent beginner: he played and won. At a quarter to twelve—for he had not forgotten the injunctions of the master for whom he began to feel a sort of superstitious reverence—he went away with his pockets full of gold and his heart bursting with joy. Gannot was walking up and down the passage which led to the Perron, quietly smoking his cigar. From the farthest distance when he first caught sight of him, the youth shouted—
The young man had reached such a level of complete exhaustion by this point that, if Gannot had told him to jump into the river, he would have done it. He followed Gannot's instructions to the letter. He had never set foot in a casino before; they say luck tends to favor the innocent newcomer: he played and won. At a quarter to twelve—because he hadn’t forgotten the advice of the master for whom he was starting to feel a kind of superstitious respect—he left with his pockets full of gold and his heart overflowing with joy. Gannot was pacing the hallway that led to the Perron, casually smoking his cigar. From a distance, when the young man first spotted him, he shouted—
"Oh! my friend, such good luck! I have won fifteen hundred francs; when my bill of exchange is paid I shall still have a thousand francs!... Let me embrace you; I owe you my very life."
"Oh! my friend, what great news! I’ve won fifteen hundred francs; once my bill is paid, I’ll still have a thousand francs!... Come here, let me hug you; I owe you my life."
Gannot gently checked him with his hand, and told him to moderate his transports of gratitude.
Gannot gently held him back with his hand and told him to tone down his overwhelming gratitude.
"Ah! now," he said, "we can indeed go and have a glass of punch, can we not?"
"Ah! Now," he said, "we can definitely go get a glass of punch, right?"
"A glass of punch? A bowl, my friend, two bowls! As much as ever you like, and havanas ad libitum! I am rich; when my bill of exchange is paid, my watch redeemed, I shall still have ..."
"A glass of punch? Make that a bowl, my friend, two bowls! As much as you want, and havanas ad libitum! I'm wealthy; once my bill is settled, and I get my watch back, I'll still have ..."
"You have told me all that before."
"You've told me all this before."
"Upon my word, I am so pleased I cannot repeat it often enough, dear friend!" And the young man gave himself up to shouts of immoderate joy, whilst Gannot regally climbed the stairs which led to the Hollandais, the only one left open after midnight. It was full. Gannot called for the waiters.[Pg 172] One waiter appeared. "I asked for the waiters," said Gannot. He fetched three who were in the ice-house and they roused up two who had already gone to bed—fifteen came in all. Gannot counted them.
"Honestly, I’m so happy I can’t say it enough, my friend!" The young man burst into loud cheers of overwhelming joy, while Gannot confidently climbed the stairs that led to the Hollandais, the only place still open after midnight. It was packed. Gannot called for the waiters.[Pg 172] One waiter showed up. "I asked for the waiters," Gannot said. He brought in three who were in the ice-house and woke up two who had already gone to bed—fifteen in total showed up. Gannot counted them.
"Good!" he said. "Now, waiters, go from table to table and ask the gentlemen and ladies at them what they would like to take."
"Great!" he said. "Now, waiters, go from table to table and ask the men and women seated there what they'd like to order."
"Then, monsieur ..."
"Then, sir ..."
"I will pay for it!" Gannot replied, in lordly tones.
"I'll cover it!" Gannot responded, in a commanding tone.
The joke was acceded to and was, indeed, thought to be in very good taste; only the friend laughed at the wrong side of his mouth as he watched the consumption of liqueurs, coffee and glorias. Every table was like a liquid volcano, with lava of punch flowing out of the middle of its flames. The tables filled up again and the new arrivals were invited by the amphitryon to choose whatever they liked from the carte; ices, liqueurs, syphons of lemonade, everything, even to soda-water. Finally, at three o'clock, when there was not a single glass of brandy left in the establishment, Gannot called for the bill. It came to eighteen hundred francs. What about the bill of exchange now?... The young man, feeling more dead than alive, mechanically put his hand into his pocket, although he knew very well that it did not contain more than fifteen hundred francs; but Gannot opened his pocket-book and pulled out two notes of a thousand francs, and blowing them apart—
The joke was accepted and was actually considered to be in great taste; only the friend laughed awkwardly as he watched the consumption of liqueurs, coffee, and glorias. Every table looked like a liquid volcano, with punch flowing out from the center of its flames. The tables filled up again, and the new arrivals were invited by the host to choose whatever they liked from the menu; ices, liqueurs, syphons of lemonade, everything, even soda water. Finally, at three o'clock, when there wasn’t a single glass of brandy left in the place, Gannot asked for the bill. It came to eighteen hundred francs. What about the bill of exchange now?... The young man, feeling more dead than alive, automatically reached into his pocket, even though he knew it only held about fifteen hundred francs; but Gannot opened his wallet and pulled out two notes of a thousand francs, blowing them apart—
"Here, waiters," he said, "the change is for your attendance."
"Here, waiters," he said, "the tip is for your service."
And, turning to his pupil, who was quite faint by this time, and who had been nudging his arm the whole night or treading on his toes—
And, turning to his student, who was feeling pretty weak by this point and had been nudging his arm all night or stepping on his toes—
"Young man," he said to him, "I wanted to give you a little lesson.... To teach you that a true gambler ought not to be astonished at his winnings, and, above all, he should make bold use of them." With the fifteen francs he had kept of his friend's money, he, too, had played, and had won two thousand francs. We have seen how they were spent. This was his miracle of the marriage of Cana.
"Hey there, young man," he said to him, "I wanted to give you a little lesson.... To show you that a real gambler shouldn't be surprised by his winnings, and, most importantly, he should use them confidently." With the fifteen francs he had kept from his friend's money, he also played and won two thousand francs. We've seen how that money was spent. This was his miracle of the marriage at Cana.
But, as may well be understood, this hazardous fortune-making had its cruel reverses; Gannot's life was full of crises; he always lived at extremes of excitement. More than once during this stormy existence the darkest thoughts crossed his mind. To become another Karl Moor or Jean Sbogar or Jaromir, he formed all kinds of dreadful plans. To attack travellers by the highway and to fling on to the green baize tables gold pieces stained with blood, was, during more than one fit of despair, the dream of feverish nights and the terrible hope of his morrows!
But, as you can imagine, this risky pursuit of wealth came with harsh setbacks; Gannot's life was filled with crises, and he always lived on the edge of excitement. More than once during this turbulent life, dark thoughts crossed his mind. He concocted all sorts of horrific plans to become another Karl Moor or Jean Sbogar or Jaromir. During more than one fit of despair, he dreamed feverishly at night about attacking travelers on the highway and throwing blood-stained gold coins onto the green felt tables, which became his chilling hope for the future!
"I went stumbling," he said, after his divinity had freed him from all such gloomy human chimeras, "along the road of crime, knocking my head here and there against the guillotine's edge; I had to go through all these experiences; for from the lowest blackguard was to emerge the first of reformers!"
"I went stumbling," he said, after his divine revelation had freed him from all those dark human illusions, "along the path of crime, banging my head against the guillotine's edge; I had to go through all these experiences; for from the lowest scoundrel was to rise the first of reformers!"
To the career of gambling he added another, less risky. Upon the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, where he then lived, the passers-by might observe a head as signpost. Upon its bald head some artist had painted in blue and red the cerebral topography of the talents, feelings and instincts; this cabalistic head indicated that consultations on phrenology were given within. Now, it is worth while to tell how Gannot attained the zenith of the science of Gall and of Spurzheim. He was the son of a hatter, and, when a child, had noticed in his father's shop the many different shapes of the hands corresponding to the diverse shapes of people's heads. He had thereupon originated a system of phrenology of his own, which, later, he developed by a superficial study of anatomy. Gannot was a doctor, or, more correctly speaking, a sanitary inspector; what he had learnt occupied little room in his memory, but, gifted as he was with fine and discerning tact, he analysed, by means of a species of clairvoyance, the characters and heads with which he had to deal. One day, when overwhelmed by a loss of money at the gaming-table and seeing only destitution and despair ahead of him, he had given way to dark resolutions, a fashionable and beautiful young woman of wealth got down from her carriage, ascended his stairs and knocked at his[Pg 174] door. She came to ask the soothsayer to tell her fortune by her head. Though a splendid creature, Gannot saw neither her, nor her beauty, nor her troubles and wavering blushes; she sat down, took off her hat, uncovered her lovely golden hair, and let her head be examined by the phrenologist. The mysterious doctor passed his hands carelessly through the golden waves. His mind was elsewhere. There was nothing, however, more promising than the surfaces and contours which his skilful hand discovered as he touched them. But, when he came to the spot at the base of the skull which is commonly called the nape, which savants call the organ of amativity, whether she had seen Gannot previously or whether from instantaneous and magnetic sympathy, the lady burst into tears and flung her arms round the future Mapah's neck, exclaiming—
To his gambling career, he added another, less risky one. On Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, where he lived at the time, passers-by might see a head as a sign. An artist had painted the brain's layout of talents, feelings, and instincts in blue and red on its bald head; this head indicated that they offered phrenology consultations inside. It's worth mentioning how Gannot reached the peak of Gall and Spurzheim's science. He was the son of a hat maker and, as a child, had noticed the various shapes of hands that matched the different shapes of people’s heads in his father’s shop. He then developed his own system of phrenology, which he expanded upon through a basic study of anatomy. Gannot was a doctor, or more accurately, a sanitary inspector; what he learned took up little space in his memory, but because he had a knack for keen observation, he analyzed the characters and heads of those he encountered using a kind of clairvoyance. One day, after losing a lot of money at the gambling table and seeing only poverty and despair ahead, he fell into dark thoughts when a fashionable and attractive wealthy young woman stepped down from her carriage, climbed his stairs, and knocked at his[Pg 174] door. She came to ask the soothsayer to read her fortune through her head. Although she was stunning, Gannot saw neither her nor her beauty, nor her struggles and nervous blushing; she sat down, took off her hat, revealed her beautiful golden hair, and allowed the phrenologist to examine her head. The mysterious doctor ran his hands carelessly through her golden waves. His mind was elsewhere. However, nothing was more promising than the shapes and contours he found as he touched them. But when he reached the spot at the base of the skull commonly known as the nape, which scholars refer to as the organ of amativity, whether she had seen Gannot before or whether it was due to an instant and magnetic connection, the lady burst into tears and wrapped her arms around the future Mapah's neck, exclaiming—
"Oh! I love you!"
"Oh! I love you!"
This was quite a new light in the life of this man. Until that time Gannot had known women; he had not known woman. His life of mad debauchery, of gambling, violent emotions, spent on the pavements of the boulevards, and in the bars of houses of ill-fame, and among the walks of the bois, was followed by one of retirement and love; for he loved this beautiful unknown woman to distraction and almost to madness. She was married. Often, after their hours of delirious ecstacy, when the moment of parting had to come, when tears filled their eyes and sobs their breasts, they plotted together the death of the man who was the obstacle to their intoxicating passion; but they got no further to the completion of crime than thinking of it. She wished at least to fly with him; but, on the very day they had arranged to take flight, she arrived at Gannot's house with a pocket-book full of bank notes stolen from her husband. Gannot was horrified with the theft and declined the money. Next day she returned with no other fortune than the clothes she wore, not even a chain of gold round her neck or a ring on her finger. And then he took her away. Complicated by this fresh element in his life, he took his flight into more impossible regions than ever before; his was the type of nature which is carried away by all kinds of[Pg 175] impulses. If the principle M. Guizot lays down be true: "Bodies always fall on the side towards which they incline," the Mapah was bound to fall some day or other, for he inclined to many sides! Gambling and love admirably suited the instincts of that eccentric life; but gambling—houses were closed! And the woman he loved died! Then was it that the god was born in him from inconsolable love and the suppressed passion for play. He was seized by illness, during which the spirit of this dead woman visited him every night, and revealed to him the doctrines of his new religion. Haunted by the hallucinations of love and fever, Gannot listened to himself in the voice which spoke within him. But he was no longer Gannot, he was transfigured.
This was a whole new chapter in this man's life. Until that point, Gannot had known women; he hadn't truly known a woman. His life of wild excess, gambling, and intense emotions, spent on the sidewalks of the boulevards, in the bars of brothels, and wandering through the woods, transitioned into a life of retreat and love; he was deeply in love with this beautiful unknown woman, almost to the point of madness. She was married. Often, after their exhilarating moments together, when it was time to part and tears filled their eyes and sobs erupted from their chests, they plotted the death of the man who stood in the way of their passionate affair; but they never moved beyond just thinking about it. She at least wanted to run away with him; but on the very day they had planned to escape, she arrived at Gannot's place with a wallet full of cash stolen from her husband. Gannot was horrified by the theft and refused the money. The next day, she came back with nothing but the clothes on her back, not even a gold chain or a ring. And then he took her away. Complicated by this new element in his life, he dove into even more impossible situations than before; he had a nature that was easily swayed by all kinds of impulses. If M. Guizot's principle is true: "Bodies always fall on the side towards which they incline," then Gannot was bound to crash someday, as he leaned in so many different directions! Gambling and love perfectly matched the instincts of his eccentric life; but then the gambling houses were shut down! And the woman he loved died! That’s when a new god was born in him from his overwhelming love and suppressed desire for gambling. He fell ill, during which the spirit of this dead woman visited him every night, revealing to him the tenets of his new faith. Tormented by visions of love and fever, Gannot listened to the voice that spoke within him. But he was no longer just Gannot; he was transformed.
CHAPTER VIII
The god and his sanctuary—He informs the Pope of his overthrow—His manifestoes—His portrait—Doctrine of escape—Symbols of that religion—Chaudesaigues takes me to the Mapah—Iswara and Pracriti—Questions which are wanting in actuality—War between the votaries of bidja and the followers of sakti—My last interview with the Mapah
The god and his temple—He shares his downfall with the Pope—His claims—His representation—Doctrine of escape—Symbols of that faith—Chaudesaigues takes me to the Mapah—Iswara and Pracriti—Questions that don't actually exist—Tension between the followers of bidja and the supporters of sakti—My last meeting with the Mapah
In 1840, in the old Ile Saint Louis which is lashed by bitter and angry winds from the north and west, upon the coldest quay of that frigid Thule—terrarum ultima Thule—on a dark and dingy ground-floor, in a bare room, a man was moulding and casting in plaster. That man was the one-time Gannot. The room served both as studio and school; pupils came and took lessons in modelling there and to consult the Mapah. This was the name, as we have already said, under which Gannot went in his new existence. From this room was sent the first manifesto in which he who had been Gannot proclaimed his mission to the world. Who was surprised by it? Pope Gregory XVI. certainly was, when he received, on his sovereign throne, a letter dated from our apostolic pallet-bed, which announced that his time was over; that, from henceforth, he was to look upon himself as dethroned, and, in fact, that he was superseded by another. This polite duty fulfilled with regard to his predecessor, Gannot, in all simplicity, announced to his friends that they must look upon him as the god of the future. Gannot had been the leader of a certain school of thought for two or three years past; amongst his followers were Félix Pyat, Thoré, Chaudesaigues, etc. etc. His sudden transformation from Gannot to Mapah, his declaration to the Pope, and his presumption in posing as a revealer, alienated his former disciples; it was the durus his sermo. Nevertheless, he maintained[Pg 177] unshaken belief in himself and continued his sermons; but as these oral sermons were insufficient and he thought it necessary to add to them a printed profession of faith, one day he sold his wearing apparel and converted the price of it into manifestoes of war against the religion of Christ, which he distributed among his new disciples.
In 1840, on the old Ile Saint Louis, which is buffeted by harsh, cold winds from the north and west, at the coldest dock of that frigid place—terrarum ultima Thule—a man was shaping and casting in plaster in a dark, dingy ground-floor room. That man was the former Gannot. The room served as both a studio and a school; students came for lessons in modeling and to consult the Mapah. This was the name, as we previously noted, that Gannot adopted in his new life. From this room, he sent out the first manifesto declaring his mission to the world. Who was surprised by it? Pope Gregory XVI was certainly taken aback when he received a letter addressed from our apostolic pallet-bed, stating that his time was up; he was to consider himself dethroned, as he had been replaced by another. After completing this polite notification to his predecessor, Gannot simply informed his friends that they should view him as the god of the future. Gannot had been the leader of a certain school of thought for the past two or three years, with followers like Félix Pyat, Thoré, Chaudesaigues, and others. His abrupt change from Gannot to Mapah, his declaration to the Pope, and his boldness in presenting himself as a revealer alienated his former followers; it was the durus his sermo. Nevertheless, he held on to an unshaken belief in himself and continued his sermons; but since these spoken sermons were not enough, he felt compelled to supplement them with a written profession of faith. One day, he sold his clothes and used the money to print manifestoes of war against the religion of Christ, which he distributed among his new followers.
After the sale of his wardrobe, the habits of the ci-devant lion entirely disappeared, as his garments had done. In his transition from Gannot to Mapah, everything that constituted the former man vanished: a blouse replaced, for both summer and winter, the elegant clothes which the past gambler used to wear; a grey felt hat covered his high and finely-shaped forehead. But, seen thus, he was really beautiful: his blue-grey eyes sparkled with mystic fire; his finely chiselled nose, with its delicately defined outlines, was straight and pure in form; his long flowing beard, bright gold coloured, fell to his chest; all his features, as is usual with thinkers and visionaries, were drawn up towards the top of his head by a sort of nervous tension; his hands were white and fine and distinguished-looking, and, with a remnant of his past vanity as a man of the world, he took particular care of them; his gestures were not by any means without commanding power; his language was eloquent, impassioned, picturesque and original. The prophet of poverty, he had adopted its symbols; he became a proletarian in order to reach the hearts of the lower classes; he donned the working-man's blouse to convert the wearers of blouses. The Mapah was not a simple god—he was a composite one; he was made up of Saint Simon, of Fourier and of Owen. His chief dogma was the extremely ancient one of Androgynism, i.e. the unity of the male and female principle throughout all nature, and the unity of the man and the woman in society. He called his religion EVADISME, i.e. (Eve and Adam); himself he called MAPAH, from mater and pater; and herein he excelled the Pope, who had never even in the palmiest days of the papacy, not even under Gregory VII., been anything more than the father of Christians, whilst he was both father and mother of humanity. In his system people had not to take simply[Pg 178] the name of their father, but the first syllable of their mother's name combined with the first syllable of that of their father. Once the Mapah addressed himself thus to his friend Chaudesaigues—
After selling his wardrobe, the former lion’s habits completely vanished, just like his clothes. In his shift from Gannot to Mapah, everything that made up the old man disappeared: a work shirt took the place of the stylish outfits that the gambler used to wear, and a grey felt hat covered his high, well-shaped forehead. But in this new look, he was genuinely striking: his blue-grey eyes sparkled with a mystical fire; his elegantly shaped nose was straight and pure; his long, flowing beard, a bright gold, reached down to his chest; all his features, as is common with thinkers and visionaries, were drawn towards the top of his head by a kind of nervous energy; his hands were white, delicate, and distinguished-looking, and, holding onto a trace of his past vanity as a worldly man, he took special care of them; his gestures were definitely commanding; his speech was eloquent, passionate, vivid, and original. As a prophet of poverty, he embraced its symbols; he became a proletarian to connect with the working class; he wore the laborer’s shirt to reach the shirt-wearers. The Mapah wasn’t just any god—he was a mix of others; he embodied Saint Simon, Fourier, and Owen. His main belief was the ancient concept of Androgynism, i.e., the unity of male and female principles throughout nature, and the unity of men and women in society. He called his religion EVADISM, i.e. (Eve and Adam); he referred to himself as MAPAH, from mater and pater; and in this, he surpassed the Pope, who had never, even in the height of the papacy, not even under Gregory VII., been anything more than a father to Christians, while he claimed to be both the father and mother of humanity. In his system, people were not required to simply take their father's name, but rather to use the first syllable of their mother’s name combined with the first syllable of their father’s name. One time, the Mapah spoke to his friend Chaudesaigues—
"What is your name?"
"What's your name?"
"Chaudesaigues."
"Chaudesaigues."
"What does that come from?"
"Where does that come from?"
"It is my father's name."
"It's my dad's name."
"Have you then killed your mother, wretched man?"
"Did you really kill your mother, you miserable man?"
Chaudesaigues lowered his head: he had no answer to give to that.
Chaudesaigues looked down: he had no response to that.
In Socialism Mapah's doctrine was that of dissent. According to him assassins, thieves and smugglers were the living condemnation of the moral order against which they were rebelling. Schiller's Brigands he looked upon as the most complete development of his theory to be found in the world. Once he went to a home for lost women and collected them together, as he had once collected the waiters of the Hollandais in the days of his worldly folly; then, addressing the poor creatures who were waiting with curiosity, wondering who this sultan could be who wanted a dozen or more wives at a time—
In Socialism, Mapah's main idea was about dissent. He believed that assassins, thieves, and smugglers were living proof of the moral order they were fighting against. He considered Schiller's Brigands to be the best example of his theory in the world. Once, he visited a home for lost women and gathered them together, just like he had once gathered the waiters at the Hollandais during his more carefree days. Then, speaking to the curious women who were waiting and wondering who this sultan was that wanted a dozen or more wives at once—
"Mesdemoiselles," he said, "do you know what you are?"
"Young ladies," he said, "do you know what you are?"
"Why, we are prostitutes," the girls all replied together.
"Why, we are sex workers," the girls all replied together.
"You are wrong," said the Mapah; "you are Protestants." And in words which were not without elevation and vividness, he expounded to them the manner in which they, poor girls, protested against the privileges of respectable women. It need hardly be said that, as this doctrine spread, it led to some disquietude in the minds of magistrates, who had not attained the heights of the new religion, but were still plunged in the darkness of Christianity. Two or three times they brought the Mapah before the examining magistrates and threatened him with a trial; but the Mapah merely shook his blouse with his fine nervous hand, as the Roman ambassador used to shake his toga.
"You’re mistaken," said the Mapah; "you’re Protestants." And with words that held notable intensity and clarity, he explained to them how these poor girls were standing up against the privileges of respectable women. It’s not surprising that as this idea spread, it caused some unease among the magistrates, who had not reached the heights of the new belief but were still in the dark regarding Christianity. A couple of times they summoned the Mapah before the examining magistrates and threatened him with a trial; but the Mapah merely shrugged his blouse with his elegant, nervous hand, just like the Roman ambassador used to adjust his toga.
"Imprison me, try me, condemn me," he said; "I shall not appeal from the lower to a higher tribunal; I shall appeal from Pilate to the People!"
"Imprison me, put me on trial, convict me," he said; "I won’t take my case from the lower court to a higher one; I will take it from Pilate to the People!"
And, in fact, whether they stood in awe of his beard, his blouse or his speech, which was certainly captivating; whether they were unable to arrive at a decision as to what court the new religion should be judged at—police court or Court of Assizes—they left the Mapah in peace.
And, in fact, whether they were amazed by his beard, his shirt, or his speech, which was definitely captivating; whether they couldn't decide which court the new religion should be judged in—police court or Court of Assizes—they left the Mapah alone.
The most enthusiastic of the Evadian apostles was he who was once Caillaux, who published the Arche de la nouvelle alliance. He was the Mapah's Saint John; the Arche de la nouvelle alliance was the gospel which told the passion of Humanity to whose rescue the Christ of the Ile Saint Louis was come. We will devote a chapter to that gospel. The Mapah himself wrote nothing, except two or three manifestoes issued from his apostolic pallet, in which he announced his apostolate to the modern world; he did nothing but pictures and plaster-casts that looked like originals dug out of a temple of Isis. Taking his religion back to its source, he showed by his two-fold symbolism, how it had developed from age to age, fertilising the whole of nature, till, finally, it culminated in himself. The whole of the history was written in hieroglyphic signs, had the advantage of being able to be read and expounded by everybody and treated of Buddhism, Paganism and Christianity before leading up to Evadism. In the latter years of the reign of Louis-Philippe, the Mapah sent his allegorical pictures and symbols in plaster to the members of the Chamber of Deputies and to the Royal Family; it will be readily believed that the members of the Chamber and royal personages left these lithographs and symbols in the hands of their ushers and lackeys, with which to decorate their own attics. The Mapah trembled for their fate.
The most enthusiastic of the Evadian apostles was he who was once Caillaux, who published the Arche de la nouvelle alliance. He was the Mapah's Saint John; the Arche de la nouvelle alliance was the gospel that shared the struggle of Humanity, for which the Christ of the Ile Saint Louis had come to help. We will dedicate a chapter to that gospel. The Mapah himself wrote nothing, except for a couple of manifestos issued from his apostolic pallet, announcing his mission to the modern world; he created nothing but pictures and plaster casts that looked like originals pulled from a temple of Isis. By taking his religion back to its roots, he demonstrated through his two-fold symbolism how it had evolved over time, enriching all of nature until it ultimately reached its peak in him. The whole history was written in hieroglyphic signs, making it easy for anyone to read and interpret, covering Buddhism, Paganism, and Christianity before leading to Evadism. In the later years of Louis-Philippe's reign, the Mapah sent his allegorical pictures and plaster symbols to members of the Chamber of Deputies and the Royal Family; it's easy to believe that the Chamber members and royal figures left these lithographs and symbols with their assistants and servants to decorate their attics. The Mapah worried about their fate.
"They scoff," he said in prophecy: "MANÉ, THÉCEL, PHARÈS; evil fortune will befall them!"
"They scoff," he said prophetically: "MANE, TEKEL, PARSIN; bad luck will come their way!"
What did happen to them we know.
What actually happened to them, we know.
One day Chaudesaigues—poor honest fellow, who died long before his time, which I shall speak of in its place—proposed[Pg 180] to take me to the Mapah, and I accepted. He recognised me, as he had once dined or taken supper with me in the days when he was Gannot; and he had preserved a very clear memory of that meeting; he was very anxious at once to acquaint me with his symbolic figures, and to initiate me, like the Egyptian proselytes, into his most secret mysteries. Now, I had, by chance, just been studying in earnest the subjects of the early ages of the world and its great wars, which apparently devastated those primitive times without seeming reason; I was, therefore, in a measure, perfectly able not only to understand the most obscure traditions of the religion of the Mapah, but also to explain them to others, which I will now endeavour to do here.
One day, Chaudesaigues—a poor, honest guy who died too young, and I'll talk about that later—offered[Pg 180] to take me to the Mapah, and I said yes. He recognized me since he had once had dinner or supper with me back when he was Gannot, and he remembered that meeting very clearly. He was eager to show me his symbolic figures and to initiate me, like the ancient Egyptian converts, into his deepest secrets. Coincidentally, I had recently been diving into the early ages of the world and its major wars, which seemed to wreak havoc on those primitive times for no obvious reason. So, I was pretty well-prepared to not only grasp the most obscure traditions of the Mapah's religion but also to explain them to others, which I will now try to do here.
At the period when the Celts had conquered India, that ancestor of Egyptian, Greek and Roman civilisations, they found a complete system of physical and metaphysical sciences already established; Atlantic cosmogony related to absolute unity, and, according to it, everything emanated from one single principle, called Iswara, which was purely spiritual. But soon the Indian savants perceived with fear, that this world, which they had looked upon for long as the product of absolute unity, was incontestably that of a combined duality. They might have looked upon these two principles, as did the first Zoroaster a long time after them, as principiés—i.e. as the son and daughter of Iswara, thus leaving the ancient Iswara his old position, by supporting him on a double column of creating beings, as we see a Roman general being carried raised up on two shields by his soldiers; but they wished to divide these two principles into principiant principles; they therefore satisfied themselves by joining a fresh principle to that of Iswara, by mating Iswara with Pracriti, or nature. This explained everything. Pracriti possessed the sakti—i.e. the conceptive power, and the old Iswara was the bidja or generative power.
At the time when the Celts had conquered India, the ancestor of Egyptian, Greek, and Roman civilizations, they found a complete system of physical and metaphysical sciences already in place. Atlantic cosmogony was connected to absolute unity, and it stated that everything came from one single principle, called Iswara, which was purely spiritual. However, the Indian scholars soon realized with concern that this world, which they had long viewed as the product of absolute unity, was undeniably shaped by a combined duality. They could have regarded these two principles, as the first Zoroaster did long after them, as principiés—that is, as the son and daughter of Iswara—thus allowing the ancient Iswara to maintain his old position, supported by a double column of creating beings, much like a Roman general being carried high on two shields by his soldiers. But instead, they wanted to separate these two principles into principiant principles. They were therefore content to add a new principle to that of Iswara, by pairing Iswara with Pracriti, or nature. This explained everything. Pracriti had the sakti—that is, the creative power, while the ancient Iswara represented the bidja or generative power.
I think, up to now, I have been as clear as possible, and I mean to try to continue my explanations with equal lucidity; which will not be an easy matter seeing that (and I am happy[Pg 181] to give my reader due warning of it) we are dealing only with pure science, of which fact he might not be aware.
I believe I've been as clear as possible so far, and I intend to keep my explanations just as straightforward. This won't be easy, especially since (and I'm glad[Pg 181] to give my reader a heads-up) we are only dealing with pure science, which they may not realize.
This early discovery of the Indian savants, which resulted in the marriage of Iswara with Pracriti, led to the consideration of the universe as the product of two principles, each possessing its own peculiar function of the male and female qualities. Iswara and Pracriti stood for Adam and Eve to the whole of the universe, not simply for humanity. This system, remarkable by its very simplicity, which attracted men by giving to all that surrounded him an origin similar to his own, is to be found amongst most races, which received it from the Hindus. Sanchoniathon calls his male principle Hypsistos, the Most High, and his female principle Berouth, nature; the Greeks call this male principle Saturn, and their female principle Rhea; both one and the other correspond to Iswara and Pracriti. All went well for several centuries; but the mania for controversy is innate in man, and it led to the following questions, which the Hindu savants propounded, and which provoked the struggle of half the human race against the other.
This early discovery by Indian sages, which resulted in the union of Iswara and Pracriti, led to the idea of the universe as the outcome of two principles, each embodying its own distinct male and female qualities. Iswara and Pracriti represented Adam and Eve to the entire universe, not just to humanity. This system, notable for its simplicity, attracted people by providing everything around them with an origin similar to their own and can be found among most cultures that learned it from the Hindus. Sanchoniathon refers to his male principle as Hypsistos, the Most High, and his female principle as Berouth, nature; the Greeks call their male principle Saturn, and their female principle Rhea; both correspond to Iswara and Pracriti. Everything went smoothly for several centuries; however, the tendency for controversy is inherent in humans, leading to the questions posed by Hindu sages, igniting a conflict between half of humanity and the other.
"Since," say the controversials, "the universe is the result of two principiant powers, one acting with male, the other with female qualities, must we then consider the relations that they bear to one another? Are they independent one of the other? are they pre-existent to matter and contemporaneous with eternity? Or ought we rather to look upon one of them as the procreative cause of its companion? If they are independent, how came they to be reunited? Was it by some coercive force? If so, what divinity of greater power than themselves exercised that pressure upon them? Was it by sympathy? Why, then, did it not act either earlier or later? If they are not independent of one another, which of the two is to be under subjection to the other? Which is first in order of antiquity or of power? Did Iswara produce Pracriti or Pracriti Iswara? Which of them acts with the greatest energy and is the most necessary to the procreation of inanimate things and animate beings? Which should be called first in the sacrifices made to them or in the hymns addressed to[Pg 182] them? Ought the worship offered them to be combined or separated? Ought men and women to raise separate altars to them or one for both together?"[1]
"Since," say the controversialists, "the universe results from two principiant powers, one with masculine qualities and the other with feminine qualities, should we then consider their relationship with each other? Are they independent of one another? Are they pre-existing to matter and contemporary with eternity? Or should we view one as the creative cause of the other? If they are independent, how did they come to be united? Was it by some coercive force? If so, what greater divinity exercised that pressure on them? Was it through sympathy? Then why did it not act sooner or later? If they are not independent, which one is subordinate to the other? Which is older or more powerful? Did Iswara create Pracriti or did Pracriti create Iswara? Which of them acts with the greatest energy and is more essential for the creation of both inanimate objects and living beings? Which should be mentioned first in sacrifices or in hymns addressed to [Pg 182] them? Should the worship offered to them be combined or separated? Should men and women build separate altars for them or one joint altar for both?"[1]
These questions, which have divided the minds of millions of men, which have caused rivers of blood to flow, nowadays sound idle and even absurd to our readers, who hear Hindu religion spoken of as mere mythology, and India as some far-off planet; but, at the time of which we are now speaking, the Indian Empire was the centre of the civilised world and master of the known world. These questions, then, were of the highest importance. They circulated quietly in the empire at first, but soon each one collected quite a large enough number of partisans for the religious question to appear under a political aspect. The supreme priesthood, which at first had begun by holding itself aloof from all controversy, sacrificed equally to Iswara and to Pracriti—to the generative power and to the conceptive power: sacerdotalism, which had long remained neutral between the bidja and the sakti principles, was compelled to decide, and as it was composed of men—that is to say of the generative power, it decided in favour of males, and proclaimed the dominance of the masculine sex over the feminine. This decision was, of course, looked upon as tyrannical by the Pracritists, that is, the followers of the conceptive power theory; they revolted. Government rose to suppress the revolution and, hence, the declaration of civil war. Figure to yourselves upon an immense scale, in an empire of several hundreds of millions of men, a war similar to that of the Albigenses, the Vaudois or the Protestants. Meantime two princes of the reigning dynasty,[2] both sons of King Ongra, the oldest called Tarak'hya, the youngest Irshou, divided the Indian Empire between them, less from personal conviction than to make proselytes. One took bija for his standard, the other took sakti. The followers of each of these two symbols rallied at the same time under their leaders, and India had a political and civil and religious war; Irshou, the[Pg 183] younger of the two brothers, having positively declared that he had broken with sacerdotalism and intended to worship the feminine or conceptive faculty, as the first cause in the universe, according priority to it and pre-eminence over the generative or masculine faculty. A political war can be ended by a division of territory; a religious war is never-ending. Sects exterminate one another and yet are not convinced. A deadly, bitter, relentless war, then, ravaged the empire. As Irshou represented popular opinion and the Socialism of the time, and his army was largely composed of herdsmen, they called his followers the pallis, that is to say, shepherds, from the Celtic word pal, which means shepherd's crook. Irshou was defeated by Tarak'hya, and driven back as far as Egypt. The Pallis there became the stock from which those primitive dynasties sprang which lasted for two hundred and sixty-one years, and are known as the dynasties of Shepherd Kings. The etymology this time is palpably evident; therefore, let us hope we shall not meet with any contradiction on this head. Now, we have stated that Irshou took as his standard the symbol which represented the divinity he had worshipped; that sign, in Sanscrit, was called yoni, from whence is derived yoneh—which means a dove—this explains, we may point out in passing, why the dove became the bird of Venus. The men who wore the badge of the yoni were called Yoniens, and, as they always wore it symbolically depicted on a red flag, red or purple became, at Tyre and Sidon and in Greece, the royal colour, and was adopted by the consuls and emperors and popes of Rome and, finally, by all reigning princes, no matter what race they were descended from or what religion they professed. My readers may assume that I am rather pleased to be able to teach kings the derivation of their purple robes.
These questions, which have divided the thoughts of millions and caused rivers of blood to flow, now seem trivial and even ridiculous to our readers, who talk about Hindu religion as if it were just mythology and view India as a distant planet. However, at the time we're discussing, the Indian Empire was the heart of the civilized world and ruled over the known world. These questions were incredibly important then. They initially circulated quietly within the empire, but soon garnered enough support that the religious issue started to take on a political dimension. The supreme priesthood, which had initially tried to stay neutral in controversies, made sacrifices to both Iswara and Pracriti—representing the generative and conceptive powers respectively. This sacerdotalism, after remaining neutral between the bidja and the sakti principles, was forced to choose. Since it was made up of men—reflecting the generative power—it leaned towards males and declared the dominance of men over women. This decision, naturally, was seen as tyrannical by the Pracritists, followers of the conceptive power theory, who revolted. The government attempted to suppress the revolution, leading to civil war. Imagine a massive scale war, in an empire of several hundreds of millions, similar to that fought by the Albigenses, the Vaudois, or the Protestants. Meanwhile, two princes of the ruling dynasty, both sons of King Ongra—Tarak'hya, the older, and Irshou, the younger—divided the Indian Empire between them, not out of personal belief, but to gain followers. One chose biju as his standard, while the other chose sakti. Followers of each symbol rallied under their leaders, leading to a political, civil, and religious war in India. Irshou, the younger brother, openly declared his break from sacerdotalism and his intention to worship the feminine or conceptive faculty as the primary cause of the universe, asserting its priority and dominance over the generative or masculine faculty. A political war can end with a division of land; a religious war never does. Sects wipe each other out yet remain unconvinced. A fierce and unforgiving war tore through the empire. As Irshou represented popular opinion and the socialism of the time, his army mainly consisted of herdsmen, earning his followers the name the pallis, meaning shepherds, derived from the Celtic word pal, which translates to shepherd’s crook. Irshou was defeated by Tarak'hya and pushed back all the way to Egypt. The Pallis became the foundation for the primitive dynasties that lasted for two hundred sixty-one years, known as the dynasties of Shepherd Kings. The origin of their name is clear; thus, we hope there will be no disagreement on this point. Now, we've mentioned that Irshou chose the symbol representing the divinity he worshipped; that symbol, in Sanskrit, was called yoni, from which the term yoneh is derived—meaning a dove. This explains, as an aside, why the dove became associated with Venus. Those who wore the yoni badge were called Yoniens, and since they always displayed it symbolically on a red flag, red or purple became the royal color in Tyre, Sidon, and Greece. This color was adopted by the consuls, emperors, and popes of Rome, and eventually, by all reigning princes, regardless of their lineage or religion. My readers might think I take pleasure in teaching kings the origins of their purple robes.
Well, then, it was on account of his studying these great questions of dispute, which had lasted more than two thousand years and had cost a million of men's lives; it was from fear lest they should be revived in our days that the philanthropic Gannot endeavoured to found a religion, under the title of Evadism which was to reunite these two creeds into a single one. To[Pg 184] that end were his strange figures moulded in plaster and the eccentric lithographs that he designed and executed upon coloured paper, with the earnestness of a Brahmin disciple of bidja or an Egyptian adherent of sakti.[3]
Well, it was because he was studying these major issues of conflict that have gone on for over two thousand years and have taken the lives of millions of people. Out of fear that they might resurface in our time, the compassionate Gannot tried to establish a religion called Evadism, intended to combine these two beliefs into one. To[Pg 184] achieve this, he created strange figures out of plaster and eccentric lithographs on colored paper, with the dedication of a Brahmin disciple of bidja or an Egyptian follower of sakti.[3]
The joy of the Mapah can be imagined when he found I was acquainted with the primitive dogmas of his religion and with the disasters which the discussion of those doctrines had brought with them. He offered me the position of his chief disciple, on the spot, in place of him who had once been Caillaux; but I have ever been averse to usurpation, and had no intention of devoting myself to a principle, by my example, which, some day or other, I should be called upon to oppose. The Mapah next offered to abdicate in my favour and himself be my head disciple. The position did not seem to me sufficiently clearly defined, in the face of both spiritual and temporal powers, to accept that offer, fascinating though it was. I therefore contented myself with carrying away from the Mapah's studio one of the most beautiful specimens of the bidja and sakti, promising to exhibit them in the most conspicuous place in my sitting-room, which I took good care not to do, and then I departed. I did not see the Mapah again until after the Revolution of 24 February, when, by chance, I met him in the offices of the Commune de Paris, where I went to ask for the insertion of an article on exiles in general, and those of the family of Orléans in particular. The article had been declined by the chief editor of the Liberté, M. Lepoitevin-Saint-Alme. The revolution predicted by Gannot had come. I expected, therefore, to find him overwhelmed with delight; and, as a matter of fact, he did praise the three days of February, but with a faint voice and dulled feelings; he seemed to be singularly enfeebled by that strange and sensual mysticism, which presented every event to his mind in dogmatic form. The lines of the upper part of his face were more deeply drawn towards his prominent forehead, and his whole person bespoke the visionary in whom the hallucination of being a god had degenerated into a disease.
The joy of the Mapah was clear when he found out I was familiar with the basic beliefs of his religion and the issues that discussing those ideas had caused. He immediately offered me the role of his chief disciple, replacing him who had once been Caillaux; however, I have always been against taking someone else's place and had no intention of committing myself to a principle that I might eventually have to challenge. The Mapah then suggested that he step down in favor of me and become my head disciple. The position didn’t seem well-defined enough, considering both spiritual and political influences, to accept such an intriguing offer. So, I settled for leaving the Mapah's studio with one of the most beautiful examples of the bidja and sakti, promising to display them prominently in my living room, which I made sure not to do, and then I left. I didn’t see the Mapah again until after the Revolution of February 24, when I unexpectedly encountered him at the offices of the Commune de Paris, where I had gone to request the publication of an article about exiles in general and specifically the family of Orléans. The chief editor of the Liberté, M. Lepoitevin-Saint-Alme, had rejected the article. The revolution predicted by Gannot had come. I expected him to be filled with joy; indeed, he did praise the events of those three days in February, but his voice was weak, and his feelings seemed dull. He appeared to be remarkably weakened by that strange sensual mysticism, which framed every event in his mind in dogmatic terms. The lines on his forehead were drawn deeper, and his entire demeanor reflected a visionary whose delusion of being a god had turned into an affliction.
He defined the terror of the middle classes at the events of 24 February and Socialistic doctrines as, "the frantic terror of the pig which feels the cold edge of the knife at its throat." His latter years were sad and gloomy; he ended by doubting himself. Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani! rang in his aching and disillusioned heart like a death-knell. During the last year of his life his only pupil was an Auvergnat, a seller of chestnuts in a passage-way.... And to him the dying god bequeathed the charge of spreading his doctrines. This event took place towards the beginning of the year 1851.
He described the fear of the middle classes during the events of February 24 and socialist beliefs as “the frantic terror of a pig that feels the cold edge of the knife at its throat.” His later years were sad and bleak; he ended up doubting himself. Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani! echoed in his aching and disillusioned heart like a funeral bell. In the last year of his life, his only student was an Auvergnat, a chestnut seller in a passageway.... And to him, the dying god entrusted the task of spreading his teachings. This event happened in early 1851.
[3] In Sanscrit linga and yoni; in Greek ϕαλλος and χοίρος.
CHAPTER IX
Apocalypse of the being who was once called Caillaux
Apocalypse of the person who was once called Caillaux
We said a few words of the apostle of Mapah and promised to follow him to his isle of Patmos and to give some idea of his apocalypse. We will keep our word. It was no easy matter to find this apocalypse, my reader may judge; it had been published at the trouble and expense of Hetzel, under the title of Arche de la nouvelle Alliance. Not that Hetzel was in the very least a follower of the Evadian religion—he was simply the compatriot and friend of him who was Caillaux, to which twofold advantages he owed the honour of dining several times with the god Mapah and his disciple. It is more than likely that Hetzel paid for the dinners himself.
We talked a bit about the apostle of Mapah and promised to follow him to his island of Patmos and give some insight into his apocalypse. We’ll keep that promise. It wasn’t easy to track down this apocalypse, as you can imagine; it was published at the expense and effort of Hetzel, under the title of Arche de la nouvelle Alliance. Hetzel wasn’t at all a follower of the Evadian religion—he was just the compatriot and friend of him who was Caillaux, which gave him the privilege of dining with the god Mapah and his disciple several times. It’s quite possible that Hetzel covered the cost of the dinners himself.
ARCH OF THE NEW ALLIANCE
"I have not come to say to the people, 'Render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's and to God the things that are God's,' but I have come to tell Cæsar to render to God the things that belong to God! 'What is God?—God, is the People!—The Mapah.' At the hour when shadows deepen I saw the vision of the last apostle of a decaying religion and I exclaimed—
"I didn't come to tell people, 'Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God,' but I've come to tell Caesar to give to God what belongs to God! 'What is God?—God is the People!—The Mapah.' At the moment when shadows grow longer, I saw the vision of the last apostle of a fading religion and I shouted—"
I
I
"'Why dost thou grieve, O king! and why dost thou moan over thy ruined crown? Why rise up against those who dethroned thee? If thou fallest to-day, it is because thy hour has come: to attempt to prolong it for a day, is but to offer insult to the Majesty in the heavens.
"'Why are you sad, O king! and why are you mourning over your lost crown? Why do you rise against those who have removed you? If you fall today, it’s because your time has come: trying to stretch it out by even a day is just a disrespect to the Majesty in the heavens.
II
II
"'Everything that exists here below has it not its phases of life and of death? Does the vegetation of the valleys always flourish? After the season of fine days does it not come to pass that some morning the autumn wind scatters the leaves of the beeches?
"'Doesn’t everything that exists here go through its own stages of life and death? Does the vegetation in the valleys always flourish? After a season of beautiful days, doesn’t it happen that one morning the autumn wind blows the leaves off the beeches?
III
III
"'Cease, then, O King! thy lamentation and do not be perturbed in thy loneliness! Be not surprised if thy road is deserted and if the nations keep silence during thy passing as at the passing of a funeral cortège: thou hast not failed in thy mission; simply, thy mission is done. It is destiny!
"'So stop, O King! your crying and don’t be troubled in your solitude! Don’t be shocked if your path is empty and if the nations are silent as you go by, like at a funeral procession: you haven’t failed in your mission; it’s just that your mission is complete. It’s destiny!"
IV
IV
"'Dost thou not know that humanity only lives in the future? What does the present care about the oriflamme of Bouvines? Let us bury it with thy ancestors lying motionless beneath their monuments; another banner is needed for the men of to-day.
"'Don't you realize that humanity only lives in the future? What does the present care about the oriflamme of Bouvines? Let’s bury it with your ancestors lying still beneath their monuments; another banner is needed for the people of today."
V
V
"'And when we have sealed with a triple seal the stone which covers up past majesty, let us do obeisance as did the people of Memphis before the silence of their pyramids, those mute giants of the desert; but like them do not let us remain with our foreheads in the dust, but from the ruins of ancient creeds let us spring upwards towards the Infinite! Thus did I sing during the dawn of my life. A poet, I have ever pitied noble misfortune; as son of the people, I have never abjured renown. At that time this world appeared to me to be free and powerful under heaven, and I believed that the last salute of the universe to the phantom of ancient days would be its first aspiration towards future splendours. But it was nothing of the kind. The past, whilst burying itself under the earth, had not drawn all its procession of dark shades with it. Now I went to those bare strands which the ocean bleaches with its foam. The seagulls hailed the rocks of the coast with their harsh cries, and the mighty voice of the sea sounded more sweetly to my ear than the language of men ...'"
"And when we've sealed the stone with a triple seal that hides the past's glory, let's pay our respects like the people of Memphis did in front of the silence of their pyramids, those silent giants of the desert; but let’s not remain with our foreheads in the dust like they did; instead, let’s rise from the ruins of ancient beliefs toward the Infinite! This is how I expressed myself at the dawn of my life. As a poet, I have always felt for noble misfortune; as a son of the people, I have never turned my back on fame. At that time, this world seemed free and powerful under the heavens, and I believed that the universe's last tribute to the ghost of ancient days would be its first longing for future glories. But that wasn’t the case at all. The past, while burying itself underground, hadn’t taken all its procession of dark shadows with it. Now I went to those barren strands that the ocean washes with its foam. The seagulls cried out to the coastal rocks with their harsh calls, and the mighty voice of the sea sounded sweeter to my ear than the language of men..."
Then follows the apostle's feelings under the influence of the[Pg 188] great aspects of Nature; he stays a year far from Paris; then at last his vocation recalls him among men.
Then comes the apostle's feelings influenced by the[Pg 188] magnificent aspects of Nature; he spends a year away from Paris; and finally, his calling brings him back to society.
"Now, the very night of my return from my wanderings, I walked a dreamer in the midst of the roar of that great western city, my soul more than ever crushed beneath the weight of its ruin. I beheld myself as during my happiest years when I was full of confidence in God and the future; and then I turned my glance upon myself, the man of the present moment, for ever tossed between hope and fear, between desire and remorse, between calm and discouragement. When I had well contemplated myself thus, and had by thought stirred up the mud of the past and had considered the good and evil that had emanated from me, I raised in inexpressible anger my fist towards heaven, and I said to God: 'To whom, then, does this earth belong?' At the same moment, I felt myself hustled violently, and by an irresistible movement I lowered my arm to strike—in striking the cheek of him who was jostling me, I felt I was smiting the world. Oh! what a surprise! my hand, instead of beating his face, encountered his hand; a loving pressure drew us together, and in grave and solemn tones he said: 'The water, the air, the earth and fire belong to none—they are God's!' Then, uncovering the folds of the garment which covered my breast, he put a finger on my heart and a brilliant flame leapt out and I felt relief. Overcome with amazement, I exclaimed—
"That very night after I got back from my travels, I wandered through the busy streets of that big western city, my spirit weighed down more than ever by its decay. I remembered my happiest years when I was filled with faith in God and the future; then I looked at the man I am now, stuck forever between hope and fear, between desire and regret, between calm and disappointment. After reflecting on myself and disturbing the murky waters of my past, weighing the good and bad that had come from me, I raised my fist in anger to the sky and shouted at God, 'So, who does this earth belong to?' At that moment, I felt a sudden shove, and without thinking, I lowered my arm to hit—when I swung at the person who bumped into me, it felt like I was striking the world. But to my surprise, instead of hitting his face, my hand connected with his. A gentle grip pulled us closer, and in a serious tone, he said, 'The water, the air, the earth, and fire belong to no one—they are God's!' Then, pulling aside the folds of my clothing, he placed a finger on my heart, and a brilliant flame burst forth, bringing me relief. Overcome with amazement, I exclaimed—
"'Who art thou, whose word strengthens and whose touch regenerates?'
"'Who are you, whose words empower and whose touch restores?'"
'Thou shalt know, this very night!' he replied, and went on his way.
'You'll know, this very night!' he replied and continued on his way.
"I followed and examined him at leisure: he was a man of the people, with a crooked back and powerful limbs; an untrimmed beard fell over his breast, and his bare and nearly bald head bore witness to hard work and rude passions. He carried a sack of plaster on his back which bowed him down beneath its weight. Thus bent he passed through the crowd...."
"I followed and watched him at my own pace: he was a man of the people, with a hunched back and strong limbs; an unkempt beard hung over his chest, and his bare, almost bald head showed signs of hard work and raw emotions. He carried a sack of plaster on his back that weighed him down. Bent over, he moved through the crowd...."
The disciple then followed the god; for this man who had comforted him was the Mapah; he followed him to the threshold of his studio, into which he disappeared. It was the same studio to which Chaudesaigues had taken me, on the[Pg 189] quai Bourbon, in the Ile Saint Louis. The door of the studio soon reopened and the apostle entered and was present at the revelation, which the Mapah had promised him. But, first of all, there was the discovery of the Mapah himself.
The disciple then followed the god; the man who had comforted him was the Mapah. He followed him to the entrance of his studio, where he vanished inside. This was the same studio that Chaudesaigues had taken me to, on the[Pg 189] quai Bourbon, in the Ile Saint Louis. The door of the studio soon reopened, and the apostle entered to witness the revelation that the Mapah had promised him. But first, there was the discovery of the Mapah himself.
"Meanwhile, the owner of this dwelling had none of the bearing of a common working-man. He was, indeed, the man of the sack of plaster, and the uncut beard, and torn blouse, who had accosted me in such an unexpected fashion; he had exactly the same powerful glance, the same breadth of shoulders, the same vigorous loins, but on that furrowed brow, and in those granite features and that indescribable personality of the man there hovered a rude dignity before which I bowed my head.
"Meanwhile, the owner of this place didn't have the vibe of a typical working-class guy. He was actually the one with the bag of plaster, the unkempt beard, and the worn-out shirt who had approached me so unexpectedly; he had the same intense gaze, the same strong build, but on that wrinkled forehead, in those rugged features, and within his unique personality, there was an undeniable dignity that made me lower my head in respect."
"I advanced towards my host, who was laid on a half-broken bed, lighted up by a night lamp in a pot of earth. I said—
"I walked over to my host, who was lying on a half-broken bed, lit by a night lamp sitting in a pot of dirt. I said—
"'Master, you whose touch heals and whose words restore, who are you?'
"'Master, you who heal with your touch and revive hope with your words, who are you?'"
"Lifting his eyes to me, he replied simply, 'There is no master now; we are all children of God: call me brother.'
"Looking up at me, he simply replied, 'There’s no master anymore; we’re all children of God: just call me brother.'"
"'Then,' I replied, 'Brother, who then are you?'
"'Then,' I replied, 'Who are you, brother?'"
"'I am he who is. Like the shepherd on the tops of the cliffs I have heard the cry of the multitude; it is like the moan of the waves at the winter equinox; that cry has pierced my heart and I have come.'
"'I am the one who exists. Like the shepherd on the cliffs, I have heard the call of the crowd; it is like the roar of the waves during the winter equinox; that call has touched my heart, and I have come.'"
"Motioning me to come nearer, he went on—
"Gesturing for me to come closer, he continued—
"'Son of doubt, who art sowing sorrow and reaping anguish, what seekest thou? The sun or darkness? Death or life? Hope or the grave?'
"'Son of doubt, spreading sadness and reaping pain, what are you looking for? The sun or darkness? Death or life? Hope or the grave?'"
"'Brother, I seek after truth,' I replied. 'I have hailed the past, I have questioned its abysmal depths whence came the rumours that had reached me: the past was deaf to my cries.'
"'Brother, I'm searching for the truth,' I replied. 'I've called out to the past, exploring its deep mysteries where the whispers that reached me came from: the past has not responded to my pleas.'
"'The past was not to hear you. Every age has had its own prophets, and each country its monuments; but prophets and monuments have vanished like shadows: what was life yesterday is to-day but death. Do not then evoke the past, let it fall asleep in the darkness of its tombs in the dust of its solitary places.'
"'The past doesn't listen to you. Every era has its own prophets, and each country has its own monuments; but prophets and monuments have vanished like shadows: what was alive yesterday is dead today. So don’t call upon the past; let it rest in the darkness of its graves in the dust of its lonely places.'
"I went on—'I questioned the present amidst the flashes and deceptions of this century, but it did not hear me either.'
"I continued—'I questioned the present amid the illusions and tricks of this age, but it didn’t hear me either.'
"'The present was not to hear you; its flashes do but precede the storm, and its law is not the law of the future.'
"'The present is not meant to hear you; its moments only appear before the storm, and its rules are not the rules of the future.'
"'Brother, what then is this law? What are the showers that make it blossom, and what sun sheds light upon it?'
"'Brother, what is this law? What are the rains that help it grow, and what sun shines on it?'"
"'God will teach thee.'
"'God will teach you.'
"Pointing to me to be seated near to him, he added:
"Gesturing for me to sit near him, he added:
'Sit down and listen attentively, for I will declare the truth unto you. I am he who crieth to the people, "Watch at the threshold of your dwelling and sleep not: the hour of revelation is at hand ..."'
'Sit down and listen closely, because I’m going to tell you the truth. I am the one who calls to the people, "Stay alert at your doorstep and don’t fall asleep: the time of revelation is near..."'
"At that moment the earth trembled, a hurricane beat against the window panes, belfries rang of themselves; the disciple would fain flee, but fear riveted him to the master's side. He continued—
"At that moment, the ground shook, a hurricane battered against the windows, and the bells rang by themselves; the disciple wanted to run away, but fear kept him anchored to the master's side. He continued—
"I foreboded that something strange would take place before me, and indeed as the knell of the belfry rang out on the empty air, a song which had no echo in mortal tongue, abrupt, quick and laden with indefinable mockery, answered him from under the earth, and rising from note to note, from the deepest to the shrillest tones, it resounded and rebounded like some wounded snake, and grated like a saw being sharpened; finally, ever decreasing, ever-growing feebler, until it was lost at last in space. And this is the burden of the song—
"I felt something strange was about to happen, and sure enough, as the bell tower rang out into the empty air, a wordless song responded from below, sudden and quick, filled with an unexplainable mockery. It rose from deep notes to high tones, echoing back like a wounded snake and grating like a saw being sharpened. Finally, it faded, becoming weaker and weaker until it completely disappeared into the void. And this is the main theme of the song—
"'Behold the year '40, the famous year '40 has come! Ah! ah! ah! What will it bring forth? What will it produce? An ox or an egg? Perhaps one, perhaps the other! ah! ah! ah! Peasants turn up your sleeves! And you wealthy, sweep your hearthstones. Make way, make way for the year '40! The year '40 is cold and hungry and in need of food; and no wonder! Its teeth chatter, its limbs shiver, its children have no shoes, and its daughters possess not even a ribbon to adorn their locks on Sunday; they have not even a beggarly dime lying idle in their poverty-stricken pockets to buy drink wherewith to refresh themselves and their lovers! Ah! ah! what wretchedness! Were it not too dreadful it would seem ludicrous. Did you come here, gossip, to see this topsy-turvy world? Come quickly, there is room for all.... Stay, you raven looking in at the window, and that vulture beating its wings. Ah! ah! ah! The year '40 is cold, is an hungered, in need of food! What will it bring forth ...?'
"'Look, the year '40, the famous year '40 has arrived! Ah! ah! ah! What will it bring? What will it produce? An ox or an egg? Maybe one, maybe the other! Ah! ah! ah! Farmers, roll up your sleeves! And you rich folks, sweep your hearthstones. Make way, make way for the year '40! The year '40 is cold and hungry and needs food; and no surprise! Its teeth are chattering, its limbs are shivering, its children have no shoes, and its daughters don’t even have a ribbon to dress their hair on Sunday; they don’t even have a lousy dime lying around in their empty pockets to buy a drink to refresh themselves and their lovers! Ah! ah! what misery! If it weren't so dreadful it would seem ridiculous. Did you come here, gossip, to see this crazy world? Come quickly, there’s room for all.... Stay, you raven looking in at the window, and that vulture flapping its wings. Ah! ah! ah! The year '40 is cold, hungry, in need of food! What will it bring...?'
"And the song died away in the distance, and mingled with the murmur of the wind which was wailing without....
"And the song faded into the distance, blending with the soft sound of the wind howling outside...."
"Then began the apparitions. There were twelve of them, all livid and weighted with chains and bleeding, each holding its dissevered head in its hand, each wrapped in a shroud, green with the moss of its sepulchre, each carrying in front of it the[Pg 191] mark of the twelve great passions, the mystic link which unites man to the Creator. They advanced as some dark shadow of night falls upon the mountains. It was one of those terrifying groups, which one sees in the days of torment, in the midst of the cross-roads of the seething city; the citizens question one another by signs, and ask each other—
"Then the apparitions started. There were twelve of them, all pale and weighed down with chains, bleeding, each holding its severed head in its hand, each wrapped in a shroud, green with the moss from its grave, each showing in front of it the[Pg 191] mark of the twelve great passions, the mystical link that binds man to the Creator. They moved forward like a dark shadow of night descending on the mountains. It was one of those terrifying groups you see in times of torment, in the crowded streets of the chaotic city; the citizens communicate with each other through gestures and ask one another—
"'Do you see those awful faces down there? Who on earth are those men, and how come they to wander spectre-like among the excited crowd?'
"'Do you see those scary faces down there? Who are those people, and why are they wandering around like ghosts among the excited crowd?'"
"And on the head of the one who walked first, like that of an overthrown king, so splendid was its pallor and its regal lips scornful, a crown of fire was burning with this word written in letters of blood, 'Lacenairisme!' Dumb and led by the figure who seemed to be their king, the phantoms grouped themselves in a semi-circle at the foot of the dilapidated bed, as though at the foot of some seat of justice; and he who is, after fixing his earnest glance upon them for some moments questioned them in the following terms—
"And on the head of the one who walked first, like that of a fallen king, so remarkable was its pale glow and its scornful regal lips, a crown of fire was burning with this word written in letters of blood, 'Lacenairisme!' Silent and guided by the figure who seemed to be their king, the phantoms formed a semi-circle at the foot of the worn-out bed, as if at the foot of some seat of justice; and he who is, after fixing his intense gaze upon them for a few moments, asked them the following questions—
"'Who are you?'
"'Who are you?'
"'Sorrow's elect, apostles of hunger.'
"'Sorrow's elect, apostles of hunger.'
"'Your names?'
"'Your names?'
"'A mysterious letter.'
"'A mysterious letter.'
"'Whence come you?'
"'Where do you come from?'
"'From the shades.'
"'From the shades.'
"'What do you demand?'
"'What do you demand?'
"'Justice.'
"'Justice.'
"The echoes repeated, 'Justice!'
"The echoes repeated, 'Justice!'
"And at a signal from their king, the phantoms intoned a ringing hymn in chorus ..."
"And at a signal from their king, the spirits sang a powerful hymn together ..."
It had a kind of awful majesty in it, a sort of grand terror, but we will reserve our space for other quotations which we prefer to that. The apostle resumed—
It had a kind of terrible grandeur to it, a sort of magnificent fear, but we’ll save our space for other quotes that we like better. The apostle continued—
"The pale phantoms ceased, their lips became motionless and frozen, and round the accursed brows of these lost children of the grave, there seemed to hover indistinctly the bloody shadow of the past. Suddenly from the base to the top of this mysterious ladder issued a loud sound, and fresh faces appeared on the threshold.... A red shirt, a coarse woollen cap, a poor pair of linen trousers soiled with sweat and powder; at the feet was a brass cannon-ball, in its hands were clanking chains; these accoutrements stood for the symbols of all kinds[Pg 192] of human misfortunes. As if they had been called up by their predecessors, they entered and bowed amicably to them. I noticed that each face bore a look of unconcern and of defiance, each carefully hid a rusty dagger beneath its vestments, and on their shoulders they bore triumphantly a large chopping-block still dyed with dark stains of blood. And on this block leant a man with a drunken face and tottering legs, grotesquely supporting himself on the worn-out handle of an axe. And this man, gambolling and gesticulating, mumbled in a nasal tone, a kind of lament with this refrain—
"The pale ghosts halted, their lips frozen in silence, and around the cursed foreheads of these lost souls from the grave lingered an indistinct, bloody shadow of the past. Suddenly, a loud noise echoed from the bottom to the top of this mysterious ladder, and new faces appeared at the entrance.... A man in a red shirt, a rough wool cap, and worn linen pants stained with sweat and powder stood with a brass cannonball at his feet and clanking chains in his hands; these items represented various human misfortunes. As if called forth by their predecessors, they entered and greeted them warmly. I noticed that each face wore an expression of indifference and defiance, carefully hiding a rusty dagger under their clothing, and proudly carrying a large chopping block still stained with dark blood over their shoulders. Leaning against this block was a man with a drunken look and unsteady legs, grotesquely using the battered handle of an axe to support himself. This man, dancing and gesticulating, mumbled nasally a kind of lament with this refrain—"
"'Voici l'autel et le bedeau!
À sa barbe faisons l'orgie;
Jusqu'à ce que sur notre vie,
Le diable tire le rideau,
Foin de l'autel et du bedeau!'
"'Here is the altar and the sexton!
Let's have our wild party at his beard;
Until the devil draws the curtain,
Forget the altar and the sexton!'"And his companions took up the refrain in chorus to the noise of their clashing chains. Which perceiving he who is spread his hands over the dreadful pageant. There took place a profound silence; then he said—
"And his friends joined in, clashing their chains. Realizing this, he who is spread his hands over the terrifying scene. A deep silence followed, then he said—"
"'My heart, ocean of life, of grief and of love, is the great receptacle of the new alliance into which fall its tears and sweat and blood; and by the tears which have watered, by the sweat which has dropped, by the blood which has become fertile, be blessed, my brothers, executed persons, convicts and sufferers, and hope—the hour of revelation is at hand!'
"'My heart, an ocean of life, grief, and love, is the vast container of the new bond that holds its tears, sweat, and blood; and through the tears that have nurtured, the sweat that has fallen, and the blood that has borne fruit, be blessed, my brothers—those executed, convicts, and those who suffer—and hope—the moment of revelation is near!'"
'What!' I exclaimed in horror; 'hast thou come to preach the sword?'
"What!" I exclaimed in shock; "have you come to preach violence?"
'I do not come to preach it but to give the word for it.'
'I'm not here to preach it, but to share its message.'
"And he who is replied—
"And he who is replied—
"'Passions are like the twelve great tables of the law of laws, LOVE. They are when in unison the source of all good things; when subverted they are the source of all evils.'
"'Passions are like the twelve great tables of the law of laws, LOVE. When they work together, they are the source of all good; when twisted, they become the source of all evil.'"
"Silence again arose, and he added—
"Silence fell again, and he added—
"'Each head that falls is one letter of a verb whose meaning is not yet understood, but whose first word stands for protestation; the last, signifies integral passional expansion. The axe is a steel; the head of the executed, a flint; the blood which spurts from it, the spark; and society a powder-horn!'
"'Every head that falls is a letter of a verb whose meaning isn't fully understood yet, but the first word represents protest; the last signifies complete emotional expansion. The axe is steel; the head of the executed is flint; the blood that gushes forth is the spark; and society is a powder horn!'"
"Silence was renewed, and he went on a third time—
"Silence returned, and he spoke again for the third time—
"'The prison is to modern society what the circus was to ancient Rome: the slave died for individual liberty; in our day, the convict dies for passional integral liberty.'
"'The prison is to modern society what the circus was to ancient Rome: the slave died for individual freedom; today, the convict dies for total emotional freedom.'"
"And again silence reigned, but after a while a mild Voice from on high said to the sorry cortège which stood motionless at one corner of the pallet-bed—-
"Once more, silence enveloped the space, but after a while, a gentle voice from above addressed the mournful group that stood in a corner of the small bed—"
"'Have hope, ye poor martyrs! Hope! for the hour approaches!'"
"'Have hope, you poor martyrs! Hope! The hour is coming!'"
"Then three noble figures came forward—those of the mechanic, the labourer and the soldier. The first was hungry: they fought with him for the bread he had earned. The second was both hungry and cold; they haggled for the corn he had sown and the wood he had cut down. The third had experienced every kind of human suffering; furthermore, he had hoped and his hope had withered away, and he was reproached for the blood that had been shed. All three bore the history of their lives on their countenances; all felt ill at ease in the present and were ready to question God concerning His doings; but as the hour approached and their cry was about to rise to the Eternal, a spectre rose up from the limbs of the past: his name was Duty. Before him they recoiled affrighted. A priest went before them, his form wrapped in burial clothes; he advanced slowly with lowered eyes. Strange contrast! He dreamed of the heavens and yet bent low towards the earth! On his breast was the inscription: Christianity! Beneath: Resignation.
Then three noble figures stepped forward—the mechanic, the laborer, and the soldier. The first was hungry: they fought him for the bread he had earned. The second was both hungry and cold; they haggled for the corn he had sown and the wood he had chopped. The third had endured all kinds of human suffering; in addition, he had hoped, and that hope had faded, leaving him blamed for the blood that had been shed. All three bore the stories of their lives on their faces; all felt uncomfortable in the present and were ready to question God about His actions; but as the hour approached and their cry was about to rise to the Eternal, a specter emerged from the shadows of the past: his name was Duty. They recoiled in fear before him. A priest moved ahead, dressed in burial garments; he walked slowly with his eyes downcast. A strange contrast! He dreamed of the heavens yet bowed toward the earth! On his chest was the inscription: Christianity! Below: Resignation.
"'Here they come! Behold them!' cried the apostle; they are advancing to him who is. What will be the nature of their speech and how will they express themselves in his presence? Will their complaint be as great as their sadness? Not so, their uncertainty is too great for them to dare to formulate their thoughts: besides, doubt is their real feeling. Perhaps, some day, they may speak out more freely. Let us listen respectfully to the hymn that falls from their lips; it is solemnly majestic, but less musical than the breeze and less infinite than the Ocean. Hear it—
"'Here they come! Look at them!' shouted the apostle; they are moving toward him who is. What will they say and how will they express themselves in his presence? Will their complaint align with their sadness? Not really, their uncertainty is too overwhelming for them to voice their thoughts; besides, doubt is their true feeling. Maybe someday they will speak more freely. Let's listen respectfully to the hymn that flows from their lips; it is solemnly majestic, but less melodic than the breeze and less boundless than the Ocean. Hear it—
HYMNE
"Du haut de l'horizon, du milieu des nuages
Où l'astre voyageur apparut aux trois rois,
Des profondeurs du temple où veillent tes images,
O Christ! entends-tu notre voix?
Si tu contemples la misère
De la foule muette au pied de tes autels,
Une larme de sang doit mouiller ta paupière.
Tu dois te demander, dans ta douleur austère,
S'il est des dogmes éternels!"
[Pg 194]
LE PRÊTRE
"O Christ! j'ai pris longtemps pour un port salutaire
Ta maison, dont le toit domine les hauts lieux;
Et j'ai voulu cacher au fond du sanctuaire,
Comme sous un bandeau, mon front tumultueux."
LE SOLDAT
"O Christ! j'ai pris longtemps pour une noble chaîne
L'abrutissant lien que je traîne aujourd'hui;
Et j'ai donné mon sang à la cause incertaine
De cette égalité dont l'aurore avait lui."
LE LABOUREUR
"O Christ! j'ai pris longtemps pour une tâche sainte
La rude mission confiée à mes bras,
Et j'ai, pendant vingt ans, sans repos et sans plainte,
Laissé sur les sillons la trace de mes pas."
L'OUVRIER
"O Christ! j'ai pris longtemps pour œuvre méritoire
Mes longs jours consumés dans un labeur sans fin;
Et, maintes fois, de peur d'outrager ta mémoire,
J'ai plié ma nature aux douleurs de la faim."
LE PRÊTRE
"La foi n'a pas rempli mon âme inassouvie!"
LE SOLDAT
"L'orage a balayé tout le sang répandu!"
LE LABOUREUR
"Où je semais le grain, j'ai récolté l'ortie!"
L'OUVRIER
"Hier, J'avais un lit mon maître l'a vendu!"
ANTHEM
"From the heights of the horizon, from the middle of the clouds
Where the traveling star appeared to the three kings,
From the depths of the temple where your images watch over us,
Oh Christ! do you hear our voice?
If you see the misery
Of the silent crowd at your altars,
A tear of blood should wet your eyelid.
You must wonder, in your austere pain,
If there are any eternal doctrines!"
[Pg 194]
THE PRIEST
"Oh Christ! for a long time I thought your house,
With its roof towering above the heights, was a safe harbor;
And I wanted to hide in the sanctuary,
Like under a blindfold, my tumultuous thoughts."
THE SOLDIER
"Oh Christ! for a long time I saw as a noble chain
The dull link that I now drag behind me;
And I spilled my blood for the uncertain cause
Of this equality that dawn had promised."
THE FARMER
"Oh Christ! for a long time I thought the heavy task
Entrusted to my arms was a holy mission,
And for twenty years, without rest and without complaint,
I left the trace of my steps on the plowed fields."
THE WORKER
"Oh Christ! for a long time I thought my endless days
Spent in toil were a worthy endeavor;
And many times, fearing to offend your memory,
I forced myself to endure the pains of hunger."
THE PRIEST
"Faith has not fulfilled my unsatisfied soul!"
THE SOLDIER
"The storm has swept away all the spilled blood!"
THE FARMER
"Where I sowed the grain, I’ve harvested nettles!"
THE WORKER
"Yesterday, I had a bed; my master sold it!""Silence! Has the night wind borne away their prayer on its wings? or have their voices ceased to question the heavens? Are they perchance comforted? Who can tell? God keeps the enigma in His own mighty hands, the terrible enigma held aloft over the borders of two worlds—the present and the future. But they will not be forsaken on their way[Pg 195] where doubt assails them, where resignation fells them. Children of God, they shall have their share of life and of sunshine. God loves those who seek after Him.... Then the priest and soldier and artizan and labourer gave place to others, and the apostle went on—
"Silence! Has the night wind carried their prayer away on its wings? Or have their voices stopped questioning the heavens? Are they maybe comforted? Who knows? God holds the mystery in His own powerful hands, the terrifying mystery hovering over the boundaries of two worlds—the present and the future. But they won’t be abandoned on their journey[Pg 195] where doubt attacks them and resignation overwhelms them. Children of God, they will have their share of life and sunshine. God loves those who seek Him.... Then the priest, soldier, artisan, and laborer made way for others, and the apostle continued—
"And after two women, one of whom was dazzlingly and boldly adorned, and the other mute and veiled, there followed a procession in which the grotesque was mingled with the terrible, the fantastic with the real; all moved about the room together, which seemed suddenly to grow larger to make space for this multitude, whilst the retiring spectres, giving place to the newcomers, grouped themselves silently at a little distance from their formidable predecessors. And he who is, preparing to address a speech to the fresh arrivals, one of their number, whom I had not at first noticed, came forward to answer in the name of his acolytes. Upon the brow of this interpreter, square built, with shining and greedy lips and on his glistening hungry lips, I read in letters of gold the word Macairisme!
"Afterward, two women approached, one stunningly and boldly dressed, and the other quiet and veiled; their procession mixed the grotesque with the terrifying, the fantastic with the real; all moved around the room together, which suddenly seemed to expand to accommodate this crowd, while the fading specters, stepping aside for the newcomers, grouped themselves silently a little distance from their imposing predecessors. And he who is, preparing to speak to the new arrivals, had one of their members, whom I hadn’t noticed at first, step forward to respond on behalf of his followers. On the forehead of this spokesperson, strong, with shiny and eager lips, I read in golden letters the word Macairisme!
"And he who is said—
"'Who are you?'
"'The favourites of luxury, the apostles of joy.'
"'Whence come you?'
"'From wealth.'
"'Where do you go?'
"'To pleasure.'
"'What has made you so well favoured?'
"'Infamy.'
"'What makes you so happy?'
"'Impunity.'"
"And he who is said—
"'Who are you?'
"'The favorites of luxury, the messengers of joy.'
"'Where do you come from?'
"'From wealth.'
"'Where are you going?'
"'To pleasure.'
"'What has made you so favored?'
"'Infamy.'
"'What makes you so happy?'
"'Impunity.'"
The strange procession which then unfolded itself before the apostle's eyes can be imagined: first the dazzling woman in the bold attire, the prostitute; the mute, veiled woman was the adulteress; then came stock-jobbers, sharpers, business men, bankers, usurers,—all that class of worms, reptiles and serpents which are spawned in the filth of society.
The strange procession that unfolded before the apostle's eyes can be imagined: first, the dazzling woman in bold clothing, the prostitute; then the silent, veiled woman, the adulteress; after that came stock traders, swindlers, business people, bankers, and loan sharks—all that class of worms, reptiles, and serpents born from the muck of society.
"One twirled a great gold snuff-box between his fingers, upon the lid of which were engraved these words: Powdered plebeian patience; and he rammed it into his nostrils with avidity. Another was wrapped in the folds of a great cloak[Pg 196] which bore this inscription: Cloth cut from the backs of fools. A third, with a narrow forehead, yellow skin and hollow cheeks, was leaning lovingly upon his abdomen, which was nothing less than an iron safe, his two hands, the fingers of which were so many great leeches, twisting and opening their gaping tentacles, as though begging for food. Several of the figures had noses like the beaks of vultures, between their round and wild eyes: noses which cut up with disgusting voracity a quarter of carrion held at arm's length by a chain of massive gold, resembling those which shine on the breasts of the grand dignitaries of various orders of chivalry. In the middle of all was one who shone forth in brilliant pontifical robes, with a mitre on his head shaped like a globe, sparkling with emeralds and rubies. He held a crozier in one hand upon which he leant, and a sword in the other, which seemed at a distance to throw out flames; but on nearer approach the creaking of bones was heard beneath the vestments, and the figure turned out to be only a skeleton painted, and the sword and the crozier were but of fragile glass and rotten wood. Finally, above this seething, deformed indescribable assembly, there floated a sombre banner, a gigantic oriflamme, a fantastic labarum, the immense folds of which were being raised by a pestilential whistling wind; and on this banner, which slowly and silently unfurled like the wings of a vulture, could be read, Providential Pillories. And the whole company talked and sang, laughed and wept, gesticulated and danced and performed innumerable artifices. It was bewildering! It was fearful!"
"One person spun a large gold snuff box between their fingers, with the words: Powdered plebeian patience engraved on the lid; then they eagerly pressed it to their nostrils. Another was wrapped in a large cloak[Pg 196] that had the inscription: Cloth cut from the backs of fools. A third person, with a narrow forehead, yellow skin, and hollow cheeks, was lovingly resting on their stomach, which was nothing but an iron safe, their hands, with fingers resembling large leeches, twisting and opening like gaping tentacles as if begging for food. Several of the figures had noses like vulture beaks, set between their round and wild eyes: noses that greedily tore at a piece of carrion held at arm's length by a chain of massive gold, similar to those that adorn the chests of grand dignitaries from various orders of chivalry. In the center stood someone glowing in brilliant pontifical robes, wearing a mitre shaped like a globe, sparkling with emeralds and rubies. They held a crozier in one hand for support and a sword in the other, which appeared to emit flames from a distance; but as one got closer, the creaking of bones was heard beneath the vestments, revealing that the figure was merely a painted skeleton, with the sword and crozier being just fragile glass and rotten wood. Finally, above this chaotic, grotesque gathering floated a dark banner, a gigantic oriflamme, a fantastic labarum, its massive folds lifted by a foul whistling wind; and on this banner, which slowly and silently unfurled like the wings of a vulture, were the words Providential Pillories. The whole group talked and sang, laughed and cried, gesticulated and danced, performing countless tricks. It was bewildering! It was terrifying!"
Here followed the description of a kind of revel beside which Faust's was altogether lacking in imagination. But, when he thought they had all talked, sung, laughed, wept, gesticulated and danced long enough, he who is made a sign and all those voices melted into but two voices, and all the figures into but two, and all the heads into but two. And two human forms appeared side by side, looking down at their feet, which were of clay. Then, suddenly, out of the clay came forth a seven-headed hydra and each of its heads bore a name. The first was called Pride; the second, Avarice; the third, Luxury; the fourth, Envy; the fifth, Gluttony; the sixth, Anger; the seventh, Idleness. And, standing up to its full height, this frightful[Pg 197] hydra, with its thousand folds, strangled the writhing limbs of the colossus, which struggled and howled and uttered curses and lamentations towards the heavens: each of the seven jaws of the monster impressed horrible bites in his flesh, one in his forehead, another in his heart, another in his belly, another in his mouth, another in his flanks and another in his arms.
Here’s a description of a kind of party that made Faust's look completely uninspired. But when he thought they had all talked, sung, laughed, cried, gestured, and danced long enough, he who is signaled, and all those voices merged into just two, all the figures blended into just two, and all the heads became just two. Two human forms appeared side by side, looking down at their clay feet. Then, suddenly, a seven-headed hydra emerged from the clay, and each of its heads had a name. The first was called Pride; the second, Avarice; the third, Luxury; the fourth, Envy; the fifth, Gluttony; the sixth, Anger; the seventh, Idleness. This terrifying[Pg 197] hydra stood tall, with its thousand folds, and strangled the thrashing limbs of the giant, which struggled and howled while cursing and lamenting towards the heavens. Each of the seven jaws of the monster bit into its flesh—one in its forehead, one in its heart, one in its belly, one in its mouth, one in its sides, and one in its arms.
"'Behold the past!' said he who is.
"'Look at the past!' said the one who is.
"'Brother,' I cried, 'and what shall then the future be like?'
"'Brother,' I shouted, 'what will the future be like then?'"
"'Look,' he said. The hydra had disappeared and the two human forms were defined again, intertwined, full of strength and majesty and love against the light background of the hovel, and the feet of the colossus were changed into marble of the most dazzling whiteness. When I had well contemplated this celestial form, he who is again held out his hands and it vanished, and the studio became as it was a few moments previously. The three great orders of our visitors were still there, but calm now and in holy contemplation. Then he who is said—
"'Watch,' he said. The hydra had vanished, and the two human figures were visible again, intertwined, radiating strength, majesty, and love against the bright backdrop of the hut, while the colossus's feet transformed into dazzling white marble. After I fully absorbed this divine form, he who is again extended his hands, and it disappeared, returning the studio to how it was just moments before. The three great groups of our visitors were still there, but now they were calm and in sacred contemplation. Then he who is said—
"'Whoever you may be, from whatever region you come, from sadness or pleasure, from a splendid east or the dull west, you are welcome brothers, and to all I wish good days, good years! To the murdered and convicts, brothers! innocent protestors, gladiators of the circus, living thermometers of the falsity of social institutions, Hope! the hour of your restoration is at hand!... And you poor prostitutes, my sisters! beautiful diamonds, bespattered with mud and opprobrium, Hope! the hour of your transformation is approaching!... To you, adulteresses, my sisters, who weep and lament in your domestic prison, fair Christs of love with tarnished brows, Hope! the hour of liberty is near!... To you, poor artisans, my brothers, who sweat for the master who devours you, who eat the scraps of bread he allows you, when he does leave you any, in agony and torments for the morrow! What ought you to become? Everything! What are you now? Nothing! Hope and listen: Oppression is impious; resignation is blasphemy!... To you, poor labouring men and farmers, brothers, who toil for the landlord, sow and reap the corn for the landlord of which he leaves you only the bran, Hope! the time for bread whiter than snow is coming! ... To you, poor soldiers, my brothers, who fertilise the great furrow of humanity with your blood,[Pg 198] Hope! the hour for eternal peace is at hand!... And you, poor priests, my brothers, who lament beneath your frieze robes and heat your foreheads at the sides of your altars! Hope! the hour of toleration is at hand!'
"'Whoever you are, no matter where you come from, whether from sadness or joy, from a glorious east or a dreary west, you are welcome, brothers, and I wish good days and good years for everyone! To the murdered and the convicts, brothers! Innocent protesters, gladiators of the arena, living proof of the falsehood of social institutions, Hope! Your renewal is near!... And you poor prostitutes, my sisters! Beautiful diamonds, tarnished with mud and shame, Hope! Your transformation is coming!... To you, adulteresses, my sisters, who weep and lament in your domestic prison, beautiful souls of love with tarnished brows, Hope! Your time of freedom is approaching!... To you, poor artisans, my brothers, who sweat for the master who exploits you, who eat the scraps of bread he allows you, and sometimes he doesn’t even leave you any, suffering and tormented for tomorrow! What should you become? Everything! What are you now? Nothing! Hope and listen: Oppression is unjust; resignation is blasphemous!... To you, poor laborers and farmers, brothers, who work for the landlord, sowing and reaping the crops for him who leaves you only the crumbs, Hope! The time for bread whiter than snow is coming!... To you, poor soldiers, my brothers, who nourish the great furrow of humanity with your blood,[Pg 198] Hope! The hour for eternal peace is near!... And you, poor priests, my brothers, who mourn beneath your priestly robes and warm your foreheads at the side of your altars! Hope! The hour of tolerance is coming!'
"After a moment's silence, he who is went on—
"After a moment of silence, he who is continued—
"'I not forget you, either, you the happy ones of the century, those elected for joy. You, too, have your mission to fulfil; it is a holy one, for from the glutted body of the old world will issue the transformed universe of the future.... Be welcome, then, brothers; good wishes to you all!'
"I won't forget you either, you fortunate ones of the century, those chosen for joy. You also have a mission to fulfill; it's a sacred one, because from the overly indulged world of the old order will emerge the transformed universe of the future.... So welcome, brothers; best wishes to you all!"
"Then all those who were present, who had listened to him, departed from the garret in silence, filled with hope; and their footsteps echoed on the steps of the interminably long staircase. And the same cry which had already rung in my ears resounded a second time—'The year '40 is cold, it is hungry! The year '40 needs food! What will it bring forth? What will it produce? Ah! ah! ah!'
"Then everyone present, who had listened to him, left the attic quietly, filled with hope; and their footsteps echoed on the endless staircase. And the same cry that had already been ringing in my ears arose again—'The year '40 is cold, it is hungry! The year '40 needs food! What will it bring forth? What will it produce? Ah! ah! ah!'"
"I turned to him who is. The night had not run a third of its course, and the flame of the lamp still burnt in its yellow fount, and I exclaimed—
"I turned to him who is. The night was still young, and the lamp's flame continued to flicker in its yellow glow, and I exclaimed—
"'Brother! in whose name wilt thou relieve all these miseries?'
"'Brother! In whose name will you ease all these miseries?'"
"'In the name of my mother, the great mother who was crucified!' replied he who is.
"'In the name of my mother, the great mother who was crucified!' replied he who is.
"He continued: 'At the beginning all was well and all women were like the one single woman, Eve, and all men like one single man, Adam, and the reign of Eve and Adam, or of primitive unity, flourished in Eden, and harmony and love were the sole laws of this world.'
"He continued: 'At the beginning, everything was great, and all women were like the one single woman, Eve, and all men were like the one single man, Adam. The reign of Eve and Adam, or primitive unity, flourished in Eden, and harmony and love were the only laws of this world.'"
"He went on: 'Fifty years ago appeared a woman who was more beautiful than all others—her name was Liberty, and she took flesh in a people—that people called itself France. On her brow, as in ancient Eden, spread a tree with green boughs which was called the tree of liberty. Henceforward France and Liberty stand for the same thing, one single identical idea!' And, giving me a harp which hung above his bed, he added. 'Sing, prophet!' and the Spirit of God inspired me with these words—
"He continued: 'Fifty years ago, a woman appeared who was more beautiful than anyone else—her name was Liberty, and she embodied a nation that called itself France. On her head, like in the Garden of Eden, grew a tree with green branches known as the tree of liberty. From that moment on, France and Liberty became one and the same, a single, unified idea!' Then, handing me a harp that hung above his bed, he added, 'Sing, prophet!' and the Spirit of God inspired me with these words—"
I
I
"Why dost thou rise with the Sun, O France! O Liberty! And why are thy vestments scented with incense? Why dost thou ascend the mountains in early morn?
"Why do you rise with the Sun, O France! O Liberty! And why do your garments smell of incense? Why do you climb the mountains in the early morning?"
II
II
"Is it to see reapers in the ripened cornfields, or the gleaner bending over the furrows like a shrub bowed down by the winds?
"Is it to see harvesters in the ripe cornfields, or the gleaner leaning over the furrows like a bush bent down by the wind?"
III
III
"Or is it to listen to the song of the lark or the murmur of the river, or to gaze at the dawn which is as beautiful as a blue-eyed maiden?
"Or is it to listen to the song of the lark or the murmur of the river, or to gaze at the dawn which is as beautiful as a blue-eyed maiden?"
IV
IV
"If you rise with the sun, O France! O Liberty! it is not to watch the reapers in the cornfields or the bowed gleaners among the furrows.
"If you get up with the sun, O France! O Liberty! it is not to see the harvesters in the fields or the bent gleaners among the rows."
V
V
"Nor to listen to the song of the lark or murmur of the river, nor yet to gaze at the dawn, beauteous as a blue-eyed maiden.
"Nor to listen to the song of the lark or the murmur of the river, nor to gaze at the dawn, beautiful like a blue-eyed girl."
VI
VI
"Thou awaitest thy bridegroom to be: thy bridegroom of the strong hands, with lips more roseate than corals from the Spanish seas, and forehead more polished than Pharo's marble.
"You’re waiting for your future husband: a man with strong hands, lips pinker than coral from the Spanish seas, and a forehead shinier than Pharaoh's marble."
VII
VII
"Come down from thy mountains, O France! O Liberty! Thou wilt not find thy bridegroom there. Thou wilt meet him in the holy city, in the midst of the multitude.
"Come down from your mountains, O France! O Liberty! You will not find your bridegroom there. You will meet him in the holy city, in the midst of the crowd."
VIII
VIII
"Behold him as he comes to thee, with proud steps, his breast covered with a breastplate of brass; thou shalt slip the nuptial ring on his finger; at thy feet is a crown that has fallen in the mud; thou shalt place it on his brow and proclaim him emperor. Thus adorned thou shalt gaze on him proudly and address him thus—
"Look at him as he approaches you, walking proudly, his chest covered with a brass breastplate; you will slip the wedding ring on his finger; at your feet is a crown that has fallen in the mud; you will place it on his head and declare him emperor. Dressed like that, you will gaze at him proudly and speak to him like this—"
IX
IX
'My bridegroom thou art as beauteous as the first of men. Take off the Phrygian cap from my brow, and replace it by a helmet with waving plumes; gird my loins with a flaming sword and send me out among the nations until I shall have accomplished in sorrow the mystery of love, according as it has been written, that I am to crush the serpent's head!'
'My bridegroom, you are as beautiful as the first of men. Take off the Phrygian cap from my head and put on a helmet with flowing feathers; strap my waist with a fiery sword and send me out among the nations until I have fulfilled in sorrow the mystery of love, as it has been written, that I am to crush the serpent's head!'
X
X
"And when thy bridegroom has listened to thee, he will reply: 'Thy will be done, O France! O Liberty!' And he will urge thee forth, well armed, among the nations, that God's word may be accomplished.
"And when your bridegroom has listened to you, he will reply: 'Your will be done, O France! O Liberty!' And he will urge you on, well armed, among the nations, so that God's word may be fulfilled."
XI
XI
"Why is thy brow so pale, O France! O Liberty! And why is thy white tunic soiled with sweat and blood? Why walkest thou painfully like a woman in travail?
"Why is your brow so pale, O France! O Liberty! And why is your white tunic stained with sweat and blood? Why do you walk painfully like someone in labor?"
XII
XII
"Because thy bridegroom gives thee no relaxation from thy task, and thy travail is at hand.
"Because your bridegroom gives you no break from your work, and your struggle is at hand."
XIII
XIII
"Dost thou hear the wind roaring in the distance, and the mighty voice of the flood as it groans in its granite prison? Dost thou hear the moaning of the waves and the cry of the night-birds? All announce that deliverance is at hand.
"Do you hear the wind howling in the distance, and the powerful sound of the flood rumbling in its granite confinement? Do you hear the moaning of the waves and the cry of the night birds? All of this signals that deliverance is near."
XIV
XIV
"As in the days of thy departure, O France, O Liberty! put on thy glorious raiment; sprinkle on thy locks the purest perfumes of Araby; empty with thy disciples the farewell goblet, and take thy way to thy Calvary, where the deliverance of the world must be sealed.
"As in the days of your departure, O France, O Liberty! wear your glorious attire; sprinkle the purest perfumes of Arabia on your hair; share the farewell goblet with your followers, and make your way to your Calvary, where the world's salvation must be completed."
XV
XV
"'What is the name of that hill thou climbest amidst the lightning flashes?'
"'What is the name of that hill you're climbing in the flashes of lightning?'"
"'The hill is Waterloo.'
"'The hill is Waterloo.'
"'What is that plain called all red with thy blood?'
"'What is that plain that’s all red with your blood?'"
"'It is the plain of the Belle-Alliance!'
"'It's the plain of Belle-Alliance!'"
"'Be thou for ever blessed among women, among all the nations, O France! O Liberty!'
"'Blessed forever among women, among all nations, O France! O Liberty!'"
"And when he who is had listened to these things, he replied—
"And when he who is heard these things, he replied—
"'Oh, my mother, thou who told me "Death was not the tomb; but the cradle of an ampler life, of more infinite Love!" thy cry has reached me. O mother! by the anguish of thy painful travail, by the sufferings of thy martyrdom in crushing the serpent's head and saving Humanity!'
"'Oh, my mother, you who told me "Death is not the end; but the beginning of a greater life, filled with limitless Love!" your cry has reached me. O mother! by the agony of your painful labor, by the suffering of your martyrdom in crushing the serpent's head and saving Humanity!'
"Then turning to me he added: 'Child of God, what art thou looking for? Light or darkness? Death or life? Hope or despair?'
"Then turning to me, he added: 'Child of God, what are you searching for? Light or darkness? Death or life? Hope or despair?'"
"'Brother,' I replied, 'I am looking for Truth!'
"'Brother,' I replied, 'I'm searching for Truth!'"
"And he replied, 'In the name of primeval unity, reconstructed by the grand blood of France, I hail thee apostle of Eve-Adam!'
"And he replied, 'In the name of primal unity, restored by the noble blood of France, I greet you, apostle of Eve-Adam!'"
"And he who is called forth to the abyss which opened out at his voice—
"And he who is called out to the abyss that opened up at his voice—
"'Child of God,' he said, 'listen attentively, and look!'
"'Child of God,' he said, 'pay attention, and look!'"
"And I looked and saw a great vessel, with a huge mast which terminated in a mere hull, and one of the sides of the vessel looked west and the other east. And on the west it rested upon the cloudy tops of three mountains whose bases were plunged in a raging sea. Each of these mountains bore its name on its blood-red flank: the first was called Golgotha; the second, Mont-Saint-Jean; the third, Saint-Helena. In the middle of the great mast, on the western side, a five-armed cross was fixed, upon which a woman was stretched, dying. Over her head was this inscription—
"And I looked and saw a massive ship, with a tall mast that ended in just a hull, and one side of the ship faced west while the other faced east. On the west side, it rested on the misty peaks of three mountains whose bases were submerged in a raging sea. Each of these mountains had a name on its blood-red side: the first was named Golgotha; the second, Mont-Saint-Jean; the third, Saint-Helena. In the center of the tall mast, on the western side, a five-armed cross was affixed, on which a woman was stretched out, dying. Above her head was this inscription—
"FRANCE
18 June 1815
Good Friday
"FRANCE
18 June 1815
Good Friday"Each of the five arms of the cross on which she was stretched represented one of the five parts of the world; her head rested over Europe and a cloud surrounded her. But on the side of the vessel which looked towards the east there were no shadows; and the keel stayed at the threshold of the city of God, on the summit of a triumphal arch which the sun lit up with its rays. And the same woman reappeared, but she was transfigured and radiant; she lifted up the stone of a grave on which was written—
"Each of the five arms of the cross she was stretched on represented one of the five parts of the world; her head rested over Europe and was surrounded by a cloud. But on the side of the vessel facing east, there were no shadows; the keel remained at the entrance of the city of God, on top of a triumphal arch that the sun illuminated with its rays. And the same woman reappeared, but she was transformed and radiant; she lifted the stone of a grave that had the following written on it—"
"RESTORATION, DAYS OF THE TOMB
29 July 1830
Easter
"RESTORATION, DAYS OF THE TOMB
29 July 1830
Easter"And her bridegroom held out his arms, smiling, and together they sprang upwards to the skies. Then, from the depths of the arched heavens, a mighty voice spake—
"And her groom opened his arms, smiling, and together they leaped up to the sky. Then, from the depths of the arched heavens, a powerful voice spoke—
"'The mystery of love is accomplished—all are called! all are chosen! all are re-instated!' Behold this is what I saw in the holy heavens and soon after the abyss was veiled, and he who is laid his hands upon me and said—
"'The mystery of love is complete—all are invited! all are chosen! all are restored!' Look, this is what I saw in the holy heavens, and soon after the abyss was covered, and he who is placed his hands on me and said—
"'Go, my brother, take off thy festal garments and don the tunic of a working-man; hang the hammer of a worker at thy waist, for he who does not go with the people does not side with me, and he who does not take his share of labour is the enemy of God. Go, and be a faithful disciple of unity!'
"'Go, my brother, take off your celebration clothes and put on the outfit of a worker; strap the worker's hammer to your waist, for anyone who doesn’t stand with the people doesn’t stand with me, and anyone who doesn’t contribute to the work is an enemy of God. Go, and be a loyal follower of unity!'"
"And I replied: 'It is the faith in which I desire to live, which I am ready to seal with my blood? When I was ready to set forth, the sun began to climb above the horizon.
"And I replied: 'It is the faith I want to live by, which I’m ready to seal with my blood. When I was ready to set out, the sun started to rise above the horizon."
"He who was CAILLAUX
"He who was CAILLAUX
"July 1840"
"July 1840"
Such was the apocalypse of the chief, and we might almost say, the only apostle of the Mapah. I began with the intention of cutting out three-quarters of it, and I have given nearly the whole. I began, my pen inclined to scoff, but my courage has failed me; for there is beneath it all a true devotion and poetry and nobility of thought. What became of the man who wrote these lines? I do not know in the least; but I have no doubt he did not desert the faith in which he desired to live, and that he remained ready to seal it with his blood. ... Society must be in a bad state and sadly out of joint and disorganised for men of such intelligence to find no other method of employment than to become self-constituted gods—or apostles!
Such was the end of the leader, and we might almost say, the only apostle of the Mapah. I started off planning to cut out three-quarters of it, but I ended up including almost everything. I began with my pen ready to mock, but I lost my nerve; because underneath it all, there's true devotion, poetry, and nobility of thought. What happened to the man who wrote these lines? I have no idea; but I have no doubt he didn't abandon the faith he wanted to live by, and that he was always prepared to uphold it with his life. ... Society must be in a really bad state and terribly disorganized for people of such intelligence to find no other way to contribute than to turn themselves into self-proclaimed gods—or apostles!
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
The scapegoat of power—Legitimist hopes—The expiatory mass—The Abbé Olivier—The Curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—Pachel—Where I begin to be wrong—General Jacqueminot—Pillage of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—The sham Jesuit and the Préfet of Police—The Abbé Paravey's room
The scapegoat of power—Legitimist hopes—The atoning mass—Abbé Olivier—The priest of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—Pachel—Where I begin to go wrong—General Jacqueminot—The looting of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois—The fake Jesuit and the Police Prefect—Abbé Paravey's room
Whilst we were upon the subject of great priests, of apostles and gods, of the Abbé Châtel, and of him who was Caillaux and the Mapah, we meant to approach cursorily the history of Saint-Simon and of his two disciples Enfantin and Bayard; but we begin to fear that our readers have had enough of this modern Olympus; we therefore hasten to return to politics, which were going from bad to worse, and to literature, which was growing better and better. Let us, however, assure our readers they have lost nothing by the delay: a little further on they will meet with the god again at his office of the Mont-de-Piété, and the apostles in their retreat of Mérilmontant.
While we were on the topic of great priests, apostles, and gods, the Abbé Châtel, and him who was Caillaux and the Mapah, we intended to briefly discuss the history of Saint-Simon and his two disciples Enfantin and Bayard; but we’re starting to worry that our readers may have had enough of this modern Olympus. So, let’s quickly get back to politics, which were worsening, and to literature, which was improving. However, let us assure our readers that they haven't missed anything by the delay: soon they will encounter the god again at his office at the Mont-de-Piété and the apostles in their retreat at Mérilmontant.
But first let us return to our artillerymen; then, by way of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and the archbishop's palace, we will reach Antony. As will be realised, our misdeeds of the months of November and December had roused the attention of those in authority; warrants had been issued, and nineteen citizens, mostly belonging to the artillery, had been arrested. These were Trélat, Godefroy Cavaignac, Guinard, Sambuc, Francfort, Audry, Penard, Rouhier, Chaparre, Guilley, Chauvin, Peschieux d'Herbinville, Lebastard, Alexandre Garnier, Charles Garnier,[Pg 204] Danton, Lenoble, Pointis and Gourdin. They had been in all the riots of the reign of Louis-Philippe, as also in those of the end of the Consulate and the beginning of the Empire: no matter what party had stirred up the rising, it was always the Republicans who were dropped upon. And this because every reactionary government, in succession for the past seventy years, thoroughly understood that Republicans were its only serious, actual and unceasing enemies. The preference King Louis-Philippe showed us, at the risk of being accused of partiality, strongly encouraged the other parties and, notably, the Carlist party. Royalists from within and Royalist from without seemed to send one another this famous programme of 1792: "Make a stir and we will come in! Come in, and we will make a stir!" It was the Royalists inside who were the first to make a stir and upon the following occasion: The idea had stayed in the minds of various persons that King Louis-Philippe had only accepted his power to give it at some time to Henri V. Now, that which, in particular, lent colour to the idea that Louis-Philippe was inclined to play the part of monk, was the report that the only ambassador the Emperor Nicholas would accept was this very M. de Mortemart, to whom the Duc d'Orléans had handed, on 31 July, this famous letter of which I have given a copy; and, as M. de Mortemart had just started for St. Petersburg with the rank of ambassador, there was no further doubt, at least, in the eyes of the Royalists that the king of the barricades was ready to hand over the crown to Henri V. This rumour was less absurd, it must be granted, than that which was spread abroad from 1799 to 1803, namely, that Bonaparte had caused 18 Brumaire for the benefit of Louis XVIII. Each of the two sovereigns replied with arguments characteristic of themselves. Bonaparte had the Duc d'Enghien arrested, tried and shot. Louis-Philippe allowed the pillage of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and of the archbishop's palace. An opportunity was to be given to the Carlists and priests, their natural allies, to test the situation which eight months of Philippist reign and three of Republican prosecutions had wrought among them. They were nearing[Pg 205] 14 February, the anniversary of the assassination of the Duc de Berry. Already in the provinces there had been small Legitimist attempts. At Rodez, the tree of liberty was torn down during the night; at Collioure, they had hoisted the white flag; at Nîmes, les Verdets seemed to have come to life again, and, like the phantoms that return from the other world to smite their enemies, they had, it was reported, beaten the National Guard, who had been discovered, almost overwhelmed and unable to give any but a very vague description of their destroyers. That was the situation on 12 February. The triple emanation of the Republican, Carlist and Napoléonic phases went through the atmosphere like a sudden gust of storm, bearing on its wings the harsh cries of some unbridled, frenzied carnival, when, all at once, people learnt that, in a couple of days' time, an anniversary service was to be celebrated at Saint-Roch, in expiation of the assassination at the Place Louvois. A political assassination is such a detestable thing in the opinion of all factions, that it ought always to be allowable to offer expiatory masses for the assassinated; but there are times of feverish excitement when the most simple actions assume the huge proportions of a threat or contempt, and this particular mass, on account of the peculiar circumstances at the time, was both a threat and an act of defiance. But they were deceived as to the place where it was to be held. Saint-Roch, as far as I can recollect, was, at that period, served by the Abbé Olivier, a fine, spiritual-minded priest, adored by his flock, who are scarcely consoled at the present day by seeing him made Bishop of Évreux. I knew the Abbé Olivier; he was fond of me and I hope he still likes me; I reverenced him and shall always reverence him. I mention this, in passing, to give him news of one of his penitents, in the extremely improbable case of these Memoirs ever falling into his hands. Moreover, I shall have to refer to him later, more than once. He was deeply devoted to the queen; more than anyone else he could appreciate the benevolence, piety and even humility of that worthy princess: for he was her confessor. I do not know whether it was on account of the royal intimacy with which the[Pg 206] Abbé Olivier was honoured, or because he understood the significance of the act that was expected of him, that the Church of Saint-Roch declined the honour. It was different with the curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. He accepted. This appealed to him as a twofold duty: the curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois was nearly eighty years of age, and he was the priest who had accompanied Marie-Antoinette to the scaffold. His curate, M. Paravey, by a strange coincidence, was the priest who had blessed the tombs of the Louvre.
But first, let's go back to our artillerymen; then, through Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and the archbishop's palace, we will reach Antony. As you can see, our wrongdoings in November and December had caught the attention of the authorities; warrants had been issued, and nineteen citizens, mostly from the artillery, had been arrested. Those included Trélat, Godefroy Cavaignac, Guinard, Sambuc, Francfort, Audry, Penard, Rouhier, Chaparre, Guilley, Chauvin, Peschieux d'Herbinville, Lebastard, Alexandre Garnier, Charles Garnier, [Pg 204] Danton, Lenoble, Pointis, and Gourdin. They had participated in all the riots during Louis-Philippe's reign, as well as in those at the end of the Consulate and the beginning of the Empire: no matter which party instigated the uprising, it was always the Republicans who were targeted. This was because every reactionary government over the past seventy years understood that Republicans were their only real, ongoing enemies. King Louis-Philippe's preference for us, risking accusations of favoritism, strongly encouraged the other parties, particularly the Carlist party. Royalists inside and outside seemed to exchange this notorious program from 1792: "Make a stir and we will come in! Come in, and we will make a stir!" It was the Royalists inside who first made a stir and on this occasion: Various people believed that King Louis-Philippe had only accepted power with the intention of passing it on to Henri V at some point. What particularly supported this notion was the rumor that the only ambassador the Emperor Nicholas would accept was M. de Mortemart, to whom the Duc d'Orléans had handed this famous letter on July 31, a copy of which I have provided; and since M. de Mortemart had just departed for St. Petersburg as ambassador, there was no longer any doubt, at least in the eyes of the Royalists, that the king of the barricades was ready to hand over the crown to Henri V. This rumor was less absurd, it must be acknowledged, than the one circulated from 1799 to 1803, which claimed that Bonaparte had staged 18 Brumaire for the benefit of Louis XVIII. Each of the two monarchs responded with actions typical of their character. Bonaparte had the Duc d'Enghien arrested, tried, and executed. Louis-Philippe allowed the looting of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois and the archbishop's palace. An opportunity was to be given to the Carlists and priests, their natural allies, to assess the situation wrought from eight months of Philippist rule and three months of Republican prosecutions. They were approaching [Pg 205] February 14, the anniversary of the assassination of the Duc de Berry. Already, there had been minor Legitimist attempts in the provinces. In Rodez, the tree of liberty was torn down during the night; in Collioure, they had raised the white flag; in Nîmes, les Verdets seemed to have revived and, like phantoms returning from the dead to strike their enemies, they reportedly defeated the National Guard, who were nearly overwhelmed and could barely describe their attackers. That was the situation on February 12. The combined tension of Republican, Carlist, and Napoléonic sentiments swept through the atmosphere like a sudden storm, carrying with it the harsh cries of some wild, frenzied carnival, when suddenly, people learned that, in a couple of days, a memorial service was to be held at Saint-Roch in honor of the assassination at Place Louvois. Political assassinations are viewed as deeply abhorrent by all factions, making it seem appropriate to offer expiatory masses for the murdered; but during times of heightened tension, even the simplest actions can become magnified into threats or acts of defiance, and this particular mass, due to its context, was both. However, they were mistaken about where it was to be held. To the best of my recollection, at that time, Saint-Roch was served by Abbé Olivier, a wonderful, spiritual-minded priest, beloved by his congregation, who are still not consoled today by seeing him become Bishop of Évreux. I knew Abbé Olivier; he was fond of me, and I hope he still is; I respected him and will always respect him. I mention this as a note to update him on one of his penitents, in the extremely unlikely case that these Memoirs ever reach him. Moreover, I will need to refer to him later, more than once. He was deeply devoted to the queen; more than anyone, he could appreciate the kindness, piety, and even humility of that worthy princess, as he was her confessor. I do not know whether it was due to the royal ties that the Abbé Olivier enjoyed, or because he realized the significance of the expected action, that the Church of Saint-Roch declined the honor. It was different for the curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. He accepted. This appealed to him as a double duty: the curé of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois was nearly eighty years old, and he was the priest who had escorted Marie-Antoinette to the scaffold. His curate, M. Paravey, coincidentally, was the priest who had blessed the tombs of the Louvre.
In consequence of the change which had been made in the programme, men, placed on the steps of the Church of Saint-Roch, distributed, on the morning of the 14th, notices announcing that the funeral ceremony had been arranged to take place at Saint-Roch and not at Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois.
As a result of the change made to the schedule, men standing on the steps of the Church of Saint-Roch handed out notices on the morning of the 14th, announcing that the funeral ceremony would be held at Saint-Roch instead of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois.
I was at the Vaudeville, where I believe we were rehearsing La Famille improvisée by Henry Monnier—I have already spoken of, and shall often again refer to, this old friend of mine, an eminent artiste, witty comrade and good fellow! as the English say—when Pachel the head hired-applauder ran in terrified, crying out that emblazoned equipages were forming in line at Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois; and people were saying in the crowd that the personages who were getting out from them had come to be present at a requiem service for the repose of the soul of the Duc de Berry. This news produced an absolutely contrary effect upon Arago and myself: it exasperated Arago, but put me very much at ease.
I was at the Vaudeville, where I think we were rehearsing La Famille improvisée by Henry Monnier—I’ve already mentioned him and will often refer to this old friend of mine, a talented artist, witty companion, and good fellow! as the English say—when Pachel, the lead applauder, rushed in, frightened, shouting that fancy carriages were lining up at Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois; and people in the crowd were saying those getting out had come to attend a requiem for the soul of the Duc de Berry. This news had completely different effects on Arago and me: it irritated Arago, but made me feel quite at ease.
I have related how I was educated by a priest, and by an excellent one too; now that early education, the influence of those juvenile memories, gave—I will not say to all my actions—God forbid I should represent myself to my readers as a habitually religious-minded man!—but to all my beliefs and opinions—such a deep religious tinge that I cannot even now enter a church without taking holy water, or pass in front of a crucifix without making the sign of the cross. Therefore, in spite of the violence of my political opinions at that time, I thought that the poor assassinated Duc de Berry had a right[Pg 207] to a requiem mass, that the Royalists had a right to be present at it and the curé the right to celebrate it. But this was not Étienne's way of looking at it. Perhaps he was right. Consequently, he wrote a few lines to the National and to the Temps and ran to the spot. I followed him in a much more tranquil manner. I could see that something serious would come of it; that the Royalist journals would exclaim against the sacrilege, and that the accusation would fall upon the Republican party. Arago, with his convinced opinions, his southern fieriness of temperament, entered the church just as a young man was hanging a portrait of the Duc de Bordeaux on the catafalque. Here was where Arago began to be in the right and I to be in the wrong. Behind the young man there came a lady, who placed a crown of immortelles upon it; behind the woman came soldiers, who hung their crosses to the effigy of Henri VI. by the aid of pins. Now, Arago was wholly in the right and I totally wrong. For the ceremony here ceased to be a religious demonstration and became a political act of provocation. The people and citizens rushed into the church. The citizens became incensed, and the people grumbled. But let us keep exactly to the events which followed. The riot at the archbishop's palace was middle class, not lower class. The men who raised it were the same as those who had caused the Raucourt and Philippe riots under the Restoration; the subscriptors of Voltaire-Touquet, the buyers of snuff-boxes à la Charte. Arago perceived the moment was the right one and that the irritation and grumbling could be turned to account. There was no organisation in the nature of conspiracy at that time; but the Republican party was on the watch and ready to turn any contingencies to account. We shall see the truth of this illustrated in connection with the burial of Lamarque. Arago sprang out of the church, climbed up on a horizontal bar of the railings and, stretching out his hands in the direction of the graves of July, which lay in front of the portal of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, shouted—"Citizens! They dare to celebrate a requiem service in honour of one of the members of the family whom we have just driven from power, only fifty[Pg 208] yards from the victims of July! Shall we allow them to finish the service?"
I’ve shared how I was educated by a priest—an excellent one at that. Now, that early education, influenced by those childhood memories, gave—though I won’t claim it’s true of all my actions—God forbid I portray myself as someone who’s always religious!—but to all my beliefs and opinions—such a strong religious influence that I still can’t walk into a church without taking holy water, or pass in front of a crucifix without making the sign of the cross. So, despite my intense political views back then, I believed the poor murdered Duc de Berry deserved a requiem mass, that the Royalists had the right to attend it, and that the priest had the right to perform it. But Étienne saw it differently. Maybe he was right. He wrote a few lines to the National and the Temps and rushed to the scene. I followed him at a much calmer pace. I could sense that something serious would come from this; that the Royalist papers would scream about the sacrilege, and the blame would fall on the Republican party. Arago, with his strong opinions and fiery temperament, walked into the church just as a young man was hanging a portrait of the Duc de Bordeaux on the catafalque. This was where Arago started to be right, and I began to be wrong. Behind the young man was a woman who placed a crown of immortelles on it; soldiers followed her, pinning their crosses to the effigy of Henri VI. At that moment, Arago was completely right, and I was totally wrong. Because the ceremony shifted from being a religious act to a political provocation. The people and citizens poured into the church. The citizens got angry, and the crowd grumbled. But let’s stick to the events that followed. The riot at the archbishop's palace was driven by the middle class, not the lower class. The folks leading it were the same as those who had stirred up the Raucourt and Philippe riots during the Restoration; the subscribers of Voltaire-Touquet, the buyers of snuff-boxes à la Charte. Arago realized the moment was ripe and that the frustration and complaints could be exploited. There wasn't any secretive conspiracy at that time, but the Republican party was watching, ready to take advantage of any situation. We’ll see this play out when it comes to Lamarque’s burial. Arago jumped out of the church, climbed up onto a horizontal bar of the railings, and, stretching out his hands toward the graves of July, which were in front of the entrance of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, shouted—"Citizens! They dare to hold a requiem mass for one of the members of the family we’ve just removed from power, only fifty [Pg 208] yards from the victims of July! Shall we let them finish the service?"
Maddened cries went up. "No! no! no!" from every voice; and they rushed into the church. The assailants encountered General Jacqueminot in the doorway, who was then chief of the staff or second in command of the National Guard (I do not know further particulars, and the matter is not important enough for me to inquire into). He tried to stem the torrent, but it was too strong to be stopped by a single man. The general realised this, and tried to stay it by a word. Now, a word, if it is the right one, and courageous or sympathetic, is the safest wall that can be put across the path of that fifth element which we call "The People."
Maddened cries erupted. "No! no! no!" came from every voice as they rushed into the church. The attackers encountered General Jacqueminot in the doorway, who was then the chief of staff or second in command of the National Guard (I don't know more details, and it's not important enough for me to find out). He tried to hold back the wave, but it was too powerful for one man to stop. The general understood this and attempted to halt it with a word. Now, a word, if it's the right one and filled with courage or empathy, is the strongest barrier that can be placed in front of that fifth element we call "The People."
"My friends," cried the general, "listen to me and take in who I am—I was at Rambouillet: therefore, I belong to your party."
"My friends," shouted the general, "listen to me and understand who I am—I was at Rambouillet: so, I am a part of your group."
"You were at Rambouillet?" a voice questioned.
"You were at Rambouillet?" a voice asked.
"Yes."
Yes.
"Well, you would have done better to stay in Paris, and to leave the combatants of July where they were: their absence would not then have been taken advantage of to set up a king!"
"Well, you would have been better off staying in Paris and leaving the July fighters where they were: their absence wouldn't have been used to install a king!"
The riposte was a deadly one, and General Jacqueminot looked upon himself as a dead man and made no further signs of life. The invasion of the church was rapid, irresistible and terrible; in a few minutes the catafalque was destroyed, the pall was torn to shreds and the altar knocked down; the golden-flowered hanging, sacred pictures, sacerdotal vestments were all trampled under foot! Scepticism revenged itself by impiety, sacrilege and blasphemy, for the fifteen years during which it had been made to hide its mocking face behind the mask of hypocrisy. They laughed, they howled, they danced round all the sacred things they had heaped up, overturned and torn in pieces. One of the rioters came out of the sacristy in the complete dress of a priest: he mounted on the top of a heap of débris and beat time to the infernal din. It looked like a figure of Satan, dressed up ironically in priestly robes, presiding over a revel.
The response was lethal, and General Jacqueminot considered himself a dead man, showing no further signs of life. The invasion of the church was swift, unstoppable, and horrifying; within minutes, the catafalque was wrecked, the pall was shredded, and the altar was toppled. The golden-flowered drapes, sacred images, and priestly garments were all trampled! Skepticism retaliated with impiety, sacrilege, and blasphemy, after being forced to hide its mocking face behind a mask of hypocrisy for the past fifteen years. They laughed, howled, and danced around all the sacred items they had piled up, overturned, and torn apart. One of the rioters emerged from the sacristy fully dressed as a priest: he climbed to the top of a pile of debris and kept rhythm with the chaotic noise. It resembled a figure of Satan, ironically dressed in clerical robes, presiding over the chaos.
I witnessed the whole scene from the entrance and went away, with bent head and a heavy heart and unquiet mind, sorry I had seen it. I could not hide from myself that the people had been incited to do what they had done. I was too much of a philosopher to expect the people to discriminate between the Church and the priesthood—religion from its ministers; but I was too religious at heart to stay there, and I attempted to get away from the place. I say I attempted, for it was no easy thing to get out: the square of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois was crowded; and the crowd, forced back into the narrow rue de Prêtres, overflowed on to the quays. At one spot this crowd was excited and turbulent; and a struggle was going on from whence issued cries. A tall, pale young man, with long black hair and good-looking countenance, was standing on a post, watching the tumult with some expression of scorn. One of the bystanders, who was probably irritated by this disdain, began to shout: "A Jesuit!" Such a cry at such a time was like putting a match to a bundle of tow. The crowd rushed for the poor fellow, crying—
I saw the whole scene from the entrance and walked away, head down and feeling heavy-hearted and restless, regretting that I had witnessed it. I couldn't deny that the people had been stirred up to act as they did. I was too much of a thinker to expect people to separate the Church from the priesthood—religion from its leaders; but I was too spiritual at heart to stay there, and I tried to leave the place. I say I tried, because it wasn't easy to get out: the square of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois was packed; and the crowd, pushed back into the narrow rue de Prêtres, spilled onto the quays. In one spot, the crowd was agitated and chaotic; a struggle was happening there, and shouts came from it. A tall, pale young man with long black hair and a good-looking face stood on a post, watching the chaos with a look of contempt. One of the people nearby, probably annoyed by this disdain, began to shout: "A Jesuit!" At that moment, such a shout was like lighting a match to a pile of kindling. The crowd surged toward the poor guy, yelling—
"Throw the Jesuits into the Seine! Drown him! Give the Jesuits to the nets of Saint-Cloud!"
"Throw the Jesuits into the Seine! Drown him! Hand the Jesuits over to the nets of Saint-Cloud!"
Baude was the Préfet of Police. I can see him now with his fine locks flying in the wind, his dark eyes darting out lightning flashes, and his herculean strength. It was the second time I had seen him thus. He had just arrived with the Municipal Guard, which he had drawn up before the church door; the men were trying to shut the gates. He flew to the rescue of the unlucky doomed man, who was being passed from hand to hand, and was in his aërial flight approaching the river with fearful rapidity. The desire to hinder a murder redoubled Baude's strength. He reached the edge of the river at the same time as the victim who was threatened with being flung over the parapet. He clutched hold of him and drew him back. I saw no more: for I was being suffocated against the boards which, at that time, enclosed the jardin de l'Infante and, dilapidated though they were, they offered a great deal more resistance than I liked,[Pg 210] The necessity for labouring for my personal preservation compelled me to turn my eyes away from the direction of the quay and to struggle on my own account. My stalwart build and the combined efforts of many who recognised me enabled me to reach the quay and, from thence, the pont des Arts. They were still fighting by the parapet. Later, I learnt that Baude had succeeded in saving the poor devil at the expense of a good number of bruises and his coat torn to ribbons. But, whilst the Préfet of Police was playing the part of philanthropist, he was not fulfilling his duties as préfet, and the rioters profited by this lapse in his municipal functions. The people continued pillaging the church and the presbytery of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, and by the time that Baude had done his good action it was all over. Only the room of the Abbé Paravey, who had blessed the tombs of the July martyrs, had been respected. The mob always recognises, even in its moments of greatest anger and its worst sacrilege, the something that is greater than its wrath, before which it stops and bends the knee. On 24 February 1848 the mob served the Tuileries as they had served the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois on 14 February 1831, but it stopped short at the apartment of the Duchesse d'Orléans, as it had done before the Abbé Paravey's room.
Baude was the Police Prefect. I can picture him now, his fine hair flying in the wind, his dark eyes flashing with intensity, and his incredible strength. This was the second time I'd seen him like this. He had just arrived with the Municipal Guard, which he had stationed in front of the church door; the officers were trying to close the gates. He rushed to save the unfortunate man, who was being tossed around and was dangerously close to being thrown into the river. Baude's determination to prevent a murder only fueled his strength. He reached the riverbank just as the victim was about to be hurled over the ledge. He grabbed him and pulled him back. I saw no more: I was being smothered against the boards that, at that time, surrounded the jardin de l'Infante, and even though they were falling apart, they offered a lot more resistance than I wanted. The need to fight for my own survival forced me to look away from the quay and focus on my own struggle. My strong build and the combined efforts of many who recognized me helped me reach the quay and then the pont des Arts. They were still battling by the ledge. Later, I learned that Baude managed to save the poor guy but ended up with numerous bruises and his coat shredded. However, while the Police Prefect was playing the hero, he was neglecting his duties as prefect, and the rioters took advantage of this slip in his responsibilities. The crowd kept looting the church and the presbytery of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, and by the time Baude had finished his good deed, it was all over. Only the room of Abbé Paravey, who had blessed the tombs of the July martyrs, had been spared. Even in their angriest moments and worst sacrilege, the mob recognizes something greater than its wrath, pausing to kneel before it. On February 24, 1848, the mob treated the Tuileries as they had the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois on February 14, 1831, but they stopped short at the apartment of the Duchesse d'Orléans, just as they had before Abbé Paravey's room.
CHAPTER II
The Préfet of Police at the Palais-Royal—The function of fire—Valérius, the truss-maker—Demolition of the archbishop's palace—The Chinese album—François Arago—The spectators of the riot—The erasure of the fleurs-de-lis—I give in my resignation a second time—MM. Chambolle and Casimir Périer
The Police Chief at the Palais-Royal—The importance of fire—Valérius, the truss-maker—Demolition of the archbishop's palace—The Chinese album—François Arago—The spectators of the riot—The removal of the fleurs-de-lis—I resign for the second time—Messrs. Chambolle and Casimir Périer
The supposed Jesuit saved, the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois sacked, the room of the Abbé Paravey respected, the crowd passed away, Baude thought the anger of the lion was appeased and presented himself at the Palais-Royal without taking time to change his clothes. Just as these bore material traces of the struggle he had gone through, so his face kept the impression of the emotions he had experienced. To put it in common parlance—as the least academic of men sometimes allows himself to be captivated by the fascination of phrase-making—the préfet's clothes were torn and his face was very pale. But the king, on the other hand, was quite calm.
The so-called Jesuit was saved, the Church of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois was looted, the Abbé Paravey’s room was left untouched, and the crowd dispersed. Baude thought the lion’s anger had settled and went to the Palais-Royal without bothering to change his clothes. Just as his clothes showed obvious signs of the struggle he had just endured, his face reflected the emotions he had gone through. To put it simply—since even the least academic people sometimes get drawn in by the allure of good phrasing—the préfet's clothes were ripped, and his face was very pale. But the king, on the other hand, remained completely calm.
More fully informed, this time, of the events going on in the street, than he had been about those of the Chamber when they discharged La Fayette, he knew everything that had just happened. He saw, too, that it tended to his own advantage. The Carlists had lifted up their heads and, without the slightest interference on his part, they had been punished! There had been a riot, but it had not threatened the Palais-Royal, and by a little exercise of skill it could be made to do credit to the Republican party. What a chance! and just at the time when the leaders of that same party were in prison for another disturbance.
More informed this time about the events happening in the street than he had been about what went on in the Chamber when they dismissed La Fayette, he knew everything that had just occurred. He also realized that it worked to his advantage. The Carlists had raised their heads, and without any effort on his part, they had faced consequences! There had been a riot, but it hadn’t threatened the Palais-Royal, and with a little skill, it could reflect well on the Republican party. What an opportunity! Especially since the leaders of that same party were in prison for another disturbance.
But the king clearly suspected that matters would not stop[Pg 212] here; so, with his usual astuteness, and seeming courtesy, he kept Baude to dinner. Baude saw nothing in this invitation beyond an act of politeness, and a kind of reward for the dangers he had incurred. But there was more in it than that. The Préfet of Police being at the Palais-Royal meant that all the police reports would be sent there; now, Baude could not do otherwise than to communicate them to his illustrious host. So, in this way, without any trouble to himself, the king would become acquainted with everything, both what Baude's police knew and what his own police also knew. King Louis-Philippe was a subtle man, but his very cleverness detracted from his strength. We do not think it is possible to be both fox and lion at the same time. The reports were disquieting: one of them announced the pillage of the archbishop's palace for the morrow; another, an attempted attack upon the Palais-Royal.
But the king clearly suspected that things wouldn't stop[Pg 212] here; so, with his usual sharpness and false politeness, he invited Baude to dinner. Baude saw this invitation as just an act of courtesy and a bit of recognition for the risks he had taken. But there was more to it than that. The Préfet of Police being at the Palais-Royal meant that all the police reports would be sent there; now, Baude had no choice but to share them with his prestigious host. So, in that way, without any effort on his part, the king would learn everything—both what Baude's police knew and what his own police also knew. King Louis-Philippe was a clever man, but his cleverness took away from his strength. We don't think it's possible to be both a fox and a lion at the same time. The reports were alarming: one of them warned about the looting of the archbishop's palace the next day; another mentioned an attempted attack on the Palais-Royal.
"Sire," asked the Préfet of the Police, "what must we do?"
"Sire," asked the Police Prefect, "what should we do?"
"Powder and shot," replied the king.
"Ammo and pellets," replied the king.
Baude understood. By three o'clock in the morning all the troops of the garrison were disposed round the Palais-Royal, but the avenues to the archbishop's palace were left perfectly free. This is what happened while the Préfet of Police was dining with His Majesty. General Jacqueminot had summoned the National Guard and, instead of dispersing the rioters, they clapped their hands at the riot. Cadet-Gassicourt, who was mayor of the fourth arrondissement, arrived next. Some people pointed out to him the three fleurs-de-lis which adorned the highest points of the cross that surmounted the church. A man out of the crowd heard the remark, and quickly the cry went up of "Down with the fleurs-de-lis; down with the cross!" They attached themselves to the cross with the fleurs-de-lis of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, just as seventeen years previously they had attached themselves to the statue of Napoléon on the Place Vendôme. The cross fell at the third pull. There was not much else left to do after that, either inside the church or on the top of it, and, unless they pulled it down altogether, it was only wasting time to stop there. At that instant a rumour circulated, either rightly or falsely, that a surgical[Pg 213] instrument maker in the rue de Coq, named Valérius, had been one of the arrangers of the fête. They rushed to his shop, scattered his bandages and broke his shop-front. The National Guard came, and can you guess what it did? It made a guard-house of the wrecked shop. This affair of the cross and the fleurs-de-lis gave a political character to the riot, and had suggested, or was about to suggest, on the following day, a party of the popular insurgents towards the Palais-Royal. As a matter of fact, the fleurs-de-lis had remained upon the arms of the king up to this time. Soon after the election of 9 August, Casimir Périer had advised him to abandon them; but the king remembered that, on the male side, he was the grandson of Henry IV., and of Louis XIV. on the female line, and he had obstinately refused. Under the pretext, therefore, of demanding the abolition of the fleurs-de-lis, a gathering of Republicans was to march next day upon the Palais-Royal. When there, if they found themselves strong enough, they would, at the same stroke, demand the abolition of royalty. I knew nothing about this plot, and, if I had, I should have kept clear of everything that meant a direct attack against King Louis-Philippe. I had work to do the next day and kept my door fast shut against everybody, my own servant included, but the latter violated his orders and entered. It was evident that something extraordinary had happened for Joseph to take such a liberty with me. They had been firing off rifles half the night, they had disarmed two or three posts, they had sacked the archbishop's palace. The proposition of marching on the palace of M. de Quélen was received with enthusiasm. He was one of those worldly prelates who pass for being rather shepherds, than pastors. It was affirmed that on 28 July 1830 a woman's cap had been found at his house and they wanted to know if, by chance, there might not be a pair. The devil tempted me: I dressed hastily and I ran in the direction of the city. The bridges were crowded to breaking point, and there was a row of curious gazers on the parapets two deep. Only on the Pont Neuf could I manage to see daylight between two[Pg 214] spectators. The river drifted with furniture, books, chasubles, cassocks and priests' robes. The latter objects were horrible as they looked like drowning people. All these things came from the archbishop's palace. When the crowd reached the palace, the door seemed too narrow, relatively speaking, for the number and impetuosity of the visitors: the crowd, therefore, seized hold of the iron grill, shook it and tore it down; then they spread over all the rooms and threw the furniture out of the windows. Several book-lovers who tried to save rare books and precious editions were nearly thrown into the Seine. One single album alone escaped the general destruction. The man who laid hands on it chanced to open it: it was a Chinese album painted on leaves of rice. The Chinese are very fanciful in their compositions, and this particular one so far transcended the limits of French fancy, that the crowd had not the courage to insist on the precious album being thrown into the water. I have never seen anything approaching this album except in the private museum at Naples; I ought, also, to say that the album of the Archbishop of Paris far excelled that of His Majesty the King of the Two Sicilies. The most indulgent people thought that this curious document had been given to the archbishop by some repentant Magdalene, in expiation of the sins she had committed, and to whom the merciful prelate had given absolution. It goes without saying that I was among the tolerant, and that, then as now, I did my utmost to get this view accepted.
Baude understood. By three o'clock in the morning, all the troops at the garrison were positioned around the Palais-Royal, but the paths to the archbishop's palace were completely clear. This happened while the Préfet of Police was having dinner with His Majesty. General Jacqueminot had called in the National Guard and instead of breaking up the riot, they cheered it on. Cadet-Gassicourt, the mayor of the fourth arrondissement, arrived next. Some people pointed out the three fleurs-de-lis that topped the cross at the church. A man in the crowd heard this and quickly shouted, "Down with the fleurs-de-lis; down with the cross!" They targeted the cross adorned with the fleurs-de-lis of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, just as they had aimed at the statue of Napoléon in the Place Vendôme seventeen years earlier. The cross fell on the third pull. There wasn't much left to do after that, either inside the church or on top of it, and unless they planned to take it down completely, it would just be a waste of time to linger. At that moment, a rumor spread, whether true or not, that a surgical instrument maker named Valérius on rue de Coq was involved in organizing the fête. They stormed his shop, scattered his bandages, and smashed his storefront. The National Guard arrived, and can you guess what they did? They turned the wrecked shop into a guardhouse. This incident with the cross and the fleurs-de-lis gave a political edge to the riot, and it hinted, or was about to hint, at a group of popular insurgents heading toward the Palais-Royal the next day. In fact, the fleurs-de-lis had remained on the king's coat of arms until now. Shortly after the election on August 9, Casimir Périer had advised the king to get rid of them; however, the king remembered that, through his male lineage, he was a grandson of Henry IV, and through his female line, of Louis XIV, and he stubbornly refused. So, under the pretext of demanding the end of the fleurs-de-lis, a gathering of Republicans was set to march on the Palais-Royal the following day. If they felt strong enough when they got there, they would demand an end to the monarchy at the same time. I knew nothing about this plan, and if I had, I would have avoided anything that directly attacked King Louis-Philippe. I had work to do the next day and kept my door firmly shut against everyone, including my own servant, but he disregarded my orders and walked in. It was clear that something extraordinary had happened for Joseph to take such liberties with me. They had been firing rifles half the night, they had disarmed two or three posts, and they had ransacked the archbishop's palace. The idea of marching on M. de Quélen's palace was met with excitement. He was one of those worldly prelates who are considered more like shepherds than pastors. It was said that on July 28, 1830, a woman's cap had been found at his house, and people wondered if there might be a matching pair. The devil tempted me: I got dressed quickly and headed toward the city. The bridges were packed to their limits, and the parapets were lined with curious onlookers two deep. I could only find a glimpse of daylight between two spectators on the Pont Neuf. The river flowed with furniture, books, chasubles, cassocks, and priests' robes. The latter looked horrifying as they resembled drowning people. All these items came from the archbishop's palace. When the crowd arrived at the palace, the entrance seemed too narrow for the sheer number and force of the visitors: the crowd grabbed the iron gate, shook it, and tore it down; then they spread throughout all the rooms and began throwing the furniture out of the windows. Several book lovers who tried to save rare books and valuable editions were nearly tossed into the Seine. Only one album managed to survive the widespread destruction. The person who grabbed it happened to open it: it was a Chinese album painted on rice paper. The Chinese are very imaginative with their compositions, and this one was so far beyond the limits of French creativity that the crowd didn’t have the heart to insist on throwing the precious album into the water. I’ve never seen anything like this album except in the private museum in Naples; I should also mention that the Archbishop of Paris's album was far superior to that of His Majesty the King of the Two Sicilies. The most generous people believed that this unusual item had been given to the archbishop by some repentant Magdalene as a way to atone for her sins, and to whom the kind prelate had granted absolution. It goes without saying that I was among the tolerant and, then as now, I did my best to get this viewpoint accepted.
Meantime, after seizing the furniture, library hangings, carpets, mirrors, missals, chasubles and cassocks, the crowd, not satisfied, seized upon the building itself. In an instant a hundred men were scattered over the roofs and had begun to tear off the tiles and slates of the archiépiscopal palace. It might have been supposed the rioters were all slaters. Has my reader happened, at any time, to shut up a mouse or rat or bird in a box pierced with holes, put it in the midst of an anthill and waited, given patience, for two or three hours? At the end of that time the ants have finished their work, and he can extract a beautiful skeleton from which all the flesh has[Pg 215] completely disappeared. Thus, and in the same manner, under the work of the human ant-heap, at the end of an hour the coverings of the archbishop's palace had as completely disappeared. Next, it was the turn for the bones to go—where the ants stop discouraged, man destroys; by two o'clock in the afternoon the bones had disappeared like the flesh. Of the archbishop's palace not one stone remained on another! By good fortune the archbishop was at his country-house at Conflans; if not he would probably have been destroyed with his town-house.
Meanwhile, after taking all the furniture, curtains, carpets, mirrors, prayer books, vestments, and robes, the crowd was still not satisfied and turned their attention to the building itself. In no time, a hundred men were spread across the roofs, ripping off the tiles and slates of the archbishop's palace. You might have thought the rioters were all roofers. Have you ever put a mouse, rat, or bird in a box with holes, placed it in the middle of an anthill, and waited patiently for a couple of hours? By the end of that time, the ants have done their job, and you can pull out a perfect skeleton with all the flesh completely gone. In the same way, after just an hour of the human swarm's work, the coverings of the archbishop's palace had completely vanished. Next came the turn of the bones—where the ants stop, discouraged, humans destroy; by two o'clock in the afternoon, the bones had disappeared just like the flesh. Not a single stone of the archbishop's palace was left standing! Fortunately, the archbishop was at his country house in Conflans; if he hadn’t been, he likely would have met the same fate as his town house.
All this time the drums had called the rappel, but not with that ferocious plying of drumsticks of which they gave us a sample in the month of December, as though to say, "Run, everyone, the town is on fire!" but with feebleness of execution as much as to say, "If you have nothing better to say, come, and you will not have a warm welcome!" So, as the National Guard began to understand the language of the drums, it did not put itself about much. However, a detachment of the 12th Legion, in command of François Arago,—the famous savant, the noble patriot who is now dying, and whom the Academy will probably not dare to praise, except as a savant,—came from the Panthéon towards the city. As ill-luck would have it, his adjutant, who marched on the flank, sabre in hand, gesticulating with it in a manner justified by the circumstances, stuck it into a poor fellow, who was merely peacefully standing watching them go by. The poor devil fell, wounded, and was picked up nearly dead. We know how such a thing as that operates: the dead or wounded is no longer his own private property; he belongs to the crowd, which makes a standard of him, as it were. The crowd took possession of the man, bleeding as he was, and began to shout, "To arms! Vengeance on the assassin! Vengeance!" The assassin, or, rather, the unintentional murderer, had disappeared. They carried the victim into the enclosure outside Notre-Dame, where everybody discussed loudly how to take revenge for him, and pitied him, but none thought of getting him help. It was François Arago, who made an appeal to humanity out of the[Pg 216] midst of the threatening cries, and pointed to the Hôtel-Dieu, open to receive him, and, if possible, to cure the dying man. They placed him on a stretcher, and François Arago accompanied the unfortunate man to the bedside, where they had scarcely laid him before he died.
All this time the drums had been signaling, but not with that intense beating they showcased back in December, as if to say, "Run, everyone, the town is on fire!" Instead, it was weak and seemed to mean, "If you have nothing better to do, come here, and you won’t be warmly welcomed!" So, as the National Guard started to get the hang of the drum's message, they didn’t make much of a fuss. However, a unit from the 12th Legion, led by François Arago—the famous scientist, the noble patriot who is now dying, and whom the Academy will probably only praise as a scientist—came from the Panthéon towards the city. Unfortunately, his adjutant, who was marching on the side with his sword in hand, started waving it around due to the situation and accidentally stabbed a poor guy who was just standing there watching them pass. The poor guy fell, wounded, and was picked up barely alive. We know how things like this work: a dead or wounded person is no longer just theirs; they become a part of the crowd, which turns them into a symbol. The crowd seized the bleeding man and started shouting, "To arms! Vengeance on the killer! Vengeance!" The killer, or rather, the accidental murderer, had vanished. They carried the victim into the area outside Notre-Dame, where everyone loudly debated how to take revenge for him and sympathized with him, but not one person thought to get him medical help. It was François Arago who called for compassion amid the threatening shouts and pointed to the Hôtel-Dieu, ready to accept him and, if possible, save the dying man. They placed him on a stretcher, and François Arago accompanied the unfortunate man to the bedside, where they had barely laid him down before he died.
The report of that death spread with the fearful rapidity with which bad news always travels. When Arago re-appeared the crowd turned in earnest to wrath; it was in one of those moods when it sharpens its teeth and nails, and aches to tear to pieces and to devour.... What? In such a crisis it matters but little what, so long as it can tear and devour someone or something! It was frenzied to the extent of hurling itself upon Arago himself, mistaking the saviour for the murderer. In the twinkling of an eye our great astronomer was dragged towards the Seine, where he was going to be flung with the furniture, books and archiépiscopal vestments; when, happily, some of the spectators recognised him, called out his name, setting forth his reputation and his popularity in order to save him from death. When recognised, he was safe; but, robbed of a man, the excited crowd had to have something else, and, not being able to drown Arago, they demolished the archbishop's palace. With what rapidity they destroyed that building we have already spoken. And the remarkable thing was that many honourable witnesses watched the proceedings. M. Thiers was present, making his first practical study of the downfall of palaces and of monarchies. M. de Schonen was there, in colonel's uniform, but reduced to powerlessness because he had but few men at command. M. Talabot was there with his battalion; but he averred to M. Arago, who urged him to act, that he had been ordered to appear and then to return. The passive presence of all these notable persons at the riot of the archbishop's palace put a seal of sanction upon the proceedings, which I had never seen before, or have ever again seen at any other riot. This was no riot of the people, filled with enthusiasm, risking their lives in the midst of flashings of musketry fire and thunder of artillery; it was a riot in yellow kid-gloves, and overcoats and coats, it was a scoffing[Pg 217] and impious, destructive and insolent crowd, without the excuse of previous insult or destruction offered it; in fact, it was a bourgeois riot, that most pitiless and contemptible of all riots.
The news of that death spread with the terrifying speed that bad news always does. When Arago returned, the crowd shifted from shock to anger; it was in one of those moods where it feels ready to lash out, eager to rip apart and consume something... anything! In such a moment, it hardly matters what as long as it can tear and devour someone or something! It turned frenzied enough to pounce on Arago himself, mistaking the savior for the villain. In an instant, our great astronomer was dragged toward the Seine, where he was nearly thrown in along with the furniture, books, and archbishop’s vestments; fortunately, some bystanders recognized him and shouted his name, highlighting his reputation and popularity to save him from death. Once recognized, he was safe, but with a man denied to them, the agitated crowd needed an outlet, and unable to drown Arago, they wrecked the archbishop's palace. The speed with which they destroyed that building has already been mentioned. What’s remarkable is that many respectable witnesses observed the whole thing. M. Thiers was present, making his first practical study of the downfall of palaces and monarchies. M. de Schonen was there, in his colonel's uniform, but powerless because he had only a few men at his disposal. M. Talabot was present with his battalion; however, he told M. Arago, who urged him to take action, that he had been ordered to appear and then return. The passive presence of all these notable figures during the riot at the archbishop's palace lent an air of approval to the events, which I had never witnessed before and have not seen again at any other riot. This was no riot of the people, fueled by enthusiasm, risking their lives amidst gunfire and artillery; instead, it was a riot conducted by people in fancy gloves and overcoats, scoffing and impious, destructive and arrogant, without the pretext of having suffered any prior insult or destruction; in essence, it was a bourgeois riot, the most ruthless and contemptible of all riots.
I returned home heart-broken: I am wrong, I mean upset. I learnt that night that they had wished to demolish Notre-Dame, and only a very little more and the chef-d'oœuvre of four centuries, begun by Charlemagne and finished by Philippe-Auguste, would have disappeared in a few hours as the archbishop's palace had done. As I returned home, I had passed by the Palais-Royal. The king who had refused to make to Casimir Périer the sacrifice of the fleurs-de-lis, made that sacrifice to the rioters: they scratched it off the coats-of-arms on his carriages and mutilated the iron balconies of his palace.
I came home heartbroken: I mean upset. I found out that night that they wanted to tear down Notre-Dame, and if things had gone a little further, the masterpiece that took four centuries to create, which began with Charlemagne and was completed by Philippe-Auguste, would have vanished in just a few hours, like the archbishop's palace had. On my way home, I passed by the Palais-Royal. The king, who had refused to sacrifice the fleurs-de-lis for Casimir Périer, ended up giving it up to the rioters: they scraped it off the coats of arms on his carriages and vandalized the iron balconies of his palace.
The next day a decree appeared in the Moniteur, altering the three fleurs-de-lis of Charles V. this time to two tables of the law. If genealogy be established by coats-of-arms we should have to believe that the King of France was descended from Moses rather than from St. Louis! Only, these new tables of the law, the counterfeit of those of Sinai, had not even the excuse of being accepted out of the midst of thunders and lightnings.
The next day, a decree was published in the Moniteur, changing the three fleurs-de-lis of Charles V to two tablets of the law. If genealogy is determined by coats-of-arms, we would have to think that the King of France was related to Moses instead of St. Louis! However, these new tablets of the law, a fake version of those from Sinai, didn’t even have the justification of being accepted amid thunders and lightning.
It was upon this particular day, on Lamy's desk, who was Madame Adélaide's secretary, when I saw the grooms engaged in erasing the fleurs-de-lis from the king's carriages, thinking that it was not in this fashion that they should have been taken away from the arms of the house of France, that I sent in my resignation a second time, the only one which reached the king and which was accepted. It was couched in the following terms:—
It was on this day, at Lamy's desk, who was Madame Adélaide's secretary, that I saw the grooms busy removing the fleurs-de-lis from the king's carriages. I thought it was not the right way for them to be stripped from the arms of the house of France. That’s when I sent in my resignation for the second time, the only one that got to the king and was accepted. It was written in the following terms:—
"15 February 1831
"15 February 1831
"SIRE,—Three weeks ago I had the honour to ask for an audience of your Majesty; my object was to offer my resignation to your Majesty by word of mouth; for I wished to explain, personally, that I was neither ungrateful, nor capricious. Sire, a long time ago I wrote and made public my opinion that, in my case, the man of letters was but the prelude to the politician. I have arrived at the age when I can take a part in a reformed[Pg 218] Chamber. I am pretty sure of being nominated a député when I am thirty years of age, and I am now twenty-eight, Sire. Unhappily, the People, who look at things from a mean and distant point of view, do not distinguish between the intentions of the king, and the acts of the ministers. Now the acts of the ministers are both arbitrary and destructive of liberty. Amongst the persons who live upon your Majesty, and tell him constantly that they admire and love him, there is not one probably, who loves your Majesty more than I do; only they talk about it and do not think it, and I do not talk about it but think it.
"YOUR MAJESTY,—Three weeks ago, I had the privilege of asking for a meeting with you; I intended to personally submit my resignation. I wanted to explain in person that I am neither ungrateful nor changeable. Your Majesty, some time ago, I publicly expressed my belief that being a writer is just the beginning of my path in politics. I have reached an age where I can join a reformed [Pg 218] Chamber. I am quite confident I will be nominated as a député when I turn thirty, and I am currently twenty-eight, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, the public, who views things from a shallow and distant perspective, fails to separate the king's intentions from the actions of his ministers. The ministers’ actions are arbitrary and harmful to liberty. Among those who surround you and continually express their admiration and love for you, there is probably no one who loves you more than I do; they speak of their feelings but do not truly mean them, while I do not voice it but genuinely feel it."
"But, Sire, devotion to principles comes before devotion to men. Devotion to principles makes men like La Fayette; devotion to men, like Rovigo.[1] I therefore pray your Majesty to accept my resignation.
"I have the honour to remain your Majesty's respectful servant,
"ALEX. DUMAS""I am honored to remain your Majesty's respectful servant,
"ALEX. DUMAS"
It was an odd thing! In the eyes of the Republican party, to which I belonged, I was regarded as a thorough Republican, because I took my share in all the risings, and wanted to see the flag of '92 float at the head of our armies; but, at the same time, I could not understand how, when they had taken a Bourbon as their king, whether he was of the Elder or Younger branch of the house, he could be at the same time a Valois, as they had tried to make the good people of Paris believe,—I could not, I say, understand, how the fleurs-de-lis could cease to be his coat-of-arms.
It was a strange situation! In the eyes of the Republican party, which I was a part of, I was seen as a true Republican because I participated in all the uprisings and wanted to see the flag of '92 fly at the forefront of our armies. However, I couldn’t grasp how, after choosing a Bourbon as their king, whether from the Elder or Younger branch of the family, he could also be a Valois, as they had tried to convince the good people of Paris. I just couldn't understand how the fleurs-de-lis could stop being his coat of arms.
It was because I was both a poet and a Republican, and already comprehended and maintained, contrary to certain narrow-minded people of our party, that France, even though democratic, did not date from '89 only; that we nineteenth century men had received a vast inheritance of glory and must preserve it; that the fleurs-de-lis meant the lance heads of Clovis, and the javelins of Charlemagne; that they had floated[Pg 219] successively at Tolbiac, at Tours, at Bouvines, at Taillebourg, at Rosbecque, at Patay, at Fornovo, Ravenna, Marignan, Renty, Arques, Rocroy, Steinkerque, Almanza, Fontenoy, upon the seas of India and the lakes of America; that, after the success of fifty victories, we suffered the glory of a score of defeats which would have been enough to annihilate another nation; that the Romans invaded us, and we drove them out, the Franks too, who were also expelled; the English invaded us, and we drove them out.
It was because I was both a poet and a Republican, and I already understood and argued, against the views of some narrow-minded people in our party, that France, even though democratic, didn’t start just in '89; that we, as people of the nineteenth century, had inherited a rich legacy of glory that we needed to protect; that the fleurs-de-lis represented the spearheads of Clovis and the javelins of Charlemagne; that they had waved[Pg 219] across historic battles at Tolbiac, Tours, Bouvines, Taillebourg, Rosbecque, Patay, Fornovo, Ravenna, Marignan, Renty, Arques, Rocroy, Steinkerque, Almanza, and Fontenoy, as well as on the seas of India and the lakes of America; that, after achieving fifty victories, we suffered the shame of a number of defeats that would have been enough to destroy another nation; that the Romans invaded us, and we expelled them, the Franks too, who were also driven out; the English invaded us, and we expelled them as well.
The opinion I am now putting forth with respect to the erasing of the fleurs-de-lis, which I upheld very conspicuously at that time by my resignation, was also the opinion of Casimir Périer. The next day after the fleurs-de-lis had disappeared from the king's carriages, from the balconies of the Palais-Royal and even from Bayard's shield, whilst the effigy of Henry IV. was preserved on the Cross of the Legion of Honours; M. Chambolle, who has since started the Orleanist paper, l'Ordre, called at M. Casimir Périer's house.
The opinion I'm sharing now about the removal of the fleurs-de-lis, which I made clear at that time by resigning, was also the viewpoint of Casimir Périer. The day after the fleurs-de-lis vanished from the king's carriages, the balconies of the Palais-Royal, and even from Bayard's shield—while Henry IV.'s image remained on the Cross of the Legion of Honours—M. Chambolle, who later launched the Orleanist paper, l'Ordre, visited M. Casimir Périer's home.
"Why," the latter asked him, "in the name of goodness, does the king give up his armorial bearings? Ah! He would not do it after the Revolution, when I advised him to sacrifice them; no, he would not hear of their being effaced then, and stuck to them more tenaciously than did his elders. Now, the riot has but to pass under his windows and behold his escutcheon lies in the gutter!"
"Why," the latter asked him, "for goodness' sake, does the king give up his coat of arms? Ah! He wouldn’t do it after the Revolution when I suggested he should let them go; no, he wouldn’t hear of them being erased then and held onto them more tightly than his predecessors. Now, all it takes is for the riot to pass under his windows and look—his emblem is lying in the gutter!"
Those who knew what an irascible character Casimir Périer was, will not be surprised at the flowers of rhetoric with which those words are adorned.
Those who understood how irritable Casimir Périer was, won't be shocked by the flowery language those words are wrapped in.
But now that there is no longer an archbishop's palace, nor any fleurs-de-lis, and the statue of the Duc de Berry about to be knocked down at Lille, the seminary of Perpignan pillaged and the busts of Louis XVIII. and of Charles X. of Nîmes destroyed, let us return to Antony, which was to cause a great disturbance in literature, besides which the riots we have just been discussing were but as the holiday games of school children.
But now that there's no archbishop's palace, no fleurs-de-lis, and the statue of the Duc de Berry is about to be torn down in Lille, with the seminary in Perpignan looted and the busts of Louis XVIII and Charles X in Nîmes destroyed, let's go back to Antony, which was set to create a major stir in literature, making the riots we've just been discussing seem like mere schoolyard games.
[1] We are compelled to admit that, in our opinion, the parallel between La Fayette and the Duc de Rovigo is to the disadvantage of the latter; but how far he is above them in comparing him with other men of the empire! La Fayette's love for liberty is sublime; the devotion of the Duc de Rovigo for Napoléon is worthy of respect, for all devotion is a fine and rare thing, as times go.
[1] We have to acknowledge that, in our view, the comparison between La Fayette and the Duc de Rovigo favors the former; but when we compare the Duc de Rovigo to other men of the empire, he stands out significantly. La Fayette's passion for freedom is admirable; the Duc de Rovigo's loyalty to Napoléon is respectable, because loyalty is something precious and uncommon in these times.
CHAPTER III
My dramatic faith wavers—Bocage and Dorval reconcile me with myself—A political trial wherein I deserved to figure—Downfall of the Laffitte Ministry—Austria and the Duc de Modena—Maréchal Maison is Ambassador at Vienna—The story of one of his dispatches—Casimir Périer Prime Minister—His reception at the Palais-Royal—They make him the amende honorable
My intense faith shakes—Bocage and Dorval help me find peace with myself—A political trial I was meant to be part of—The collapse of the Laffitte Ministry—Austria and the Duke of Modena—Marshal Maison is the Ambassador in Vienna—The tale of one of his reports—Casimir Périer is the Prime Minister—His welcome at the Palais-Royal—They present him with the amende honorable
We saw what small success Antony obtained at the reading before M. Crosnier. The consequence was that just as they had not scrupled to pass my play over for the drama of Don Carlos ou l'Inquisition, at the Théâtre-Français, they did not scruple, at the Porte-Saint-Martin, to put on all or any sort of piece that came to their hands before they looked at mine. Poor Antony! It had already been in existence for close upon two years; but this delay, it must be admitted, instead of injuring it in any way, was, on the contrary, to turn to very profitable account. During those two years, events had progressed and had brought about in France one of those feverish situations wherein the explosions of eccentric individuals cause immense noise. There was something sickly and degenerate in the times, which answered to the monomania of my hero. Meanwhile, as I have said, I had no settled opinion about my drama; my youthful faith in myself had only held out for Henri III. and Christine; but the horrible concert of hootings which had deafened me at the representation of the latter piece had shattered that faith to its very foundations. Then the Revolution had come, which had thrown me into quite another order of ideas, and had made me believe I was destined to become what in politics is called a man of action, a[Pg 221] belief which had succumbed yet more rapidly than my literary belief.
We saw the little success Antony had at the reading in front of M. Crosnier. As a result, just like they didn’t hesitate to overlook my play for Don Carlos ou l'Inquisition at the Théâtre-Français, they also didn’t hesitate at the Porte-Saint-Martin to stage any other pieces before even considering mine. Poor Antony! It had already been around for nearly two years; but this delay, I have to admit, turned out to be quite beneficial. During those two years, events in France had advanced, leading to one of those tense situations where the outbursts of unusual individuals create a huge commotion. There was something unhealthy and decaying about the times that resonated with my hero's obsession. In the meantime, as I mentioned, I didn't have a firm opinion on my play; my youthful confidence in myself only lasted for Henri III. and Christine; but the awful noise of the boos I received during the performance of the latter completely shattered that confidence. Then the Revolution happened, which shifted my thoughts entirely and made me believe I was destined to become what’s known in politics as a man of action, a[Pg 221] belief that faded away even faster than my literary confidence.
Next had taken place the representation of my Napoléon Bonaparte, a work whose worthlessness I recognised with dread in spite of the fanatical enthusiasm it had excited at its reading. Then came Antony, which inspired no fanaticism nor enthusiasm, neither at its reading nor at its rehearsal; which, in my inmost conscience, I believed was destined to close my short series of successes with failure. Were, perchance, M. Fossier, M. Oudard, M. Picard and M. Deviolaine right? Would it have been better for me to go to my office, as the author of la Petite Ville and Deux Philibert had advised? It was rather late in the day to make such reflections as these, just after I had sent in my resignation definitely. I did not make them any the less for that, nor did they cheer me any the more on that account. My comfort was that Crosnier did not seem to set any higher value upon Marion Delorme than upon Antony, and I was a great admirer of Marion Delorme. I might be deceived in my own piece, but assuredly I was not mistaken about that of Hugo; while, on the other hand, Crosnier might be wrong about Hugo's piece, and therefore equally mistaken about mine. Meanwhile, the rehearsals continued their course.
Next came the performance of my Napoléon Bonaparte, a project I dreaded recognizing as worthless, even though it had sparked intense enthusiasm during its reading. Then there was Antony, which stirred neither fanaticism nor excitement, neither during its reading nor its rehearsal. Deep down, I feared it was going to end my brief streak of success with a failure. Were M. Fossier, M. Oudard, M. Picard, and M. Deviolaine right? Would it have been smarter for me to go to my office, as the author of la Petite Ville and Deux Philibert suggested? It was a bit late to be pondering these things, especially since I had just officially submitted my resignation. Regardless, I couldn't help but think about it, and it certainly didn't make me feel any better. My only comfort was that Crosnier didn't seem to value Marion Delorme any more than Antony, and I was a huge fan of Marion Delorme. I might be wrong about my own play, but I was definitely right about Hugo's; conversely, Crosnier might be mistaken about Hugo's play and equally wrong about mine. In the meantime, the rehearsals went on.
That which I had foreseen happened: in proportion as the rehearsals advanced, the two principal parts taken by Madame Dorval and by Bocage assumed entirely different aspects than they did when represented by Mademoiselle Mars and Firmin. The absence of scholastic traditions, the manner of acting drama, a certain sympathy of the actors with their parts, a sympathy which did not exist at the Théâtre Français, all by degrees helped to reinstate poor Antony in my own opinion. It is but fair to say that, when the two great artistes, upon whom the success of the play depended, felt the day of representation drawing nearer, they developed, as if in emulation with one another, qualities they were themselves unconscious they possessed. Dorval brought out a dignity of feeling in the expression of the emotions, of which I[Pg 222] should have thought her quite incapable; and Bocage, on whom I had only looked at first as capable of a kind of misanthropic barbarity, had moments of poetic sadness and of dreamy melancholy that I had only seen in Talma in his rôles of the English rendering of Hamlet, and in Soumet's Orestes. The representation was fixed for the first fortnight in April; but, at the same time, a drama was being played at the Palais de justice, which, even to my eyes, was far more interesting than my own.
What I had predicted came true: as the rehearsals progressed, the two main roles played by Madame Dorval and Bocage took on completely different qualities than when performed by Mademoiselle Mars and Firmin. The lack of traditional methods, the way they acted in the drama, and a certain connection the actors had with their roles—a connection that was absent at the Théâtre Français—all gradually helped to redeem poor Antony in my eyes. It's only fair to mention that as the two great artists, whose performances were crucial to the play's success, realized that the performance day was approaching, they brought forth qualities in themselves that they were unaware they had, seemingly motivated by each other. Dorval expressed emotions with a dignity I never thought she was capable of, while Bocage, initially seen by me as simply misanthropic, displayed moments of poetic sadness and dreamy melancholy that I had only observed in Talma during his portrayal of Hamlet and in Soumet's Orestes. The performance was scheduled for the first two weeks of April; however, at the same time, a drama was being staged at the Palais de justice that, even to me, seemed much more interesting than my own.
My friends Guinard, Cavaignac and Trélat, with sixteen other fellow-prisoners, were brought up before the Court of Assizes. It will be recollected that it was on account of the Artillery conspiracy, wherein I had taken an active part; therefore, one thing alone surprised me, why they should be in prison and I free; why they should have to submit to the cross-questionings of the law court whilst I was rehearsing a piece at the Porte-Saint-Martin. Between the 6th and the 11th of April the audiences had been devoted to the interrogation of the prisoners and to the hearing of witnesses. On the 12th, the Solicitor-General took up the case. I need hardly say that from the 12th to the 15th, the day when sentence was passed, I never left the sittings. It was a difficult task for the Solicitor-General to accuse men like those seated on the prisoners' bench, who were the chief combatants of July, and pronounced the "heroes of the Three Days," those whom the Lieutenant-General had received, flattered and pampered ten months back; the men whom Dupont (de l'Eure) referred to as his friends, whom La Fayette had called his children and whom, when he was no longer in the Ministry, Laffitte had called his accomplices. As a matter of fact, the Laffitte Ministry had fallen on 9 March. The cause of that fall could not have been more creditable to the former friend of King Louis-Philippe; he had found that five months of political friction with the new monarch had been enough to turn him into one of his most irreconcilable enemies. It was the time when three nations rose up and demanded their independent national rights: Belgium, Poland and Italy. People's minds[Pg 223] were nearly settled about Belgium's fate; but not so with regard to Poland and Italy; and all generous hearts felt sympathy with those two Sisters in Liberty who were groaning, the one beneath the sword blade of the Czar, the other under Austria's chastisement. Attention was riveted in particular upon Modena. The Duke of Modena had fled from his duchy when he heard the news of the insurrection of Bologna, on the night of 4 February. The Cabinet at the Palais-Royal received a communication upon the subject from the Cabinet of Vienna, informing it that the Austrian government was preparing to intervene to replace Francis IV. upon his ducal throne. It was curious news and an exorbitant claim to make. The French Government had proclaimed the principle of non-intervention; now, upon what grounds could Austria interfere in the Duchy of Modena? Austria had, indeed, a right of reversion over that duchy; but the right was entirely conditional, and, until the day when all the male heirs of the reigning house should be extinct, Modena could be a perfectly independent duchy. Such demands were bound to revolt so upright and fair a mind as M. Laffitte's, and he vowed in full council that, if Austria persisted in that insolent claim, France would go to war with her.
My friends Guinard, Cavaignac, and Trélat, along with sixteen other fellow prisoners, were brought before the Court of Assizes. It’s important to remember that this was due to the Artillery conspiracy, in which I had actively participated; thus, one thing shocked me: why they were in prison while I was free, why they had to endure the rigorous questioning in court while I was rehearsing a play at the Porte-Saint-Martin. Between April 6 and 11, the audiences were focused on interrogating the prisoners and hearing witnesses. On the 12th, the Solicitor-General started presenting the case. I should mention that from the 12th to the 15th, the day the verdict was delivered, I never left the proceedings. It was a tough job for the Solicitor-General to accuse men like those sitting on the defendants' bench, who were the main fighters of July, celebrated as "heroes of the Three Days," those whom the Lieutenant-General had received, flattered, and pampered ten months ago; the men whom Dupont (de l'Eure) called his friends, whom La Fayette referred to as his children, and whom, after leaving the Ministry, Laffitte labeled as his accomplices. In fact, the Laffitte Ministry had fallen on March 9. The reason for that fall couldn’t have been more discreditable for the former ally of King Louis-Philippe; he realized that five months of political tension with the new monarch had turned him into one of his most implacable enemies. This was when three nations rose up to demand their national rights: Belgium, Poland, and Italy. People's opinions were almost settled about Belgium's fate; but not for Poland and Italy; all kind-hearted people sympathized with those two Sisters in Liberty who were suffering, one under the Czar's sword, the other under Austria's punishment. Special attention was focused on Modena. The Duke of Modena had fled his duchy upon hearing about the insurrection in Bologna on the night of February 4. The Cabinet at the Palais-Royal received word from the Cabinet in Vienna, informing them that the Austrian government was preparing to step in to restore Francis IV. to his ducal throne. It was surprising news and an outrageous demand. The French Government had declared the principle of non-intervention; so, on what grounds could Austria interfere in the Duchy of Modena? Austria had a right of succession over that duchy, but the right was completely conditional, and until the male heirs of the reigning house became extinct, Modena could remain a fully independent duchy. Such demands were bound to outrage someone as honest and fair-minded as M. Laffitte, and he declared in full council that if Austria insisted on that arrogant claim, France would go to war with her.
M. Sébastiani, Minister for Foreign Affairs, was asked by the President of the Council to reply to this effect, which he engaged to do. Maréchal Maison was then at the embassy of Vienna. He was one of those stiff and starched diplomatists who preserve the habit, from their military career, of addressing kings and emperors with their hand upon their sword hilts. I knew him very well, and in spite of our difference of age, with some degree of intimacy; a charming woman with a pacific name who was a mere friend to me, but who was a good deal more than a friend to him, served as the bond between the young poet and the old soldier. The Marshal was commissioned to present M. Laffitte's Ultimatum to Austria. It was succinct: "Non-intervention or War!" The system of peace at any price adopted by Louis-Philippe was not yet known at that period. Austria replied as though she knew the[Pg 224] secret thoughts of the King of France. Her reply was both determined and insolent. This is it—
M. Sébastiani, the Foreign Affairs Minister, was asked by the President of the Council to respond to this, which he agreed to do. Maréchal Maison was then at the embassy in Vienna. He was one of those stiff, formal diplomats who, due to their military background, still addressed kings and emperors with their hands resting on their sword hilts. I knew him quite well, and despite the age gap, we had a level of closeness; a charming woman with a peaceful name, who was just a friend to me but meant a lot more to him, connected the young poet and the old soldier. The Marshal was tasked with delivering M. Laffitte's Ultimatum to Austria. It was brief: "Non-intervention or War!" The approach of peace at any cost that Louis-Philippe later adopted was not known at that time. Austria responded as if she were aware of the secret thoughts of the King of France. Her reply was both assertive and disrespectful. Here it is—
"Until now, Austria has allowed France to advance the principle of non-intervention; but it is time France knew that we do not intend to recognise it where Italy is concerned. We shall carry our arms wherever insurrection spreads. If that intervention leads to war—then war there must be! We prefer to incur the chances of war than to be exposed to perish in the midst of outbreaks of rebellion."
"Until now, Austria has allowed France to promote the idea of non-intervention; but it's time for France to realize that we won't accept that regarding Italy. We will take up arms wherever there are uprisings. If that intervention leads to war—then so be it! We'd rather take on the risks of war than stand by and get caught in the chaos of rebellion."
With the instruction the Marshal received, the note above quoted did not permit of any agreement being reached; consequently, at the same time that he sent M. de Metternich's reply to King Louis-Philippe, he wrote to General Guilleminot, our ambassador at Constantinople, that France was forced into war and that he must make an appeal to the ancient alliance between Turkey and France. Marshal Maison added in a postscript to M. de Metternich's note—
With the instructions the Marshal received, the note quoted above didn’t allow for any agreement to be reached; therefore, at the same time he sent M. de Metternich's reply to King Louis-Philippe, he wrote to General Guilleminot, our ambassador in Constantinople, informing him that France was being forced into war and that he should appeal to the longstanding alliance between Turkey and France. Marshal Maison added in a postscript to M. de Metternich's note—
"Not a moment must be lost in which to avert the danger with which France is threatened; we must, consequently, take the initiative and pour a hundred thousand men into Piedmont."
"We can’t waste any time dealing with the threat to France; we need to take charge and send a hundred thousand troops to Piedmont."
This dispatch was addressed to M. Sébastiani, Minister for Foreign Affairs, with whom, in his capacity as ambassador, Marshal Maison corresponded direct; it reached the Hôtel des Capucines on 4 March. M. Sébastiani, a king's man, communicated it to the king, but, important though it was, never said one word about it to M. Laffitte. That is the fashion in which the king, following the first principle of constitutional government, reigned, but did not rule. How did the National obtain that dispatch? We should be very puzzled to say; but, on the 8th, it was reproduced word for word in the second column of that journal. M. Laffitte read it by chance, as La Fayette had read his dismissal from the commandantship of the National Guard by accident. M. Laffitte got into a carriage, paper in hand and drove to M. Sébastiani. He could not deny it: the Marshal alleged such poor reasons, that[Pg 225] M. Laffitte saw he had been completely tricked. He went on to the Palais-Royal, where he hoped to gain explanations which the Minister for Foreign Affairs refused to give him; but the king knew nothing at all; the king was busy looking after the building at Neuilly and did not trouble his head about affairs of State, he took no initiative and approved of his ministry. M. Laffitte must settle the matter with his colleagues. There was so much apparent sincerity and naïve simplicity in the tone, attitude and appearance of the king that Laffitte thought he could not be an accomplice in the plot. Next day, therefore, he took the king's advice and had an explanation with his colleagues. That explanation led, there and then, to the resignation of the leader of the Cabinet, who returned to his home with his spirit less broken, perhaps, by the prospect of his ruined house and lost popularity than by his betrayed friendship. M. Laffitte was a noble-hearted man who had given himself wholly to the king, and behold, in the very face of the insult that had been put upon France, the king, in his new attitude of preserver of peace, threw him over just as he had thrown over La Fayette and Dupont (de l'Eure). Laffitte was flung remorselessly and without pity into the gulf wherein Louis-Philippe flung his popular favourites when he had done with them. The new ministry was made up all ready, in advance; the majority of its members were taken from the old one. The only new ministers were Casimir Périer, Baron Louis and M. de Rigny. The various offices of the members were as follows: Casimir Périer, Prime Minister; Sébastiani, Minister for Foreign Affairs; Baron Louis, Minister of Finance; Barthe, Minister of Justice; Montalivet, Minister of Education and Religious Instruction; Comte d'Argout, Minister of Commerce and Public Works; de Rigny, Minister for the Admiralty. The new ministry nearly lost its prime minister the very next day after he had been appointed, viz., on 13 March 1831. It was only with regret that Madame Adélaïde and the Duc d'Orléans saw Casimir Périer come into power. Was it from regret at the ingratitude shown to M. Laffitte? or was[Pg 226] it fear on account of M. Casimir Périer's well-known character? Whatever may have been the case, on 14 March, when the new president of the Council appeared at the Palais-Royal to pay his respects at court that night, he found a singular expression upon all faces: the courtiers laughed, the aides-decamp whispered together, the servants asked whom they must announce. M. le duc d'Orléans turned his back upon him, Madame Adélaïde was as cold as ice, the queen was grave. The king alone waited for him, smiling, at the bottom of the salon. The minister had to pass through a double hedge of people who wished to repel him, malevolent to him, in order to reach the king. The rival and successor to Laffitte was angry, proud and impatient; he resolved to take his revenge at once. He knew the man who was indispensable to the situation; Thiers was not yet sufficiently popular, M. Guizot was already too little so. Casimir Périer went straight to the king..
This message was addressed to M. Sébastiani, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, with whom Marshal Maison, in his role as ambassador, communicated directly; it arrived at the Hôtel des Capucines on March 4th. M. Sébastiani, a loyal supporter of the king, passed it on to the king, but despite its significance, he never mentioned it to M. Laffitte. This is how the king, adhering to the core principle of constitutional government, ruled without actually governing. How did the National get that message? It's hard to say; however, on the 8th, it was published verbatim in the second column of that newspaper. M. Laffitte came across it by chance, similar to how La Fayette stumbled upon his own dismissal from the National Guard. M. Laffitte got into a carriage, message in hand, and headed to see M. Sébastiani. He couldn't deny it: the Marshal provided such weak excuses that M. Laffitte realized he had been completely deceived. He then went to the Palais-Royal, hoping to get explanations that the Minister for Foreign Affairs was unwilling to provide; however, the king was completely unaware of the situation; he was focused on construction at Neuilly and didn't concern himself with state matters, taking no initiative and simply approving of his ministry. M. Laffitte had to resolve the issue with his colleagues. The king's demeanor, with its apparent sincerity and naive simplicity, led Laffitte to believe he couldn’t be part of the scheme. Therefore, the next day, he took the king's advice and discussed things with his colleagues. This conversation immediately resulted in the resignation of the Cabinet leader, who returned home somewhat less defeated, perhaps more by the loss of his reputation and the wreckage of his ministry than by the betrayal from his friend. M. Laffitte was a noble-hearted man who had devoted himself to the king, and right in the face of the offense dealt to France, the king, in his new role as a peacekeeper, discarded him just like he had La Fayette and Dupont (de l'Eure). Laffitte was cast aside ruthlessly, without pity, into the abyss where Louis-Philippe discarded his once-favored supporters when he was done with them. The new ministry was already prepared in advance, with most members taken from the old one. The only new ministers were Casimir Périer, Baron Louis, and M. de Rigny. Their positions were as follows: Casimir Périer, Prime Minister; Sébastiani, Minister for Foreign Affairs; Baron Louis, Minister of Finance; Barthe, Minister of Justice; Montalivet, Minister of Education and Religious Instruction; Comte d'Argout, Minister of Commerce and Public Works; de Rigny, Minister for the Admiralty. The new ministry almost lost its Prime Minister the very next day, on March 13, 1831. Madame Adélaïde and the Duc d'Orléans were hesitant about Casimir Périer taking power. Was it due to regret over the ungrateful treatment of M. Laffitte, or was it fear of M. Casimir Périer's well-known character? Whatever the reason, on March 14th, when the new Council president came to the Palais-Royal to pay his respects at court that evening, he noticed an unusual expression on everyone’s faces: the courtiers laughed, the aides-de-camp whispered among themselves, and the servants asked who they should announce. M. le duc d'Orléans turned away from him, Madame Adélaïde was icy, and the queen appeared serious. Only the king waited for him, smiling at the bottom of the salon. The minister had to navigate through a double line of people who were eager to block him, hostile to him, to reach the king. The competitor and successor to Laffitte was angry, proud, and impatient; he decided to take immediate revenge. He knew who was crucial to the situation; Thiers wasn’t popular enough yet, while M. Guizot was already too unpopular. Casimir Périer went straight to the king.
"Sire," he said to him, "I have the honour to ask you for a private interview."
"Sire," he said to him, "I’m honored to request a private meeting."
The king, amazed, walked before him and led him into his cabinet. The door was scarcely closed when, without circumlocution or ambiguity, the new prime minister burst out with—
The king, amazed, walked in front of him and brought him into his office. The door had barely closed when, without beating around the bush or being vague, the new prime minister exclaimed—
"Sire, I have the honour to offer my resignation to Your Majesty."
"Sire, I am honored to submit my resignation to Your Majesty."
"Eh! good Lord, Monsieur Périer," exclaimed the king, "and on what grounds?"
"Wow! Good Lord, Monsieur Périer," the king exclaimed, "and on what basis?"
"Sire," replied the exasperated minister, "that I have enemies at the clubs, in the streets, in the Chamber matters nothing; but enemies at the very court to which I am bold enough unreservedly to offer my whole fortune is too much to endure! and I do not feel equal, I confess to Your Majesty, to face these many forms of hatred."
"Sire," replied the frustrated minister, "that I have enemies at the clubs, in the streets, and in the Chamber means nothing; but having enemies right at the court, to which I have the audacity to freely offer my entire fortune, is simply too much to handle! I must confess to Your Majesty that I do not feel strong enough to confront all these different kinds of hatred."
The king felt the thrust, and realised that it must be warded off, under the circumstances, for it might be fatal to himself. Then, in his most flattering tones and with that seductive charm of manner in which he excelled, the king[Pg 227] set himself to smooth down this minister's wounded pride. But with the inflexible haughtiness of his character, Casimir Périer persisted.
The king sensed the attack and recognized that he needed to fend it off, as it could be deadly for him. Then, in his most flattering voice and with the irresistible charm that he was known for, the king[Pg 227] tried to ease this minister's hurt pride. But with his unyielding arrogance, Casimir Périer stood firm.
"Sire," he said, "I have the honour to offer my resignation to Your Majesty."
"Sire," he said, "I have the honor of offering my resignation to Your Majesty."
The king saw he must make adequate amends.
The king realized he needed to make the proper reparations.
"Wait ten minutes here, my dear Monsieur Périer," he said; "and in ten minutes you shall be free."
"Wait ten minutes here, my dear Monsieur Périer," he said; "and in ten minutes you'll be free."
The minister bowed in silence, and let the king leave him.
The minister bowed quietly and let the king go.
In that ten minutes the king explained to the queen, to his sister and his son, the urgent necessity there was for him to keep M. Casimir Périer, and told them the resolution the latter had just taken to hand in his resignation. This was a fresh order altogether, and in a few seconds it was made known to all whom it concerned. The king opened the door of his cabinet, where the minister was still biting his nails and stamping his feet.
In those ten minutes, the king explained to the queen, his sister, and his son why it was so important for him to keep M. Casimir Périer on board, and he told them about the decision Périer had just made to resign. This was a completely new development, and within moments, everyone who needed to know was informed. The king opened the door to his office, where the minister was still nervously biting his nails and pacing.
"Come!" he said.
"Come on!" he said.
Casimir Périer bowed lightly and followed the king. But thanks to the new command, everything was changed. The queen was gracious; Madame Adélaïde was affable; M. le duc d'Orléans had turned round, the aides-de-camp stood in a group ready to obey at the least sign from the king, and also from the minister; the courtiers smiled obsequiously. Finally, the lackeys, when M. Périer reached the door, flew into the ante-chambers and rushed down the stairs crying, "M. le president du Conseil's carriage!" A more rapid and startling reparation could not possibly have been obtained. Thus Casimir Périer remained a minister, and the new president of the council then started that arduous career which was to end in the grave in a year's time; he died only a few weeks before his antagonist Lamarque.
Casimir Périer bowed slightly and followed the king. But because of the new order, everything had changed. The queen was kind; Madame Adélaïde was friendly; M. le duc d'Orléans had turned around, the aides-de-camp stood together ready to respond at the slightest sign from the king and also from the minister; the courtiers smiled ingratiatingly. Finally, when M. Périer reached the door, the attendants rushed into the antechambers and hurried down the stairs shouting, "The president of the Council's carriage!" A quicker and more surprising response couldn't have been made. Thus, Casimir Périer remained a minister, and the new president of the council began that difficult journey which would end in death in a year's time; he died just a few weeks before his rival Lamarque.
This was how matters stood when we took a fresh course, in the full tide of the trial of the artillery, to speak of M. Laffitte.
This is how things were when we changed direction, right in the heat of the artillery trial, to talk about M. Laffitte.
But, once for all, we are not writing history, only jotting down our recollections, and often we find that at the very moment when we have galloped off to follow up some byway[Pg 228] of our memory we have left behind us events of the first importance. We are then obliged to retrace our steps, to make our apologies to those events, as the king had to do to M. Casimir Périer; to take them, as it were, by the hand, and to lead them back to our readers, who perhaps do not always accord them quite such a gracious reception as that which the Court of the Palais-Royal gave to the President of the Council on the evening of 14 March 1831.
But, just to be clear, we're not writing history; we're just jotting down our memories, and often we find that at the exact moment we're off chasing some sidetrack[Pg 228] from our memory, we've left behind really important events. We then have to backtrack, make our apologies to those events, like the king had to do with M. Casimir Périer; we have to take them by the hand, so to speak, and bring them back to our readers, who might not always give them the same warm welcome that the Court of the Palais-Royal gave to the President of the Council on the evening of March 14, 1831.
CHAPTER IV
Trial of the artillerymen—Procureur-général Miller—Pescheux d'Herbinville—Godefroy Cavaignac—Acquittal of the accused—The ovation they received—Commissioner Gourdin—The cross of July—The red and black ribbon—Final rehearsals of Antony
Trial of the gunners—Attorney General Miller—Pescheux d'Herbinville—Godefroy Cavaignac—Acquittal of the defendants—The celebration they received—Commissioner Gourdin—The cross of July—The red and black ribbon—Final rehearsals of Antony
We have mentioned what a difficult matter it was for a solicitor-general to prosecute the men who were still black from the powder of July, such men as Trélat, Cavaignac, Guinard, Sambuc, Danton, Chaparre and their fellow-prisoners. All these men, moreover (except Commissioner Gourdin, against whose morality, by the way, there was absolutely nothing to be said), lived by their private fortune or their own talents, and were, for the most part, more of them well to do than poorly off. They could therefore only be proceeded against on account of an opinion regarded as dangerous from the point of view of the Government, though they were undoubtedly disinterested. Miller, the solicitor-general, had the wit to grasp the situation, and at the outset of his charge against the prisoners he turned to the accused and said—
We talked about how challenging it was for a solicitor general to prosecute the men who were still stained with the aftermath of July, like Trélat, Cavaignac, Guinard, Sambuc, Danton, Chaparre, and their fellow prisoners. All these men (except for Commissioner Gourdin, whose integrity was beyond reproach) relied on their personal wealth or their own skills and were mostly doing well financially. So, they could only be charged for having opinions viewed as a threat by the Government, even though they were genuinely selfless. Miller, the solicitor general, was smart enough to understand the situation, and at the beginning of his case against the prisoners, he turned to the accused and said—
"We lament as much as any other person to see these honoured citizens at the bar, whose private life seems to command much esteem; young men, rich in noble thoughts and generous inspirations. It is not for us, gentlemen, to seek to call in question their title to public consideration, or to the goodwill of their fellow-citizens, and to a recognition of the services they have rendered their country."
"We mourn just like anyone else to see these respected citizens at the bar, whose private lives seem to inspire great admiration; young men, full of noble ideas and generous ambitions. It is not our role, gentlemen, to challenge their right to public recognition, the goodwill of their fellow citizens, or acknowledgment of the contributions they have made to their country."
The audience, visibly won over by this preamble, made a murmur of approbation which it would certainly have repressed if it had had patience to wait the sequel. The attorney-general went on—
The audience, clearly impressed by this introduction, murmured their approval, which they definitely would have held back if they had waited for what came next. The attorney-general continued—
"But do the services that they have been able to render the State give them the right to shake it to its very foundations, if it is not administered according to doctrines which suited imaginations that, as likely, as not, are ill-regulated? Is the impetuous ardour of youth enough excuse for legalising actions which alarm all good citizens, and harm all interests? Must peaceable men become the victims of the culpable machinations of those who talk about liberty, and yet attack the liberty of others, and boast that they are working for the good of France while they violently break all social bonds?"
"But do the services they've provided to the State give them the right to shake it to its core if it's not run according to ideas that are probably quite misguided? Is the reckless enthusiasm of youth a valid excuse for justifying actions that scare off good citizens and harm everyone’s interests? Must law-abiding people suffer because of the harmful schemes of those who claim to fight for freedom while actually infringing on the liberties of others, all while boasting that they're working for the good of France as they violently disrupt society?"
Judge in what a contemptuous attitude the prisoners received these tedious and banal observations. Far from dreaming of defending themselves, they felt that as soon as the moment should come for charging it would be they who should take the offensive. Pescheux d'Herbinville, the leader, burst forth in fury and crushed both judges and attorney-general.
Judge how disdainfully the prisoners reacted to these tedious and mundane comments. Instead of thinking about defending themselves, they were aware that when it was time to present their defense, they would be the ones taking the offensive. Pescheux d'Herbinville, the leader, erupted in anger and overpowered both the judges and the attorney general.
"Monsieur Pescheux d'Herbinville," President Hardouin said to him, "you are accused of having had arms in your possession, and of distributing them. Do you admit the fact?"
"Monsieur Pescheux d'Herbinville," President Hardouin said to him, "you are accused of having weapons in your possession and distributing them. Do you admit to this?"
Pescheux d'Herbinville rose. He was a fine-looking young man of twenty-two or three, fair, carefully dressed, and of refined manners; the cartridges that had been seized at his house were wrapped in silk-paper, and ornamented with rose-coloured favours.
Pescheux d'Herbinville stood up. He was a handsome young man, around twenty-two or twenty-three, with fair skin, well-dressed, and polished manners; the cartridges that had been confiscated from his home were wrapped in tissue paper and decorated with pink ribbons.
"I not only," he said, "admit the fact, monsieur le président, but I am proud of it.... Yes, I had arms, and plenty of them too! And I am going to tell you how I got them. In July I took three posts in succession at the head of a handful of men in the midst of the firing; the arms that I had were those of the soldiers I had disarmed. Now, I fought for the people, and these soldiers were firing on the people. Am I guilty for taking away the arms which in the hands in which they were found were dealing death to citizens?"
"I not only," he said, "acknowledge this, Mr. President, but I’m proud of it.... Yes, I had weapons, and a lot of them too! And I’m going to explain how I got them. In July, I took on three positions in a row at the front with a small group of men in the middle of the battle; the weapons I had were those of the soldiers I had disarmed. Now, I fought for the people, and these soldiers were shooting at the people. Am I wrong for taking the weapons that were in hands that were causing death to citizens?"
A round of applause greeted these words.
A round of applause followed these words.
"As to distributing them," continued the prisoner, "it is quite true I did it; and not only did I distribute them, but[Pg 231] believing that, in our unsettled times, it was as well to acquaint the friends of France with their enemies, at my own expense, although I am not a rich man, I provided some of the men who had followed me with the uniform of the National Guard. It was to those same men I distributed the arms, to which, indeed, they had a right, since they helped me to take them. You have asked me what I have to say in my defence, and I have told you."
"As for distributing them," the prisoner continued, "it’s true I did that; and not only did I distribute them, but[Pg 231] I believed that, in these uncertain times, it was important to inform the friends of France about their enemies. Even though I’m not wealthy, I covered the costs myself and provided some of the men who followed me with the National Guard uniform. I handed the arms to those same men, as they certainly had a right to them since they helped me obtain them. You asked what I have to say in my defense, and that’s my answer."
He sat down amidst loud applause, which only ceased after repeated orders from the president.
He sat down to loud applause, which only stopped after the president gave several commands.
Next came Cavaignac's turn.
Next, it was Cavaignac's turn.
"You accuse me of being a Republican," he said; "I uphold that accusation both as a title of honour and a paternal heritage. My father was one of those who proclaimed the Republic from the heart of the National Convention, before the whole of Europe, then victorious; he defended it before the armies, and that was why he died in exile, after twelve years of banishment; and whilst the Restoration itself was obliged to let France have the fruits of that revolution which he had served, whilst it overwhelmed with favours those men whom the Republic had created, my father and his colleagues alone suffered for the great cause which many others betrayed! It was the last homage their impotent old age could offer to the country they had vigorously defended in their youth!... That cause, gentlemen, colours all my feelings as his son; and the principles which it embraced are my heritage. Study has naturally strengthened the bent given to my political opinions, and now that the opportunity is given me to utter a word which multitudes proscribe, I pronounce it without affection, and without fear, at heart and from conviction I am a Republican!"
"You accuse me of being a Republican," he said. "I take that accusation as both a badge of honor and a family legacy. My father was one of those who declared the Republic at the National Convention, in front of all of Europe, at the peak of its victory; he defended it against the armies, and that's why he died in exile after twelve years of being banished. And while the Restoration had to allow France to enjoy the benefits of the revolution he fought for, while it showered favors on those who rose from the Republic, my father and his peers alone suffered for the great cause that many others betrayed! It was the last tribute their helpless old age could give to the country they once fought for passionately in their youth!... That cause, gentlemen, shapes all my feelings as his son, and the principles it championed are my inheritance. Education has naturally reinforced the inclination of my political views, and now that I have the chance to say a word that many condemn, I say it without affection and without fear; at my core and with conviction, I am a Republican!"
It was the first time such a declaration of principles had been made boldly and publicly before both the court of law and society; it was accordingly received at first in dumb stupor, which was immediately followed by a thunder of applause. The president realised that he could not struggle against such enthusiasm; he let the applause calm down, and Cavaignac[Pg 232] continue his speech. Godefroy Cavaignac was an orator, and more eloquent than his brother, although he, like General Lamarque and General Foy, gave utterance to some eminently French sentiments which enter more deeply into people's hearts than the most beautiful speeches. Cavaignac continued with increasing triumph. Finally, he summed up his opinions and hopes, and those of the party, which, then almost unnoticed, was to triumph seventeen years later—
It was the first time a declaration of principles had been made so boldly and publicly in front of both the court and society; it was initially met with stunned silence, quickly followed by a loud round of applause. The president realized he couldn't fight against such enthusiasm; he let the applause die down and allowed Cavaignac[Pg 232] to continue his speech. Godefroy Cavaignac was an orator and more eloquent than his brother, though he, like General Lamarque and General Foy, expressed some deeply French sentiments that resonate more with people than the most beautiful speeches. Cavaignac continued with growing triumph. In the end, he summed up his opinions and hopes, and those of the party, which would later, almost unnoticed, triumph seventeen years later—
"The Revolution! Gentlemen, you attack the Revolution! What folly! The Revolution includes the whole nation, except those who exploit it; it is our country, fulfilling the sacred mission of freeing the people entrusted to it by Providence; it is the whole of France, doing its duty to the world! As for ourselves, we believe in our hearts that we have done our duty to France, and every time she has need of us, no matter what she, our revered mother, asks of us, we, her faithful sons, will obey her!"
"The Revolution! Gentlemen, you are attacking the Revolution! What madness! The Revolution encompasses the entire nation, except for those who take advantage of it; it represents our country, fulfilling the sacred mission of liberating the people entrusted to it by Providence; it is all of France, doing its duty to the world! As for us, we truly believe that we have fulfilled our duty to France, and every time she calls upon us, no matter what she, our beloved mother, asks of us, we, her devoted sons, will answer!"
It is impossible to form any idea of the effect this speech produced; pronounced as it was in firm tones, with a frank and open face, eyes flashing with enthusiasm and heartfelt conviction. From that moment the cause was won: to have found these men guilty would have caused a riot, perhaps even a revolution. The questions put to the jury were forty-six in number. At a quarter to twelve, noon, the jurymen went into their consulting room: they came out at half-past three, and pronounced the accused men not guilty on any one of the forty-six indictments. There was one unanimous shout of joy, almost of enthusiasm, clapping of hands and waving of hats; everyone rushed out, striding over the benches, overturning things in their way; they wanted to shake hands with any one of the nineteen prisoners, whether they knew him or not. They felt that life, honour and future principles had been upheld by those prisoners arraigned at the bar. In the midst of this hubbub the president announced that they were set at liberty. There remained, therefore, nothing further for the accused to do but to escape the triumphant reception awaiting them. Victories, in these cases, are often worse than defeats: I[Pg 233] recollect the triumph of Louis Blanc on 15 May. Guinard, Cavaignac and the students from the schools succeeded in escaping the ovation: instead of leaving by the door of the Conciergerie, which led to the Quai des Lunettes, they left by the kitchen door and passed out unrecognised. Trélat, Pescheux d'Herbinville and three friends (Achille Roche, who died young and very promising, Avril and Lhéritier) had got into a carriage, and had told the driver to drive as fast as he could; but they were recognised through the closed windows. Instantly the carriage was stopped, the horses taken out, the doors opened; they had to get out, pass through the crowd, bow in response to the cheering and walk through waving handkerchiefs, the flourishing of hats and shouts of "Vivent les républicains!" as far as Trélat's home. Guilley, also recognised, was still less fortunate: they carried him in their arms, in spite of all his protests and efforts to escape. Only one of them, who left by the main entrance, passed through the crowd unrecognised, Commissionaire Gourdin, who pushed a hand-cart containing his luggage and that of his comrades in captivity, which he carried back home.
It's hard to express the impact this speech had; it was delivered with a strong voice, an honest and open face, and eyes filled with enthusiasm and genuine belief. From that moment, the victory was assured: finding these men guilty would have led to chaos, possibly even a revolution. The jury faced forty-six questions. At 11:45 AM, they entered the deliberation room; they returned at 3:30 PM, declaring the defendants not guilty on all forty-six counts. There was a unified cheer of joy, almost like excitement, with people clapping and waving hats; everyone rushed out, stepping over benches and knocking things over in their path; they wanted to shake hands with any of the nineteen defendants, whether they knew them or not. They felt that life, honor, and future ideals had been defended by those on trial. Amidst this noise, the president announced that they were free. Thus, all that remained for the accused was to evade the enthusiastic welcome awaiting them. Victories, in such situations, can be worse than defeats: I remember Louis Blanc's triumph on May 15. Guinard, Cavaignac, and the students managed to avoid the applause: instead of exiting through the Conciergerie's door, which led to Quai des Lunettes, they slipped out the kitchen door and blended in unnoticed. Trélat, Pescheux d'Herbinville, and three friends (Achille Roche, who died young and promising, along with Avril and Lhéritier) managed to get into a carriage and ordered the driver to speed away; however, they were recognized through the closed windows. Immediately, the carriage was stopped, the horses were removed, and the doors were opened; they had to get out, walk through the crowd, acknowledge the cheering, and pass under waving handkerchiefs while being celebrated with shouts of "Long live the republicans!" all the way to Trélat's home. Guilley, also recognized, was even less fortunate: he was carried on people's shoulders despite all his protests and attempts to escape. Only one of them, who left through the main entrance, went through the crowd unnoticed—Commissionaire Gourdin, who pushed a handcart carrying his luggage and that of his fellow captives, which he took back home.
This acquittal sent me back to my rehearsals; and it was almost settled for Antony to be run during the last days of April. But the last days of April were to find us thrown back into an altogether different sort of agitation. The law of 13 December 1830 with respect to national rewards had ordained the creation of a new order of merit which was to be called the Cross of July. There had been a reason for this creation which might excuse the deed, and which had induced republicans to support the law. A decoration which recalls civil war and a victory won by citizens over fellow-citizens, by the People over the Army or by the Army over the People, is always a melancholy object; but, as I say, there was an object underlying it different from this. It was to enable people to recognise one another on any given occasion, and to know, consequently, on whom to rely. These crosses had been voted by committees comprised of fighters who were difficult to deceive;[Pg 234] for, out of their twelve members, of which, I believe, each bureau consisted, there were always two or three who, if the cross were misplaced on some unworthy breast, were able to set the error right, or to contradict it. The part I took in the Revolution was sufficiently public for this cross to be voted to me without disputes; but, besides, as soon as the crosses were voted, as the members of the different committees could not give each other crosses, I was appointed a member of the committee commissioned to vote crosses to the first distributors. The institution was therefore, superficially, quite popular and fundamentally Republican. Thus we were astounded when, on 30 April, an order appeared, countersigned by Casimir Périer, laying down the following points—
This acquittal sent me back to my rehearsals, and it was almost decided that Antony would run during the last days of April. But those last days of April would find us caught up in a completely different kind of turmoil. The law from December 13, 1830, regarding national rewards mandated the creation of a new order of merit called the Cross of July. There was a reason for this creation that could justify the act, which had persuaded republicans to support the law. A decoration that recalls civil war and a victory achieved by citizens over fellow citizens, by the People over the Army, or by the Army over the People, is always a sad symbol; but, as I said, there was deeper meaning behind it. It was meant to help people recognize each other in various situations and, consequently, to know who they could rely on. These crosses had been approved by committees made up of fighters who were hard to fool;[Pg 234] since, out of the twelve members that each committee had, there were typically two or three who could correct the mistake if the cross ended up on an undeserving person or dispute it. My involvement in the Revolution was public enough for the cross to be awarded to me without any conflict; plus, as soon as the crosses were voted on, since members of different committees could not give each other crosses, I was appointed to the committee responsible for awarding crosses to the first recipients. Thus, on the surface, the institution seemed quite popular and fundamentally Republican. So, we were shocked when, on April 30, an order appeared, countersigned by Casimir Périer, stating the following points—
"The Cross of July shall consist of a three-branched star. The reverse side shall bear on it: 27, 28 and 29 July 1830. It shall have for motto: Given by the King of the French. It shall be worn on a blue ribbon edged with red. The citizens decorated with the July Cross SHALL BE PREPARED TO SWEAR FIDELITY TO THE KING OF THE FRENCH, and obedience to the Constitutional Charter and to the laws of the realm."
"The Cross of July will have a three-branched star. The back will show: 27, 28, and 29 July 1830. Its motto will be: Given by the King of the French. It will be worn on a blue ribbon with red edges. Citizens who receive the July Cross MUST BE READY TO SWEAR LOYALTY TO THE KING OF THE FRENCH, and pledge to obey the Constitutional Charter and the laws of the country."
The order was followed by a list of the names of the citizens to whom the cross was awarded. I had seen my name on the list, with great delight, and on the same day I, who had never worn any cross, except on solemn occasions, bought a red and black ribbon and put it in my buttonhole. The red and black ribbon requires an explanation. We had decided, in our programme which was thus knocked on the head by the Royal command, that the ribbon was to be red, edged with black. The red was to be a reminder of the blood that had been shed; the black, for the mourning worn. I did not, then, feel that I could submit to that portion of the order which decreed blue ribbon edged with red,—any more than to the motto: Given by the King, or to the oath of fidelity to the king, the Constitutional Charter and the laws of[Pg 235] the kingdom. Many followed my example, and, at the Tuileries, where I went for a walk to see if some agent of authority would come and pick a quarrel with me on account of my ribbon, I found a dozen decorated persons, among whom were two or three of my friends, who, no doubt, had gone there with the same intention as mine. Furthermore, the National Guard was, at that date, on duty at the Tuileries, and they presented arms to the red and black ribbon as to that of the Légion d'honneur. At night, we learnt that there was to be a meeting at Higonnet's, to protest against the colour of the ribbon, the oath and the motto. I attended and protested; and, next day, I went to my rehearsal wearing my ribbon. That was on 1 May; we had arrived at general rehearsals, and, as I have said, I was becoming reconciled to my piece, without, however,—so different was it from conventional notions—having any idea whether the play would succeed or fail. But the success which the two principal actors would win was incontestable. Bocage had made use of every faculty to bring out the originality of the character he had to represent, even to the physical defects we have notified in him.
The order was followed by a list of citizens who were awarded the cross. I was thrilled to see my name on the list, and on that same day, I—who had never worn any cross except on special occasions—bought a red and black ribbon and pinned it to my lapel. The red and black ribbon needs some explanation. We had decided, in our program that was abruptly disrupted by the Royal command, that the ribbon would be red, edged with black. The red was meant to remind us of the blood that had been shed; the black was for the mourning. So, I felt I couldn't accept the part of the order that mandated a blue ribbon edged with red—just as I couldn't accept the motto: Given by the King, or the oath of loyalty to the king, the Constitutional Charter, and the laws of[Pg 235] the kingdom. Many people followed my example, and at the Tuileries, where I went for a walk to see if any authority figure would confront me about my ribbon, I found about a dozen others wearing decorations, including a couple of my friends, who were likely there with the same goal as mine. Moreover, the National Guard was on duty at the Tuileries that day, and they saluted the red and black ribbon just like they did for the Légion d'honneur. That evening, we heard there would be a meeting at Higonnet's to protest against the color of the ribbon, the oath, and the motto. I went to the meeting and voiced my protest; the next day, I showed up for rehearsal wearing my ribbon. That was on May 1; we were in the midst of general rehearsals, and as I mentioned, I was starting to warm up to my role, although—given how different it was from standard expectations—I had no idea whether the play would be a hit or miss. However, the success that the two main actors would achieve was undeniable. Bocage had used all his skills to highlight the originality of the character he was portraying, including the physical flaws we had noted in him.
Madame Dorval had made the very utmost out of the part of Adèle. She enunciated her words with admirable precision, all the striking points were brought out, except one which she had not yet discovered. "Then I am lost!" she had to exclaim, when she heard of her husband's arrival. Well, she did not know how to render those four words: "Then I am lost!" And yet she realised that, if said properly, they would produce a splendid effect. All at once an illumination flashed across her mind.
Madame Dorval had gotten the most out of her role as Adèle. She spoke her lines with impressive clarity, highlighting all the key moments, except for one that she hadn't figured out yet. "Then I am lost!" she had to shout when she found out her husband was coming. But she didn’t know how to deliver those four words: "Then I am lost!" Still, she understood that if she delivered them just right, they would have an amazing impact. Suddenly, an idea sparked in her mind.
"Are you here, author?" she asked, coming to the edge of the footlights to scan the orchestra.
"Are you here, author?" she asked, stepping to the edge of the footlights to look over the orchestra.
"Yes ... what is it?" I replied.
"Yeah ... what’s up?" I replied.
"How did Mlle. Mars say: 'Then I am lost!'?"
"How did Mlle. Mars say: 'Then I'm lost!'?"
"She was sitting down, and got up."
"She was sitting and then stood up."
"Good!" replied Dorval, returning to her place, "I will be standing, and will sit down."
"Good!" replied Dorval, going back to her spot, "I’ll be standing, but I will sit down."
The rehearsal was finished; Alfred de Vigny had been present, and given me some good hints. I had made Antony an atheist, he made me obliterate that blot in the part. He predicted a grand success for me. We parted, he persisting in his opinion, I shaking my head dubiously. Bocage led me into his dressing-room to show me his costume. I say costume, for although Antony was clad like ordinary mortals, in a cravat, frock-coat, waistcoat and trousers, there had to be, on account of the eccentricity of the character, something peculiar in the set of the cravat and shape of the waistcoat, in the cut of the coat and in the set of the trousers. I had, moreover, given Bocage my own ideas on the subject, which he had adapted to perfection; and, seeing him in those clothes, people understood from the very first that the actor did not represent just an ordinary man. It was settled that the piece should be definitely given on 3 May; I had then only two more rehearsals before the great day. The preceding ones had been sadly neglected by me; I attended the last two with extreme assiduity. When Madame Dorval reached the sentence which had troubled her for long, she kept her word: she was standing and sank into an armchair as though the earth had given way under her feet, and exclaimed, "Then I am lost!" in such accents of terror that the few persons who were present at the rehearsal broke into cheers. The final general rehearsal was held with closed doors; it is always a mistake to introduce even the most faithful of friends to a general rehearsal: on the day of the performance they tell the plot of the play to their neighbours, or walk about the corridors talking in loud voices, and creaking their boots on the floor. I have never taken much credit to myself for giving theatre tickets to my friends for the first performance; but I have always repented of giving them tickets of admission for a general rehearsal. Against this it will be argued that spectators can give good advice: in the first place, it is too late to act upon any important suggestion at general rehearsals; then, those who really[Pg 237] offer valuable advice, during the course of rehearsals, are the actors, firemen, scene-shifters, supernumeraries and everybody, in fact, who lives by the stage, and who know the theatre much better than all the Bachelors of Arts and Academicians in existence. Well, then! my theatrical world had predicted Antony's success, scene-shifters, firemen craning their necks round the wings, actors and actresses and supers going into the auditorium and watching the scenes in which they didn't appear. The night of production had come.
The rehearsal was over; Alfred de Vigny had been there and gave me some great tips. I had made Antony an atheist, but he had me get rid of that flaw in the role. He predicted a huge success for me. We parted ways, with him sticking to his opinion while I shook my head skeptically. Bocage took me to his dressing room to show me his costume. I say costume, because even though Antony was dressed like any regular guy, in a cravat, frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers, there had to be something unique about how the cravat was tied and the shape of the waistcoat, as well as the coat's cut and the way the trousers sat, due to the character's eccentric nature. Plus, I had shared my own ideas with Bocage, which he had perfectly adapted; and seeing him in those clothes, it was clear from the start that the actor was portraying more than just an ordinary man. It was decided that the play would definitely be performed on May 3; I then had only two more rehearsals before the big day. I had sadly neglected the previous ones, but I attended the last two with great diligence. When Madame Dorval reached the line that had troubled her for a long time, she kept her promise: she was standing and sank into an armchair as if the ground had given way under her, exclaiming, "Then I am lost!" in such terrified tones that the few people present at the rehearsal broke into cheers. The final general rehearsal was held behind closed doors; it’s always a mistake to bring even the most loyal friends to a general rehearsal: on the performance day, they spill the plot to their neighbors, wander the halls talking loudly, and stomp their boots on the floor. I’ve never felt proud of giving theatre tickets to my friends for the first performance; but I’ve always regretted giving them tickets for a general rehearsal. It could be argued that spectators can give useful advice: first of all, it’s too late to act on any major suggestions at general rehearsals; and those who really offer valuable advice during rehearsals are the actors, stagehands, crew members, and anyone else who works in the theater and knows it far better than any Bachelors of Arts or Academicians out there. Well then! my theatrical world had predicted Antony's success, with stagehands, crew members peeking around the wings, actors and actresses and extras going into the auditorium to watch the scenes they weren’t in. The night of the production had arrived.
CHAPTER V
The first representation of Antony—The play, the actors, the public—Antony at the Palais-Royal—Alterations of the dénoûment
The first version of Antony—The play, the actors, the audience—Antony at the Palais-Royal—Changes to the dénoûment
The times were unfavourable for literature: all minds were turned upon politics, and disturbances were flying in the air as, on hot summer evenings, swifts fly overhead with their shrill screams, and black-winged bats wheel round. My piece was as well put on as it could be; but, except for the expenditure of talent which the actors were going to make, M. Crosnier had gone to no other cost; not a single new carpet or decoration, not even a salon was renovated. The work might fail without regret, for it had only cost the manager the time spent over the rehearsals.
The times weren’t great for literature: everyone was focused on politics, and tensions filled the air like swifts flying overhead, screeching on hot summer evenings, and black-winged bats circling around. My play was staged as well as it could be; however, aside from the talent the actors were about to showcase, M. Crosnier didn’t spend a dime. There wasn’t a single new carpet or decoration, not even a refreshed lounge. The show could flop without any regret since it had only cost the manager the time spent on rehearsals.
The curtain rose, Madame Dorval, in her gauze dress and town attire, a society woman, in fact, was a novelty at the theatre, where people had recently seen her in Les Deux Forçats, and in Le Joueur: so her early scenes only met with a half-hearted success; her harsh voice, round shoulders and peculiar gestures, of which she so often made use that, in the scenes which contained no passionate action, they became merely vulgar, naturally did not tell in favour of the play or the actress. Two or three admirably true inflections, however, found grace with the audience, but did not arouse its enthusiasm sufficiently to extract one single cheer from it. It will be recollected that Bocage has very little to do in the first act: he is brought in fainting, and the only chance he has for any effect is where he tears off the bandage from his wound, uttering, as he faints away for the second time: "And now I shall remain, shall I not?" Only after that sentence did the audience begin to understand the piece, and to feel the[Pg 239] hidden dramatic possibilities of a work whose first act ended thus. The curtain fell in the midst of applause. I had ordered the intervals between the acts to be short. I went behind the scenes myself to hurry the actors, managers and scene-shifters. In five minutes' time, before the excitement had had time to cool down, the curtain went up again. The second act fell to the share of Bocage entirely. He threw himself vigorously into it, but not egotistically, allowing Dorval as much part as she had a right to take; he rose to a magnificent height in the scene of bitter misanthropy and amorous threatening, a scene, by the bye, which—except for that of the foundlings—took up pretty nearly the whole act. I repeat that Bocage was really sublime in these parts: intelligence of mind, nobleness of heart, expression of countenance,—the very type of the Antony, as I had conceived him, was presented to the public. After the act, whilst the audience were still clapping, I went behind to congratulate him heartily. He was glowing with enthusiasm and encouragement, and Dorval told him, with the frankness of genius, how delighted she was with him. Dorval had no fears at all. She knew that the fourth and fifth acts were hers, and quietly waited her turn. When I re-entered the theatre it was in a state of excitement; one could feel the air charged with those emotions which go to the making of great success. I began to believe that I was right, and the whole world wrong, even my manager; I except Alfred de Vigny, who had predicted success. My readers know the third act, it is all action, brutal action; with regard to violence, it bears a certain likeness to the third act of Henri III., where the Duc de Guise crushes his wife's wrist to force her to give Saint-Mégrin a rendez-vous in her own handwriting. Happily, the third act at the Théâtre-Français having met with success, it made a stepping-stone for that at the Porte-Saint-Martin. Antony, in pursuit of Adèle, is the first to reach a village inn, where he seizes all the post-horses to oblige her to stop there, chooses the room that suits him best of the only two in the house, arranges an entrance into Adèle's room from the balcony, and withdraws as he hears the sound[Pg 240] of her carriage wheels. Adèle enters and begs to be supplied with horses. She is only a few leagues from Strassburg, where she is on her way to join her husband; the horses taken away by Antony are not to be found: Adèle is obliged to spend the night in the inn. She takes every precaution for her safety, which, the moment she is alone, becomes useless, because of the opening by the balcony, forgotten in her nervous investigations. Madame Dorval was adorable in her feminine simplicity and instinctive terrors. She spoke as no one had spoken, or ever will speak them, those two extremely simple sentences: "But this door will not shut!" and "No accident has ever happened in your hotel, Madame?" Then, when the mistress of the inn has withdrawn, she decides to go into her bedroom. Hardly had she disappeared before a pane of the window falls broken to atoms, an arm appears and unlatches the catch, the window is opened and both Antony and Adèle appear, the one on the balcony of her window, the other on the threshold of the room. At the sight of Antony, Adèle utters a cry. The rest of the scene was terrifyingly realistic. To stop her from crying out again, Antony placed a handkerchief on Adèle's mouth, drags her into the room, and the curtain falls as they are both entering it together. There was a moment of silence in the house. Porcher, the man whom I have pointed out as one of our three or four pretenders to the crown as the most capable of bringing about a restoration, was charged with the office of producing my restoration, but hesitated to give the signal. Mahomet's bridge was not narrower than the thread which at that moment hung Antony suspended between success and failure. Success carried the day, however. A great uproar succeeded the frantic rounds of applause which burst forth in a torrent. They clapped and howled for five minutes. When I have failures, rest assured I will not spare myself; but, meanwhile, I ask leave to be allowed to tell the truth. On this occasion the success belonged to the two actors; I ran behind the theatre to embrace them. No Adèle and no Antony to be found! I thought for a moment that, carried away by the enthusiasm of[Pg 241] the performance, they had resumed the play at the words, "Antony lui jette un mouchoir sur la bouche, et remporte dans sa chambre," and had continued the piece. I was mistaken: they were both changing their costumes and were shut in their dressing-rooms. I shouted all kinds of endearing terms through the door.
The curtain went up, and Madame Dorval, in her light dress and city outfit, a true lady of society, was a fresh face at the theater. People had recently seen her in Les Deux Forçats and Le Joueur, so her early scenes only received a lukewarm response. Her harsh voice, rounded shoulders, and unusual gestures—used so frequently that, during the non-passionate scenes, they came off as just plain awkward—didn't help her or the play. However, a couple of her genuinely moving moments did earn some appreciation from the audience, but it wasn't enough to provoke a single cheer. It's worth noting that Bocage had very little to do in the first act; he is introduced fainting, and his only chance to make an impact comes when he rips off the bandage from his wound, exclaiming, as he faints again: "And now I guess I'll stay, right?" It was only after that line that the audience began to grasp the play and sense its hidden dramatic potential, especially since the first act ended this way. The curtain dropped amidst applause. I had instructed that the breaks between acts be short. I went backstage myself to hurry up the actors, directors, and stagehands. Within five minutes, before the excitement could fade, the curtain rose again. The second act was entirely Bocage's. He threw himself into it passionately but not selfishly, giving Dorval as much stage time as she deserved; he rose to a magnificent level during the scene filled with bitter misanthropy and romantic threats, which, aside from the foundlings' scene, nearly consumed the entire act. I repeat, Bocage was truly outstanding in those parts: intelligent, noble, expressive—the exact vision of Antony that I had imagined was brought to life for the audience. After the act, while the audience was still cheering, I rushed backstage to congratulate him. He was filled with enthusiasm and encouragement, and Dorval told him, with the honesty of true talent, how thrilled she was with his performance. Dorval had no doubts; she knew the fourth and fifth acts belonged to her and calmly awaited her moment. When I returned to the theater, it was buzzing with excitement; the atmosphere was charged with the emotions that lead to a great success. I started to believe that I was right and the entire world was wrong, even my manager—except for Alfred de Vigny, who had predicted success. My readers are familiar with the third act; it's all action, brutal action. In terms of violence, it bears some resemblance to the third act of Henri III., where the Duc de Guise crushes his wife's wrist to force her to arrange a meeting with Saint-Mégrin in her own handwriting. Thankfully, the third act at the Théâtre-Français was successful, paving the way for that at the Porte-Saint-Martin. Antony, chasing Adèle, is the first to arrive at a village inn, where he seizes all the post horses to keep her there. He picks the best room of the only two available, creates access to Adèle's room from the balcony, and slips away as he hears the sounds of her carriage approaching. Adèle comes in and asks for horses. She's only a few leagues from Strasbourg, on her way to meet her husband; the horses taken by Antony can't be found, forcing Adèle to spend the night in the inn. She takes all measures for her safety, which become useless the moment she is alone because of the open balcony that she overlooked during her anxious search. Madame Dorval was charming in her feminine simplicity and instinctive fears. She expressed herself as no one else has or ever will, uttering two extremely simple sentences: "But this door won't close!" and "No accidents have ever happened in your hotel, right, madam?" Then, once the innkeeper has left, she decides to go to her bedroom. As soon as she disappears, a windowpane suddenly shatters, an arm reaches in and unfastens the latch, the window swings open, and both Antony and Adèle appear—one on her balcony and the other at the door of her room. Upon seeing Antony, Adèle screams. The rest of the scene was chillingly realistic. To stop her from crying out again, Antony covers Adèle's mouth with a handkerchief, drags her into the room, and the curtain falls as they both enter. There was a moment of silence in the audience. Porcher, the man whom I've pointed out as one of our top contenders for leading a restoration, was responsible for signaling my comeback, but hesitated to give the cue. The thread that hung over Antony at that moment was thinner than Mahomet's bridge, teetering between success and failure. However, success prevailed. A huge uproar followed the ecstatic applause that burst like a torrent. They clapped and howled for five minutes. When I have failures, I promise you I will not hold back; but for now, I must be allowed to speak the truth. On this occasion, the success belonged to the two actors. I dashed backstage to embrace them. But no sign of Adèle or Antony! For a moment, I thought that, caught up in the excitement of the performance, they had resumed the play at the line, "Antony throws a handkerchief over her mouth and takes her into his room," and had continued acting. I was mistaken; they were both changing costumes and were locked in their dressing rooms. I shouted all sorts of endearments through the door.
"Are you satisfied?" Bocage inquired.
"Are you happy?" Bocage asked.
"Enchanted."
"Magical."
"Bravo! the rest of the piece belongs to Dorval."
"Awesome! The rest of the piece is Dorval's."
"You will not leave her in the lurch?"
"You won't ghost her, right?"
"Oh! be easy on that score!"
"Oh! No worries about that!"
I ran to Dorval's door.
I ran to Dorval's door.
"It is superb, my child—splendid! magnificent!"
"It's amazing, my child—beautiful! stunning!"
"Is that you, my big bow-wow?"
"Is that you, my big dog?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"Come in, then!"
"Come on in!"
"But the door is fast."
"But the door is locked."
"To everybody but you." She opened it; she was unstrung; and, half undressed as she was, she flung herself into my arms.
"To everyone except you." She opened it; she was all over the place; and, half undressed, she threw herself into my arms.
"I think we have secured it, my dear!"
"I think we’ve got it locked down, babe!"
"What?"
"What?"
"Why! a success, of course!"
"Of course, it's a success!"
"H'm! h'm!"
"Hmm! Hmm!"
"Are you not satisfied?"
"Are you not happy?"
"Yes, quite."
"Yeah, definitely."
"Hang it! You would be hard to please, if you were not."
"Seriously! You'd be really hard to satisfy if you weren’t."
"It seems to me, however, that we have passed out of the worst troubles!"
"It seems to me, though, that we've made it through the worst of our troubles!"
"True, all has gone well so far; but ..."
"True, everything has gone smoothly so far; but ..."
"But what, come, my big bow-wow! Oh! I do love you for giving me such a fine part!"
"But what, come on, my big dog! Oh! I really love you for giving me such a great role!"
"Did you see the society women, eh?"
"Did you see the women from high society?"
"No."
"Nope."
"What did they say of me?"
"What did they say about me?"
"But I did not see them ..."
"But I didn't see them ..."
"You will see them?"
"Are you going to see them?"
"Oh yes."
"Absolutely."
"Then you will repeat what they say ... but frankly, mind."
"Then you will repeat what they say ... but honestly, be careful."
"Of course."
"Absolutely."
"Look, there is my ball dress."
"Look, there's my prom dress."
"Pretty swell, I fancy!"
"Really great, I like it!"
"Oh! big dog, do you know how much you have cost me?"
"Oh! big dog, do you know how much you’ve cost me?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Eight hundred francs!"
"Eight hundred francs!"
"Come here." I whispered a few words in her ear.
"Come here." I quietly said a few words in her ear.
"Really?" she exclaimed.
"Seriously?" she exclaimed.
"Certainly!"
"Absolutely!"
"You will do that?"
"Are you going to do that?"
"Of course, since I have said so."
"Of course, since I said so."
"Kiss me."
"Kiss me."
"No."
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Why not?"
"I never kiss people when I make them a present."
"I never kiss anyone when I give them a gift."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"I expect them to kiss me."
"I expect them to kiss me."
She threw her arms round my neck.
She wrapped her arms around my neck.
"Come now, good luck!" I said to her.
"Come on, good luck!" I said to her.
"And you must have it too."
"And you need to have it too."
"Courage? I am going to seek it."
"Courage? I'm going to look for it."
"Where?"
"Where at?"
"At the Bastille."
"At the Bastille."
"At the Bastille?"
"At the Bastille?"
"Yes, I have a notion the beginning of the fourth act will not get on so well."
"Yeah, I have a feeling the start of the fourth act won't go over too well."
"Why not?"
"Why not?"
"Come now! the fourth act is delightful: I will answer for it."
"Come on! The fourth act is amazing: I promise you won't regret it."
"Yes, you will make the end go, but not the beginning."
"Yes, you’ll make the end happen, but not the beginning."
"Ah I yes, that is a feuilleton which Grailly speaks."
"Ah yes, that is a feuilleton that Grailly is talking about."
"Bah! it will succeed all the same: the audience is enthusiastic; we can feel that, all of us."
"Bah! It'll succeed anyway: the audience is excited; we can all feel that."
"Ah I you feel that?"
"Ah, do you feel that?"
"Then, too, see you, my big bow-wow; there are people in the stalls of the house, gentlemen too! who stare at me as they never have stared before."
"Then, you see, my big dog; there are people in the audience, gentlemen too! who are staring at me like they never have before."
"I don't wonder."
"I'm not curious."
"I say ..."
"I think ..."
"What?"
"What’s going on?"
"If I am going to become the rage?"
"If I am going to be the next big thing?"
"It only depends on yourself."
"It all depends on you."
"Liar!"
"You're lying!"
"I swear it only depends on yourself."
"I promise it only relies on you."
"Yes ... but ... Alfred, eh?"
"Yeah ... but ... Alfred, right?"
"Exactly!"
"Exactly!"
"Upon my word, so much the worse! We shall see."
"Honestly, that's even worse! We’ll see about that."
The voice of the stage-manager called Madame Dorval!
The stage manager's voice called out, "Madame Dorval!"
"Can we begin?"
"Can we start?"
"No, no, no; I am not dressed yet, I am only in my chemise! He's a pretty fellow, that Moëssard! What would the audience say?... It is you who have hindered me like this ... Go off with you then!"
"No, no, no; I'm not ready yet, I'm just in my nightgown! That Moëssard is quite the character! What would the audience think? ... It's you who have held me up like this ... Just go away then!"
"Put me out."
"Take me out."
"Go! go! go!"
"Let's go!"
She kissed me three times and pushed me to the door. Poor lips, then fresh and smiling and trembling, which I was to see closed and frozen for ever at the touch of death!
She kissed me three times and pushed me to the door. Those poor lips, once fresh, smiling, and trembling, would now be closed and still forever at the touch of death!
I went outside; as I was in need of air. I met Bixio in the corridors.
I went outside since I needed some fresh air. I ran into Bixio in the hallways.
"Come with me," I said.
"Come with me," I said.
"Where the dickens are you off to?"
"Where the hell are you going?"
"I am going for a walk."
"I'm going for a stroll."
"What! a walk?"
"What! a stroll?"
"Yes!"
"Absolutely!"
"Just when the curtain is going to rise?"
"Just when is the curtain going to rise?"
"Exactly! I do not feel sure about the fourth act and would much rather it began without me."
"Exactly! I’m not really confident about the fourth act and would much rather it start without me."
"Are you sure about the end?"
"Are you sure about the ending?"
"Oh! the end is a different matter ... We will come back for that, never fear!"
"Oh! The ending is a different story... We'll be back for that, don't worry!"
And we hurried out on to the boulevard.
And we rushed out onto the boulevard.
"Ah!" I exclaimed, as I breathed the air.
"Ah!" I said, as I took in the fresh air.
"What is the matter with you?... Is it your piece that is upsetting you like this?"
"What’s wrong with you?... Is it your work that’s bothering you like this?"
"Get along, hang my piece!"
"Get along, hang my stuff!"
I dragged Bixio in the direction of the Bastille. I do not remember what we talked of. I only know we walked for half a league, there and back, chattering and laughing. If anybody had said to the passers-by, "You see that great lunatic of a man over there? He is the author of the play being acted at this very moment at the theatre of la Porte-Saint-Martin!" they would indeed have been amazed.
I pulled Bixio toward the Bastille. I don’t remember what we talked about. All I know is that we walked for about a mile, back and forth, chatting and laughing. If anyone had pointed us out to the people passing by and said, "You see that crazy guy over there? He’s the writer of the play that's being performed right now at the theater of la Porte-Saint-Martin!" they would have definitely been shocked.
I came in again at the right moment, at the scene of the insult. The feuilleton, as Dorval called it, meaning the apology for this modern style of drama, the real preface to Antony, had passed over without hindrance and had even been applauded. I had a box close to the stage and I made a sign to Dorval that I was there; she signalled back that she saw me. Then the scene began between Adèle and the Vicomtesse, which is summed up in these words, "But I have done nothing to this woman!" Next comes the scene between Adèle and Antony, where Adèle repeatedly exclaims, "She is his mistress!"
I walked in at just the right time, right at the moment of the insult. The feuilleton, as Dorval called it, which serves as the apology for this modern style of drama and acts as the real introduction to Antony, went by smoothly and even received applause. I had a box near the stage and signaled to Dorval that I was there; she signaled back that she noticed me. Then the scene started between Adèle and the Vicomtesse, summed up by her words, "But I haven't done anything to this woman!" Next was the scene between Adèle and Antony, where Adèle repeatedly exclaims, "She is his mistress!"
Well! I say it after twenty-two years have passed by,—and during those years I have composed many plays, and seen many pieces acted, and applauded many actors,—he who never saw Dorval act those two scenes, although he may have seen the whole repertory of modern drama, can have no conception how far pathos can be carried.
Well! I say this after twenty-two years have gone by,—and during those years I have written many plays, watched many performances, and applauded many actors,—anyone who never saw Dorval perform those two scenes, even if they have seen the entire collection of modern drama, cannot truly understand how far pathos can reach.
The reader knows how this act ends; the Vicomtesse enters; Adèle, surprised in the arms of Antony, utters a cry and disappears. Behind the Vicomtesse, Antony's servant enters in his turn. He has ridden full gallop from Strassburg, to announce to his master the return of Adèle's husband. Antony dashes from the stage like a madman, or one driven desperate, crying, "Wretch! shall I arrive in time?"
The reader knows how this scene wraps up; the Vicomtesse walks in; Adèle, caught in Antony's arms, gasps and vanishes. Right behind the Vicomtesse, Antony's servant bursts in. He has raced from Strassburg to inform his master that Adèle's husband is back. Antony bolts off the stage like a madman or someone who's lost hope, shouting, "Wretch! Am I too late?"
I ran behind the scenes. Dorval was already on the stage,[Pg 245] uncurling her hair and pulling her flowers to pieces; she had at times her moments of transports of passion, exceeding those of the actress. The scene-shifters were altering the scenes, whilst Dorval was acting her part. The audience applauded frantically. "A hundred francs," I cried to the shifters, "if the curtain be raised again before the applause ceases!" In two minutes' time the three raps were given: the curtain rose and the scene-shifters had won their hundred francs. The fifth act began literally before the applause for the fourth had died down. I had one moment of acute anguish. In the middle of the terrible scene where the two lovers, caught in a net of sorrows, are striving to extricate themselves, but can find no means of either living or dying together, a second before Dorval exclaimed, "Then I am lost!" I had, in the stage directions, arranged that Bocage should move the armchair ready to receive Adèle, when she is overwhelmed at the news of her husband's arrival. And Bocage forgot to turn the chair in readiness. But Dorval was too much carried away by passion to be put out by such a trifle. Instead of falling on the cushion, she fell on to the arm of the chair, and uttered a cry of despair, with such a piercing grief of soul wounded, torn, broken, that the whole audience rose to its feet. This time the cheers were not for me at all, but for the actress and for her alone, for her marvellous, magnificent performance! The dénoûment is known; it is utterly unexpected, and is summed up in a single phrase of six startling words. The door is burst open by M. de Hervey just as Adèle falls on a sofa, stabbed by Antony.
I ran behind the scenes. Dorval was already on stage,[Pg 245] untangling her hair and tearing apart her flowers; she sometimes had moments of intense passion, even more than the actress. The stagehands were changing the scenes while Dorval was performing her part. The audience was applauding wildly. "A hundred francs," I shouted to the crew, "if the curtain goes up again before the applause stops!" In just two minutes, the three knocks were heard: the curtain rose, and the stagehands had earned their hundred francs. The fifth act began literally before the applause for the fourth had faded. I had one moment of sheer panic. In the middle of the intense scene where the two lovers, caught in a web of sorrow, were trying to free themselves yet found no way to live or die together, just a second before Dorval cried, “Then I am lost!” I had arranged in the stage directions for Bocage to adjust the armchair to receive Adèle when she was overwhelmed by the news of her husband’s arrival. And Bocage forgot to turn the chair in preparation. But Dorval was so caught up in her emotions that she didn’t let a minor detail throw her off. Instead of collapsing onto the cushion, she landed on the arm of the chair and let out a scream of despair, with such piercing sorrow that it struck the audience deeply. This time, the cheers were not for me at all, but for the actress and her incredible, stunning performance! The dénoûment is known; it's completely unexpected and summed up in a single phrase of six shocking words. The door bursts open as M. de Hervey arrives just as Adèle falls onto a sofa, stabbed by Antony.
"Dead?" cries Baron de Hervey.
"Dead?" exclaims Baron de Hervey.
"Yes, dead!" coldly answers Antony. Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée! And he flings his dagger at the husband's feet. The audience gave vent to such cries of terror, dismay and sorrow, that probably a third of the audience hardly heard these words, a necessary supplement to the piece, which, however, without them would be nothing but an ordinary intrigue of adultery, unravelled by a simple assassination. The effect, all the same, was tremendous. They called for[Pg 246] the author with frantic cries. Bocage came forward and told them. Then they called for Antony and Adèle again, and both returned to take their share in such an ovation as they had never had, nor ever would have again. For they had both attained to the highest achievement in their art! I flew from my box to go to them, without noticing that the passages were blocked with spectators coming out of their seats. I had not taken four steps before I was recognised; then I had my turn, as the author of the play. A crowd of young persons of my own age (I was twenty-eight), pale, scared, breathless, rushed at me. They pulled me right and left and embraced me. I wore a green coat buttoned up from top to bottom; they tore the tails of it to shreds. I entered the green-room, as Lord Spencer entered his, in a round jacket; the rest of my coat had gone into a state of relics. They were stupefied behind the scenes; they had never seen a success taking such a form before, never before had applause gone so straight from the audience to the actors; and what an audience it was too! The fashionable world, the exquisites who take the best boxes at theatres, those who only applaud from habit, who, this time, made themselves hoarse with shouting so loudly, and had split their gloves with clapping! Crosnier was hidden. Bocage was as happy as a child. Dorval was mad! Oh, good and brave-hearted friends, who, in the midst of their own triumphs, seemed to enjoy my success more even than their own! who put their own talent on one side and loudly extolled the poet and the work! I shall never forget that night; Bocage has not forgotten it either. Only a week ago we were talking of it as though it had happened only yesterday; and I am certain, if such matters are remembered in the other world, Dorval remembers it too! Now, what became of us all after we had been congratulated? I know not. Just as there is around every luminous body a mist, so there was one over the rest of the evening and night, which my memory, after a lapse of twenty-two years, is unable to penetrate. In conclusion, one of the special features of the drama of Antony was that it kept the spectators spell-bound to the final fall of the curtain.[Pg 247] As the morale of the work was contained in those six words, which Bocage pronounced with such perfect dignity, "Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée!" everybody remained to hear them, and would not leave until they had been spoken, with the following result. Two or three years after the first production of Antony, it became the piece played at all benefit performances; to such an extent that once they asked Dorval and Bocage to act it for the Palais-Royal Theatre. I forget, and it does not matter, for whom the benefit was to be performed. The play met with its accustomed success, thanks to the acting of those two great artistes; only, the manager had been told the wrong moment at which to call the curtain down! So it fell as Antony is stabbing Adèle, and robbed the audience of the final dénoûment. That was not what they wanted: it was the dénoûment they meant to have; so, instead of going they shouted loudly for Le dénoûment! le dénoûment! They clamoured to such an extent that the manager begged the actors to let him raise the curtain again, and for the piece to be concluded.
"Yes, dead!" Antony coldly replies. She resisted me: I killed her! He throws his dagger at the husband’s feet. The audience erupted with cries of terror, shock, and sorrow. Probably a third of the crowd barely heard these words, which were essential to the story but, without them, it would have just been a typical adultery plot resolved by a simple murder. The impact was immense. They called for[Pg 246] the author with frantic shouts. Bocage stepped forward to address them. Then they called for Antony and Adèle again, and both returned to receive an ovation like none they had experienced before, nor would they ever again. They had both achieved the highest point in their craft! I rushed from my box to join them, not noticing that the aisles were crowded with spectators rising from their seats. I had barely taken four steps before I was recognized; then it was my turn, as the playwright. A group of young people my age (I was twenty-eight), pale and breathless, rushed towards me. They pulled me in every direction and hugged me. I was wearing a green coat buttoned all the way up; they tore the back of it to shreds. I entered the green room, as Lord Spencer would enter his, in a round jacket; the remnants of my coat had become relics. The cast backstage was stunned; they had never seen a success manifest in such a way before, nor had applause ever flowed so directly from the audience to the actors; and what an audience it was! The fashionable crowd, the elite who claim the best boxes at theaters, those who usually applaud out of habit, this time lost their voices from shouting and even split their gloves from clapping! Crosnier was hidden. Bocage was as happy as a child. Dorval was ecstatic! Oh, my good and brave-hearted friends, who, amid their own triumphs, seemed to relish my success even more than their own! They set aside their own talent and loudly praised the poet and the work! I will never forget that night; Bocage hasn’t forgotten it either. Just a week ago, we reminisced about it as if it had just happened, and I’m sure, if such things are remembered in the afterlife, Dorval remembers it too! Now, what happened to us all after we were congratulated? I don’t know. Just as there’s a mist surrounding every luminous body, there was one over the rest of the evening and night, which my memory, after twenty-two years, cannot penetrate. In conclusion, one of the special features of the play Antony was that it kept the spectators spellbound until the final curtain fell.[Pg 247] Since the morale of the piece was captured in those six words, which Bocage delivered with such perfect dignity, "Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée!" everyone stayed to hear them and wouldn’t leave until they had been spoken. This resulted in an interesting situation: two or three years after the original performance of Antony, it became the play performed at all benefit performances; to the point that once they asked Dorval and Bocage to perform it for the Palais-Royal Theatre. I can't remember, and it doesn’t really matter, for whom the benefit was organized. The play received its usual success, thanks to the performances of those two great artists; however, the manager was given the wrong cue for when to drop the curtain! So it fell just as Antony was about to stab Adèle, robbing the audience of the final dénoûment. That was not what they wanted: they were looking forward to the dénoûment; so, instead of leaving, they yelled loudly for Le dénoûment! le dénoûment! They clamored so loudly that the manager pleaded with the actors to let him raise the curtain again, so the play could be concluded.
Dorval, ever good-natured, resumed her pose in the armchair as the dead woman, while they ran to find Antony. But he had gone into his dressing-room, furious because they had made him miss his final effect, and withdrawing himself into his tent, like Achilles; like Achilles, too, he obstinately refused to come out of it. All the time the audience went on clapping and shouting and calling, "Bocage! Dorval!.... Dorval! Bocage!" and threatening to break the benches. The manager raised the curtain, hoping that Bocage, when driven to bay, would be compelled to come upon the stage. But Bocage sent the manager about his business. Meanwhile, Dorval waited in her chair, with her arms hung down, and head lying back. The audience waited, too, in profound silence; but, when they saw that Bocage was not coming back, they began cheering and calling their hardest. Dorval felt that the atmosphere was becoming stormy, and raised her stiff arms, lifted her bent head, rose, walked to the footlights, and, in the midst of the silence which had settled[Pg 248] down miraculously, at the first movement she had ventured to make:
Dorval, always in good spirits, took her place in the armchair as the deceased woman while they hurried to find Antony. But he had gone into his dressing room, furious for missing his final moment, retreating into his space like Achilles; like Achilles, he stubbornly refused to come out. Meanwhile, the audience continued clapping, shouting, and calling out, "Bocage! Dorval!... Dorval! Bocage!" and threatening to break the benches. The manager raised the curtain, hoping that Bocage, cornered, would have to come on stage. But Bocage dismissed the manager. In the meantime, Dorval sat in her chair, arms hanging down, head tilted back. The audience waited too, in deep silence; but when they realized Bocage wasn’t coming back, they began cheering and calling even louder. Dorval sensed the tense atmosphere growing, raised her stiff arms, lifted her bent head, stood up, walked to the footlights, and, amidst the miraculous silence that had settled[Pg 248] with her first move,
"Messieurs" she said, "Messieurs, je lui résistais, il m'a assassinée!" Then she made a graceful obeisance and left the stage, hailed by thunders of applause. The curtain fell and the spectators went away enchanted. They had had their dénoûment, with a variation, it is true; but this variation was so clever, that one would have had to be very ill-natured not to prefer it to the original form.
"Gentlemen," she said, "Gentlemen, I resisted him, he killed me!" Then she made a graceful bow and left the stage, greeted by thunderous applause. The curtain fell, and the audience left delighted. They had experienced their denouement, with a variation, it's true; but this variation was so clever that one would have to be very unkind not to prefer it to the original version.
CHAPTER VI
The inspiration under which I composed Antony—The Preface—Wherein lies the moral of the piece—Cuckoldom, Adultery and the Civil Code—Quem nuptiœ demonstrant—Why the Critics exclaimed that my Drama was immoral—Account given by the least malevolent among them—How prejudices against bastardy are overcome
The idea for my play Antony—The Preface—What the message of the piece is—Infidelity, betrayal, and the law—Quem nuptiœ demonstrant—Why some critics claimed my drama was immoral—A fair critique from the most unbiased among them—How prejudices against illegitimacy are confronted
Antony has given rise to so many controversies, that I must ask permission not to leave the subject thus; moreover, this work is not merely the most original and characteristic of all my works, but it is one of those rare creations which influences its age. When I wrote Antony, I was in love with a woman of whom, although far from beautiful, I was horribly jealous; jealous because she was placed in the same position as Adèle; her husband was an officer in the army; and the fiercest jealousy that a man can feel is that roused by the existence of a husband, seeing that one has no grounds for quarrelling with a woman who possesses a husband, however jealous one may be of him. One day she received a letter from her husband announcing his return. I almost went mad. I went to one of my friends employed in the War Office; three times the leave of absence, which was ready to be sent off, disappeared; it was either torn up or burnt by him. The husband did not return. What I suffered during that time of suspense, I could not attempt to describe, although twenty-four years have passed over, since that love departed the way of the poet Villon's "old moons." But read Antony: that will tell you what I suffered!
Antony has sparked so many controversies that I have to ask for permission to continue discussing it; besides, this work is not only my most original and distinctive piece, but it's also one of those rare works that influences its time. When I wrote Antony, I was in love with a woman who, though not beautiful, made me incredibly jealous; jealous because she was in the same situation as Adèle; her husband was a military officer. The strongest jealousy a man can feel comes from knowing there’s a husband involved, especially since there's no real reason to argue with a woman who has one, no matter how much you might envy him. One day, she got a letter from her husband saying he was coming back. I almost lost my mind. I went to one of my friends at the War Office; three times the leave of absence that was about to be sent out disappeared—either he tore it up or burned it. The husband didn’t come back. What I went through during that suspense, I can’t even begin to describe, even though twenty-four years have passed since that love faded away like the "old moons" of poet Villon. But read Antony: that will reveal what I endured!
Antony is not a drama, nor a tragedy! not even a theatrical piece; Antony is a description of love, of jealousy and of anger, in five acts. Antony was myself, leaving out the assassination,[Pg 250] and Adèle was my mistress, leaving out the flight. Therefore, I took Byron's words for my epigram, "People said Childe Harold was myself ... it does not matter if they did! "I put the following verses as my preface; they are not very good; I could improve them now: but I shall do nothing of the kind, they would lose their flavour. Poor as they are, they depict two things well enough: the feverish time at which they were composed and the disordered state of my heart at that period.
Antony isn't a drama, or a tragedy! Not even a play; Antony is a portrayal of love, jealousy, and anger, in five acts. Antony was me, minus the assassination,[Pg 250] and Adèle was my lover, minus the escape. So, I used Byron's words for my epigram, "People said Childe Harold was me ... it doesn't matter if they did!" I included the following verses as my preface; they're not great, and I could make them better now: but I won’t do that, they would lose their essence. As poor as they are, they capture two things pretty well: the intense time during which they were written and the chaotic state of my heart at that time.
"Que de fois tu m'as dit, aux heures du délire,
Quand mon front tout à coup devenait soucieux:
'Sur ta bouche pourquoi cet effrayant sourire?
Pourquoi ces larmes dans tes yeux?'
Pourquoi? C'est que mon cœur, au milieu des délices,
D'un souvenir jaloux constamment oppressé,
Froid au bonheur présent, va chercher ses supplices
Dans l'avenir et le passé!
Jusque dans tes baisers je retrouve des peines,
Tu m'accables d'amour!... L'amour, je m'en souviens,
Pour la première fois s'est glissé dans tes veines
Sous d'autres baisers que les miens!
Du feu des voluptés vainement tu m'enivres!
Combien, pour un beau jour, de tristes lendemains!
Ces charmes qu'à mes mains, en palpitant, tu livres,
Palpiteront sous d'autres mains!
Et je ne pourrai pas, dans ma fureur jalouse,
De l'infidélité te réserver le prix;
Quelques mots à l'autel t'ont faite son épouse,
Et te sauvent de mon mépris.
Car ces mots pour toujours ont vendu tes caresses;
L'amour ne les doit plus donner ni recevoir;
L'usage des époux à réglé les tendresses,
Et leurs baisers sont un devoir.
Malheur, malheur à moi, que le ciel, en ce monde,
A jeté comme un hôte à ses lois étranger!
À moi qui ne sais pas, dans ma douleur profonde,
[Pg 251]Souffrir longtemps sans me venger!
Malheur! car une voix qui n'a rien de la terre
M'a dit: 'Pour ton bonheur, c'est sa mort qu'il te faut?'
Et cette voix m'a fait comprendre le mystère
Et du meurtre et de l'échafaud....
Viens donc, ange du mal, dont la voix me convie,
Car il est des instants où, si je te voyais,
Je pourrais, pour son sang, t'abandonner ma vie
Et mon âme ... si j'y croyais!"
"How many times have you told me, in moments of madness,
When my brow suddenly turned pensive:
'Why that terrifying smile on your lips?
In the future and the past!
Even in your kisses, I find pain,
You overwhelm me with love!... Love, I remember,
For the first time slipped into your veins
With kisses that aren't mine!
You intoxicate me with the fire of pleasures in vain!
How many sad tomorrows for one beautiful day!
Those charms you deliver to my hands, trembling,
Will shake under other hands!
And I won’t be able, in my jealous rage,
To reserve the cost of your infidelity for you;
A few words at the altar made you his wife,
And shield you from my contempt.
For those words have forever sold your embraces;
Love should no longer give or receive them;
The customs of spouses have regulated tenderness,
And their kisses are an obligation.
Woe, woe to me, that heaven, in this world,
Has cast me as a guest at its foreign laws!
To me who can’t bear, in my deep pain,
[Pg 251]To endure for a long time without seeking revenge!
Alas! for a voice that has nothing earthly
Told me: 'For your happiness, is her death what you need?'
And that voice made me understand the mystery
Of both murder and the gallows....
So come, angel of evil, whose voice beckons me,
For there are moments when, if I saw you,
I could, for her blood, abandon my life
"And my soul... if I really believed in it!"
What do you think of my lines? They are impious, blasphemous and atheistic, and, in fact, I will proclaim it, as I copy them here nearly a quarter of a century after they were made, they would be inexcusably poor if they had been written in cold blood. But they were written at a time of passion, at one of those crises when a man feels driven to give utterance to his sorrows, and to describe his sufferings in another language than his ordinary speech. Therefore, I hope they may earn the indulgence of both poets and philosophers.
What do you think of my lines? They are disrespectful, irreverent, and atheistic, and honestly, I’ll admit it, as I share them here nearly twenty-five years later, they would be inexcusable if they had been written without emotion. But they were created during a time of passion, at one of those moments when a person feels compelled to express their sorrows and to articulate their suffering in a language different from their everyday one. So, I hope they will be forgiven by both poets and philosophers.
Now, was Antony really as immoral a work as certain of the papers made out? No; for, in all things, says an old French proverb (and, since the days of Sancho Panza, we know that proverbs contain the wisdom of nations), we must see the end first before passing judgment. Now, this is how Antony ends. Antony is engaged in a guilty intrigue, is carried away by an adulterous passion, and kills his mistress to save her honour as a wife, and dies afterwards on the scaffold, or at least is sent to the galleys for the rest of his days. Very well, I ask you, are there many young society people who would be disposed to fling themselves into a sinful intrigue, to enter upon an adulterous passion,—to become, in short, Antonys and Adèles, with the prospect in view, at the end of their passion and romance, of death for the woman and of the galleys for the man? People will answer me, that it is the form in which it is put that is dangerous, that Antony makes murder admirable, and Adèle justifies adultery.
Now, was Antony really as immoral as some of the newspapers claimed? No; because, as an old French saying goes (and, since the days of Sancho Panza, we know proverbs hold the wisdom of nations), we need to see the outcome first before making a judgment. So, here's how Antony wraps up. Antony gets involved in a sinful affair, is consumed by an adulterous love, and kills his mistress to protect her honor as a wife, and then dies on the scaffold, or at least is sent to the galleys for the rest of his life. Now, I ask you, are there many young socialites who would choose to dive into a sinful affair, to engage in an adulterous passion—essentially becoming Antonys and Adèles—knowing that the end of their romance could be death for the woman and a life of labor for the man? People will tell me that it’s the way it’s presented that’s dangerous, that Antony makes murder seem admirable and Adèle justifies adultery.
But what would you have! I cannot make my lovers hideous in character, unsightly in looks and repulsive in manners. The love-making between Quasimodo and Locuste[Pg 252] would not be listened to beyond the third scene! Take Molière for instance. Does not Angélique betray Georges Dandin in a delightful way? And Valère steal from his father in a charming fashion? And Don Juan deceive Dona Elvire in the most seductive of language? Ah! Molière knew as well as the moderns what adultery was! He died from its effects. What broke his heart, the heart which stopped beating at the age of fifty-three? The smiles given to the young Baron by la Béjart, her ogling looks at M. de Lauzun, a letter addressed by her to a third lover and found the morning of that ill-fated representation of the Malade imaginaire which Molière could scarcely finish! It is true that, in Molière's time, it was called cuckoldry and made fun of; that nowadays, we style it adultery, and weep over it. Why was it called cuckoldry in the seventeenth century and adultery in the nineteenth? I will tell you. Because, in the seventeenth century, the Civil Code had not been invented. The Civil Code? What has that to do with it? You shall see. In the seventeenth century there existed the rights of primogeniture, seniority, trusteeship and of entail; and the oldest son inherited the name, title and fortune; the other sons were either made M. le Chevalier or M. le Mousquetaire or M. l'Abbé, as the case might be. They decorated the first with the Malta Cross, the second they decked out in a helmet with buffalo tails, they endowed the third with a clerical collar. While, as for the daughters, they did not trouble at all about them; they married whom they liked if they were pretty, and anybody who would have them if they were plain. For those who either would not or could not be married there remained the convent, that vast sepulchre for aching hearts. Now, although three-quarters of the marriages were marriages de convenance, and contracted between people who scarcely knew each other, the husband was nearly always sure that his first male child was his own. This first male child secured,—that is to say, the son to inherit his name, title and fortune, when begotten by him,—what did it matter who was the father of M. le Chevalier, M. le Mousquetaire or M. l'Abbé? It was all the same to him, and often[Pg 253] he did not even inquire into the matter! Look, for example, at the anecdote of Saint-Simon and of M. de Mortemart.
But what do you expect! I can't make my lovers ugly in character, unattractive in appearance, and unpleasant in behavior. The romance between Quasimodo and Locuste[Pg 252] wouldn’t hold anyone’s interest beyond the third scene! Look at Molière, for example. Does Angélique not betray Georges Dandin in a delightful manner? And doesn’t Valère charm his way into stealing from his father? And doesn’t Don Juan seduce Dona Elvire with the most alluring words? Ah! Molière understood what adultery was as well as contemporary writers! It affected him deeply. What broke his heart, the heart that stopped beating at fifty-three? The smiles la Béjart gave to the young Baron, her flirtatious glances at M. de Lauzun, a letter to a third lover found the morning of that tragic performance of the Malade imaginaire that Molière could barely finish! It’s true that, in Molière's time, it was known as cuckoldry and was laughed at; now, we call it adultery and mourn over it. Why was it referred to as cuckoldry in the seventeenth century and as adultery in the nineteenth? I’ll explain. Because in the seventeenth century, the Civil Code hadn’t been established. The Civil Code? What does that have to do with it? You’ll see. In the seventeenth century, there were rights of primogeniture, seniority, trusteeship, and entail; the oldest son inherited the name, title, and fortune; the other sons were made M. le Chevalier, M. le Mousquetaire, or M. l'Abbé, depending on the situation. They adorned the first with the Malta Cross, outfitted the second with a helmet featuring buffalo tails, and clothed the third in a clerical collar. As for the daughters, they didn’t worry about them at all; they married whoever they pleased if they were attractive, and whoever would have them if they weren’t. For those who either couldn’t or didn’t want to marry, there was always the convent, that vast tomb for broken hearts. Now, even though three-quarters of marriages were marriages de convenance, contracted between people who barely knew each other, the husband was almost always sure that his first son was his own. This first male child was secured—meaning the son who would inherit his name, title, and fortune, when properly fathered—so what did it matter who the father of M. le Chevalier, M. le Mousquetaire, or M. l'Abbé was? It made no difference to him, and often[Pg 253] he didn’t even bother to find out! Take, for instance, the story of Saint-Simon and M. de Mortemart.
But in our days, alas, it is very different! The law has abolished the right of primogeniture; the Code forbids seniorities, entail and trusteeships. Fortunes are divided equally between the children; even daughters are not left out, but have the same right as sons to the paternal inheritance. Now, from the moment that the quem nuptiœ demonstrant knows that children born during wedlock will share his fortune in equal portions, he takes care those children shall be his own; for a child, not his, sharing with his legitimate heirs, is simply a thief. And this is the reason why adultery is a crime in the nineteenth century, and why cuckoldom was only treated as a joke in the seventeenth.
But nowadays, unfortunately, it's very different! The law has eliminated the right of primogeniture; the Code bans seniority, entailment, and trusteeships. Wealth is divided equally among the children; even daughters are included and have the same claim to the family inheritance as sons. Now, from the moment that the quem nuptiœ demonstrant realizes that children born during the marriage will share his wealth equally, he ensures those children are actually his; because a child that isn't his sharing with his legitimate heirs is essentially a thief. This is why adultery is seen as a crime in the nineteenth century, while cuckoldry was just a punchline in the seventeenth.
Now, what is the reason that people do not exclaim at the immorality of Angélique, who betrays Georges Dandin, of Valère who robs his papa, of Don Juan who deceives Charlotte, Mathurine and Doña Elvire all at the same time? Because all those characters—Georges Dandin, Harpagon, Don Carlos, Don Alonzo and Pierrot—lived two or three centuries before us, and did not talk as we do, nor were dressed as we dress; because they wore breeches, jerkins, cloaks and plumed hats, so that we do not recognise ourselves in them. But directly a modern author, more bold than others, takes manners as they actually are, passion as it really is, crime from its secret hiding-places and presents them upon the stage in white ties, black coats, and trousers with straps and patent leather boots—ah! each one sees himself as in a mirror, and sneers instead of laughing, attacks instead of approving, groans instead of applauding. Had I put Adèle into a dress of the time of Isabella of Bavaria and Antony into a doublet of the time of Louis d'Orléans, and if I had even made the adultery between brother-in-law and sister-in-law, nobody would have objected. What critic dreams of calling Œdipus immoral, who kills his father and marries his mother, whose children are his sons, grandson and brothers all at the same time, and ends, by putting out his own eyes to punish himself, a futile[Pg 254] action, since the whole thing was looked upon as the work of fate? Not a single one! But would any poor devil be so silly as to recognise a likeness of himself under either a Grecian cloak or a Theban tunic? I would, indeed, like to have the opinion of some of the moralists of the Press who condemned Antony; that, for instance of M. —— who, at that time, was living openly with Madame —— (I nearly said who). If I put it before my readers, the revelation would not fail to interest them. I can only lay my hands on one article; true, I am at Brussels and write these lines after two in the morning. I exhume that article from a very honest and innocent book—the Annuaire historique et universel by M. Charles Louis-Lesur. Here it is—it is one of the least bitter of the criticisms.
Now, why don’t people react to the immorality of Angélique, who betrays Georges Dandin; Valère, who steals from his dad; or Don Juan, who deceives Charlotte, Mathurine, and Doña Elvire all at once? It’s because all those characters—Georges Dandin, Harpagon, Don Carlos, Don Alonzo, and Pierrot—lived two or three centuries ago. They didn’t speak or dress like we do; they wore breeches, jerkins, cloaks, and feathered hats, so we don’t see ourselves in them. But as soon as a modern author, bolder than others, depicts manners as they really are, passion as it truly is, and reveals crime from its secret corners, presenting them on stage in white ties, black coats, trousers with straps, and patent leather boots—suddenly, everyone sees themselves reflected, sneering instead of laughing, criticizing instead of approving, groaning instead of applauding. If I had dressed Adèle in clothes from the time of Isabella of Bavaria and Antony in a doublet from the time of Louis d'Orléans, and even made the affair between brother-in-law and sister-in-law, no one would have complained. What critic would dare call Œdipus immoral, who kills his father and marries his mother, making his children his sons, grandsons, and brothers all at once, and ends up blinding himself in punishment, a pointless action since it’s all seen as fate’s doing? Not a single one! But would any poor soul be foolish enough to see themselves in a Grecian cloak or a Theban tunic? I’d love to hear what some of the moralists from the press who condemned Antony think; for instance, M. ——, who at that time was openly living with Madame —— (I almost named names). If I laid that out for my readers, it would definitely pique their interest. I can only find one article; true, I’m in Brussels writing this after two in the morning. I’ve dug up that article from a very honest and innocent book—the Annuaire historique et universel by M. Charles Louis-Lesur. Here it is—it’s one of the milder criticisms.
"Théâtre de la Porte-Saint-Martin (3 May).
"Théâtre de la Porte-Saint-Martin (3 May).
"First performance of Antony, a drama in five acts by M. Alexandre Dumas.
First performance of Antony, a drama in five acts by M. Alexandre Dumas.
"In an age and in a country where bastardy would be a stain bearing the stamp of the law, sanctioned by custom and a real social curse, against which a man, however rich in talent, honours and fortune would struggle in vain, the moral aim of the drama of Antony could easily be explained; but, nowadays when, as in France, all special privileges of birth are done away with, those of plebeian as well as of illegitimate origin, why this passionate pleading, to which, necessarily, there cannot be any contradiction and reply? Moral aim being altogether non-existent in Antony, what else is there in the work? Only the frenzied portrayal of an adulterous passion, which stops at nothing to satisfy itself, which plays with dangers and murder and death."
"In a time and place where being born outside of marriage was legally and socially unacceptable—a deep-rooted stigma that even the most talented, respected, and wealthy people couldn't escape—the moral message of the play Antony would be clear. But today, especially in France, where all special privileges of birth have been abolished for both common people and those born out of wedlock, why this intense argument that can't really be disputed? If there’s no moral purpose in Antony, what’s left in the work? Just the chaotic portrayal of a passionate affair that stops at nothing to satisfy its desires, flirting with danger, murder, and death."
Then follows an unamiable analysis of the piece and the criticism continues—
Then comes an unpleasant analysis of the piece, and the criticism goes on—
"Such a conception no more bears the scrutiny of good common sense than a crime brought before the Assize-courts can sustain the scrutiny of a jury. The author, by placing himself in an unusual situation of ungovernable and cruel passions, which spare neither tears nor blood, removes himself[Pg 255] outside the pale of literature; his work is a monstrosity, although we ought in fairness to say that some parts are depicted with an uncommon degree of strength, grace and beauty. Bocage and Madame Dorval distinguished themselves by the talent and energy with which they played the two leading parts of Antony and Adèle."
"This idea doesn't make any sense, just like a crime can't escape a jury's judgment in the Assize courts. The author, by placing himself in a situation filled with overwhelming and brutal emotions that are raw with tears and blood, steps outside the boundaries of literature; his work is a monstrosity, although we should be fair and recognize that some parts are portrayed with an unusual level of strength, grace, and beauty. Bocage and Madame Dorval really shone with the talent and energy they brought to the two main roles of Antony and Adèle."
My dear Monsieur Lesur, I could answer your criticism from beginning to end; but I will only reply to the statements I have underlined, which refer to bastardy, with which you start your article. Well, dear sir, you are wrong; privileges of birth are by no means overcome, as you said. I myself know and you also knew,—I say you knew, because I believe you are dead,—you, a talented man—nay, even more, a man of genius, who had a hard struggle to make your fortune, and who, in spite of talent, genius, fortune, were constantly reproached with the fatal accident of your birth. People cavilled over your age, your name, your social status ... Where? Why, in that inner circle where laws are made, and where, consequently, they ought not to have forgotten that the law proclaims the equality of the French people one with another. Well! that man, with the marvellous persistence which characterises him, will gain his object: he will be a Minister one day. Well, at that day what will they attack in him?—His opinions, schemes, Utopian ideas? Not at all, only his birth!—And who will attack it?—Some mean rascal who has the good luck to possess a father and a mother, who, unfortunately, have reason to blush for him!
My dear Monsieur Lesur, I could respond to your criticism point by point, but I will only address the statements I've highlighted about illegitimacy, which you begin your article with. Well, dear sir, you're mistaken; birth privileges are definitely not overcome, as you claimed. I know, and you also knew—I'm saying you knew because I believe you're dead—you, a talented man—indeed, even more, a genius—who fought hard to achieve success, and who, despite your talent, genius, and success, was constantly criticized for the unfortunate accident of your birth. People nitpicked about your age, your name, your social position... Where? In that inner circle where laws are created, and where they should have remembered that the law states the equality of all French citizens. Well! That man, with the amazing determination that defines him, will achieve his goal: he will become a Minister one day. And on that day, what will they attack him for?—His opinions, plans, Utopian ideas? Not at all, only his birth!—And who will be the one to attack it?—Some petty scoundrel who happens to have a father and mother who, unfortunately, have a reason to be ashamed of him!
But enough about Antony, which we will leave, to continue its run of a hundred performances in the midst of the political disturbances outside; and let us return to the events which caused these disturbances.
But enough about Antony, which we will leave to continue its run of a hundred performances amid the political unrest outside; now let's get back to the events that caused these disturbances.
CHAPTER VII
A word on criticism—Molière estimated by Bossuet, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau and by Bourdaloue—An anonymous libel—Critics of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries—M. François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon—Origin of the word Tartuffe—M. Taschereau and M. Étienne
A note on criticism—Molière examined by Bossuet, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Bourdaloue—An anonymous attack—Critics from the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries—Mr. François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon—Origin of the word Tartuffe—Mr. Taschereau and Mr. Étienne
Man proposes and God disposes. We ended our last chapter with the intention of going back to political events; but, behold, since we have been talking of criticism, we are seized with the desire to dedicate a whole short chapter to the worthy goddess. There will, however, be no hatred nor recrimination in it. We are only incited with the desire to wander aside for a brief space, and to place before our readers opinions which are either unknown to them or else forgotten. The following, for instance, was written about Molière's comedies generally:—
Man makes plans, but God has the final say. We wrapped up our last chapter intending to return to political events; but, look, since we’ve been discussing criticism, we feel compelled to dedicate a whole short chapter to the worthy goddess. However, there will be no hatred or blame here. We're simply motivated by a desire to take a brief detour and present our readers with opinions that might be unfamiliar or forgotten. For example, the following was written about Molière's comedies in general:—
"We must, then, make allowances for the impieties and infamous doings with which Molière's comedies are packed, as honestly meant; or we may not put on a level with the pieces of to-day those of an author who has declined, as it were, before our very eyes and who even yet fills all our theatres with the coarsest jokes which ever contaminated Christian ears. Think, whether you would be so bold, nowadays, as openly to defend pieces wherein virtue and piety are always ridiculed, corruption ever excused and always treated as a joke.
We need to view the offenses and questionable actions in Molière's comedies as honestly intended; otherwise, we can't compare today’s works to those of an author who seems to have declined in our eyes yet still fills our theaters with some of the most crude jokes that have ever shocked Christian values. Consider whether you would have the courage in today’s world to publicly defend works that constantly mock virtue and piety, where corruption is always justified and treated as a joke.
"Posterity may, perhaps, see entire oblivion cover the works of that poet-actor, who, whilst acting his Malade imaginaire, was attacked by the last agonies of the disease of which he died a few hours later, passing away from the jesting of the stage, amidst which he breathed almost his last sigh, to the tribunal of One who said, 'Woe to ye who laugh, for ye shall weep'!"
"Future generations might, perhaps, see complete oblivion consume the works of that poet-actor, who, while performing his Malade imaginaire, was hit by the final sufferings of the illness that claimed his life just a few hours later, transitioning from the laughter of the stage, where he took his last breaths, to the judgment of One who said, 'Woe to you who laugh, for you shall weep!'"
By whom do you suppose this diatribe against one whom modern criticism styles the great moralist was written? By some Geoffroy or Charles Maurice of the day? Indeed! well you are wrong: it was by the eagle of Meaux, M. de Bossuet.[1] Now listen to what is said about Georges Dandin:
By whom do you think this criticism of someone whom modern critics call the great moralist was written? By some Geoffroy or Charles Maurice of the time? Not at all! You’re mistaken: it was written by the eagle of Meaux, M. de Bossuet.[1] Now, pay attention to what is said about Georges Dandin:
"See how, to multiply his jokes, this man disturbs the whole order of society! With what scandals does he upheave the most sacred relations on which it is founded! How he turns to ridicule the venerable rights of fathers over their children, of husbands over their wives, masters over their servants! He makes one laugh; true, but he is all the more to be blamed for compelling, by his invincible charm, even wise persons to listen to his sneers, which ought only to rouse their indignation. I have heard it said that he attacks vices; but I would far rather people compared those which he attacks with those he favours. Which is the criminal? A peasant who is fool enough to marry a young lady, or a wife who tries to bring dishonour upon her husband? What can we think of a piece when the pit applauds infidelity, lies, impudence, and laughs at the stupidity of the punished rustic."
"Look at how this guy disrupts the entire fabric of society just to get more laughs! With what scandals does he shake up the most sacred relationships that society relies on! He mocks the respected rights of fathers over their children, husbands over their wives, and masters over their servants! It's true that he makes people laugh, but he deserves even more criticism for using his undeniable charm to get even smart people to listen to his jabs when they should really be outraged. I've heard people say he targets vices, but I'd much rather they compare the ones he attacks with the ones he supports. Who's worse? A foolish peasant who marries a young woman, or a wife who tries to dishonor her husband? What can we think of a show when the audience cheers for infidelity, lies, and shamelessness, while laughing at the foolishness of the punished countryman?"
By whom was that criticism penned? Doubtless by some intolerant priest, or fanatical prelate? By no means. It was by the author of the Confessions and of the Nouvelle Héloïse, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau![2] Perhaps the Misanthrope, at any rate, may find favour with the critics. It is surely admitted, is it not, that this play is a masterpiece? Let us see what the unctuous Bourdaloue says about it, in his Lettre à l'Académie Française. It is short, but to the point.
Who wrote that criticism? Surely it was some intolerant priest or fanatical church leader? Not at all. It was penned by the author of the Confessions and the Nouvelle Héloïse, Jean-Jacques Rousseau![2] Maybe the Misanthrope will at least be appreciated by the critics. It's generally accepted, right, that this play is a masterpiece? Let’s see what the smooth-talking Bourdaloue has to say about it in his Lettre à l'Académie Française. It’s brief, but straight to the point.
"Another fault in Molière that many clever people forgive in him, but which I have not allowed myself to forgive, is that he makes vice fascinating and virtue ridiculously rigid and odious!"
"Another flaw in Molière that many smart people miss, but that I can’t ignore, is that he makes bad behavior seem interesting and good behavior seem too harsh and unappealing!"
Let us pass on to l'Avare, and return to Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
Let’s move on to l'Avare, and get back to Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
"It is a great vice to be a miser and to lend upon usury, said the Genevan philosopher, but is it not a still greater for a son to rob his father, to be wanting in respect to him, to insult him with innumerable reproaches and, when the annoyed father curses him, to answer in a bantering way, 'Qu'il n'a que faire de ses dons.' 'I have no use for your gifts.' If the joke is a good one, is it, therefore, any the less deserving of censure? And is not a piece which makes the audience like an insolent son a bad school for manners?"[3]
"It's a major flaw to be stingy and to charge interest," said the Genevan philosopher, "but isn't it an even greater flaw for a son to rob his father, to disrespect him, to insult him with endless accusations, and when the angry father curses him, to respond sarcastically, 'Qu'il n'a que faire de ses dons.' 'I have no use for your gifts.' If the joke is clever, does that make it any less wrong? And isn't a story that makes the audience sympathize with a disrespectful son a poor lesson in manners?"[3]
Let us take a sample from an anonymous critic: Don Juan and Tartuffe, this time; then, after that, we will return to a well-known name, to a poet still cutting his milk teeth and to a golden-mouthed orator. We will begin by the anonymous writer. Note that the precept of Horace was still in vogue at this time: Sugar the rim of the cup to make the drink less bitter!
Let’s look at a comment from an anonymous critic: Don Juan and Tartuffe this time; after that, we’ll go back to a familiar name, a poet who’s just starting out and a smooth-talking speaker. We’ll start with the anonymous writer. Remember that Horace’s saying was still popular at this time: Sugar the rim of the cup to make the drink less bitter!
"I hope," said the critic, "that Molière will receive these observations the more willingly because passion and interest have no share in them: I have no desire to hurt him, but only to be of use to him."
"I hope," said the critic, "that Molière will welcome these comments even more because they're free from any passion or personal stake: I don’t want to hurt him, but only to help him."
Good! so much for the sugaring the rim of the cup; the absinthe is to come, and, after the absinthe, the dregs. Let us continue:
Good! Enough of sugaring the rim of the cup; the absinthe is next, and after the absinthe, the leftovers. Let’s keep going:
"We have no grudge against him personally, but we object to his atheism; we are not envious of his gain or of his reputation; it is for no private reasons, but on behalf of all right-thinking people; and he must not take it amiss if we openly defend the interests of God, which he so openly attacks, or because a Christian sorrowfully testifies when he sees the theatre in rebellion against the Church, comedy in arms against the Gospel, a comedian who makes game of mysteries and fun of all that is most sacred and holy in religion!
"We don’t have any personal beef with him, but we do have an issue with his atheism; we’re not jealous of his success or reputation; it’s not personal, but a concern for those who see things rightly; and he shouldn’t take it the wrong way if we openly defend God’s interests, which he openly attacks, or if a Christian feels sad when watching entertainment go against the Church, comedy mocking the Gospel, a comedian who ridicules profound mysteries and makes light of what is most sacred in religion!"
"It is true that there are some fine passages in Molière's works, and I should be very sorry to rob him of the admiration he has earned. It must be admitted that, if he succeeds but ill in comedy, he has some talent in farce; and, although he has neither the witty skill of Gauthier-Garguille, nor the impromptu touches of Turlupin, nor the power of Capitan, nor the naïveté of Jodelet, nor the retort of Gros-Guillaume, nor the science of Docteur, he does not fail to please at times, and to[Pg 259] amuse in his own way. He speaks French passably well; he translates Italian fairly, and does not err deeply in copying other authors; but he does not pretend to have the gift of invention or a genius for poetry. Things that make one laugh when said often look silly on paper, and we might compare his comedies with those women who look perfect frights in undress, but who manage to please when they are dressed up, or with those tiny figures which, having left off their high-heeled shoes, look only half-sized. At the same time, we must not deny that Molière is either very unfortunate or very clever in managing to pass off his false coin successfully, and to dupe the whole of Paris with his poor pieces. Those, in short, are the best and most favourable things we can say for Molière.
"It’s true that there are some great moments in Molière's works, and I would feel bad about taking away the praise he deserves. We must acknowledge that, even if he doesn't always hit the mark in comedy, he does have some talent in farce; and although he lacks the cleverness of Gauthier-Garguille, the spontaneity of Turlupin, the strength of Capitan, the simplicity of Jodelet, the quick wit of Gros-Guillaume, or the expertise of Docteur, he still manages to entertain sometimes and to [Pg 259] amuse in his own way. He speaks French fairly well, translates Italian adequately, and doesn’t make major mistakes when borrowing from other authors; but he doesn’t pretend to have a talent for original ideas or a knack for poetry. Things that are funny aloud often seem silly on paper, and we could compare his comedies to women who look terrible without their makeup but manage to impress when they’re all dressed up, or to short figures that, without their high heels, appear only half their size. At the same time, we shouldn’t deny that Molière is either very unlucky or very clever to successfully pass off his subpar work and fool everyone in Paris with his mediocre pieces. Those are, in summary, the best and most positive things we can say about Molière."
"If that author had set forth only affected characterisations, and had stuck entirely to doublets and large frills, he would not have brought upon himself any public censure and he would not have roused the indignation of every religious-minded person. But who can stand the boldness of a farce-writer who makes jokes at religion, who upholds a school of libertinism, and who treats the majesty of God as the plaything of a stage-manager or a call-boy. To do so would be to betray the cause of religion openly at a time when its glory is publicly attacked and when faith is exposed to the insults of a buffoon who trades on its mysteries and profanes its holy things; who confounds and upsets the very foundations of religion in the heart of the Louvre, in the home of a Christian prince, before wise magistrates zealous in God's cause, holding up to derision numberless good pastors as no better than Tartuffes! And this under the reign of the greatest, the most religious monarch in the world, whilst that gracious prince is exerting every effort to uphold the religion that Molière labours to destroy! The king destroys temples of heresy, whilst Molière is raising altars to atheism, and the more the prince's virtue strives to establish in the hearts of his subjects the worship of the true God, by the example of his own acts, so much the more does Molière's libertine humour try to ruin faith in people's minds by the license of his works.
"If that author had only created exaggerated characters and completely focused on flashy costumes, he wouldn’t have faced any public backlash and wouldn’t have angered every religious person. But who can tolerate the nerve of a comedian who jokes about religion, promotes a hedonistic lifestyle, and treats God’s greatness like a prop in a play? That would be a direct betrayal of faith, especially at a time when it’s being openly attacked and ridiculed by a fool who exploits its mysteries and desecrates its sacred aspects; who confounds and undermines the very foundations of religion right in the Louvre, at the home of a Christian king, in front of wise magistrates dedicated to God, mocking countless good pastors as if they were no better than Tartuffes! And all of this under the reign of the greatest, most devout monarch in the world, while that noble prince tirelessly strives to uphold the faith that Molière seeks to dismantle! The king tears down temples of heresy while Molière builds altars to atheism, and the more the prince’s virtues work to instill reverence for the true God through his actions, the more Molière’s libertine humor undermines faith in people’s minds through the freedom of his works."
"Surely it must be confessed that Molière himself is a finished Tartuffe, a veritable hypocrite! If the true object of comedy is to correct men's faults while amusing them, Molière's plan is to send them laughing to perdition. Like those snakes the poison of whose deadly bite sends a false gleam of pleasure[Pg 260] across the face of its victim, it is an instrument of the devil; it turns both heaven and hell to ridicule; it traduces religion, under the name of hypocrisy; it lays the blame on God, and brags of its impious doings before the whole world! After spreading through people's minds deadly poisons which stifle modesty and shame, after taking care to teach women to become coquettes and giving girls dangerous counsel, after producing schools notoriously impure, and establishing others for licentiousness—then, when it has shocked all religious feeling, and caused all right-minded people to look askance at it, it composes its Tartuffe with the idea of making pious people appear ridiculous and hypocritical. It is indeed all very well for Molière to talk of religion, with which he had little to do, and of which he knew neither the practice nor the theory.
"Surely, we must admit that Molière himself is a perfect Tartuffe, a genuine hypocrite! If the real purpose of comedy is to correct people's flaws while entertaining them, Molière's approach is to keep them laughing all the way to their downfall. Like those snakes whose poisonous bite gives a false sense of pleasure [Pg 260] to its victims, it’s a tool of the devil; it mocks both heaven and hell; it slanders religion under the guise of hypocrisy; it blames God and flaunts its sins in front of everyone! After spreading harmful ideas that kill modesty and shame, after training women to be flirts and giving girls dangerous advice, after creating schools infamous for immorality and setting others up for debauchery—then, once it has shocked all sense of religion and made decent people wary of it, it writes its Tartuffe to make pious people look ridiculous and hypocritical. It’s easy for Molière to talk about religion, with which he has little connection and about which he understands neither the practice nor the theory."
"His avarice contributes not a little to the incitement of his animus against religion; he is aware that forbidden things excite desire, and he openly sacrifices all the duties of piety to his own interests; it is that which makes him lay bold hands on the sanctuary, and he has no shame in wearing out the patience of a great queen who is continually striving to reform or to suppress his works.
"His greed significantly fuels his anger toward religion; he knows that things that are forbidden make people want them more, and he openly prioritizes his own interests over any sense of duty to piety. This drives him to disrespect the sacred, and he has no hesitation in testing the patience of a great queen who is always trying to either change or stop his actions."
"Augustus put a clown to death for sneering at Jupiter, and forbade women to be present at his comedies, which were more decent than were those of Molière. Theodosius flung to the wild beasts those scoffers who turned religious ceremonies into derision, and yet even their acts did not approach Molière's violent outbursts against religion. He should pause and consider the extreme danger of playing with God; that impiety never remains unpunished; and that if it escapes the fires of this earth it cannot escape those of the next world. No one should abuse the kindness of a great prince, nor the piety of a religious queen at whose expense he lives and whose feelings he glories in outraging. It is known that he boasts loudly that he means to play his Tartuffe in one way or another, and that the displeasure the great queen has signified at this has not made any impression upon him, nor put any limits to his insolence. But if he had any shadow of modesty left would he not be sorry to be the butt of all good people, to pass for a libertine in the minds of preachers, to hear every tongue animated by the Holy Spirit publicly condemn his blasphemy? Finally, I do not think that I shall be putting forth too bold a judgment in stating that no man, however ignorant in matters of faith,[Pg 261] knowing the content of that play, could maintain that Molière, in the capacity of its author, is worthy to participate in the Sacraments, or that he should receive absolution without a public separation, or that he is even fit to enter churches, after the anathemas that the council have fulminated against authors of imprudent and sacrilegious spectacles!"
"Augustus executed a clown for mocking Jupiter and banned women from attending his comedies, which were more decent than Molière's. Theodosius fed to wild beasts those who made fun of religious ceremonies, yet even their actions didn’t come close to Molière's harsh attacks on faith. He should reflect on the serious danger of messing with God; that impiety never goes unpunished; and that if it escapes the fires of this world, it won't escape those of the next. No one should take advantage of the kindness of a great prince, nor the devotion of a pious queen who supports him and whose feelings he takes pleasure in hurting. It is known that he loudly boasts about performing his Tartuffe one way or another, and that the great queen’s displeasure with this hasn’t deterred him, nor limited his audacity. But if he still had any sense of modesty left, wouldn’t he regret being the target of all decent people, being seen as a libertine by preachers, and hearing everyone inspired by the Holy Spirit publicly denounce his blasphemy? Finally, I don’t think it’s too bold to say that no one, no matter how ignorant of matters of faith, [Pg 261] knowing the content of that play, could argue that Molière, as its author, deserves to participate in the Sacraments, or that he should receive absolution without a public separation, or that he is even fit to enter churches, after the anathemas that the council has pronounced against authors of reckless and sacrilegious performances!"
Do you not observe, dear reader, that this anonymous libel, addressed to King Louis XIV. in order to prevent the performance of Tartuffe, is very similar to the petition addressed to King Charles X. in order to hinder the performance of Henri III.? except that the author or authors of that seventeenth century libel had the modesty to preserve their anonymity, whilst the illustrious Academicians of the nineteenth boldly signed their names: Viennet, Lemercier, Arnault, Étienne Jay, Jouy and Onésime Leroy. M. Onésime Leroy was not a member of the Academy, but he was very anxious to be one! Why he is not is a question I defy any one to answer. These insults were at any rate from contemporaries and can be understood; but Bossuet, who wrote ten years after the death of Molière; Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who wrote eighty years after the production of Tartuffe; and Bourdaloue and Fénelon ... Ah! I must really tell you what Fénelon thought of the author of the Précieuses ridicules. After the Eagle of Meaux, let us have the Swan of Cambrai! There are no fiercer creatures when they are angered than woolly fleeced sheep or white-plumed birds!
Do you not notice, dear reader, that this anonymous attack, directed at King Louis XIV. to stop the performance of Tartuffe, is very much like the petition sent to King Charles X. to prevent the performance of Henri III.? The difference is that the authors of that seventeenth-century attack had the decency to remain anonymous, while the prominent Academicians of the nineteenth century boldly signed their names: Viennet, Lemercier, Arnault, Étienne Jay, Jouy, and Onésime Leroy. M. Onésime Leroy was not a member of the Academy, but he desperately wanted to be one! Why he isn’t is a question I challenge anyone to answer. These insults came from contemporaries and can be understood; but Bossuet, who wrote ten years after Molière's death; Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who wrote eighty years after Tartuffe; and Bourdaloue and Fénelon... Ah! I have to tell you what Fénelon thought of the author of the Précieuses ridicules. After the Eagle of Meaux, let us have the Swan of Cambrai! There are no angrier creatures than woolly sheep or white birds when they are upset!
"Although Molière thought rightly he often expressed himself badly; he made use of the most strained and unnatural phrases. Terence said in four or five words, and with the most exquisite simplicity, what it took Molière a multitude of metaphors approaching to nonsense to say. I much prefer his prose to his poetry. For example, l'Avare is less badly written than the plays which are in verse; but, taken altogether, it seems to me, that even in his prose, he does not speak in simple enough language to express all passions."
"Even though Molière realized he often communicated poorly, he used overly complicated and unnatural phrases. Terence was able to express what took Molière a flood of metaphors—often bordering on nonsense—in just four or five words with beautiful simplicity. I definitely prefer his prose to his poetry. For example, l'Avare is better written than his verse plays; however, I believe that even in his prose, he doesn't use simple enough language to convey all emotions."
Remark that this was written twenty years after the death of Molière, and that Fénelon, the author of Télémaque, in speaking[Pg 262] to the Academy, which applauded with those noddings of the head which did not hinder their naps, boldly declared that the author of the Misanthrope, of Tartuffe and of the Femmes Savants did not know how to write in verse. O my dear Monsieur François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon, if I but had here a certain criticism that Charles Fourier wrote upon your Télémaque, how I should entertain my reader! In the meantime, the man whom seventeenth and eighteenth century criticism, whom ecclesiastics and philosophers, Bossuet and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, treated as heretical, a corrupter and an abomination; who, according to the anonymous writer of the letter to the king, spoke French passably well; who, according to Fénelon did not know how to write in verse—that man, in the nineteenth century, is considered a great moralist, a stern corrector of manners, an inimitable writer!
Note that this was written twenty years after Molière's death, and Fénelon, the author of Télémaque, while addressing the Academy, which nodded off while applauding, boldly claimed that the writer of the Misanthrope, Tartuffe, and Femmes Savants didn’t know how to write in verse. Oh my dear Monsieur François de Salignac de la Motte de Fénelon, if only I had a certain critique that Charles Fourier wrote about your Télémaque, how I would entertain my readers! In the meantime, the man whom seventeenth and eighteenth-century critics, including ecclesiastics and philosophers like Bossuet and Jean-Jacques Rousseau, labeled as heretical, a corrupter, and an abomination; who, according to the anonymous writer of the letter to the king, spoke French fairly well; and who, according to Fénelon couldn’t write in verse—that man is now seen in the nineteenth century as a great moralist, a strict corrector of behavior, and an unmatched writer!
Yet more: men who, in their turn, write letters to the descendant of Louis XIV., in order to stop the heretics, corrupters of morals, abominable men of the nineteenth century from having their works played, grovel on their knees before the illustrious dead; they search his works for the slenderest motives he might have had or did not have, in writing them; they poke about to discover what he could have meant by such and such a thing, when he was merely giving to the world the fruits of such inspiration as only genius possesses; they even indulge in profound researches concerning the man who furnished the type for Tartuffe and into the circumstances which gave him the name of Tartuffe (so admirably appropriate to that personage, that it has become not only the name of a man, but the name of men.)
Yet more: men who, in turn, write letters to the descendant of Louis XIV. to stop the heretics, the corrupters of morals, and the despicable men of the nineteenth century from having their works performed, grovel on their knees before the illustrious dead; they sift through his works for the tiniest motivations he might have had or didn’t have when writing them; they dig around to find out what he could have meant by this or that when he was merely sharing the fruits of inspiration that only genius can provide; they even engage in deep research about the man who inspired Tartuffe and the circumstances that gave him the name Tartuffe (so fitting for that character that it has become not just the name of a man, but the name of men.)
"We have pointed out where Molière got his model; it now remains to us to discuss the origin of the title of his play. To trace the derivation of a word might seem going into unnecessary detail in any other case; but nothing which concerns the masterpiece of our stage should be devoid of interest. Several commentators, among others Bret, have contended that Molière, busy over the work he was meditating, one day[Pg 263] happened to be at the house of the Papal Nuncio where many saintly persons were gathered. A truffle-seller came to the door and the smell of his wares wafted in, whereupon the sanctimonious contrite expression on the faces of the courtiers of the ambassador of Rome lit up with animation, 'TARTUFOLI, Signor Nunzio! TARTUFOLI!' they exclaimed, pointing out the best to him. According to this version, it was the word tartufoli, pronounced with earthly sensuality by the lips of mystics, which suggested to Molière the name of his impostor. We were the first to dispute that fable and we quote below the opinion of one of the most distinguished of literary men, who did us the honour of adopting our opinion.
"We've identified where Molière got his inspiration; now let's talk about the origin of the title of his play. While tracing the origin of a word might seem a bit trivial in other cases, nothing related to our stage's masterpiece should be considered uninteresting. Several commentators, including Bret, have suggested that while Molière was working on the project, he found himself one day[Pg 263] at the house of the Papal Nuncio, where many devout individuals were gathered. A truffle seller knocked at the door, and the scent of his goods filled the air, causing the pious, remorseful looks on the faces of the Vatican courtiers to brighten with excitement. 'TARTUFOLI, Signor Nunzio! TARTUFOLI!' they shouted, pointing out the best ones to him. According to this tale, it was the word tartufoli, spoken with earthly sensuality by the lips of the mystics, that inspired Molière to name his impostor. We were the first to question this story, and we quote below the opinion of one of the most distinguished literary figures who honored us by agreeing with our perspective."
"In the time of Molière, the word truffer was generally used for tromper (i.e. to deceive), from which the word truffe was taken, a word eminently suitable to the kind of eatable it describes, because of the difficulty there is in finding it. Now, it is quite certain that, formerly, people used the words truffe and tartuffe indiscriminately, for we find it in an old French translation of the treatise by Platina, entitled De konestâ voluptate, printed in Paris in 1505, and quoted by le Duchat, in his edition of Méntage's Dictionnaire Étymologique. One of the chapters in Book IX. of this treatise is entitled, Des truffes ou tartuffes, and as le Duchat and other etymologists look upon the word truffe as derived from truffer, it is probable that people said tartuffe for truffe in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, just as they could equally say tartuffer for truffer."
"In Molière’s time, the word truffer was commonly understood to mean to deceive, which is where the word truffe originates. This term is especially apt for the type of food it refers to because it's rare. Clearly, in the past, people confused the words truffe and tartuffe, as demonstrated in an old French translation of Platina’s treatise, titled De konestâ voluptate, printed in Paris in 1505, and referenced by le Duchat in his edition of Méntage’s Dictionnaire Étymologique. One chapter in Book IX of this treatise is called Des truffes ou tartuffes, and since le Duchat and other etymologists believe that the word truffe comes from truffer, it’s likely that people referred to tartuffe when they meant truffe in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, just as they might have used tartuffer for truffer.
That is by M. Taschereau, whose opinion, let us hasten to say, is worth nothing in the letter to Charles X., but which is of great weight in the fine study he has published upon Molière. But here is what M. Étienne says, the author of Deux Gendres, a comedy made in collaboration with Shakespeare and the Jesuit Conaxa:
That’s by M. Taschereau, whose opinion, to be clear, doesn’t matter in the letter to Charles X., but carries a lot of weight in the insightful study he published about Molière. Now, here’s what M. Étienne says, the author of Deux Gendres, a comedy created in collaboration with Shakespeare and the Jesuit Conaxa:
"The word truffes, says M. Étienne, of the French Academy, comes, then, from tartufferie, and perhaps it is not because they are difficult to find that this name was given them but because they are a powerful means of seduction, and the object of seduction is deception. Thus, in accordance with an ancient tradition, great dinner-parties, which exercise to-day such a profound influence in affairs of State, should be composed[Pg 264] of Tartuffes. There are many more irrational derivations than this."
"The word truffles, says M. Étienne from the French Academy, comes from tartufferie. The name may have been given not because they are hard to find, but because they are a powerful means of seduction, and seduction involves deception. According to an old tradition, grand dinner parties, which have a significant influence on State affairs today, should consist[Pg 264] of Tartuffes. There are many more illogical derivations than this."
Really, my critical friend, or, rather, my enemy—would it not be better if you were a little less flattering to the dead and a little more tolerant towards the living? You would not then have on your conscience the suicide of Escousse, and of Lebras, the drowning of Gros and the suspension of Antony.
Really, my critical friend, or maybe my enemy—wouldn't it be better if you were a bit less flattering to the dead and a bit more tolerant toward the living? You wouldn't then have on your conscience the suicide of Escousse, and of Lebras, the drowning of Gros, and the suspension of Antony.
[1] Maximes et Réflexions sur la comédie.
[3] Lettre à d'Alembert stir les spectacles.
CHAPTER VIII
Thermometer of Social Crises—Interview with M. Thiers—His intentions with regard to the Théâtre-Français—Our conventions—Antony comes back to the rue de Richelieu—The Constitutionnel—Its leader against Romanticism in general, and against my drama in particular—Morality of the ancient theatre—Parallel between the Théâtre-Français and that of the Porte-Saint-Martin—First suspension of Antony
Measuring Social Crises—Interview with M. Thiers—His plans for the Théâtre-Français—Our understandings—Antony is back at the rue de Richelieu—The Constitutionnel—Its editorial position against Romanticism overall, and against my play specifically—Morality in ancient theater—Comparison between the Théâtre-Français and the Porte-Saint-Martin—First suspension of Antony
The last chapter ended with these words: "And the suspension of Antony." What suspension? my reader may, perhaps, ask: that ordered by M. Thiers? or the one confirmed by M. Duchâtel? or that which M. de Persigny had just ordered? Antony, as M. Lesur aptly put it, is an abnormal being—un monstre; it was created in one of those crises of extravagant emotion which ensue after revolutions, when that moral institution called the censorship had not yet had time to be settled and in working order; so that whenever society was being shaken to its foundations, Antony was played; but directly society was settled, and stocks went up and morality triumphed, Antony was suppressed. I had taken advantage of the moment when society was topsy-turvy to get Antony put on the stage, as I was wise; for, if I had not done so, the moral government which was crucified between the Cubières trial and the Praslin assassination would, most certainly, never have allowed the representation.
The last chapter ended with these words: "And the suspension of Antony." What suspension? you might ask: the one ordered by M. Thiers? Or the one confirmed by M. Duchâtel? Or the one that M. de Persigny just ordered? Antony, as M. Lesur cleverly described it, is an abnormal being—un monstre; it was created during one of those crises of intense emotion that follow revolutions, when the moral institution known as censorship hadn’t yet been fully established; so whenever society was being shaken to its core, Antony was presented; but as soon as society settled down, stocks rose, and morality prevailed, Antony was banned. I took advantage of the chaos to get Antony on stage, as I was smart to do; because if I hadn’t, the moral government caught between the Cubières trial and the Praslin assassination would definitely never have allowed the performance.
But Antony had been played thirty times; Antony had acclimatised itself; it had made its mark and done its worst, and there did not seem to be any reason to be anxious, until M. Thiers summoned me one morning to the Home Office. M. Thiers is a delightful man; I have known few[Pg 266] more agreeable talkers and few listeners as intelligent. We had seen each other many times, and, furthermore, he and I understood one another, because "he was he and I was I."
But Antony had been performed thirty times; Antony had settled in; it had made its impact and done its worst, and there didn’t seem to be any reason to worry, until M. Thiers called me one morning to the Home Office. M. Thiers is a wonderful man; I’ve known few[Pg 266] people who are as pleasant to talk to and as smart to listen to. We had seen each other many times, and, moreover, he and I understood each other, because “he was he and I was I.”
"My dear poet," he said to me, "have you noticed something?"
"My dear poet," he said to me, "have you noticed something?"
"What, my dear historian?"
"What is it, my dear historian?"
"That the Théâtre-Français is going to the devil?"
"Is the Théâtre-Français really going downhill?"
"Surely that is no news?"
"Isn't that old news?"
"No, I mention it merely as a misfortune."
"No, I bring it up just as a misfortune."
"Pooh!..."
"Yikes!..."
"What do you advise in the case of the Théâtre-Français?"
"What do you suggest regarding the Théâtre-Français?"
"What one applies to an old structure—a pontoon."
"What you use on an old structure—a floating platform."
"Good! Do you believe, then, that it can no longer stand against the sea?"
"Great! So, do you think it can no longer hold up against the sea?"
"Oh! certainly, with a new keel, new sails and a different gear."
"Oh! definitely, with a new hull, new sails, and different equipment."
"Exactly my own opinion: it reminds me of the horse which, in his madness, Roland dragged by the bridle; it had all the attributes of a horse, only, all these attributes were useless on account of one small misfortune: it was dead!"
"Exactly my own opinion: it reminds me of the horse that, in his craziness, Roland dragged by the bridle; it had all the qualities of a horse, but all those qualities were useless because of one small misfortune: it was dead!"
"Precisely the case."
"Exactly the case."
"Well, Hugo and you have been very successful at the Porte-Saint-Martin; and I want to do at the Théâtre-Français what they have done at the Musée: to open it on Sunday to enable people to come there to see and study the works of dead authors, and to reserve all the rest of the week for living authors and for Hugo and you specially."
"Well, you and Hugo have done really well at the Porte-Saint-Martin; and I want to do at the Théâtre-Français what they’ve done at the Musée: to open it on Sundays to let people come and see and study the works of past authors, while keeping the rest of the week for living authors and especially for you and Hugo."
"Well, my dear historian, that is the first time I have heard a Home Minister say anything sensible upon a question of art. Let me note the time of day and the date of the month, I must keep it by me ... 15 March 1834, at seven a.m."
"Well, my dear historian, that's the first time I've heard a Home Minister say something sensible about art. Let me note the time and date, I need to keep it ... March 15, 1834, at 7 a.m."
"Now, what would you want for a comedy, a tragedy, or a drama of five acts at the Théâtre-Français?"
"Now, what would you prefer for a show, a comedy, a tragedy, or a five-act drama at the Théâtre-Français?"
"I should first of all need actors who can act drama: Madame Dorval, Bocage, Frédérick."
"I first need actors who can perform drama: Madame Dorval, Bocage, Frédérick."
"You cannot have everything at once. I will allow you Madame Dorval; the others must come afterwards."
"You can't have everything all at once. I'll give you that, Madame Dorval; the others will have to come later."
"All right! that is something at all events ... Then I must have some reparation in respect of Antony. Therefore I desire that Madame Dorval shall resume her rôle of Adèle."
"Alright! That’s something, at least... Then I need some compensation regarding Antony. So, I request that Madame Dorval take on her role as Adèle again."
"Granted ... what else?"
"Okay... what else?"
"That is all."
"That's it."
"Oh, you must give us a fresh piece."
"Oh, you have to give us a fresh piece."
"In three months' time."
"In three months."
"On what terms?"
"On what conditions?"
"Why on the usual terms."
"Why on the regular terms."
"There I join issue: they will give you five thousand francs down!"
"There, I take a stand: they'll give you five thousand francs right away!"
"Ah! five thousand francs!"
"Wow! five thousand francs!"
"Well, I will approach Jouslin de la Salle ... and you shall approach Madame Dorval: only, tell her to be reasonable."
"Okay, I’ll talk to Jouslin de la Salle ... and you should talk to Madame Dorval; just make sure to ask her to be reasonable."
"Oh! never fear! to act at the Français and to play Antony there, she would make any sacrifices ... Then, it is settled?"
"Oh! never fear! To perform at the Français and to play Antony there, she would make any sacrifices ... So, it's settled?"
"Yes."
"Yeah."
"Let us repeat the terms."
"Let's go over the terms."
"Very good."
"Really good."
"Hugo and I are to enter the Théâtre-Français by a breach, as did M. de Richelieu's litter."
"Hugo and I are going to enter the Théâtre-Français through a gap, just like M. de Richelieu's carriage did."
"Exactly."
"Exactly."
"We are each to write two pieces a year ...?"
"We each need to write two pieces a year...?"
"Agreed."
"Sounds good."
"Dorval is engaged? Bocage and Frédérick shall be later?"
"Dorval is engaged? Are Bocage and Frédérick coming later?"
"Granted."
"Okay."
"And Dorval shall make her début in Antony?"
"And Dorval will make her debut in Antony?"
"She shall have that specified in her agreement."
"She will receive what is outlined in her agreement."
"Excellent!... Here's to the first night of the revival of that immoral play!"
"Awesome!... Cheers to the first night of the comeback of that scandalous play!"
"To-day I will engage my box in order to secure a place."
"Today, I'll use my box to reserve a spot."
We parted and I ran to Madame Dorval's house to announce this good news. She had not been re-engaged at the Porte-Saint-Martin;[Pg 268] she was, therefore, free and could go to the Théâtre-Français without delay. The following day she received a call from Jouslin de la Salle. The terms did not take long to discuss; for, as I had said, to be engaged at the Théâtre-Français, and to play Antony there, Dorval would have engaged herself for nothing. The rehearsals began immediately. I had signed my contract with the manager, and it was specified in this contract that, by order of the government, Antony was revived at the Comédie-Française, and that Dorval was to make her début in that drama. Antony re-appeared on the bills in the rue de Richelieu; and, this time, the odds were a hundred to one that it would be performed, since it was to re-appear under Government commands. The bill announced the piece and Dorval's appearance for 28 April 1834. But we were reckoning without The Constitutionnel. That paper had an old grudge against me, concerning which I did not trouble myself much: I thought it could no longer bite. I was the first who had dared,—in this very Antony,—to attack its omnipotence.
We parted ways and I rushed to Madame Dorval's house to share the good news. She hadn't been re-engaged at the Porte-Saint-Martin; so, she was free and could head to the Théâtre-Français without delay. The next day, she got a call from Jouslin de la Salle. It didn't take long to discuss the terms; because, as I mentioned, being engaged at the Théâtre-Français and playing Antony there, Dorval would have signed on for nothing. Rehearsals started right away. I had signed my contract with the manager, which specified that, by order of the government, Antony was to be revived at the Comédie-Française, and that Dorval was set to make her debut in that play. Antony was back on the posters in the rue de Richelieu; and this time, the chances were a hundred to one that it would actually happen since it was re-appearing under government orders. The poster announced the show and Dorval's debut for April 28, 1834. But we weren't counting on The Constitutionnel. That newspaper had a long-standing grudge against me, which I didn't worry much about: I thought it couldn't cause any trouble anymore. I was the first one who had dared—in this very Antony—to challenge its power.
It will be remembered that, in Antony, there is a stout gentleman, who, no matter what was said to him, invariably answered, "Nevertheless, monsieur, The Constitutionnel .." without ever giving any other reason. Moëssard acted this stout gentleman. That was not all. A piece called la Tour de Babel had been produced at the Variétés. The scene that was the cause of scandal in that play was the one where subscription to The Constitutionnel is discontinued, which they naturally laid at my door, on account of my well-known dislike of that journal. I had not denied it, and I was, if not the actual father, at least the putative sire.
It will be remembered that in Antony, there’s a stout gentleman who, no matter what anyone said to him, always replied, "Nevertheless, sir, The Constitutionnel .." without ever giving any other explanation. Moëssard played this stout gentleman. That wasn't all. A play called la Tour de Babel had been performed at the Variétés. The scene that caused the scandal in that play was the one where they stop the subscription to The Constitutionnel, which they naturally blamed on me due to my well-known dislike of that newspaper. I hadn't denied it, and I was, if not the actual father, at least the presumed one.
On the morning of 28 April 1834, as I had just done distributing my tickets for the performance that night, my son, who had just turned ten, came to me with a number of The Constitutionnel in his hands. He had been sent to me by Goubaux, with whom he was at school, and who cried out to me, like Assas, A vous! c'est l'ennemi! "To[Pg 269] arms! the enemy is upon you!" I unfolded the estimable paper and read,—in the leading article if you please,—the following words. A literary event was thus considered as important as a political one.
On the morning of April 28, 1834, after I had finished handing out my tickets for that night's performance, my son, who had just turned ten, came to me holding several copies of The Constitutionnel. He had been sent to me by Goubaux, his schoolmate, who yelled at me like Assas, A vous! c'est l'ennemi! "To arms! the enemy is upon you!" I opened the esteemed newspaper and read—right in the leading article—these words. A literary event was regarded as significant as a political one.
"PARIS, 28 April 1834
"PARIS, April 28, 1834
"The Théâtre-Français is subsidised by the State Budget to the amount of two hundred thousand francs. It is a considerable sum; but, if we reflect upon the influence which that theatre must exercise, in the interests of society, in the matter of taste and manners, and its influence on good dramatic literature, the grant does not seem too large. The Théâtre-Français, enriched by many chefs-d'œuvre which have contributed to the progress of our civilisation is, like the Musée, a national institution which should neither be neglected nor degraded. It ought not to descend from the height to which the genius of our great authors has lifted it, to those grotesque and immoral exhibitions that are the disgrace of our age, alarming public modesty and spreading deadly poison through society! There is no longer any curb put to the depravity of the stage, on which all morality and all decorum is forgotten; violation, adultery, incest, crime in their most revolting forms, are the elements of the poetry of this wretched dramatic period, which, deserving of all scorn, tries to set at nought the great masters of art, and takes a fiendish pleasure in blasting every noble sentiment, in order to spread corruption among the people, and expose us to the scorn of other nations!"
"The Théâtre-Français receives two hundred thousand francs in funding from the State Budget. That’s a considerable sum; however, when we look at the influence this theater has on society in terms of taste and manners, as well as its contribution to high-quality dramatic literature, the funding doesn’t seem excessive. The Théâtre-Français, enriched with many masterpieces that have advanced our civilization, is, similar to the Musée, a national institution that should neither be overlooked nor diminished. It should not descend from the heights elevated by the genius of our greatest authors into the grotesque and immoral performances that shame our times, shocking public decency and spreading harmful ideas throughout society! There’s no longer any control over the depravity of the stage, where all morality and decorum have been forgotten; violations, adultery, incest, and crime in their most repulsive forms dominate this pitiful dramatic era, which deserves all contempt, as it seeks to undermine the great masters of art, reveling in the destruction of every noble sentiment to spread corruption among the people and expose us to the ridicule of other nations!"
This is well written, is it not? True, it is written by an Academician. I will proceed—
This is well written, isn’t it? True, it’s written by an Academician. I will proceed—
"Public money is not intended for the encouragement of a pernicious system. The sum of two hundred thousand francs is only granted to the Théâtre-Français on condition that it shall keep itself pure from all defilement, that the artistes connected with that theatre, who are still the best in Europe, shall not debase themselves by lending the support of their talent to those works which are unworthy to be put on the national stage, works the disastrous tendency of which should arouse the anxiety of the Government, for it is responsible for public morality as well as for the carrying out of laws. Well, who would believe it? At this very moment the principal actors of the Porte-Saint-Martin are being transferred to the[Pg 270] Théâtre-Français, and silly and dirty melodramas are to be naturalised there, in order to replace the dramatic masterpieces which form an important part of our glorious literature. A plague of blindness appears to have afflicted this unhappy theatre. The production of Antony is officially announced by The Moniteur for to-morrow, Monday: Antony, the most brazenly obscene play which has appeared in these obscene times! Antony, at the first appearance of which respectable fathers of families exclaimed, 'For a long time we have not been able to take our daughters to the theatre; now, we can no longer take our wives!' So we are going to see at the theatre of Corneille, Racine, Molière and Voltaire, a woman flung into an alcove with her mouth gagged; we are to witness violation itself on the national stage: the day of this representation is fixed. What a school of morality to open to the public; what a spectacle to which to invite the youth of the country; you boast that you are elevating them, but they will soon recognise neither rule nor control! It is not its own fault; but that of superior powers, which take no steps to stem this outbreak of immorality. There is no country in the world, however free, where it is permissible to poison the wells of public morality. In ancient republics, the presentation of a dramatic work was the business of the State; it forbade all that could change the national character, undermine the honour of its laws and outrage public modesty."
"Public funds shouldn't be used to promote a harmful system. The two hundred thousand franc grant to the Théâtre-Français is only given if it preserves its integrity, making sure that the artists involved, who are still the best in Europe, don’t compromise themselves by endorsing works unworthy of the national stage—works with a dangerous nature that should concern the Government, as it is responsible for public morality as well as enforcing the law. Well, who would believe it? Right now, the top actors from the Porte-Saint-Martin are being moved to the[Pg 270] Théâtre-Français, and trivial and inappropriate melodramas are set to replace the dramatic masterpieces that are essential to our great literature. It seems this unfortunate theater has fallen into a deep blindness. The production of Antony is officially announced by The Moniteur for tomorrow, Monday: Antony, the most shockingly obscene play to come out in these indecent times! Antony, at whose first performance respectable fathers exclaimed, 'We haven’t been able to take our daughters to the theater for a long time; now, we can’t even take our wives!' So we are about to witness, at the theater of Corneille, Racine, Molière, and Voltaire, a woman thrown into an alcove with her mouth covered; we will experience the very act of violation on the national stage: this performance is scheduled. What a moral lesson to present to the public; what a spectacle to invite the youth of the country to; you claim you are elevating them, but they will soon recognize no boundaries or controls! It is not the theater’s fault; but that of higher authorities, which take no action to stop this rise of immorality. There is no country in the world, no matter how free, where it's acceptable to poison the wells of public morality. In ancient republics, the presentation of a dramatic work was the responsibility of the State; it prohibited anything that could change the national character, undermine the dignity of its laws, and offend public decency."
Witness the Lysistrata of Aristophanes, of which we wish to say a few words to our readers, taking care, however, to translate into Latin those parts which cannot be reproduced in French.
Witness the Lysistrata by Aristophanes, about which we would like to say a few words to our readers, making sure to translate into Latin those parts that cannot be expressed in French.
"Le latin dans les mots brave l'honnêteté!"
"Latin in the words challenges honesty!"
It will be seen I quote Boileau when he serves my purpose. Poor Boileau! What a shame for him to be forced to come to the rescue of the author of Henri III. and Antony!
It will be seen I quote Boileau when it fits my needs. Poor Boileau! What a shame for him to have to come to the aid of the author of Henri III. and Antony!
We are at Athens. The Athenians are at war with the Lacedæmonians; the women are complaining of that interminable Peloponnesian War, which keeps their husbands away from them and prevents them from fulfilling their conjugal duties. The loudest in her complaints is Lysistrata, wife of one of the principal citizens of Athens; so she calls together[Pg 271] all the matrons not only of Athens, but also from Lacedæmon, Anagyrus and Corinth. She has a suggestion to make to them. We will let her speak. She is addressing one of the wives convoked by her, who has come to the place of meeting.[1]
We are in Athens. The Athenians are at war with the Spartans; the women are complaining about that endless Peloponnesian War, which keeps their husbands away and stops them from fulfilling their marital duties. The loudest among them is Lysistrata, the wife of one of Athens' leading citizens; she gathers not only the women of Athens but also those from Sparta, Anagyrus, and Corinth. She has a proposal for them. Let's hear her speak. She is addressing one of the wives who has come to the meeting place.[1]
LISISTRATA.—Salut, Lampito! Lacédémonienne chérie, que tu es belle! Ma douce amie, quel teint frais! quel air de santé! Tu étranglerais un taureau!
LISISTRATA.—Hey, Lampito! My dear Spartan, you look incredible! My lovely friend, what a glowing complexion! You look so fit! You could take on a bull!
LAMPITO.—Par Castor et Pollux, je le crois bien: je m'exerce au gymnase, et je me frappe du talon dans le derrière."
LAMPITO.—By Castor and Pollux, I totally believe it: I work out at the gym, and I really push myself.
The dance to which Lampito alludes, with a naïveté in keeping with the Doric dialect natural to her, was called Cibasis. Let us proceed:
The dance that Lampito references, with a naïveté that matches her natural Doric dialect, was called Cibasis. Let’s continue:
"LISISTRATA, lui prenant la gorge.—Que tu as une belle gorge!
"LISISTRATA, grabbing him by the throat.—You have such a gorgeous neck!
"LAMPITO.—Vous me tâtez comme une victime.
"LAMPITO.—You're touching me like I'm a victim.
"LISISTRATA.—Et cette autre jeune fille, de quel pays est-elle?
"LISISTRATA.—And that other young woman, where is she from?
"LAMPITO.—C'est une Béotienne des plus nobles qui nous arrive.
"LAMPITO.—She's a remarkably noble woman from Boeotia who's on her way here.
"LISISTRATA.—Ah! oui, c'est une Béotienne?.. Elle a un joli jardin!"
"LISISTRATA.—Ah! yes, she's from Boeotia? She has a lovely garden!"
That reminds me, I forgot to say—and it was the word jardin which reminded me of that omission—that Lampito and Kalonike, the Bœotian, play their parts in the costume Eve wore in the earthly paradise before she sinned.
That reminds me, I forgot to mention—and it was the word jardin that triggered that memory—that Lampito and Kalonike, the Bœotian, play their roles in the costume that Eve wore in the Garden of Eden before she sinned.
"CALONICE.—Et parfaitement soigné! on eu a arraché le pouliot."
"CALONICE.—And looking great! They made the effort to remove the weeds."
Here the learned translator informs us that the pouliot was a plant which grew in abundance in Bœotia. Then he adds: Sed intelligit hortum muliebrem undè pilos educere aut evellere solebant. Lysistrata continues, and lays before the meeting her reason for convening it.
Here, the knowledgeable translator tells us that the pouliot was a plant that grew plentifully in Bœotia. Then he adds: But she understands the women’s garden from where they used to grow or pull out hair. Lysistrata continues and presents her reason for calling the meeting.
LISISTRATA.—Ne regrettez-vous pas que les pères de vos enfants soient retenus loin de vous par la guerre? Car je sais que nous avons toutes nos maris absents.
LISISTRATA.—Aren't you sad that the fathers of your kids are away because of the war? We all have our husbands absent.
"CALONICE.—Le mien est en Thrace depuis cinq mois.
"CALONICE.—Mine has been in Thrace for five months.
"LISISTRATA.—Le mien est depuis sept mois à Pylos.
"LISISTRATA.—Mine has been in Pylos for seven months now.
"LAMPITO.—Le mien revient à peine de l'armée, qu'il reprend son bouclier, et repart.
"LAMPITO.—My guy barely gets back from the army before he picks up his shield and leaves again.
"LISISTRATA.—Sed nec mœchi relicta est scintilla! ex quo enim nos prodiderunt Milesi ne olisbum quidem vidi octo digitos longum, qui nobis esset conâceum auxilium."
"LISISTRATA.—But there isn't even a hint of infidelity left! Since the Milesians betrayed us, I haven’t seen anything useful that’s longer than eight fingers."
Poor Lysistrata! One can well understand how a wife in such trouble would put herself at the head of a conspiracy. Now, the conspiracy which Lysistrata proposed to her companions was as follows:
Poor Lysistrata! It's easy to see why a wife in such a predicament would lead a conspiracy. The conspiracy that Lysistrata suggested to her friends was this:
"LISISTRATA.—Il faut nous abstenir des hommes!... Pourquoi détournez-vous les yeux? où allez-vous?... Pourquoi vous mordre les lèvres, et secouer la tête? Le ferez-vous ou ne le ferez-vous pas?... Que décidez-vous?
"LISISTRATA.—We need to avoid men!... Why are you looking away? Where are you going?... Why are you biting your lips and shaking your head? Are you going to do it or not?... What’s your decision?
"MIRRHINE.—Je ne le ferai pas! Que la guerre continue.
"MIRRHINE.—I won’t do it! Let the war continue.
"LAMPITO.—Ni moi non plus! Que la guerre continue.
"LAMPITO.—Me neither! Let the war continue.
"LISISTRATA.—O sexe dissolu! Je ne m'étonne plus que nous fournissions des sujets de tragédie: nous ne sommes bonnes qu'à une seule chose!... O ma chère Lacédémonienne,—car tu peux encore tout sauver en t'unissant à moi,—je tien prie, seconde mes projets!
"LISISTRATA.—Oh, casual sex! I’m no longer surprised that we end up with such tragic stories: we seem good for only one thing!... Oh, my dear Spartan—because you can still help everything by joining me—I’m begging you, support my plans!
"LAMPITO.—C'est qu'il est bien difficile pour des femmes de dormir sine mentula! Il faut cependant s'y résoudre, car la paix doit passer avant tout.
"LAMPITO.—It’s really hard for women to sleep without a man! We have to accept it, though, because peace has to come first.
"LISISTRATA.—La paix, assurément! Si nous nous tenions chez nous bien fardées, et sans autre vêtement qu'une tunique fine et transparente, incenderemus glabro cunno, arrigerent viri, et coïre cuperent!"
"LISISTRATA.—Peace, for sure! If we stayed at home looking good, wearing nothing but a nice, sheer tunic, we'd set things on fire, and the men would get excited and want to join us!"
The wives consent. They decide to bind themselves by an oath. This is the oath:
The wives agree. They choose to commit themselves with an oath. This is the oath:
"LISISTRATA.—Mettez toutes la main sur la coupe, et qu'une seuls répète, en votre nom à toutes, ce que je vais vous dire: Aucun amant ni aucun époux....
"LISISTRATA.—Everyone, place your hands on the cup, and let one person speak on your behalf to all, regarding what I'm about to share with you: No lover or husband....
"MIRRHINE.—Aucun amant ni aucun époux....
"MIRRHINE.—No lover or husband....
"LISISTRATA.—Ne pourra m'approcher rigente nervo!—Répète."
"LISISTRATA.—May no one come near me rigente nervo!—Repeat.
Myrrine repeats.
Myrrine says it again.
"LISISTRATA.—Et, s'il emploie la violence....
"LISISTRATA.—And if he uses violence....
"MIRRHINE.—Oui, s'il emploie la violence....
"MIRRHINE.—Yes, if he uses violence....
"LISISTRATA.—Motus non addam!"
"LISISTRATA.—I will not say another word!"
One can imagine the result of such an oath, which is scrupulously kept.
One can picture the outcome of such a promise, which is carefully upheld.
My readers will remember M. de Pourceaugnac's flight followed by the apothecaries? Well, that will give you some idea of the mise en scène of the rest of the piece. The wives play the rôle of M. de Pourceaugnac, and the husbands that of the apothecaries. And that is one of the plays which, according to the author of Joconde, gave such a high tone to ancient society! It is very extraordinary that people know Aristophanes so little when they are so well acquainted with Conaxa!
My readers will remember M. de Pourceaugnac's escape followed by the pharmacists? Well, that gives you an idea of the mise en scène of the rest of the play. The wives take on the role of M. de Pourceaugnac, and the husbands play the pharmacists. And this is one of the plays that, according to the author of Joconde, elevated the culture of ancient society! It's quite surprising that people know so little about Aristophanes while being so familiar with Conaxa!
"In the ancient republics," our censor continues with assurance, "spectacular games were intended to excite noble passions, not to excite the vicious leanings of human nature; their object was to correct vice by ridicule, and, by recalling glorious memories, energetically to rouse souls to the emulation of virtue, enthusiasm for liberty and love of their country! Well, we, proud of our equivocal civilisation, have no such exalted thoughts; all we demand is to have at least one single theatre to which we can take our children and wives without their imaginations being contaminated, a theatre which shall be really a school of good taste and manners."
"In ancient republics," our censor confidently states, "spectacular games were meant to inspire noble feelings, not to bring out the darker sides of human nature; their purpose was to correct bad behavior through laughter and, by invoking glorious memories, to motivate people to pursue virtue, cherish freedom, and love their country! Yet here we are, proud of our ambiguous civilization, lacking such noble aspirations; all we ask for is at least one theater where we can take our children and wives without risking their imaginations being tainted, a theater that truly serves as a school for good taste and manners."
Was it at this theatre that Joconde was to be played?
Was this the theater where Joconde was going to be performed?
"We do not look for it in the direction of the Beaux-Arts; a romantic coterie, the sworn enemy of our great literature, reigns supreme in that quarter; a coterie which only recognises its own specialists and flatterers and only bestows its favours upon them; an undesigning artiste is forgotten by it. It wants to carry out its own absurd theories: it hunts up from the boulevards its director, its manager, its actors and its plays, which are a disgrace to the French stage: that is its chief object; and those are the methods it employs. We are addressing these remarks to M. Thiers, Minister for Home Affairs, a distinguished man of letters and admirer of those sublime geniuses which are the glory of our country; it is to him, the guardian of a power which should watch over the safety of this noble inheritance, that we appeal to prevent it falling into hostile hands, and to oppose that outburst of evil morals which is invading the theatre, perverting the youth in our colleges, throwing it out upon the world eager for precocious pleasures, impatient of any kind of restraint, and[Pg 274] making it soon tired of life. This disgust with life almost at the beginning of it, this terrible phenomenon hitherto unprecedented, is largely owing to the baneful influence of those dangerous spectacles where the most unbridled passions are exhibited in all their nakedness, and to that new school of literature where everything worthy of respect is scoffed at. To permit this corruption of youth, or rather to foster its corruption, is to prepare a stormy and a troubled future; it is to compromise the cause of Liberty, to poison our growing institutions in the bud; it is, at the same time, the most justifiable and deadly reproach that can be made against a government...."
"We're not looking towards the Beaux-Arts; a romantic group, the sworn enemy of our great literature, dominates that scene; a group that only acknowledges its own specialists and yes-men and only rewards them; an honest artist is ignored by them. They want to push their ridiculous theories: they hunt down their director, manager, actors, and plays from the boulevards, which are an embarrassment to the French stage: that's their main goal; and those are the methods they use. We're addressing these comments to M. Thiers, Minister for Home Affairs, a distinguished writer and admirer of the sublime geniuses that bring glory to our country; it's to him, the guardian of a power that should protect this noble heritage, that we appeal to stop it from falling into hostile hands, and to resist that wave of bad morals that's invading the theatre, corrupting the youth in our colleges, pushing them out into the world eager for early pleasures, impatient with any kind of restraint, and[Pg 274] making them tired of life too soon. This disillusionment with life almost at the very start, this terrible phenomenon that's never been seen before, is largely due to the harmful influence of those dangerous shows where the most uncontrolled passions are displayed in all their rawness, and to that new literary movement that mocks everything worthy of respect. Allowing this youth corruption, or rather encouraging it, is setting the stage for a turbulent and troubled future; it risks the cause of Liberty, poisoning our developing institutions from the ground up; it stands as the most justifiable and deadly criticism that can be aimed at a government...."
Poor Antony! it only needed now to be accused of having violated the Charter of 1830!
Poor Antony! It just needed to be accused of breaking the Charter of 1830!
pamphlets which have lent their support to this odious system of demoralisation; whatever else we may blame them for, we must admit that they have repulsed this Satanic literature and immoral drama with indignation, and have remained faithful to the creed of national honour. It is the journals of the Restoration, it is the despicable management of the Beaux-Arts, which, under the eyes of the Ministry, causes such great scandal to the civilised world: the scandal of contributing to the publicity and success of these monstrous productions, which take us back to barbarous times and which will end, if they are not stopped, in making us blush that we are Frenchmen ..."
pamphlets that have backed this terrible system of demoralization; regardless of what else we might blame them for, we must recognize that they have firmly rejected this corrupt literature and immoral performances with outrage, and have stayed true to the principle of national honor. It is the publications of the Restoration, and the disgraceful management of the Beaux-Arts, which, under the oversight of the Ministry, creates such a huge scandal for the civilized world: the scandal of promoting the publicity and success of these monstrous productions that take us back to barbaric times and will ultimately, if not stopped, make us ashamed to be French...
Can you imagine the author of Joconde blushing for being a Frenchman because M. Hugo wrote Marion Delorme, and M. Dumas, Antony, and compelled to look at la Colonne to restore his pride in his own nationality?
Can you picture the author of Joconde feeling embarrassed for being French because M. Hugo wrote Marion Delorme and M. Dumas wrote Antony, and having to look at la Colonne to regain his pride in his nationality?
"But why put a premium upon depravity? Why encumber the state budget with the sum of 200,000 francs for the encouragement of bad taste and immorality? Why not, at least, divide the sum between the Théâtre-Français and the Porte-Saint-Martin? There would be some justice in that, for their rights are equal; very soon, even the former of these theatres will be but a branch of the other, and this last will indeed deserve all the sympathies of the directors of the Beaux-Arts.[Pg 275] It would, then, be shocking negligence on their part to leave it out in the cold."
"But why support depravity? Why weigh down the state budget with 200,000 francs to promote bad taste and immorality? Why not at least divide the amount between the Théâtre-Français and the Porte-Saint-Martin? That would be fair, as their rights are equal; soon enough, the former will just be a branch of the latter, and the latter will truly deserve the backing of the directors of the Beaux-Arts.[Pg 275] It would be outright negligent of them to leave it out in the cold."
You are right this time, Monsieur l'Académicien. A subsidy ought to be granted to the theatre which produces literary works which are remembered in following years and remain in the repertory. Now, let us see what pieces were running at the Théâtre Français concurrently with those of the Porte-Saint-Martin, and then tell me which were the pieces during this period of four years which you remember and which remain on its repertory?
You’re right this time, Monsieur l'Académicien. A subsidy should be given to the theater that produces literary works that are remembered in later years and stay in the repertoire. Now, let’s look at the shows that were playing at the Théâtre Français at the same time as those at the Porte-Saint-Martin, and then tell me which pieces from these four years you remember and which ones are still in its repertoire?
THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS
THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS
Charlotte Corday—Camille Desmoulins, le Clerc et le Théologien—Pierre III.—Le Prince et la Grisette—Le Sophiste—Guido Reni—Le Presbytère—Caïus Gracchus, ou le Sénat et le Peuple—La Conspiration de Cellamare—La Mort de Figaro—Le Marquis de Rieux—Les Dernières Scènes de la Fronde—Mademoiselle de Montmorency.
Charlotte Corday—Camille Desmoulins, the Clerk and the Theologian—Pierre III.—The Prince and the Girl from the Neighborhood—The Sophist—Guido Reni—The Presbytery—Caïus Gracchus, or the Senate and the People—The Cellamare Conspiracy—The Death of Figaro—The Marquis of Rieux—The Last Scenes of the Fronde—Miss de Montmorency.
THÉÂTRE DE LA PORTE-SAINT-MARTIN
THÉÂTRE DE LA PORTE-SAINT-MARTIN
Antony—Marion Delorme—Richard Darlington—La Tour de Nesle—Perrinet Leclerc—Lucrèce Borgia—Angèle—Marie Tudor—Catherine Howard.
Antony—Marion Delorme—Richard Darlington—La Tour de Nesle—Perrinet Leclerc—Lucrèce Borgia—Angèle—Marie Tudor—Catherine Howard.
True, we find, without reckoning les Enfants d'Édouard and Louis XI. by Casimir Delavigne, Bertrand et Raton and la Passion secrète by Scribe, who had just protested against that harvest of unknown, forgotten and buried works, flung into the common grave without epitaph to mark their resting-places,—it is true, I say, that we find four or five pieces more at the Théâtre-Français than at the Porte-Saint-Martin; but that does not prove that they played those pieces at the Théâtre-Français for a longer period than those of the Porte-Saint-Martin, especially when we carefully reflect that the Théâtre-Français only plays its new pieces for two nights at a time, and gives each year a hundred and fifty representations of its old standing repertory! You are therefore perfectly correct, Monsieur[Pg 276] l'acadèmicien: it was to the Porte-Saint-Martin and not to the Théâtre-Français that the subsidy ought to have been granted, seeing that, with the exception of two or three works, it was at the Porte-Saint-Martin that genuine literature was produced. We will proceed, or, rather, the author of Joconde shall proceed:
True, we find that, not counting les Enfants d'Édouard and Louis XI. by Casimir Delavigne, Bertrand et Raton and la Passion secrète by Scribe—who had just raised concerns about that pile of unknown, forgotten, and buried works, thrown into the common grave without an epitaph to mark their resting places—it is true, I say, that we find four or five more pieces at the Théâtre-Français than at the Porte-Saint-Martin; but that doesn’t prove that they performed those pieces at the Théâtre-Français for a longer time than those at the Porte-Saint-Martin, especially when we consider that the Théâtre-Français only runs its new pieces for two nights at a time and gives about a hundred and fifty performances of its classic repertoire each year! You are therefore absolutely right, Monsieur[Pg 276] l'acadèmicien: the funding should have gone to the Porte-Saint-Martin and not to the Théâtre-Français, since, except for two or three works, it was at the Porte-Saint-Martin where real literature was produced. We will continue, or rather, the author of Joconde shall continue:
"If the Chamber of Deputies is not so eager to vote for laws dealing with financial matters, we must hope, that in so serious a matter as this one, so intimately connected with good order and the existence of civilisation, some courageous voice will be raised to protest against such an abusive use of public funds, and to recall the Minister to the duties with which he is charged. The deputy who would thus speak would be sure of a favourable hearing from an assembly, whose members every day testify against the unprecedented license of the theatres, destructive of all morality, and who are perfectly cognisant of all the dangers attached thereto."
"If the Chamber of Deputies isn't eager to vote on financial laws, we can only hope that in this crucial matter, closely related to public order and the survival of society, someone will courageously speak out against the misuse of public funds and remind the Minister of their duties. Any deputy who does this would likely receive a positive reaction from an assembly that often critiques the shocking behavior of theaters, harmful to all morality, and who understands the risks at stake."
But you were a member of the Chamber, illustrious author of Joconde! Why did you not take up the matter yourself? Were you afraid, perchance, that they might think you still held, under the sway of the younger branch of the Bourbon family, the position of dramatic critic which you exercised so agreeably under Napoléon?
But you were part of the Chamber, the famous author of Joconde! Why didn't you handle the situation yourself? Were you worried that people might think you still held the position of drama critic, so comfortably under Napoléon, influenced by the younger branch of the Bourbon family?
"We shall return to this subject," continues the ex-dramatic censor, "which seems to us of the highest importance for the peace of mind of private families and of society in general. We have on our side every man of taste, all true friends of our national institutions and, in fact, all respectable persons in all classes of society!"
"We'll come back to this topic," the former drama censor says, "because it’s really important for the well-being of families and society overall. We have the backing of everyone with good taste, all true supporters of our national institutions, and pretty much all respectable people from every background!"
"Well! That is a polite thing, indeed, to say to the spectators who followed the one hundred and thirty performances of Antony, the eighty representations of Marion Delorme, the ninety of Richard Darlington, the six hundred of la Tour de Nesle, the ninety productions of Perrinet-Leclerc, the one hundred and twenty of Lucrèce Borgia, one hundred of Angèle, seventy of Marie Tudor and fifty of Catherine Howard! What were these people, if your particular specimens are "men[Pg 277] of taste," the "true friends of our national institutions," and "respectable persons"? They must be blackguards, subverters of government, thieves and gallows-birds? The deuce! Take care! For I warn you that the great majority of these people were not only from Paris, but from the provinces. This is how the moralist of the Constitutionnel ends:
"Well! That’s a pretty polite thing to say to the audience who sat through one hundred thirty shows of Antony, eighty performances of Marion Delorme, ninety of Richard Darlington, six hundred of la Tour de Nesle, ninety productions of Perrinet-Leclerc, one hundred twenty of Lucrèce Borgia, one hundred of Angèle, seventy of Marie Tudor, and fifty of Catherine Howard! What does that make these people, if your chosen examples are “men[Pg 277] of taste,” the “true friends of our national institutions,” and “respectable people”? They must be scoundrels, underminers of the government, thieves, and troublemakers? Good grief! Watch out! Because I warn you, the vast majority of these people came not only from Paris but also from the provinces. This is how the moralist of the Constitutionnel concludes:
"We are convinced that even the artistes of the Théâtre-Français, who see with satisfaction the enlightened portion of the public rallying to their side, will decide in favour of the successful efforts of our protests. It will depend on the Chamber and on the Home Minister. Political preoccupations, as is well known, turned his attention from the false and ignoble influences at work at the Théâtre-Français; there is no longer any excuse for him, now that he knows the truth."
"ÉTIENNE ["A. JAY"][2]"We think that even the artists of the Théâtre-Français, who are happy to see the educated part of the public supporting them, will support our successful protests. It will depend on the Chamber and the Home Minister. As we know, political issues distracted him from the false and shameful influences at play at the Théâtre-Français; now that he knows the truth, he has no more excuses."
"ÉTIENNE ["A. JAY"][2]
Perhaps you thought, when you began to read this denunciation, that it was anonymous or signed only with an initial or by a masonic sign, or by two, three or four asterisks? No indeed! It was signed by the name of a man, of a deputy, of a dramatic author, or, thereabouts, of an académicien, M. Étienne! [M. Jay]. Now, the same day that this article appeared, about two in the afternoon, M. Jouslin de Lasalle, director of the Théâtre-Français, received this little note, short but clear.
Perhaps you thought, when you started reading this denunciation, that it was anonymous or just had an initial or a masonic sign, or maybe two, three, or four asterisks? Not at all! It was signed with the name of a man, a deputy, a playwright, or, in a way, an academician, M. Étienne! [M. Jay]. Now, on the same day this article was published, around two in the afternoon, M. Jouslin de Lasalle, the director of the Théâtre-Français, received this brief but clear note.
"The Théâtre-Français is forbidden to play Antony to-night.
"THIERS""The Théâtre-Français cannot perform Antony tonight.
"THIERS"
I took a cab and gave orders to the driver to take me to the Home Minister.
I took a cab and told the driver to take me to the Home Minister.
[1] We have borrowed the following quotations from M. Arland's excellent translation. If we had translated it ourselves, in the first place the translation would be bad, then people might have accused us of straining the Greek to say more than it meant.
[1] We've borrowed the following quotes from M. Arland's great translation. If we had done the translation ourselves, it would have turned out poorly, and then people might have claimed we were bending the Greek to imply more than it actually meant.
[2] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—The Brussels edition gives Étienne; the current Paris edition, A. Jay.
[2] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—The Brussels edition lists Étienne; the latest Paris edition lists A. Jay.
CHAPTER IX
My discussion with M. Thiers—Why he had been compelled to suspend Antony—Letter of Madame Dorval to the Constitutionnel—M. Jay crowned with roses—My lawsuit with M. Jouslin de Lasalle—There are still judges in Berlin!
My talk with M. Thiers—Why he had to stop Antony—Letter from Madame Dorval to the Constitutionnel—M. Jay celebrated with roses—My legal dispute with M. Jouslin de Lasalle—There are still judges in Berlin!
At four o'clock, I got down to the door of the Home Office. I went in at once and reached the Minister's private office, without any obstacle preventing me; the office-boys and ushers who had seen me come there three or four times during the past fortnight, that is to say during the period M. Thiers had been Home Minister, did not even think of asking me where I was going. M. Thiers was at work with his secretary. He was exceedingly busy just at that time; for Paris had only just come out of her troubles of the 13 and 14 April, and the insurrection of the Lyons Mutualists was scarcely over; the budget of trade and of public works was under discussion, for, in spite of a special department, these accounts remained under the care of the Home Office; finally, they were just passing to the general discussion of the Fine Arts, and consequently had entered upon the particular discussion of the subsidising of the Théâtre-Français.
At four o'clock, I arrived at the Home Office door. I went straight in and reached the Minister's private office without any barriers; the office staff and ushers who had seen me there three or four times in the past two weeks, during M. Thiers' time as Home Minister, didn't even think to ask where I was headed. M. Thiers was busy working with his secretary. He was really caught up with tasks at that moment; Paris had just come out of the troubles from April 13 and 14, and the insurrection of the Lyons Mutualists had barely wrapped up; the budget for trade and public works was being discussed because, despite a special department, these finances were still managed by the Home Office; finally, they were shifting to the general discussion of the Fine Arts and had started the specific debate about funding the Théâtre-Français.
At the noise I made opening the door of his room, M. Thiers raised his head.
At the sound I made when I opened the door to his room, M. Thiers looked up.
"Good!" he said, "I was expecting you."
"Great!" he said, "I was hoping you’d show up."
"I think not," I replied.
"I don't think so," I replied.
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"Because, if you had expected me, you would have known my reasons for coming, and would have forbidden my entrance."
"Because if you had been expecting me, you would have known why I came and would have blocked my entry."
"And what are your reasons for coming?"
"And what are your reasons for being here?"
"I have come simply to ask an explanation of the man who fails to keep his promise as a Minister."
"I've come just to ask for an explanation from the man who doesn't keep his promise as a Minister."
"You do not know, then, what passed in the Chambers?"
"You don’t know what happened in the Chambers?"
"No! I only know what has happened at the Théâtre-Français."
"No! I only know what happened at the Théâtre-Français."
"I was obliged to suspend Antony."
"I had to suspend Antony."
"Not to suspend, but to stop it."
"Not to pause it, but to end it."
"To stop or to suspend...."
"To stop or to pause...."
"Do not mean the same thing."
"Do not mean the same thing."
"Well, then, I was obliged to stop Antony."
"Well, then, I had to stop Antony."
"Obliged? A Minister! How could a Minister be obliged to stop a piece which he had himself taken out of the hands of the prompter of another theatre, when, too, he had engaged his own box to see the first representation of that piece?"
"Obliged? A Minister! How could a Minister be required to stop a play that he had taken from the prompter of another theater, especially when he had booked his own box to watch the first performance of that play?"
"Yes—obliged, I was compelled to do it!"
"Yeah—I had to do it!"
"By the article in the Constitutionnel?"
"By the article in the Constitutionnel?"
"Bah! if it had only been that article I should, indeed, have made myself a laughing-stock, although good ink went to the writing of it."
"Bah! If it had just been that article, I really would have made a fool of myself, even though a lot of good ink went into writing it."
"You call that good ink, do you? I defy you to suck M. Jay's [Étienne's] pen, without having an attack of the colic."
"You think that's good ink, huh? I dare you to use M. Jay's [Étienne's] pen without getting a stomach cramp."
"Well, call it bad ink, if you like ... But it was the Chamber!"
"Well, call it bad luck if you want... but it was the Chamber!"
"How do you make that out?"
"How do you figure that out?"
"Oh! I had the whole Chamber against me! If Antony had been allowed to be played to-night, the Budget would not have passed."
"Oh! I had the entire Chamber against me! If Antony had been performed tonight, the Budget would not have gone through."
"The Budget would not have passed?"
"The budget didn't pass?"
"No ... Remember that such people as Jay, Étienne, Viennet and so forth ... can command a hundred votes in the Chamber, a hundred people who vote like one man. I was pinned into a corner—'Antony and no budget!' or, 'A budget and no Antony!' ... Ah! my boy, remain a dramatic author and take good care never to become a Minister!"
"No ... Remember that people like Jay, Étienne, Viennet, and others can rally a hundred votes in the Chamber, a hundred people who vote as one. I was stuck in a tough spot—'Antony and no budget!' or 'A budget and no Antony!' ... Ah! my boy, stay a playwright and make sure you never become a Minister!"
"Oh! come! do you really think matters can rest thus?"
"Oh! come on! Do you really think things can stay like this?"
"No, I am well aware I owe you an indemnity; fix it yourself and I will pass for payment any sum you may exact!"
"No, I know I owe you compensation; handle it yourself, and I will pay whatever amount you decide!"
"A fig for your indemnity! Do you think I work only to earn indemnities?"
"A plague on your compensation! Do you really think I work just to get paid?"
"No, you work to earn author's rights."
"No, you work to earn the rights of the author."
"When my pieces are played, not when they are forbidden."
"When my music is played, not when it's banned."
"However, you have a right to compensation."
"However, you have the right to compensation."
"The Court will fix that."
"The Court will take care of that."
"Trust in me and do not have recourse to lawsuits."
"Trust me and don't resort to lawsuits."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Because the same thing will happen to you that happened to Hugo with regard to the Roi s'amuse: the tribunal will declare itself incompetent."
"Because the same thing will happen to you that happened to Hugo with regard to the Roi s'amuse: the court will declare itself incompetent."
"The Government did not interfere with the contract of the Roi s'amuse, as you have in the case of Antony."
"The government didn't interfere with the contract of the Roi s'amuse, like they did in the case of Antony."
"Indirectly."
"Not directly."
"The Court will appreciate that point."
"The court will recognize that point."
"This will not prevent you from writing a new piece for us."
"This won't stop you from writing a new piece for us."
"Good! So that they may refuse you the budget of 1835? Thanks!"
"Good! So they can deny you the budget for 1835? Thanks!"
"You will think better of your determination."
"You will feel differently about your decision."
"I? I will never set foot in your offices again!"
"I? I’m never stepping foot in your offices again!"
And out I went, sulking and growling; which I would certainly not have done had I known that, in less than two years' time, this same Thiers would break his word to Poland, by letting the Austrians, Prussians and Russians occupy Cracow; to Spain, by refusing to intervene; and to Switzerland by threatening to blockade her. What was this paltry little broken promise to a dramatic author in comparison with these three great events?
And out I went, sulking and grumbling; which I definitely wouldn’t have done if I had known that, in less than two years, this same Thiers would go back on his word to Poland by allowing the Austrians, Prussians, and Russians to take over Cracow; to Spain, by refusing to step in; and to Switzerland by threatening to block her. What did this insignificant broken promise to a playwright mean compared to these three major events?
I rushed to Dorval, whom the ministerial change of front hit more cruelly than it did me. Indeed, Antony was only banned by the Théâtre-Français; elsewhere, its reputation was well established, and its revival could not add anything to mine.[Pg 281] But it was different in the case of Dorval: she had never had a part in which she had been so successful as she had been in that of Adèle; none of her old rôles could supply the place of this one, and there was no probability that any new part would give her the chance of success, which the suppression of Antony took away from her. She began by writing the following letter to the Constitutionnel:—
I rushed to see Dorval, who was hit harder by the ministerial change than I was. In fact, Antony was only banned by the Théâtre-Français; its reputation was still strong elsewhere, and its return wouldn't change anything for me.[Pg 281] But it was different for Dorval: she had never had a role that was as successful for her as Adèle was; none of her previous roles could replace this one, and there was little chance that any new role would give her the opportunity for success that the ban on Antony took away from her. She started by writing the following letter to the Constitutionnel:—
"MONSIEUR,—When I was engaged at the Français, it was on the express condition that I should begin in Antony. That condition was ratified in my agreement as the basis of the contract into which I entered with the management of the Théâtre Richelieu. Now, the Government decides that the piece received at the Théâtre-Français in 1830, censured under the Bourbons, played a hundred times at the Porte-Saint-Martin, thirty times at the Odéon and once at the Italiens, cannot be acted by the king's comedians. A lawsuit between the author and M. Thiers will settle the question of rights. But, until that law-suit is decided, I feel myself compelled to cease appearing in any other piece. I am anxious, at the same time, to make clear that there is nothing in my refusal which can injure the authors of une Liaison, to whom I owe particular thanks for their generous dealings with me.
"MARIE DORVAL""SIR,—When I worked at the Français, it was with the specific agreement that I would start with Antony. That agreement was part of my contract with the management of the Théâtre Richelieu. Now, the Government has ruled that the play performed at the Théâtre-Français in 1830, which was censored under the Bourbons, had a run of a hundred performances at the Porte-Saint-Martin, thirty at the Odéon, and once at the Italiens, and cannot be performed by the king's actors. A lawsuit between the author and M. Thiers will determine the rights. However, until that lawsuit is resolved, I feel I must stop appearing in any other play. I want to make it clear that my refusal does not reflect poorly on the authors of une Liaison, to whom I am especially grateful for their kind treatment of me.
"MARIE DORVAL"
This was the serious and sad side to the situation; then, when she had accomplished this duty towards herself,—and especially to her family, of whom she was the only support,—Dorval was desirous of repaying M. Étienne [M. Jay], after her own fashion, not having the least doubt that I should also pay him back in my own way some day or other. I came across the fact that I am going to relate in an album which the poor woman sent me when dying, and which I have tenderly preserved.
This was the serious and sad aspect of the situation; once she had fulfilled her responsibility to herself—and especially to her family, of whom she was the only support—Dorval wanted to repay M. Étienne [M. Jay] in her own way, fully confident that I would also repay him in my own way someday. I discovered the fact that I'm about to share in an album that the poor woman sent me when she was dying, and I have kept it with great care.
"On 28 April 1834, my appearance in Antony at the Théâtre-Français was forbidden, at the solicitation, or rather upon the denunciation, of M. Antoine Jay [M. Étienne], author of Joconde and editor of the Constitutionnel. I conceived the idea of sending him a crown of roses. I put the crown in a card-board[Pg 282] box with a little note tied to it with a white favour. The letter contained these words:
"On April 28, 1834, I was banned from performing in Antony at the Théâtre-Français, due to the request, or rather the accusation, from M. Antoine Jay [M. Étienne], who is known for Joconde and for editing the Constitutionnel. I thought to send him a crown of roses. I put the crown in a cardboard[Pg 282] box with a little note attached to it with a white ribbon. The letter included these words:
'MONSIEUR,—Here is a crown which was flung at my feet in Antony, allow me to place it on your brow. I owe you that homage.
'SIR,—Here is a crown that was thrown at my feet in Antony, let me place it on your head. I owe you that respect.
"'Personne ne sait davantage
Combien vous l'avez mérite!'"
"MARIE DORVAL""'No one knows better
How much you deserve it!'"
"MARIE DORVAL"
Below the signature of that good and dear friend, I discovered two more lines, and the following letter:—
Below the signature of that good and dear friend, I found two more lines, along with the following letter:—
"M. Jay [M. Étienne] sent back the box, the crown and the white favour with this note—
"M. Jay [M. Étienne] sent back the box, the crown, and the white favor with this note—
"'MADAME,—The epigram is charming, and although it is not true it is in such excellent taste that I cannot refrain from appropriating it. As for the crown, it belongs to grace and talent, so I hasten to lay it again at your feet.
"A. JAY [ÉTIENNE]'MADAME,—This saying is charming, and even if it's not true, it’s so well articulated that I can’t help but adopt it for myself. As for the crown, it truly belongs to elegance and skill, so I quickly return it to your feet.
"A. JAY [ÉTIENNE]"30 April 1834"
"30 April 1834"
As I had warned M. Thiers I appealed from his decision to the tribunal de commerce. The trial was fixed for the 2nd June following. My friend Maître Mermilliod laid claim on my behalf for the representation of Antony, or demanded 12,000 francs damages. Maître Nouguier, M. Jouslin de Lasalle's advocate, offered, in the name of his client, to play Antony, but on condition that I should produce the leave of the Home Office. Maître Legendre, attorney to the Home Office, disputed the jurisdiction of the tribunal, his plea being that acts of administrative authority could not be brought before a legal tribunal for decision. It was quite simple, as you see: the Government stole my purse; and, when I claimed restitution it said to me "Stop, you scamp! I am too grand a seigneur to be prosecuted!" Happily, the Court did not allow itself to be intimidated by the grand airs of Maître Legendre, and directed that M. Jouslin de Lasalle should appear in person at the bar. The case was put off till the fifteenth. Now I will open the Gazette des Tribunaux, and copy from it.
As I had warned M. Thiers, I appealed his decision to the tribunal de commerce. The trial was set for June 2nd. My friend Maître Mermilliod claimed on my behalf for the role of Antony, or sought 12,000 francs in damages. Maître Nouguier, the lawyer for M. Jouslin de Lasalle, offered, on behalf of his client, to play Antony, but only if I could provide approval from the Home Office. Maître Legendre, the attorney for the Home Office, challenged the tribunal's authority, arguing that decisions by administrative bodies couldn't be ruled on by a legal court. It was pretty straightforward, as you see: the Government took my money; and when I asked for it back, they told me, "Hold on, you rascal! I'm too important to be taken to court!" Fortunately, the Court didn't let Maître Legendre's high-handedness intimidate them and ordered M. Jouslin de Lasalle to appear personally at the bar. The case was postponed until the fifteenth. Now I'll open the Gazette des Tribunaux and copy from it.
"TRIBUNAL DE COMMERCE DE PARIS
"Hearing 30 June, 1834
"President—M. VASSAL
"Hearing 30 June, 1834
"President—M. VASSAL"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS against JOUSLIN de LASALLE.
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS against JOUSLIN de LASALLE.
"MAÎTRE HENRY NOUGUIER, Counsel for the Comédie Française.
MAÎTRE HENRY NOUGUIER, Lawyer for the Comédie Française.
"The Court having directed the parties to come in person to lay their case before it, M. Jouslin de Lasalle only appears out of deference to the court, but protests against that appearance, on the grounds that it will establish a precedent which will lead to M. Jouslin de Lasalle having to appear in person in all disputes which may concern the Comédie-Française, and to reveal his communications with administrative authority; and he leaves the merits of this protest to be decided by reference to previous decisions.
"The Court has ordered the parties to appear in person to present their case. M. Jouslin de Lasalle is attending out of respect for the court but objects to this appearance, claiming it will set a precedent requiring him to appear personally in all matters related to the Comédie-Française and disclose his communications with administrative authorities. He leaves the ruling on this objection to be based on prior rulings."
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—As plaintiff, I plead first, when the Home Ministry formed the plan of regenerating or re-organising the Théâtre-Français, it first of all decided to appoint a good manager and to call in, I will not say authors of talent, but authors who could draw good houses. The intention of the Government was, at first, to begin by re-establishing the old material prosperity of the theatre. It order to attain that end, it was needful that it should have plays in its répertoire which should attract the public and bring in good receipts in addition to the subsidy it proposed to grant. M. Thiers procured an exceedingly clever manager in the person of M. Jouslin de Lasalle. He bethought himself also of me as one enjoying a certain degree of public favour. The Minister, therefore, sent for me to his cabinet, and suggested I should work for the Théâtre-Français, even going so far as to offer me a premium. I asked to be treated like other authors in respect of future plays, and I demanded no other condition before I gave my consent than the promise that three of my old dramas should be played, Antony, Henri III. and Christine. M. Thiers told me he did not know Antony, although that drama had been represented eighty times; that he had seen Christine, which had given him much pleasure, and that he had even made it the subject of an article when the play appeared. My condition was accepted without any[Pg 284] reservation. Thus, I was in treaty with the Minister before the manager of the Théâtre-Français had an interview with me. M. Jouslin de Lasalle even found me in the office of M. Thiers. The latter indicated the clauses of the contract and charged M. Jouslin to put them down in writing. In conformity with the agreements then arrived at, Antony was put in rehearsal and announced in the bills.
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—As the plaintiff, I’ll go first. When the Home Ministry planned to revitalize or reorganize the Théâtre-Français, it initially decided to appoint a competent manager and involve, I won’t say talented authors, but authors who could draw large crowds. The Government's goal was to restore the theatre's previous financial success. To do this, it was necessary to have plays in its repertoire that would attract the public and generate significant revenue in addition to the subsidy it intended to provide. M. Thiers secured an exceptionally skilled manager in M. Jouslin de Lasalle. He also considered me, given my moderate public appeal. Therefore, the Minister invited me to his office and suggested I write for the Théâtre-Français, even offering me a bonus. I asked to be treated like other authors regarding future plays and requested that three of my older dramas be performed: Antony, Henri III., and Christine. M. Thiers admitted he was unfamiliar with Antony, even though it had been performed eighty times; he mentioned he had seen Christine, enjoyed it, and even wrote an article about it when it debuted. My condition was accepted without any[Pg 284] reservations. As a result, I was negotiating with the Minister even before the manager of the Théâtre-Français met with me. M. Jouslin de Lasalle found me in M. Thiers’s office. The latter outlined the contract terms and instructed M. Jouslin to write them down. Following our agreements, Antony went into rehearsals and was announced on posters."
"However, in that work, using the liberty of an author, I had rallied the Constitutionnel and its old-fashioned doctrines. The Constitutionnel, which, before 1830, had been something of a power, took offence at the gibes of a young dramatic author, and, in its wrath, it thundered forth in an article wherein it pretended to show that Antony was an immoral production, and that it was scandalous to allow its representation at the leading national theatre. The journal's anger might not, perhaps, have exerted great influence over the Minister for Home Affairs had not MM. Jay and Étienne happened at that time to be concerned with the theatre budget. These worthy deputies, whose collaboration in the Constitutionnel is well known, imagined that the epigrams of Antony referred to them personally; having this in mind, they informed the Minister that they would cause the theatre budget to be rejected if my satirical play was not prohibited at the Théâtre-Français. Antony was to have been played on the very day upon which these threats were addressed to M. Thiers. That Minister sent to M. Jouslin de Lasalle, at four o'clock in the afternoon, the order to stop the representation; I was informed of this interdict some hours later. I knew that M. Jouslin de Lasalle had acted in good faith, and that he had done all that rested with him, concerning the preparation of my play. The injury came from the Government alone, which had placed Antony on the Index, without his knowledge, as he himself said before the tribune. That ministerial interdict has been fatal to my interests, for Prefects of the Departements have, following in the footsteps of their chief, striven to have my play prohibited. It is no longer even allowed to be played at Valenciennes. M. Jouslin de Lasalle has offered to stage any other play I might choose in place of Antony, but that would not be the same thing as the execution of the signed contract; moreover, I cling to the representation of Antony, which is my favourite work, and that of many young writers who are good enough to regard me as their representative. Upon the faith of these ministerial[Pg 285] promises, and of the agreement made with M. Jouslin de Lasalle, I withdrew Antony forcibly from the repertory of the Porte-Saint-Martin, where it was bringing in large sums. I am thus deprived of my author's rights, which came in daily. It is, consequently, only just that M. Jouslin should compensate me for the harm he has done me by the non-execution of the contract. The Government are sure to provide him with the necessary funds. The private quarrel I had with the Constitutionnel ought not to be permitted to cause the manager of the Théâtre-Français, much less the Government, to stop the production of a piece which forms a part of my means of livelihood; that would be nothing short of spoliation. If M. Thiers had not intended to treat with me, he should not have sent for me to call upon him a dozen to fifteen times; he should not have taken upon himself the arrangement of theatrical details which are outside the scope of a Minister. M. Jouslin was evidently but an intermediary.
"However, in this work, exercising my rights as an author, I had aimed at the Constitutionnel and its outdated beliefs. The Constitutionnel, which had been somewhat influential before 1830, was offended by the remarks of a young playwright and, in its anger, published an article claiming that Antony was immoral and that it was scandalous to allow it to be performed at the country's leading theater. The newspaper's outrage might not have affected the Minister for Home Affairs if it hadn't been for the involvement of MM. Jay and Étienne with the theater budget. These respectable deputies, known for their ties to the Constitutionnel, felt the criticisms in Antony were aimed at them personally; keeping this in mind, they warned the Minister they would reject the theater budget if my satirical play wasn't banned at the Théâtre-Français. Antony was set to be performed on the very day these threats were made to M. Thiers. The Minister sent an order to M. Jouslin de Lasalle at four in the afternoon to halt the performance; I learned of this ban a few hours later. I understood that M. Jouslin de Lasalle acted in good faith and did everything he could to prepare my play. The harm came solely from the Government, which had placed Antony on the prohibited list without his knowledge, as he stated before the assembly. That ministerial ban has been disastrous for my interests, as the Prefects of the Departements have, following their leader's example, sought to have my play banned. It is no longer even allowed to be performed in Valenciennes. M. Jouslin de Lasalle has offered to stage any other play I choose instead of Antony, but that wouldn't fulfill the signed contract; moreover, I’m committed to the performance of Antony, which is my favorite work and that of many young writers who see me as their representative. Based on these ministerial[Pg 285] promises and the agreement made with M. Jouslin de Lasalle, I forcibly withdrew Antony from the repertoire of the Porte-Saint-Martin, where it was generating substantial revenue. Thus, I am denied my author's rights, which were coming in daily. It is only fair that M. Jouslin should compensate me for the damage caused by his failure to execute the contract. The Government will surely provide him with the necessary funds. My personal conflict with the Constitutionnel should not lead the manager of the Théâtre-Français, much less the Government, to stop the production of a piece that is part of my livelihood; that would be nothing short of theft. If M. Thiers hadn’t intended to negotiate with me, he shouldn’t have called me in for a dozen to fifteen meetings; he shouldn’t have taken on responsibilities regarding theatrical matters that are outside a Minister's jurisdiction. M. Jouslin was clearly just an intermediary."
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—I drew up the agreement with M. Alexandre Dumas in my office. The Minister knew I had done so, but he was not acquainted with the details of that contract. I did all in my power to fulfil the compact. The prohibition of the Minister came suddenly without my having received previous notice, and that alone prevented the carrying out of my promise. It was an act of force majeure for which I do not hold myself responsible.
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—I established the agreement with M. Alexandre Dumas in my office. The Minister knew I had done this, but he wasn't familiar with the specifics of the contract. I did everything possible to honor the agreement. The Minister’s prohibition came out of nowhere, and I didn’t receive prior warning, which prevented me from keeping my promise. It was an act of force majeure for which I’m not responsible."
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—Did you not meet me at the Minister's?
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—Did you see me at the Minister's?"
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—Yes, a fortnight ago.
M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—Yes, two weeks ago.
"MAÎTRE MERMILLIOD.—The Minister knew that Antony formed part of Madame Dorval's repertory, and that she was to make her appearance in that piece.
"MAÎTRE MERMILLIOD.—The Minister knew that Antony was part of Madame Dorval's lineup, and that she was set to perform in that show."
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—Madame Dorval made it a special stipulation in her engagement.
M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—Madame Dorval insisted on a specific condition in her contract.
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—Madame Dorval was engaged two or three months before the treaty with M. Alexandre Dumas. No stipulation was then made relative to Antony. After the contract with the plaintiff, M. Merle, Madame Dorval's husband, came and begged me to add the clause to which reference has just been made; I did not refuse that act of compliance because I did not foresee that Antony was to be forbidden. I added the clause at the foot of the dramatic contract.
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—Madame Dorval was engaged two or three months before the agreement with M. Alexandre Dumas. No terms were set then regarding Antony. After the contract with the plaintiff was signed, M. Merle, Madame Dorval's husband, came to me and asked me to include the clause mentioned earlier; I complied with that request because I didn’t expect that Antony would be prohibited. I added the clause at the bottom of the dramatic contract."
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—Had the additional clause any definite date attached?
"M. ALEXANDRE DUMAS.—Did the additional clause have a specific date linked to it?"
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—No.
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—No.
"MAÎTRE MERMILLIOD.—M. Jouslin de Lasalle receives a subsidy from the Government, and is in a state of dependence which prevents him from explaining his position openly.
"MAÎTRE MERMILLIOD.—Mr. Jouslin de Lasalle receives financial support from the government, and this dependence prevents him from openly discussing his situation."
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—I am not required to explain my relations with the Government; and it would be unseemly on my part to do so.
"M. JOUSLIN DE LASALLE.—I don’t have to explain my connections with the Government, and it would be inappropriate for me to do so."
"M. LE PRÉSIDENT.—Are you bound, in consequence of the subsidy you receive, only to play those pieces which suit the Government?
M. LE PRÉSIDENT.—Because of the funding you receive, are you required to perform only the pieces that the Government approves?
"M. JOUSLIN de LASALLE.—No obligation of that kind whatever is imposed on me. I enjoy, in that respect, the same liberty that all other managers have; but, like them, I am bound to submit to any prohibitions issued by the state. There is no difference in this respect between my confrères and myself.
"M. JOUSLIN de LASALLE.—I’m not obligated to do that. In this regard, I have the same freedom as any other manager; however, like them, I must adhere to any restrictions placed by the state. There's no difference in this regard between me and my colleagues."
"After these explanations, the manager of the Théâtre-Français at once left the Court. The president declared that the Court would adjourn the case for consideration, and that judgment would be pronounced in a fortnight's time."
"After these explanations, the manager of the Théâtre-Français immediately left the Court. The president announced that the Court would postpone the case for consideration and that a judgment would be delivered in two weeks."
"Hearing of 14 July
"Hearing of 14 July
"The Court taking into consideration the connection between the cases, decides to join them, and gives judgment upon both at one and the same time. Concerning the principal claim: It appearing that, if it had been decided by the Court that the prohibition to produce a piece which was opposed to good manners and public morality, legally made by a competent Minister, might be looked upon as a case of force majeure, thus doing away with the right of appeal of the author against the manager, the tribunal has only been called upon to deal with the plea of justification which might have been put forward in respect to new pieces where their performance would seem dangerous to the administration:
"The Court, considering the connection between the cases, decided to join them and ruled on both at the same time. Regarding the main claim: It appears that if the Court had determined that the ban on producing a piece that contravened good manners and public morality, legally imposed by a qualified Minister, could be considered a case of force majeure, this would eliminate the author's right to appeal against the manager. Thus, the tribunal has only been tasked with addressing the justification that might have been presented regarding new pieces whose performance could be deemed risky for the administration:"
"It appearing that in the actual trial the parties found themselves to be in totally different positions with respect to the matter, and it is no longer a question of the production of a new play, subject to the twofold scrutiny of both the public and the Government, but of a work which, being in the repertory of[Pg 287] another theatre, would there have had a great number of performances, without let or hindrance on the part of the Government; with regard to the position of M. Jouslin, manager of a theatre subsidised by the Government, it is right to examine him in this case, as the decisions in previous cases are not applicable to this action:
"It seems that during the actual trial, the parties found themselves in completely different positions regarding the issue. This is no longer about producing a new play under scrutiny from both the public and the Government, but rather about a work that, being part of the repertoire of[Pg 287] another theatre, would have had many performances without interference from the Government. Given M. Jouslin's role as the manager of a Government-subsidized theatre, it is necessary to examine him in this case, as decisions from previous cases don’t apply here:
"It appearing from the documents produced, and the pleadings and explanations given in public by the parties themselves, that the Home Minister, in the interests of the prosperity of the Théâtre Français, felt it necessary to associate M. Alexandre Dumas's talent with that theatre, and that to this end a verbal agreement was come to between Jouslin de Lasalle and Alexandre Dumas, and that the first condition of the said agreement was that the play of Antony should be performed at the Théâtre-Français:
"It appears from the documents provided, as well as the statements and explanations made publicly by the parties involved, that the Home Minister believed it was crucial for the success of the Théâtre Français to bring in M. Alexandre Dumas's talent. To achieve this, a verbal agreement was established between Jouslin de Lasalle and Alexandre Dumas, with the primary condition of the agreement being that the play Antony should be performed at the Théâtre-Français:"
"Further, it appearing, that the play of Antony belonged to the repertory of the Porte-Saint-Martin; that it had been played a great number of times without any interference or hindrance from authority; that it is consequently correct to say that Jouslin de Lasalle knew the gist of the agreement to be made with Alexandre Dumas, and that it was at his risk and peril that he was engaged:
"Furthermore, it seems that the play Antony was part of the repertoire at the Porte-Saint-Martin; it had been performed many times without any interference or obstacles from authorities; therefore, it's accurate to say that Jouslin de Lasalle understood the essence of the agreement with Alexandre Dumas, and that he took on this engagement at his own risk:"
"It appearing that, if Jouslin de Lasalle thought it his duty to submit, without opposition or protest on his part, to the mere notice given him by the Government, in its decision to stop the production of Antony at the Théâtre-Français on 28 April, the said submission of Jouslin de Lasalle must be looked upon as an act of compliance which was called forth by his own personal interests, and on account of his position as a subsidised manager, since he did not feel it his duty to enter a protest against the ministerial prohibition; that we cannot recognise here any case of force majeure; that this act of compliance was not sufficient warranty for prejudicing the rights of Alexandre Dumas; that his contract with Jouslin de Lasalle ought therefore to have been fulfilled or cancelled with the consequent indemnity:
"It seems that if Jouslin de Lasalle believed it was his duty to accept the Government's notice without opposition or protest regarding the decision to stop the production of Antony at the Théâtre-Français on April 28, then his acceptance must be seen as an act of compliance driven by his personal interests and his role as a subsidized manager. He didn't consider it necessary to protest against the ministerial ban; we cannot see this as a case of force majeure. This act of compliance didn’t undermine Alexandre Dumas's rights; therefore, his contract with Jouslin de Lasalle should have been either fulfilled or canceled with appropriate compensation."
"It further appearing that it is for the tribunal to settle the sum to which Alexandre Dumas is entitled as damages for the wrong that has been done him up to this present date by the non-performance by Jouslin de Lasalle of the contract made between them, the amount is fixed at 10,000 francs; therefore in giving judgment on the first count the Court directs[Pg 288] Jouslin de Lasalle to pay to Alexandre Dumas the said sum of 10,000 francs in full satisfaction of all damages:
"It is clear that it is the tribunal's responsibility to determine the amount owed to Alexandre Dumas as compensation for the wrongs he has suffered up to now due to Jouslin de Lasalle's failure to fulfill their contract. The amount is set at 10,000 francs; therefore, in ruling on the first count, the Court orders[Pg 288] Jouslin de Lasalle to pay Alexandre Dumas the total sum of 10,000 francs to fully settle all damages:"
"Further, deciding upon the additional claim of Alexandre Dumas: It appearing that it was not in the latter's power to be able to oppose the prohibition relative to the production of the play of Antony, but was the business of the subsidised manager to do so, since he had engaged the plaintiff at his own risk and peril:
"Furthermore, regarding the additional claim from Alexandre Dumas: it seems he couldn't directly challenge the ban on the production of the play Antony, but that responsibility fell on the subsidized manager, as he had hired the plaintiff at his own risk and liability:"
"The Court orders that, during the next fortnight Jouslin de Lasalle shall use his power with the authority responsible, to get the Government to remove the prohibition; otherwise, and failing to do this during the said period, after that time, until the prohibition is removed, it is decided, and without any further judgment being necessary, that Jouslin de Lasalle shall pay Alexandre Dumas the sum of 50 francs for each day of the delay; it further orders Jouslin de Lasalle to pay the costs:
"The Court orders that within the next two weeks, Jouslin de Lasalle must use his influence with the responsible authorities to seek the Government to lift the ban; if he fails to do this during that time, then starting after that period and until the ban is lifted, Jouslin de Lasalle will automatically owe Alexandre Dumas 50 francs for each day of the delay; the Court also orders Jouslin de Lasalle to cover the costs:"
"In the matter of the claim of indemnity between Jouslin de Lasalle and the Home Minister: As it is a question of deciding upon an administrative act, this Court has no jurisdiction to deal with the matter, and dismisses the cases, and as the parties interested, who ought to have known this, have brought it before the Court, condemns M. Jouslin de Lasalle to pay the costs of this claim ..."
"In the case concerning the indemnity claim between Jouslin de Lasalle and the Home Minister: Since this involves deciding on an administrative action, this Court does not have the jurisdiction to handle the matter and dismisses the cases. Furthermore, since the interested parties, who should have been aware of this, brought it before the Court, Mr. Jouslin de Lasalle is ordered to pay the costs of this claim..."
We do not think it necessary to make any commentary on this decision of the Court.
We don't think it's necessary to comment on this decision of the Court.
CHAPTER X
Republican banquet at the Vendanges de Bourgogne—The toasts—To Louis-Philippe!—Gathering of those who were decorated in July—Formation of the board—Protests—Fifty yards of ribbon—A dissentient—Contradiction in the Moniteur—-Trial of Évariste Gallois—His examination—His acquittal
Republican banquet at the Vendanges de Bourgogne—The toasts—To Louis-Philippe!—Meeting of those recognized in July—Establishment of the board—Protests—Fifty yards of ribbon—A differing opinion—Contradiction in the Moniteur—Trial of Évariste Gallois—His questioning—His acquittal
Let us skip over the reception of M. Viennet into the Académie Française, which fact M. Viennet doubtless learnt from his porter, as he learned later, from the same porter, that he was made a peer of France, and let us return to our friends, acquitted amidst storms of applause and enthusiastically escorted to their homes on the night of 16 April. It was decided that we should give them a banquet by subscription. This was fixed for 9 May and took place at the Vendanges de Bourgogne. There were two hundred subscribers. It would have been difficult to find throughout the whole of Paris two hundred guests more hostile to the Government than were these who gathered together at five o'clock in the afternoon, in a long dining-room on the ground-floor looking out on the garden. I was placed between Raspail, who had just declined the cross, and an actor from the Théâtre-Français, who had come with me far less from political conviction than from curiosity. Marrast was the depositary of the official toasts which were to be offered, and it had been decided that none should be drunk but such as had been approved by the president.
Let’s skip over M. Viennet's acceptance into the Académie Française, which he probably heard about from his janitor, just like he later found out, also from the same janitor, that he was made a peer of France. Instead, let’s return to our friends, who were celebrated with loud applause and enthusiastically escorted home on the night of April 16. We decided to throw them a banquet by subscription. This was scheduled for May 9 and took place at the Vendanges de Bourgogne. There were two hundred subscribers. It would have been hard to find two hundred guests in all of Paris who were more opposed to the Government than those who gathered at five o'clock in the afternoon in a long dining room on the ground floor overlooking the garden. I was seated between Raspail, who had just turned down an honor, and an actor from the Théâtre-Français, who had come with me more out of curiosity than for political reasons. Marrast was in charge of the official toasts that were to be given, and it had been decided that none would be made unless approved by the president.
Things went smoothly enough throughout two-thirds of the dinner; but, at the popping of the bottles of champagne, which began to simulate a well-sustained discharge of musketry, spirits rose; the conversation, naturally of a purely political character, resolved itself into a most dangerous dialogue, and,[Pg 290] in the midst of official toasts, there gradually slipped private toasts.
Things went pretty well during the first two-thirds of dinner; however, when the champagne bottles started popping, sounding like steady gunfire, everyone's mood lifted. The conversation, initially focused strictly on politics, turned into a risky discussion, and,[Pg 290] in the middle of the official toasts, private toasts gradually started to slip in.
The first illicit toast was offered to Raspail, because he had declined the Cross of the Légion d'Honneur. Fontan, who had just obtained it, took the matter personally, and began to entangle himself in a speech, the greater part of which never reached the ears of the audience. Poor Fontan had not the gift of speech and, luckily, the applause of his friends drowned the halting of his tongue.
The first illegal toast was raised to Raspail because he had turned down the Cross of the Légion d'Honneur. Fontan, who had just received it, took it personally and started to ramble through a speech, most of which the audience didn’t hear. Poor Fontan didn’t have the talent for public speaking, and fortunately, the cheers from his friends drowned out his stumbling words.
I had no intention of offering any toast: I do not like speaking in public unless I am carried away by some passion or other. However, shouts of "Dumas! Dumas! Dumas!" compelled me to raise my glass. I proposed a toast which would have seemed very mild, if, instead of coming before the others, it had come after. I had completely forgotten what the toast was, but the actor whom I mentioned just now came to dine with me a week ago and recalled it to me. It was: "To Art! inasmuch as the pen and the paint-brush contribute as efficaciously as the rifle and sword to that social regeneration to which we have dedicated our lives and for which cause we are ready to die!"
I had no plans to give a toast; I don’t enjoy speaking in public unless I’m caught up in some passion. However, the cheers of "Dumas! Dumas! Dumas!" forced me to lift my glass. I made a toast that would’ve seemed pretty mild if it had been given after, instead of before, everyone else. I completely forgot what the toast was until the actor I mentioned earlier had dinner with me a week ago and reminded me. It was: "To Art! because the pen and the paintbrush are just as effective as the rifle and sword in the social renewal we’ve dedicated our lives to and for which we are ready to die!"
There are times when people will applaud everything: they applauded my toast. Why not? They had just applauded Fontan's speech. It was now Étienne Arago's turn. He rose.
There are times when people will cheer for everything: they cheered for my toast. Why not? They had just cheered for Fontan's speech. Now it was Étienne Arago's turn. He got up.
"To the sun of 1831!" he said; "may it be as warm as that of 1830 and not dazzle us as that did!"
"To the sun of 1831!" he said; "may it be as warm as that of 1830 and not blind us like that one did!"
This deserved and obtained a triple salvo of cheers. Then came the toasts of Godefroy and Eugène Cavaignac. I blame myself for having forgotten them; especially do I regret forgetting Eugène's, which was most characteristic. Suddenly, in the midst of a private conversation with my left-hand neighbour, the name of Louis-Philippe, followed by five or six hisses, caught my ear. I turned round. A most animated scene was going on fifteen or twenty places from me. A young fellow was holding his raised glass and an open dagger-knife in the same hand and trying to make himself heard. It was Évariste Gallois, who was afterwards killed in[Pg 291] a duel by Pescheux d'Herbinville, that delightful young man who wrapped his cartridges in tissue-paper, tied with rose-coloured favours. Évariste Gallois was scarcely twenty-three or twenty-four years of age at that time; he was one of the fiercest of Republicans. The noise was so great, that the cause of it could not be discovered because of the tumult. But I could gather there was danger threatening; the name of Louis-Philippe had been uttered—and the open knife plainly showed with what motive. This far exceeded the limits of my Republican opinions: I yielded to the persuasion of the neighbour on my left, who, in his capacity as king's comedian, could not dare to be compromised, and we leapt through the window into the garden. I returned home very uneasy: it was evident that this affair would have consequences, and, as a matter of fact, Évariste Gallois was arrested two or three days later. We shall meet him again at the end of the chapter before the Court of Assizes. This event happened at the same time as another event which was of some gravity to us. I have related that the decree concerning the Cross of July instituted the phrase, Given by the King of the French, and imposed the substitution of the blue ribbon edged with red, for the red edged with black. The king had signed this order in a fit of ill-temper. At one of the meetings at which I was present as a member of the committee, one of the king's aide-de-camps,—M. de Rumigny, so far as I can remember, although I cannot say for certain,—presented himself, asking, in the king's name and on behalf of the king, for the decoration of the Three Days, which had been accorded with much enthusiasm to La Fayette, Laffitte, Dupont (de l'Eure) and Béranger. This proceeding had surprised us, but not disconcerted us; we launched into discussion and decided, unanimously, that, the decoration being specially reserved for the combatants of the Three Days, or for citizens, who, without fighting, had during those three days taken an active part in the Revolution, the king, who had not entered Paris until the night of the 30th, had, therefore, no sort of right either to the decoration or to the medal. This decision was immediately[Pg 292] transmitted to the messenger, who transmitted it instantly to his august principal. Now, we never doubted that our refusal was the cause of the decree of 30 April. I believe I have also mentioned that a protest was made by us against the colour of the ribbon, the subscription and the oath.
This got the crowd to give a loud three cheers. Then Godefroy and Eugène Cavaignac made toasts. I regret that I forgot them, especially Eugène's, which was quite memorable. Suddenly, while chatting with the person next to me on my left, I heard the name Louis-Philippe, followed by several hisses. I turned around. A lively scene was happening about fifteen or twenty places away from me. A young man was holding up a glass and an open knife in the same hand, trying to make himself heard. It was Évariste Gallois, who would later be killed in[Pg 291] a duel by Pescheux d'Herbinville, that charming young man who wrapped his cartridges in tissue paper tied with pink ribbons. Évariste Gallois was only about twenty-three or twenty-four years old at the time; he was one of the most intense Republicans. The noise was so loud that we couldn't figure out the cause of it amid the chaos. But I sensed that something dangerous was happening; the name Louis-Philippe had come up—and the open knife clearly indicated the intent. This went way beyond my Republican beliefs: I gave in to the persuasion of my left-hand neighbor, who, as a king's comedian, couldn't afford to get into trouble, and we jumped out the window into the garden. I went home feeling quite uneasy: it was clear that this incident would have repercussions, and actually, Évariste Gallois was arrested two or three days later. We'll see him again at the end of the chapter before the Court of Assizes. This event coincided with another significant event for us. I mentioned before that the decree regarding the Cross of July introduced the phrase, Given by the King of the French, and ordered the change from the blue ribbon with red edging to one with red edging. The king had signed this order in a fit of anger. At one of the committee meetings I attended, one of the king's aides-de-camp—M. de Rumigny, if I recall correctly—came forward, asking on behalf of the king for the decoration for the Three Days, which had been awarded with great enthusiasm to La Fayette, Laffitte, Dupont (de l'Eure), and Béranger. This surprised us but didn’t throw us off; we engaged in a discussion and unanimously decided that since the decoration was specifically reserved for the fighters of the Three Days or for citizens who had actively participated in the Revolution without fighting, the king, who only entered Paris on the night of the 30th, had no right to the decoration or the medal. This decision was immediately[Pg 292] sent to the messenger, who quickly delivered it to his noble superior. We always believed that our refusal triggered the decree of April 30th. I also mentioned that we protested against the color of the ribbon, the subscription, and the oath.
Two days before the banquet at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, a general assembly had taken place in the hall of the Grande-Chaumière in the passage du Saumon. The total number of the decorated amounted to fifteen hundred and twenty-eight. Four hundred belonged to the départements, the remainder to Paris. Notices having been sent to each at his own house, all those decorated were prompt in answering the appeal; there were nearly a thousand of us gathered together. We proceeded to form a board. The president was elected by acclamation. He was one of the old conquerors of the Bastille, aged between seventy and seventy-five,—-who wore next the decoration of 14 July 1789 the Cross of 29 July 1830. M. de Talleyrand was right in his dictum that nothing is more dangerous than enthusiasm; we learnt afterwards that the man we made president by acclamation was an old blackguard who had been before the assizes for violating a young girl.
Two days before the banquet at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, a general assembly took place in the hall of the Grande-Chaumière in the passage du Saumon. The total number of honorees was fifteen hundred and twenty-eight. Four hundred were from the départements, while the rest were from Paris. Notices were sent to each person at their own homes, and everyone who was decorated promptly responded to the invitation; nearly a thousand of us gathered together. We moved to elect a board. The president was chosen by acclamation. He was one of the old heroes from the Bastille, aged between seventy and seventy-five, and wore the decoration from July 14, 1789, along with the Cross of July 29, 1830. M. de Talleyrand was right when he said that nothing is more dangerous than enthusiasm; we later discovered that the man we made president by acclamation had a history of being prosecuted for violating a young girl.
Then we proceeded to the voting. The board was to be composed of fourteen members, one for each arrondissement; the thirteenth and fourteenth arrondissements represented the outlying dependencies. By a most wonderful chance, I have discovered the list of members of that board close to my hand; here it is—
Then we moved on to the voting. The board was made up of fourteen members, one for each district; the thirteenth and fourteenth districts represented the surrounding areas. By an amazing coincidence, I found the list of members for that board right here; here it is—
"First arrondissement, Lamoure; second, Étienne Arago; third, Trélat; fourth, Moussette; fifth, Higonnet; sixth, Bastide; seventh, Garnier—Pagès; eighth, Villeret; ninth, Gréau; tenth, Godefroy Cavaignac; eleventh, Raspail; twelfth, Bavoux; thirteenth, Geibel; fourteenth, Alexandre Dumas."
"First district, Lamoure; second, Étienne Arago; third, Trélat; fourth, Moussette; fifth, Higonnet; sixth, Bastide; seventh, Garnier—Pagès; eighth, Villeret; ninth, Gréau; tenth, Godefroy Cavaignac; eleventh, Raspail; twelfth, Bavoux; thirteenth, Geibel; fourteenth, Alexandre Dumas."
The names of the fourteen members were given out and applauded; then we proceeded with the discussion. The meeting was first informed of the situation; next, different[Pg 293] questions were put upon which the meeting was asked to deliberate. All these queries were put to the vote, for and against, and decided accordingly. The following minutes of the meeting were immediately dispatched to the three papers, the Temps, the Courrier and the National.
The names of the fourteen members were announced and received applause; then we moved on to the discussion. The meeting was first updated on the situation; next, various[Pg 293] questions were raised for the meeting to consider. All these questions were put to a vote, both for and against, and decided accordingly. The minutes of the meeting were promptly sent out to the three newspapers, the Temps, the Courrier, and the National.
"No oath, inasmuch as the law respecting national awards had not prescribed any such oath.
"There’s no oath required because the law about national awards doesn’t ask for one."
"No superscription of Donnée par le roi; the Cross of July is a national award, not a royal.
"There's no title of Donnée par le roi; the Cross of July is a national award, not a royal one."
"All those decorated for the events of July pledge themselves to wear that cross, holding themselves authorised to do so by the insertion of their names upon the list of national awards issued by the committee.
"Anyone who received the award for the events of July agrees to wear that cross, thinking they have the right to do so because their names are on the list of national awards from the committee."
"The king cannot be head of an order of which he is not even chevalier.
"The king can't be the head of an order when he isn't even a knight of it."
"Even were the king a chevalier of July, and he is not, his son, when he comes to the throne, would not inherit that decoration.
"Even if the king were a knight of July, which he isn't, his son wouldn't inherit that title when he becomes king."
"Further, there is no identity whatever between his position with regard to the decoration of July and his position with regard to the Légion d'Honneur and other orders which are inherited with the kingdom.
"Moreover, there’s no comparison between his view on the July decoration and his view on the Légion d'Honneur and other honors that pass down with the monarchy."
"The right won at the place de Grève, at the Louvre and at the Caserne de Babylon is anterior to all other rights: it is not possible, without falling into absurdity, to imagine a decoration to have been given by a king who did not exist at that time, and for whose person, we publicly confess we should not have fought for then.
"The victory at Place de Grève, the Louvre, and Caserne de Babylon is more important than any other rights: it’s ridiculous to think a decoration could have been given by a king who didn’t exist back then, and whom we openly admit we wouldn’t have fought for."
"With regard to the ribbon, as its change of colour does not change any principle, the ribbon suggested by the Government may be adopted."
"As for the ribbon, since changing its color doesn’t impact any principles, the ribbon suggested by the Government can be used."
This last clause roused a long and heated discussion. In my opinion, the colour of the ribbon was a matter of indifference; moreover, to cede one point showed that we had not previously made up our minds to reject everything. I gained a hearing, and won the majority of the meeting over to my opinion. As soon as this point had been settled by vote. I drew from my pocket three or four yards of blue ribbon edged with red, with which I had provided myself in advance, and I[Pg 294] decorated the board and those members of the order who were nearest me. Among them was Charras. I did not see him again after that for twenty-two years—and then he was in exile. Hardly was it noticed that a score of members were decorated, before everybody wished to be in the same case. We sent out for fifty yards of ribbon, and the thousand spectators left the passage du Saumon wearing the ribbon of July in their buttonholes. This meeting of 7 May made a great stir in Paris. The Moniteur busied itself with lying as usual. It announced that the resolutions had not been unanimously passed, and that many of those decorated had protested there and then. On the contrary, no protests of any kind had been raised. This was the only note which reached the board—
This last point sparked a long and heated discussion. In my view, the color of the ribbon didn’t really matter; besides, conceding one point showed that we hadn’t fully decided to reject everything. I managed to get the floor and convinced most of the meeting to support my stance. Once that point was settled by a vote, I pulled out three or four yards of blue ribbon edged with red that I had brought with me, and I decorated the board and those members who were closest to me. Among them was Charras. I didn’t see him again for twenty-two years—and when I did, he was in exile. Before long, it went mostly unnoticed that a number of members were decorated, and soon everyone wanted the same. We ordered fifty yards of ribbon, and the thousand spectators left the passage du Saumon wearing the July ribbon in their buttonholes. This meeting on May 7 created quite a stir in Paris. The Moniteur did its usual job of lying. It claimed that the resolutions hadn’t been passed unanimously and that several of those decorated had protested right then. On the contrary, no protests of any kind were raised. This was the only note that reached the board—
"I ask that all protests against all or part of the decree relative to the distribution of the Cross of July shall be decided by those who are interested in the matter, and that no general measure shall be adopted and imposed on everyone; each of us ought to rest perfectly free to protest or not as he likes.
HUET""I ask that all objections to any part of the decree about the distribution of the Cross of July be decided by those directly involved, and that no one-size-fits-all rule should be enforced; each of us should have the freedom to protest or not as we choose.
HUET"
This note was read aloud and stopped with hootings. We sent the following contradiction to the Moniteur signed by our fourteen names—
This note was read aloud and was interrupted by hootings. We sent the following rebuttal to the Moniteur signed by our fourteen names—
"To the Editor of the Moniteur Universal
"To the Editor of the Moniteur Universal"
"SIR,—You state that the account of the meeting of those wearing the July decoration is false, although you were not present thereat and took no part whatever in the acts of the combatants of the Three Days. We affirm that it contained nothing but the exact truth. We will not discuss the illegality of the decree of 30 April: it has been sufficiently dwelt upon by the newspapers.
SIR,—You state that the report about the gathering of those with the July decoration is false, even though you weren't present and did not take part in the events of the Three Days. We assert that it accurately presented the facts. We won't discuss the legality of the decree from April 30: that's been covered enough by the newspapers.
"We will only say that it is a lie that any combatant of 1789 and of 1830 was brought to that meeting by means of a pre-arranged surprise. Citizen Decombis came of his own accord to relate how the decoration of 1789 had been distributed, and at the equally spontaneous desire of the meeting he was called to the board. It was not, as you state, a small number of men who protested against the decree; the gathering[Pg 295] was composed of over a thousand decorated people. The illegality of the oath and of the superscription Donnée par le roi, was recognised unanimously. None of the members present raised a hand to vote against it; all rose with enthusiasm to refuse to subscribe to that twofold illegality; this we can absolutely prove; for, in case any of the questions had not been thoroughly understood, each vote for and against the motions was repeated.
"We will simply say that it's a lie that any participant from 1789 or 1830 was brought to that meeting as a planned surprise. Citizen Decombis came voluntarily to explain how the decoration from 1789 was issued, and upon the spontaneous request of the gathering, he was invited to the board. Contrary to your claim, it wasn't just a small group opposing the decree; the meeting [Pg 295] had over a thousand decorated individuals present. The illegality of the oath and the superscription Donnée par le roi was recognized unanimously. None of the members present voted against it; everyone stood up enthusiastically to reject that double illegality; we can definitely prove this, as, in case any questions were not fully understood, each vote for and against the motions was repeated."
"Furthermore: all those decorated remained in the hall for an hour after the meeting, waiting for ribbons, and during that time no objections were raised against the conclusions arrived at during the deliberations.
"Additionally, all who were decorated remained in the hall for an hour after the meeting, waiting for their ribbons, and during that time, no objections were raised against the conclusions reached during the discussions."
"And this we affirm, we who have never dishonoured our pens or our oaths.
"And we affirm this, we who have never disrespected our pens or our promises."
"Signed: LAMOURE, ST. ARAGO, TRÉLAT, MOUSSETTE, HIGONNET, BASTIDE, GARNIER-PAGÈS, VILLERET, GRÉAU, G. CAVAIGNAC, RASPAIL, BAVOUX, GEIBEL, ALEX. DUMAS."
"Signed: LAMOURE, ST. ARAGO, TRÉLAT, MOUSSETTE, HIGONNET, BASTIDE, GARNIER-PAGÈS, VILLERET, GRÉAU, G. CAVAIGNAC, RASPAIL, BAVOUX, GEIBEL, ALEX. DUMAS."
The affair, as I have said, made a great noise; and had somewhat important consequences: an order of Republican knighthood was instituted, outside the pale of the protection and oversight of the Government. A thousand knights of this order rose up solely of their own accord, pledged only to their own conscience, able to recognise one another at a sign, always on the alert with their July guns ready to hand. The Government recoiled.
The event, as I've mentioned, caused quite a stir and had some significant consequences: a new order of Republican knights was established, independent of government protection and oversight. A thousand knights of this order emerged solely on their own initiative, accountable only to their own beliefs, able to identify each other with a signal, always prepared with their July guns at the ready. The government stepped back.
On 13 May the king issued an order decreeing that the Cross of July should be remitted by the mayors to the citizens of Paris and of the outskirts included in the état nominatif and in the supplementary list which the commission on national awards had drawn up. To that end, a register was opened at all municipal offices to receive the oaths of the decorated. The mayors did not have much business to do and the registers remained almost immaculate. Each one of us paid for his own decoration, and people clubbed together to buy crosses for those who could not afford that expense. The Government left us all in undisturbed peace. I have said that Gallois was arrested. His trial was rapidly hurried on: on[Pg 296] 15 June, he appeared before the Court of Assizes. I never saw anything simpler or more straightforward than that trial, in which the prisoner seemed to make a point of furnishing the judges with the evidence of which they might be in need. Here is the writ of indictment—it furnishes me with facts of which I, at any rate, did not yet know. Carried away in other directions by the rapidity of events, I had not troubled myself about that stormy evening. People lived fast and in an exceedingly varied way at that period. But let us listen to the king's procurator—
On May 13, the king issued an order stating that the Cross of July should be given to the citizens of Paris and the surrounding areas included in the état nominatif and the supplementary list created by the national awards commission. To facilitate this, a register was opened at every municipal office to collect the oaths of those who were decorated. The mayors didn't have much to do, and the registers remained almost untouched. Each person paid for their own decoration, and people pooled their resources to buy crosses for those who couldn't afford them. The Government left us all in peace. I mentioned that Gallois was arrested. His trial was rushed: on[Pg 296] June 15, he appeared before the Court of Assizes. I’ve never seen a trial so simple and straightforward; the defendant seemed determined to provide the judges with any evidence they might need. Here’s the indictment—it gives me details that, honestly, I didn’t know yet. Caught up in other events, I hadn’t paid much attention to that tumultuous evening. People lived quickly and in a very diverse way during that time. But let’s hear from the king's prosecutor—
"On 9 May last, a reunion of two hundred persons assembled at the restaurant Vendanges de Bourgogne, in the faubourg du Temple to celebrate the acquittal of MM. Trélat, Cavaignac and Guinard. The repast took place in a dining-room on the ground-floor which opened out on the garden. Divers toasts were drunk, at which the most hostile opinions against the present Government were expressed. In the middle of this gathering Évariste Gallois rose and said in a loud voice, on his own responsibility: 'To Louis-Philippe!' holding a dagger in his hand meantime. He repeated it twice. Several persons imitated his example by raising their hands and shouting similarly: 'To Louis-Philippe!' Then hootings were heard, although the guests wish to disclaim the wretched affair, suggesting, as Gallois declares, that they thought he was proposing the health of the king of the French; it is, however, a well-established fact that several of the diners loudly condemn what happened. The dagger-knife had been ordered by Gallois on 6 May, from Henry, the cutler. He had seemed in a great hurry for it, giving the false excuse of going a journey."
"On May 9th, about 200 people gathered at the restaurant Vendanges de Bourgogne in the faubourg du Temple to celebrate the acquittal of MM. Trélat, Cavaignac, and Guinard. The meal took place in a dining room on the ground floor that opened up to the garden. Several toasts were made, during which many shared strong criticisms of the current Government. In the middle of this gathering, Évariste Gallois stood up and loudly declared, on his own accord: 'To Louis-Philippe!' while holding a dagger in his hand. He said it twice. Others followed his example, raising their hands and shouting 'To Louis-Philippe!' as well. Then, hooting was heard, even though the guests wanted to separate themselves from the unfortunate incident, suggesting, as Gallois claims, that they thought he was toasting the king of the French; however, it’s well-known that several diners openly condemned what happened. Gallois had ordered the dagger-knife on May 6th from Henry, the cutler. He had seemed in a rush to get it, giving a false excuse about going on a trip."
We will now give the examination of the prisoner in its naked simplicity—
We will now present the examination of the prisoner in its straightforward simplicity—
"THE PRESIDENT.—Prisoner Gallois, were you present at the meeting which was held on 9 May last, at the Vendanges de Bourgogne?
"THE PRESIDENT.—Prisoner Gallois, were you at the meeting on May 9th at the Vendanges de Bourgogne?"
"THE PRISONER.—Yes, Monsieur le Président, and if you will allow me to instruct you as to the truth of what took place at it, I will save you the trouble of questioning me.
"THE PRISONER.—Yes, Mr. President, and if you allow me to clarify what really happened, I can save you the trouble of asking me."
"THE PRESIDENT.—We will listen.
"THE PRESIDENT.—We’re listening.
"THE PRISONER.—This is the exact truth of the incident to which I owe the honour of appearing before you. I had a knife which had been used to carve with throughout the banquet; at dessert, I raised this knife and said: 'For Louis-Philippe ... if he turns traitor.' These last words were only heard by my immediate neighbours, because of the fierce hootings that were raised by the first part of my speech and the notion that I intended to propose a toast to that man.
"THE PRISONER.—Here’s the exact truth about the incident that brought me here. I had a knife that I used for carving during the banquet; at dessert, I raised the knife and said: 'For Louis-Philippe ... if he betrays us.' Only the people sitting right next to me heard those last words because the loud boos interrupted my speech, leading everyone to think I was proposing a toast to him."
"D.[1]—Then, in your opinion, a toast proposed to the king's health was proscribed at that gathering?
"R.—To be sure!
"R.—Absolutely!"
"D.—A toast offered purely and simply to Louis-Philippe, king of the French, would have excited the animosity of that assembly?
"D.—Would a straightforward toast to Louis-Philippe, the king of the French, have angered that gathering?"
"R.—Assuredly.
"R.—Definitely."
"D.—Your intention, therefore, was to put King Louis-Philippe to the dagger?
"D.—So, your intention was to stab King Louis-Philippe?"
"R.—In case he turned traitor, yes, monsieur.
"R.—If he were to betray us, then yes, sir."
"D.—Was it, on your part, the expression of your own personal sentiment to set forth the king of the French as deserving a dagger-stroke, or was your real intention to provoke the others to a like action?
"D.—Was it just your personal viewpoint that the king deserved to be attacked with a knife, or were you actually trying to incite others to do the same?"
"R.—I wished to incite them to such a deed if Louis-Philippe proved a traitor, that is to say, in case he ventured to depart from legal action.
"R.—I wanted to encourage that kind of action if Louis-Philippe turned out to be a traitor, meaning if he dared to act outside the law."
"D.—Why do you suppose the king is likely to act illegally?
"D.—Why do you believe the king is likely to act unlawfully?"
"R.—Everybody unites in thinking that it will not be long before he makes himself guilty of that crime, if he has not already done so.
"R.—Everyone agrees it won’t be long before he commits such a crime, if he hasn’t already."
"D.—Explain yourself.
"D.—Explain your reasoning."
"R.—I should have thought it clear enough.
"R.—I thought it was clear enough."
"D.—No matter! Explain it.
"D.—No matter! Explain it."
"R.—Well, I say then, that the trend of Government action leads one to suppose that Louis-Philippe will some day be treacherous if he has not already been so."
"R.—Well, I believe the government's actions suggest that Louis-Philippe may become treacherous one day if he hasn’t been already."
It will be understood that with such lucid questions and answers the proceedings would be brief. The jury retired to a[Pg 298] room to deliberate and brought in a verdict of not guilty. Did they consider Gallois mad, or were they of his opinion? Gallois was instantly set at liberty. He went straight to the desk on which his knife lay open as damning evidence, picked it up, shut it, put it in his pocket, bowed to the bench and went out. I repeat, those were rough times! A little mad, maybe; but you will recollect Béranger's song about Les Fous.
It’s clear that with such clear questions and answers, the proceedings would be quick. The jury went into a[Pg 298] room to discuss and returned with a not guilty verdict. Did they think Gallois was insane, or did they agree with him? Gallois was immediately released. He walked right to the desk where his knife lay open as damning evidence, picked it up, closed it, put it in his pocket, bowed to the judge, and left. I’ll say it again, those were tough times! A little crazy, maybe; but you’ll remember Béranger's song about Les Fous.
[1] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—D = Demande (Question). R = Réponse (Answer).
CHAPTER XI
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
The clash between literature and riots—La Maréchale L'Ancre—My thoughts on that piece—Farruck le Maure—Henry Monnier's first performance at the Vaudeville—I’m leaving Paris—Rouen—Havre—I’m thinking about visiting Trouville—What is Trouville?—The ailing 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.
It was a tiring life we lived: every day came with its share of emotions, whether political or literary. Antony continued its successful run amidst various disruptions. Every night, for no clear reason, a crowd gathered on the boulevard. The meeting spot changed between the Théâtre-Gymnase and the Ambigu. What started as a group of five or six people gradually grew; policemen would then show up and patrol the boulevard with a confrontational attitude; the street kids tossed cabbage scraps or carrot ends at them, which was enough after half an hour or an hour of this to spark a nice little commotion, starting at five in the afternoon and lasting until midnight. This daily public annoyance drew many people to the boulevard and very few to the shows. Antony was the only performance that stood strong against the disruptions and the heat, raking in between twelve thousand and fifteen thousand francs. But business was so stagnant, and the fear that spread through the publishing industry was so great, that the same publishers who had offered me six thousand francs for Henri III. and twelve thousand francs for Christine hardly dared propose to publish Antony for only half costs and half profits. I ended up having 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[Pg 300] 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.
I couldn’t stay in Paris any longer: the riots were draining my time and money. Antony[Pg 300] wasn’t bringing in enough to support myself; plus, I was being pushed by the urge for creativity, wanting to create something new. But how could anyone work in Paris with all the gatherings at the Grande-Chaumière, dinners at the Vendanges de Bourgogne, and lawsuits at the Assize Courts? I talked with Cavaignac and Bastide. I found out that nothing significant would happen in Paris for six months to a year, and I managed to get a three-month break. The only things keeping me in Paris were the premiere of the Maréchale d'Ancre and Henry Monnier’s debut. De Vigny, who had only put out his version of Othello, which I mention elsewhere, was about to make his actual debut in the Maréchale d'Ancre. It was a great story; I almost tackled it myself, but I stepped back because my good and knowledgeable friend Paul Lacroix, better known at the time as bibliophile Jacob, had started a play on the same topic.
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.
Louis XIII, that relentless hunter after la pie-grièche, escaped from his mother's control through a crime, announcing his coming of age with gunfire that killed Marie de Médicis's favorite. He decided on that infamous act while playing chess with his favorite, de Luynes, who was barely two years older than him; a king who was timid in council and brave in battle, a true Valois lost among the Bourbons, thin, melancholic, and looking sickly, with a profile that was half Henri IV and half Louis XIV, lacking the kindness of the former and the dignity of the latter. This Louis XIII offered me the chance to portray a fascinating royal figure, especially since I had already created Henri III and would eventually bring Charles IX to life. But, as I mentioned, I had given that up. De Vigny, who hardly knew Paul Lacroix, had no reason to hold back, and he wrote a five-act prose play on this topic, which had been accepted 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[Pg 301] 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 reappear 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[Pg 302] 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.
De Vigny, at that time, I believe still does, was part of the Royalist party. He had two things to contend with: the enemies his opinions attracted and those who envied his talent—a talent that was cool, composed, charming, more dreamy than masculine, more intellectual than passionate, and more nervous than strong. The play was excellently staged: Mademoiselle Georges played the role of the Maréchale d'Ancre; Frédérick took on Concini; Ligier portrayed Borgia; and Noblet played Isabelle. The difference between de Vigny's approach to drama and mine is reflected in the names of the characters. One would look in vain for Louis XIII. I would have made him my main character. Perhaps the absence of Louis XIII. in de Vigny's play stems more from political opinion than from literary strategy. As a Royalist, the author may have chosen to keep his royalty offstage rather than depict it publicly with a pale, bloodstained face. The *Maréchale d'Ancre* feels more like a novel than a play; the plot, in a sense, is too complicated in some areas but too simple in others. The Maréchale falls without any struggle, catastrophe, or attachment: she simply slips and falls to the ground; she is captured and dies. As for Concini, since the author was unsure of what to do with him, he spends ten hours waiting at a Jew's for a young girl he has seen only once; and just when he learns that Borgia is with his wife, and jealousy spurs him to rush to the Louvre, he gets lost on the staircase. Throughout the entire fourth act, while his wife is being taken to the Bastille, put on trial, and condemned, he fumbles around trying to find the banisters and looking for the door. After coming out of Isabelle's room at the end of the third act, he doesn't return to the stage until the beginning of the fifth, only to die in a corner of the rue de la Ferronnerie. That is the central idea of the play. According to the author, Concini is the real assassin of Henry IV.; Ravaillac is merely the tool. That’s why, instead of being killed in the Louvre courtyard, the Maréchal d'Ancre is murdered near the rue de la Ferronnerie, at the same spot where the assassin waited to deliver the fatal blow on Friday, May 14, 1610. On other points, I agree with the author; I don’t think it’s necessary for a work of art to have as a hallmark, "a parchment for crime and a folio for passion." For a long time, especially in theatrical matters, I have believed it’s acceptable to distort history as long as it produces something worthwhile; but allowing Concini to kill Henri IV. solely so that Concini can reign after the Béarnais's death through the queen is a very weak justification for such a significant crime. Place Concini behind Ravaillac if you must, but behind Concini, position the queen and Épernon, and behind the queen and Épernon, place Austria, France's eternal enemy! Austria, which has never reached out to France except with a knife in hand, whether it be Jacques Clément's blade, Ravaillac's dagger, or Damiens' penknife, knowing it would be too dangerous to approach her with a sword.
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 didn’t achieve much success, despite the high level of beauty in the work, especially in terms of style. An incident contributed to this: after the first two acts, which I think were the best, I don’t know what got into Georges, but she pretended to be ill, and the stage manager came out in a black coat and white tie to inform the audience that the rest of the performance was postponed until another day. In reality, the Maréchale d'Ancre wasn’t resumed until eight or ten days later. It takes a strong constitution to withstand such a setback! The Maréchale d'Ancre managed to hold its ground and had quite a decent run. Between the Maréchale d'Ancre and Henry Monnier's first performance, a three-act play was staged at the Porte-Saint-Martin, supported by Hugo and me: this was Farruck le Maure, by the late Escousse. The piece wasn’t great, but because of Bocage, it achieved more success than one would have expected. It later gained a certain significance due to the author's suicide, who, in turn, was better remembered for the song, or rather, the elegy that Béranger wrote about him, than for the two plays he had written. We will revisit this unfortunate young man and his fellow suicide, Lebras.
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.
It was on July 5 that Henry Monnier made his debut. I doubt any debut has ever created such a literary stir. He was around twenty-six or twenty-eight years old at the time and was known in the art world for three reasons. As a painter, having studied under Girodet and Gros, he played a key role in introducing the first wood engraving done in Paris after returning from his travels in England. He published Mœurs administratives, Grisettes and Illustrations de Béranger. As an author, encouraged by his friend Latouche, he printed Scènes populaires, which helped spread the fame of the French gendarme and the Parisian titi[1] around the world. Lastly, as a private performer in social settings, he was the life of dinner parties, entertaining us with his plays like Halte d'une diligence, Étudiant, and Grisette, as well as Femme qui a trop chaud and 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,[Pg 304] 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.
Feeling encouraged by the applause he received in drawing rooms, he decided to take a leap onto the stage. He wrote a piece for himself to mark his debut, titled La Famille improvisée, which he adapted from his Scènes populaires. Two characters created by Henry Monnier have endured and will continue to do so: his Joseph Prudhomme, a writing teacher, and student of Brard and Saint-Omer; and Coquerel, a lover of la Duthé and la Briand. I mentioned the atmosphere inside the Théâtre-Français on the night of the first performance of Henri III.; the Vaudeville was just as remarkable on the evening of July 5th, with all the literary and artistic elite seemingly gathering at rue de Chartres. Among the artists and sculptors were Picot, Gérard, Horace Vernet, Carle Vernet, Delacroix, Boulanger, Pradier, Desbœufs, the Isabeys, Thiolier, and many more. Poets included Chateaubriand, Lamartine, Hugo, and all of us in fact. The actresses present were Mesdemoiselles Mars, Duchesnois, Leverd, Dorval, Perlet, and Nourrit, along with every actor who wasn't performing that night. Among the notable figures from society were Vaublanc, Mornay, Blanc-ménil,[Pg 304] Madame de la Bourdonnaie, the witty Madame O'Donnell, the ever-present Madame de Pontécoulant, Châteauvillars, who manages to never seem to age, Madame de Castries, along with everyone from faubourg Saint-Germain, Chaussée-d'Antin, and faubourg Saint-Honoré. The entire journalistic community was there. It was a massive success. Henry Monnier was called back to the stage twice, first as an actor and then as the author. This, as I mentioned, occurred on July 5th, and from that day until the end of December, the piece remained on the schedule without interruption.
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[Pg 305] 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!
I left the next day. Where was I going? I had no idea. I had tossed a feather to the wind; it was blowing from the south that day, so my feather was carried north. I set off for the north, likely headed to Havre. There seems to be an undeniable pull that draws you back to places you've visited before. Remember, I was in Havre in 1828 and rewrote Christine as far as the plot went while traveling by coach between Paris and Rouen. Plus, Rouen is such a beautiful city with its cathedral, the church of Saint-Ouen, its old wooden houses, its town hall, and hôtel Bourgtheroude that you can't help but want to see it all again! I spent a day there. The next day, the boat left at six in the morning. Back then, it took fourteen hours to get from Paris to Rouen by stagecoach and ten hours from Rouen to Havre by boat. Now, by express train, it only takes three and a half! True, you depart and arrive—when you do arrive—but you don't really travel; you miss seeing Jumiéges, or la Meilleraie, or Tancarville, or all the lovely countryside by Villequier, where, a decade after I was there, the daughter of our great poet met her tragic end during a day out. Poor Léopoldine! She would be in Jersey now, forming a devoted colony that provided a family, if not a homeland, for our exiled Dante, dreaming of another inferno! Oh! If only I were that mysterious stranger whose flexible arm could reach across the Guadalquivir to light Don Juan's cigar, how I would[Pg 305] stretch out my arm every morning and evening from Brussels to Jersey to hold the beloved hand that wrote the finest poetry and most powerful 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.
We no longer see Honfleur, with its intriguing bell tower built by the English; a structure that made some bishop, traveling to broaden his horizons, say, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't made here!" In short, you can go to Havre and come back in the same day, and you can even get to Aix-la-Chapelle by the next morning. If you remove distance, you stretch out the duration of time. These days we don’t live as long, but we accomplish 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[Pg 306] 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.
When I got to Havre, I set out to find a place where I could spend a month or six weeks; I wanted just a village, a little nook, a hideaway, as long as it was near the sea, and I was advised to go to Sainte-Adresse and Trouville. For a moment, I hesitated between the two places, both of which were unfamiliar to me; but after asking around more, and learning that Trouville was even more secluded and remote than Sainte-Adresse, I chose Trouville. Then I remembered, as if in a dream, that my good friend Huet, the landscape painter who painted marshes and beaches, had told me about a charming seaside village where he had almost choked on a fish bone, and that village was called Trouville. But he had forgotten to tell me how to get there. So, I had to ask for information. There were way more options to travel from Havre to Rio de Janeiro, Sydney, or the coast of Coromandel than there were to Trouville. At that time, its latitude and longitude were almost as unknown as those of Robinson Crusoe's island. Sailors traveling from Honfleur to Cherbourg had pointed out Trouville in the distance as a small fishing village, which, no doubt, traded with its closest neighbors, la Délivrande and Pont-l'Évêque; but that was all they knew about it. As for the language the fishermen spoke, they were completely clueless, as their only interactions with them had been from a distance and through gestures. I’ve always had a passion for discoveries and explorations; so I decided that, if not exactly to discover Trouville, at least to explore it, and to do for the river de la Touque what Levaillant, the beloved traveler of my childhood, had done for the Elephant River. With that decision made, I jumped into the boat for Honfleur, where I would get new directions about the route I should take. We arrived at Honfleur. During that two-hour crossing at high tide, everyone got seasick, except for a beautiful sickly English lady, with long flowing hair and cheeks like a peach and a rose, who fought against the nausea with large glasses of brandy! I’ve never seen a sadder sight than that lovely figure standing up, walking around the deck of the boat, while everyone else was either sitting or lying down; she, marked for death, appeared perfectly healthy, while all the other passengers, who looked on the brink of death, regained their strength the moment we hit the shore again, like many another Antaeus before them. If there are spirits, they must walk and look and smile just like that beautiful English woman did. When we landed at Honfleur, just as the boat stopped, her mother and a younger brother, just as fair and rosy as she was, rose as if from a battlefield and rejoined her with heavy steps. She, on the other hand, while we were sorting out our bags and suitcases, easily cleared the drawbridge that was lowered from the landing stage to the side of the small steam packet and disappeared around a corner of the rue de Honfleur. I never saw her again and probably will never see her again, except perhaps in the valley of Jehoshaphat; but whether I see her again, there or elsewhere—in this world, which seems almost impossible, or in the next, which feels almost improbable—I can guarantee that I will recognize her at first sight.
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[Pg 307] 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.
We barely arrived in Honfleur before we started asking about the best way to get to Trouville. There were two options: by land or by sea. For the land option, they offered us a terrible wagon and two bad horses for twenty[Pg 307] francs, and we would have to travel on a rough road that would take five hours to reach Trouville. On the other hand, going by sea with the outgoing tide would take just two hours in a nice boat rowed by four strong oarsmen; it would be a scenic trip along the coast, where I could see lots of birds, like seagulls and divers, with the endless ocean on the right and massive cliffs on the left. Plus, if the wind was good—and it usually is, or so sailors say—it would only take two hours to get across. Of course, if the wind was against us, we'd have to row and who knows when we’d arrive. They also charged twelve francs instead of twenty. Thankfully, my travel companion—I've forgotten to mention that I had one—was one of the most frugal people I've ever met; even though she had been quite sick crossing from Havre to Honfleur, she was drawn to the idea of saving eight francs, and since I gallantly let her choose between the two options, she went for the boat. Two hours later, we left Honfleur as soon as the tide started to turn.
CHAPTER XII
Appearance of Trouville—Mother Oseraie—How people are accommodated at Trouville when they are married—The price of painters and of the community of martyrs—Mother Oseraie's acquaintances—How she had saved the life of Huet, the landscape painter—My room and my neighbour's—A twenty-franc dinner for fifty sous—A walk by the sea-shore—Heroic resolution
Trouville's atmosphere—Mother Oseraie—How married people find lodging in Trouville—The cost of painters and the group of martyrs—Mother Oseraie's friends—How she saved Huet, the landscape painter's life—My room and the one next door—A twenty-franc dinner for fifty sous—A stroll along the beach—A brave decision
The weather kept faith with our sailors' promise: the sea was calm, the wind in the right quarter and, after a delightful three hours' crossing—following that picturesque coast, on the cliffs of which, sixteen years later, King Louis-Philippe, against whom we were to wage so rude a war, was to stand anxiously scanning the sea for a ship, if it were but a rough barque like that Xerxes found upon which to cross the Hellespont—our sailors pointed out Trouville. It was then composed of a few fishing huts grouped along the right bank of the Touque, at the mouth of that river, between two low ranges of hills enclosing a charming valley as a casket encloses a set of jewels. Along the left bank were great stretches of pasture-land which promised me magnificent snipe-shooting. The tide was out and the sands, as smooth and shining as glass, were dry. Our sailors hoisted us on their backs and we were put down upon the sand.
The weather held up for our sailors' promise: the sea was calm, the wind was in the right direction, and after a pleasant three-hour crossing—along that scenic coast, on the cliffs of which, sixteen years later, King Louis-Philippe, against whom we would wage such a fierce war, would stand anxiously looking out to sea for a ship, even if it was just a rough barque like the one Xerxes found to cross the Hellespont—our sailors pointed out Trouville. At that time, it was just a few fishing huts clustered along the right bank of the Touque, at the mouth of the river, nestled between two low hills enclosing a delightful valley like a jewelry box holding a set of gems. On the left bank, there were large fields that promised me great snipe-shooting. The tide was out and the sands, smooth and shiny like glass, were dry. Our sailors carried us on their backs and set us down on the sand.
The sight of the sea, with its bitter smell, its eternal moaning, has an immense fascination for me. When I have not seen it for a long time I long for it as for a beloved mistress, and, no matter what stands in the way, I have to return to it, to breathe in its breath and taste its kisses for the twentieth time. The three happiest months of my life, or at any rate the most pleasing to the senses, were those I spent with my Sicilian[Pg 309] sailors in a speronare, during my Odyssey in the Tyrrhenian Sea. But, in this instance, I began my maritime career, and it must be conceded that it was not a bad beginning to discover a seaport like Trouville. The beach, moreover, was alive and animated as though on a fair day. Upon our left, in the middle of an archipelago of rocks, a whole collection of children were gathering baskets full of mussels; upon our right, women were digging in the sand with vigorous plying of spades, to extract a small kind of eel which resembled the fibres of the salad called barbe de capucin (i.e. wild chicory); and all round our little barque, which, although still afloat, looked as though it would soon be left dry, a crowd of fishermen and fisher-women were shrimping, walking with athletic strides, with the water up to their waists and pushing in front of them long-handled nets into which they reaped their teeming harvest. We stopped at every step; everything on that unknown sea-shore was a novelty to us. Cook, landing on the Friendly Isles, was not more absorbed or happy than was I. The sailors, noticing our enjoyment, told us they would carry our luggage to the inn and tell them of our coming.
The sight of the sea, with its salty smell and constant sound, deeply fascinates me. When I haven't seen it for a long time, I crave it like a beloved partner, and no matter what obstacles come up, I have to go back to it, to feel its breeze and taste its kisses all over again. The three happiest months of my life, or at least the ones most enjoyable to my senses, were those I spent with my Sicilian[Pg 309] sailors on a speronare, during my journey in the Tyrrhenian Sea. But in this case, I started my sea adventures, and it must be said that it was a great start to discover a port like Trouville. The beach was bustling and lively, as if it were a festive day. On our left, in the midst of a cluster of rocks, a group of kids was collecting baskets full of mussels; on our right, women were energetically digging in the sand with shovels to pull out small eels that looked like the fibers of a salad called barbe de capucin (i.e. wild chicory); and all around our little boat, which, although still floating, seemed like it would soon be left stranded, a crowd of fishermen and fisherwomen were shrimping, striding confidently through water up to their waists and pushing long-handled nets to gather their plentiful catch. We paused at every turn; everything on that unfamiliar shore was new to us. Cook, landing on the Friendly Isles, wasn’t more captivated or joyful than I was. The sailors, seeing how much we were enjoying ourselves, said they would take our luggage to the inn and let them know we were coming.
"To the inn! But which inn?" I asked.
"To the inn! But which inn?" I asked.
"There is no fear of mistake," replied the wag of the company, "for there is but one."
"There’s no fear of making a mistake," replied the joker in the group, "because there’s only one."
"What is its name?"
"What’s its name?"
"It has none. Ask for Mother Oseraie and the first person you meet will direct you to her house."
"It doesn't have one. Ask for Mother Oseraie and the first person you come across will point you to her house."
We were reassured by this information and had no further hesitation about loafing to our heart's content on the beach of Trouville. An hour later, various stretches of sand having been crossed and two or three directions asked in French and answered in Trouvillois, we managed to land at our inn. A woman of about forty—plump, clean and comely, with the quizzical smile of the Norman peasant on her lips—came up to us. This was Mother Oseraie, who probably never suspected the celebrity which one day the Parisian whom she received with an almost sneering air was to give her. Poor Mother Oseraie! had she suspected such a thing, perhaps she would[Pg 310] have treated me as Plato in his Republic advises that poets shall be dealt with: crowned with flowers and shown to the door! Instead of this, she advanced to meet me, and after gazing at me with curiosity from head to foot, she said—
We felt reassured by this information and had no more doubts about relaxing to our heart's content on the beach at Trouville. An hour later, after crossing various stretches of sand and asking for directions in French, which were answered in the local dialect, we finally made it to our inn. A woman around forty—plump, tidy, and attractive, with the curious smile of a Norman peasant—approached us. This was Mother Oseraie, who probably never realized the fame that the Parisian she received with a somewhat mocking attitude would bring her one day. Poor Mother Oseraie! If she had known, maybe she would[Pg 310] have treated me as Plato advises in his Republic: adorned with flowers and shown the door! Instead, she came forward to meet me, and after looking me over with curiosity from head to toe, she said—
"Good! so you have come?"
"Great! So you made it?"
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"Well, your luggage has arrived and two rooms engaged for you."
"Your luggage has arrived, and two rooms have been booked for you."
"Ah! now I understand."
"Ah! Now I get it."
"Why two rooms?"
"Why have two rooms?"
"One for madame and one for myself."
"One for her and one for me."
"Oh! but with us when people are married they sleep together!"
"Oh! but around here, when people get married, they sleep together!"
"First of all, who told you that madame and I were married?... Besides, when we are, I shall be of the opinion of one of my friends whose name is Alphonse Karr!"
"First of all, who told you that my lady and I were married?... And when we are, I’ll go along with what one of my friends, Alphonse Karr, thinks!"
"Well, what does your friend whose name is Alphonse Karr say?"
"Well, what does your friend named Alphonse Karr say?"
"He says that at the end of a certain time, when a man and a woman occupy only one room together, they cease to become lover and mistress and become male and female; that is what he says."
"He says that after a certain amount of time, when a man and a woman share a single room together, they stop being lover and mistress and become just male and female; that's what he says."
"Ah! I do not understand. However, no matter! you want two rooms?"
"Ah! I don't get it. But that's fine! You want two rooms?"
"Exactly."
"Totally."
"Well, you shall have them; but I would much rather you only took one [prissiez]."
"Alright, you can have them; but I’d much prefer if you only took one [prissiez]."
I will not swear that she said prissiez, but the reader will forgive me for adding that embellishment to our dialogue.
I won’t claim that she said prissiez, but I hope the reader forgives me for adding that touch to our conversation.
"Of course, I can see through that," I replied; "you would have made us pay for two and you would have had one room left to let to other travellers."
"Of course, I can see through that," I replied; "you would have charged us for two and then had one room left to rent out to other travelers."
"Precisely!—I say, you are not very stupid for a Parisian, I declare!"
"Exactly!—I mean, you’re not that dumb for a Parisian, I swear!"
I bowed to Mother Oseraie.
I bowed to Mom Oseraie.
"I am not altogether a Parisian," I replied; "but that is a mere matter of detail."
"I’m not really a Parisian," I replied, "but that’s just a minor detail."
"Then you will have the two rooms?"
"Are you going to have the two rooms?"
"I will."
"I'll."
"I warn you they open one out of the other."
"I warn you that they open one after the other."
"Capital!"
"Capital!"
"You shall be taken to them."
"You will be taken to them."
She called a fine strapping lass with nose and eyes and petticoats turned up.
She called a strong, attractive girl with her nose and eyes showing and her skirts lifted.
"Take madame to her room," I said to the girl; "I will stop here and talk to Mother Oseraie."
"Take her to her room," I told the girl; "I’ll stay here and talk to Mother Oseraie."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Because I find your conversation pleasant."
"Because I enjoy talking to you."
"Gammon!"
"Gotcha!"
"Also I want to know what you will take us for per day."
"Also, I want to know how much you will charge us per day."
"And the night does not count then?"
"And so the night doesn't count then?"
"Night and day."
"24/7."
"There are two charges: for artists, it is forty sous."
"There are two fees: for artists, it's forty sous."
"What! forty sous ... for what?"
"What! forty sous ... for what?"
"For board and lodging of course!"
"For room and board, of course!"
"Ah! forty sous!... And how many meals for that?"
"Wow! Forty sous!... How many meals can I get for that?"
"As many as you like! two, three, four—according to your hunger—of course!"
"As many as you want! Two, three, four—depending on how hungry you are—of course!"
"Good! you say, then, that it is forty sous per day?"
"Great! So you're saying it's forty sous a day?"
"For artists—Are you a painter?"
"For artists—Are you a painter?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Well, then it will be fifty sous for you and fifty for your lady—a hundred sous together."
"Alright, that will be fifty sous for you and fifty for your lady—a total of a hundred sous."
I could not believe the sum.
I couldn't believe the sum.
"Then it is a hundred sous for two, three or four meals and two rooms?"
"Then it's a hundred sous for two, three, or four meals and two rooms?"
"A hundred sous—Do you think it is too dear?"
"A hundred sous—Do you think that's too expensive?"
"No, if you do not raise the price."
"No, if you don’t increase the price."
"Why should I raise it, pray?"
"Why should I bring it up, please?"
"Oh well, we shall see."
"Well, we shall see."
"No! not here ... If you were a painter it would only be forty sous."
"No! Not here... If you were a painter, it would just be forty sous."
"What is the reason for this reduction in favour of artists?"
"What’s the reason for this reduction in favor of artists?"
"Because they are such nice lads and I am so fond of them. It was they who began to make the reputation of my inn."
"Because they’re really great guys and I like them a lot. They were the ones who helped build the reputation of my inn."
"By the way, do you know a painter called Decamps?"
"By the way, do you know an artist named Decamps?"
"Decamps? I should think so!"
"Leaving? I would think so!"
"And Jadin?"
"And Jadin?"
"Jadin? I do not know that name."
"Jadin? I’m not familiar with that name."
I thought Mother Oseraie was bragging; but I possessed a touch-stone.
I thought Mother Oseraie was just showing off; but I had a touchstone.
"And Huet?" I asked.
"And Huet?" I asked.
"Oh, yes! I knew him."
"Oh, yeah! I knew him."
"You do not remember anything in particular about him, do you?"
"You don’t remember anything specific about him, do you?"
"Indeed, yes, I remember that I saved his life."
"Yeah, I remember that I saved his life."
"Bah! come, how did that happen?"
"Ugh! Come on, how did that happen?"
"One day when he was choking with a sole bone. It doesn't take long to choke one's self with a fish bone!"
"One day, he was choking on a fish bone. It doesn't take long to choke on a fish bone!"
"And how did you save his life."
"And how did you save his life?"
"Oh! only just in time. Why, he was already black in the face."
"Oh! just in time. He was already turning blue in the face."
"What did you do to him?"
"What did you do to him?"
"I said to him, 'Be patient and wait for me.'"
"I told him, 'Just be patient and wait for me.'"
"It is not easy to be patient when one is choking."
"It’s not easy to be patient when you’re choking."
"Good heavens! what else could I have said? It wasn't my fault. Then I ran as fast as I could into the garden; I tore up a leek, washed it, cut off its stalks and stuffed it right down his throat. It is a sovereign remedy for fish bones!"
"Good grief! What else could I have said? It wasn't my fault. Then I ran as quickly as I could into the garden; I pulled up a leek, washed it, cut off the stalks, and shoved it right down his throat. It’s a foolproof cure for fish bones!"
"Indeed, I can well believe it."
"Honestly, I can totally believe that."
"Now, he never speaks of me except with tears in his eyes."
"Now, he only talks about me with tears in his eyes."
"All the more since the leek belongs to the onion family."
"Especially since the leek is part of the onion family."
"All the same, it vexes me."
"Still, it bugs me."
"What vexes you? That the poor dear man was not choked?"
"What bothers you? That the poor man wasn't choked?"
"No, no, indeed! I am delighted and I thank you both in his name and in my own: he is a friend of mine, and, besides,[Pg 313] a man of great talent. But I am vexed that Trouville has been discovered by three artists before being discovered by a poet."
"No, no, really! I'm so happy, and I thank you both in his name and my own: he’s a friend of mine, and, on top of that,[Pg 313] he's a very talented guy. But I'm frustrated that Trouville has been found by three artists before a poet got to it."
"Are you a poet, then?"
"Are you a poet?"
"Well, I might perhaps venture to say that I am."
"Well, I might actually say that I am."
"What is a poet? Does it bring in an income?"
"What is a poet? Does it pay the bills?"
"No."
"No."
"Well, then, it is a poor sort of business."
"Well, that's just a lousy situation."
I saw I had given Mother Oseraie but an indifferent idea of myself.
I realized that I had left Mother Oseraie with only a lukewarm impression of me.
"Would you like me to pay you a fortnight in advance?"
"Would you like me to pay you two weeks in advance?"
"What for?"
"Why?"
"Why! In case you are afraid that as I am a poet I may go without paying you!"
"Why! Are you worried that because I’m a poet I might not pay you?"
"If you went away without paying me it would be all the worse for you, but not for me."
"If you leave without paying me, it would be worse for you, not for me."
"How so?"
"How's that?"
"For having robbed an honest woman; for I am an honest woman, I am."
"For robbing an honest woman; because I am an honest woman, I am."
"I begin to believe it, Mother Oseraie; but I, too, you see, am not a bad lad."
"I’m starting to believe it, Mother Oseraie; but I, too, you see, am not a bad guy."
"Well, I don't mind telling you that you give me that impression. Will you have dinner?"
"Honestly, I have to say that you give me that impression. Are you up for dinner?"
"Rather! Twice over rather than once."
"Definitely! Twice as much instead of just once."
"Then, go upstairs and leave me to attend to my business."
"Then, go upstairs and let me handle my work."
"But what will you give us for dinner?"
"But what are you going to make us for dinner?"
"Ah! that is my business."
"Ah! that's my business."
"How is it your business?"
"Why is it your business?"
"Because, if I do not satisfy you, you will go elsewhere."
"Because if I don't satisfy you, you'll look for someone else."
"But there is nowhere else to go!"
"But there's nowhere else to go!"
"Which is as good as to say that you will put up with what I have got, my good friend.... Come, off to your room!"
"That basically means you'll have to deal with what I've got, my good friend.... Come on, go to your room!"
I began to adapt myself to the manners of Mother Oseraie: it was what is called in the morale en action and in collections of anecdotes "la franchise villageoise" (country frankness). I should much have preferred "l'urbanité parisienne" (Parisian urbanity); but Mother Oseraie was built on other lines, and I[Pg 314] was obliged to take her as she was. I went up to my room: it was quadrilateral, with lime-washed walls, a deal floor, a walnut table, a wooden bed painted red, and a chimney-piece with a shaving-glass instead of a looking-glass, and, for ornament, two blue elaborately decorated glass vases; furthermore there was the spray of orange-blossom which Mother Oseraie had had when she was twenty years of age, as fresh as on the day it was plucked, owing to the shade, which kept it from contact with the air. Calico curtains to the window and linen sheets on the bed, both sheets and curtains as white as the snow, completed the furnishings. I went into the adjoining room; it was furnished on the same lines, and had, besides, a convex-shaped chest of drawers inlaid with different coloured woods which savoured of the bygone days of du Barry, and which, if restored, regilded, repaired, would have looked better in the studio of one of the three painters Mother Oseraie had just mentioned. The view from both windows was magnificent. From mine, the valley of the Touque could be seen sinking away towards Pont-l'Évêque, which is surrounded by two wooded hills; from my companion's, the sea, flecked with little fishing-boats, their sails white against the horizon, waiting to return with the tide. Chance had indeed favoured me in giving me the room which looked on to the valley: if I had had the sea, with its waves, and gulls, and boats, its horizon melting into the sky always before me, I should have found it impossible to work. I had completely forgotten the dinner when I heard Mother Oseraie calling me—
I started to get used to Mother Oseraie's way of doing things; it was what you’d call in morale en action and in collections of anecdotes "country frankness." I would have preferred "Parisian urbanity," but Mother Oseraie was different, and I[Pg 314] had to accept her as she was. I went up to my room: it was square, with whitewashed walls, a wooden floor, a walnut table, a red-painted wooden bed, and a mantelpiece with a shaving mirror instead of a regular mirror, plus two intricately decorated blue glass vases as decoration. There was also a spray of orange-blossom that Mother Oseraie had when she was twenty, still fresh thanks to the shade keeping it away from the air. Calico curtains at the window and linen sheets on the bed, both as white as snow, completed the furnishings. I walked into the next room; it was furnished similarly and had a convex-shaped chest of drawers inlaid with different colored woods reminiscent of the days of du Barry, which, if restored and regilded, would have looked better in a studio of one of the three painters Mother Oseraie had just mentioned. The view from both windows was stunning. From mine, I could see the valley of the Touque dropping down toward Pont-l'Évêque, surrounded by two wooded hills; from my companion's, the sea, dotted with little fishing boats, their white sails against the horizon, waiting to come back with the tide. I was quite lucky to get the room overlooking the valley: if I had the sea view with its waves, gulls, and boats, and a horizon merging into the sky always in front of me, I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. I had totally forgotten about dinner when I heard Mother Oseraie calling me—
"I say, monsieur poet!"
"I say, dude poet!"
"Well! mother!" I replied.
"Well, mom!" I replied.
"Come! dinner is ready."
"Come! Dinner's ready."
I offered my arm to my neighbour and we went down. Oh! worthy Mother Oseraie! when I saw your soup, your mutton cutlets, your soles en matelote, your mayonnaise of lobster, your two roast snipe and your shrimp salad, how I regretted I had had doubts of you for an instant! Fifty sous for a dinner which, in Paris, would have cost twenty francs! True, wine would have accounted for some of the difference;[Pg 315] but we might drink as much cider as we liked free of charge. My travelling companion suggested taking a lease of three, six, or nine years with Mother Oseraie; during which nine years, in her opinion, we could economise to the extent of a hundred and fifty thousand francs! Perhaps she was right, poor Mélanie! but how was Paris and its revolutions to get on without me? As soon as dinner was finished we went back to the beach. It was high tide, and the barques were coming into the harbour like a flock of sheep to the fold. Women were waiting on the shore with huge baskets to carry off the fish. Each woman recognised her own boat and its rigging from afar; mothers called out to their sons, sisters to their brothers, wives to their husbands. All talked by signs before the boats were near enough to enable them to use their voices, and it was soon known whether the catch had been good or bad. All the while, a hot July sun was sinking below the horizon, surrounded by great clouds which it fringed with purple, and through the gaps between the clouds it darted its golden rays, Apollo's arrows, which disappeared in the sea. I do not know anything more beautiful or grand or magnificent than a sunset over the ocean! We remained on the beach until it was completely dark. I was perfectly well aware that, if I did not from the beginning cut short this desire for contemplation which had taken possession of me, I should spend my days in shooting sea-birds, gathering oysters among the rocks and catching eels in the sand. I therefore resolved to combat this sweet enemy styled idleness, and to set myself to work that very evening if possible.
I offered my arm to my neighbor and we headed down. Oh! dear Mother Oseraie! when I saw your soup, your mutton cutlets, your soles en matelote, your lobster mayonnaise, your two roast snipe, and your shrimp salad, how I regretted doubting you even for a moment! Fifty sous for a meal that would have cost twenty francs in Paris! True, part of that difference was due to the wine; [Pg 315] but we could drink as much cider as we wanted for free. My travel companion suggested signing a lease for three, six, or nine years with Mother Oseraie; during those nine years, she believed we could save up to a hundred and fifty thousand francs! Maybe she was right, poor Mélanie! but how would Paris and its revolutions manage without me? As soon as dinner ended, we returned to the beach. It was high tide, and the boats were coming into the harbor like a flock of sheep to the fold. Women were waiting on the shore with large baskets to carry off the fish. Each woman recognized her own boat and its rigging from a distance; mothers called out to their sons, sisters to their brothers, wives to their husbands. They all communicated with gestures before the boats got close enough for them to speak, and soon it was known whether the catch was good or bad. Meanwhile, the hot July sun was setting below the horizon, surrounded by large clouds that fringed it with purple, and through the openings between the clouds, it shot out golden rays, Apollo's arrows, that vanished into the sea. I don't know anything more beautiful or grand than a sunset over the ocean! We stayed on the beach until it was completely dark. I was fully aware that if I didn’t put an end to this desire for contemplation that had taken hold of me from the start, I would spend my days shooting seabirds, gathering oysters among the rocks, and catching eels in the sand. So, I decided to fight against this sweet enemy called idleness and to start working that very evening if I could.
I was under an agreement with Harel; it had been arranged that I should bring him back a play in verse, of five acts, entitled Charles VII chez ses grands vassaux. M. Granier, otherwise de Cassagnac, published, in 1833, a work on me, since continued by M. Jacquot, otherwise de Mirecourt, a work in which he pointed out the sources whence I had drawn all the plots for my plays, and taken all the ideas for my novels. I intend, as I go on with these Memoirs, to undertake that work myself, and I guarantee that it shall be[Pg 316] more complete and more conscientious than that of my two renowned critics; only, I hope my readers will not demand that it shall be as malicious. But let me relate how the idea of writing Charles VII. came to me, and of what heterogeneous elements that drama was composed.
I had an agreement with Harel; it was decided that I would bring him back a play in verse, consisting of five acts, called Charles VII chez ses grands vassaux. M. Granier, also known as de Cassagnac, published a work about me in 1833, which M. Jacquot, otherwise called de Mirecourt, continued. This work pointed out the sources from which I derived all the plots for my plays and the ideas for my novels. As I continue with these Memoirs, I plan to take on that task myself, and I promise it will be[Pg 316] more complete and thorough than what my two famous critics produced; however, I hope my readers won’t expect it to be as spiteful. But let me share how the idea of writing Charles VII. came to me, and the diverse elements that make up that drama.
CHAPTER XIII
A reading at Nodier's—The hearers and the readers—Début—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and the Abbé Desiderio—Genealogy of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho-Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's
A reading at Nodier’s—The audience and the readers—Debut—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and the Abbé Desiderio—The background of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho—Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I give to Caesar the things that are Caesar's
Towards the close of 1830, or the beginning of 1831, we were invited to spend an evening with Nodier. A young fellow of twenty-two or twenty-three was to read some portions of a book of poems he was about to publish. This young man's name was then almost unknown in the world of letters, and it was now going to be given to the public for the first time. Nobody ever failed to attend a meeting called by our dear Nodier and our lovely Marie. We were all, therefore, punctual in our appearance. By everybody, I mean our ordinary circle of the Arsenal: Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Jules de Rességuier, Sainte-Beuve, Lefèbvre, Taylor, the two Johannots, Louis Boulanger, Jal, Laverdant, Bixio, Amaury Duval, Francis Wey, etc.; and a crowd of young girls with flowers in their dresses, who have since become the beautiful and devoted mothers of families. About ten o'clock a young man of ordinary height—thin, fair, with budding moustache and long curling hair, thrown back in clusters to the sides of his head, a green, tight-fitting coat and light-coloured trousers—entered, affecting a very easy demeanour which, perhaps, was meant to conceal actual timidity. This was our poet. Very few among us knew him personally, even by sight or name. A table, glass of water and two candles had been put ready for him. He sat down, and, so far as I can remember, he[Pg 318] read from a printed book and not from a manuscript. From the very start that assembly of poets trembled with excitement; they felt they had a poet before them, and the volume opened with these lines, which I may be permitted to quote, although they are known by all the world. We have said, and we cannot repeat it too often, that these memoirs are not only Memoirs but recollections of the art, poetry, literature and politics of the first fifty years of the century. When we have attacked, severely, perhaps, but honestly and loyally, things that were base and low and shameful; when we have tracked down hypocrisy, punished treachery, ridiculed mediocrity, it has been both good and sweet to raise our eyes to the sky, to look at, and to worship in spirit, those beautiful golden clouds which, to many people, seem but flimsy vapours, but which to us are planetary worlds wherein we hope our souls will find refuge throughout eternity; and, even though conscious that we may, perhaps, be wrong in so doing, we hail their uncommon outlines with more pride and joy than when setting forth our own works. I am entirely disinterested in the matter of the author of these verses; for I scarcely knew him and we hardly spoke to one another a dozen times. I admire him greatly, although he, I fear, has not a great affection for me. The poet began thus—
Towards the end of 1830 or the start of 1831, we were invited to spend an evening with Nodier. A young man who was about twenty-two or twenty-three was going to read parts of a poetry book he was about to publish. This young man's name was still pretty unknown in the literary world, and now it was about to be introduced to the public for the first time. Nobody ever missed a gathering hosted by our dear Nodier and our lovely Marie, so we all arrived on time. By everybody, I mean our regular circle from the Arsenal: Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Jules de Rességuier, Sainte-Beuve, Lefèbvre, Taylor, the two Johannots, Louis Boulanger, Jal, Laverdant, Bixio, Amaury Duval, Francis Wey, and a group of young girls with flowers in their dresses who have since become the beautiful and devoted mothers of families. Around ten o'clock, a young man of average height—thin, fair, with a budding mustache and long curly hair pulled back to the sides of his head, wearing a green, fitted coat and light-colored trousers—walked in, trying to seem relaxed, which perhaps was meant to hide his actual nervousness. This was our poet. Very few of us knew him personally, even by sight or name. A table had been set up with a glass of water and two candles for him. He sat down, and as far as I can remember, he[Pg 318] read from a printed book, not a manuscript. Right from the beginning, that gathering of poets was filled with excitement; they sensed they had a poet before them, and the volume began with these lines, which I’m confident everyone knows. We have said, and we can’t say it enough, that these memoirs are not just memoirs, but also reflections on the art, poetry, literature, and politics of the first fifty years of the century. When we have harshly criticized, perhaps too harshly, but honestly and sincerely, things that were base, low, and shameful; when we have exposed hypocrisy, punished betrayal, and mocked mediocrity, it has been both good and uplifting to raise our eyes to the sky, to look at, and to spiritually worship those beautiful golden clouds that many people see as just flimsy vapors, but which to us are planetary worlds where we hope our souls will find refuge for eternity; and even if we're aware that we might be wrong in doing so, we greet their unique shapes with more pride and joy than when showcasing our own works. I have no personal stakes in this author; I barely knew him, and we hardly exchanged more than a dozen words. I admire him greatly, although I fear he doesn't feel much affection for me. The poet began like this—
"Je n'ai jamais aimé, pour ma part, ces bégueules
Qui ne sauraient aller au Prado toutes seules;
Qu'une duègne toujours, de quartier en quartier,
Talonne, comme fait sa mule un muletier;
Qui s'usent, à prier, les genoux et la lèvre,
Se courbent sur le grès plus pâles, dans leur fièvre,
Qu'un homme qui, pieds nus, marche sur un serpent,
Ou qu'un faux monnayeur au moment qu'on le pend.
Certes, ces femmes-là, pour mener cette vie,
Portent un cœur châtré de tout noble envie;
Elles n'ont pas de sang e pas d'entrailles!—Mais,
Sur ma télé et mes os, frère, je vous promets
Qu'elles valent encor quatre fois mieux que celles
Dont le temps se dépense en intrigues nouvelles.
Celles-là vont au bal, courent les rendez-vous,
[Pg 319]
Savent dans un manchon cacher un billet doux,
Serrar un ruban noir sur un beau flanc qui ploie,
Jeter d'un balcon d'or une échelle de soie,
Suivre l'imbroglio de ces amours mignons
Poussés dans une nuit comme des champignons;
Si charmantes d'ailleurs! Aimant en enragées
Les moustaches, les chiens, la valse et les dragées.
Mais, oh! la triste chose et l'étrange malheur,
Lorsque dans leurs filets tombe un homme de cœur!
Frère, mieux lui vaudrait, comme ce statuaire
Qui pressait de ses bras son amante de pierre,
Réchauffer de baisers un marbre! Mieux vaudrait
Une louve enragée en quelque âpre forêt!..."
"I've never liked, for my part, those prudes
Who can't go to the Prado by themselves;
They always have a duenna following them, from one neighborhood to another,
Like a muleteer guiding his mule;
They wear themselves out praying, knees and lips sore,
Bending over the gravel, paler in their fever,
Like a man walking barefoot on a snake,
Or a counterfeiter at the moment he's hanged.
Surely, these women, living this life,
Carry a heart that's been stripped of all noble ambition;
They have no blood, no guts!—But,
On my TV and my bones, brother, I promise you
They're still four times better than those
Who waste their time on new intrigues.
Those go to balls, rush to rendezvous,
[Pg 319]
Know how to hide a love note in a muff,
Tighten a black ribbon around a beautiful waist,
Throw a silk ladder from a golden balcony,
Follow the twisted paths of those cute loves,
Sprouting overnight like mushrooms;
So charming, by the way! Loving fiercely
Mustaches, dogs, the waltz, and sweets.
But oh! the sad thing and the strange misfortune,
When a man of heart gets caught in their nets!
Brother, he'd be better off, like that sculptor
Who held his stone lover in his arms,
Warming a statue with kisses! It would be better
Than a mad she-wolf in some harsh forest!..."
You see he was not mistaken in his own estimate; these lines were thoughtful and well-constructed; they march with a proud and lusty swing, hand-on-hip, slender-waisted, splendidly draped in their Spanish cloak. They were not like Lamartine, or Hugo or de Vigny: a flower culled from the same garden, it is true; a fruit of the same orchard even; but a flower possessed of its own odour and a fruit with a taste of its own. Good! Here am I, meaning to relate worthless things concerning myself, saying good things about Alfred de Musset. Upon my word, I do not regret it and it is all the better for myself.[1] I have, however, do not let us forget, yet to explain how that dramatic pastiche which goes by the name of Charles VII. came to be written. The night went by in a flash. Alfred de Musset read the whole volume instead of a few pieces from it: Don Paez, Porcia, the Andalouse, Madrid, the Ballade à la lune, Mardoche, etc., probably about two thousand lines; only, I must admit that the young girls who were present at the reading, whether they were with their mammas or alone, must have had plenty to do to look after their eyelids and their fans. Among these pieces was a kind of comedy entitled the Marrons du feu. La Camargo, that Belgian dancer, celebrated by Voltaire, who was the delight of the opera of 1734 to 1751, is its heroine; but, it must be said, the poor girl is sadly calumniated in the poem. In the first[Pg 320] place, the poet imagines she was loved to distraction by a handsome Italian named Rafaël Garuci, and that this love was stronger at the end of two years than it had ever been. Calumny number one. Then, he goes on to suppose that Seigneur Garuci, tired of the dancer, gives his clothes to the Abbé Annibal Desiderio, and tells him how he can gain access to the beautiful woman. Calumny number two—but not so serious as the first, Seigneur Rafaël Garuci having probably never existed save in the poet's brain. Finally, he relates that, when she finds herself face to face with the abbé disguised as a gentleman, and finds out that it is Rafaël who has provided him with the means of access to her, whilst he himself is supping at that very hour with la Cydalise, la Camargo is furious against her faithless lover, and says to the abbé—
You see, he wasn’t wrong in his own assessment; these lines are thoughtful and well-crafted; they have a proud and energetic rhythm, confident and elegant, beautifully cloaked in their Spanish style. They’re not like Lamartine, or Hugo, or de Vigny: a flower picked from the same garden, true; a fruit from the same orchard even; but a flower with its own scent and a fruit with its own flavor. Good! Here I am, planning to share trivial things about myself while praising Alfred de Musset. Honestly, I don’t regret it, and it’s all the better for me. However, let’s not forget, I still need to explain how that dramatic pastiche called Charles VII. came to be written. The night flew by. Alfred de Musset read the whole volume instead of just a few pieces: Don Paez, Porcia, the Andalouse, Madrid, the Ballade à la lune, Mardoche, etc., probably around two thousand lines; although, I have to admit that the young women present at the reading, whether with their mothers or alone, must have had their hands full keeping their eyes open and managing their fans. Among these works was a sort of comedy titled Marrons du feu. La Camargo, that Belgian dancer praised by Voltaire, who was the star of the opera from 1734 to 1751, is its heroine; but, it must be said, the poor girl is sadly misrepresented in the poem. First, the poet imagines she was loved intensely by a handsome Italian named Rafaël Garuci, and that this love grew stronger over two years. That’s the first misrepresentation. Then, he goes on to suggest that Señor Garuci, bored with the dancer, gives his clothes to Abbé Annibal Desiderio, telling him how to gain access to the beautiful woman. That’s the second misrepresentation—but it’s not as serious as the first, since Señor Rafaël Garuci probably never existed except in the poet's imagination. Finally, he tells that when she comes face to face with the abbé disguised as a gentleman, and discovers that it was Rafaël who facilitated his access to her, while he himself is dining at that very moment with la Cydalise, la Camargo becomes furious with her unfaithful lover and says to the abbé—
"Abbé, je veux du sang! j'en suis plus altérée
Qu'une corneille au vent d'un cadavre attirée!
Il est là-bas, dis-tu? Cours-y donc! coupe-lui
La gorge, et tire-le par les pieds jusqu'ici!
Tords-lui le cœur, abbé, de peur qu'il n'en réchappe;
Coupe-le en quatre, et mets les morceaux dans la nappe!
Tu me l'apporteras; et puisse m'écraser
La foudre, si tu n'as par blessure un baiser!...
Tu tressailles, Romain? C'est une faute étrange,
Si tu te crois conduit ici par ton bon ange!
Le sang te fait-il peur? Pour t'en faire un manteau
De cardinal, il faut la pointe d'un couteau!
Me jugeais-tu le cœur si large, que j'y porte
Deux amours à la fois, et que pas un n'en sorte?
C'est une faute encor: mon cœur n'est pas si grand,
Et le dernier venu ronge l'autre en entrant ..."
"Abbé, I want blood! I'm thirstier for it
Than a crow drawn to a corpse by the wind!
He's over there, you say? Then run there! Cut his
Throat, and drag him by the feet back here!
Twist his heart, abbé, lest he escape;
Chop him into four pieces and put the parts on the table!
You'll bring him to me; and may lightning strike me
If you don’t bring back a kiss from his wound!...
Are you trembling, Romain? That's a strange mistake,
If you think you're guided here by your good angel!
Are you scared of blood? To make a cardinal's
Mantle, it takes the tip of a knife!
Did you think my heart was so big that I could hold
Two loves at once, and that neither would leave?
That's another mistake: my heart isn’t that big,
And the most recent arrival gnaws on the other one...
The abbé has to fight Rafaël on the morrow; he entreats her to wait at least until after that.
The abbot has to fight Rafaël tomorrow; he begs her to at least wait until after that.
"Et s'il te tu
Demain? et si j'en meurs? si j'en suis devenue
Folle? si le soleil, de prenant à pâlir,
De ce sombre horizon ne pouvait plus sortir?
On a vu quelquefois de telles nuits au monde!
[Pg 321]Demain! le vais-je attendre à compter, par seconde,
Les heures sur mes doigts, ou sur les battements
De mon cœur, comme un juif qui calcule le temps
D'un prêt? Demain, ensuite, irai-je, pour te plaire,
Jouer à croix ou pile, et mettre ma colère.
Au bout d'un pistolet qui tremble avec ta main?
Non pas! non! Aujourd'hui est à nous, mais demain
Est a Dieu!..."
"And what if you kill me?"
Tomorrow? What if I die? What if I go insane?
What if the sun, starting to fade,
Can no longer rise from this dark horizon?
We've seen such nights in the world before!
[Pg 321]Tomorrow! Should I wait, counting, second by second,
The hours on my fingers, or on the beats
Of my heart, like a Jew counting the time
Of a loan? Tomorrow, then, to please you,
Will I play heads or tails, and unleash my anger
At the end of a trembling pistol in your hand?
No! No! Today is ours, but tomorrow
Belongs to God!..."
The abbé ended by giving in to the prayers, caresses and tears of la Camargo, as Orestes yielded to Hermione's promises, transports and threats; urged on by the beautiful, passionate courtesan, he killed Rafaël, as Orestes killed Pyrrhus; and, like Orestes, he returned to demand from la Camargo recompense for his love, the price of blood. Like Hermione, she failed to keep her word to him. Calumny number three.
The abbé finally gave in to la Camargo’s pleas, affection, and tears, just like Orestes gave in to Hermione’s promises, rapture, and threats. Driven by the beautiful, passionate courtesan, he killed Rafaël, just as Orestes killed Pyrrhus; and, like Orestes, he came back to ask la Camargo for payment for his love, the cost of blood. Just like Hermione, she didn't keep her promise to him. Calumny number three.
"Entrez!
(L'abbé entre et lui présente son poignard; la Camargo le
considère quelque temps, puis se lève.)
A-t-il souffert beaucoup?
—Bon! c'est l'affaire
D'un moment!
—Qu'a-t-il dit?
—Il a dit que la terre
Tournait.
—Quoi! rien de plus?
—Ah! qu'il donnait son bien
A son bouffon Pippo.
—Quoi! rien de plus?
—Non, rien.
—Il porte au petit doigt un diamant: de grâce,
Allez me le chercher!
—Je ne le puis.
—La place
Où vous l'avez laissé n'est pas si loin.
—Non, mais
Je ne le puis.
—Abbé, tout ce que je promets,
Je le tiens.
—Pas ce soir!...
—Pourquoi?
—Mais...
[Pg 322]
—Misérable
Tu ne l'as pas tué!
—Moi? Que le ciel m'accable
Si je ne l'ai pas fait, madame, en vérité!
—En ce cas, pourquoi non?
—Ma foi, je l'ai jeté
Dans la mer.
—Quoi! ce soir, dans la mer?
—Oui, madame.
—Alors, c'est un malheur pour vous, car, sur mon âme,
Je voulais cet anneau.
—Si vous me l'aviez dit,
Au moins!
—Et sur quoi donc t'en croirai-je, maudit
Sur quel honneur vas-tu me jurer? sur laquelle
De tes deux mains de sang? oh la marque en est elle?
La chose n'est pas sûre, et tu peux te vanter!
Il fallait lui couper la main, et l'apporter.
—Madame, il fassait nuit, la mer était prochaine ...
Je l'ai jeté dedans.
—Je n'en suis pas certaine.
—Mais, madame, ce fer est chaud, et saigne encor!
—Ni le feu ni le sang ne sont rares!
—Son corps
N'est pas si loin, madame; il se peut qu'on se charge ...
—La nuit est trop épaisse, et l'Océan trop large!
—Mais je suis pâle, moi tenez!
—Mon cher abbé,
L'étais-je pas, ce soir, quand j'ai joué Thisbé,
Dans l'opéra?
—Madame, au nom du ciel!
—Peut-être
Qu'en y regardant bien, vous l'aurez.... Ma fenêtre
Donne sur la mer.
"Come in!
(The abbé enters and presents his dagger; Camargo studies it for a moment, then stands up.)
Did he struggle a lot?
—Well! That's the problem.
Just a moment!
—What did he say?
—He said the planet
Is turning.
—What! No more?
—Oh! That he was sharing his riches
To his fool Pippo.
—What! That's it?
—No, nothing's wrong.
—He wears a diamond on his little finger: please,
Go get it for me!
—I can't.
—The location
Where you left it isn't that far.
—No, but...
I can't.
—Abbé, I promise you everything,
I keep.
—Not tonight!...
—Why not?
—But...
[Pg 322]
—Loser!
You didn't kill him!
—Me? May the heavens strike me.
If I didn't do it, madam, truly!
—Then why not?
—Honestly, I tossed him
Into the sea.
—What! Tonight, into the ocean?
—Yes, ma'am.
—Then it's a disaster for you, because, I swear on my soul,
I wanted that ring.
—If you had told me,
At least!
—And why should I trust you, cursed
On what honor will you swear? on which of
Your blood-stained hands? oh, is the mark there?
It's not certain, and you can boast all you want!
You should have cut off the hand and brought it back.
—Madam, it was dark, the sea was near ...
I threw him in.
—I'm not sure.
—But, madam, this blade is hot, and it still bleeds!
—Neither fire nor blood are hard to find!
—His physique
Isn't that far, madam; it's possible to recover it ...
—The night is too thick, and the ocean too wide!
—But I'm pale, look at me!
—My dear abbé,
Wasn't I pale tonight when I played Thisbé,
In the opera?
—Ma'am, for heaven's sake!
—Maybe
If you look closely, you might find it... My window
Faces the sea."
(Elle sort.)
She’s going out.
—Mais elle est partie!... O Dieu!
J'ai tué mon ami, j'ai mérité le feu,
J'ai taché mon pourpoint, et l'on me congédie!
C'est la moralité de cette comédie."
—But she's gone!... Oh no!
I’ve killed my friend, I deserve the fire,
I’ve stained my doublet, and now I’m sent away!
That’s the lesson of this play."
The framework of this scene, far removed from it though it is by its form, is evidently copied from this scene in Racine's Andromaque:
The structure of this scene, although quite different in its form, clearly imitates this scene from Racine's Andromaque:
"HERMIONE.
Je veux qu'à mon départ toute l'Épire pleure!
Mais, si vous me vengez, vengez-moi dans une heure.
Tous vos retardements sont pour moi des refus.
Courez au temple! Il faut immoler ...
ORESTE.
Qui?
HERMIONE.
Pyrrhus!
—Pyrrhus, madame?
—Hé quoi! votre haine chancelle!
Ah! courez, et craignez que je ne vous rappelle!
"HERMIONE.
I want everyone in Epirus to weep when I leave!
But if you’re going to take revenge for me, do it within an hour.
All your delays feel like refusals to me.
Run to the temple! It’s time to make a sacrifice ...
ORESTE.
Who?
HERMIONE.
Pyrrhus!
—Pyrrhus, madam?
—Oh really! Your hatred is fading!
Ah! Hurry, and be careful that I don’t call you back!
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
Ne vous suffit-il pas que je l'ai condamné?
Ne vous suffit-il pas que ma gloire offensée
Demande une victime à moi seule adressée;
Qu'Hermione est le prix d'un tyran opprimé;
Que je le hais! enfin, seigneur, que je l'aimai?
Malgré la juste horreur que son crime me donne,
Tant qu'il vivra, craignez que je ne lui pardonne!
Doutez jusqu'à sa mort d'un courroux incertain.
S'il ne meurt aujourd'hui je peux l'aimer demain!
Ne vous suffit-il pas que je l'ai condamné?
Ne vous suffit-il pas que ma gloire blessée
Demande une victime qui m'est destinée;
Qu'Hermione est le prix d'un tyran humilié;
Que je le déteste ! Enfin, seigneur, que je l'ai aimé?
Malgré l'horreur légitime que son crime me procure,
Tant qu'il vivra, craignez que je ne lui pardonne !
Doutez jusqu'à sa mort d'une colère imprévisible.
S'il ne meurt pas aujourd'hui, je peux l'aimer demain !
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
—Mais, madame, songez ...
—Ah! c'en est trop, seigneur
Tant de raisonnements offensent ma colère.
J'ai voulu vous donner les moyens de me plaire,
Rendre Oreste content; mais, enfin, je vois bien
Qu'il veut toujours se plaindre, et ne mériter rien.
Je m'en vais seule au temple où leur hymen s'apprête,
Où vous n'osez aller mériter ma conquête;
Là, de mon ennemi je saurai m'approcher;
Je percerai le cœur que je n'ai pu toucher,
Et mes sanglantes mains, sur moi-même tournées.
Aussitôt, malgré lui, joindront nos destinées;
Et, tout ingrat qu'il est, il me sera plus doux
De mourir avec lui que de vivre avec vous!
—Non, je vous priverai de ce plaisir funeste,
Madame, il ne mourra que de la main d'Oreste!
Vos ennemis par moi vous vont être immolés,
Et vous reconnaîtrez mes soins, si vous voulez!"
—But, madam, think...
—Ah! This is overwhelming, my lord.
So much reasoning offends my anger.
I wanted to give you the means to please me,
Make Oreste happy; but, in the end, I see clearly
That he always wants to complain and deserves nothing.
I will go alone to the temple where their marriage is getting ready,
Where you don’t dare to go to earn my conquest;
There, I will know how to approach my enemy;
I will pierce the heart I couldn’t reach,
And my bloody hands, turned against myself.
Immediately, despite him, our fates will join;
And, as ungrateful as he is, it will be sweeter for me
To die with him than to live with you!
—No, I will deny you this deadly pleasure,
Madam, he will only die by Oreste's hand!
Your enemies will be sacrificed by me,
And you will recognize my efforts, if you wish!”
And Orestes departs, kills Pyrrhus, then returns with his bloody sword in his hand to find Hermione.
And Orestes leaves, kills Pyrrhus, then comes back with his bloody sword in his hand to find Hermione.
"—Madame, c'en est fait, et vous êtes servie:
Pyrrhus rend à l'autel son infidèle vie!
—Il est mort?...
—Il expire, et nos Grecs, irrités,
Ont lavé dans son sang ses infidélités!
"—Madam, it's done, and you are served:
Pyrrhus offers his unfaithful life to the altar!
—Is he dead?...
—He is dying, and our Greeks are upset,
Have washed away his betrayals in his blood!"
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
Mais c'est moi dont l'ardeur leur a servi d'exemple;
Je les ai pour vous seule entraînés dans le temple,
Madame, et vous pouvez justement vous flatter
D'une mort que leurs bras n'ont fait qu'exécuter:
Vous seule avez porté les coups!
—Tais-toi, perfide!
Et n'impute qu'à toi lâche parricide!
Va faire chez les Grecs admirer ta fureur,
Va! je te désavoue, et tu me fais horreur!...
Barbare! qu'as-tu fait? Avec quelle furie
As-tu tranché le cours d'une si belle vie?
Avez-vous pu, cruels, l'immoler aujourd'hui,
Sans que tout votre sang se soulevât pour lui?
Mais parle! De son sort qui t'a rendu l'arbitre?
Pourquoi l'assassiner? qu'a-t-il fait? à quel titre?
Qui te l'a dit?
—O dieux! quoi! ne m'avez-vous pas
Vous-même, ici, tantôt, ordonné son trépas?
—Ah! fallait-il en croire une amante insensé?..."
But it's my passion that has served as their example;
I alone have led them to the temple for you,
Madam, and you can justifiably take pride
In a death that their hands merely executed:
You alone delivered the blows!
—Shut up, traitor!
And only blame yourself, cowardly parricide!
Go and show your fury to the Greeks,
Go! I disown you, and you fill me with disgust!...
Barbarian! what have you done? With what rage
Did you cut short such a beautiful life?
Could you, cruel ones, sacrifice him today,
Without all your blood rising up for him?
But speak! What made you the judge of his fate?
Why assassinate him? What has he done? By what right?
Who told you to do this?
—Oh gods! What! Didn’t you
Yourself, just now, order his death here?
—Ah! should I have believed a mad lover?..."
It is the same passion, we see, in both women: Opera dancer and Spartan princess, they speak differently, but act in the same manner. True, both have copied la Chimène in the Cid. Don Sancho enters, sword in hand, and prostrates himself before Chimène.
It’s the same passion we see in both women: the opera dancer and the Spartan princess. They express it differently, but their actions are the same. Truly, both have taken inspiration from la Chimène in the Cid. Don Sancho enters, sword drawn, and bows down before Chimène.
"—Madame, à vos genoux j'apporte cette épée ...
—Quoi! du sang de Rodrigue encor toute trempée?
Perfide! oses-tu bien te montrer à mes yeux
Après m'avoir ôté ce que j'aimais le mieux?
Éclate, mon amour! tu n'as plus rien à craindre;
Mon père est satisfait; cesse de te contraindre!
Un même coup a mis ma gloire en sûreté,
Mon âme au désespoir, ma flamme en liberté!
[Pg 325]
—D'un esprit plus rassis ...
—Tu me parles encore,
Exécrable assassin du héros que j'adore!
Va, tu l'as pris en traître! Un guerrier si vaillant
N'eût jamais succombé sous un tel assaillant!
N'espère rien de moi; tu ne m'as point servie;
En croyant me venger, tu m'as ôté la vie!...
"—Madam, at your feet I bring this sword ...
—What! Is it still soaked in Rodrigue's blood?
Traitor! Do you dare to show yourself before me
After taking away what I loved most?
Break free, my love! You have nothing left to fear;
My father is satisfied; stop holding back!
One blow has secured my glory,
My soul in despair, my passion in freedom!
[Pg 325]
—With a more composed mind ...
—You still talk to me,
Detestable assassin of the hero I adore!
Go, you struck him down like a coward! A warrior so brave
Would never have fallen to such an attacker!
Don’t expect anything from me; you haven’t helped me;
In thinking you were avenging me, you took away my life!...
True, Corneille borrowed this scene from Guilhem de Castro, who took it from the romancers of the Cid. Now, the day I listened to that reading by Alfred de Musset, I had had already, for more than a year, a similar idea in my head. It had been suggested to me by the reading of Goethe's famous drama Goetz von Berlichingen. Three or four scenes are buried in that titanic drama, each of which seemed to me sufficient of themselves to make separate dramas. There was always the same situation of the woman urging the man she does not love to kill the one she loves, as Chimène in the Cid, as Hermione in Andromaque. The analysis of Goetz von Berlichingen would carry us too far afield, we will therefore be content to quote these three or four scenes from our friend Marmier's translation:
True, Corneille borrowed this scene from Guilhem de Castro, who took it from the storytellers of the Cid. Now, the day I listened to that reading by Alfred de Musset, I had already been developing a similar idea for more than a year. It had been inspired by reading Goethe's famous play Goetz von Berlichingen. Three or four scenes are hidden in that monumental drama, each of which seemed to me enough on its own to create separate plays. There was always the same situation of a woman urging the man she doesn’t love to kill the one she loves, just like Chimène in the Cid and Hermione in Andromaque. An analysis of Goetz von Berlichingen would take us too far off track, so we will simply quote these three or four scenes from our friend Marmier's translation:
"ADÉLAÏDE, femme de Weislingen; FRANTZ, page de Weislingen.
ADÉLAÏDE, Weislingen’s wife; FRANTZ, Weislingen’s page.
ADÉLAÏDE.—Ainsi, les deux expéditions sont en marche?
ADÉLAÏDE.—So, both missions are underway?
FRANTZ.—Oui, madame, et mon maître a la joie de combattre vos ennemis....
FRANTZ.—Yes, ma'am, and my master is eager to fight your enemies....
—Comment va-t-il ton maître?
—How is your master doing?
—A merveille! il m'a chargé de vous baiser la main.
—Fantastic! He asked me to kiss your hand.
—La voici ... Tes lèvres sont brûlantes!
—Here it is... Your lips are burning hot!
—C'est ici que je brûle. (Il met la main sur son cœur.) Madame, vos domestiques sont les plus heureux des hommes! ... Adieu! il faut que je reparte. Ne m'oubliez pas!
—This is where I burn. (He places his hand on his heart.) Madam, your servants are the happiest men! ... Goodbye! I must go. Don’t forget me!
—Mange d'abord quelque chose, et prends un peu repos.
—First, eat something and take a little rest.
—A quoi bon? Je vous ai vue, je ne me sens ni faim ni fatigue.
—What’s the point? I saw you, and I feel neither hunger nor fatigue.
—Je sais que tu es un garçon plein de zèle.
—I know you’re a lively boy.
—Oh! madame!
—Oh! madame!
—Mais tu n'y tiendrais pas ... Repose-toi, te dis-je, et prends quelque nourriture.
—But you wouldn’t hold on to it... Rest, I’m telling you, and have some food.
—Que de soins pour un pauvre jeune homme!
—What kindness for a poor young man!
—Il a les larmes aux yeux ... Je l'aime de tout mon cœur! Jamais personne ne m'a montré tant d'attachement!
—He has tears in his eyes... I love him with all my heart! No one has ever shown me so much affection!
ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ, entrant une lettre à la main.
ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ, written letter in hand.
FRANTZ.—Voici pour vous, madame.
FRANTZ.—Here’s something for you, ma'am.
ADÉLAÏDE.—Est-ce Charles lui-même qui te l'a remise?
ADÉLAÏDE.—Did Charles give this to you himself?
—Oui.
—Yes.
—Qu'as-tu donc? Tu parais triste!
—What’s wrong? You look sad!
—Vous voulez absolument me faire périr de langueur ... Oui, je mourrai dans l'âge de l'espérance, et c'est vous qui en serez cause!
—You really want to make me die of longing... Yes, I will die in hope, and it will be your fault!
—Il me fait de la peine ... Il m'en coûterait si peu pour le rendre heureux!—Prends courage, jeune homme, je connais ton amour, ta fidélité; je ne serai point ingrate.
—That makes me sad... It would take so little to make him happy!—Be brave, young man, I know your love and your loyalty; I won’t be ungrateful.
—Si vous en étiez capable, je mourrais! Mon Dieu! moi qui n'ai pas une goutte de sang qui ne soit à vous! moi qui n'ai de sens que pour vous aimer et pour obéir à ce que vous désirez!
—If you could be ungrateful, I would die! Oh my God! I who have not a drop of blood that isn’t yours! I who have no purpose other than to love you and obey your desires!
—Cher enfant!
—Dear child!
—Vous me flattez! et tout cela n'aboutit qu'à s'en voir préférer d'autres ... Toutes vos pensées tournées vers Charles!... Aussi, je ne le veux plus ... Non, je ne veux plus servir d'entremetteur!
—You’re flattering me! And all that leads to is being preferred over others... All your thoughts are on Charles!... So, I won't do it anymore... No, I won’t play matchmaker anymore!
—Frantz, tu t'oublies!
—Frantz, you’re losing yourself!
—Me sacrifier!... sacrifier mon maître! mon cher maître!
—To sacrifice myself!... sacrifice my master! my dear master!
—Sortez de ma présence!
—Get out of my sight!
—Madame....
—Madame....
—Va, dénonce-moi a ton cher maître ... J'étais bien folle de te prendre pour ce que tu n'es pas.
—Go on, report me to your dear master... It was foolish of me to think of you as something you’re not.
—Chère noble dame, vous savez que je vous aime!
—Dear noble lady, you know that I love you!
—Je t'aimais bien aussi; tu étais près de mon cœur ... Va, trahis-moi!
—I liked you a lot too; you were close to my heart ... Go, betray me!
—Je m'arracherais plutôt le sein!... Pardonnez-moi, madame; mon âme est trop pleine, je ne suis plus maître de moi!
—I’d rather tear off my breast!... Forgive me, ma'am; my soul is too full, I no longer have control over myself!
—Cher enfant! excellent cœur!
—Dear child! excellent heart!
(Elle lui prend les mains, l'attire à elle; leurs bouches se rencontrent; il se jette à son you en pleurant.)
(She takes his hands, pulls him close; their lips meet; he throws himself at her, crying.)
—Laisse-moi!... Les murs ont des yeux ... Laisse-moi ... (Elle se dégage.) Aime-moi toujours ainsi; sois toujours aussi fidèle; la plus belle récompense t'attend! (Elle sort.)
—Let me go!... The walls have eyes ... Let me go ... (She pulls away.) Love me like this forever; be always so faithful; the greatest reward awaits you! (She exits.)
—La plus belle récompense! Dieu, laisse-moi vivre jusque! ... Si mon père me disputait cette place, je le tuerais!
—The most beautiful reward! God, just let me live long enough! ... If my father tries to take that place from me, I will kill him!
WEISLINGEN, FRANTZ.
WEISLINGEN, FRANTZ.
WEISLINGEN.—Frantz!
WEISLINGEN.—Frantz!
FRANTZ.—Monseigneur!
FRANTZ.—My Lord!
—Exécute ponctuellement mes ordres: tu m'en réponds sur ta vie. Remets-lui cette lettre; il faut qu'elle quitte la cour, et se retire dans[Pg 327] mon château à l'instant même. Tu la verras partir, et aussitôt tu reviendras m'annoncer son départ.
—Carry out my orders precisely: you are responsible for it with your life. Deliver this letter to her; she must leave the court and return to[Pg 327] my castle immediately. You will see her leave, and then come back to inform me of her departure.
—Vos ordres seront suivis.
—Your orders will be followed.
—Dis-lui bien qu'il faut qu'elle le veuille ... Va!
—Tell her that she has to desire it... Go!
ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ.
ADÉLAÏDE, FRANTZ.
(Adélaïde tient à la main la lettre de son mari apportée par Frantz.)
(Adélaïde is holding the letter from her husband that Frantz brought.)
ADÉLAÏDE.—Lui ou moi!... L'insolent! me menacer! Nous saurons le prévenir ... Mais qui se glisse dans le salon?
ADÉLAÏDE.—Him or me!... How dare he threaten me! We’ll find a way to warn him... But who’s sneaking into the living room?
FRANTZ, se jetant à son you.—Ah! madame! chère madame!...
FRANTZ, throwing himself at her.—Ah! madam! dear madam!...
—Écervelé! si quelqu'un t'avait entendu!
—You foolish person! If someone heard you!
—Oh! tout dort!... tout le monde dort!
—Oh! everyone is asleep!... everyone is sleeping!
—Que veux-tu?
—What do you want?
—Je n'ai point de sommeil: les menaces de mon maître ... votre sort ... mon cœur ...
—I can’t sleep: my master’s threats ... your fate ... my heart ...
—Il était bien en colère quand tu l'as quitté?
—Was he really angry when you left him?
—Comme jamais je ne l'ai vu! 'Il faut qu'elle parte pour mon château! a-t-il dit; il faut qu'elle le veuille!'
—Like I’ve never seen before! 'She has to come to my castle!' he said; 'she has to want it!'
—Et ... nous obéirons?
—And ... will we obey?
—Je n'en sais rien, madame.
—I don’t know, ma'am.
—Pauvre enfant, dupe de ta bonne foi, tu ne vois pas où cela mène! Il sait qu'ici je suis en sûreté ... Ce n'est pas d'aujourd'hui qu'il en veut à mon indépendance ... Il me fait aller dans ses domaines parce que, là, il aura le pouvoir de me traiter au gré de son aversion.
—Poor child, deceived by your good faith, you don’t see where this is leading! He knows that I’m safe here... He hasn’t liked my independence for a long time... He wants me to go to his lands because there, he’ll have the power to treat me however he wants out of spite.
—Il ne le fera pas!
—He won’t do it!
—Je vois dans l'avenir toute ma misère! Je ne resterai pas longtemps dans son château: il m'en arrachera pour m'enfermer dans un cloître!
—I see all my misery ahead of me! I won’t stay long in his castle: he’ll tear me away and lock me up in a convent!
—O mort! ô enfer!
—Oh death! oh hell!
—Me sauveras-tu?
—Will you save me?
—Tout! tout plutôt que cela!
—Anything! Anything rather than that!
—Frantz! (En pleurs et l'embrassant.) Oh! Frantz! pour nous sauver....
—Frantz! (In tears and hugging him.) Oh! Frantz! to save us....
—Oui, il tombera ... il tombera sous mes coups! je le foulerai aux pieds!
—Yes, he will fall... he will fall at my hands! I will trample him!
—Point d'emportement! Teins, remets-lui plutôt un billet plein de respect, où je l'assure de mon entière soumission à ses ordres ... Et cette fiole ... cette fiole, vide-la dans son verre.
—No irritation! Here, instead, give him a note full of respect, assuring him of my complete obedience to his orders... And that vial... pour it into his glass.
—Donnez, vous serez libre!
—Give it, and you will be free!
WEISLINGEN, puis FRANTZ.
WEISLINGEN, then FRANTZ.
WEISLINGEN.—Je suis si malade, si faible!... mes os sont brisés: une fièvre ardente en a consumé la moelle! Ni paix ni trêve, le jour comme la nuit ... un mauvais sommeil agité de rêves empoisonnés....[Pg 328] (Il s'assied.) Je suis faible, faible ... Comme mes ongles sont bleus!...Un froid glaciel circule dans mes veines, engourdit tous mes membres ... Quelle sueur dévorante! tout tourne autour de moi ... Si je pouvais dormir!...
WEISLINGEN.—I’m so sick, so weak!... my bones ache: a raging fever has consumed me! Neither peace nor rest, day or night... a disturbing sleep filled with poisoned dreams....[Pg 328] (He sits down.) I’m weak, weak... My nails are blue!... A freezing chill flows through my veins, numbing all my limbs... What a devouring sweat! Everything is spinning around me... If only I could sleep!...
FRANTZ, entrant dans la plus grande agitation.—Monseigneur!
FRANTZ, entering in a state of great agitation.—My Lord!
—Eh bien?
—Well?
—Du poison ... du poison de votre femme ... Moi, c'est moi! (Il s'enfuit, ne pouvant en dire davantage.)
—Poison... your wife’s poison... It's me, just me! (He runs away, unable to say more.)
—Il est dans le délire ... Oh! oui, je le sens ... le martyre! la mort.... (Voulant se lever.) Dieu! je n'en puis plus! je meurs!... je meurs!... et, pourtant, je ne puis cesser de vivre ... Oh! dans cet affreux combat de la vie et de la mort, il y a tous les supplices de l'enfer!..."
—He’s delirious... Oh yes, I can feel it... the torment! the death... (Trying to get up.) God! I can't take it anymore! I'm dying!... I'm dying!... and yet, I can't stop living... Oh! in this dreadful fight between life and death, there are all the tortures of hell!...
Now that the reader has had placed before him all these various fragments from Goetz von Berlichingen, the Cid, Andromaque and the Marrons du feu, which the genius of four poets—Goethe, Corneille, Racine and Alfred de Musset—have given us, he will understand the analogy, the family likeness which exists between the different scenes; they are not entirely alike, but they are sisters.
Now that the reader has been presented with all these different fragments from Goetz von Berlichingen, the Cid, Andromaque, and the Marrons du feu, created by the talents of four poets—Goethe, Corneille, Racine, and Alfred de Musset—he will recognize the similarities and connections among the various scenes; they're not exactly the same, but they are related.
Now, as I have said, these few passages from Goetz von Berlichingen had lain dormant in my memory; neither the Cid nor Andromaque had aroused them: the irregular, passionate, vivid poetry of Alfred de Musset galvanized them into life, and from that moment I felt I must put them to use.
Now, as I mentioned, these few excerpts from Goetz von Berlichingen had been sitting quietly in my memory; neither the Cid nor Andromaque had triggered them: the irregular, passionate, intense poetry of Alfred de Musset sparked them back to life, and from that moment on, I knew I had to put them to use.
About the same time, too, I read Quentin Durward and was much impressed by the character of Maugrabin; I had taken note of several of his phrases full of Oriental poetry. I decided to place my drama in the centre of the Middle Ages and to make my two principal personages, a lovely and austere lady of a manor and an Arab slave who, whilst sighing after his native land, is kept tied to the land of exile by a stronger chain than that of slavery. I therefore set to work to hunt about in chronicles of the fifteenth century to find a peg on which to hang my picture. I have always upheld the admirable adaptibility of history in this respect; it never leaves the poet in the lurch. Accordingly, my way of dealing with history is a curious one. I begin by making up a story; I try to make it romantic, tender and dramatic, and, when[Pg 329] sentiment and imagination are duly provided, I hunt through history for a framework in which to set them, and it is invariably the case that history furnishes me with such a setting; a setting so perfect and so exactly suited to the subject, that it seems as though the frame had been made to fit the picture, and not the picture to fit the frame. And, once more, chance favoured me and was more than kind. See what I found on page five of the Chronicles of King Charles VII., by Maître Alain Chartier homme très-honorable:
About the same time, I read Quentin Durward and was really impressed by the character of Maugrabin; I noted several of his phrases that were full of Oriental poetry. I decided to set my drama in the heart of the Middle Ages and to create my two main characters: a beautiful yet stern lady of a manor and an Arab slave who, while longing for his homeland, is bound to the land of exile by a stronger chain than slavery. So, I started searching through chronicles of the fifteenth century to find a basis for my story. I have always believed in the amazing adaptability of history in this regard; it never lets the poet down. As a result, my approach to history is a unique one. I begin by crafting a story; I aim to make it romantic, tender, and dramatic, and once sentiment and imagination are in place, I dig through history for a suitable setting. History consistently provides me with such a backdrop; a background so perfect and properly suited to the subject that it seems the frame was made to fit the picture, not the other way around. And once again, luck was on my side and extremely generous. Look at what I found on page five of the Chronicles of King Charles VII., by Maître Alain Chartier, a very honorable man:
"And at that time, it happened to a knight called Messire Charles de Savoisy that one of his horse-boys, in riding a horse to let him drink at the river, bespattered a scholar, who, with others, was going in procession to Saint Katherine, to such an extent that the scholar struck the said horse-boy; and, then, the servants of the aforesaid knight sallied forth from his castle armed with cudgels, and followed the said scholars right away to Saint Katherine; and one of the servants of the aforesaid knight shot an arrow into the church as far as to the high altar, where the priest was saying Mass; then, for this fact, the University made such a pursuit after the said knight, that the house of the said knight was smitten down, and the said knight was banished from the kingdom of France and excommunicated. He betook himself to the pope, who gave him absolution, and he armed four galleys and went over the seas, making war on the Saracens, and there gained much possessions. Then he returned and made his peace, and rebuilt his house in Paris, in fashion as before; but he was not yet finished, and caused his house of Signelay (Seignelais) in Auxerrois to be beautifully built by the Saracens whom he had brought from across the sea; the which château is three leagues from Auxerre."
"At that time, a knight named Messire Charles de Savoisy had an incident where one of his stable boys, while taking a horse to drink at the river, accidentally splashed a scholar who was part of a procession to Saint Katherine. The scholar got so angry that he struck the boy. Following that, the knight's servants rushed out from his castle, armed with clubs, and chased the scholars to Saint Katherine. One of the knight’s servants even shot an arrow into the church, hitting all the way to the high altar where the priest was saying Mass. Because of this incident, the University pursued the knight so aggressively that his house was destroyed, and he was banished from France and excommunicated. He went to the pope, who granted him forgiveness. Then, he equipped four galleys and went overseas to fight the Saracens, where he gained a lot of wealth. Afterward, he returned, made peace, and rebuilt his house in Paris just like before; but he wasn’t finished and had his house in Signelay (Seignelais) in Auxerrois beautifully constructed by the Saracens he had brought back with him from across the sea, which château is three leagues from Auxerre."
It will be seen that history had thought of everything for me, and provided me with a frame which had been waiting for its picture for four hundred years.
It will be clear that history had considered everything for me and set up a framework that had been waiting for its image for four hundred years.
It was to this event, related in the Chronicle of Maître Alain Chartier, that Yaqoub alludes when he says to Bérengère:
It was to this event, mentioned in the Chronicle of Maître Alain Chartier, that Yaqoub refers when he speaks to Bérengère:
"Malheureux?... malheureux, en effet;
Car, pour souffrir ainsi, dites-moi, qu'ai-je fait?...
Est-ce ma faute, à moi, si votre époux et maître,
[Pg 330]
Poursuivant un vassal, malgré les cris du prêtre,
Entra dans une église, et, là, d'un coup mortel,
Le frappa? Si le sang jaillit jusqu'à l'autel,
Est-ce ma faute? Si sa colère imbécile,
Oublia que l'église était un lieu d'asile,
Est-ce ma faute? Et si, par l'Université,
A venger ce forfait le saint-père excité,
Dit que, pour désarmer le céleste colère,
Il fallait que le comte armât une galère,
Et, portant sur nos bords la désolation,
Nous fît esclaves, nous, en expiation,
Est-ce ma faute encore? et puis-je pas me plaindre
Qu'au fond de mon désert son crime aille m'atteindre?..."
"Unfortunate? ... unfortunate, indeed;
Because, to suffer like this, tell me, what have I done?...
Is it my fault if your husband and master,
[Pg 330]
Chasing a vassal, despite the priest's cries,
Entered a church, and there, with a deadly strike,
Hit him? If blood splattered all the way to the altar,
Is it my fault? If his foolish anger,
Forgot that the church was a place of refuge,
Is it my fault? And if, through the University,
To avenge this crime stirred up by the holy father,
He said that to calm divine anger,
The count had to arm a warship,
And bringing devastation to our shores,
Made us slaves, as a form of atonement,
Is it still my fault? And can I not complain
That in the depths of my desert, his crime reaches me?..."
This skeleton found, and my drama now having, so to speak, in the characters of Savoisy, Bérengère and Yaqoub, its head, heart and legs, it was necessary to provide arms, muscles, flesh and the rest of its anatomy. Hence the need of history; and history had in reserve Charles VII., Agnes and Dunois; and the whole of the great struggle of France against England was made to turn on the love of an Arab for the wife of the man who had made him captive and transported him from Africa to France. I think I have exposed, with sufficient clearness, what I borrowed as my foundation, from Goethe, Corneille, Racine and Alfred de Musset; I will make them more palpable still by quotations; for, as I have got on the subject of self-criticism, I may as well proceed to the end, rather than remain before my readers, solus, pauper et nudus, as Adam in the Earthly Paradise, or as Noah under his vine-tree!
This skeleton has been discovered, and my story now has, so to speak, its head, heart, and legs in the characters of Savoisy, Bérengère, and Yaqoub. It was necessary to give it arms, muscles, flesh, and the rest of its anatomy. Hence the need for history; and history had Charles VII., Agnes, and Dunois ready to go. The entire struggle of France against England revolves around the love of an Arab for the wife of the man who captured him and brought him from Africa to France. I believe I've made it clear enough what I've borrowed as my foundation from Goethe, Corneille, Racine, and Alfred de Musset; I will make these sources even more evident through quotes. Since I've brought up self-criticism, I might as well finish this point rather than leave my readers solus, pauper et nudus, like Adam in the Garden of Eden, or Noah under his vine!
"BÉRENGÈRE, YAQOUB.
"Bérengère, Yaqoub."
—Yaqoub, si vos paroles
Ne vous échappent point comme des sons frivoles,
Vous m'avez dit ces mots: 'S'il était, par hasard,
Un homme dont l'aspect blessât votre regard;
Si ses jours sur vos jours avaient cette influence
Que son trépas pût seul finir votre souffrance;
De Mahomet lui-même eût-il reçu ce droit,
Quand il passe, il faudrait me le montrer du doigt
Vous avez dit cela?
—Je l'ai dit ... Je frissonne
[Pg 331]
Mais un homme par moi fut excepté.
—Personne.
—Un homme à ma vengeance a le droit d'échapper...
—Si c'était celui-là qu'il te fallût frapper?
S'il fallait que sur lui la vengeance fût prompte?...
—Son nom?
—Le comte.
—Enfer? je m'en doutais; le comte?
—Entendez-vous? le comte!... Eh bien?
—Je ne le puis!
—Adieu donc pour toujours!
—Restez, ou je vous suis.
—J'avais cru jusqu'ici, quelle croyance folle!
Que les chrétiens eux seuls manquaient à leur parole.
Je me trompais, c'est tout.
—Madame ...
—Laissez-moi?
Oh! mais vous mentiez donc?
—Vous savez bien pourquoi
Ma vengeance ne peut s'allier à la vôtre:
Il m'a sauvé la vie ... Oh! nommez-moi tout autre!
—Yaqoub, if what you say
Don't escape you like trivial sounds,
You told me these words: 'If, by any chance,
There was a man whose presence hurt your eyes;
If his days had such an impact on your days
That his death could alone end your suffering;
Even if he had received this right from Muhammad himself,
When he passes, you should point him out to me
Did you say that?
—I said it... I shiver.
[Pg 331]
But one man was excluded by me.
—No one.
—A man has the right to escape my vengeance...
—What if that was the one you needed to strike?
What if vengeance needed to be swift on him?...
—His name?
—The count.
—Hell? I had my suspicions; the count?
—Do you hear? The count!... So what?
—I can't!
—Then farewell forever!
—Stay, or I’ll come after you.
—I had believed all this time, what a foolish belief!
That only Christians broke their word.
I was wrong, that's all.
—Ma'am ...
—Are you going to leave me?
Oh! But you were lying then?
—You know why
My vengeance can't join with yours:
He saved my life ... Oh! Name someone else!
. . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
Un instant, Bérengère, écoutez-moi!
—J'écoute:
Dites vite.
—J'ai cru, je me trompais sans doute,
Qu'ici vous m'aviez dit, ici même ... Pardon!
—Quoi?
—Que vous m'aimiez!
—Oui, je l'ai dit.
—Eh bien, donc,
Puisque même destin, même amour nous rassemble,
Bérengère, ce soir ...
—Eh bien?
—Fuyons ensemble!
—Sans frapper?
—Ses remords vous vengeront-ils pas?
—Esclave, me crois-tu le cœur placé si has,
Que je puisse souffrir qu'en ce monde où nous sommes,
J'aie été tour à tour l'amante de deux hommes,
Dont le premier m'insulte, et que tous deux vivront,
Sans que de celui-là m'ait vengé le second?
Crois-tu que, dans un cœur ardent comme le nôtre,
Un amour puisse entrer sans qu'il dévore l'autre?
Si tu l'as espéré, l'espoir est insultant!
[Pg 332]
—Bérengère!
—Entre nous, tout est fini ... Va-t'en!
—Grâce!...
—Je saurai bien trouver, pour cette tâche,
Quelque main moins timide et quelque âme moins lâche,
Qui fera pour de l'or ce que, toi, dans ce jour,
Tu n'auras pas osé faire pour de l'amour!
Et, s'il n'en était pas, je saurais bien moi-même,
De cet assassinat affrontant l'anathème,
Me glisser an milieu des femmes, des valets,
Qui flattent les époux de leurs nouveaux souhaits,
Et les faire avorter, ces souhaits trop précoces,
En vidant ce flacon dans la coupe des noces!
—Du poison?
—Du poison! Mais ne viens plus, après,
Esclave, me parler d'amour et de regrets!
Refuses-tu toujours?... Il te reste un quart d'heure.
C'est encore plus de temps qu'il n'en faut pour qu'il meure,
Un quart d'heure!... Réponds, mourra-t-il de ta main?
Es-tu prêt? Réponds-moi, car j'y vais. Dis!
—Demain!
—Demain! Et, cette nuit, dans cette chambre même,
Ainsi qu'il me l'a dit, il lui dira: Je t'aime!
Demain! Et, d'ici là, que ferai-je? Ah! tu veux,
Cette nuit, qu'à deux mains j'arrache mes cheveux;
Que je brise mon front à toutes les murailles;
Que je devienne folle? Ah! demain! mais tu railles!
Et si ce jour était le dernier de nos jours?
Si cette nuit d'enfer allait durer toujours?
Dieu le peut ordonner, si c'est sa fantaisie.
Demain? Et si je suis morte de jalousie?
Tu n'es donc pas jaloux, toi? tu ne l'es donc pas?"
Un moment, Bérengère, listen to me!
I'm all ears:
Speak quickly.
—I thought, but I must be wrong,
That here you told me, right here... Sorry!
—What?
—That you loved me!
—Yep, I said that.
—Alright then,
Since the same fate and the same love bring us together,
Bérengère, tonight ...
—So?
—Let’s escape together!
—Without knocking?
—Won't regret take revenge for you?
—Do you think so little of me,
That I could stand to be in a world where,
I was the lover of two men,
One of whom insults me, and they both will live,
Without the second avenging the first?
Do you think that in a heart as passionate as ours,
One love can enter without consuming the other?
If you hoped so, that hope is insulting!
[Pg 332]
—Bérengère!
—It's done between us... Just leave!
—Have mercy!...
—I’ll find someone bolder than you,
Who will do for money what you wouldn’t dare do for love!
And if there isn’t anyone, I’ll manage myself,
To slip among the women and servants,
Who flatter husbands with their new desires,
And make those premature wishes disappear,
By pouring this bottle into the wedding cup!
—Poison?
—Poison! But don’t return later.
Slave, to talk to me about love and regrets!
Do you still refuse?... You have fifteen minutes left.
That’s still more time than it takes for him to die,
Fifteen minutes!... Answer, will he die by your hand?
Are you ready? Answer me, because I’m going. Speak!
—Tomorrow!
—Tomorrow! And tonight, in this very room,
Just as he told me, he’ll say to her: I love you!
Tomorrow! And until then, what will I do? Ah, you want,
Tonight, for me to tear my hair out with both hands;
For me to smash my forehead against all the walls;
For me to go mad? Ah! tomorrow! But you mock!
And what if this day is our last day?
What if this hellish night lasts forever?
God can decide if it’s his fancy.
Tomorrow? And if I’m dead from jealousy?
You’re not jealous, are you? You’re really not?
I refrain from quoting the rest of the scene, the methods employed being, I believe, those peculiar to myself. Yaqoub yields: he dashes into the Comte's chamber; Bérengère flings herself behind a prie-Dieu; the Comte passes by with his new wife; he enters his room; a shriek is heard.
I won’t quote the rest of the scene because I think the methods used are unique to me. Yaqoub gives in and rushes into the Comte's room; Bérengère hides behind a prayer desk; the Comte walks by with his new wife; he goes into his room, and then a scream is heard.
"BÉRENGÈRE, puis YAQOUB et LE COMTE.
"Bérengère, then Yaqoub and the Count."
BÉRENGÈRE.
Le voilà qui tombe!
Savoisy, retiens-moi ma place dans ta tombe!
(Elle avale le poison quelle avait montré à Yaqoub.)
[Pg 333]
YAQOUB.
... Fuyons! il vient
(Le comte paraît, sanglant et se cramponnant à la tapisserie.)
LE COMTE.
C'est toi.
Yaqoub, qui m'as tué!
BÉRENGÈRE.
Ce n'est pas lui: c'est moi!
LE COMTE.
Bérengère!... Au secours! Je meurs!
YAQOUB.
Maintenant, femme,
Fais-moi tout oublier, car c'est vraiment infâme!
Viens donc!... Tu m'as promis de venir ... Je t'attends...
D'être à moi pour toujours!
BÉRENGÈRE.
Encor quelques instants,
Et je t'appartiendrai tout entière.
YAQOUB.
Regarde!
Ils accourent aux cris qu'il a poussés ... Prends garde,
Nous ne pourrons plus fuir, il ne sera plus temps.
Ils viennent, Bérengère!
BÉRENGÈRE.
Attends, encore, attends!
YAQOUB.
Oh! viens, viens! toute attente à cette heure est mortelle!
La cour est pleine, vois ... Mais viens donc!... Que fait-elle?
Bérengère, est-ce ainsi que tu gardes ta foi!
Bérengère, entends-tu? viens!
BÉRENGÈRE, rendant le dernier soupir.
[Pg 334]
Me voici ... Prends moi
YAQOUB.
Oh! malédiction!... son front devient livide ...
Son cœur?... Il ne bat plus!... Sa main? Le flacon vide!..."
Bérengère.
He's falling!
Savoisy, save me a spot in your grave!
(She drinks the poison she had shown Yaqoub.)
[Pg 333]
YAQOUB.
... Let's go! He's coming
(The count appears, bloody and clutching the tapestry.)
The Count.
It's you.
Yaqoub, you killed me!
Bérengère.
It's not him; it's me!
THE COUNT.
Bérengère!... Help! I'm dying!
YAQOUB.
Now, lady,
Make me forget everything, because this is truly shameful!
Come on!... You promised to come ... I'm waiting for you...
To be mine forever!
Bérengère.
Just a few more minutes,
And I'll be completely yours.
YAQOUB.
Check it out!
They're rushing in at his screams ... Be careful,
We won't be able to escape, it will be too late.
They're coming, Bérengère!
Bérengère.
Hold on, just hold on!
YAQOUB.
Oh! come, come! Any delay now is deadly!
The courtyard is full, see ... But come on!... What is she doing?
Bérengère, is this how you keep your promise?
Bérengère, can you hear me? Come!
Bérengère, giving her last breath.
[Pg 334]
Here I am... Take me.
YAQOUB.
Oh! damn it!... her forehead is turning pale ...
Her heart?... It's not beating anymore!... Her hand? The empty flask!..."
It will be seen that this contains three imitations; the imitation of Racine's Andromaque; that of Goethe's Goetz von Berlichingen; and that of Alfred de Musset's Marrons de feu. The reason is that Charles VII. is, first of all, a study, a laboriously worked up study and not a work done on the spur of the moment; it is a work of assimilation and not an original drama, which cost me infinitely more labour than Antony; but it does not therefore mean that I love it as much as Antony. Yet a few more words before I finish the subject. Let us run through the imitations in detail. I said I borrowed different passages from Maugrabin in Quentin Durward. Here they are:—
It will be noted that this includes three adaptations: the adaptation of Racine's Andromaque; that of Goethe's Goetz von Berlichingen; and that of Alfred de Musset's Marrons de feu. The reason is that Charles VII. is, above all, a detailed study, a carefully crafted study and not something created spontaneously; it is a work of assimilation and not an original play, which required me far more effort than Antony; but that doesn’t mean I love it as much as Antony. Still, a few more words before I wrap up the topic. Let’s go through the adaptations in detail. I mentioned I borrowed different passages from Maugrabin in Quentin Durward. Here they are:—
"'Unhappy being!' Quentin Durward exclaims. 'Think better! ... What canst thou expect, dying in such opinions, and impenitent?'
"'Unhappy being!' Quentin Durward exclaims. 'Think differently! ... What do you expect, dying with such beliefs and without remorse?'"
"'To be resolved into the elements,' said the hardened atheist; my hope, trust and expectation is, that the mysterious frame of humanity shall melt into the general mass of nature, to be recompounded in the other forms with which she daily supplies those which daily disappear, and return under different forms,—the watery particles to streams and showers, the earthly parts to enrich their mother earth, the airy portions to wanton in the breeze; and those of fire to supply the blaze of Aldeboran and his brethren—In this faith have I lived, and I will die in it!'"
"'To break everything down to its core,' said the hardened atheist; my hope, trust, and expectation is that the mysterious structure of humanity will dissolve into the vast mass of nature, only to be reformed into the other forms it provides daily to replace those that disappear each day, returning in different forms—the water particles to streams and rain, the earthly bits to enrich the soil, the airy fragments to dance in the breeze; and the fiery elements to fuel the blaze of Aldebaran and his companions—In this belief I have lived, and I will die with it!'"
Yaqoub is condemned to death for having killed Raymond the Comte's archer.
Yaqoub is sentenced to death for killing Raymond the Count's archer.
"LE COMTE.
Esclave, si tu meurs en de tels sentiments,
Q'espères-tu?
YAQOUB.
De rendre un corps aux éléments,
Masse commune où l'homme, en expirant, rapporte
[Pg 335]
Tout ce qu'en le créant la nature en emporte.
Si la terre, si l'eau, si l'air et si le feu
Me formèrent, aux mains du hasard ou de Dieu,
Le vent, en dispersant ma poussière en sa course,
Saura bien reporter chaque chose à sa source!"
"THE COUNT."
Slave, if you die with such feelings,
What do you hope for?
YAQOUB.
To return a body to the elements,
A common mass where man, upon exhaling, takes back
[Pg 335]
Everything that nature, in creating him, takes away.
If the earth, water, air, and fire
Formed me, by the hands of chance or God,
The wind, scattering my dust in its journey,
Will surely return each part to its source!"
The second imitation examined in detail is again borrowed from Walter Scott, but from The Talisman this time, not from Quentin Durward. The Knight of the Leopard and the Saracen, after fighting against one another, effect a truce, and take lunch, chatting together, by the fountain called the Diamond of the Desert.
The second imitation looked at closely is once again taken from Walter Scott, but this time from The Talisman, not from Quentin Durward. The Knight of the Leopard and the Saracen, after battling each other, make a truce and have lunch, chatting together by the fountain known as the Diamond of the Desert.
"'Stranger,' asked the Saracen,—'with how many men didst thou come on this warfare?'
"'Stranger,' the Saracen asked, 'how many men did you bring for this battle?'"
"'By my faith,' said Sir Kenneth, 'with aid of friends and kinsmen, I was hardly pinched to furnish forth ten well-appointed lances, with maybe some fifty more men, archers and varlets included.'
"'I swear,' said Sir Kenneth, 'with the help of friends and family, I had a hard time gathering ten well-equipped knights, plus maybe another fifty men, including archers and servants.'"
"'Christian, here I have five arrows in my quiver, each feathered from the wing of an eagle. When I send one of them to my tents, a thousand warriors mount on horseback. When I send another, an equal force will arise—for the five, I can command five thousand men; and if I send my bow, ten thousand mounted riders will shake the desert.'"
"'Christian, I have five arrows in my quiver, each feathered from an eagle's wing. When I send one of them to my camp, a thousand warriors mount their horses. When I send another, an equal force rises—by the five, I can command five thousand men; and if I send my bow, ten thousand mounted riders will shake the desert.'"
"YAQOUB.
Car mon père, au Saïd, n'est point un chef vulgaire.
Il a dans son carquois quatre flèches de guerre,
Et, lorsqu'il tend son arc, et que, vers quatre buts,
Il le lance en signal à ses quatre tribus,
Chacune à lui fournir cent cavaliers fidèles
Met le temps que met l'aigle â déployer ses ailes."
YAQOUB.
Because my father, in Saïd, is not an ordinary leader.
He has four war arrows in his quiver,
And when he draws his bow, and aims at four targets,
He signals to his four tribes,
Each one providing him with a hundred loyal horsemen
Just as long as it takes for the eagle to spread its wings."
There, thank Heaven, my confession is ended! It has been a long one; but then Charles VII., as an assimilative and imitative work, is my greatest sin in that respect.
There, thank God, my confession is over! It has been a long one; but then Charles VII., as a work of adaptation and imitation, is my biggest sin in that regard.
CHAPTER XIV
Poetry is the Spirit of God—The Conservatoire and l'École of Rome—Letter of counsel to my Son—Employment of my time at Trouville—Madame de la Garenne—The Vendéan Bonnechose—M. Beudin—I am pursued by a fish—What came of it
Poetry is the Spirit of God—The Conservatory and the School of Rome—A letter of advice to my son—How I spend my time in Trouville—Madame de la Garenne—The Vendéan Bonnechose—Mr. Beudin—I’m being chased by a fish—What happened next
If I had not just steeped my readers in literature, during the preceding chapters, I should place a work before them which might not perhaps be uninteresting to them. It would be the ancient tradition of Phèdre, which is to Euripides, for example, what the Spanish romancer's is to Guilhem de Castro. Then I would show what Euripides borrowed from tradition; then what, five hundred years later, the Roman Seneca borrowed from Euripides; then finally, what, sixteen centuries later still, the French Racine borrowed from both Euripides and Seneca. At the same time I should show how the genius of each nation and the emotional taste of each age brought about changes from the original character of the subject. One last word. Amongst all peoples, literature always begins with poetry; prose only comes later. Orpheus, Homer, Hesiod—Herodotus, Plato, Aristotle.
If I hadn't just immersed my readers in literature in the previous chapters, I would present a work that might actually be interesting to them. It would be the ancient tradition of Phèdre, which relates to Euripides in the same way that the Spanish romancer relates to Guilhem de Castro. Then I would highlight what Euripides took from tradition; next, what the Roman Seneca borrowed from Euripides five hundred years later; and finally, what the French Racine drew from both Euripides and Seneca sixteen centuries after that. At the same time, I would illustrate how the unique creativity of each nation and the emotional preferences of each era transformed the original essence of the subject. One last point: among all cultures, literature always starts with poetry; prose comes later. Orpheus, Homer, Hesiod—Herodotus, Plato, Aristotle.
"In the beginning, says Genesis, God created the heavens. And the earth was waste and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters."
"In the beginning, according to Genesis, God created the heavens. The earth was empty and shapeless; darkness covered the deep waters, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters."
Poetry is the Spirit of God, or, rather, it is primeval poetic substance, impersonal and common property; it floats in space like the cosmic essence of which Humboldt speaks, a kind of luminous matter, mother of old worlds, germ of worlds to come; indestructible, because it is incessantly being[Pg 337] renewed, each element faithfully giving back to it that which it has borrowed.
Poetry is the Spirit of God, or rather, it is the ancient essence of poetry, an impersonal and shared resource; it floats in space like the cosmic essence Humboldt talks about, a kind of glowing substance, the source of ancient worlds and the spark for future ones; it’s indestructible because it is constantly being[Pg 337] renewed, with each element returning what it has taken.
Gradually, however, this matter settles round the great personalities, as clouds settle round great mountains, and in like manner as clouds dissolve into springs of living waters, spreading over plains, satisfying bodily thirst, so does this cosmic element resolve itself into poetry, hymns, songs and tragedies which satisfy the thirst of the soul. The inference to be drawn from the foregoing analogy is, that human genius creates and individual genius applies. Thus, when a critic happened to accuse Shakespeare of having taken a scene or phrase or idea from a contemporary writer, he said: "I have but rescued a child from evil company to put it among better companions." Again, Molière answered, even more naively still, when people made the same reproach with regard to him: "I take my treasure wherever I find it!" Now, Shakespeare and Molière were right: the man of genius—need I point out that I mean the great masters, not myself? (I am well aware that I shall not be of any importance until after my death!)—the man of genius, I repeat, does not steal, he conquers: he makes a colony, as it were, of the province he takes; he imposes his own laws upon it and peoples it with his own subjects; he extends his golden sceptre over it, and not a soul, seeing his fine kingdom, dares to say to him (except, of course, the jealous, who are subject to no one and will not recognise even genius as supreme ruler), "This portion of territory does not belong to your patrimony." It is an absurd notion that this arbitrary spirit should accord its protection to letters: it means that it prohibits foreign literature and discourages contemporary literature. In a country like France, which is the brain of Europe, and whose language is spoken throughout the whole world, owing to the equipoise of consonants and vowels, which disconcert neither northern nor southern nations, there ought to be a universal literature besides its national one. Everything of beauty that has been produced in the whole world, from Æschylus down to Alfieri, from Sakountala to Roméo, from the romancero of the Cid[Pg 338] down to Schiller's Brigands,—all ought to belong to France, if not by right of inheritance, at least by right of conquest. Nothing that an entire people has admired can be without value, and everything that has a value ought to find its place in that vast casket entitled French intelligence. It is on account of this false system that there is a Conservatoire and an École at Rome. We have already, in connection with the mise-en-scène of Soulié's Juliette, said a few words about this Conservatoire, which has the unique object of teaching young men to scan Molière and to recite Racine's Corneille. We will now complete the sketch begun. As a result of the invariable programme, adopted by the government, every pupil of the Conservatoire, after three years' study, leaves the rue Bergère incapable of appreciating any modern or foreign literature; acquainted with the songe of Athalie, the récit of Théramène, the monologue of Auguste, the scene between Tartuffe and Elmire, that of the Misanthrope and Oronte, of Gros-René and Marinette; he is completely ignorant that there existed at Athens people of the names of Æschylus, Euripides, Sophocles and Aristophanes; at Rome, Ennius, Plautus, Terence and Seneca; in England, Shakespeare, Otway, Sheridan and Byron; in Germany, Goethe, Schiller, Uhland and Kotzebue; in Spain, Guillem de Castro, Tirso de Molina, Calderon and Lope de Vega; in Italy, Macchiavelli, Goldoni, Alfieri; that these men have left a trail of light across twenty-four centuries and among five different peoples, consisting of stars called Orestes, Alcestis, Œdipus at Colonus, The Knights, Aulularia, Eunuchus, Hippolytus, Romeo and Juliet, Venice Preserved, The School for Scandal, Manfred, Goetz von Berlichingen, Kabale und Liebe, les Pupilles, Menschenhass und Reue, The Cid, Don Juan, le Chien du Jardinier, le Médecin de son honneur, le Meilleur Alcade c'est le Roi, la Mandragora, le Bourra bienfaisant, and Philippe II. You will see that I only quote one masterpiece by each of these men; also that the pupils of the Conservatoire are utterly ignorant, behind the times and of no use on any stage except those which play Molière, Racine and Corneille. And,[Pg 339] furthermore!... None of the great actors of our time have come from the Conservatoire; neither Talma, nor Mars, Firmin, Potier, Vernet, Bouffé, Rachel, Frédérick-Lemaître, Bocage, Dorval, Mélingue, Arnal, Numa, Bressant, Déjazet, Rose Chéri, Duprez, Masset, nor any prominent person whatsoever. What is to be said about a mill which goes round and says tic-tac but does not grind?
Gradually, though, this issue revolves around the great figures, similar to how clouds gather around tall mountains. Just as clouds can transform into streams of fresh water, nourishing the land and quenching thirst, this cosmic force also turns into poetry, hymns, songs, and tragedies that satisfy the soul’s longing. The takeaway from this analogy is that human creativity invents, while individual brilliance applies. So, when a critic accused Shakespeare of borrowing a scene, phrase, or idea from a fellow writer, he responded: "I simply rescued a child from bad company to place it among better companions." Likewise, Molière candidly replied when faced with similar critiques: "I take my treasures wherever I find them!" Both Shakespeare and Molière were correct: the genius—let me clarify that I’m referring to the great masters, not myself (I know I won’t be considered significant until after I’m gone!)—the genius, I assert, does not steal; he conquers. He makes a colony, so to speak, of the territory he claims; he establishes his own rules and fills it with his creations. He extends his golden scepter over it, and not a single soul would dare challenge him (except, of course, the envious who recognize no one as a ruler, not even genius itself), saying, "This piece of land isn’t part of your inheritance." It’s a ridiculous idea that this capricious spirit should protect literature: it implies a prohibition against foreign works and devalues contemporary literature. In a nation like France, the intellectual heart of Europe, whose language is spoken worldwide due to its balance of consonants and vowels, which doesn’t confuse northern or southern nations, there should be a universal literature alongside its national one. Everything beautiful produced across the globe, from Aeschylus to Alfieri, from Sakountala to Romeo, from the Cid[Pg 338] ballads down to Schiller's Brigands, should belong to France, if not by inheritance, then by conquest. Nothing that an entire people has cherished can lack value, and everything valuable should be in that grand treasury labeled French intellect. This incorrect system is why there’s a Conservatoire and a School in Rome. Previously, in discussing Soulié's Juliette, we mentioned this Conservatoire, which focuses solely on teaching young men how to analyze Molière and perform Racine's Corneille. Now, let’s wrap up the previous discussion. Due to the rigid program established by the government, every Conservatoire student, after three years of study, leaves the rue Bergère unable to appreciate any modern or foreign literature. Familiar only with the songe of Athalie, the récit of Théramène, the monologue of Auguste, and the scenes of Tartuffe and Elmire, and the Misanthrope and Oronte, among others; he is completely unaware that there were greats in Athens named Aeschylus, Euripides, Sophocles, and Aristophanes; in Rome, Ennius, Plautus, Terence, and Seneca; in England, Shakespeare, Otway, Sheridan, and Byron; in Germany, Goethe, Schiller, Uhland, and Kotzebue; in Spain, Guillem de Castro, Tirso de Molina, Calderón, and Lope de Vega; in Italy, Machiavelli, Goldoni, and Alfieri; that these figures have cast a brilliant light across twenty-four centuries and five different peoples, represented by masterpieces like Orestes, Alcestis, Œdipus at Colonus, The Knights, Aulularia, Eunuchus, Hippolytus, Romeo and Juliet, Venice Preserved, The School for Scandal, Manfred, Goetz von Berlichingen, Kabale und Liebe, les Pupilles, Menschenhass und Reue, The Cid, Don Juan, le Chien du Jardinier, le Médecin de son honneur, le Meilleur Alcade c'est le Roi, la Mandragora, le Bourra bienfaisant, and Philippe II. Note that I’ve only cited one prominent work from each of these writers; also, that the Conservatoire students are entirely unaware, out of touch, and useless on any stage that doesn’t revolve around Molière, Racine, and Corneille. And,[Pg 339] additionally!... None of the great actors of our time have emerged from the Conservatoire; not Talma, nor Mars, Firmin, Potier, Vernet, Bouffé, Rachel, Frédérick-Lemaître, Bocage, Dorval, Mélingue, Arnal, Numa, Bressant, Déjazet, Rose Chéri, Duprez, Masset, nor any notable figure whatsoever. What can you say about a mill that turns and ticks but doesn’t grind?
Ah! well, the same vice exists in the École of Rome as in the Conservatoire. If there is a changeable art it is that of painting. Each artist sees a colour which is not that of his neighbour; one calls it green, another yellow, another blue, another red: one inclines towards the Flemish School, another to the Spanish and yet another to the German. You would think they would send each student, according as his bent might be, to study Rubens at Anvers, Murillo at Madrid, Cornelius at Munich? Nothing of the sort! They all go to Rome to study Raphael or Michael Angelo! Not a painter, not a single original sculptor of our time was a pupil at Rome; neither Delacroix, nor Rousseau, Diaz, Dupré, Cabot, Boulanger, Müller, Isabey, Brascassat, Giraud, Barrye, Clésinger, Gavarni, Rosa Bonheur, nor ... upon my word, I was tempted to say—nor anybody! But as the institution is absurd it will still continue to exist. With half the money to spend they could turn out twice as many actors, painters and sculptors; only, they would turn them out capable instead of incapable.
Ah! Well, the same issue exists at the École of Rome as at the Conservatoire. If there's an unpredictable art, it's painting. Each artist sees a color that isn’t the same as their neighbor’s; one calls it green, another yellow, another blue, another red: some lean toward the Flemish School, others the Spanish, and yet others the German. You’d think they would send each student, based on their interests, to study Rubens in Antwerp, Murillo in Madrid, or Cornelius in Munich? Not at all! They all go to Rome to study Raphael or Michelangelo! Not a single painter or original sculptor of our time was trained in Rome; not Delacroix, nor Rousseau, Diaz, Dupré, Cabot, Boulanger, Müller, Isabey, Brascassat, Giraud, Barrye, Clésinger, Gavarni, Rosa Bonheur, nor… honestly, I was almost going to say—nor anyone! But since the institution is ridiculous, it will continue to exist. With half the budget, they could produce twice as many actors, painters, and sculptors; the difference is they would produce capable ones instead of incapable ones.
We have travelled a long way from Trouville! What would you have me do? Fancy has the wings of Icarus, the horses of Hippolytus: she goes as far as she dare towards the sun, as near as she dare without dashing herself against the rocks. Let us return to Charles VII., the first cause of all this digression. Whatever may have been the cause; when I returned to Mother Oseraie's inn, at nine o'clock on the evening of 7 July, I wrote the first lines of that scene. By the following morning, the first hundred lines of the drama were done, and among them were the thirty-six or thirty-eight relating Yaqoub's lion hunt. They should rank among the few really good lines I[Pg 340] have written. On the other hand, in order that an exact idea may be formed of the value I put upon my own poetry, I may be allowed to transcribe here a letter which I wrote, fifteen or sixteen years ago, to my son, who asked my advice on the poetry he ought to read and on the ancient and modern poets he ought to study.
We’ve come a long way from Trouville! What do you want me to do? Imagination has the wings of Icarus and the horses of Hippolytus: it goes as far as it dares toward the sun, as close as it dares without crashing against the rocks. Let’s get back to Charles VII., the main reason for all this digression. No matter what caused it; when I returned to Mother Oseraie's inn at nine o'clock on the evening of July 7, I wrote the first lines of that scene. By the next morning, I had completed the first hundred lines of the drama, including the thirty-six or thirty-eight that describe Yaqoub's lion hunt. They should be considered among the few truly good lines I[Pg 340] have written. On the other hand, to give a clear idea of how I value my own poetry, I’m going to share a letter I wrote fifteen or sixteen years ago to my son, who asked for my advice on the poetry he should read and which ancient and modern poets he should study.
"MY DEAR BOY,—Your letter gave me great pleasure, as every letter from you does which shows you are doing what is right. You ask me the use of the Latin verses—which you are forced to compose; they are not very important; nevertheless, you learn metre by so doing, and that enables you to scan properly and to understand the music of Virgil's poetry and the freedom and ease of Horace. Again, this habit of scanning will come in useful, if you ever have to talk Latin in Hungary, where every peasant speaks it. Learn Greek steadily and thoroughly, so as to be able to read Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes in the original, and you will then be able to learn modern Greek in three months. Practise yourself well in the pronunciation of German; later you will learn English and Italian. Then, when you know all these, we will decide together what career you shall follow. At the same time do not neglect drawing. Tell Charlieu to give you not only Shakespeare but Dante and Schiller as well. Do not place much reliance on the verses they make you read, at school: professor's verses are not worth a son! Study the Bible, as a religious book, a history and a poem; Sacy's translation, although very poor, is the best; look for the magnificent poetry contained beneath all those ambiguous veilings and obscurities; in Saul and Joseph, and especially in Job, a poem which is one long human wail. Read Corneille; learn portions of him by heart. Corneille is not always poetical, he is at times pettifogging; but he always uses fine, picturesque and concise language. Tell Charpentier, from me, to give you André Chénier: he is the poet of solitude and the night, akin to the nightingales. Charpentier lives in the rue de Seine; you can get his address from Buloz. Tell Collin to give you, through Hachette, four volumes entitled, Rome au Siècle d'Auguste; it is a dry but learned work on ancient times. Read all Hugo; read Lamartine, but only the Méditations and the Harmonies. Then write an essay on the passages you think beautiful and those you think bad; and show it to me on my return. Finally,[Pg 341] always keep yourself occupied, and rest yourself by the variety of your occupations. Take care of your health and be wise. Good-bye, my dear lad. I told D to give you twenty francs for a New Year's gift. ALEXANDRE DUMAS"
"MY DEAR BOY,—Your letter brought me great joy, as does every letter from you that shows you’re doing the right things. You ask me about the purpose of the Latin verses you have to write; they aren't of great importance, but they help you learn meter, which enables you to scan properly and appreciate the rhythm of Virgil's poetry and the flow of Horace. Also, mastering this skill will be helpful if you ever need to speak Latin in Hungary, where every peasant knows it. Keep learning Greek steadily and thoroughly so you can read Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes in the original language, and you'll be able to learn modern Greek in three months. Practice your German pronunciation well; later, you’ll learn English and Italian. Once you know all these languages, we can decide together about your career path. At the same time, don’t neglect your drawing. Ask Charlieu to provide not just Shakespeare, but also Dante and Schiller. Don’t trust too much in the verses you read in school: the professor's verses aren’t worth much! Study the Bible as a religious text, a history, and a poem; Sacy's translation, though not great, is the best option; look for the magnificent poetry buried beneath all those ambiguous layers and obscurities, especially in Saul and Joseph, and particularly in Job, which expresses deep human sorrow. Read Corneille; memorize parts of his works. Corneille isn’t always poetic; sometimes he gets tied down in trivial details, but he consistently uses beautiful, vivid, and concise language. Tell Charpentier to give you André Chénier for me: he is the poet of solitude and night, like nightingales. Charpentier lives on Rue de Seine; you can get his address from Buloz. Ask Collin to get you, through Hachette, four volumes titled Rome au Siècle d'Auguste; it’s a dry but scholarly work on ancient times. Read all of Hugo; read Lamartine, but focus just on the Méditations and Harmonies. Then write an essay on the passages you find beautiful and those you think are poor; show it to me when I return. Finally,[Pg 341] always keep yourself busy, and refresh yourself with a variety of activities. Take care of your health and be wise. Goodbye, my dear boy. I told D to give you twenty francs as a New Year’s gift. ALEXANDRE DUMAS"
P.S.—Tell Collin that, as soon as my piece is received, I will write to Buloz to arrange the business of his introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Go to Tresse, at the Palais Royal; get from him at my expense the poems of Hugo, and his dramas, and Molière of the Panthéon; the Lamartine I will give you on my return. Read Molière often, much, always; with Saint-Simon and Madame Sévigné he is the supreme type of the language of the time of Louis XIV. Learn by heart certain passages of Tartuffe, the Femmes savantes and the Misanthrope: there have been and there will be other masterpieces of style, but nothing will ever exceed these in beauty. Learn by heart the monologue of Charles Quint from Hernani, all Marion Delorme, the monologue of Saint-Vallier and that of Triboulet in Le Roi s'amuse, the speech of Angelo on Venice; in conclusion, although I have few things to mention in comparison with the works I have just pointed out to you, learn the recital of Stella, in my Caligula; Yaqoub's lion-hunt, as well as the whole scene between the Comte, the King and Agnes Sorel, in the third act of Charles VII. Read de Vigny's Othello and Roméo; read de Musset without being carried away by his great facility and his inaccuracy, which in him might almost be reckoned a virtue, but which, in another, would be a serious fault. These are the ancient and modern writers I advise you to study. Later you shall pass on from these to a wider range. Adieu, you see I am treating you as though you were a grown-up youth and reasoning with you. You will soon be fifteen, and what I have said is quite easy to understand—your health, your health before all things: health is the foundation of everything in your future, and especially of talent.
P.S.—Tell Collin that, as soon as I get my piece, I'll write to Buloz to arrange his introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Go to Tresse at the Palais Royal and get the poems of Hugo, his plays, and Molière's works from the Panthéon, all on my account; I’ll give you the Lamartine when I return. Read Molière often, a lot, all the time; along with Saint-Simon and Madame Sévigné, he’s the best example of the language from the time of Louis XIV. Memorize certain passages from Tartuffe, Les Femmes savantes, and The Misanthrope: there have been and will be other masterpieces, but none will ever surpass these in beauty. Memorize the monologue of Charles Quint from Hernani, all of Marion Delorme, the monologue of Saint-Vallier, and that of Triboulet in Le Roi s'amuse, and Angelo’s speech about Venice; finally, although I don’t have many things to mention compared to what I've just pointed out, memorize the recital of Stella in my Caligula, Yaqoub's lion hunt, and the entire scene between the Comte, the King, and Agnes Sorel in the third act of Charles VII. Read de Vigny’s Othello and Roméo; read de Musset without getting lost in his great ease and inaccuracies, which can almost be a virtue for him but would be a serious flaw in someone else. These are the classic and modern writers I recommend you study. Later, you can explore a wider range of texts. Goodbye, you see I’m treating you like a young adult and reasoning with you. You’ll be fifteen soon, and what I’ve said is pretty easy to grasp—your health, your health above all: health is the foundation of everything in your future, especially talent.
"A. D."
"A. D."
I hope the sincerity and impartiality of my opinion upon others will be believed, when it is seen with what sincerity and impartiality I speak of myself.
I hope people will believe that I'm being sincere and fair in my opinions about others when they see how sincerely and fairly I talk about myself.
From that day our life began to assume the uniformity and monotony of the life of the waters. I bethought me that I ought to introduce myself to the mayor, M. Guétier, a brave[Pg 342] and excellent man, who I believe played a somewhat active part in 1848, in the embarking of King Louis-Philippe. He gave me free leave to hunt over the communal marshes, which leave I took advantage of from that very day. The rising sun shot through the window of my room, and, although the curtains were drawn, it woke me in my bed. I opened my eyes, stretched out my hand for my pencil and set to work. At ten o'clock, Mother Oseraie came and told us breakfast was ready; at eleven, I took my gun and shot three or four snipe; at two, I began work again until four; at four, I went for a swim till five; and at half-past five dinner was ready for us; from seven until nine o'clock we went for a walk on the shore; at nine o'clock work was begun again and continued until eleven o'clock or midnight. Charles VII. advanced at the rate of a hundred lines per day. Undiscovered though Trouville was, nevertheless a few Normandy, Vendéan or Breton bathers came there. Among these was a charming woman, accompanied by her husband and her son; I remember nothing more about her than her name and face: she was gracious and prepossessing in expression, with a slightly aristocratic air; her name was Madame de la Garenne. From the day of her arrival, directly she knew I was living at the hotel, she began the preliminaries of making an acquaintanceship by boldly lending me her album. I had just finished the great scene in the third act between the Comte de Savoisy and Charles VII., and I copied it out for her, newly born from my brain. A good sort of young fellow had come with them, who concealed some degree of knowledge and great determination under the retiring air of a country gentleman. He was a sportsman, which similarity of tastes rapidly made us congenial companions if not exactly friends. He was the unfortunate Bonnechose, who was hung during the Vendéan insurrection of 1832. Whilst we were walking and hunting in the marsh lands round Trouville, Madame la Duchesse de Berry obtained permission from King Charles X. to make an attempt on France, under the title of regent; she left Edinburgh, went through Holland, stayed a day or two at Mayence, and the[Pg 343] same at Frankfort, crossed the frontier of Switzerland and entered Piedmont; then, finally, under the name of the Comtesse de Sagana, she stopped at Sestri, a small town a dozen leagues from Genoa, in the provinces of King Charles-Albert. Thus, all unsuspected by Bonnechose, death was postponed for one year! Meantime, the report began to spread in Paris that a new seaport had been discovered between Honfleur and la Délivrande. The result was that from time to time a venturesome bather would arrive who would ask timidly, "Is there a village called Trouville about here, and is that it with the belfry tower?" And I would reply yes, to my great regret: for I foresaw the time when Trouville would become another Dieppe or Boulogne or Ostend. I was not mistaken. Alas! Trouville has now ten inns; and land which could be bought at a hundred francs the arpent,[1] to-day fetches five francs per foot. One day among these venturesome bathers, these wandering tourists, these navigators without compass, there arrived a man of twenty-eight to thirty years of age, who gave out that his name was Beudin and that he was a banker. On the very evening of his arrival I was bathing a long distance off in the sea, when about ten yards from me, on the crest of a wave, I perceived a fish which realised the dream of Marécot in the Ours et le Pacha—that is to say, it was a huge enormous fish such as one scarcely ever sees, the like of which many never have seen. Had I possessed a little more vanity, I might have taken it for a dolphin and imagined it had taken me for another Arion; but I simply took it for a fish of gigantic proportions, and, I confess, its proximity disturbed me—I set to work to swim to the shore as hard as I could. I was a good swimmer, in those days, but my neighbour, the fish, could swim still better; accordingly, without any apparent effort, it followed me, always keeping an equal distance from me. Two or three times, feeling fatigued—mostly from want of breath—I thought of taking to my feet, but I was afraid of becoming nervous if I found too[Pg 344] great a depth of water beneath me. I therefore continued to swim until my knees ploughed into the sand. The other swimmers were looking at me in astonishment; my fish was following me as though I held it in leash. When I got to the point of touching the sand with my knees I stood up. My fish made somersault after somersault and seemed overjoyed with satisfaction. I turned round and looked at it more closely and calmly. I saw it was a porpoise. Instantly I ran to Mother Oseraie's house. I ran through the village just as I was, in my bathing drawers. Although Mother Oseraie was not very impressionable, she was not accustomed to receive travellers in so light a costume and she uttered a cry.
From that day on, our lives started to take on the uniformity and monotony of life by the water. I thought I should introduce myself to the mayor, M. Guétier, a brave and excellent man who I believe played a somewhat active role in 1848, during the departure of King Louis-Philippe. He gave me permission to hunt in the communal marshes, and I took advantage of that right from the start. The rising sun shone through my bedroom window, and even though the curtains were drawn, it woke me up in my bed. I opened my eyes, reached for my pencil, and got to work. At ten o’clock, Mother Oseraie came to tell us breakfast was ready; at eleven, I took my gun and shot three or four snipe; at two, I started working again until four; at four, I went for a swim until five; and at half-past five, dinner was ready for us; from seven until nine o’clock, we took a walk along the shore; at nine o’clock, I started working again and continued until eleven o’clock or midnight. Charles VII. progressed at a rate of a hundred lines a day. Even though Trouville was still undiscovered, a few bathers from Normandy, Vendée, or Brittany showed up. Among them was a lovely woman, accompanied by her husband and son; I remember nothing about her except her name and face: she had a charming demeanor, slightly aristocratic; her name was Madame de la Garenne. From the day she arrived and learned I was staying at the hotel, she began the process of making my acquaintance by boldly lending me her album. I had just finished the big scene in the third act between the Comte de Savoisy and Charles VII., and I copied it out for her, newly conceived in my mind. A decent young man had come with them, who hid some knowledge and great determination under the reserved demeanor of a country gentleman. He was a sportsman, and our similar interests quickly made us friendly, if not exactly friends. He was the unfortunate Bonnechose, who was hanged during the Vendéan uprising of 1832. While we were walking and hunting in the marshes around Trouville, Madame la Duchesse de Berry got permission from King Charles X. to make an attempt on France, under the title of regent; she left Edinburgh, passed through Holland, stayed a day or two in Mayence, and the same in Frankfurt, crossed the Swiss border, and entered Piedmont; then, finally, under the name of the Comtesse de Sagana, she stopped in Sestri, a small town about twelve leagues from Genoa, in the provinces of King Charles-Albert. Thus, without Bonnechose knowing it, death was postponed for one year! In the meantime, rumors began to spread in Paris that a new seaside resort had been found between Honfleur and la Délivrande. As a result, now and then, a daring bather would arrive and timidly ask, "Is there a village called Trouville around here, and is that it with the belfry tower?" And I would reply yes, to my great regret: for I foresaw the day when Trouville would become another Dieppe or Boulogne or Ostend. I was not mistaken. Alas! Trouville now has ten inns; and land that could be bought for a hundred francs per arpent,[1] now fetches five francs per foot. One day among these adventurous bathers, these wandering tourists, these aimless navigators, there arrived a man around twenty-eight to thirty years old, who claimed his name was Beudin and said he was a banker. On the very evening of his arrival, I was bathing far out in the sea, when about ten yards away, on the crest of a wave, I spotted a fish that realized Marécot's dream in the Ours et le Pacha—in other words, it was a massive fish that one rarely sees, a size many have never encountered. If I had been a bit more vain, I might have mistaken it for a dolphin and thought it had mistaken me for another Arion; but I only saw it as a gigantesque fish, and I confess its presence unsettled me—I began to swim to shore as fast as I could. I was a good swimmer back then, but my underwater companion could swim even better; as a result, without any visible effort, it followed me, always maintaining the same distance. Two or three times, feeling tired—mostly from lack of breath—I thought about standing up but was afraid of getting anxious if I found the water was too deep beneath me. So, I kept swimming until my knees touched the sand. The other swimmers were looking at me in surprise; my fish was tailing me as if I had it on a leash. When I finally felt the sand beneath my knees, I stood up. My fish performed somersaults and seemed overjoyed. I turned around to look at it more closely and calmly. I saw that it was a porpoise. Instantly, I ran to Mother Oseraie’s house. I dashed through the village just as I was, in my bathing suit. Although Mother Oseraie wasn't easily impressed, she wasn't used to receiving visitors in such light attire and let out a cry.
"Don't mind me, Mother Oseraie," I said to her, "I have come to get my gun."
"Don't worry about me, Mother Oseraie," I said to her, "I'm here to get my gun."
"Good Lord!" she said, "are you going to hunt in the happy hunting fields?"
"Good Lord!" she said, "are you going to hunt in the happy hunting grounds?"
Had I been in less of a hurry, I would have stopped and complimented her on her wit; but I only thought of the porpoise. Upon the stairs I met Madame de la Garenne; the staircase was very narrow and I drew aside to let her pass. I thought of asking how her husband and son were, but I reflected that the moment for holding a conversation was ill-chosen. Madame de la Garenne passed by and I flew into my room and seized hold of my carbine. The chamber-maid was making my bed.
Had I been in less of a hurry, I would have stopped to compliment her on her wit, but I was only thinking about the porpoise. As I was going down the stairs, I ran into Madame de la Garenne; the staircase was really narrow, so I stepped aside to let her pass. I considered asking how her husband and son were, but I realized it wasn't the right moment for a conversation. Madame de la Garenne went by, and I rushed into my room and grabbed my carbine. The maid was making my bed.
"Ah! monsieur, instead of taking your gun hadn't you better take some clothes?"
"Ah! Sir, wouldn't it be better for you to grab some clothes instead of your gun?"
It seemed as though my costume inspired wit in all who saw me. I ran full tilt down the road to the sea. My porpoise was still turning somersaults. I went up to my waist in the water until I was about fifty feet from him; I was afraid I might frighten him if I went any nearer; besides, I was just at the right range. I took aim and fired. I heard the dull sound of the ball penetrating the flesh. The porpoise dived and disappeared. Next day, the fishermen found it dead among the mussel-covered rocks. The bullet had entered a little below the eye and gone through the head.
It seemed like my costume sparked creativity in everyone who saw me. I sprinted down the road to the sea. My porpoise was still doing flips. I walked into the water until I was about fifty feet from him; I was worried I might scare him if I got any closer; plus, I was at just the right distance. I aimed and fired. I heard the dull sound of the bullet hitting the flesh. The porpoise dove and vanished. The next day, the fishermen found it dead among the mussel-covered rocks. The bullet had entered just below the eye and passed through its head.
[1] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—An old French measure varying in different provinces from 3 roods to 2 English acres.
[1] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—An old French measurement that varied by region from 3 roods to 2 English acres.
CHAPTER XV
Why M. Beudin came to Trouville—How I knew him under another name—Prologue of a drama—What remained to be done—Division into three parts—I finish Charles VII.—Departing from Trouville—In what manner I learn of the first performance of Marion Delorme
Why M. Beudin came to Trouville—How I recognized him by a different name—The start of a story—What still needed to be done—Split into three sections—I complete Charles VII.—Leaving Trouville—How I discovered the first performance of Marion Delorme
The night of that adventure, the fresh bather came up to me and complimented me on my skill. It was an excuse for beginning a conversation. We sat out on the beach and chatted. After a few remarks had been exchanged he said to me:
The night of that adventure, the new swimmer came up to me and praised my skills. It was a way to start a conversation. We sat on the beach and talked. After we exchanged a few comments, he said to me:
"Well! there is one thing you have no idea of."
"Well! There's one thing you have no idea about."
"What is that?" I asked.
"What’s that?" I asked.
"That I have come here almost on your account."
"That I came here pretty much because of you."
"How so?"
"How's that?"
"You do not recognise me under my name of Beudin?"
"You don't recognize me by the name Beudin?"
"I confess I do not."
"I admit I don't."
"But you may, perhaps, recognise me under that of Dinaux?"
"But you might, perhaps, recognize me as Dinaux?"
"What! Victor Ducange's collaborator!"
"What! Victor Ducange's co-worker!"
"Exactly."
"Exactly."
"The same who wrote Trente ans ou la vie d'un Joueur with him?"
"The same person who wrote Trente ans ou la vie d'un Joueur alongside him?"
"That was I ... or rather us."
"That was me ... or rather us."
"Why us?"
"Why us?"
"There were two of us: Goubaux and myself."
"There were two of us: Goubaux and me."
"Ah! I knew Goubaux; he is a man of boundless merit."
"Ah! I knew Goubaux; he is a person of unlimited worth."
"Thanks!"
"Thanks!"
"Pardon ... one cannot be skilful both with gun and in conversation ... With the gun, now, I should not have missed you!"
"Pardon me... one can't be skilled with both a gun and in conversation... With the gun, now, I shouldn't have missed you!"
"You have not missed me as it is; in the first shot you brought me down by saying that Goubaux was a clever man and that I was an idiot!"
"You haven't missed me at all; in the first comment, you took me down by saying that Goubaux was smart and that I was an idiot!"
"Confess that you never thought I meant anything of the kind?"
"Admit that you never thought I meant anything like that?"
"Upon my word, no!" And we burst out laughing.
"Seriously, no!" And we all started laughing.
"Well," I resumed, "as you probably did not hunt me out to receive the compliment I have just given you, tell me why you did."
"Well," I continued, "since you probably didn’t seek me out just to hear the compliment I just gave you, tell me why you did."
"To talk to you about a play which Goubaux and I did not feel equal to bringing to a satisfactory conclusion, but which, in your hands, would become—plus the style—equal to the Joueur."
"To discuss a play that Goubaux and I didn't feel capable of finishing properly, but which, in your hands, would become—along with the style—on par with the Joueur."
I bowed my thanks.
I expressed my gratitude.
"No, upon my word of honour, I am certain the idea will take your fancy!" continued Beudin.
"No, I swear, I’m sure the idea will catch your interest!" continued Beudin.
"Have you any part done or is it still in a nebulous state?"
"Is any part of it done, or is it still unclear?"
"We have done the prologue, which is in quite a tangible shape.... But, as for the rest, you must help us to do it."
"We've finished the prologue, and it's in a pretty solid form... But for the rest, we need your help to complete it."
"Have you the prologue with you?"
"Do you have the prologue with you?"
"No, nothing is written down yet; but I can relate it to you."
"No, nothing is written down yet, but I can tell you about it."
"I am listening."
"I'm listening."
"The scene is laid in Northumberland, about 1775. An old physician whom, if you will, we will call Dr. Grey and his wife separate, the wife to go to bed, the husband to work part of the night. Scarcely has the wife closed the door of her room, before a carriage stops under the doctor's windows and a man inquires for a doctor. Dr. Grey reveals his profession; the travellers asks hospitality for some one who cannot go any further. The doctor opens his door and a masked man, carrying a woman in his arms, enters upon the scene, telling the postilion to unharness the horses and hide both them and the carriage."
"The scene is set in Northumberland, around 1775. An old physician, whom we’ll call Dr. Grey, and his wife part ways—the wife heads to bed while the husband stays up to work for part of the night. Just after the wife closes the door to her room, a carriage stops outside the doctor’s windows, and a man asks for a doctor. Dr. Grey identifies himself as a physician; the traveler requests shelter for someone who can't go any further. The doctor opens his door, and a masked man carrying a woman in his arms enters, telling the driver to unhitch the horses and hide both them and the carriage."
"Bravo! the beginning is excellent!... We can picture the masked man and the sick woman."
"Awesome! The start is great!... We can imagine the masked man and the ill woman."
The woman is near her confinement; her lover is carrying[Pg 347] her away and they are on their way to embark at Shields when the pangs of childbirth come upon the fugitive; it is important to conceal all trace of her; her father, who is the all-powerful ambassador of Spain in London, is in pursuit of her. The doctor attends to them with all haste: he points out a room to the masked man who carries the patient into it; then he rouses his wife to help him to attend to the sick woman. At this moment they hear the sound of a carriage passing at full gallop. The cries of the woman call the doctor to her side; the masked man comes back on the stage, not having the courage to witness his mistress's sufferings. After a short time the doctor rushes to find his guest: the unknown woman has just given birth to a boy, and mother and child are both doing well."
The woman is about to give birth; her lover is carrying[Pg 347] her away, and they're heading to get on a ship at Shields when the labor pains hit the fugitive. It’s crucial to hide any evidence of her presence; her father, the all-powerful ambassador of Spain in London, is after her. The doctor attends to them quickly: he directs a masked man to a room, where he carries the patient inside; then he wakes his wife to help him care for the sick woman. At this moment, they hear a carriage speeding by. The woman’s cries summon the doctor to her side; the masked man returns to the stage, unable to bear witnessing his lover’s suffering. After a short time, the doctor rushes to find his guest: the unknown woman has just given birth to a boy, and both mother and child are doing well.
The narrator interrupted himself.
The narrator cut himself off.
"Do you think," he asked me, "that this scene would be possible on the stage?"
"Do you think," he asked me, "that this scene could work on stage?"
"Why not? It was possible in Terence's day."
"Why not? It was possible back in Terence's time."
"In what way?"
"How?"
"Thus:
Thus:
"PAMPHILA.
"PAMPHILA.
Miseram me! differor deloribus! Juno Lucina, fer opem! Serva me, obsecro!
REGIO.
REGIO.
Numnam ilia, quæso, parturit?... Hem!
PAMPHILA.
PAMPHILA.
Oh! unhappy wretch! My pains overcome me! Juno Lucina, come to my aid! save me, I entreat thee.
REGIO.
REGIO.
Hullo, I say, is she about to be confined?"
"Is that in Terence?"
"Is that in Terrence?"
"Certainly."
"Definitely."
"Then we are saved!"
"Then we're saved!"
"I quite believe it! It is as purely classical as Amphitryon and l'Avare."
"I totally believe it! It's as purely classical as Amphitryon and l'Avare."
"I will proceed, then."
"I'll proceed, then."
"And I will listen!"
"And I'm all ears!"
"Just as the masked man is rushing into the chamber of the sick woman, there is a violent knocking at Dr. Grey's door. 'Who is there? Open in the name of the law!' It is the father, a constable and two police-officers. The doctor is obliged to admit that he has given shelter to the two fugitives; the father declares that he will carry his daughter away instantly. The doctor opposes in the name of humanity and his wife; the father insists; the doctor then informs him of the condition of the sick woman, and both beg him to be merciful to her. Fury of the father, who completely ignores the situation. At that moment, the masked man comes joyfully out of the sickroom and is aghast to see the father of the woman he has carried off; the father leaps at his throat and demands his arrest. The noise of the struggle reaches the accouchée, who comes out half-fainting and falls at her father's feet: she vows she will follow her lover everywhere, even to prison; that he is her husband in the eyes of men. The father again and more energetically calls into requisition the assistance of the constable and takes his daughter in his arms to carry her away. The doctor and his wife implore in vain. The masked man comes forward in his turn ... and the act finishes there; stay, I have outlined the last scene ... Let us suppose that the masked man has assumed the name of Robertson, that the father is called Da Sylva and the young lady Caroline:—
"Just as the masked man is rushing into the sick woman's room, there's a loud knocking at Dr. Grey's door. 'Who is it? Open in the name of the law!' It's the father, a constable, and two police officers. The doctor has to admit that he has sheltered the two fugitives; the father insists he will take his daughter away immediately. The doctor objects in the name of humanity and his wife; the father pushes back; the doctor then informs him of the sick woman's condition, and both ask him to show mercy. The father, furious, completely ignores the situation. At that moment, the masked man joyfully steps out of the sickroom and is shocked to see the woman's father; the father lunges at him, demanding his arrest. The noise of the struggle is heard by the accouchée, who comes out half-fainting and collapses at her father's feet: she vows to follow her lover everywhere, even to prison; that he is her husband in the eyes of society. The father again calls on the constable for help and picks his daughter up to take her away. The doctor and his wife plead in vain. The masked man steps forward in his turn... and the act ends there; wait, I have sketched out the final scene... Let's say the masked man goes by the name of Robertson, the father is called Da Sylva, and the young woman is Caroline:"
"ROBERTSON, putting his hand on Da Sylva's shoulder.—Leave her alone.
"ROBERTSON, gently placing his hand on Da Sylva's shoulder.—Leave her alone."
CAROLINE.—Oh, father!... my Robertson!...
CAROLINE.—Oh, Dad!... my Robertson!...
DA SYLVA.—Thy Robertson, indeed!... Look, all of you and I will show you who thy Robertson is ... Off with that mask." (He snatches it from Robertson's face).—"Look he is ..."
DA SYLVA.—Your Robertson, really!... Everyone, check this out, and I'll show you who your Robertson is... Take off that mask." (He pulls it off Robertson's face).—"Look, he is ..."
"ROBERTSON.—Silence; in the name of and for the sake of your daughter."
"ROBERTSON.—Please be quiet, for your daughter's sake."
"You understand," Beudin went on "he quickly puts his mask on again, so quickly that nobody, except the audience whom he is facing, has time to see his countenance."
"You get it," Beudin continued, "he puts his mask back on so fast that no one, except the audience he's facing, has time to see his face."
"Well; after that?"
"Well, what's next?"
"After?"
"Afterwards?"
"You are right," says Da Sylva; "she alone shall know who you are.... This man."
"You’re right," Da Sylva says; "she'll be the only one who knows who you are.... This guy."
"Well?" asks Caroline anxiously.
"Well?" Caroline asks nervously.
"This man," says Da Sylva leaning close to his daughter's ear; "this man is the executioner!"
"This guy," Da Sylva whispers to his daughter, "this guy is the executioner!"
"Caroline shrieks and falls. That is the end of the prologue."
"Caroline screams and collapses. That's the end of the prologue."
"Wait a bit," I said, "surely I know something similar to that ... yes ... no. Yes, in the Chronicles of the Canongate!"
"Hold on a second," I said, "I’m sure I know something like that ... yeah ... no. Yes, in the Chronicles of the Canongate!"
"Yes; it was, in fact, Walter Scott's novel which gave us the idea for our play."
"Yes, it was actually Walter Scott's novel that inspired our play."
"Well, but what then? There is no drama in the remainder of the novel."
"Well, what happens next? There's no drama in the rest of the novel."
"No.... So we depart completely from it here."
"No…. So we completely move away from it here."
"Good! And when we leave it what follows?"
"Great! And what happens when we leave it?"
"There is an interval of twenty-six years. The stage represents the same room; only, everything has grown older in twenty-six years, personages, furniture and hangings. The man whose face the audience saw, and whom Da Sylva denounced in a whisper to his daughter, as the executioner, is playing chess with Dr. Grey; Mrs. Grey is sewing; Richard, the child of the prologue, is, standing up writing; Jenny, the doctor's daughter, watches him as he writes."
"There is a gap of twenty-six years. The stage shows the same room; however, everything has aged in those twenty-six years: the people, the furniture, and the decorations. The man whose face the audience recognized, and whom Da Sylva quietly identified to his daughter as the executioner, is now playing chess with Dr. Grey; Mrs. Grey is sewing; Richard, the boy from the prologue, is standing and writing; Jenny, the doctor's daughter, is watching him as he writes."
"Stay, that idea of everybody twenty-six years older is capital."
"Wait, that idea of everyone being twenty-six years older is brilliant."
"And then?"
"And what happens next?"
"Ah! plague take it! That is all there is," said Beudin. "What, you stop there?"
"Ah! what a pain! Is that all there is?" said Beudin. "Wait, you’re stopping there?"
"Yes ... the deuce! you know well enough that if the play were concluded we should not want your assistance!"
"Yes ... seriously! You know very well that if the play were finished, we wouldn't need your help!"
"Quite so ... but still, you must have some idea concerning the rest of the play?"
"Exactly... but still, you must have some thoughts about the rest of the play?"
"Yes ... Richard has grown up under his father's care.[Pg 350] Richard is ambitious, and wants to become a member of the House of Commons. Dr. Grey's influence can help him: he pretends to be in love with his daughter ... We will have the spectacle of an English election, which will be out of the common."
"Yes ... Richard has grown up with his father's guidance.[Pg 350] Richard is ambitious and wants to join the House of Commons. Dr. Grey's influence can assist him: he acts like he’s in love with his daughter ... We’ll witness an unusual English election."
"And then?"
"And what's next?"
"Well then, you must invent the rest."
"Okay, then you have to come up with the rest."
"But, come, that means that there is nearly the whole thing to finish!"
"But, come on, that means there's almost everything left to finish!"
"Yes, very nearly ... But that won't trouble you!"
"Yeah, almost ... But that won't bother you!"
"That's all very well; but, at this moment, I am busy on my drama, Charles VII., and I cannot give my mind to anything else."
"That's all great; but right now, I'm focused on my play, Charles VII., and I can't think about anything else."
"Oh! there is no desperate hurry for it! meantime Goubaux will work away at it whilst I will do likewise ... You like the idea?"
"Oh! There's no rush for it! In the meantime, Goubaux will work on it while I do the same... Do you like the idea?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"All right! when you return to Paris we will have a meeting at your house or at mine or at Goubaux's and we will fix our plans."
"Alright! When you get back to Paris, let's have a meeting at your place, mine, or Goubaux's, and we can sort out our plans."
"Granted, but on one condition."
"Okay, but only if..."
"What?"
"Excuse me?"
"That it shall be under your names and I shall remain behind the curtain."
"That it will be in your names and I will stay behind the curtain."
"Why so?"
"Why is that?"
"Because, in the first place, the idea is not mine; and, secondly, because I have decided never to let my name be associated with any other name."[1]
"First of all, the idea isn’t mine; and, secondly, I’ve decided to never let my name be linked with anyone else’s."[1]
"Then we will withhold our names."
"Then we will keep our names to ourselves."
"No, indeed! that is out of the question."
"No way! That's not gonna happen."
"Very well, as you will! We will settle the point when we have come to it.... You will take half share?"
"Alright, as you wish! We'll figure it out when we get there... Are you taking a half share?"
"Why half, when there are three of us?"
"Why just half when there are three of us?"
"Because we are leaving you the trouble of working out the plot."
"Because we're leaving you to figure out the plot."
"I will compose the play if you wish; but I will only take a third of the profits."
"I'll write the play if you'd like; but I'll only take a third of the profits."
"We will discuss all that in Paris."
"We'll talk about all that in Paris."
"Precisely so! But do not forget that I make my reservations."
"Exactly! But don’t forget that I have my reservations."
"Then, this 24 July, at five o'clock in the afternoon, it is agreed that you, Goubaux and I shall write Richard Darlington between us."
"Then, on July 24 at five o'clock in the afternoon, it's decided that you, Goubaux, and I will write Richard Darlington together."
"To-day, 24 July, my birthday, it is agreed, at five o'clock in the afternoon, that Goubaux, you and I shall write Richard Darlington."
"Today, July 24, my birthday, it’s decided that at five o'clock in the afternoon, Goubaux, you and I will write Richard Darlington."
"Is to-day your birthday?"
"Is today your birthday?"
"I was twenty-nine at four o'clock this morning."
"I turned twenty-nine at four this morning."
"Bravo! that will bring us good luck!"
"Awesome! That will bring us good luck!"
"I hope so!"
"I really hope so!"
"When shall you be in Paris?"
"When will you be in Paris?"
"About 15 August."
"About August 15."
"That will suit perfectly!"
"That'll suit perfectly!"
"Now, jot down the plan of the prologue for me on a slip of paper."
"Now, write down the outline of the prologue for me on a piece of paper."
"Why now?"
"Why now?"
"Because I shall come to the rendez-vous with the prologue completed.... The more there is done the less will there be to do."
"Because I’ll show up to the meeting with the prologue finished... The more that’s done, the less there will be to do."
"Capital! you shall have the outline to-morrow."
"Capital! You'll get the outline tomorrow."
"Oh! it will do if I have it just before I leave; if I have it to-morrow, I shall finish it the day after to-morrow, and that will cause trouble in the matter of the drama I am writing."
"Oh! It will be fine if I have it right before I leave; if I get it tomorrow, I’ll finish it the day after tomorrow, and that will create issues with the drama I’m writing."
"Very well; I will keep it ready for you."
"Alright; I’ll have it ready for you."
"Ah! one more favour."
"Hey! one more favor."
"Which is?"
"Which one?"
"Do not let us speak of Richard Darlington again; I shall[Pg 352] think of it quite enough, you need not fear, without talking about it."
"Let's not talk about Richard Darlington anymore; I’ll[Pg 352] think about it plenty without bringing it up."
"We will not mention it again."
"We won't bring it up again."
And, as a matter of fact, from that moment, there was no reference made between us to Richard Darlington—I will not say as though it had never existed, but as though it never were to exist. On the other hand, Charles VII. went on its way. On 10 August I wrote the four last lines.
And, actually, from that point on, we didn’t mention Richard Darlington to each other—I'm not saying it was like it never existed, but more like it was never going to exist. Meanwhile, Charles VII. continued as usual. On August 10, I wrote the last four lines.
"Vous qui, nés sur la terre,
Portez comme des chiens, la chaîne héréditaire,
Demeurez en hurlant près du sépulcre ou vert ...
Pour Yakoub, il est libre, et retourne au désert!"
"You who were born on earth,"
Carry the hereditary chain like dogs,
Stay howling near the tomb or the green ...
For Yakoub, he is free, and returns to the desert!"
When the work was finished, I read it over. It was, as I have said, more in the nature of a pastiche than a true drama; but there was an immense advance in style between Christine and Charles VII. True, Christine is far superior to Charles VII. in imagination and in dramatic feeling.
When the work was done, I read it through. It was, as I've mentioned, more of a pastiche than an actual drama; but there was a significant improvement in style between Christine and Charles VII. It's true that Christine is much better than Charles VII. in creativity and dramatic emotion.
Nothing further kept me at Trouville. Beudin had preceded me to Paris several days before. We took leave of M. and Madame de la Garenne; we settled our accounts with Madame Oseraie and we started for Paris. Bonnechose accompanied us as far as Honfleur. He did not know how to part with us, poor fellow! He might have guessed that we were never to see each other again. The same night we took diligence from Rouen. Next day, at dawn, the travellers got down to climb a hillside; I thought I recognised, among our fellow-passengers, one of the editors of the Journal des Débats. I went up to him as he was coming towards me, and we got into conversation.
Nothing else kept me in Trouville. Beudin had already gone to Paris several days earlier. We said goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. de la Garenne, settled our accounts with Madame Oseraie, and headed to Paris. Bonnechose traveled with us as far as Honfleur. Poor guy didn’t know how to say goodbye! He might have sensed that we would never see each other again. That same night, we took the stagecoach from Rouen. The next day, at dawn, the travelers got off to climb a hillside; I thought I recognized one of the editors of the Journal des Débats. I approached him as he was coming toward me, and we started chatting.
"Well!" he said, "you have heard?"
"Well!" he said, "Did you hear?"
"What?"
"What?"
"Marion Delorme has been performed."
"Marion Delorme has been staged."
"Ah really?... And here am I hurrying to be present at the first performance!"
"Really?... And here I am rushing to be at the first performance!"
"You will not see it ... and you will not have lost much."
"You won't notice it... and you won't have lost much."
It was a matter of course that the editor of a journal[Pg 353] so devoted an admirer of Hugo as was the Journal des Débats should speak thus of the great poet.
It was natural for the editor of a journal[Pg 353] who was such a devoted admirer of Hugo, like the Journal des Débats, to speak this way about the great poet.
"Why do I not miss much? Has the play not succeeded?"
"Why don't I miss much? Did the play not succeed?"
"Oh! yes indeed! but coldly, coldly, coldly; and no money in it."
"Oh! yes, absolutely! but it’s cold, cold, cold; and there’s no money in it."
My companion said this with the intense gratification of the critic taking his revenge upon the author, of the eunuch with his foot on the sultan's neck.
My friend said this with the intense satisfaction of a critic getting back at the author, like a eunuch with his foot on the sultan's neck.
"Cold? No money?" I repeated.
"Cold? No cash?" I repeated.
"And besides, badly played!"
"And also, poorly executed!"
"Badly played by Bocage and Dorval! Come now!"
"That was poorly played by Bocage and Dorval! Seriously!"
"If the author had had any common-sense he would have withdrawn the play or he would have had it performed after the July Revolution, while things were warm after the rejection of MM. de Polignac and de la Bourdonnaie."
"If the author had any common sense, he would have pulled the play or performed it after the July Revolution when emotions were still high after the dismissal of Messrs. de Polignac and de la Bourdonnaie."
"But as to poetry?..."
"But what about poetry?..."
"Weak! Much poorer than Hernani!"
"Weak! Way worse than Hernani!"
"Ah! say you so," I burst forth, "a drama weak in poetry that contains such lines as these!"—
"Ah! is that what you're saying?" I exclaimed, "a play poor in poetry that has lines like these!"—
"LE ROI.
Je sais l'affaire, assez q'avez vous a me dire?
LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS.
Je dis qu'il est bien temps que vous y songiez, sire:
Que le cardinal-due a de sombres projets,
Et qu'il boit le meilleur du sang de vos sujets.
Votre père Henri, de mémoire royale,
N'eut point ainsi livré sa noblesse loyale;
Il ne la frappait point sans y fort regarder,
Et, bien gardé par elle, il savait la garder;
Il savait qu'on peut faire, avec des gens d'épees,
Quelque chose de mieux que des têtes coupées;
Qu'ils sont bons à la guerre! Il ne l'ignorait point,
Lui, dont plus d'une balle a troué le pourpoint.
Ce temps était le bon; j'en fus, et je l'honore;
[Pg 354]Un peu de seigneurie y palpitait encore.
Jamais à des seigneurs un prêtre n'eût touché;
On n'avait point alors de tête à bon marché.
Sire, en des jours mauvais comme ceux où nous sommes,
Croyez un vieux; gardez un peu de gentilshommes.
Vous en aurez besoin peut-être à votre tour!
Hélas! vous gémirez peut-être, quelque jour!
Que la place de Grève ait été si fêtée,
Et que tant de seigneurs, de valeur indomptée;
Vers qui se tourneront vos regrets envieux,
Soient morts depuis longtemps, qui ne seraient pas vieux!
Car nous sommes tout chauds de la guerre civile,
Et le tocsin d'hier gronde encor dans la ville
Soyez plus ménager des peines du bourreau:
C'est lui qui doit garder son estoc au fourreau,
Non pas nous! D'échafauds montrez vous économe;
Craignez d'avoir, un jour, à pleurer tel brave homme,
Tel vaillant de grand cœur dont, à l'heure qu'il est,
Le squelette blanchit aux chaînes d'un gibet!
Sire, le sang n'est pas un bonne rosée;
Nulle moisson ne vient sur la grève arrosée;
Et le peuple des rois évite le balcon,
Quand, aux dépens du Louvre, ils peuplent Montfaucon.
Meurent les courtisans, s'il faut que leur voix aille
Vous amuser, pendant que le bourreau travaille!
Cette voix des flatteurs qui dit que tout est bon,
Qu'après tout, on est fils d'Henri Quatre, et Bourbon,
Si haute qu'elle soit, ne couvre pas sans peine
Le bruit sourd qu'en tombant fait une tête humaine.
Je vous en donne avis, ne jouez pas ce jeu,
Roi, qui serez, un jour, face a face avec Dieu.
Donc, je vous dis, avant que rien ne s'accomplisse,
Qu'à tout prendre, il vaut mieux un combat qu'un supplice,
Que ce n'est pas la joie et l'honneur des États
De voir plus de besogneaux bourreaux qu'aux soldats!
Que ce n'est un pasteur dur pour la France où vous êtes,
Qu'un prêtre qui se paye une dîme de têtes,
Et que cet homme, illustre entre les inhumains,
Qui touche à votre sceptre, a du sang à ses mains!"
"KING.
I know the situation, what do you have to tell me?
THE MARQUIS OF NANGIS.
I say it’s time you start thinking about it, sire:
The cardinal-duke has dark plans,
And he’s draining the lifeblood of your subjects.
Your father Henri, in royal memory,
Would never have betrayed his loyal nobility;
He didn’t strike them down without careful thought,
And well protected by them, he knew how to keep them;
He understood that with men of the sword,
You can achieve something better than just beheaded heads;
They’re good for war! He didn’t ignore that,
He, who’s felt more than one bullet pierce his doublet.
Those were the good days; I was there, and I honor them;
[Pg 354]A bit of lordship still pulsed in those times.
Never would a priest have touched noblemen;
Back then, no one had a cheap head.
Sire, in tough times like the ones we face,
Trust an old man; hold onto some gentlemen.
You might need them someday!
Alas! You might grieve one day!
That the Place de Grève was so celebrated,
And that so many lords, of untamable worth;
Whom will your envious regrets turn to,
Are long dead, who wouldn’t have been old!
For we’re fresh from civil war,
And yesterday’s alarm still rumbles in the city.
Be more careful with the executioner’s pain:
It’s him who should keep his sword in its sheath,
Not us! Show caution with scaffolds;
Fear one day having to mourn such a brave man,
Such a valiant heart whose skeleton, even now,
Whiten in the chains of a gallows!
Sire, blood is not a good rain;
No harvest comes from the blood-soaked ground;
And the people of kings avoid the balcony,
When at the cost of the Louvre, they populate Montfaucon.
Let courtiers die, if their voices must go
Entertain you, while the executioner works!
This voice of flatterers that claims all is well,
That after all, you are a son of Henri IV, and Bourbon,
No matter how loud it is, it cannot easily cover
The dull thud made by a human head hitting the ground.
I advise you, don’t play this game,
King, who will one day be face to face with God.
So, I tell you, before anything happens,
Overall, it’s better to have a battle than a punishment,
That it’s not the joy and honor of the States
To see more butcherers than soldiers!
That it’s a harsh shepherd for the France where you are,
Than a priest who collects a tithe of heads,
And that this man, notable among the inhumane,
Who touches your scepter, has blood on his hands!"
"Why! you know it by heart then?"
"Wow! You really know it by heart, don't you?"
"I hope so, indeed!"
"I really hope so!"
"Why the deuce did you learn it?"
"Why on earth did you learn it?"
"I know nearly the whole of Marion Delorme by heart."
"I know almost all of Marion Delorme by heart."
And I quoted almost the whole of the scene between Didier and Marion Delorme, in the island.
And I quoted almost the entire scene between Didier and Marion Delorme on the island.
"Ah! that is indeed odd!" he said.
"Wow! That's really strange!" he said.
"No! there is nothing odd about it. I simply think Marion Delorme one of the most beautiful things in the world. I had the manuscript at my disposal and have read and re-read it. The lines I have just recited have remained in my memory and I repeated them to you in support of my opinion."
"No! There's nothing strange about it. I just think Marion Delorme is one of the most beautiful things in the world. I had the manuscript available and have read and re-read it. The lines I just recited have stuck in my memory, and I repeated them to you to back up my opinion."
"Then, too," continued my critic, "the plot is taken from de Vigny's novel...."
"Then again," my critic continued, "the plot is taken from de Vigny's novel...."
"Good! that is exactly where Hugo shows his wisdom. I would willingly have been his John the forerunner in this instance."
"Great! That’s exactly where Hugo demonstrates his wisdom. I would gladly have been his John the Baptist in this case."
"Do you mean to say that Saverny and Didier are not copied from Cinq-Mars and de Thou?"
"Are you saying that Saverny and Didier aren't based on Cinq-Mars and de Thou?"
"As man is copied from man and no further!"
"As one person is modeled after another, and that's it!"
"And Didier is your Antony."
"And Didier is your Anthony."
"Rather say that Antony is taken from Didier, seeing that Marion Delorme was made a year before I dreamt of Antony "Ah! well, one good thing has come out of it."
"Instead, let’s say that Antony is inspired by Didier, considering that Marion Delorme was created a year before I even thought of Antony. 'Ah! Well, at least something good came out of it.'"
"What is that?"
"What’s that?"
"Your defence of Victor Hugo."
"Your defense of Victor Hugo."
"Why not? I like him and admire him."
"Why not? I like him and respect him."
"A colleague!" said the critic in a tone of profound pity, and shrugging his shoulders.
"A colleague!" said the critic with a deep sense of pity, shrugging his shoulders.
"Take your seats, gentlemen!" shouted the conductor.
"Take your seats, everyone!" shouted the conductor.
We remounted, the editor of the Journal des Débats inside, I in the coupé, and the diligence resumed a monotonous trot, to meditation.
We got back on, the editor of the Journal des Débats inside, I in the coupé, and the carriage started a steady trot again, leaving me to my thoughts.
[1] I resolutely stuck to this decision until the time when my great friendship with Maquet determined me to spring the surprise upon him of putting forth his name with mine as the author of the drama of Les Mousquetaires. This was but fair, however, since we did not only the drama, but also the romance, in collaboration. I am delighted to be able to add, that, although we have not worked together now for a couple of years, the friendship is just the same, at all events on my side.
[1] I firmly stuck to this decision until my strong friendship with Maquet led me to surprise him by putting forth his name alongside mine as the author of the play Les Mousquetaires. This was only fair since we collaborated on both the play and the romance. I'm happy to add that, although we haven't worked together for a couple of years now, the friendship remains just as strong, at least on my end.
CHAPTER XVI
Marion Delorme
Marion Delorme
I fell into meditation. What was the reason the public was not of my way of thinking about Marion Delorme? I had remarked to Taylor on the night of the reading at Devéria's—
I got lost in thought. Why didn’t the public share my views on Marion Delorme? I had mentioned to Taylor on the night of the reading at Devéria's—
"If Hugo makes as much dramatic progress as is usual in ordinary dramatic development, we shall all be done for!"
"If Hugo makes as much dramatic progress as usual in normal dramatic development, we're all in trouble!"
The first act of Marion, in style and argument, is one of the cleverest and most fascinating ever seen on the stage. All the characters take part in it: Marion, Didier and Saverny. The last six lines forecast the whole play, even including the conversion of the courtesan. Marion remains in a reverie for a while, then she calls out—
The first act of Marion, in style and content, is one of the smartest and most captivating ever seen on stage. All the characters are involved: Marion, Didier, and Saverny. The last six lines hint at the entire play, even the transformation of the courtesan. Marion stays lost in thought for a bit, then she calls out—
"MARION.
Dame Rose
(Montrant la fenêtre.)
Fermez ...
DAME ROSE, à part.
On dirait qu'elle pleure!
(Haut.)
Il est temps de dormir, madame.
MARION.
Oui, c'est votre heure,
A vous autres ...
(Défaisant ses cheveux.)
Venez m'accommoder.
DAME ROSE (la désabillant).
Eh bien,
Madame, le monsieur de ce soir est-il bien?...
[Pg 357]
Riche?...
MARION.
Non.
DAME ROSE.
Galant?
MARION.
Non, Rose: il ne m'a pas même
Baisé la main!
DAME ROSE.
Alors, qu'en faites-vous?
MARION, pensive.
Je l'aime!..."
"MARION.
Dame Rose
(Pointing to the window.)
Close...
Dame Rose, aside.
Looks like she’s crying!
(Loudly.)
It's time to sleep, madam.
MARION.
Yes, it’s your moment.
For you all ...
(Undoing her hair.)
Please help me get ready.
LADY ROSE (taking off her clothes).
Well,
Madam, is the gentleman tonight good?...
[Pg 357]
Rich?...
MARION.
No.
Dame Rose.
Cute?
MARION.
No, Rose: he hasn't even
Kissed my hand!
Dame Rose.
So, what are you planning to do with him?
MARION, thoughtful.
I love him!
The second act scintillates with wit and poetry. The very original character of Langely, which is unfolded in the fourth act, is inserted as neatly as possible.
The second act shines with cleverness and beauty. The unique character of Langely, which is revealed in the fourth act, is introduced smoothly.
As regards poetry I know none in any other language constructed like this—
As for poetry, I don’t know any in any other language made like this—
"Monsieur vient de Paris? Dit-on quelques nouvelles?
—Point! Corneille toujours met en l'air les cervelles;
Guiche a l'Ordre, Ast est duc. Puis des riens à foisson:
De trente huguenots on a fait pendaison.
Toujours nombre de duels. Le trois, c'était Augennes
Contre Arquien, pout avoir porté du point de Gênes.
Lavardin avec Pons s'est rencontré le dix,
Pour avoir pris a Pons la femme de Sourdis;
Sourdis avec d'Ailly, pour une du théâtre
De Mondori; le neuf, Nogent avec la Châtre,
Pour avoir mal écrit trois vers a Colletet;
Gorde avec Margaillan, pour l'heure qu'il était;
D'Humière avec Gondi, pour le pas à l'église;
Et puis tous les Brissac contre tous les Soubise,
A propos du pari d'un cheval contre un chien;
Enfin, Caussade avec la Tournelle, pour rien,
Poir le plaisir! Caussade a tué la Tournelle.
. . . . . . . . .
—Refais nous donc la liste
[Pg 358]
De tous ces duels ... Qu'en dit le roi?
—Le cardinal
Est furieux, et veux un prompt remède au mal!
—Point de courrier du camp?
—Je crois que, par surprise,
Nous avons pris Figuière ... ou bien qu'on nous l'à prise ...
C'est a nous qu'on l'a prise!
—Et que dit de ce coup
Le roi?
—Le cardinal n'est pas content du tout!
—Que fait la cour? le roi se porte bien, sans doute?
—Non pas: le cardinal a la fièvre et la goutte,
Et ne va qu'en litière.
—Étrange original!
Quand nous te parlons roi, tu réponds cardinal!
—Ah! c'est la mode!"
"Monsieur just returned from Paris? Any news?
—None! Corneille always blows things out of proportion;
Guiche’s in the Order, Ast is a duke. Then a bunch of trivial stuff:
They hanged thirty Huguenots.
Still plenty of duels. On the third, it was Augennes
Against Arquien, for having worn the point from Genoa.
Lavardin met Pons on the tenth,
For having taken Pons's wife from Sourdis;
Sourdis with d'Ailly, over a play
By Mondori; on the ninth, Nogent faced La Châtre,
For having poorly written three lines to Colletet;
Gorde with Margaillan, over the time of day;
D'Humière with Gondi, over walking into church;
And then all the Brissacs against all the Soubises,
Over a bet on a horse vs a dog;
And finally, Caussade with La Tournelle, for nothing,
Just for fun! Caussade killed La Tournelle.
I'm sorry, but it seems I cannot assist you without any text provided. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.
—So, can you share the list again?
[Pg 358]
Of all these duels ... What does the king say?
—The cardinal
Is furious and wants a quick fix for this problem!
—No news from the camp?
—I think, surprisingly,
We captured Figuière ... or maybe they captured him from us ...
It was us that they captured!
—And what does the king say
About this news?
—The cardinal is not happy at all!
—What’s the court doing? The king is well, I assume?
—Not exactly: the cardinal has a fever and gout,
And can only go by litter.
—Weird character!
When we mention the king, you reply cardinal!
—Ah! It’s the trend!"
In order to understand the value of the second act, we must quote line after line. The whole play, in fact, has but one defect: its dazzling poetry blinds the actors; players of the first order are necessary for the acting of the very smallest parts. There is a M. de Bouchavannes who says four lines, I think; the first two upon Corneille—
In order to understand the value of the second act, we must quote line after line. The whole play, in fact, has only one flaw: its stunning poetry overwhelms the actors; top-tier performers are required even for the tiniest roles. There is a M. de Bouchavannes who says four lines, I think; the first two about Corneille—
"Famille de robins, de petits avocats,
Qui se sont fait des sous en rognant des ducats!"
"Family of petty lawyers,
Who made some money by cutting corners!"
And the other two upon Richelieu—
And the other two about Richelieu—
"Meure le Richelieu, qui déchire et qui flatte!
L'homme a la main sanglante, à la robe écarlate!"
"Die the Richelieu, who tears and who flatters!
The man with bloody hands, in a scarlet robe!"
If you can get those four lines said properly by a supernumerary you will indeed be a great teacher! Or if you can get them said by an artiste, you will indeed be a clever manager! Then all the discussion upon Corneille and Gamier, which I imitated in Christine, is excellently appropriate. It had, in fact, come to open fighting from the moment they accused us of offending against good taste the theme supported by M. Étienne, M. Viennet and M. Onésime Leroy, and of placing before the public the opinion held about Corneille, when Cardinal Richelieu influenced the Academy to censure the Cid in the same way that we in our turn had[Pg 359] censured it! When I say the same way, I mean the same as regards sequence of time and not of affiliation: Academicians do not reproduce; as is well-known, it is only with difficulty that they even manage to produce. In conclusion, the second act is admirably summed up in this line of Langely—
If you can get those four lines delivered well by a backup actor, you'll truly be an amazing teacher! Or if you can have them delivered by a talented performer, you'll definitely be a smart director! All the discussions about Corneille and Garnier, which I referenced in Christine, are perfectly relevant. It had, in fact, escalated to open conflict once they accused us of bad taste, based on the arguments put forward by M. Étienne, M. Viennet, and M. Onésime Leroy, and of presenting to the public the view held about Corneille when Cardinal Richelieu pressured the Academy to criticize the Cid just as we had[Pg 359] criticized it! When I say the same way, I mean in terms of timing and not in terms of connections: Academicians don’t recreate; as is well-known, they struggle even to create. In conclusion, the second act is perfectly summarized in this line from Langely—
"Ça! qui dirait qu'ici c'est moi qui suis le fou?"
"Wow! Who would think that I'm the crazy one here?"
Then comes the third act, full of imagination, in which Laffemas, Richelieu's black servant, affords contrast to the grey figure of His Eminence; where Didier and Marion come to ask hospitality from the Marquis de Nangis, lost in the midst of a troop of mountebanks; when Didier learns from Saverny that Marie and Marion are one and the same woman, and where, his heart broken by one of the greatest sorrows that can wring man's soul, he gives himself up to the guilty lieutenant.
Then comes the third act, packed with creativity, where Laffemas, Richelieu's black servant, contrasts with the dull figure of His Eminence; where Didier and Marion seek shelter from the Marquis de Nangis, who is caught up in a crowd of tricksters; when Didier finds out from Saverny that Marie and Marion are actually the same woman, and where, heartbroken by one of the deepest sorrows that can torment a person, he surrenders himself to the guilty lieutenant.
The fourth act is a masterpiece. It has been objected that this act no more belongs to the play than a drawer does to a chest of drawers; granted! But in that drawer the author has enclosed the very gem of the whole play: the character of Louis XIII., the wearied, melancholy, ill, weak, cruel and superstitious king, who has nobody but a clown to distract his thoughts, and who only talks with him of scaffolds and of beheadings and of tombs, not daring to complain to anyone else of the state of dependence in which the terrible Cardinal holds him.
The fourth act is a masterpiece. Some have argued that this act doesn’t belong to the play any more than a drawer belongs to a chest of drawers; okay! But in that drawer, the author has placed the true gem of the entire play: the character of Louis XIII., the exhausted, sad, sickly, weak, cruel, and superstitious king, who has no one to distract him except a clown. He only talks to this clown about scaffolds, beheadings, and tombs, too afraid to complain to anyone else about the oppressive control the terrible Cardinal has over him.
Listen to this—
Check this out—
"LANGELY.—Votre Majesté donc souffre bien?
LE ROI.—Je m'ennuie!
"Moi, le premier de France, en être le dernier!
Je changerais mon sort au sort d'un braconnier.
Oh! chasser tout le jour en vos allures franches;
N'avoir rien qui vous gêne, et dormir sous les branches;
Rire des gens du roi, chanter pendant l'éclair,
Et vivre libre au bois, comme l'oiseau dans l'air!
Le manant est, du moins, maître et roi dans son bouge.
Mais toujours sous les yeux avoir cet homme rouge;
Toujours là, grave et dur, me disant à toisir:
[Pg 360]
'Sire, il faut que ceci soit votre bon plaisir.'
Dérision! cet homme au peuple me dérobe;
Comme on fait d'un enfant, il me met dans sa robe;
Et, lorsqu'un passant dit: 'Qu'est-ce donc que je vois
Dessous le cardinal?' on répond: 'C'est le roi!'
Puis ce sont, tous les jours, quelques nouvelles listes:
Hier, des huguenots, aujourd'hui, des duellistes,
Dont il lui faut la tête ... Un duel! le grand forfait!
Mais des têtes, toujours! qu'est-ce donc qu'il en fait?..."
LANGELY.—So, Your Majesty, are you feeling alright?
THE KING.—I'm bored!
"Me, at the top of France, feeling like I'm at the bottom!"
I’d swap my destiny for that of a poacher.
Oh! To spend the whole day hunting with your carefree attitude;
To have no obstacles in your way and sleep beneath the branches;
Laugh at the king's people, sing when there’s lightning,
And live freely in the woods, like a bird in the sky!
The peasant is, at least, the master and king in his home.
But always having that red-faced guy watching me;
Always present, serious and stern, reminding me:
[Pg 360]
"Your Highness, it should be your pleasure."
What a joke! That guy takes away the people from me;
Just like you would with a child, he wraps me in his robe;
And when someone walking by asks, "What is it that I see?
“Under the cardinal?” they respond, “It’s the king!”
Then, there are always new lists every day:
Yesterday, the Huguenots, today, fighters,
Who he wants to take down... A duel! The ultimate crime!
But heads, always! What does he do with them?..."
In a moment of spite you hear him say to Langely—
In a moment of bitterness, you hear him say to Langely—
"Crois-tu, si je voulais, que je serais le maître?"
"Do you really think that if I wanted to, I would be in charge?"
And Langely, ever faithful, replies by this line, which has passed into a proverb—
And Langely, always loyal, responds with this line, which has become a saying—
"Montaigne dit: 'Que sais-je?' Et Rabelais: 'Peut-être!'"
"Montaigne says: 'What do I know?' And Rabelais: 'Maybe!'"
At last he breaks his chain for a second, picks up a pen; and when on the point of signing a pardon for Didier and Saverny, to his jester, who says to him—
At last, he breaks free from his chain for a moment, grabs a pen; and just as he's about to sign a pardon for Didier and Saverny, his jester says to him—
"Toute grâce est un poids qu'un roi du cœur s'enlève!"
"Toute grâce est un poids qu'un roi du cœur s'enlève!"
he replies—
he responds—
"Tu dis vrai: j'ai toujours souffert, les jours de Grève!
Nangis avait raison, un mort jamais ne sert,
Et Montfaucon peuplé rend le Louvre désert.
C'est une trahison que de venir, en face,
Au fils du roi Henri nier son droit de grâce!
Que fais-je ainsi, déchu, détrôné, désarmé,
Comme dans un sépulcre en cet homme enfermé?
Sa robe est mon linceul, et mes peuples me pleurent ...
Non! non! je ne veux pas que ces deux enfants meurent!
Vivre est un don du ciel trop visible et trop beau!
Dieu, qui sait où l'on va, peut ouvrir un tombeau;
Un roi, non ... Je les rends tous deux à leur famille;
Us vivront ... Ce vieillard et cette jeune fille
Me béniront! C'est dit.
(Il signe.)
J'ai signé, moi, le roi!
Le cardinal sera furieux; mais, ma foi!
Tant pis! cela fera plaisir à Bellegarde."
"You're right: I've always suffered on strike days!
Nangis was right, a dead man is useless,
And a crowded Montfaucon leaves the Louvre empty.
It's a betrayal to stand here,
Denying the son of King Henri his right to mercy!
What am I doing, fallen, dethroned, disarmed,
Like a corpse trapped inside this man?
His robe is my shroud, and my people mourn for me...
No! No! I won't let these two children die!
Living is a gift from heaven, too obvious and too beautiful!
God, who knows where we're going, can open a tomb;
A king, no... I return them both to their family;
They will live... This old man and this young girl
Will bless me! It's settled.
He's signing.
I have signed, I, the king!
The cardinal will be furious; but, honestly!
Too bad! That will please Bellegarde."
And Langely says half aloud—
And Langely says half out loud—
"On peut bien, une fois, être roi, par mégarde!"
"One can certainly be king once, by mistake!"
What a masterpiece is that act! And then one remembers that because M. Crosnier was closely pressed, and had to change his spectacle, he suppressed that act, which, in the words of the critic, faisait longueur! ...
What a masterpiece that act is! And then you remember that because M. Crosnier was under pressure and had to change his performance, he cut that act, which, in the critic's words, was too long! ...
Ah well!...
Oh well!...
In the fifth act the pardon is revoked. The young people must die. They are led out into the courtyard of the prison for a few minutes' fresh air. Didier converses with the spectre of death visible only to himself; Saverny sleeps his last sleep. By prostituting herself to Laffemas, Marion has secured from the judge the life of her lover, and as she enters, bruised still from the judge's mauling, she says—
In the fifth act, the pardon is taken away. The young people must face execution. They are taken out to the prison courtyard for a few minutes of fresh air. Didier talks with the specter of death, which only he can see; Saverny is in his final sleep. By giving herself to Laffemas, Marion has managed to get the judge to spare her lover's life, and as she enters, still hurt from the judge's beating, she says—
"Sa lèvre est un fer rouge, et m'a toute marquée!"
"Her lip is like a burning iron, and it's left a mark on me!"
Suppose Mademoiselle Mars, who did not want to say—
Suppose Mademoiselle Mars, who didn’t want to say—
"Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!"
"You are, my lion, magnificent and generous!"
had had such a line as that to say, think what a struggle there would have been between her and the author. But Dorval found it easy enough, and she said the line with admirable expression.
had had such a line as that to say, think about the struggle there would have been between her and the author. But Dorval found it simple enough, and she delivered the line with great expression.
As for Bocage, the hatred, pride and scorn which he displayed were truely superb, when, not able to contain himself longer, he lets the secret escape, which until then had been gnawing his entrails as the fox the young Spartan's, he exclaimed—
As for Bocage, the hatred, pride, and scorn he showed were truly magnificent when, unable to hold back any longer, he let the secret slip out, which had been eating away at him inside just like the fox did to the young Spartan. He exclaimed—
"Marie ... ou Marion?
—Didier, soyez clément!
—Madame, on n'entre pas ici facilement;
Les bastilles d'État sont nuit et jour gardées;
Les portes sont de fer, les murs ont vingt coudées!
Pour que devant vos pas la porte s'ouvre ainsi,
A qui vous êtes-vous prostituée ici?
[Pg 362]
—Didier, qui vous a dit?
—Personne ... Je devine!
—Didier, j'en jure ici par la bonté divine,
C'était pour vous sauver, vous arracher d'ici,
Pour fléchir les bourreaux, pour vous sauver ...
—Merci!
Ah! qu'on soit jusque-là sans pudeur et sans âme,
C'est véritablement une honte, madame!
Où donc est le marchand d'opprobre et de mépris
Qui se fait acheter ma tête à de tels prix?
Où donc est le geôlier, le juge? où donc est l'homme?
Que je le broie ici! qui je l'écrase ... comme
Ceci!
(Il brise le portrait de Marion.)
Le juge! Allez, messieurs, faites des lois,
Et jugez! Que m'importe, à moi, que le faux poids
Qui fait toujours pencher votre balance infâme
Soit la tête d'un homme ou l'honneur d'une femme!"
"Marie ... or Marion?
—Didier, be nice!
—Madam, it’s not easy to get in here;
The state prisons are guarded day and night;
The doors are made of iron, the walls are twenty cubits high!
For the door to open before you like this,
Who have you sold yourself to here?
[Pg 362]
—Didier, who told you?
—No one ... I can figure it out!
—Didier, I swear here by divine goodness,
It was to save you, to pull you out of here,
To bend the executioners, to save you ...
—Thanks!
Ah! that one can be so shameless and soulless,
It’s truly a disgrace, madam!
Where is the dealer in shame and contempt
Who is offering my head at such prices?
Where is the jailer, the judge? Where is the man?
Let me crush him here! I’ll smash him ... like
This!
He destroys Marion's portrait.
The judge! Alright, gentlemen, let's create some laws,
And judge! What do I care, to me, that the false scale
Which always tips your infamous balance
Is the head of a man or the honor of a woman!
I challenge anyone to find a more powerful or affecting passage in any language that has been written since the day when the lips of man uttered a first cry, a first complaint. Finally, Didier forgives Marion for being Marion, and, for a moment, the redeemed courtesan again becomes the lover. It is then that she speaks these two charming lines, which were suppressed at the performance and even, I believe, in the printed play—
I dare anyone to find a more impactful or moving passage in any language that’s been written since the first time humans expressed a cry or a complaint. In the end, Didier forgives Marion for being who she is, and for a brief moment, the redeemed courtesan transforms back into the lover. That’s when she utters these two lovely lines, which were cut from the performance and, I think, even from the published play—
"De l'autre Marion rien en moi n'est resté,
Ton amour m'a refait une virginité!"
"From the other Marion, nothing remains in me,
Your love has given me a fresh start!"
Then the executioner enters, the two young people walk to the scaffold, the wall falls, Richelieu passes through the breach in his litter, and Marion Delorme, laid on the ground, half-fainting, recognises Didier's executioner, rises, exclaiming with a gesture of menace and of despair—
Then the executioner comes in, the two young people walk to the scaffold, the wall collapses, Richelieu makes his way through the opening in his litter, and Marion Delorme, lying on the ground and half-fainting, recognizes Didier's executioner, gets up, exclaiming with a threatening gesture and in despair—
"Regardez tous! voici l'homme rouge qui passe!"
"Look everyone! Here comes the man in red!"
It is twenty-two years ago since I meditated thus in the coupé of my diligence, going over in memory the whole play of Marion Delorme. After twenty-two years I have just re-read[Pg 363] it in order to write this chapter; my appreciation of it has not changed; if anything, I think the drama even more beautiful now than I did then. Now, what was the reason that it was less successful than Hernani or than Lucrèce Borgia? This is one of those mysteries which neither the sibyl of Cumæ nor the pythoness of Delphi will ever explain,—nor the soul of the earth, which speaks to M. Hennequin. Well, I say it boldly, there is one thing of which I am as happy now as I was then: in reading that beautiful drama again, for each act of which I would give a year of my life, were it possible, I have felt a greater admiration for my dear Victor, a more fervent friendship towards him and not one atom of envy. Only, I repeat at my desk in Brussels what I said in the Rouen diligence: "Ah! if only I could write such lines as these since I know so well how to construct a play!..." I reached Paris without having thought of anything else but Marion Delorme. I had completely forgotten Charles VII. I went to pay my greetings to Bocage and Dorval the very evening of my arrival. They promised to act for me, and I took my place in the theatre. Exactly what I expected had happened to spoil the play; except for Bocage, who played Didier; Dorval, Marion; and Chéri, Saverny; the rest of the play was ruined. The result of course was that all the marvellous poetry was extinguished, as a breath extinguishes the clearness of a mirror. I left the theatre with a heavy heart.
It was twenty-two years ago that I reflected on the whole play of Marion Delorme. After twenty-two years, I just re-read[Pg 363] it to write this chapter; my opinion hasn’t changed; if anything, I think the drama is even more beautiful now than it was back then. But why was it less successful than Hernani or Lucrèce Borgia? This is one of those mysteries that neither the Sibyl of Cumae nor the Oracle of Delphi will ever explain, nor the soul of the earth that speaks to M. Hennequin. Well, I’ll say it openly: there’s one thing I feel just as happy about now as I did then: reading that beautiful drama again, for each act of which I would gladly give a year of my life if it were possible, has made me admire my dear Victor even more, feel a deeper friendship for him, and not an ounce of envy. I just repeat at my desk in Brussels what I said in the Rouen coach: "Ah! if only I could write lines like these since I know so well how to construct a play!…” I arrived in Paris having thought of nothing else but Marion Delorme. I had completely forgotten about Charles VII. I went to greet Bocage and Dorval the very evening of my arrival. They promised to perform for me, and I took my seat in the theater. Just as I expected, something spoiled the play; except for Bocage, who played Didier; Dorval, Marion; and Chéri, Saverny; the rest of the performance was ruined. As a result, all the marvelous poetry was lost, like a breath clouding the clarity of a mirror. I left the theater with a heavy heart.
CHAPTER XVII
Collaboration
Collaboration
I had to let a few days go by before I had the courage to return to my own verses after having heard and re-read those of Hugo. I felt inclined to do to Charles VII. what Harel had asked me to do to Christine: to put it into prose. Finally, I gathered together some friends at my house, and read them my new drama. But, whether I read badly or whether they came to me with biased minds, the reading did not have the effect upon them that I expected. This want of success discouraged me. Two days later, I had to read to Harel, who had already sent me my premium of a thousand francs, and also to Georges, to whom the part of Bérengère was allotted. I wrote to Harel not to count on the play and I sent him back his thousand francs. I decided not to have my drama played. Harel believed neither in my abnegation nor in my honesty. He came rushing to me in alarm. I laid my reasons before him, taking as many pains to depreciate my work as another would have done to exalt his. But to everything I said Harel took exception, repeating—
I had to wait a few days before I could bring myself to go back to my own writing after hearing and rereading Hugo's work. I felt tempted to do to Charles VII. what Harel had asked me to do with Christine: to turn it into prose. Eventually, I gathered some friends at my house and read them my new play. But whether I read poorly or they came with preconceived notions, the reading didn’t have the impact I hoped for. This lack of success discouraged me. Two days later, I needed to read for Harel, who had already sent me my payment of a thousand francs, and also for Georges, who was assigned the role of Bérengère. I wrote to Harel not to expect the play and returned his thousand francs. I decided against having my play performed. Harel didn't believe in my decision or my honesty. He rushed to me in distress. I laid out my reasons, going to great lengths to downplay my work, as someone else might have done to promote theirs. But Harel took issue with everything I said, repeating—
"It is not that ... it is not that ... it is not that!"
"It’s not that ... it’s not that ... it’s not that!"
"What, then, is it?" I exclaimed.
"What is it, then?" I exclaimed.
"The Théâtre-Français had offered you five thousand francs premium!"
"The Théâtre-Français had offered you a five thousand franc bonus!"
"Me?"
"Me?"
"I know it."
"I get it."
"Me, five thousand francs premium?"
"Me, 5,000 francs bonus?"
"I tell you I know it, and in proof ..." He drew five one-thousand franc notes from his pocket.
"I’m telling you, I know it, and to prove it..." He pulled out five one-thousand franc notes from his pocket.
"The proof lies here in the five thousand francs I bring you." And he held out the five notes to me.
"The proof is in the five thousand francs I’m giving you." And he extended the five bills toward me.
I took one of them.
I took one.
"All right," I said, "there is nothing to change in the programme; I will read it the day after to-morrow. Only, tell Lockroy to be at the reading."
"Okay," I said, "there's nothing to change in the schedule; I'll read it the day after tomorrow. Just make sure Lockroy is there for the reading."
"Well, what about the remaining four thousand francs?"
"Well, what about the other four thousand francs?"
"They do not belong to me, my dear fellow; therefore you must take them back."
"They're not mine, my friend; so you'll need to take them back."
Harel scratched his ear and looked at me sideways. It was evident he did not understand.
Harel scratched his ear and glanced at me from the side. It was clear he didn't get it.
Poor Harel! how sharp he was!
Poor Harel! He was so clever!
Two days later, before Harel, Georges, Janin and Lockroy I read the play with immense success. It was at once put in rehearsal and was to appear soon after a drama of Mirabeau, which was being studied. I would fain say what the drama of Mirabeau was like, but I cannot now remember. All I know is that the principal part was for Frédérick, and that they thought a great deal of the work.
Two days later, I read the play with Harel, Georges, Janin, and Lockroy, and it was a huge success. It was immediately put into rehearsal and was set to appear soon after a drama about Mirabeau, which was in the works. I wish I could describe what the drama about Mirabeau was like, but I can't remember now. All I know is that the lead role was meant for Frédérick, and they had high hopes for the production.
Charles VII. was distributed as follows:—Savoisy, Ligier; Bérengère, Georges; Yaqoub, Lockroy; Charles VII., Delafosse: Agnes Sorel, Noblet. This business of the distribution done, I immediately turned to Richard; its wholly modern colouring, political theme, vivid and rather coarse treatment was more in accord with my own age and special tastes than studies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Let me hasten to say that I was then not anything like as familiar with those periods as I am now.
Charles VII. was distributed like this:—Savoisy, Ligier; Bérengère, Georges; Yaqoub, Lockroy; Charles VII., Delafosse; Agnes Sorel, Noblet. Once that distribution was done, I quickly turned to Richard; its completely modern style, political theme, bright and somewhat crude treatment suited my own generation and specific interests much better than studies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. I should add that at that time, I wasn’t nearly as familiar with those periods as I am now.
I wrote to Goubaux that I was at his disposition if it pleased him to come, either next day to breakfast at my house, or at his own if he preferred. We had become neighbours; I had left my lodgings in the rue de l'Université and had taken a third floor in the square d'Orléans, a very fine house just built in the rue Saint-Lazare, 42, where several of my friends already lived, Zimmermann, Étienne Arago, Robert Fleury and Gué. I believe Zimmermann and Robert Fleury still live there: Gué is dead and Étienne Arago is in exile.[Pg 366] Goubaux, who lived at No. 19 rue Blanche, fixed a rendez-vous there for six in the evening. We were to dine first and talk of Richard Darlington afterwards. I say talk, because, at the time of reading, it was found that hardly anything had been written. However, Goubaux had found several guide-posts to serve as beacons for our three acts. There were, pre-eminently, traits of character to suit ambitious actors. One of the principal was where Dr. Grey recalls to Richard and Mawbray, when Richard is about to marry Jenny, the circumstances of the famous night which formed the subject of the prologue, relating how a carriage stopped at the door. "Had that carriage a coat of arms?" asked Richard. Another item, still more remarkable, was given me to make what I liked of it: the daughter of Da Sylva, Caroline, Richard's mother, has married a Lord Wilmor; it is his daughter who is to marry Richard, led away by the king determined to divorce Jenny. Only, Caroline, who sees no more in Richard than an influential Member of Parliament, one day destined to become a minister, demands an interview with Richard to reveal a great secret to him; the secret is the existence of a boy who was lost in the little village of Darlington, and who, being her son, has the right to her fortune. Richard listens with growing attention; then, at one particular passage, Wilmor's recital coincides so remarkably with that of Mawbray as to leave no room for doubt in his mind; but, instead of revealing himself, instead of flinging himself into the arms of the woman who confesses her shame and weeps, asking for her child back again, he gently disengages himself from her in order to say to himself in a whisper, "She is my mother!" and to ask himself, still in a whisper, "Who can my father be?" Finally, Richard accepts the king's proposals; he must get rid of his wife, no matter at what price, even were it that of a crime. This is about as far as the work had progressed at our first talk with Goubaux. I kept my word and brought the prologue entirely finished. I had done it exactly as Goubaux had imagined it should be written; I had, therefore, but to take courage and to continue. While Goubaux talked, my mind was gathering up[Pg 367] all the threads he held, and, like an active weaver, in less than an hour, I had almost entirely sketched out the plan on my canvas. I shared my mental travail with him, all unformed as it was. The divorce scene between Richard and his wife, in especial, delighted me immensely. A scene of Schiller had returned to my memory, a scene of marvellous beauty and vigour. I saw how I could apply the scene between Philip II. and Elizabeth, to Richard and Jenny. I will give the two scenes in due course. All this preparatory work was settled between us;—in addition to this, it was decided that Goubaux and Beudin should write the election scene together, for which I had not the necessary data, while Beudin had been present at scenes of this nature in London. Then Goubaux looked at me.
I wrote to Goubaux that I was available if he wanted to come over, either the next day for breakfast at my place or at his own if he preferred. We had become neighbors; I had moved out of my place on rue de l'Université and had taken a third-floor apartment in square d'Orléans, a very nice building just completed on rue Saint-Lazare, 42, where several of my friends already lived — Zimmermann, Étienne Arago, Robert Fleury, and Gué. I believe Zimmermann and Robert Fleury still live there; Gué is deceased and Étienne Arago is in exile.[Pg 366] Goubaux, who lived at No. 19 rue Blanche, set up a meeting there for six in the evening. We would have dinner first and then discuss Richard Darlington afterwards. I say discuss, because, when we read it, it turned out that hardly anything had actually been written. However, Goubaux had identified several guideposts to serve as guides for our three acts. There were, especially, character traits suited for ambitious actors. One of the key moments was when Dr. Grey reminds Richard and Mawbray, just as Richard is about to marry Jenny, of the famous night that was the subject of the prologue, recounting how a carriage stopped at the door. "Did that carriage have a coat of arms?" Richard asks. Another even more remarkable point was given to me to use as I liked: Caroline, Da Sylva's daughter and Richard's mother, has married Lord Wilmor; it is his daughter who is to marry Richard, led away by the king who is determined to divorce Jenny. However, Caroline, who sees Richard merely as a powerful Member of Parliament who is destined to become a minister, demands a meeting with him to reveal a significant secret; the secret is the existence of a boy who was lost in the small village of Darlington and who, being her son, is entitled to her fortune. Richard listens with increasing attention; then, at one particular moment, Wilmor's story aligns so closely with Mawbray's that there is no doubt in his mind; but instead of revealing himself, instead of throwing himself into the arms of the woman who confesses her shame and weeps, asking for her child back, he gently pulls away to whisper to himself, "She is my mother!" and to wonder, still quietly, "Who can my father be?" Ultimately, Richard accepts the king's proposals; he must get rid of his wife, no matter the cost, even if it means committing a crime. This was about as far as the work had progressed in our first discussion with Goubaux. I kept my promise and brought the prologue completely finished. I had written it exactly as Goubaux had envisioned it; therefore, I just needed to find the courage to continue. While Goubaux talked, my mind was piecing together[Pg 367] all the threads he was holding, and, like an eager weaver, in less than an hour, I had almost entirely sketched out the plan on my canvas. I shared my thoughts with him, all in rough form as they were. The divorce scene between Richard and his wife, in particular, excited me immensely. A scene from Schiller came back to my mind, a scene of incredible beauty and energy. I saw how I could adapt the scene between Philip II and Elizabeth to Richard and Jenny. I'll present both scenes in due time. All this preliminary work was established between us;—additionally, it was decided that Goubaux and Beudin would write the election scene together since I didn’t have the necessary information, while Beudin had witnessed similar scenes in London. Then Goubaux looked at me.
"Only one thing troubles me now," he said.
"There's just one thing bothering me right now," he said.
"Only one?"
"Just one?"
"Yes; I see all the rest of the play, which cannot fail to turn out all right in your hands."
"Yes, I can see the rest of the play, which is sure to turn out just fine with you."
"Then what is the thing that troubles you?"
"Then what is it that’s bothering you?"
"The dénoûment."
"The denouement."
"Why the dénoûment? We have got that already."
"Why the dénouement? We already have that."
Mawbray comes forward as witness and says to Richard, who is about to sign: 'You are my son, and I am the executioner!' Richard falls to the ground and a fit of apoplexy sends him to the devil, which is the right place for him."
Mawbray steps up as a witness and says to Richard, who is about to sign: 'You are my son, and I am the executioner!' Richard collapses to the ground, and a fit of apoplexy sends him to hell, which is the right place for him."
"No, that is not it at all," said Goubaux, shaking his head.
"No, that's not it at all," Goubaux said, shaking his head.
"What is it then?"
"What's that about?"
"It is the way in which he gets rid of his wife."
"It’s how he gets rid of his wife."
"Ah!" I said. "And you have no idea how that is to be done?"
"Ah!" I said. "And you have no clue how that's supposed to be done?"
"I had indeed some idea of making him put poison in her tea."
"I actually considered having him put poison in her tea."
It was now my turn to shake my head.
It was now my turn to shake my head.
"The death of Jenny must be caused by something in the situation, an act of frenzy, not by premeditation."
"The death of Jenny must have been caused by something in the situation, an act of panic, not by intent."
"Oh, yes! I am well aware of that ... but think of a[Pg 368] dagger thrust ... Richard is not an Antony, he does not carry daggers about in his coat pockets!"
"Oh, definitely! I'm fully aware of that ... but imagine a[Pg 368] dagger plunge ... Richard isn't an Antony; he doesn't carry daggers in his coat pockets!"
"Then," said I, "he shall not stab her."
"Then," I said, "he won't stab her."
"But if he does not poison her or stab her what shall he do?"
"But if he doesn't poison her or stab her, what should he do?"
"Chuck her out of the window!"
"Throw her out of the window!"
"What?"
"What?"
I repeated my phrase.
I repeated my statement.
"I must have misunderstood you," said Goubaux.
"I must have misunderstood you," Goubaux said.
"No."
"No."
"But, my dear friend, you must be out of your mind."
"But, my dear friend, you must be crazy."
"Leave it to me."
"Let me handle it."
"But it is impossible!"
"But that's impossible!"
"I see the scene ... just when Richard thinks Jenny has been carried off by Tompson, he finds her hidden in the cupboard of the very room where they are going to sign the contract; at the same moment he hears the steps of Da Sylva and his daughter on the staircase. In order not to be surprised with Jenny, there is but one way out of the difficulty—to throw her out of the window. So he throws her out of the window."
"I see the scene ... just when Richard thinks Tompson has taken Jenny, he discovers her hidden in the cupboard of the very room where they're about to sign the contract; at the same moment, he hears Da Sylva and his daughter coming down the stairs. To avoid being caught with Jenny, there's only one solution to the problem—he throws her out of the window. So, he throws her out of the window."
"I must confess you frighten me with your methods of procedure! In the second act, he breaks Jenny's head against the furniture; in the third act he flings her out of the window. . . . Oh! come, come!"
"I have to admit, your methods really scare me! In the second act, he smashes Jenny's head against the furniture; in the third act, he throws her out of the window... Oh come on!"
"Listen, let me finish the thing as I like—then, if it is absurd, we will alter it."
"Listen, let me finish it the way I want—then, if it’s ridiculous, we can change it."
"Will you listen to reason?"
"Will you consider the facts?"
"I? Set your mind at rest; when I am convinced, I will, if necessary, reconstruct the whole play from beginning to end."
"I? Don't worry; when I'm sure, I'll redo the entire play from start to finish if I need to."
"When will the first act be ready?"
"When will the first act be done?"
"What day of the week is this?"
"What day is it?"
"Monday."
"Monday."
"Come and dine with me on Thursday: it will be done."
"Join me for dinner on Thursday: it's a plan."
"But your rehearsals at the Odéon?"
"But what about your rehearsals at the Odéon?"
"Bah! The parts are being collated to-day; for a fortnight they will read round a table or rehearse with the parts in their hands. By the end of the fortnight Richard will be finished."
"Ugh! They're putting the parts together today; for two weeks they'll be reading around a table or practicing with the parts in their hands. By the end of those two weeks, Richard will be done."
"Amen!"
"Amen!"
"Adieu."
"Goodbye."
"Are you going already?"
"Are you leaving already?"
"I must get to work."
"I need to get to work."
"At what?"
"At what time?"
"Why at Richard, of course! Do you think I have too much time? Our first act is not an easy one to begin."
"Why at Richard, of course! Do you think I have too much free time? Our first act is not an easy one to start."
"Don't forget the part of Tompson!"
"Don't forget Tompson!"
"You needn't be anxious, I have it ... When we come to the scene where Mawbray kills him we will give him a Shakespearian death!"
"You don't need to worry, I've got it ... When we get to the part where Mawbray kills him, we'll give him a dramatic death like in Shakespeare!"
"Mawbray kills him then?"
"Mawbray kills him, right?"
"Yes ... Did I not tell you that?"
"Yeah... Didn't I say that?"
"No."
"Nope."
"The deuce! does it displease you, then, that Mawbray kills Tompson?"
"The hell! Does it bother you that Mawbray kills Tompson?"
"I? Not the slightest."
"Me? Not at all."
"You will leave it to me? Tompson?"
"You'll leave it to me? Tompson?"
"Certainly."
"Of course."
"Then he is a dead man. Adieu."
"Then he’s a dead man. Goodbye."
I ran off and got into bed. At that time I still maintained the habit of writing my dramas in bed. Whilst I wrote the first scene of the first act, Goubaux and Beudin did the election scene, a lively, animated scene, full of character. When Goubaux came to dine with me, on the following Thursday, everything was ready and the two scenes could be fitted together. I then began on the second act, that is to say, upon the vital part of the drama. Richard's talent has caused him to reach the front rank of the Opposition, and he refuses all offers made him by the ministers; but he is cleverly brought in contact with an unknown benefactor, who makes him such offers and promises that Richard sells his conscience to become the son-in-law of Lord Wilmor and to be a minister. It is in the second scene of that act that the divorce incident takes place between Richard and Jenny, which was imitated from Schiller. On the Tuesday following we had a fresh meeting. All went swimmingly, except the scene between the king and[Pg 370] Richard. I had completely failed in this, and so Goubaux undertook to remould it, and he made it what it is, that is to say, one of the best and cleverest in the work. Here is the scene imitated from Schiller—
I ran off and jumped into bed. At that time, I still had the habit of writing my plays in bed. While I worked on the first scene of the first act, Goubaux and Beudin worked on the election scene, which was lively and full of character. When Goubaux came over for dinner with me the following Thursday, everything was ready, and the two scenes could be merged together. I then started on the second act, which is the crucial part of the drama. Richard's talent has propelled him to the forefront of the Opposition, and he turns down all the offers made by the ministers; however, he is cleverly introduced to an unknown benefactor, who makes him offers and promises so enticing that Richard compromises his principles to become Lord Wilmor's son-in-law and a minister. The second scene of that act features the divorce incident between Richard and Jenny, which was inspired by Schiller. On the following Tuesday, we had another meeting. Everything went smoothly except for the scene between the king and Richard. I completely failed at this, so Goubaux took it upon himself to reshape it, making it one of the best and most clever parts of the play. Here is the scene inspired by Schiller—
"ACTE IV.—SCENE IX.
"ACT IV.—SCENE IX.
LE ROI.—Je ne me connais plus moi-même! je ne respecte plus aucune voix, aucune loi de la nature, aucun droit des nations!
THE KING.—I feel like I don’t even recognize myself anymore! I no longer care about any voice, any laws of nature, or any rights of nations!
LA REINE.—Combien je plains Votre Majesté!
THE QUEEN.—I truly feel sorry for Your Majesty!
LE ROI.—Me plaindre? La pitié d'une impudique!
THE KING.—Pity? From someone so shameless!
L'INFANTE, se jetant tout effrayée dans les bras de sa mère.—Le roi est en colère, et ma mère chérie pleure! (Le roi arrache l'infante des bras de sa mère.)
L'INFANTE, jumping into her mother’s arms, scared.—The king is angry, and my dear mother is crying! (The king grabs the infanta from her mother’s arms.)
LA REINE, avec douceur et dignité mais à une voix tremblante.—Je dois pourtant garantir cette enfant des mauvais traitements!... Viens avec moi, ma fille! (Elle la prend dans ses bras.) Si le roi ne veut pas te reconnaîtra, je ferai venir de l'autre côté des Pyrénées des protecteurs pour défendre notre cause!
THE QUEEN, calmly and with dignity, but her voice shaking.—I must protect this child from harm!... Come with me, my daughter! (She holds her in her arms.) If the king won’t acknowledge you, I will find protectors from across the Pyrenees to defend us!
(Elle veut sortir.)
(She wants to leave.)
LE ROI, trouble.—Madame!
THE KING, worried.—Madame!
LA REINE.—Je ne puis plus supporter ... C'en est trop! (Elle s'avance vers la porte, mais s'évanouit et tombe avec l'infante.)
THE QUEEN.—I can’t bear this anymore ... It’s just too much! (She moves towards the door, but faints and falls with the infanta.)
LE ROI, courant a elle avec effroi.—Dieu! qu'est-ce donc?
THE KING, running toward her in panic.—Oh my God! What’s happening?
L'INFANTE, avec des cris de frayeur.—Hélas! ma mère saigne! (Elle s'enfuit en pleurant.)
THE INFANTA, screaming in fear.—Oh no! My mother is bleeding! (She runs away crying.)
LE ROI, avec anxiété.—Quel terrible accident! Du sang! ... Ai-je mérité que vous me punissiez si cruellement?... Levez-vous! remettez-vous ... On vient ... levez-vous ... On vous surprendra ... levez-vous!... Faut-il que toute ma cour se repaisse de ce spectacle? Faut-il donc vous prier de vous lever?..."
THE KING, worriedly.—What a horrible accident! Blood! ... Have I done something to deserve this cruel punishment? Get up! Pull yourself together... They’re coming... get up... They will catch you off guard... get up!... Must I subject my entire court to this scene? Do I really have to tell you to get up?..."
Now to Richard. Richard wants to force Jenny to sign the act of divorce and she refuses.
Now to Richard. Richard wants to make Jenny sign the divorce papers, and she refuses.
"JENNY.—Mais que voulez-vous donc, alors? Expliquez-vous clairement; car tantôt je comprends trop, et tantôt pas assez.
"JENNY—What do you want from me? Please be clear; sometimes I get too much, and other times not enough."
RICHARD.—Pour vous et pour moi, mieux vaut un consentement mutuel.
RICHARD—For both of us, it’s best to find common ground.
JENNY.—Vous m'avez donc crue bien lâche? Que, moi, j'aille devant un juge, sans y être traînée par les cheveux, déclarer de ma voix, signer de ma main que je ne suis pas digne d'être l'épouse de sir Richard? Vous ne me connaissez donc pas, vous qui croyez que je ne suis bonne qu'aux soins d'un ménage dédaigné; que me croyez anéantie par l'absence;[Pg 371] qui pensez que je ploierai parce que vous appuierez le poing sur ma tête; Dans le temps de mon bonheur, oui, cela aurait pu être; mais mes larmes ont retrempé mon cœur; mes nuits d'insomnie ont affermi mon courage? le malheur enfin m'a fait une volonté! Ce que je suis, je vous le dois, Richard; c'est votre faute; ne vous en prenez donc qu'a vous ... Maintenant, voyons! à qui aura le plus de courage, du faible ou du fort. Sir Richard, je ne veux pas!
JENNY—So you really think I’m that cowardly? That I’d go in front of a judge and, without being forced, declare in my own voice and sign my name to say I'm unworthy of being Sir Richard's wife? You don’t know me at all if you think I’m only fit for managing a neglected household; do you actually believe I'm devastated by his absence? [Pg 371] You think I’ll break just because you’re putting pressure on me? Maybe that would have happened when I was happy, but my tears have made me stronger; my sleepless nights have built my courage. After all this struggle, I've developed my own will! What I am today is because of you, Richard; it’s your fault, so don’t blame anyone but yourself… Now, let’s see! Who’s more courageous, the weak or the strong? Sir Richard, I refuse!
RICHARD.—Madame, jusqu'ici, je n'ai fait entendre que des paroles de conciliation.
RICHARD—Madam, up to now, I've only spoken of reconciliation.
JENNY.—Essayez d'avoir recours à d'autres!
JENNY—Try something else!
RICHARD, marchant à elle.—Jenny!
RICHARD, approaching her.—Jenny!
JENNY, froidement.—Richard!
JENNY, coldly.—Richard!
RICHARD.—Malheureuse! savez-vous ce dont je suis capable?
RICHARD—Unfortunate! Do you know what I'm capable of?
JENNY.—Je le devine.
JENNY—I can guess.
RICHARD.—Et vous ne tremblez pas?
RICHARD—And you’re not trembling?
JENNY.—Voyez.
JENNY—Look.
RICHARD, lui prenant les mains.—Femme!
RICHARD, taking her hands.—Woman!
JENNY, tombant à genoux de la secousse.—Ah!...
JENNY, falling to her knees from the shock.—Ah!...
RICHARD.—A genoux!
RICHARD—On your knees!
JENNY, les mains au ciel.—Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de lui! (Elle se relève.)
JENNY, hands to the sky.—My God, have mercy on him! (She gets up.)
RICHARD.—Ah! c'est de vous qu'il a pitié, car je m'en vais ... Adieu, Jenny; demandez au ciel que ce soit pour toujours!
RICHARD—Ah! He’s pitying you because I’m leaving… Goodbye, Jenny; pray that it’s for good!
JENNY, courant à lui, et lui jetant les bras autour du you.—Richard! Richard! ne t'en va pas!
JENNY, running to him and throwing her arms around him.—Richard! Richard! Don’t go!
RICHARD.—Laissez-moi partir.
RICHARD—Let me go.
JENNY.—Si tu savais comme je t'aime!
JENNY—If you only knew how much I love you!
RICHARD.—Prouvez-le-moi.
RICHARD—Prove it to me.
JENNY.—Ma mère! ma mère!
JENNY—My mother! My mother!
RICHARD—Voulez-vous?
RICHARD—Do you want to?
JENNY.—-Tu me l'avais bien dit!
JENNY—You said it well!
RICHARD.—Un dernier mot.
RICHARD—One last word.
JENNY.—Ne le dis pas.
JENNY—Don't say it.
RICHARD.—Consens-tu?
RICHARD—Do you agree?
JENNY.—Écoute-moi.
JENNY—Listen to me.
RICHARD.—Consens-tu? (Jenny se tait.) C'est bien. Mais plus de messages, plus de lettres ... Que rien ne vous rappelle à moi, que je ne sache même pas que vous existez! Je vous laisse une jeunesse sans époux, une vieillesse sans enfant.
RICHARD—Do you agree? (Jenny is silent.) That’s fine. But no more messages, no more letters… Nothing should remind you of me, so that I won’t even know you exist! I’m leaving you a youth without a husband and an old age without a child.
JENNY.—Pas d'imprécations! pas d'imprécations!
JENNY—No curses! No curses!
RICHARD.—Adieu!
RICHARD—Goodbye!
JENNY.—Vous ne partirez pas!
JENNY—You will not leave!
RICHARD.—Damnation!
RICHARD—Damn it!
JENNY.—Vous me tuerez plutôt!
JENNY—You'd rather kill me!
RICHARD.—Ah! laissez-moi! (Jenny, repoussée, va tomber la tête sur l'angle d'un meuble.)
RICHARD—Ah! let me go! (Jenny, pushed away, is about to hit her head on the corner of a piece of furniture.)
JENNY.—Ah!... (Elle se relève tout ensanglantée.) Ah! Richard!... (Elle chancelle en étendant les bras de son côté, et retombe.) Il faut que je vous aime bien! (Elle Évanouit.)
JENNY—Ah!... (She gets up, all covered in blood.) Ah! Richard!... (She sways, reaching out her arms to the side, and falls again.) I must really love you! (She faints.)
RICHARD.—Évanouie!... blessée!... du sang!... Malédiction!... Jenny!... Jenny! (Il la porte sur un fauteuil.) Et ce sang qui ne s'arrête pas ... (Il l'étanche avec son mouchoir.) Je ne peux cependant pas rester éternellement ici. (Il se rapproche d'elle.) Jenny, finissons ... Je me retire ... Tu ne veux pas répondre?... Adieu donc!..."
RICHARD—Unconscious!... hurt!... blood!... Damn it!... Jenny!... Jenny! (He carries her to a chair.) And this blood that just won’t stop... (He tries to stop it with his handkerchief.) But I can’t stay here forever. (He moves closer to her.) Jenny, let's end this... I'm leaving... Don’t you want to respond?... Goodbye then!...
There remained the last act; it was composed of three scenes: the first takes place in Richard's house in London, the second in a forest, the third in Jenny's chamber. My reader knows the engagement I had undertaken, to have Jenny thrown out of the window. Very well, I boldly prepared myself to keep it, and I wrote the scene in my bed, as usual. This is the situation: Mawbray has killed Tompson, who carried Jenny off, and has brought her into the room where in the second act the scene between her and her husband took place. This room has only two doors: one leading to the stairs, the other into a cupboard, and one window, the view from which looks deep down into a precipice. Scarcely is Jenny left alone with her terror,—for she has no doubt that it is her husband who has had her carried off,—than she hears and recognises Richard's step. Not able to flee she takes refuge in the cabinet. Richard enters.
There was just one last act left, consisting of three scenes: the first happens in Richard's house in London, the second in a forest, and the third in Jenny's room. You know about my commitment to throw Jenny out of the window. So, I got ready to follow through, writing the scene in bed as usual. Here’s the setup: Mawbray has killed Tompson, who kidnapped Jenny, and he’s brought her into the room where the scene between her and her husband took place in the second act. This room has only two doors: one leads to the stairs, and the other goes into a cupboard, plus there’s a window that opens up to a deep drop into a gorge. As soon as Jenny is left alone, terrified—since she believes her husband is behind her kidnapping—she hears and recognizes Richard’s footsteps. With no way to escape, she hides in the cupboard. Richard comes in.
"RICHARD.—J'arrive à temps! À peine si je dois avoir, sur le marquis et sa famille, une demi-heure d'avance.—James, apportez des flambeaux, et tenez-vous à la porte pour conduire ici les personnes qui arriveront dans un instant ... Bien ... Allez! (Tirant sa montre.) Huit heures! Tompson doit être maintenant à Douvres, et, demain matin, il sera à Calais. Dieu le conduise!... Voyons si rien n'indique que cet appartement a été habité par une femme. (Apercevant le chapeau et le châle que Jenny vient de déposer sur une chaise.) La précaution n'était pas inutile ... Que faire de cela? Je n'ai pas la clef des armoires ... Les jeter par la fenêtre: on les retrouvera demain ... Ah! des lumières sur le haut de la montagne ... C'est sans doute le marquis; il est exact ... Mais où diable mettre ces chiffons? Ah! ce cabinet ...j'en retirerai la clef. (Il ouvre le cabinet.)
"RICHARD.—I’m right on time! I’ll barely have half an hour's head start before the marquis and his family arrive. —James, bring in the torches and stand by the door to guide in the people who will be here any minute... Good... Go! (Checking his watch.) Eight o’clock! Tompson should be in Dover by now, and by tomorrow morning, he’ll be in Calais. Godspeed!... Let’s see if there’s any evidence that a woman has been here. (Noticing the hat and shawl Jenny just placed on a chair.) It wasn’t an unnecessary precaution... What should I do with this? I don’t have the key to the cabinets... I’ll just throw them out the window: they’ll be found tomorrow... Ah! Lights on the top of the hill... That must be the marquis; he’s right on time... But where do I put these rags? Ah! That cabinet... I’ll take the key from it. (He opens the cabinet.)"
JENNY.—Ah!
JENNY.—Ah!
RICHARD, la saisissant par le bras.—Qui est là?
RICHARD, grabbing her by the arm.—Who's there?
JENNY.—Moi, moi, Richard ... Ne me faites point de mal!
JENNY.—It’s me, Richard ... Please don’t hurt me!
RICHARD, l'attirant sur le théâtre.—Jenny! mais c'est donc un démon qui me la jette à la face toutes les fois que je crois être débarrassé d'elle?... Que faites-vous ici? qui vous y ramène? Parlez vite ...
RICHARD, pulling her to the stage.—Jenny! Is it a curse that keeps reappearing every time I think I'm done with it? What are you doing here? Why have you come back? Speak quickly...
JENNY.—Mawbray!
JENNY.—Mawbray!
RICHARD.—Mawbray! toujours Mawbray! Où est-il, que je ma venge enfin sur un homme?
RICHARD.—Mawbray! Always Mawbray! Where is he, so I can finally get my revenge on him?
JENNY.—Il est loin ... bien loin ... reparti pour Londres ... Grâce pour lui!
JENNY.—He’s far away ... so far away ... heading back to London ... Thank goodness for him!
RICHARD.—Eh bien?
RICHARD.—Well?
JENNY.—Il a arrêté la voiture.
JENNY.—He stopped the carriage.
RICHARD.—Après?... Ne voyez-vous pas que je brûle?
RICHARD.—After?... Don’t you see that I’m burning up?
JENNY.—Et moi, que je ...
JENNY.—And me, that I ...
RICHARD.—Après? vous dis-je?
RICHARD.—After? I’m telling you?
JENNY.—Ils se sont battus.
JENNY.—They fought.
RICHARD.—Et?...
RICHARD.—And?...
JENNY.—Et Mawbray a tué Tompson.
JENNY.—And Mawbray killed Tompson.
RICHARD.—Enfer!... Alors, il vous a ramenée ici?
RICHARD.—Damn!... So, he brought you back here?
JENNY.—Oui ... oui.. pardon!
JENNY.—Yes ... yes... I’m sorry!
RICHARD.—Jenny, écoutez!
RICHARD.—Jenny, listen!
JENNY.—C'est le roulement d'une voiture.
JENNY.—That’s the sound of a carriage.
RICHARD.—Cette voiture ...
RICHARD.—That carriage ...
JENNY.—Eh bien?
JENNY.—Well?
RICHARD.—Elle amène ma femme et sa famille.
RICHARD.—It’s bringing my wife and her family.
JENNY.—Votre femme et sa famille!... Et moi, moi, que suis-je donc?
JENNY.—Your wife and her family!... And what about me then?
RICHARD.—Vous, Jenny? vous?... Vous êtes mon mauvais génie! vous êtes l'abîme où vont s'engloutir toutes mes espérances! vous êtes le démon qui me pousse à l'échafaud, car je ferai un crime!
RICHARD.—You, Jenny? You?... You are my bad influence! You are the pit where all my hopes will drown! You are the demon leading me to my downfall, because I will commit a crime!
JENNY.—Oh! mon Dieu!
JENNY.—Oh! my God!
RICHARD.—C'est qu'il n'y à plus a reculer, voyez-vous! vous n'avez pas voulu signer le divorce, vous n'avez pas voulu quitter l'Angleterre ...
RICHARD.—The thing is, there’s no going back, you see! You didn’t want to sign the divorce, you didn’t want to leave England...
JENNY.—Oh! maintenant, maintenant, je veux tout ce que vous voudrez.
JENNY.—Oh! now, now, I want everything you want.
RICHARD.—Eh! maintenant, il est trop tard!
RICHARD.—Hey! Now it’s too late!
JENNY.—Qu'allez-vous donc faire alors?
JENNY.—So what are you going to do then?
RICHARD.—Je ne sais ... mais priez Dieu!
RICHARD.—I don't know ... but pray to God!
JENNY.—Richard!
JENNY.—Richard!
RICHARD, lui mettant la main sur la bouche.—Silence! ne les entendez-vous pas? ne les entendez-vous pas? Ils montent!... ils montent!... ils vont trouver une femme ici!"
RICHARD, covering her mouth with his hand.—Quiet! Can't you hear them? Can't you hear them? They're coming up!... they're coming up!... they're going to find a woman here!"
Here I stopped short. I had gone as far as I could go. But there was the question of keeping my promise to Goubaux.[Pg 374] I leapt out of my bed. It is impossible! I cried out to myself, and Goubaux said well. Richard is to be forced to take his wife, and drag her towards the window; she will defend herself; the public will not bear the sight of that struggle and it will be perfectly right ... Besides, when he lifts her up over the balcony, Richard will give the spectators a view of his wife's legs: the spectators will laugh, which is much worse than if they hissed ... Decidedly I am a fool. There must be some way out of the difficulty!... But it was not easy to find means. I racked my brains for a fortnight all in vain. Goubaux had no notion of the time it took me to compose the third act. He wrote me letter after letter. I did not wish to tell him the real cause of my delay; I made all sorts of excuses: I was busy with my rehearsals; I had gone to see my daughter at her nurse's house; I had a shooting party and all sorts of other things;—all pretexts nearly as valid as those which Pierre Schlemihl gave in excuse for not having a shadow. Finally, one fine night, I woke up with a start, crying like Archimedes Ευρηκα! and in the same costume as he, I ran, not through the streets of Syracuse, but into the corners and recesses of my bedroom to find a tinder-box. When the candles were lit, I got back into bed and took hold of my pencil and manuscript, shrugging my shoulders in disgust at myself. Good Heavens! said I, it is as simple as Christopher Columbus's egg; only, one must break the end off! The end was broken; there was no more difficulty, Jenny no longer would have to risk showing her ankles and Richard would still throw his wife out of the window. Behold the mechanism thereof! After the words: "Ils vont trouver une femme ici!" Richard ran to the door, closed it and double-locked it. Meanwhile, Jenny ran to the window and cried from the balcony, "Help! help!" Richard followed her precipitately; Jenny fell on her knees. A noise was heard on the stairs; Richard closed the two shutters of the window on himself, shutting himself out with Jenny on the balcony. A cry was heard. Richard, pale and wiping his brow, reopened the two shutters with a blow of his fist; he[Pg 375] was alone on the balcony; Jenny had disappeared! The trick was taken.
Here I paused. I had reached the limit of what I could do. But there was the issue of keeping my promise to Goubaux.[Pg 374] I jumped out of bed. "This is impossible!" I exclaimed to myself, and Goubaux was right. Richard is forced to take his wife and drag her to the window; she’ll resist; the audience won’t want to see that struggle, and it’ll be totally justified... Plus, when he lifts her over the balcony, the audience will get a glimpse of his wife’s legs: they’ll laugh, which is much worse than if they booed... I’m definitely an idiot. There has to be a way out of this!... But figuring it out wasn’t easy. I pondered for two weeks without success. Goubaux had no idea how long it took me to write the third act. He sent me letter after letter. I didn’t want to tell him the real reason for my delay; I came up with all kinds of excuses: I was busy with rehearsals; I visited my daughter at her nanny’s place; I had a hunting trip and all sorts of other things—almost as valid as Pierre Schlemihl’s excuses for not having a shadow. Finally, one night, I woke up suddenly, shouting like Archimedes “Eureka!” and, dressed like him, I dashed—not through the streets of Syracuse—but into every corner of my bedroom looking for a tinderbox. Once the candles were lit, I climbed back into bed and grabbed my pencil and manuscript, shaking my head in frustration at myself. "Good grief!" I said, “It’s as simple as Columbus’s egg; you just have to break the end off!” The end was broken; there was no more issue, Jenny would no longer have to risk showing her ankles, and Richard would still throw his wife out the window. Here’s how it works! After the line: "Ils vont trouver une femme ici!" Richard ran to the door, closed it, and double-locked it. Meanwhile, Jenny raced to the window and shouted from the balcony, "Help! help!" Richard hurried after her; Jenny fell to her knees. There was a noise on the stairs; Richard closed the two window shutters behind him, trapping himself with Jenny on the balcony. A cry was heard. Richard, pale and wiping his forehead, kicked open the two shutters with his fist; he[Pg 375] was alone on the balcony; Jenny had disappeared! The trick was in place.
By eight o'clock next morning I was writing the last line of the third act of Richard, and, by nine, I was with Goubaux; by ten, he had acknowledged that the window was, indeed, Jenny's only way of exit.
By eight o'clock the next morning, I was finishing the last line of the third act of Richard, and by nine, I was with Goubaux; by ten, he admitted that the window was, in fact, Jenny's only way out.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
The feudal edifice and the industrial—The workmen of Lyons—M. Bouvier-Dumolard—General Roguet—Discussion and signing of the tariff regulating the price of the workmanship of fabrics—The makers refuse to submit to it—Artificial prices for silk-workers—Insurrection of Lyons—Eighteen millions on the civil list—Timon's calculations—An unlucky saying of M. de Montalivet
The feudal system and the industrial era—The workers in Lyons—M. Bouvier-Dumolard—General Roguet—Discussion and signing of the tariff that determines the price for fabric labor—The creators reject it—Artificial prices for silk workers—Uprising in Lyons—Eighteen million on the civil list—Timon’s calculations—An unfortunate remark from M. de Montalivet
During this time three political events of the gravest importance took place: Lyons broke into insurrection ; the civil list was debated; the Chamber passed the law abolishing the heredity of the peerage. We will pass these three events in review as rapidly as possible, but we owe it to the scheme of these Memoirs to make a note of the principal details. It must be clear that every time the country has been in trouble we have listened to its cry. Let us begin with Lyons.
During this time, three significant political events occurred: Lyons erupted in rebellion; the civil list was discussed; and the Chamber enacted the law ending the hereditary peerage. We'll quickly go through these three events, but we need to highlight the main details for the sake of these Memoirs. It’s important to note that whenever the country has faced difficulties, we have responded to its call. Let's start with Lyons.
Everybody knows Lyons, a poor, dirty town with a canopy of smoke and a jumble of wealth and misery, where people dare not drive through the streets in carriages, not for fear of running over the passengers but for fear of being insulted; where for forty thousand unfortunate human beings the twenty-four hours of the day contain eighteen hours of work, noise and agony. You remember Hugo's beautiful comparison in the fourth act of Hernani—
Everybody knows Lyons, a rundown, filthy town shrouded in smoke, full of a mix of wealth and suffering, where people hesitate to drive through the streets in carriages, not out of concern for hitting pedestrians but out of fear of being insulted; where forty thousand unfortunate people spend eighteen hours a day dealing with work, noise, and misery. You remember Hugo's beautiful comparison in the fourth act of Hernani—
"Un édifice avec deux hommes au sommet,
Deux chefs élus auxquels tout roi-né se soumet.
. . . . . Être ce qui commence,
[Pg 377]
Seul, debout au plus haut de la spirale immense,
D'une foule d'États l'un sur l'autre étagés
Être la clef de voûte, et voir sous soi rangés
Les rois, et sur leurs fronts essuyer ses sandales,
Voir, au-dessous des rois, les maisons féodales,
Margraves, cardinaux, doges, ducs à fleurons;
Puis évêques, abbés, chefs de clans, hauts barons;
Puis clercs et soldats; puis, loin du faite où nous sommes,
Dans l'ombre, tout au fond de l'abîme, les hommes."
"An edifice with two men at the top,
Two elected leaders whom every born king submits to.
. . . . . To be what begins,
[Pg 377]
Alone, standing at the peak of the immense spiral,
Of a crowd of States stacked one on top of the other
To be the keystone, and see arranged below
Kings, and wipe your sandals on their brows,
See, beneath the kings, the feudal houses,
Margraves, cardinals, doges, ducal lords;
Then bishops, abbots, clan leaders, high barons;
Then clerics and soldiers; and, far from the top where we are,
In the shadows, deep in the abyss, the people."
Well, in comparison with this aristocratie pyramid, crowned by those two halves of God, the Pope and the Emperor, resplendent with gold and diamonds on everyone of its stages, put the popular pyramid, by the aid of which we are going to try to make you understand what Lyons is like, and you will have, not an exact pendant to it but, on the contrary, a terrible contrast. So, imagine a spiral composed of three stages: at the top, eight hundred manufacturers; in the middle, ten thousand foremen; at the base, supporting this immense weight which rests entirely on them, forty thousand workmen. Then, buzzing, gleaning, picking about this spiral like hornets round a hive, are the commissionaires, the parasites of the manufacturers, and those who supply raw materials to the trade. Now, the commercial mechanism of this immense machine is easy to understand. These commissionaires live on the manufacturers; the manufacturers live on the foremen; the foremen live on the workpeople. Add to this the Lyonnais industry, the only one by which these fifty to sixty thousand souls live, attacked at all points by competition—England producing and striking a double blow at Lyons, first because she has ceased to supply herself from there, and, secondly, because she is producing on her own account—Zurich, Bâle, Cologne and Berne, all setting up looms, and becoming rivals of the second town of France. Forty years ago, when the continental system of 1810 compelled the whole of France to supply itself from Lyons, the workman earned from four to six francs a day. Then he could easily provide for his wife and the numerous family which nearly always results from the improvidence of the working-man. But, since the fall of the Empire, for the past[Pg 378] seventeen years wages have been on the decline, from four francs to forty sous, then to thirty-five, then to thirty, then to twenty-five. Finally, at the time we have now reached, the ordinary weaving operative only earns eighteen sous per day for eighteen hours work. One son per hour!... It is a starvation wage.
Well, compared to this aristocratic pyramid, topped by those two halves of God, the Pope and the Emperor, shining with gold and diamonds at every level, picture the popular pyramid that we're going to use to help you understand what Lyon is like, and you'll see not a direct comparison but a stark contrast. So, imagine a spiral made up of three levels: at the top, eight hundred manufacturers; in the middle, ten thousand foremen; at the bottom, holding up this enormous weight that rests entirely on them, forty thousand workers. Then, buzzing around this spiral like hornets at a hive are the commission agents, the leeches of the manufacturers, and those who supply raw materials to the industry. The commercial operation of this gigantic machine is easy to grasp. These commission agents depend on the manufacturers; the manufacturers depend on the foremen; the foremen depend on the workers. Add to this the Lyonnais industry, the only way these fifty to sixty thousand people make a living, constantly attacked by competition—England both producing and dealing a double blow to Lyon, first by cutting off its supplies, and second by producing its own goods—Zurich, Basel, Cologne, and Bern are all starting looms and becoming competitors to the second-largest city in France. Forty years ago, when the continental system of 1810 forced all of France to get its supplies from Lyon, workers earned between four to six francs a day. They could easily support their wives and the large families that typically come from the working-class man's lack of foresight. But, since the fall of the Empire, for the past [Pg 378] seventeen years, wages have been dropping, from four francs to forty sous, then to thirty-five, then to thirty, and then to twenty-five. Finally, at the point we’ve reached now, the average weaving worker only makes eighteen sous a day for eighteen hours of work. One penny per hour!... It’s a starvation wage.
The unfortunate workmen struggled in silence for a long time, trying, as each quarter came round, to move into smaller rooms, to more noxious quarters; trying, day by day, to economise something in the shape of their meals and those of their children. But, at last, when they came face to face with the deadening effect of bad air and of starvation for want of bread, there went up from the Croix-Rousse,—appropriate names, are they not?—that is to say, from the working portion of the city—a great sob, like that which Dante heard when he was passing through the first circle of the Inferno. It was the cry of one hundred thousand sufferers. Two men were in command at Lyons, one representing the civil power, the other the military: a préfet and a general. The préfet was called Bouvier-Dumolard; the general's name was Roguet. The first, in his administrative capacity, came in contact with all classes of society, and was able to study that dark and profound misery; a misery, all the more terrible, because no remedy could be found for it, and because it went on increasing every day. As for the general, since he knew his soldiers had five sous per day, and that each of them had a ration sufficiently ample for a canut (silk-weaver) to feed his wife and children upon, he never troubled his head about anything else. The cry of misery of the poor famished creatures therefore affected the general and the préfet very differently. They made their separate inquiries as to the cause of this cry of misery. The workpeople demanded a tariff. General Roguet called a business meeting and demanded repressive measures. M. Bouvier-Dumolard, on the contrary, seeing the tradespeople in council, asked them for an increase of salary. On 11 October this council issued the following minute:—
The unfortunate workers struggled in silence for a long time, trying, with each passing quarter, to move into smaller, worse living conditions; attempting, day by day, to save a little on their meals and those of their children. But eventually, when they faced the suffocating effects of bad air and starvation from lack of bread, a deep sigh rose up from the Croix-Rousse—an apt name, right?—which means from the working class of the city—a great sob, like what Dante heard when he was passing through the first circle of Hell. It was the cry of one hundred thousand sufferers. Two men were in charge in Lyons, one representing the civil authority and the other the military: a préfet and a general. The préfet was named Bouvier-Dumolard; the general's name was Roguet. The préfet, in his administrative role, interacted with all parts of society and was able to observe that dark and deep misery; a misery even more terrifying because there was no solution for it, and it continued to grow each day. As for the general, since he knew his soldiers received five sous a day and that each of them had a ration sufficient for a canut (silk-weaver) to feed his wife and children, he never concerned himself with anything else. Therefore, the cry of misery from the poor starving people affected the general and the préfet very differently. They each made their own inquiries into the cause of this cry of despair. The workers demanded a wage adjustment. General Roguet called for a meeting and asked for repressive measures. M. Bouvier-Dumolard, on the other hand, seeing the tradespeople gathered, asked them for a salary increase. On 11 October, this council issued the following minute:—
"As it is a matter of public notoriety that many of the manufacturers actually pay for their fabrics at too low a rate, it is advisable that a minimum tariff be fixed for the price of fabrics."
"It's well known that many manufacturers pay too little for their fabrics, so it's recommended that a minimum tariff be set for fabric prices."
Consequently, a meeting was held at the Hôtel de la Préfecture on 15 October. The tariff was discussed on both sides by twenty-two workmen appointed by their comrades, and twenty-two manufacturers who were appointed by the Chamber of Commerce.
Consequently, a meeting took place at the Hôtel de la Préfecture on October 15. The tariff was discussed by twenty-two workers chosen by their peers and twenty-two manufacturers selected by the Chamber of Commerce.
That measure, presuming that it needed a precedent before it could be legalised, had been authorised in 1789, by the Constituent Assembly, in 1793 by the Convention and, finally, in 1811 by the Empire. Nothing was settled at the first meeting. On 21 October a new assembly was convoked at the same place, and with the same object. The manufacturers were less pressing than the workmen: that is conceivable enough: they have to give and the workmen to receive; they have to lose and the workmen to gain. The manufacturers said that having been officially appointed they could not bind their confrères. A third meeting was arranged to give them time to obtain a power of attorney. Meanwhile workpeople died of hunger. This meeting was fixed for 25 October. The life or death of forty thousand operatives, that of their fathers and mothers, their wives and their children, the very existence of over one hundred thousand persons was to be discussed at that sitting. So, the unusual, lamentable and fearful spectacle was to be seen, at ten in the morning, of this unfortunate people waiting outside in the place de la Préfecture to hear their sentence. But there was not a single weapon to be seen among those thousands of supplicants! A weapon would have prevented them from joining their hands together, and they only wanted to pray.
That measure, assuming it needed a precedent to be legalized, was authorized in 1789 by the Constituent Assembly, in 1793 by the Convention, and finally, in 1811 by the Empire. Nothing was decided at the first meeting. On October 21, a new assembly was called at the same place and for the same purpose. The manufacturers were less urgent than the workers: that makes sense; they have to give, and the workers have to receive; they have to lose, and the workers have to gain. The manufacturers stated that since they had been officially appointed, they couldn't commit their colleagues. A third meeting was scheduled to give them time to get a power of attorney. Meanwhile, workers were dying of hunger. This meeting was set for October 25. The life or death of forty thousand workers—along with their parents, their wives, and their children—the very existence of over one hundred thousand people, was to be discussed at that sitting. So, the unusual, tragic, and terrifying scene unfolded at ten in the morning, with this unfortunate group waiting outside in the place de la Préfecture to hear their fate. But there wasn't a single weapon in sight among those thousands of petitioners! A weapon would have prevented them from joining hands, and they only wanted to pray.
The préfet, terrified by that multitude, terrified of its very silence, came forward. Amongst all that sixty to eighty thousand persons of all ages and of both sexes, there were nearly thirty thousand men.
The prefect, scared by the crowd, frightened even by its silence, stepped forward. Among the sixty to eighty thousand people of all ages and genders, there were nearly thirty thousand men.
"My good people," said the préfet to them, "I beg you to withdraw—it will be to your own interests to do so. If you stay there the tariff will seem to have been imposed by your presence. Now, in order to be valid, the deliberations must be doubly free: free in reality and free in appearance."
"My good people," said the préfet to them, "I urge you to step back—it will be better for you to do so. If you remain here, it will seem like your presence has caused the tariff to be imposed. Now, for the decisions to be valid, the discussions must be completely free: free in practice and free in appearance."
All these famished voices with laboured breathings summoned strength to shout, "Vive le préfet!" Then they humbly retired without complaint or comment.
All these hungry voices, breathing heavily, gathered the strength to shout, "Long live the prefect!" Then they quietly stepped back without any complaints or comments.
The tariff was signed: the result was an increase of twenty-five per cent—not quite five sous per day. But five sous per day meant the lives of two children. So there was great joy throughout that poor multitude: the workmen illuminated their windows, and sang and danced far into the night. Their joy was very innocent, but the manufacturers thought the songs were songs of triumph and the Carmagnole dances meant a second '93. And they were made the means of refusing the tariff. A week had not gone before there were ten or a dozen refusals to carry it out. The Trades Council censured those who refused. The manufacturers met and decided that instead of a partial refusal they would all protest. And so a hundred and four manufacturers protested, declaring that they did not think themselves compelled to come to the assistance of men who were bolstered up by artificial prices (des besoins factices). Artificial prices, at eighteen sous per day! what sybarites! The préfet, who was a goodhearted fellow but vacillating, drew back before that protest. The Trades Council in turn drew back when they saw that the préfet had given way. Both Trades Council and préfet declared that the tariff was not at all obligatory, and that those of the manufacturers who wished to avoid the increase of wage imposed had the right to do it. Six to seven hundred, out of the eight hundred manufacturers, took advantage of the permission. The unfortunate weavers then decided to go on strike for a week, during which time they walked the town as unarmed suppliants, making no demonstration beyond affectionate and grateful salutations to those of the manufacturers who were more humane than the others and had[Pg 381] observed the tariff. This humble attitude only hardened the hearts of the manufacturers: one of them received a deputation of workmen with pistols on his table; another, when the wretched men said to him, "For two days we have not had a morsel of bread in our stomachs," replied, "—Well then, we must thrust bayonets into them!" General Roguet, also, who was ill and, consequently, in a bad temper, placarded the Riot Act. The préfet realised all the evils that would accrue from putting such a measure into force, and went to General Roguet to try to get him to withdraw it. General Roguet declined to receive him. There are strange cases of blindness, and military leaders are especially liable to such fits.
The tariff was signed: it resulted in a twenty-five percent increase—almost five sous a day. But five sous a day meant the survival of two children. So there was great joy among the poor crowd: the workers lit up their windows, sang, and danced into the night. Their joy was very innocent, but the manufacturers interpreted the songs as triumph and the Carmagnole dances as a sign of a second '93. This became a way to refuse the tariff. Within a week, there were ten or twelve refusals to implement it. The Trades Council criticized those who refused. The manufacturers gathered and decided that instead of just partially refusing, they would all protest. Consequently, a hundred and four manufacturers protested, asserting that they felt no obligation to support people who were sustained by artificial prices (des besoins factices). Artificial prices, at eighteen sous a day! What privilege! The préfet, a well-meaning but indecisive guy, backed off in the face of that protest. The Trades Council also pulled back when they saw the préfet had given in. Both the Trades Council and the préfet declared that the tariff was not mandatory, and that any manufacturers who wanted to avoid the imposed wage increase were allowed to do so. Six to seven hundred out of the eight hundred manufacturers took advantage of this. The unfortunate weavers then decided to strike for a week, during which they walked through the town as unarmed petitioners, making no demonstrations except for affectionate and grateful greetings to those manufacturers who were kinder and had[Pg 381] complied with the tariff. This humble attitude only hardened the hearts of the manufacturers: one of them received a delegation of workers with pistols on his table; another, when the desperate men told him, "We haven't had a bite to eat for two days," replied, "—Well then, we must stick bayonets in them!" General Roguet, who was ill and therefore in a foul mood, announced the Riot Act. The préfet recognized the terrible consequences of enforcing such a measure and went to see General Roguet in hopes of persuading him to retract it. General Roguet refused to meet with him. There are strange cases of blindness, and military leaders are especially prone to such lapses.
Thirty thousand workpeople—unarmed, it is true, but one knows how rapidly thirty thousand men can arm themselves—were moving about the streets of Lyons; General Roguet had under his command only the 66th regiment of the line, three squadrons of dragoons, one battalion of the 13th and some companies of engineers: barely three thousand soldiers in all. He persisted in his policy of provocation. It was 19 November; the general, under the pretext of a reception for General Ordomont, commanded a review on the place Bellecour to be held on the following day. It was difficult not to see an underlying menace in that order. Unfortunately, those threatened had begun to come to the end of their patience. What one of their number had said was no poetic metaphor—many had not tasted food for forty-eight hours. Two or three more days of patience on the part of the military authority, and they need have had no more fear: the people would be dead. On 21 November—it was a Monday—four hundred silk-workers gathered at the Croix-Rousse. They proceeded to march, headed by their syndics, and with no other arms but sticks. They realised things had come to a crisis and they resolved to go from workshop to workshop, and to persuade their comrades to come out on strike with them until the tariff should be adopted in a serious and definitive manner. Suddenly, as they turned the corner of a street, they[Pg 382] found themselves face to face with sixty or so of the National Guard on patrol. An officer, carried away by a war-like impulse, shouted when he saw them, "Lads, let us sweep away all that canaille." And, drawing his sword, he sprang upon the workmen, the sixty National Guards following him with fixed bayonets. Twenty-five of the sixty National Guards were disarmed in a trice; the rest took to flight. Then, satisfied with their first victory, without changing the wholly peaceful nature of their demonstration, the workmen took each other's arms again and, marching four abreast, began to descend what is known as la Grante-Côte. But the fugitives had given the alarm. A column of the National Guard of the first legion, entirely composed of manufacturers, took up arms in hot haste, and advanced resolutely to encounter the workmen. These were two clouds, charged with electricity, hurled against each other by contrary currents and the collision meant lightning.
Thirty thousand workers—unarmed, it's true, but it's well-known how quickly thirty thousand people can arm themselves—were moving through the streets of Lyons. General Roguet had command of only the 66th regiment of the line, three squads of dragoons, one battalion of the 13th, and some companies of engineers: barely three thousand soldiers in total. He continued his policy of provocation. It was November 19; the general, under the pretext of a reception for General Ordomont, ordered a review to be held at Place Bellecour the next day. It was hard not to see a threat in that command. Unfortunately, those who felt threatened were reaching the end of their patience. It wasn’t just a poetic metaphor—many hadn’t eaten for forty-eight hours. A few more days of inaction from the military, and they wouldn’t have to worry; the people would be dead. On November 21—it was a Monday—four hundred silk workers gathered at Croix-Rousse. They started marching, led by their representatives, armed only with sticks. They realized things had reached a boiling point and decided to go from workshop to workshop, convincing their peers to join them in a strike until the tariff was taken seriously and implemented definitively. Suddenly, as they turned a corner, they found themselves face to face with around sixty National Guards on patrol. An officer, caught up in the moment, shouted upon seeing them, "Lads, let’s wipe out that rabble." Drawing his sword, he charged at the workers, with the sixty National Guards following him with bayonets drawn. In no time, twenty-five of the sixty National Guards were disarmed; the rest fled. Then, pleased with their first victory, without changing the entirely peaceful nature of their demonstration, the workers linked arms again and, marching four abreast, began to descend what is known as La Grante-Côte. But the fleeing guards had raised the alarm. A column of the first legion National Guard, made up entirely of manufacturers, quickly armed themselves and advanced determinedly to confront the workers. It was like two electrically charged clouds colliding, destined for a flash of lightning.
The column of the National Guard fired; eight workmen fell. After that, it was a species of extermination—blood had flowed. At Paris, in 1830, the people had fought for an idea, and they had fought well; at Lyons, in 1831, they were going to fight for bread and they would fight better still. A terrible, formidable, great cry went up throughout the whole of the labour quarter of the city: To arms! They are murdering our brothers!
The National Guard opened fire; eight workers fell. After that, it turned into a kind of slaughter—blood was spilled. In Paris, in 1830, the people fought for an idea, and they fought bravely; in Lyons, in 1831, they were about to fight for food, and they would fight even harder. A terrible, powerful, loud cry rang out through the entire working-class neighborhood of the city: To arms! They are killing our brothers!
Then anger set that vast hive buzzing which hunger had turned dumb. Each household turned into the streets every man that it contained old enough to fight; all had arms of one sort or another: one had a stick, another a fork, some had guns. In the twinkling of an eye barricades were constructed by the women and children; a group of insurgents, amidst loud cheers, carried off two pieces of cannon belonging to the National Guard of the Croix-Rousse; the National Guard not only let the cannon be taken but actually offered them. If it did not pursue the operatives into their intrenchments it would remain neutral; but if the barricades were attacked it would defend them with guns and cartridge. Next evening, forty[Pg 383] thousand men were armed ready, hugging the banners which bore these words, the most ominous, probably, ever traced by the bloody hand of civil war—
Then anger set that huge hive buzzing, which hunger had silenced. Every household pushed every man who was old enough to fight into the streets; all had some kind of weapon: one had a stick, another a fork, and some had guns. In the blink of an eye, the women and children built barricades; a group of rebels, amid loud cheers, carried off two cannons belonging to the National Guard of the Croix-Rousse. The National Guard not only let the cannons be taken but actually offered them. If they didn’t chase the workers into their positions, they would stay neutral; but if the barricades were attacked, they would defend them with guns and ammunition. The next evening, forty[Pg 383] thousand men were armed and ready, holding the banners that had these words, probably the most ominous ever written by the bloody hand of civil war—
VIVRE EN TRAVAILLANT
OU
MOURIR EN COMBATTANT!
LIVE BY WORKING
OR
DIE FIGHTING!
They killed each other through the whole of the night of the 21st, and the whole day of the 22nd. Oh! how fiercely do compatriots, fellow-citizens and brothers kill one another! Fifty years hence civil war will be the only warfare possible. By seven o'clock at night all was over, and the troops beat a retreat before the people, vanquished at every point. At midnight, General Roguet, lifted up bodily on horseback, where he shook with fever, left the town, which he found impossible to hold any longer. He withdrew by way of the faubourg Saint-Clair, under a canopy of fire, through a hail of bullets. The smell of powder revived the strength of the old soldier: he sat up on his horse, and rose in his stirrups—
They fought each other all night on the 21st and all day on the 22nd. Oh! how fiercely do comrades, fellow citizens, and brothers go after one another! Fifty years from now, civil war will be the only kind of war we know. By seven o'clock at night, it was all over, and the troops retreated before the people, defeated at every turn. At midnight, General Roguet, physically lifted onto his horse while shaking with fever, left the town, which he could no longer hold. He withdrew through the faubourg Saint-Clair, under heavy fire, amidst a storm of bullets. The smell of gunpowder reignited the strength of the old soldier: he straightened up on his horse and rose in his stirrups—
"Ah!" he said, "now I can breathe once more! I feel better here than in the Hôtel de Ville drawing-rooms."
"Ah!" he said, "now I can breathe again! I feel better here than in the Hôtel de Ville drawing rooms."
Meantime, the people were knocking at the doors of that same Hôtel de Ville which the préfet and members of the municipality had abandoned. When at the Hôtel de Ville, that palace of the people, the people felt they were the masters. But they scarcely realised this before they were afraid of their power. This power was deputed to eight persons: Lachapelle, Frédéric, Charpentier, Perenon, Rosset, Garnier, Dervieux and Filliol. The three first were workmen whose only thought was to maintain the tariff; the five others were Republicans who thought of political questions and not merely of pecuniary. The next day after that on which the eight delegates of the people had established a provisional administration, the provisional administrators were at the point of killing one another. Some wanted boldly to follow the path of insurrection; others wanted to join the party of civil authority. The latter carried[Pg 384] the day, and M. Bouvier-Dumolard was reinstalled. On 3 December, at noon, the Prince Royal and Maréchal Soult took possession once more of the second capital of the kingdom, and re-entered with drums beating and torches lit. The workpeople were disarmed and fell back to confront their necessities and the besoins factices they had created, at eighteen sous per diem. The National Guard was disbanded and the town placed in a state of siege. M. Bouvier-Dumolard was dismissed.
Meantime, the people were knocking at the doors of that same Hôtel de Ville that the préfet and municipal officials had abandoned. When at the Hôtel de Ville, that people’s palace, the people felt like they were in charge. But they barely realized this before they started to fear their own power. This power was given to eight individuals: Lachapelle, Frédéric, Charpentier, Perenon, Rosset, Garnier, Dervieux, and Filliol. The first three were workers whose main focus was to maintain the pricing; the other five were Republicans who thought about political issues rather than just financial ones. The day after the eight delegates of the people established a temporary administration, the provisional administrators were ready to fight each other. Some wanted to boldly continue down the path of rebellion; others wanted to align with the civil authority. The latter group won that day, and M. Bouvier-Dumolard was reinstated. On December 3, at noon, the Prince Royal and Maréchal Soult took control of the second capital of the kingdom again, re-entering with drums banging and torches lit. The workers were disarmed and had to face their own needs and the artificial demands they had created, living on eighteen sous per day. The National Guard was disbanded, and the town was placed under siege. M. Bouvier-Dumolard was dismissed.
What was the king doing during this time? His ministers, at his dictation, were preparing a minute in which he asked the Chamber for eighteen million francs for the civil list, fifteen hundred thousand francs per month, fifty thousand francs per day; without reckoning his private income of five millions, and two or three millions in dividends from special investments.
What was the king doing at this time? His ministers were drafting a note in which he requested the Chamber for eighteen million francs for the civil list, one million five hundred thousand francs per month, fifty thousand francs per day; not counting his private income of five million, and two or three million in dividends from special investments.
M. Laffitte had already, a year before, submitted to the committee of the Budget a minute proposing to fix the king's civil list at eighteen million francs. The committee had read the minute, and this degree of justice should be given to it: it had been afraid to bring it forward. Even that minute had left a very bad impression, so disturbing, that it had been agreed between the minister and the king, that the king should write a confidential letter to the minister, saying he had never thought of so high a sum as eighteen millions, and that the demand should be attributed to too hasty courtiers, whose devotion compromised the royal power they thought to serve. That confidential letter had been shown in confidence and had produced an excellent effect. But when it was learnt at court that the revolt at Lyons was not political, and that the canuts were only rising because they could not live on eighteen sous per twenty-four hours, it was deemed that the right moment had come to give the king his fifty thousand francs per day. They asked for one single man that which, a hundred and twenty leagues away, was sufficient to keep fifty-four thousand men. It was thirty-seven times more than Bonaparte had asked as First Consul, and a hundred and forty-eight times more than[Pg 385] the President of the United States handled. The time was all the more ill chosen in that, on 1 January 1832,—we are anticipating events by three months,—the Board of Charity of the 12th Arrondissement published the following circular—
M. Laffitte had already submitted a proposal to the Budget committee a year earlier to set the king's civil list at eighteen million francs. The committee had considered the proposal but was too afraid to present it. Even that proposal had created a very negative impression, so unsettling that it was agreed between the minister and the king that the king would write a confidential letter to the minister, stating he never intended such a high amount as eighteen million and that the request should be attributed to overly eager courtiers, whose loyalty threatened the royal authority they meant to support. That confidential letter was shared discreetly and had a very positive impact. But when it was discovered at court that the unrest in Lyons was not politically motivated and that the workers were rising simply because they couldn’t survive on eighteen sous for twenty-four hours, it was felt that the right moment had arrived to give the king fifty thousand francs per day. They asked for that amount for one single man, which, a hundred and twenty leagues away, was enough to support fifty-four thousand men. It was thirty-seven times what Bonaparte had requested as First Consul and a hundred and forty-eight times what the President of the United States managed. The timing was particularly poor because, on January 1, 1832—we're jumping ahead three months—the Board of Charity of the 12th Arrondissement published the following circular—
"Twenty-four thousand persons are inscribed on the registers of the 12th Arrondissement of Paris as in need of food and clothing. Many are asking for a few trusses of straw on which to sleep."
"Twenty-four thousand people are registered in the 12th Arrondissement of Paris as needing food and clothing. Many are requesting some bundles of straw to sleep on."
True, the request for eighteen millions of Civil List were stated to be for royal necessities,—people's necessities differ. Thus, whilst five or six thousand wretched people of the 12th Arrondissement were asking for a few trusses of straw on which to sleep, the king was in need of forty-eight thousand francs for the medicaments necessary to his health; the king was in need of three million seven hundred and seventy-three thousand five hundred francs for his personal service; the king was in need of a million two hundred thousand francs to provide fuel for the kitchen fires of the royal household.
True, the request for eighteen million from the Civil List was said to be for royal needs—though the needs of the people vary. So, while five or six thousand struggling people from the 12th Arrondissement were asking for a few bundles of straw to sleep on, the king needed forty-eight thousand francs for the medicine necessary for his health; the king needed three million seven hundred seventy-three thousand five hundred francs for his personal service; and the king needed one million two hundred thousand francs to supply fuel for the kitchen fires of the royal household.
It must be admitted that these were a fair number of remedies for a king whose health had become proverbial, and who knew enough about medicine to pass a doctor's degree, in his ordinary indispositions; it was a great luxury for a king who had suppressed the offices of chief equerry, master of the hounds, master of ceremonies and all the great state expenses, and who had set forth the programme, new to France, of a small court half-bourgeois and half-military; also it was a good deal of wood and coal to allow a king who possessed the finest forests in the state, either by right of inheritance or as appanage. True, it was calculated that the sale of wood annually made by the king, which would be sufficient to warm a tenth part of France, was not sufficient to warm the underground kitchen fires of the Palais-Royal. People calculated differently. It was the time of calculations. There was, at that period, a great calculator, since dead, called Timon the misanthrope. Ah! if only he were still alive!... He reckoned that eighteen millions of Civil List amounted to the fiftieth part of[Pg 386] the Budget of France; the contribution of three of our most densely populated departments,—Seine, Seine-Inférieure and Nord; the land tax paid to the state by eighteen other departments; four times more than flowed into the state coffers from Calais, Boulonnais, Artois and their six hundred and forty thousand inhabitants, by way of contributions of every kind in a year; three times more than the salt tax brought in; twice more than the government winnings from its lottery; half what the monopoly of the sale of tobacco produced; half what is annually granted for the upkeep of our bridges, roads, harbours and canals—an expenditure which gives work to over fifteen thousand persons; nine times more than the whole budget for public education, including its support, subsidies, national scholarships; double the cost of the foreign office, which pays thirty ambassadors and ministers-plenipotentiary, fifty secretaries to the embassies and legations, one hundred and fifty consuls-general, consuls, vice-consuls, dragomans and consular agents; ninety head clerks and office clerks, under-clerks, employees, copyists, translators and servants; the pay of an army of fifty-five thousand men, officers of all ranks, non-commissioned officers, corporals and soldiers, a third more than the cost of the whole staff of the administration of justice;—note that in saying that justice is paid for, we do not mean to say that it ought to be given up. In short, a sum sufficient to provide work for a whole year to sixty-one thousand six hundred and forty-three workmen belonging to the country!... Although the bourgeoisie were so enthusiastic over their king, this calculation none the less made them reflect.
It has to be acknowledged that there were quite a few remedies for a king whose health was well-known, and who knew enough about medicine to earn a doctor’s degree due to his usual ailments; it was a significant luxury for a king who had cut back on the roles of chief equerry, master of the hounds, master of ceremonies, and all the major state expenses, and who had introduced a program, new to France, for a small court that was half-bourgeois and half-military. Also, it was quite a lot of wood and coal to provide for a king who owned the finest forests in the state, either through inheritance or as an appanage. True, it was estimated that the king's annual sale of wood, which would be enough to heat a tenth of France, was not enough to keep the underground kitchen fires of the Palais-Royal going. People calculated differently. It was the age of calculations. At that time, there was a prominent calculator, now deceased, named Timon the misanthrope. Oh! If only he were still alive!... He calculated that the eighteen million Civil List amounted to one-fiftieth of[Pg 386] the Budget of France; the contributions from three of our most populated departments—Seine, Seine-Inférieure, and Nord; the land tax paid to the state by eighteen other departments; four times more than what flowed into the state coffers from Calais, Boulonnais, Artois and their six hundred forty thousand inhabitants, through various contributions in a year; three times more than the revenue from the salt tax; twice the government’s profit from the lottery; half of what the tobacco sales monopoly produced; half of what is granted each year for the maintenance of our bridges, roads, harbors, and canals—an expense that creates jobs for over fifteen thousand people; nine times more than the entire budget for public education, including its support, subsidies, and national scholarships; double the cost of the foreign office, which pays for thirty ambassadors and ministers-plenipotentiary, fifty secretaries to the embassies and legations, one hundred fifty consuls-general, consuls, vice-consuls, dragomans, and consular agents; ninety head clerks and office clerks, junior clerks, employees, copyists, translators, and servants; the salaries of an army of fifty-five thousand men, including officers of all ranks, non-commissioned officers, corporals, and soldiers, which is a third more than the total cost of the entire justice administration;—note that when we say justice is paid for, we don’t mean to suggest it should be given up. In short, a sum that could provide work for an entire year to sixty-one thousand six hundred forty-three workers from the country!... Although the bourgeoisie were very enthusiastic about their king, this calculation still gave them pause.
Then, as if it seemed that every misfortune were to be piled up because of that fatal Civil List of 1832, M. de Montalivet must needs take upon himself to find good reasons for making the contributors support the Budget by saying in the open Chamber—
Then, as if it felt like every misfortune was stacking up because of that disastrous Civil List of 1832, M. de Montalivet had to take it upon himself to find good reasons for making the contributors support the Budget by saying in the open Chamber—
"If luxury is banished from the king's palace, it will soon be banished from the homes of his subjects!"
"If luxury is kicked out of the king's palace, it will soon be kicked out of the homes of his subjects!"
At these words there was a prompt and loud explosion, as though the powder magazine at Grenelle had been set on fire.
At these words, there was a sudden and loud explosion, as if the gunpowder store at Grenelle had been ignited.
"Men who make kings are not the subjects of the kings they create!" exclaims M. Marchal.
"Men who create kings are not the subjects of the kings they make!" exclaims M. Marchal.
"There are no more subjects in France."
"There are no more subjects in France."
"There is a king, nevertheless," insinuates M. Dupin, who held a salary direct from that king.
"There is a king, after all," suggests M. Dupin, who received a salary directly from that king.
"There are no more subjects," repeats M. Leclerc-Lasalle. "Order! order! order!"
"There are no more subjects," M. Leclerc-Lasalle repeats. "Order! Order! Order!"
"I do not understand the importance of the interruption," replies M. de Montalivet.
"I don't understand why the interruption is important," replies M. de Montalivet.
"It is an insult to the chamber," cries M. Labôissière.
"It’s an insult to the chamber," shouts M. Labôissière.
"Order! order! order!" The president rings his bell.—"Order!! order!! order!!"
"Order! Order! Order!" The president rings his bell. — "Order!! Order!! Order!!"
The president puts his hat on. "Order!!! order!!! order!!!"
The president puts on his hat. "Order!!! Order!!! Order!!!"
The president breaks up the sitting. The deputies go out, crying "Order! order! order!"
The president ends the meeting. The deputies leave, shouting "Order! order! order!"
The whole thing was more serious than one would have supposed at the first glance: it was a slur on the bourgeois reputation which had made Louis-Philippe King of France. On the same day, under the presidency of Odilon Barrot, a hundred and sixty-seven members of the Chamber signed a protest against the word subject. The Civil List was reduced to fourteen millions. A settlement was made on the queen in case of the decease of the king; an annual allowance of a million francs was granted to M. le duc d'Orléans. This was a triumph, but a humiliating triumph; the debates of the Chamber upon the word subject, M. de Cor's letters—Heavens! what were we going to do? We were confusing Timon the misanthrope with M. de Cormenin!—the letters of Timon, Dupont (de l'Eure's) condemnation, the jests of the Republican papers, all these had in an important degree taken the place of the voice of the slave of old who cried behind the triumphant emperors, "Cæsar, remember that thou art mortal!" At the same time a voice cried, "Peerage, remember that thou art mortal!" It was the voice of the Moniteur proclaiming the abolition of heredity in the peerage.
The whole thing was more serious than anyone might think at first glance: it was an insult to the middle-class reputation that had made Louis-Philippe King of France. On the same day, under the leadership of Odilon Barrot, one hundred and sixty-seven members of the Chamber signed a protest against the word subject. The Civil List was cut down to fourteen million. A settlement was made for the queen in case the king passed away; an annual allowance of one million francs was granted to M. le duc d'Orléans. This was a victory, but a humiliating one; the debates in the Chamber over the word subject, M. de Cor's letters—Goodness! what were we going to do? We were mixing up Timon the misanthrope with M. de Cormenin!—the letters from Timon, Dupont (de l'Eure's) condemnation, the jokes from the Republican papers, all these had significantly replaced the voice of the old slave who called out behind the victorious emperors, "Cæsar, remember that you are mortal!" At the same time, a voice cried out, "Peerage, remember that you are mortal!" It was the voice of the Moniteur announcing the abolition of hereditary peerage.
CHAPTER II
Death of Mirabeau—The accessories of Charles VII.—A shooting party—Montereau—A temptation I cannot resist—Critical position in which my shooting companions and I find ourselves—We introduce ourselves into an empty house by breaking into it at night—Inspection of the premises—Improvised supper—As one makes one's bed, so one lies on it—I go to see the dawn rise—Fowl and duck shooting—Preparations for breakfast—Mother Galop
Death of Mirabeau—The followers of Charles VII.—A hunting trip—Montereau—A temptation I can’t resist—The tricky situation my friends and I are facing—We sneak into an empty house at night—Exploring the place—Preparing a makeshift dinner—You reap what you sow—I go out to watch the sunrise—Hunting birds and ducks—Getting ready for breakfast—Mother Galop
It will be seen the times were not at all encouraging for literature. But there was through that highly strung period such a vital turgescence that enough force remained in the youth of the day, who had just been making a political disturbance on the boulevard Saint-Denis or the place Vendôme, to create a literary disturbance at the Théâtre Porte-Saint-Martin or the Odéon. I think I have said that Mirabeau had been played, and had passed like a shadow without even being able, when dying, to bequeathe the name of its author to the public: the company of the Odéon, therefore, was entirely at the disposal of Charles VII.
It was clear that the times were not very promising for literature. However, during that highly charged period, there was such a vital energy that enough momentum remained in the youth of the day—who had just stirred up political protests on the boulevard Saint-Denis or the place Vendôme—to spark a literary uprising at the Théâtre Porte-Saint-Martin or the Odéon. I think I've mentioned that Mirabeau was performed, but it passed like a shadow, unable to even leave its author's name to the public: thus, the Odéon company was completely available for Charles VII.
Whether Harel had returned to my opinion, that the play would not make money, or whether he had a fit of niggardliness, a rare happening, I must confess, when Mademoiselle Georges was taking part in a play, he would not risk any expense, not even to the extent of the stag that kills Raymond in the first act, not even for the armour which clothes Charles VII. in the fourth. The result was that I was obliged to go to Raincy myself to kill a stag, and to get it stuffed at my own expense; then I had to go and borrow a complete set of armour from the Artillery Museum, which they obligingly lent me in remembrance of the service[Pg 389] that I had rendered their establishment on 29 July 1830, by saving a portion of the armour of Francis I. However, the rehearsals proceeded with such energy that, on 5 September, the opening day of the shooting season having arrived, I had no hesitation about leaving Charles VII. to the strength of the impetus that I had given it, and, as M. Étienne would say, I went to woo Diana at the expense of the Muses. True, our Muses, if the illustrious Academician is to be believed, were but sorry ones!
Whether Harel had come around to my view that the play wouldn't be profitable, or whether he suddenly became stingy—a rare occurrence, I must admit—when Mademoiselle Georges was involved in a production, he refused to spend any money, not even for the stag that kills Raymond in the first act, or for the armor that outfits Charles VII in the fourth. As a result, I had to go to Raincy myself to hunt a stag and pay to have it stuffed. Then I had to borrow a complete set of armor from the Artillery Museum, which kindly lent it to me in gratitude for the service[Pg 389] I provided their institution on July 29, 1830, by saving a part of Francis I's armor. However, the rehearsals were going so well that on September 5, the opening day of the shooting season, I felt confident enough to leave Charles VII. to the momentum I had given it, and, as M. Étienne would say, I went to pursue Diana at the expense of the Muses. True, our Muses, if we are to believe the esteemed Academician, were rather lackluster!
I had decided to undertake this cynegetic jollification because of an unlimited permission from Bixio. That permission had been given to us by our common friend Dupont-Delporte, who, by virtue of our discretionary powers, we had just made sub-lieutenant in the army, together with a delightful lad called Vaillant, who, with Louis Desnoyers, managed a paper called the Journal Rose, and also the son of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, who, I believe, died bravely in Algeria. As to Vaillant, I know not what became of him, or whether he followed up his military career; but, if he be still living, no matter where he may be, I offer him greeting, although a quarter of a century has rolled by. Now this permission was indeed calculated to tempt a sportsman. Dupont-Delporte introduced us to his father, and begged him to place his château and estates at our disposition. The château was situated three-quarters of a league from Montigny, a little village which itself was three leagues from Montereau. We left by diligence at six o'clock on the morning of 4 September, and we reached Montereau about four in the afternoon. I was not yet acquainted with Montereau, doubly interesting, historically, by reason of the assassination of the Duke of Burgundy Jean Sans-Peur, and from the victory which, in the desperate struggle of 1814, Napoléon won there over the Austrians and the Würtemburgers. Our caravan was made up of Viardot, author of the Histoire des Arabes en Espagne, and, later, husband of that adorable and all round actress called Pauline Garcia; of Bessas-Lamégie, then deputy-mayor of the 10th arrondissement; of Bixio,[Pg 390] and of Louis Boulanger. Whilst Bixio, who knew the town, went in search of a carriage to take us to Montigny, Boulanger, Bessas-Lamégie, Viardot and I set to work to turn over the two important pages of history embedded in the little town, written four centuries ago. The position of the bridge perfectly explained the scene of the assassination of the Duke of Burgundy. Boulanger drew for me on the spot a rough sketch, which served me later in my romance of Isabeau de Bavière, and in my legend of the Sire de Giac. Then we went to see the sword of the terrible duke, which hung in the crypt of the church. If one formed an idea of the man by the sword one would be greatly deceived: imagine the ball swords of Francis II. or of Henri III.! When we had visited the church we had finished with the memories of 1417, and we passed on to those of 1814. We rapidly climbed the ascent of Surville, and found ourselves on the plateau where Napoléon, once more an artilleryman, thundered, with pieces of cannon directed by himself, against the Würtemburgers fighting in the town. It was there that, in getting off his horse and whipping his boot with his horse-whip, he uttered this remarkable sentence, an appeal from Imperial doubt to Republican genius—
I had decided to go on this hunting trip because I had full permission from Bixio. That permission came from our mutual friend Dupont-Delporte, who, due to our discretionary powers, we had just made a sub-lieutenant in the army, along with a charming guy named Vaillant, who, along with Louis Desnoyers, managed a paper called the Journal Rose, and also the son of Mademoiselle Duchesnois, who I believe died heroically in Algeria. As for Vaillant, I don’t know what happened to him or if he continued with his military career; but if he’s still alive, no matter where he is, I send him my regards, even though it’s been a quarter of a century. This permission was definitely tempting for any sportsman. Dupont-Delporte introduced us to his father and asked him to let us use his château and estates. The château was about three-quarters of a league from Montigny, a small village which itself was three leagues from Montereau. We left by coach at six o'clock in the morning on September 4, and we arrived in Montereau around four in the afternoon. I wasn’t familiar with Montereau yet, which is doubly interesting historically because of the assassination of Duke John the Fearless and the victory Napoléon achieved there in 1814 against the Austrians and Württemburgers. Our group included Viardot, author of the Histoire des Arabes en Espagne, who later married the lovely actress Pauline Garcia; Bessas-Lamégie, then deputy-mayor of the 10th district; Bixio, [Pg 390] and Louis Boulanger. While Bixio, who knew the town well, went off to find a carriage to take us to Montigny, Boulanger, Bessas-Lamégie, Viardot, and I set about exploring the important historical events that took place in this small town four centuries ago. The location of the bridge clearly illustrated the scene of the Duke of Burgundy’s assassination. Boulanger sketched a rough drawing for me right there, which I later used in my novel Isabeau de Bavière and in my story about the Sire de Giac. Then we went to see the sword of the fearsome duke, which was displayed in the church's crypt. If one were to judge the man by his sword, they'd be greatly mistaken: think of the swords of Francis II or Henri III! After visiting the church, we wrapped up our reflections on 1417 and moved on to the memories of 1814. We quickly climbed the hill of Surville and found ourselves on the plateau where Napoléon, back as an artilleryman, bombarded the Württemburgers fighting in the town with cannons he directed himself. It was there that, dismounting his horse and tapping his boot with his whip, he famously proclaimed a remarkable sentence, an appeal from Imperial doubt to Republican genius—
"Come, Bonaparte, let us save Napoléon!"
"Come on, Bonaparte, let’s save Napoleon!"
Napoléon was victor, but was not saved: the modern Sisyphus had the rock of the whole of Europe incessantly falling back upon him.
Napoleon was victorious, but he wasn't saved: the modern Sisyphus had the weight of all of Europe constantly rolling back onto him.
It was five o'clock. We had three long leagues of country to cover; three leagues of country, no matter in what department, were it even in that of Seine-et-Marne, always means five leagues of posting. Now, five leagues of posting in a country stage-waggon is at least a four hours' journey. We should only arrive at M. Dupont-Delporte's house, whom not one of us knew, at nine or half-past nine at night. Was he a loving enough father to forgive us such an invasion, planting ourselves on him at unawares? Bixio replied that, with the son's letter, we were sure to be made welcome by the father, no matter at what hour of the day or night we knocked at his door.
It was five o'clock. We had three long leagues of countryside to travel; three leagues, no matter the region, even if it was Seine-et-Marne, always translates to five leagues of travel by coach. Now, five leagues by coach takes at least four hours. We would only reach Mr. Dupont-Delporte's house, whom none of us knew, by nine or half-past nine at night. Was he a loving enough father to forgive us for showing up unannounced? Bixio said that with the letter from his son, we would definitely be welcomed by the father, no matter what time we knocked on his door.
We started in that belief, ourselves and our dogs all heaped together in the famous stage-waggon in question, which very soon gave us a sample of its powers by taking an hour and a quarter to drive the first league. We were just entering upon the second when, in passing by a field of lucerne, I was seized with the temptation to go into it with the dog of one of my fellow-sportsmen. I do not know by what misfortune I had not my own. My companions sang out to me that shooting had not yet begun; but my sole reply was that that was but one reason more for finding game there. And I added that, if I succeeded in killing a brace of partridges or a hare, it would add some sauce to the supper which M. Dupont-Delporte would be obliged to give us. This argument won over my companions. The waggon was stopped; I took Viardot's dog and entered the field of lucerne. If any sort of gamekeeper appeared, the waggon was to proceed on its way, and I undertook to outdistance the above-mentioned gamekeeper. Those who knew my style of walking had no uneasiness on this score. The journey I made there and back from Crépy to Paris, shooting by the way with my friend Paillet, will be recalled to mind. Scarcely had I taken twenty steps in the field of lucerne before a great leveret, three-quarters face, started under the dog's nose. It goes without saying that that leveret was killed. As no gamekeeper had appeared on the scene at the noise of my firing, I took my leveret by its hind legs and quietly remounted the stage-waggon. What a fine thing is success! Everybody congratulated me, even the most timorous. Three-quarters of a league farther on was a second field of lucerne. A fresh temptation, fresh argument, and fresh yielding. At the very entrance into the field the dog came across game, and stopped, pointing. A covey of a dozen or so of partridges started up; I fired my first shot into the very middle of the covey: two fell, and a third fell down at my second shot. This would make us a roast which, if not quite sufficient, would at least be presentable. Again I climbed into the coach in the midst of the cheering of the travellers. You will see directly that these details, trivial as[Pg 392] they may appear at the first glance, are not without their importance. I had a good mind to continue a hunt which seemed like becoming the parallel to the miraculous draught of fishes; but night was falling, and compelled me to content myself with my leveret and three partridges. We drove on for another couple of hours, until we found ourselves opposite a perfectly black mass. This was the château of M. Dupont-Delporte.
We started with that belief, all of us and our dogs crammed together in the famous stagecoach, which quickly gave us a taste of its capabilities by taking an hour and a quarter to cover the first mile. We were just entering the second when, passing by a field of alfalfa, I was hit with the urge to go into it with one of my fellow sportsman’s dog. I don’t know why I didn’t have my own. My friends called out that shooting hadn’t started yet; but I simply replied that was even more reason to look for game there. I added that if I managed to catch a couple of partridges or a hare, it would spice up the dinner that M. Dupont-Delporte would have to provide us. This argument convinced my friends. The coach stopped; I took Viardot's dog and went into the alfalfa field. If any gamekeeper showed up, the coach would carry on, and I promised to outrun the mentioned gamekeeper. Those who were familiar with my walking style weren’t worried about it. The journey I made back and forth from Crépy to Paris, hunting along the way with my friend Paillet, would be remembered. I had barely taken twenty steps into the alfalfa field when a large leveret appeared right under the dog's nose. Naturally, that leveret was caught. Since no gamekeeper appeared at the sound of my shot, I grabbed my leveret by its hind legs and quietly climbed back onto the stagecoach. What a great thing is success! Everyone congratulated me, even the most timid. Another three-quarters of a mile down the road was a second alfalfa field. Another temptation, another argument, another concession. Right at the entrance of the field, the dog found game and stopped, pointing. A covey of about a dozen partridges burst into flight; I fired my first shot right into the middle of them: two fell, and a third fell with my second shot. This would make for a roast that, while not exactly enough, would at least be decent. Once again, I climbed into the coach amid cheers from the passengers. You’ll see shortly that these details, as trivial as they might seem at first glance, actually hold significance. I almost thought about continuing a hunt that felt like it was turning into a miraculous catch of fish; but night was falling, forcing me to be content with my leveret and three partridges. We traveled on for another couple of hours until we found ourselves facing a completely dark mass. That was the château of M. Dupont-Delporte.
"Ah!" said the driver, "here we are."
"Ah!" said the driver, "here we are."
"What, have we arrived?"
"Wait, did we get here?"
"Yes."
"Yep."
"Is this the château d'Esgligny?"
"Is this the Château d'Esgligny?"
"That is the château d'Esgligny."
"That's the château d'Esgligny."
We looked at one another.
We looked at each other.
"But everybody is asleep," said Bessas.
"But everyone is asleep," said Bessas.
"We will create a revolution," added Viardot.
"We're going to start a revolution," added Viardot.
"Messieurs," suggested Boulanger, "I think we should do well to sleep in the carriage, and only present ourselves to-morrow morning."
"Guys," Boulanger suggested, "I think it would be a good idea to sleep in the carriage and only show up tomorrow morning."
"Why! M. Dupont-Delporte would never forgive us," said Bixio, and, jumping down from the carriage, he resolutely advanced towards the door and rang.
"Wow! M. Dupont-Delporte would never forgive us," Bixio said, and, jumping down from the carriage, he confidently walked up to the door and rang the bell.
Meanwhile the driver, who was paid in advance, and who had shuddered at Boulanger's suggestion of using his stage-waggon for a tent, quietly turned his horse's head towards Montigny, and suddenly departed at a trot which proved that his horse felt much relieved at getting rid of his load. For a moment we thought of stopping him, but before the debate that began upon this question was ended, driver, horse and vehicle had disappeared in the darkness. Our boats were burned behind us! The situation became all the more precarious in that Bixio had rung, knocked, flung stones at the door, all in vain, for nobody answered. A terrifying idea began to pass through our minds: the château, instead of containing sleeping people, seemed to contain nobody at all. This was a melancholy prospect for travellers not one of whom knew the country, and all of whom had the appetites of ship-wrecked[Pg 393] men. Bixio ceased ringing, ceased knocking, ceased throwing stones; the assault had lasted a quarter of an hour, and had not produced any effect: it was evident that the château was deserted. We put our heads together in council, and each advanced his own view. Bixio persisted in his of entering, even if it meant scaling the walls; he answered for M. Dupont-Delporte's approval of everything he did.
Meanwhile, the driver, who had been paid in advance and who had recoiled at Boulanger's idea of using his stage-wagon as a tent, quietly turned his horse's head toward Montigny and suddenly trotted away, showing that his horse felt much better now that it was free of its load. For a moment, we considered stopping him, but before we could finish debating the matter, the driver, horse, and wagon had vanished into the darkness. Our chance was burned behind us! The situation became even more dire as Bixio had rung the bell, knocked, and thrown stones at the door, all with no response. A terrifying thought started creeping into our minds: the château, instead of being full of sleeping people, seemed completely empty. This was a grim scenario for travelers who didn't know the area and who were all as hungry as shipwrecked men. Bixio stopped ringing, stopped knocking, and stopped throwing stones; the assault lasted for fifteen minutes and produced no results: it was clear that the château was abandoned. We huddled together for a discussion, each offering their own opinion. Bixio remained determined to enter, even if it meant scaling the walls; he claimed that M. Dupont-Delporte would approve of anything he did.
"Look here," I said to him, "will you take the responsibility on yourself?"
"Listen," I said to him, "will you take responsibility for this?"
"Entirely."
"Totally."
"Will you guarantee us, if not judicial impunity, at all events civil absolution?"
"Will you guarantee us, if not legal immunity, at least civil forgiveness?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"Very well; will somebody light a bit of paper to give me light?"
"Alright; can someone light a piece of paper to give me some light?"
A smoker (alas! from about that period there were smokers to be found everywhere) drew a match—box from his pocket, twisted up half a newspaper, and lighted me with his improvised beacon. In a trice I had pulled off the lock, by the help of my screw—driver. The door opened by itself when the lock was off. We found ourselves inside the park. Before going farther we thought we ought to put back the lock in its place. Then, feeling our way through the tortuous walks, we attained the main entrance. By chance the emigrants, probably counting on the first door to be a sufficient obstacle, had not shut that of the château. So we entered the château and wandered about among the salons, bedrooms and kitchens. Everywhere we found traces of a hasty departure, and that it had been incomplete owing to the haste with which it had been undertaken. In the kitchen the turnspit was in position, and there were two or three saucepans and a stove. In the dining-room were a dozen chairs and a table; eighteen mattresses were in the linen-room; and, in the cupboard of one room thirty pots of jam! Each fresh discovery led to shouts of joy equal to those uttered by Robinson Crusoe on his various visits to the wrecked vessel. We had the wherewithal to cook a meal, to sit down and to sleep;[Pg 394] furthermore, there were thirty pots of jam for our dessert. It is true we had nothing for our supper. But at that moment I drew my hare and the partridges from my pocket, announcing that I was prepared to skin the hare if the others would pluck the partridges. When hare and partridges were skinned and plucked I undertook to put them all in the spit. We only wanted bread. Here Boulanger came on the scene with a shout of joy. In order to draw the view of the bridge of Montereau, or, rather, in order to rub out the incorrect lines in his sketch, he had sent an urchin to fetch some crumbly bread. The lad had brought him a two-pound loaf. The loaf had been stuffed into someone or other's game bag. We searched all the game bags, and the loaf of bread was found in Bessas-Lamégie's bag. At this sight we all echoed Boulanger's shout of joy. The two pounds of bread were placed under an honourable embargo; but, for greater security, Bixio put in his pocket the key of the sideboard in which the bread was enclosed. After this I began to skin my hare, and my scullion-knaves began to pluck the partridges.
A smoker (unfortunately, by that time, smokers were everywhere) pulled a matchbox from his pocket, rolled up half a newspaper, and lit it with his makeshift flame. In no time, I had taken off the lock with my screwdriver. The door opened by itself when the lock was off. We found ourselves inside the park. Before going any further, we thought we should put the lock back in place. Then, feeling our way through the winding paths, we reached the main entrance. By chance, the emigrants, probably thinking the first door would be a sufficient barrier, hadn’t shut the château door. So we went into the château and wandered through the sitting rooms, bedrooms, and kitchens. Everywhere we found signs of a hasty departure that was incomplete because of the rush. In the kitchen, the spit was in place, and there were a few saucepans and a stove. In the dining room were a dozen chairs and a table; eighteen mattresses were in the linen room; and in one room’s cupboard, there were thirty jars of jam! Each new discovery led to shouts of joy as loud as those Robinson Crusoe made on his visits to the wrecked ship. We had everything we needed to cook a meal, sit down, and sleep;[Pg 394] plus, there were thirty jars of jam for dessert. It’s true we had nothing for dinner. But at that moment, I pulled out my hare and partridges from my pocket, announcing that I was ready to skin the hare if the others would pluck the partridges. Once the hare was skinned and the partridges were plucked, I started to put them all on the spit. We just needed bread. That’s when Boulanger came into the scene with a shout of joy. To capture the view of the bridge of Montereau, or rather, to fix the wrong lines in his sketch, he had sent a boy to get some fresh bread. The boy returned with a two-pound loaf. The loaf had been stuffed into someone’s game bag. We searched all the game bags, and the loaf of bread was found in Bessas-Lamégie’s bag. At this sight, we all echoed Boulanger’s shout of joy. The two pounds of bread were placed under a serious embargo; but for added security, Bixio pocketed the key to the sideboard where the bread was kept. After that, I started to skin my hare, and my kitchen helpers began to pluck the partridges.
Bessas-Lamégie, who had announced that he had no culinary proclivities, was sent with a lantern to find any available kind of fuel. He brought back two logs, stating that the wood-house was abundantly stocked, and that consequently we need not be afraid of making a good fire. The hearth-place flamed with joy after this assurance. In a kitchen table drawer we found a few old iron forks. We were not so particular as to insist upon silver ones. The table was laid as daintily as possible. We each had our knife, and, what was more, a flask full of wine or brandy or kirsch. I, who drink but little wine and am not fond of either brandy or kirsch, had gooseberry syrup. I was therefore the only one who could not contribute to the general stock of beverages; but they forgave me in virtue of the talents I showed as cook. They saw clearly that I was a man of resource, and they praised my adroitness in killing the game and my skill in roasting it. It was nearly one in the morning when we lay down in our clothes on the mattresses. The Spartans took only one[Pg 395] mattress; the Sybarites took two. I was the first to wake, when it was scarcely daylight. In the few moments that elapsed between the extinction of the light and the coming of sleep I had reflected about the future, and promised myself as soon as I waked to look about for a village or hamlet where we could supply ourselves with provisions. Therefore, like Lady Malbrouck, I climbed up as high as I could get, not, however, to a tower, but to the attics. A belfry tower was just visible in the distance, through the trees, probably belonging to the village of Montigny. The distance at which it was situated inspired me with extremely sad reflections, but just then, dropping my eyes, melancholy-wise towards the earth, I saw a fowl picking about in a pathway; then, in another path, another fowl; then a duck dabbling in a kind of pond. It was evident that this was the rear-guard of a poultry yard which had escaped death by some intelligent subterfuge. I went downstairs into the kitchen, got my gun, put two charges of cartridges in my pocket, and ran out into the garden. Three shots gave me possession of the duck and fowls, and we had food for breakfast. Furthermore, we would dispatch two of our party to a village for eggs and bread, wine and butter. At the sound of my three shots the windows opened, and I saw a row of heads appear which looked like so many notes of interrogation. I showed my two fowls in one hand and my duck in the other. The result was immediate. At the sight of my simple gesture shouts of admiration rose from the spectators. At supper the night before, we had had roast meats; at breakfast, we were going to have both roast and stew. I thought I would stew the duck with turnips, as it seemed of a ripe age. Enthusiasm produces great devotion: when I suggested drawing lots as to who should go to the village of Montigny to find butter, eggs, bread and wine, two men of goodwill volunteered from the ranks. These were Boulanger and Bixio, who, not being either shooters or cooks, desired to make themselves useful to society according to their limited means. Their services were accepted; an old basket was discovered, the bottom of which was made strong[Pg 396] with twine! Bixio set the example of humility by taking the empty basket,—Boulanger undertook to carry back the full basket. I set the rest of my people to work to pluck the fowls and the duck, and I undertook a voyage of discovery. It was impossible that a château so well provisioned, even in the absence of its owners, should not include among its appurtenances an orchard and a kitchen-garden. It was necessary to discover both. I was without a compass, but, by the aid of the rising sun, I could make out the south from the north. Therefore the orchard and the kitchen-garden would, naturally, be situated to the south of the park. When I had gone about a hundred yards I was walking about among quantities of fruit and vegetables. I had but to make my choice. Carrots and turnips and salads for vegetables—pears, apples, currants for fruit. I returned loaded with a double harvest. Bessas-Lamégie, who saw me coming from afar, took me for Vertumnus, the god of gardens. Ten minutes later the god of gardens had made room for the god of cooking. An apron found by Viardot round my body, a paper cap constructed by Bessas on my head, I looked like Cornus or Vatel. I possessed a great advantage over the latter in that, not expecting any fish, I did not inflict on myself the punishment of severing my carotid artery because the fishmonger was late. To conclude, my scullion lads had not lost anytime; the fowls and the duck were plucked, and a brazier of Homeric proportions blazed in the fireplace.
Bessas-Lamégie, who said he had no cooking skills, was sent with a lantern to find fuel. He came back with two logs, saying that the woodpile was well-stocked, so we didn’t have to worry about starting a good fire. The fireplace lit up with joy at this news. In a kitchen drawer, we found a few old iron forks. We weren’t picky enough to insist on silver ones. The table was set as nicely as possible. Each of us had a knife, and, even better, a flask filled with wine, brandy, or kirsch. I, who drink very little wine and don’t like either brandy or kirsch, had gooseberry syrup. So, I was the only one who couldn't contribute to the group's drinks; but they forgave me because of the skills I showed as a cook. They recognized I was resourceful, praising my ability to kill the game and roast it. It was nearly one in the morning when we lay down in our clothes on the mattresses. The Spartans took just one mattress; the Sybarites took two. I was the first to wake up as it was barely dawn. In the few moments between the extinguishing of the light and falling asleep, I thought about the future and promised myself that as soon as I woke, I would look for a village or hamlet to get provisions. So, like Lady Malbrouck, I climbed as high as I could—not to a tower, but to the attic. A belfry tower was barely visible in the distance through the trees, likely belonging to the village of Montigny. The distance made me feel quite sad, but just then, looking down towards the ground, I saw a chicken scratching around in a path; then, in another path, another chicken; then a duck dabbling in a small pond. It was clear this was the rear guard of a poultry yard that had escaped death by some clever ruse. I went downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed my gun, stuffed two cartridges in my pocket, and ran out into the garden. Three shots later, I had caught the duck and chickens, and we had breakfast. Furthermore, we would send two of our group to the village for eggs, bread, wine, and butter. At the sound of my three shots, windows opened, and I saw a row of heads pop out, looking like a bunch of question marks. I held up my two chickens in one hand and my duck in the other. The reaction was immediate. At the sight of my simple gesture, shouts of admiration erupted from the onlookers. The night before at dinner, we had roast meats; at breakfast, we were going to have both roast and stew. I thought I'd stew the duck with turnips since it seemed ripe for cooking. Enthusiasm breeds great devotion: when I suggested drawing lots to see who should go to Montigny for butter, eggs, bread, and wine, two eager men volunteered. These were Boulanger and Bixio, who, not being hunters or cooks, wanted to contribute to the group in whatever way they could. Their offer was accepted; we found an old basket that had a strong bottom made with twine! Bixio humbly took the empty basket, while Boulanger agreed to carry back the full one. I set the others to work plucking the chickens and duck while I went on my own little adventure. It was hard to believe that such a well-stocked château, even without its owners, wouldn’t have an orchard and a kitchen garden. I needed to find both. I didn’t have a compass, but with the help of the rising sun, I could tell south from north. So, the orchard and garden would naturally be to the south of the park. After walking about a hundred yards, I was among plenty of fruit and vegetables. I could choose whatever I wanted: carrots, turnips, and salads for veggies—pears, apples, and currants for fruit. I came back with a double harvest. Bessas-Lamégie, who saw me coming from afar, mistook me for Vertumnus, the god of gardens. Ten minutes later, the god of gardens had made way for the god of cooking. With an apron found by Viardot around my waist and a paper hat made by Bessas on my head, I looked like Cornus or Vatel. I had a great advantage over Vatel in that, not expecting any fish, I didn’t put myself through the grief of slitting my own throat because the fishmonger was late. To wrap it up, my scullion helpers hadn't wasted any time; the chickens and duck were all plucked, and a gigantic brazier blazed in the fireplace.
Suddenly, just at the moment when I was spitting my two fowls, loud cries were heard in the courtyard, then in the ante-chamber, then on the stairs, and a furious old woman, bonnet-less and thoroughly scared, ran into the kitchen. It was Mother Galop.
Suddenly, right at the moment when I was plucking my two chickens, loud shouts echoed in the courtyard, then in the hallway, then up the stairs, and a wild old woman, without her bonnet and clearly panicked, burst into the kitchen. It was Mother Galop.
CHAPTER III
Who Mother Galop was—Why M. Dupont-Delporte was absent—How I quarrelled with Viardot—Rabelais's quarter of an hour—Providence No. 1.—The punishment of Tantalus—A waiter who had not read Socrates—Providence No. 2—A breakfast for four—Return to Paris
Who Mother Galop was—Why M. Dupont-Delporte was absent—How I debated with Viardot—Rabelais's moment of recognition—Providence No. 1.—The punishment of Tantalus—A waiter who hadn’t read Socrates—Providence No. 2—A breakfast for four—Back to Paris
Mother Galop was M. Dupont-Delporte's kitchen-maid; she was specially employed to go errands between the château and the village, and they called her Mother Galop because of the proverbial rapidity with which she accomplished this kind of commission. I never knew her other name, and never had the curiosity to inquire what it was. Mother Galop had seen a column of smoke coming out of the chimney in comparison with which the column that led the children of Israel in the desert was but as a vapour, and she had come at a run, never doubting that her master's château was invaded by a band of incendiaries. Great was her astonishment when she saw a cook and two or three kitchen-lads spitting and plucking chickens. She naturally asked us who we were and what we were doing in her kitchen. We replied that M. Dupont-Delporte's son, being on the eve of marrying, and intending to celebrate his nuptials at the château, had sent us on in advance to take possession of the culinary departments. She could believe what she liked of the story; my opinion is that she did not believe very much of it; but what did that matter to us? She was not able to prevent us; we could, indeed, have shown her Dupont-Delporte's letter, but two reasons prevented us from doing so. In the first place, because Bixio had it in his pocket and had carried it off to the market; secondly, because Mother Galop did not know how to read! We in our turn interrogated Mother[Pg 398] Galop, with all the tact of which we were capable, concerning the absence of all the family, and the desertion of the château.
Mother Galop was M. Dupont-Delporte's kitchen maid; she was specifically hired to run errands between the château and the village, and they called her Mother Galop because of her legendary speed in completing these tasks. I never knew her other name and never bothered to ask what it was. Mother Galop had noticed a column of smoke rising from the chimney that was so large it made the one that led the children of Israel in the desert look like a wisp, and she rushed over, convinced that her master's château was being attacked by arsonists. She was shocked to find a cook and two or three kitchen boys preparing chickens. Naturally, she asked us who we were and what we were doing in her kitchen. We explained that M. Dupont-Delporte's son was about to marry and planned to celebrate the wedding at the château, so he had sent us ahead to take over the kitchen arrangements. She could believe whatever she wanted about our story; I don’t think she believed much of it, but that didn't matter to us. She couldn't stop us; we could have shown her Dupont-Delporte's letter, but two things prevented us from doing that. First, Bixio had it in his pocket and had taken it to the market; second, Mother Galop couldn’t read! We then asked Mother Galop, as tactfully as we could, about the absence of the family and why the château was deserted.
M. Dupont-Delporte, senior, had been appointed préfet of Seine-Inférieure, and he had moved house rapidly a week ago, leaving his château and what remained therein under the surveillance of Mother Galop. As has been seen, Mother Galop fulfilled her orders scrupulously. The arrival of Mother Galop had its good side as well as its bad: it was a censorship; but, at the same time, it meant a housekeeper for us. The upshot of it was that, in consideration of a five-franc piece which was generously granted her by myself, we had both plates and serviettes at our dejeuner. Bixio and Boulanger arrived as the fowls were accomplishing their final turn on the spit, and as Mother Galop was serving up the stewed duck. An omelette of twenty-four eggs completed the meal. Then, admirably fortified, we set off on our shooting expedition. We had not fired four shots before we saw the gamekeeper running up in hot haste. This was just what we hoped would happen; he could read: he accepted our sub-lieutenant's letter as bona-fide, undertook to take us all over the estate, and to reassure Mother Galop, whom our metamorphoses from cooks to sportsmen had inspired with various fresh fears in addition to those which had troubled her at first, and which had never been entirely allayed. A sportsman minus a dog (it will be recollected that this was my social position) is a very disagreeable being, seeing that, if he wants to kill anything, he must be a Pollux or a Pylades or a Pythias to some shooter who has a dog. I began by giving the dubious advantage of my proximity to Bessas-Lamégie, the shooting companion with whom I was the most intimately connected. Unluckily, Bessas had a new dog which was making its first début, and which was in its first season. Generally, dogs—ordinary ones at least—hunt with their noses down and their tails in the air. Bessas's dog had adopted the opposite system. The result was that he looked as though he had come from between the legs of a riding-master, and not from the hands of a keeper; to such an extent that, at the end of an hour's time, I advised[Pg 399] Bessas to saddle his dog or harness him, but not to shoot with him any more. Viardot, on the other hand, had a delightful little bitch who pointed under the muzzle of the gun, standing like a stock and returning at the first call of the whistle. I abandoned Bessas and began to play with Viardot, whom I knew least, the scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche! In the very middle of the scene a covey of partridges started up. Viardot fired two shots after them and killed one. I did the same; only, I killed two. We continued to shoot and to kill in this proportion. But soon I made a mistake. A hare started in front of Viardot's dog. I ought to have given him time to fire his two shots, and not to have fired until he had missed. I drew first and the hare rolled over before Viardot had had time to put his gun to his shoulder. Viardot looked askance at me; and with good reason. We entered a field of clover. I fired my two shots at a couple of partridges, both of which fell disabled. The services of a dog were absolutely necessary. I called Viardot's; but Viardot also called her, and Diane, like a well-trained animal, followed her master and took no notice of me and my two partridges. No one is so ready to risk his soul being sent to perdition as a sportsman who loses a head of game: with still greater reason when he loses two. I called the dog belonging to Bessas-Lamégie, and Romeo came; that was his name, and no doubt it was given him because he held his head up, searching for his Juliet on every balcony. Romeo then came, pawed, pranced about and jumped, but did not deign for an instant to trouble himself about my two partridges. I swore by all the saints of Paradise,—my two partridges were lost, and I had fallen out with Viardot! Viardot, indeed, left us next day, pretending he had an appointment to keep in Paris which he had forgotten. I have never had the chance of making it up with him since that day, and twenty years have now passed by. Therefore, as he is a charming person with whom I do not wish any longer to remain estranged, I here tender him my very humble apologies and my very sincere regards. Next day it was Bessas who left us. He had no need to search for[Pg 400] an excuse; his dog provided him with a most plausible one. I again advised him to have Romeo trained for the next steeple-chase, and to bet on him at Croix-de-Berny, but to renounce working him as a shooting dog. I do not know if he took my advice. I remained the only shooter, and consequently the only purveyor to the party, which did me the justice to say that, if they ran any risk of dying of hunger, it would not be at the château d'Esgligny. But it was at Montereau that this misfortune nearly happened to us all. We had settled up our accounts with Mother Galop; we had liquidated our debt with the gamekeeper; we had paid the peasants the thousand and one contributions which they levy on the innocent sportsman, for a dog having crossed a potato field, or for a hare which has spoiled a patch of beetroot; we had returned to Montereau: here we had supped abundantly; finally, we had slept soundly in excellent beds, when, next day, in making up our accounts, we perceived that we were fifteen francs short, even if the waiter was not tipped, to be even with our host. Great was our consternation when this deficit was realised. Not one of us had a watch, or possessed the smallest pin, or could lay hands on the most ordinary bit of jewellery. We gazed at one another dumbfounded; each of us knew well that he had come to the end of his own resources, but he had reckoned upon his neighbour. The waiter came to bring us the bill, and wandered about the room expecting his money. We withdrew to the balcony as though to take the air. We were stopping at the Grand Monarque!—a magnificent sign-board represented a huge red head surmounted by a turban. We had not even the chance, seized by Gérard, at Montmorency, of proposing to our host to paint a sign for him! I was on the point of frankly confessing our embarrassment to the hotel-keeper, and of offering him my rifle as a deposit, when Bixio, whose eyes were mechanically scanning the opposite house, uttered a cry. He had just read these words, above three hoops from which dangled wooden candles—
M. Dupont-Delporte, senior, had been appointed prefect of Seine-Inférieure, and he moved quickly a week ago, leaving his château and what was left inside under the watchful eye of Mother Galop. As we've seen, Mother Galop followed her orders meticulously. Her arrival had both advantages and disadvantages: it was a form of censorship; but at the same time, it meant we had a housekeeper. The result was that, for a five-franc coin I generously gave her, we had both plates and napkins at our lunch. Bixio and Boulanger arrived just as the fowl was finishing its turn on the spit and Mother Galop was serving the stewed duck. A twenty-four-egg omelette completed the meal. Then, feeling well-fortified, we set off on our shooting trip. We hadn’t fired four shots before we saw the gamekeeper rushing over. This was exactly what we hoped for; he could read and accepted our sub-lieutenant's letter as legitimate, agreed to take us across the estate, and to reassure Mother Galop, whose fears had been rekindled by our transformation from cooks to hunters, in addition to the original worries she had never fully shaken off. A hunter without a dog (as you'll recall, this was my social situation) is a rather bothersome figure since, if he wants to hunt anything, he has to be a Pollux or a Pylades or a Pythias to some buddy with a dog. I started by giving the dubious privilege of my proximity to Bessas-Lamégie, my closest shooting companion. Unfortunately, Bessas had a new dog who was making its debut and was still a rookie. Normally, dogs—at least the ordinary ones—hunt with their noses down and their tails up. Bessas's dog had chosen the opposite approach. As a result, it looked like it had come from a riding instructor rather than a gamekeeper; so much so that after an hour, I advised Bessas to saddle or harness his dog but to stop trying to shoot with it. Viardot, on the other hand, had a lovely little female dog who pointed under the gun’s muzzle, standing still like a statue and returning at the first whistle call. I left Bessas and started hanging out with Viardot, whom I knew the least, akin to the scene between Don Juan and M. Dimanche! In the middle of the scene, a group of partridges took off. Viardot fired two shots and hit one. I did the same, except I hit two. We continued to shoot and hit in that ratio. But soon I made a mistake. A hare darted in front of Viardot's dog. I should have let him take his two shots first and not fired until he missed. I shot first, and the hare went down before Viardot had time to raise his gun. Viardot shot me a look; and rightly so. We stepped into a clover field. I took two shots at a couple of partridges, both of which fell disabled. A dog was essential. I called for Viardot's dog; but Viardot called for her too, and Diane, being a well-trained animal, followed her master and ignored me and my two partridges. No one is as eager to risk damnation as a hunter who loses a game bird: even more so when he loses two. I called Bessas-Lamégie’s dog, and Romeo came; that was his name, likely given him because he held his head high, searching for his Juliet on every balcony. Romeo came, pawed around, pranced, and jumped but didn’t bother to pay any attention to my two partridges. I swore by all the saints in Paradise—my two partridges were lost, and I was on bad terms with Viardot! In fact, Viardot left us the next day, claiming he had an appointment in Paris he had forgotten. I haven’t had a chance to make amends with him since that day, and twenty years have now passed. Therefore, since he’s a charming person I no longer wish to be estranged from, I offer him my sincere apologies and my best regards. The next day, Bessas left us too. He didn’t need to come up with an excuse; his dog provided him with a perfect one. I again suggested he have Romeo trained for the next steeplechase and to place a bet on him at Croix-de-Berny, but to give up using him as a shooting dog. I don’t know if he took my advice. I was left as the only shooter, and therefore the only provider for the group, which did me the courtesy of saying that if they risked starvation, it would not be at the château d'Esgligny. But it was in Montereau that this misfortune almost befell us all. We had settled our bill with Mother Galop; we settled our debt with the gamekeeper; we had paid the peasants the various fees they levy on innocent hunters, for a dog crossing a potato field, or for a hare damaging a patch of beetroots; we had returned to Montereau: where we had a hearty supper; finally, we had slept soundly in excellent beds, when the next day, while settling our accounts, we discovered we were fifteen francs short, even if we didn’t tip the waiter, to balance with our host. Great was our shock when this deficit became apparent. Not one of us had a watch, or the smallest pin, or could find the most ordinary piece of jewelry. We stared at each other, stunned; each of us was well aware that he had reached the end of his resources, but counted on his neighbor. The waiter came in with the bill and wandered around the room expecting his money. We stepped out onto the balcony as if to get some fresh air. We were staying at the Grand Monarque!—a huge signboard featured a giant red head topped with a turban. We didn’t even have the chance, like Gérard at Montmorency, to suggest painting a sign for our host! I was about to confess our awkward situation to the hotel-keeper sincerely and offer my rifle as collateral when Bixio, whose eyes were mechanically scanning the opposite house, shouted. He had just read these words above three hoops from which hung wooden candles—
CARRÉ, DEALER IN GROCERIES
CARRÉ, GROCERY DEALER
In desperate situations everything may be of importance. We crowded round Bixio, asking him what was the matter with him.
In desperate situations, everything can be important. We gathered around Bixio, asking him what was wrong.
"Listen," he said, "I do not wish to raise false hopes; but I was at school with a Carré who came from Montereau. If, by good fortune, the Carré of that sign happens to be the same as my Carré, I shall not hesitate to ask him to lend me the fifteen francs we need."
"Listen," he said, "I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I went to school with a Carré who was from Montereau. If by some luck the Carré from that sign is the same as mine, I won’t hesitate to ask him to lend me the fifteen francs we need."
"Whilst you are about it," I said to Bixio, "ask him for thirty."
"While you're at it," I said to Bixio, "ask him for thirty."
"Why thirty?"
"Why thirty?"
"I presume—you have not reckoned that we must go on foot?"
"I assume you haven't realized that we need to walk?"
"Ah! good gracious! that is true! Here goes for thirty, then! Gentlemen, pray that he may be my Carré; I will go and see."
"Wow! That’s really true! Alright, I’m in for thirty then! Gentlemen, let’s hope he becomes my Carré; I’m going to check it out."
Bixio went downstairs, and we stayed behind upon the balcony, full of anxiety; the waiter still hanging round. Bixio went out of the hotel, passed two or three times up and down in front of the shop unostentatiously; then, suddenly, he rushed into it! And, through the transparent window-panes, we saw him clasp a fat youth in his arms, who wore a round jacket and an otter-skin cap. The sight was so touching that tears came into our eyes. Then we saw no more; the two old school-fellows disappeared into the back of the shop. Ten minutes later both came out of the shop, crossed the street and entered the hotel. It was evident that Bixio had succeeded in his borrowing; otherwise, had he been refused, we presumed that the Rothschild of Montereau would not have had the face to show himself. We were not mistaken.
Bixio went downstairs, and we stayed on the balcony, anxious, while the waiter lingered nearby. Bixio left the hotel and casually walked back and forth in front of the shop a couple of times; then, all of a sudden, he rushed inside! Through the clear window, we saw him hug a chubby young guy wearing a round jacket and an otter-skin cap. It was such a touching moment that tears filled our eyes. After that, we couldn’t see anything else; the two old friends vanished into the back of the shop. Ten minutes later, they both came out, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. It was clear that Bixio had managed to borrow what he needed; otherwise, if he’d been turned down, we figured the Rothschild of Montereau wouldn't have had the guts to show his face. We were right.
"Gentlemen," said Bixio, entering, "let me introduce to you M. Carré, my school friend, who not only is so kind as to get us out of our difficulty by lending us thirty francs, but also invites us to take a glass of cognac or of curaçao at his house, according to your several tastes."
"Gentlemen," said Bixio as he walked in, "let me introduce you to M. Carré, my friend from school, who is not only nice enough to help us out by lending us thirty francs, but also invites us to his place for a glass of cognac or curaçao, based on what you prefer."
The school friend was greeted enthusiastically. Boulanger, whom we had elected our banker, who for half an hour[Pg 402] enjoyed a sinecure, settled accounts with the waiter, generously giving him fifty centimes for himself, and put fourteen francs ten sous into his pocket in reserve for the boat. Then we hurried down the steps, extremely happy at having extricated ourselves even more cleverly than M. Alexandre Duval's Henri V. The service which we had just received from our friend Carré—he had asked for our friendship, and we had hastened to respond—did not prevent us from doing justice to his cognac, his black-currant cordial and his curaçao; they were excellent. In fact, we took two glasses of each liqueur to make sure that it was of good quality. Then, as time was pressing, we said to our new friend, in the phrase made famous by King Dagobert: "The best of friends must part," and we expressed our desire to go to the boat. Carré wished to do us the honours of his natal town to the last, and offered to accompany us. We accepted. It was a good thing we did. We had been misinformed about the fares of places in the boat: we wanted nine francs more to complete the necessary sum for going by water. Carré drew ten francs from his pocket with a lordly air, and gave them to Bixio. Our debt had attained the maximum of forty francs. There remained then twenty sous for our meals on board the boat. It was a modest sum; but still, with twenty sous between four people, we should not die of hunger. Besides, was not Providence still over us? Might not one of us also come across his Carré? Expectant of this fresh manifestation of Providence, we each pressed Bixio's friend in our arms, and we passed from the quay to the boat. It was just time; the bell was ringing for departure, and the boat was beginning to move. Our adieux lasted as long as we could see each other. Carré flourished his otter-skin cap, while we waved our handkerchiefs. There is nothing like a new friendship for tenderness! At length the moment came when, prominent objects though Carré and his cap had been, both disappeared on the horizon.
The school friend was welcomed warmly. Boulanger, whom we had chosen as our banker, who for half an hour[Pg 402] enjoyed an easy job, settled the bill with the waiter, generously giving him fifty centimes for himself, and tucked fourteen francs ten sous into his pocket for the boat ride. Then we rushed down the steps, thrilled to have outsmarted ourselves even more than M. Alexandre Duval's Henri V. The favor we just received from our friend Carré—who had asked for our friendship, and we were quick to agree—didn’t stop us from enjoying his cognac, black-currant cordial, and curaçao; they were fantastic. In fact, we took two glasses of each liqueur to verify their quality. As time was tight, we said to our new friend, using the famous phrase from King Dagobert: "The best of friends must part," and expressed our wish to head to the boat. Carré wanted to honor us with a tour of his hometown until the very end and offered to join us. We accepted. It turned out to be a good choice. We had been misled about the boat fares: we needed nine more francs to cover the total cost of the water crossing. Carré pulled ten francs from his pocket with an air of generosity and handed them to Bixio. Our debt had now reached a maximum of forty francs. This left us with twenty sous for meals on board. It was a small amount; still, with twenty sous among four people, we wouldn’t starve. Besides, wasn't Providence watching over us? Perhaps one of us would also find his own Carré? Anticipating this new sign of Providence, we each hugged Bixio’s friend, and we moved from the quay to the boat. We were just in time; the bell was ringing for departure, and the boat was starting to move. Our goodbyes lasted as long as we could see each other. Carré waved his otter-skin cap, while we swung our handkerchiefs. There’s nothing like a new friendship for warmth! Finally, the moment came when, despite how noticeable they were, both Carré and his cap faded from view on the horizon.
We then began our examination of the boat; but after taking stock of each passenger we were obliged to recognise, for the time being at any rate, that Providence had failed us.[Pg 403] That certainty led to all the greater sadness among us, as each stomach, roused by the exhilarating morning air, began to clamour for food. We heard all round us, as though in mockery of our wretchedness, a score of voices shouting—
We then started looking over the boat, but after checking each passenger, we had to admit that, for the moment at least, luck was not on our side.[Pg 403] That realization only deepened our sadness as our stomachs, stirred by the refreshing morning air, started demanding food. All around us, as if to mock our misery, we heard dozens of voices shouting—
"Waiter! two cutlets!... Waiter! a beefsteak!... Waiter! un thé complet!"
"Waiter! Two cutlets!... Waiter! A beefsteak!... Waiter! A full tea!"
The waiters ran about bringing the desired comestibles, and calling out in their turn as they passed by us—
The waiters hurried around delivering the requested food, calling out as they passed by us—
"Do not you gentlemen require anything? No lunch? You are the only gentlemen who have not asked for something!"
"Don’t you guys need anything? No lunch? You’re the only ones who haven’t asked for something!"
At last I replied impatiently: "No; we are waiting for some one who should join us at the landing-stage of Fontainebleau." Then, turning to my companions in hunger, I said to them—
At last, I said impatiently, "No; we're waiting for someone who is supposed to meet us at the landing stage of Fontainebleau." Then, turning to my hungry friends, I said to them—
"Upon my word, gentlemen, he who sleeps dines; now, the greater includes the less, so I am going to take my lunch sleeping."
"Honestly, gentlemen, he who sleeps eats; now, the greater includes the lesser, so I'm going to have my lunch while sleeping."
I settled myself in a corner. I had even then the faculty which I have since largely perfected, I can sleep pretty nearly when I like. Hardly was I resting on my elbow before I was asleep. I do not know how long I had been given up to the deceptive illusion of sleep before a waiter came up to me and repeated three times in an ascending scale—
I got comfortable in a corner. Even back then, I had the ability that I've since developed a lot—I can pretty much sleep whenever I want. No sooner had I rested on my elbow than I was out. I don’t know how long I had been lost in the false comfort of sleep before a waiter approached me and repeated three times in an ascending tone—
"Monsieur! monsieur!! monsieur!!!"
"Mister! mister!! mister!!!"
I woke up.
I woke up.
"What is it?" I said to him.
"What is it?" I asked him.
"Monsieur said that he and his friends would breakfast with a person he expected at the landing-place at Fontainebleau."
"Monsieur said that he and his friends would have breakfast with someone he expected at the landing area in Fontainebleau."
"Did I say that?"
"Did I say that?"
"Monsieur said so."
"Mr. said so."
"You are sure?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"Well?"
"What's up?"
"Well then, it; is time monsieur ordered his lunch, seeing that we are approaching Fontainebleau."
"Well then, it’s time for you to order your lunch, since we’re getting close to Fontainebleau."
"Already?"
"Already?"
"Ah! monsieur has slept a long time!"
"Wow! You've slept for a long time!"
"You might have left me to sleep still longer."
"You could have let me sleep even longer."
"But monsieur's friend ..."
"But your friend's ..."
"Monsieur's friend would have found him if he came."
"Monsieur's friend would have found him if he had come."
"But is not monsieur sure, then, of meeting his friend?"
"But isn't monsieur sure about meeting his friend?"
"Waiter, when you have read Socrates you will know how rare a friend is, and, consequently, how little certainty there is of meeting one!"
"Waiter, once you’ve read Socrates, you’ll realize how rare a friend is and, because of that, how unlikely it is to find one!"
"But monsieur can still order lunch for three; if monsieur's friend comes, another cover can be added."
"But sir can still order lunch for three; if your friend comes, another place setting can be added."
"You say we are nearing Fontainebleau?" I replied, eluding the question.
"You say we’re almost at Fontainebleau?" I replied, dodging the question.
"In five minutes we shall be opposite the landing-stage."
"In five minutes, we'll be in front of the landing stage."
"Then I will go and see if my friend is coming."
"Then I'll go check if my friend is on the way."
I went up on the deck, and mechanically glanced towards the landing-stage. We were still too far off to distinguish anything; but, assisted by tide and steam, the boat rapidly advanced. Gradually individuals grouped on the bank could be separately distinguished. Then outlines could be more clearly seen, then the colour of their clothes, and, finally, their features. My gaze was fastened, almost in spite of myself, upon an individual who was waiting in the middle of ten other persons, and whom I believed I recognised. But it was most unlikely!... However, it was very like him, ... if it were he, what luck.... No, it seemed impossible.... Nevertheless, it was, indeed, his shape and figure and physiognomy. The boat approached nearer still. The individual who was the object of my attention got into the boat to come on board the steamer, which stopped to take up passengers. When half-way to the steamer the individual recognised me and waved his hand to me.
I went up on the deck and automatically glanced toward the landing stage. We were still too far away to make out anything, but with the help of the tide and steam, the boat quickly moved forward. Gradually, I could distinguish individuals grouped on the bank. Then their outlines became clearer, then the color of their clothes, and eventually, their features. I found myself staring, almost against my will, at someone waiting among ten other people, someone I thought I recognized. But that seemed very unlikely! ... Still, he looked so much like him ... if it was him, how lucky ... No, it seemed impossible ... Yet, it really was his shape, figure, and face. The boat got even closer. The person I was focused on got into the boat to come aboard the steamer, which had stopped to pick up passengers. Halfway to the steamer, he recognized me and waved his hand.
"Is that you?" I shouted.
"Is that you?" I yelled.
"Yes, it is I," he replied.
"Yes, it's me," he said.
I had found my Carré, only his name was Félix Deviolaine; and, instead of being just an ordinary school-fellow, he was my cousin. I ran to the ladder and flung myself into his arms with as much effusion as Bixio had into Carré's.
I had found my Carré, but his name was Félix Deviolaine; and instead of being just an ordinary classmate, he was my cousin. I ran to the ladder and threw myself into his arms with as much enthusiasm as Bixio had for Carré's.
"Are you alone?" he asked me.
"Are you by yourself?" he asked me.
"No; I am with Bixio and Boulanger."
"No; I'm with Bixio and Boulanger."
"Have you lunched?"
"Have you had lunch?"
"No."
"No."
"Well, shall I have lunch with you?"
"Well, should I have lunch with you?"
"Say, rather, may we have lunch with you?"
"Can we have lunch with you instead?"
"It is the same thing."
"It's the same thing."
"Nothing of the kind."
"Not even close."
I explained the difference between his lunching with us and we with him. He understood perfectly. The waiter stood by, serviette in hand; the amusing fellow had followed me as a shark follows a starving ship.
I explained the difference between him having lunch with us and us having lunch with him. He understood completely. The waiter stood by, napkin in hand; the funny guy had followed me like a shark follows a hungry ship.
"Lunch for four!" I said, and, provided that it includes two bottles of burgundy, eight cutlets, a fowl and a salad, you can then add what you like in the way of hors-d'œuvre and entremets. Lunch lasted until we reached Melun. At four that afternoon we landed at the quay of the Hôtel de Ville, and next day I resumed my rehearsals of Charles VII.
"Lunch for four!" I said, and as long as it includes two bottles of burgundy, eight cutlets, a chicken, and a salad, feel free to add whatever you want in terms of appetizers and desserts. Lunch lasted until we got to Melun. By four that afternoon, we arrived at the dock of the Hôtel de Ville, and the next day I started my rehearsals for Charles VII.
CHAPTER IV
Le Masque de fer—Georges' suppers—The garden of the Luxembourg by moonlight—M. Scribe and the Clerc de la Basoche—M. d'Épagny and Le Clerc et le Théologien—Classical performances at the Théâtre-Français—Les Guelfes, by M. Arnault—-Parenthesis—Dedicatory epistle to the prompter
The Iron Mask—Georges' dinner parties—The Luxembourg garden in the moonlight—Mr. Scribe and the Clerk of the Basoche—Mr. d'Épagny and The Clerk and the Theologian—Classical performances at the Théâtre-Français—The Guelphs by Mr. Arnault—Parenthesis—Dedication letter to the prompter
In those days nothing had yet tarnished the spirit of that juvenile love of the capital which had induced me to overcome many obstacles in order to transport myself thither. Three or four days spent away from the literary and political whirlpool of Paris seemed to me a long absence. During the month I had stayed at Trouville I felt as though the world had stood still. I took but the time to fly home to change my shooting dress,—as regards the game, my travelling companions had seen to that,—to make inquiries about things that might have happened affecting myself, and then I went to the Odéon. It took me a good half-hour's fast walking, and an hour in a fly, to go from my rue Saint-Lazare to the Odéon Theatre. Railways were not in existence then, or I might have followed the method pursued by a friend of mine who had an uncle living at the barrière du Maine. When he went to see his uncle—and this happened twice a week, Thursdays and Sundays—he took the railway on the right bank and arrived by the railway on the left bank. He only had Versailles to cross through, and there he was at his uncle's house!
In those days, nothing had yet dampened the spirit of that youthful love for the capital that had motivated me to overcome many hurdles to get there. Three or four days away from the literary and political buzz of Paris felt like a long time. During the month I spent in Trouville, it seemed like the world had paused. I only took the time to rush home to change my shooting outfit—my travel companions had taken care of the game—and then headed to the Odéon. It took me a good half-hour of brisk walking and an hour in a cab to get from my rue Saint-Lazare to the Odéon Theatre. There were no railways back then, or I might have followed the method of a friend who had an uncle living at the barrière du Maine. When he visited his uncle—twice a week, on Thursdays and Sundays—he took the railway on the right bank and arrived on the left bank. He just had to get through Versailles, and then he was at his uncle's house!
They had rehearsed conscientiously, but the rehearsals had not been hurried at all. The last piece to be performed was the Masque de fer, by MM. Arnault and Fournier. Lockroy had been magnificent in it, and although the play was acted without Georges it brought in money. I say, although it was[Pg 407] played without Georges, because it was a superstition at the Odéon, a superstition accredited by Harel, that no piece paid if Georges was not acting in it. Ligier, a most conscientious actor, though almost always compelled to struggle against the drawback of being too small in figure and having too coarse a voice, had been a genuine success in his part, greater than I can remember any actor to have had in a rôle created by himself. What a capital company the Odéon was at that period! Count up on your fingers those I am about to name, and you will find six or eight players of the first rank: Frédérick-Lemaître, Ligier, Lockroy, Duparay, Stockleit, Vizentini, Mademoiselle Georges, Madame Moreau-Sainti who was privileged always to remain beautiful, and Mlle. Noblet who unfortunately was not equally privileged to remain for ever virtuous. Mlle. Noblet, poor woman, who had just played Paula for me, and who was about to play Jenny; Mlle. Noblet, whose great dark eyes and beautiful voice and melancholy face gave birth to hopes which now are so utterly quenched at the Théâtre-Français that, although she is still young, people have not known for the past ten years whether she, who was so full of promise, is still alive or dead!
They had practiced diligently, but the rehearsals were never rushed. The final performance was the Masque de fer, by MM. Arnault and Fournier. Lockroy was outstanding in it, and even though the play was performed without Georges, it made money. I mention that it was [Pg 407] played without Georges because there was a superstition at the Odéon, endorsed by Harel, that no production made money if Georges wasn't performing. Ligier, a very dedicated actor, though often held back by his small stature and deep voice, had a real success in his role, greater than I can recall any actor having in a part created by themselves. What an incredible company the Odéon had at that time! Count on your fingers those I’m about to mention, and you’ll find six or eight top-notch performers: Frédérick-Lemaître, Ligier, Lockroy, Duparay, Stockleit, Vizentini, Mademoiselle Georges, Madame Moreau-Sainti, who always managed to stay beautiful, and Mlle. Noblet, who sadly wasn’t as fortunate to remain virtuous forever. Mlle. Noblet, poor thing, who had just played Paula for me and was about to play Jenny; Mlle. Noblet, whose large dark eyes, lovely voice, and melancholic face inspired hopes that are now completely extinguished at the Théâtre-Français, where, even though she is still young, people have been unsure for the last ten years whether she, once full of promise, is still alive or dead!
Why were these eclipses of talent so frequent at the theatre of Richelieu? This is a question which we will examine on the first suitable opportunity that presents itself. Let Bressant, who has played the Prince of Wales admirably for me in Kean during the past fifteen or sixteen years, look to his laurels and cling tight to his new repertory, or probably he will be lost sight of like the others.
Why were these talent drop-offs so common at the Richelieu theater? That's something we'll dig into when the chance arises. Bressant, who has played the Prince of Wales superbly for me in Kean over the last fifteen or sixteen years, should watch his back and hold on tight to his new repertoire, or he might end up forgotten like the others.
I stayed behind to supper with Georges. I have already said how very charming her supper-parties were,—very unlike those of Mlle. Mars, although often both were attended by the same people. But, in this case, the guests in general took their cue from the mistress of the house. Mademoiselle Mars was always a little stiff and somewhat formal, and she seemed as though she were putting her hand over the mouths of even her most intimate friends, not letting them give vent to their wit beyond a certain point. While Georges, a thoroughly good[Pg 408] sort beneath her imperial airs, allowed every kind of wit, and laughed unrestrainedly, Mlle. Mars, on the other hand, for the greater part of the time, only smiled half-heartedly. Then, how scatter-brained, extravagant, abandoned we were at Georges' suppers! How evident it was seen that all the convivial spirits—Harel, Janin, Lockroy—did not know how to contain themselves! When Becquet, who was a leading light at Mlle. Mars', adventured into our midst at Mlle. Georges', he passed into the condition of a mere looker-on. And the type of mind was entirely different—Harel's, caustic and retaliating; Janin's, good-natured and merry; Lockroy's, refined and aristocratic. Poor Becquet! one was obliged to wake him up, to prick him and to spur him. He reminded one of a respectable drunkard asleep in the midst of fireworks. Then, after these suppers, which lasted till one or two in the morning, we went into the garden. The garden had a door in it leading out on the Luxembourg and the Chamber of Peers, the key of which Cambacérès lent Harel on the strength of his having once been his secretary. The result was that we had a royal park for the discussion of our dessert. Gardens of classical architecture, like Versailles, the Tuileries and the Luxembourg are very fine seen by night and by the light of the moon. Each statue looks like a phantom; each fountain of water a cascade of diamonds. Oh! those nights of 1829 and 1830 and 1831! Were they really as glorious as I think them? Or was it because I was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age that made them seem so fragrant, so peaceful and so full of stars?...
I stayed behind to have dinner with Georges. I've already mentioned how charming her dinner parties were—very different from those of Mlle. Mars, even though both often had the same guests. In this case, the guests generally took their cues from the host. Mademoiselle Mars was always a bit stiff and somewhat formal, as if she were trying to keep even her closest friends from expressing themselves too freely. In contrast, Georges, who had a genuinely good nature beneath her regal demeanor, welcomed all kinds of humor and laughed freely. Mlle. Mars, on the other hand, often smiled only halfheartedly. At Georges' dinners, we were so carefree, extravagant, and wild! It was obvious that all the lively spirits—Harel, Janin, Lockroy—just couldn't hold back! When Becquet, a prominent figure at Mlle. Mars', joined us at Mlle. Georges', he became just a bystander. The types of minds were completely different—Harel's was sharp and defensive; Janin's was friendly and cheerful; Lockroy’s was classy and aristocratic. Poor Becquet! He needed to be roused, poked, and prodded. He was like a respectable drunkard dozing amid fireworks. After these dinners, which went on until one or two in the morning, we would step into the garden. The garden had a door that led to the Luxembourg and the Chamber of Peers, and Cambacérès had given Harel the key since he had been his secretary. This meant we had a royal park for our dessert discussions. Classical gardens like those of Versailles, the Tuileries, and the Luxembourg look stunning at night under the moonlight. Each statue resembles a ghost; each fountain sparkles like a cascade of diamonds. Oh! those nights of 1829, 1830, and 1831! Were they really as wonderful as I remember? Or was it just because I was only twenty-seven or twenty-eight that they seemed so enchanting, so tranquil, and so full of stars?...
But to return. The Théâtre-Français, to our great joy, continued, by its failures, to afford a melancholy contrast to the success of its confrères of the boulevards and the outre-Seine. They had just played a five-act piece entitled the Clerc et le Théologien, which had simply taken as its subject the death of Henri III., a subject treated with much talent by Vitet in his Scènes historiques. Those who have forgotten the États de Blois and the Mort d'Henri III. can re-read the two works, that have had a great influence on the literary renascence[Pg 409] of 1830, which, according to the amiable M. P—— has yet to produce its fruit. M. P—— is a gentleman whom I propose to take by the collar and give a thorough good shaking, when I happen to have eau de Cologne on my handkerchief and gloves on my hands.
But to get back to the point. The Théâtre-Français, much to our delight, continued, through its failures, to provide a sad contrast to the successes of its peers from the boulevards and the other side of the Seine. They had just performed a five-act play called Clerc et le Théologien, which simply focused on the death of Henri III., a topic skillfully handled by Vitet in his Scènes historiques. Those who have forgotten the États de Blois and the Mort d'Henri III. can revisit the two works that greatly influenced the literary revival[Pg 409] of 1830, which, according to the charming Mr. P——, has yet to bear fruit. Mr. P—— is a gentleman I intend to grab by the collar and give a good shake when I have eau de Cologne on my handkerchief and gloves on my hands.
A strange incident preceded the performance of the Clerc et le Théologien. The play, written in collaboration by MM. Scribe and d'Épagny, and accepted by the Odéon Theatre, had been stopped by the censor of 1830. Good old Censorship! It is the same in all ages! There indeed come moments when it cuts its fingers with its own scissors; but censors are a race of polypii,—their fingers merely grow again. The censor had, then, stopped MM. Scribe and d'Épagny's drama. The vessel which bore their twofold banner, upon which the Minister of the Interior had put his embargo by the medium of his custom officers, was at anchor in the docks of the rue de Grenelle. The Revolution of 1830 set it afloat again.
A strange incident occurred just before the performance of the Clerc et le Théologien. The play, co-written by Messrs. Scribe and d'Épagny and approved by the Odéon Theatre, had been halted by the censor of 1830. Good old Censorship! It’s the same throughout history! There are indeed times when it injures itself with its own scissors; but censors are like octopuses— their limbs just grow back. So, the censor had stopped the drama by Messrs. Scribe and d'Épagny. The vessel bearing their dual banner, which the Minister of the Interior had blocked through his customs officers, was anchored in the docks of rue de Grenelle. The Revolution of 1830 set it afloat again.
We have said that Harel received the work in 1829. Becoming possessed of his own work again by the events of the revolution of July, Scribe thought no more of Harel and took his play to the Théâtre-Français. But Scribe, who usually reckoned carefully, had this time reckoned without Harel. Harel had far too good a memory to forget Scribe. He pursued author and play, writ in hand and a sheriff's officer behind him. It need hardly be said that the officer stopped both the play and the author just when they were turning the corner of the rue de Richelieu. Sheriff's officers are very fast runners! A law-suit ensued, and Harel lost. But the trial inspired Scribe's imagination; in that twofold insistence of the Théâtre-Français and the Théâtre-Odéon he saw a means of killing two birds with one stone and of making one play into two. In this way M. Scribe would have his drama, M. d'Épagny his drama; the Théâtre-Français its drama, and the Odéon its drama. The play, consequently, was reduplicated like a photograph: the Théâtre-Français, which was down on its luck, came in for the Clerc et le Théologien by M. d'Épagny; Harel drew Scribe aside by his coat-tails[Pg 410] just as the Clerc de la Basoche and he were entering, à reculons, on the second French stage. It is to be understood that I use this rather ambitious locution, the seconde scène française, to avoid putting Odéon so close to reculons. Both the dramas were failures, or pretty nearly so. I did not see either of them, and I shall therefore take good care to refrain from expressing my opinion upon them.
We mentioned that Harel got the work back in 1829. After reclaiming his piece due to the events of the July Revolution, Scribe forgot all about Harel and took his play to the Théâtre-Français. But Scribe, who usually planned carefully, didn’t take Harel into account this time. Harel had a great memory and couldn’t forget Scribe. He tracked down the author and the play, script in hand, with a sheriff's officer behind him. It’s hardly necessary to say that the officer stopped both the play and the author just as they were turning the corner of the rue de Richelieu. Sheriff’s officers are quite fast! A lawsuit followed, and Harel lost. However, the trial sparked Scribe's creativity; with both the Théâtre-Français and the Théâtre-Odéon pushing for their drama, he saw a way to kill two birds with one stone and turn one play into two. This way, M. Scribe would have his drama, M. d'Épagny would have his, the Théâtre-Français would get its drama, and the Odéon would get its drama. The play was therefore duplicated like a photograph: the Théâtre-Français, which was struggling, picked up the Clerc et le Théologien by M. d'Épagny; Harel pulled Scribe aside by his coat-tails[Pg 410] just as the Clerc de la Basoche and he were entering, à reculons, onto the second French stage. I’ll clarify that I use this somewhat grand phrase, the seconde scène française, to avoid placing Odéon too close to reculons. Both plays ended up being failures, or very close to it. I didn’t see either of them, so I’ll make sure to avoid sharing my opinion on them.
But our true fête days—I hope I may be forgiven for this harmless digression—were when it was the turn of one of the gentlemen from the Institute—Lemercier, Viennet or Arnault—to produce a work. Then there was general hilarity. We would all arrange to meet in the orchestra of the Théâtre-Français to be present at the spectacle of a work falling flat, sometimes with very little assistance, at others gently aided in its fall by a bitter blast of hisses; a spectacle sad enough for the author's friends, but very exhilarating to his enemies, and the gentlemen above mentioned had treated us as enemies.
But our real celebration days—I hope I can be forgiven for this harmless digression—were when it was the turn of one of the guys from the Institute—Lemercier, Viennet, or Arnault—to present a work. That’s when the laughter really started. We would all meet in the orchestra of the Théâtre-Français to witness the spectacle of a work not going well, sometimes with barely any help, and other times slightly assisted in its downfall by a harsh wave of hisses; a sad scene for the author’s friends, but really exciting for his foes, and the gentlemen mentioned above had treated us like foes.
M. Arnault was the cleverest of the three authors I have just named, a man, as I have said elsewhere, of immense worth and eminent intellect. But everyone has his own hobby-horse, as Tristram Shandy says, and M. Arnault's hobby-horse was tragedy. But his hobby was roaring, broken-winded, foundered, to such an extent that, in spite of its legs being fired by the Constitutionnel, it could rarely get to the last line of a fifth act!
M. Arnault was the smartest of the three authors I just mentioned, a man, as I’ve said elsewhere, of great value and remarkable intellect. But everyone has their own passion, as Tristram Shandy puts it, and M. Arnault's passion was tragedy. However, his passion was loud, out of breath, and worn out, to the point that, despite being backed by the Constitutionnel, it could hardly make it to the last line of a fifth act!
We asked that these gentlemen's pieces should be played with as much fervour as they employed in stating that ours should not. They, on their side, clamoured loudly to be played, and, as they had the government to back them up, specially since the July Revolution, their turn to be represented arrived, in spite of the timid opposition of the Théâtre-Français, in spite, too, of sighs from members of the staff and the groans of the cashier. True, the torture did not last long; it was generally restricted to the three customary performances, even if it attained to three. Often the first performance was not ended; witness Pertinax and Arbogaste. It was very strange, in this case, to see the excuses which these gentlemen made up for their failure. Those made by M. Arnault were[Pg 411] delightful, since nobody could possibly have a readier wit than he. For instance, he had made the Théâtre-Français take up again an old piece of his, played, I believe, under the Empire the Proscrit, or les Guelfes et les Gibelins. The piece fell flat. Who did the furious Academician blame for it?—Firmin! Why Firmin? Firmin, delightful, enthusiastic and conscientious player, who enjoyed much lasting favour from the public, although his memory began to fail him,—Firmin played the part of Tébaldo, head of the Ghibellines and brother of Uberti, head of the Guelfs, in the play. The other parts were played by Ligier, Joanny and Duchesnois. So, we see, M. Arnault had nothing to grumble at: the Comédie-Française had lent him of its best; perhaps it had a conviction it would not be for long. Very well, M. Arnault made Firmin's memory, or, rather, want of memory, the excuse for this failure, and he dedicated his play to the prompter. We have this curious dedication before us, and are going to quote it; it will, we hope, have for our readers at least the attraction of a hitherto unpublished fragment. This time we are not afraid of being mistaken in the name of the author du factum as not long since happened to us concerning an article in the Constitutionnel reproduced by us, which, by a copyist's error, we ascribed to M. Étienne, whilst it was only by M. Jay.[1]
We requested that these gentlemen's works be performed with as much enthusiasm as they showed when insisting that ours shouldn't be. They, for their part, loudly demanded to be showcased, and since they had the government backing them up—especially after the July Revolution—their moment to be featured finally came, despite the hesitant objections from the Théâtre-Français, as well as the sighs from the staff and the groans from the cashier. Admittedly, the ordeal didn't last long; it typically only lasted through the usual three performances, if it even got that far. Often, the first performance ended abruptly; take, for instance, Pertinax and Arbogaste. It was quite odd to see the excuses these gentlemen concocted for their failures. M. Arnault's were particularly amusing, as no one had a quicker wit than he. For example, he had the Théâtre-Français revive one of his old plays, staged, as far as I remember, during the Empire, Proscrit, or les Guelfes et les Gibelins. The play flopped. Who did the furious Academician blame for this? Firmin! Why Firmin? Firmin, the charming, passionate, and dedicated actor, who had maintained a solid following with the public, even though his memory was starting to slip—Firmin played the role of Tébaldo, leader of the Ghibellines and brother of Uberti, the leader of the Guelfs, in the play. The other roles were played by Ligier, Joanny, and Duchesnois. So, M. Arnault had no real grounds for complaint: the Comédie-Française had provided him with top talent; perhaps they believed it wouldn’t be for long. So, M. Arnault used Firmin's memory, or rather his lack of it, as an excuse for this flop and dedicated his play to the prompter. We have this intriguing dedication in front of us and will quote it; we hope it will offer our readers at least a glimpse of a previously unpublished fragment. This time, we aren't worried about misidentifying the author du factum as we recently did regarding an article in the Constitutionnel, which we mistakenly attributed to M. Étienne, when it was actually by M. Jay.[1]
And, by the way, as a relation of M. Étienne, a son-in-law or rather, I think, it was a nephew,—protested in the papers, let me be allowed a word of explanation, which will completely re-establish my good faith. I live part of my life in Brussels, part in Paris; the rest of the time I live in the railway between Brussels and Paris, or Paris and Brussels. Besides, I have already said that I am writing my Memoirs without notes. The consequence is that, when I am in Paris, I have my information close at hand; but when I am in Brussels I am obliged to have it sent from Paris. Now, I needed the article that had been published against Antony the very morning of the day it was to have been played at the Théâtre-Français. I wrote to Viellot, my secretary—a delightful fellow who never[Pg 412] thought of spreading the report that he was any collaborator,—to unearth the Constitutionnel from the catacombs of 1834, to copy out for me the above-mentioned article and to send it me. Viellot went to the Bibliothèque, that great common grave where journals of all sorts of parties and colours and times are entered. He borrowed the file from the rag-merchant of Pyat who was taking it away, and who, when he learnt what was wanted, would not let it off his hook for love or money until he was told that it was in order to do me a service; then he lent it, and Viellot picked off from its curved point the Constitutionnel for 28 April 1834. Then he returned home and copied out the article. Only, in copying it I do not know what hallucination he was possessed with, whether the style flew to his head, or the wit got into his brain, or the form upset his senses, anyhow, he imagined that the article was by M. Étienne, and signed it with the name of the author of Brueys et Palaprat and of the Deux Gendres. I, seeing the copy of the article, believed,—I was at a distance of seventy leagues from the scene of action, as they say poetically in politics,—the signature to be as authentic as the rest; I therefore fell upon the unfortunate article, and rent it in pieces—I was going to say tooth and nail, but no, I am too cautious for that!—with might and main, both article and signature. My error, though involuntary, was none the less an error on that account, and deserved that I should acknowledge it publicly. Thereupon, reparation be made to M. Étienne, and homage paid to M. Jay! Honour to whom honour is due!
And, by the way, as a relative of M. Étienne, a son-in-law or maybe a nephew, protested in the newspapers, let me explain, which will completely restore my good reputation. I spend part of my life in Brussels, part in Paris; the rest of the time, I’m traveling on the train between Brussels and Paris or Paris and Brussels. Besides, I’ve already mentioned that I’m writing my Memoirs without notes. The result is that when I’m in Paris, I have my information readily available; but when I’m in Brussels, I have to get it sent from Paris. Now, I needed the article that had been published against Antony on the very morning it was supposed to be shown at the Théâtre-Français. I wrote to Viellot, my secretary—a great guy who never thought of spreading the rumor that he was any collaborator—to find the Constitutionnel from the archives of 1834, to copy the mentioned article, and send it to me. Viellot went to the library, that great common grave where newspapers of all kinds, parties, and eras are stored. He borrowed the file from the junk dealer Pyat, who was taking it away, and who, when he found out what it was for, wouldn’t let it go for love or money until he was told it was to do me a favor; then he lent it, and Viellot took the Constitutionnel for April 28, 1834, from its curved point. After that, he returned home and copied the article. However, while copying it, I don’t know what strange notion took hold of him, whether the style went to his head, or the wit messed with his brain, or the format threw off his senses, but he thought the article was by M. Étienne and signed it with the name of the author of Brueys et Palaprat and of the Deux Gendres. When I saw the copy of the article, I believed—I was seventy leagues away from the action, as they say poetically in politics—that the signature was just as authentic as the rest; so I went after the unfortunate article and ripped it to shreds—I was going to say tooth and nail, but no, I’m too careful for that!—with all my strength, both the article and the signature. My mistake, though unintentional, was still a mistake, and I should acknowledge it publicly. Therefore, let reparations be made to M. Étienne, and honor be given to M. Jay! Honor to whom honor is due!
Let us return to M. Arnault and his dedication, which, I remember, at the time made my poor Firmin so unhappy that he wept over it like a child!
Let’s go back to M. Arnault and his dedication, which I remember made my poor Firmin so sad that he cried over it like a little kid!
"DEDICATORY EPISTLE
TO THE PROMPTER OF THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS[2]"DEDICATORY EPISTLE
TO THE PROMPTER OF THE THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS[2]"MONSIEUR,—Authors are by no means all ungrateful beings. I know some who have paid homage for their success[Pg 413] to the player to whom they were particularly indebted. I imitate this noble example: I dedicate the Guelfes to you. Mademoiselle Duchesnois, M. Joanny, M. Ligier have, without doubt, contributed to the success of that work by a zeal as great as their talent; but whatever they may have done for me, have they done as much as you, monsieur?
"SIR,—Not all authors are ungrateful. I know some who have credited their success[Pg 413] to the performer who has helped them the most. I follow this admirable example: I dedicate the Guelfes to you. Mademoiselle Duchesnois, M. Joanny, and M. Ligier have certainly contributed to the success of that work with enthusiasm equal to their talent; but whatever they’ve done for me, have they done as much as you, sir?”
"'To prompt is not to play,' M. Firmin will say, who is even stronger at the game of draughts than at the game of acting.[3] To that I reply with Sganarelle: 'Yes and no!' When the prompter merely gives the word to the actor, when he only jogs the memory of the player, no, certainly, to prompt is not to play! But when the player takes everything from the prompter, everything from the first to the last line of his part; when your voice covers his; when it is yours alone which is heard whilst he gesticulates, certainly this is playing through the prompter! Is it not this, monsieur, which has happened, not only at the first, but even at every performance of the Guelfes? Is it not you who really played M. Firmin's part?
“Prompting isn’t the same as performing,” M. Firmin will say, who is better at checkers than acting.__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_1__ To that, I respond with Sganarelle: ‘Yes and no!’ When the prompter simply provides the line to the actor, when he just nudges the actor's memory, no, definitely, prompting is not performing! But when the actor relies completely on the prompter for everything from the first line to the last of his part; when your voice overshadows his; when it’s only your voice that’s heard while he gestures, then this is definitely performing through the prompter! Isn’t this, sir, what has happened, not just at the first show, but at every performance of the Guelfes? Aren’t you the one who truly played M. Firmin's part?”
"'His memory,' he says, 'is of the worst.' It is conceivable, according to the system which places the seat of memory in the head.[4] But, under the circumstances, does not M. Firmin[Pg 414] blame his memory for the infirmity of his will? And why, you will say to me, is M. Firmin wanting in kindly feeling towards you, who feel kindly disposed to everybody? Towards you, who, from your age, perhaps also from your misfortunes, if not on account of past successes, had a right at least to that consideration which is not refused to the scholar who makes his first appearance? Such are indeed the rights which I knew M. Firmin's good nature would accord you, rights which I thought to strengthen in him by offering one of the most important parts in my tragedy, the part that you have prompted, or that you have played: it is a case of six of one and a half-dozen of another. I was, indeed, far from suspecting that the honour done to M. Firmin's talent was an insult to his expectations. Yet that is what has happened.
“‘His memory,’ he says, ‘is really terrible.’ It’s possible, based on the theory that connects memory to the brain.__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_2__ But in this case, doesn’t M. Firmin blame his memory for his lack of will? And why, you may ask, does M. Firmin lack kindness for you, who are so kind to everyone? Especially since you, given your age and possibly your hardships, if not due to your past achievements, deserve at least the consideration usually granted to a newcomer? Those are indeed the rights I thought M. Firmin's generosity would grant you, rights I hoped to reinforce by giving you one of the key roles in my tragedy, the role you’ve helped shape or performed: it’s really just a matter of perspective. Honestly, I never guessed that the respect shown to M. Firmin’s talent would be seen as an offense to his ambitions. But that’s exactly what has happened.”
"The succession to Talma was open for competition. When the empire of the world came to be vacant, all who laid claim to the empire of Alexander were not heroes: I ought to have remembered this; but does one always profit by the lessons of history? I did not imagine that the heir to the dramatic Alexander would be the one among his survivors who least resembled him. Nature had shown great prodigality towards Talma. His physical gifts corresponded with his moral endowments, a glowing soul dwelt in his graceful body; a vast intellect animated that noble head; his powerful voice, with its pathetic and solemn intonation, served as the medium for his inexhaustible sensitiveness, for his indefatigable energy. Talma possesses everything nature could bestow; besides all that art could acquire. Although M. Firmin has eminent gifts, does he combine in himself all perfections? His somewhat slender personal appearance does not ill-become all youthful parts, but does it accord with the dignity required by parts of leading importance? His voice is not devoid of charm in the expression of sentiments of affection; but has it the strength requisite for serious moods and violent emotions? His intellect is not wanting in breadth; but do his methods of execution expand to that breadth when he wants to exceed the limits with which nature has circumscribed him? The pride of the eagle may be found in the heart of a pigeon, and the courage of a lion in that of a poodle. But, by whatever sentiment it is animated, the rock-pigeon can only coo, the cur can but howl. Now, these accents have[Pg 415] not at all the same authority as the cry of the king of the air, or the roar of the king of the forests.
“The competition for Talma’s position was wide open. When the demand for great actors became evident, not everyone who claimed to inherit Alexander’s legacy was a hero: I should have remembered this; but do we ever really learn from history? I never thought the successor to the dramatic Alexander would be the heir who resembles him the least. Nature was incredibly generous to Talma. His physical traits matched his moral qualities; a vibrant soul lived in his elegant body; a vast intellect filled that noble head; his powerful voice, with its emotional and solemn tone, expressed his limitless sensitivity and tireless energy. Talma had everything nature could offer, plus all that art could teach. While M. Firmin has notable gifts, does he encompass all the perfections? His somewhat slender appearance suits youthful roles well, but does it convey the dignity needed for leading characters? His voice has a certain charm when expressing affection; but does it have the strength required for serious moods and intense emotions? His intellect is broad; but do his methods expand to match that breadth when he seeks to exceed nature’s boundaries? The pride of an eagle can exist in the heart of a pigeon, and the courage of a lion can be found in a poodle. But regardless of what drives it, the rock-pigeon can only coo, and the cur can only howl. Now, these sounds do[Pg 415] not carry the same weight as the cry of the king of the skies or the roar of the king of the jungle.”
"After these sage reflections, distributing the part of my tragedy to the actors who have abilities that are the most in keeping with the characters of those parts, I gave that of Uberti to M. Ligier, an actor gifted with an imposing figure and voice, and I reserved the part of the tender impassioned Tébaldo for M. Firmin. What the deuce possessed me? Just as every Englishman says whenever he comes across salt water, 'This belongs to us!' so does M. Firmin say whenever he comes across a part made for the physiognomy of Talma, This belongs to me![5] The part of Uberti was intended for Talma, and I did not offer it to M. Firmin! The part of Uberti was claimed by M. Firmin, and I did not take it from M. Ligier! A twofold crime of lèse-majesté. Alas! How the majesty of M. Firmin has punished me for it! He accepted the rôle that I offered him. Knowing the secrets of the Comédie, you know, monsieur, what has been the result of that act of complacency. Put into study in April, Les Guelfes might have been produced in May, under the propitious influence of spring; it was only performed in July, during the heat of the dog-days. Thus had M. Firmin decided. Oh! the power of the force of inertia! When several ships sail in company, the common pace is regulated by that of the poorest sailer. The common pace in this case was regulated by the memory of M. Firmin, which unfortunately was regulated by his good will. Now, this good will thought fit to compromise the interests of my reputation. But everything has to be paid for. At what point, monsieur, did it not serve the interests of your fame? All the newspapers kept faithful to it. Did it not exhume you from the pit, where hitherto you had buried your capacities, and reveal them to the public? Did it not, when raising you to the level of the actors behind whom you had hitherto been hidden, give them a mouthpiece in you?
“After considering these things and assigning roles in my tragedy to actors best suited for the characters, I gave the part of Uberti to M. Ligier, an actor with a commanding presence and voice, and saved the role of the passionate Tébaldo for M. Firmin. What was I thinking? Just like every Englishman says when he sees the ocean, ‘This is ours!’ M. Firmin says whenever he gets a role that fits Talma's style, This is mine!__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_3__ The part of Uberti was meant for Talma, yet I didn’t offer it to M. Firmin! M. Firmin wanted the role of Uberti, but I didn't take it from M. Ligier! It was a double offense of lèse-majesté. Alas! How M. Firmin's pride has punished me for it! He accepted the role I gave him. Knowing the inner workings of the Comédie, you know, monsieur, what came of that act of indulgence. If Les Guelfes had been put into rehearsals in April, it could have debuted in May, when spring was in full swing; instead, it only premiered in July, during the sweltering summer heat. This was M. Firmin's decision. Oh, the power of inertia! When several ships sail together, their speed is determined by the slowest one. In this case, the pace was set by M. Firmin's memory, which sadly relied on his willingness. This willingness ended up jeopardizing my reputation. But everything has its price. When, monsieur, did it not serve your fame? All the newspapers remained loyal to it. Did it not pull you out of the shadows where you had hidden your talents and show them to the public? Did it not elevate you to the level of the actors you had been overshadowed by, giving them a voice through you?”
"Declaiming, whilst M. Firmin gesticulated, you have, it is true, transferred from the boulevards to the Théâtre-Français an imitation of that singular combination of a declamatory orator who does not let himself be seen, and a gesticulator[Pg 416] who does not let himself be heard, co-operate in the execution of the same part. People of scrupulous taste are, it is true, offended by it; but what matters that to you? It is not you, monsieur, who, in these scenes, play the buffoon: and what does it matter to me, since, acting thus, you have saved my play? Moreover, is it the first borrowing, and the least honourable borrowing, that your noble theatre has made from those of the boulevards?[6]
“While M. Firmin was gesturing, you have indeed moved from the boulevards to the Théâtre-Français with a blend of a declamatory speaker who remains unseen and a gesticulator[Pg 416] who stays unheard, working together to perform the same role. People with refined taste might be offended, but what does that matter to you? It's not you, sir, who plays the fool in these scenes: and what does it matter to me, since by doing this, you’ve saved my play? Besides, is this the first or even the least respectable borrowing that your esteemed theater has made from those on the boulevards?[6]
"Thanks to that admirable agreement, the Guelfes has had several representations. But why has not the run, suspended by a journey taken by Mademoiselle Duchesnois, been resumed upon her return, as that great actress requested it should be, and as the play-bills announced.[7]
“Thanks to that impressive collaboration, the Guelfes has had several performances. But why hasn’t the run, which was paused because of Mademoiselle Duchesnois's trip, been restarted upon her return, as that great actress requested and as the playbills stated?”[7]
"M. Firmin refused to proceed. The part of Tébaldo, he says, has slipped out of his memory. For that matter, it might as well never have entered it. But, after all, what is it to you or to me whether he knows his part or not? Can he not make the same shift in the future as he has in the past? Need his memory fail him so long as you do not fail him? Is his memory not at the tip of your tongue, which, one knows, is by no means paralysed? But do not these difficulties, monsieur, that are said to come from M. Firmin, come from yourself? Accustomed to working underground, was it not you who stirred them up in secret? You have not the entire part, like M. Firmin; paid for prompting when you take the part of an actor, and of a principal actor, did you not get tired, at the last, of becoming out of breath for glory alone, and did you not behind the scenes oppose the revival of a play during the performance of which[Pg 417] you had not time to breathe? Justice, monsieur, justice! No doubt M. Firmin owes you an indemnity: claim it, but do not compromise the interests of the Théâtre-Français by impeding his services in preventing him from doing justice to an author's rights; that may lead to consequences, remember: the number of authors dissatisfied with him on just grounds is already but too great; be careful not to increase it. The second Théâtre-Français, although people are doing their best to kill it, is not yet dead. Would it be impossible to put it on its feet again? Will not the players who have been drawn off to block the first theatre (which pays them less for playing at it than for not playing any part at all) grow tired in the end of a state of things which reduces them from the status of parish priests to that of curates, or, rather, from being the bishops they were degrades them to the rank of millers? In conclusion, is there not a nucleus of a tragedy-playing company still left at the Odéon? And are there no pupils at the school of oratory who could swell the number?
“M. Firmin refused to continue. He says he can’t remember his lines for Tébaldo. For all that matters, it might as well never have crossed his mind. But really, why should it matter to you or me whether he knows his part or not? Can’t he manage just like he has before? Does his memory have to fail him as long as you don’t fail him? Isn’t his memory right at the tip of your tongue, which, as we know, isn’t exactly frozen? But don’t these issues, sir, that supposedly come from M. Firmin, actually come from you? Used to working behind the scenes, wasn’t it you who stirred things up in secret? You don’t possess the whole part like M. Firmin does; you get paid to cue when you take on the role of an actor, and as a leading actor, you must have grown weary of just chasing glory, did you not oppose the revival of a play during which[Pg 417] you couldn’t even catch your breath? Fairness, sir, fairness! No doubt M. Firmin owes you compensation: go ahead and claim it, but don’t jeopardize the Théâtre-Français by blocking his ability to uphold an author’s rights. That could lead to consequences; remember, the number of authors unhappy with him for valid reasons is already too high; be careful not to add to it. The second Théâtre-Français, although many are trying to shut it down, isn’t dead yet. Is it really too much to ask to get it back on its feet? Won’t the actors who’ve been drawn away to fill the first theater (which pays them less to act than to do nothing at all) eventually grow tired of a situation that demotes them from parish priests to curates, or rather, from bishops to laborers? Lastly, isn’t there still a core of a drama troupe left at the Odéon? And aren't there students at the oratory school who could add to the numbers?”
"Think of it, monsieur, the tragedy which they seem to wish to stifle in the rue de Richelieu might find a home in the faubourg Saint-Germain, which was its cradle and that also of the Théâtre-Français. You would not do badly to drop a hint of this to the members of the committee. Further, happen what may, remember, monsieur, the obligations that I owe you will never be erased from my memory, which is not as ungrateful as that of M. Firmin.
“Think about it, sir, the tragedy they seem to want to suppress in the rue de Richelieu could find a place in the faubourg Saint-Germain, which is where it started, along with the Théâtre-Français. It might be wise for you to suggest this to the committee members. Moreover, no matter what happens, remember, sir, I will never forget the debt I owe you, and my memory isn’t as ungrateful as M. Firmin's.”
"If only I could express my gratitude to you by some homage more worthy your acceptance!—Dedicate a tragedy to you, a tragedy in verse, written at top speed![8] But each must pay in his own coin: monsieur, do not refuse to take mine.
"Remember, monsieur, that Benedict XIV. did not scorn the dedication of Mahomet. I am not a Voltaire, I know; but neither are you a Pope. All things considered, perhaps the relation between us is equivalent to that which existed between those two personages. Meanwhile, take this until something better turns up. Classic by principle and by habit I have not hitherto believed myself possessed of sufficient genius to dispense with both rhyme and reason. But who knows? Perhaps, some day, I shall be in a condition to try my hand at the romantic guerre: if I put myself at a distance from the age when people rave extravagantly I shall draw nearer to that of dotage. Patience then!—I am, with all the consideration which is due to you, monsieur, your very humble and very obedient servant,
"ARNAULT"“Remember, sir, that Benedict XIV didn’t dismiss the dedication of Mahomet. I know I’m not a Voltaire, but neither are you a Pope. All things considered, our relationship might be similar to that between those two figures. In the meantime, take this until something better comes along. By nature and habit, I haven't thought I had enough talent to do without both rhyme and reason. But who knows? Maybe someday, I’ll be ready to try my hand at the romantic guerre: if I distance myself from the time when people act overly dramatic, I'll only get closer to old age. So, be patient!—I remain, with all due respect, sir, your very humble and obedient servant,
"ARNAULT"
[1] See p. 277 and footnote.
__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ See p. 277 and footnote.
[2] Three persons are honoured with this title; they differ, however, in importance, not by reason of the relative importance of their duties, which are always the same, but according to that of the kind of work to which their talents are applied. Given the case of a work of a special nature, a romantic work like Louis IX. or Émilia, the prompter-in-chief takes the manuscript, and not a trace of that noble prose reaches the ears of the players before it has passed through his lips; but if it is a question of a classical work, a work in verse, standing then on his dignity, like the executioner who would only execute gentle folk, he says: you can carry through this bit of business, you fellows, passing the plebeian copy-book to his substitutes. When it is a question of high comedy he delegates his duties to the second prompter, and tragedy is given over to a third, that is to say to the industrious and modest man to whom this letter is dedicated.
[2] Three individuals are awarded this title; however, they vary in importance, not due to the relative significance of their responsibilities, which always remain the same, but based on the nature of the work to which their skills are applied. In the case of a special type of work, like a romantic piece such as Louis IX. or Émilia, the lead prompter takes the manuscript, and no trace of that noble prose reaches the actors before it has been spoken by him; but when it comes to a classical work, a piece in verse, maintaining his dignity like an executioner who would only execute nobility, he insists: you can handle this part, you guys, handing over the ordinary copy to his substitutes. In the realm of high comedy, he assigns his tasks to the second prompter, while tragedy is entrusted to a third, meaning the diligent and humble person to whom this letter is addressed.
[3] The game of draughts (les dames)—it is the game that is meant—is in fact this actor's ruling passion, although he is not a first-rate player. He knows, however, how to reconcile that passion with his duties, and is scarcely less eager to quit his game in order to go upon the stage when it is a public performance that is in question, than to quit the stage to resume his game; when merely authors are concerned, it is true, he does not exercise so much alacrity; but as it is only a matter of rehearsals, does he not always arrive quite soon enough ... when he does come?
[3] The game of checkers (les dames)—that's the game we're talking about—is actually this actor's biggest passion, even though he's not a top-notch player. However, he knows how to balance that passion with his responsibilities and is almost as eager to leave his game to hit the stage for a public performance as he is to leave the stage to get back to his game. When it comes to rehearsals with just the authors involved, though, he isn’t quite as quick to respond; but since it’s just rehearsals, doesn't he always show up soon enough... when he finally gets there?
[4] The seat of memory varies according to the individual. It lay in the stomach of that comedian to whom Voltaire sent his Variantes in a pâté. Mademoiselle Contat placed it in her heart, and her memory was an excellent one.
[4] The source of memory is different for everyone. For that comedian who received Voltaire's Variantes in a pâté, it was in his stomach. Mademoiselle Contat felt it in her heart, and she had an exceptional memory.
[5] In consequence of this right, M. Firmin is preparing to play Hamlet. He has even bought for it, they tell me, the dress Talma wore in that part. Fancy his dreaming of such a thing. That costume was not made for his figure, and besides, all who wear lions' skins are not always taken for lions.
[5] Because of this right, M. Firmin is getting ready to play Hamlet. I’ve heard that he even bought the costume Talma wore for that role. Can you believe he would think of something like that? That outfit isn’t suited for his body, and besides, not everyone who wears a lion's skin is seen as a lion.
[6] Louis XI. and Émilia, whose merits we fully appreciate, seem indeed to have been borrowed, if not actually robbed, from the theatres of the boulevards. If, during the performance of these pieces, the orchestra perchance woke out of its lethargy, whether to announce by a fanfare of trumpets the entrance or departure of exalted personages, whether to explain by a short symphony what speech had failed to make clear, and even when one was in the precincts consecrated to Racine, Corneille and Voltaire, one was willing enough to fancy oneself at the Ambigu-Comique or at the Gaieté: it needed nothing more than this to complete the illusion. Let us hope that the regenerators of this theatre will take kindly to the remark and will profit by it for the perfecting of the French stage.
[6] Louis XI. and Émilia, whose qualities we truly value, seem to have been taken, if not outright stolen, from the theaters on the boulevards. If, during these performances, the orchestra happened to shake off its sluggishness, whether to announce with a trumpet fanfare the arrival or departure of important individuals, to clarify something that words hadn’t, or even when one found themselves in the hallowed grounds of Racine, Corneille, and Voltaire, one could easily imagine being at the Ambigu-Comique or at the Gaieté: all it took was this to complete the illusion. Let’s hope that the people revitalizing this theater will take this comment to heart and use it to enhance the French stage.
[7] For the last six months, and even to-day, the bill announces: "Until the performance of Les Guelfes et Les Gibelins"; probably to-morrow it will no longer contain the announcement.
[7] For the past six months, and even today, the sign says: "Until the performance of Les Guelfes et Les Gibelins"; probably by tomorrow it will no longer display that announcement.
[8] It is especially against tragedies in verse that the umpires of good taste to-day protest. Their repugnance in respect of poetry ever outweighs their love for romanticism. If, in that series of chapters—entitled scenes—whose whole forms a novel called a drama, which is sold under the title of Louis XI.; if, in Louis XI., the Scottish prose of Sir Walter Scott had been put into rhymed verse; that drama would not have been more kindly received by them than a posthumous tragedy of Racine, although common sense would be scarcely more respected there than in a melodrama. It is to the absence of rhyme also that Émilia owes the favour with which these gentlemen have honoured it. When he had heard the reading of that work, one of the most influential members of the tribunal by which it had been judged, exclaimed: "The problem is solved! The problem is solved! We have at last a tragedy in prose!" The Comédiens Français formerly gave a hundred louis to Thomas Corneille for putting a comedy of Molière's, Le Festin de Pierre, into verse. The Comédiens Français will, it is said, to-day give a thousand louis to an academician for putting the tragedies of Corneille, Racine and of Voltaire into prose. Is it indeed necessary that they should address themselves to an academician for that? Do not a good many of them perform that parody every day of their lives?
[8] Nowadays, critics are especially opposed to tragedies written in verse. Their dislike for poetry often outweighs their appreciation for romanticism. In that series of chapters titled "scenes," which altogether make up a novel called a drama, sold under the title Louis XI.; if the Scottish prose of Sir Walter Scott had been turned into rhymed verse in Louis XI., it wouldn’t have been received any better by them than a posthumous tragedy by Racine, even though common sense would hardly be taken more seriously there than in a melodrama. The absence of rhyme is also what has earned Émilia the praise from these gentlemen. After hearing the reading of that work, one of the most influential members of the committee that judged it exclaimed: "The problem is solved! The problem is solved! We finally have a tragedy in prose!" The Comédiens Français once paid a hundred louis to Thomas Corneille for putting one of Molière's comedies, Le Festin de Pierre, into verse. Today, it’s said that the Comédiens Français would give a thousand louis to an academician for turning the tragedies of Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire into prose. Is it really necessary for them to seek out an academician for that? Don’t many of them perform that parody every day?
Verse and rhyme are not natural, say lovers of nature. Clothes, gentlemen, are not natural, and yet you wear them to distinguish yourself from the savage; furthermore, you wear clothes of fine materials to distinguish yourselves from the rabble, and, when you are rich enough to enable you to do so, you adorn them with trimmings to distinguish yourself even from well-to-do people. That which one does for the body permit us to do for the intellect; allow us to do for the mind that which you do for matter.
Verse and rhyme aren’t natural, say nature lovers. Clothes, gentlemen, aren’t natural either, yet you wear them to set yourself apart from the uncivilized; moreover, you wear fine materials to distinguish yourselves from the lower class, and when you're wealthy enough, you decorate them to stand out even from those who are well-off. What you do for the body, let us do for the intellect; allow us to treat the mind the same way you treat the physical.
CHAPTER V
M. Arnault's Pertinax—Pizarre, by M. Fulchiron—M. Fulchiron as a politician—M. Fulchiron as magic poet—A word about M. Viennet—My opposite neighbour at the performance of Pertinax—Splendid failure of the play—Quarrel with my vis-à-vis—The newspapers take it up—My reply in the Journal de Paris—Advice of M. Pillet
M. Arnault's Pertinax—Pizarre, by M. Fulchiron—M. Fulchiron as a politician—M. Fulchiron as a poetry wizard—A note about M. Viennet—My neighbor during the performance of Pertinax—A spectacular failure of the play—Argument with my vis-à-vis—The newspapers get involved—My response in the Journal de Paris—Advice from M. Pillet.
Alas! there are two things for which I have searched in vain! And verily, God knows, how thoroughly I search when I begin! These are Firmin's answer to M. Arnault and the tragedy of Pertinax. Neither answer nor tragedy exist any longer. Why Pertinax? What is Pertinax? And what is the successor to Commodus doing here? Rather ask what the unfortunate being was doing at the Théâtre-Français! He fell there beneath the hissings of the pit, as he fell beneath the swords of the prætorians. Here is the history of his second death, his second fall. After a lapse of seventeen years I cannot say much about the first; but, after an interval of twenty-four years, I can relate the second, at which I was present.
Unfortunately, there are two things I've looked for in vain! And honestly, God knows how thoroughly I search when I start! These are Firmin's response to M. Arnault and the play Pertinax. Neither the response nor the play exists anymore. Why Pertinax? What is Pertinax? And what is the successor of Commodus doing here? It's better to ask what that unfortunate soul was doing at the Théâtre-Français! He fell there under the boos of the audience, just as he fell beneath the swords of the prætorians. This is the story of his second death, his second fall. After seventeen years, I can’t say much about the first; but after twenty-four years, I can recount the second, which I witnessed.
After those unlucky Guelfes had obstinately remained on the bills for nine months they finally disappeared. M. Arnault demanded compensation for Firmin's defective memory. The committee decided that, although Pertinax had only been received eleven years ago, it should be put in rehearsal.
After those unfortunate Guelfes stubbornly stayed on the list for nine months, they finally vanished. M. Arnault asked for compensation due to Firmin's faulty memory. The committee decided that, even though Pertinax had only been accepted eleven years ago, it should be put into rehearsal.
Eleven years ago? You repeat, and you think I am mistaken, do you not? But it is you who are mistaken. Arbogaste, by M. Viennet, received in 1825, was only played in 1841! Pizarre, by M. Fulchiron, received in 1803, has not yet been played! Let me put in a parenthesis in favour of poor Pizarre and the unfortunate M. Fulchiron.
Eleven years ago? You say it again, thinking I've got it wrong, right? But it's actually you who are mistaken. Arbogaste, by M. Viennet, was received in 1825 but didn't get played until 1841! Pizarre, by M. Fulchiron, which was received in 1803, hasn’t been played at all! Let me take a moment to defend poor Pizarre and the unfortunate M. Fulchiron.
M. Fulchiron, you know him well?—Yes. Well, then, he had had a tragedy, Pizarre, received at the Comédie-Française in the month of August 1803—Ah! really? And what has the Comédie-Française been doing the last fifty years?—It has not played M. Fulchiron's tragedy. And what did this same M. Fulchiron do during those fifty years?—He asked to have his piece played. Come! come! come!—What more could you expect? Hope supported him! They had promised it, when they accepted it, that it would have its turn.
M. Fulchiron, you know him, right?—Yeah. So, he had a play, Pizarre, that was performed at the Comédie-Française in August 1803—Oh, really? What has the Comédie-Française been up to for the last fifty years?—They haven't staged M. Fulchiron's play. And what did M. Fulchiron do all those fifty years?—He kept asking for his piece to be performed. Come on!—What else could you expect? Hope kept him going! They promised that when they accepted it, it would eventually be staged.
Those are the actual words! Look at the registers of the Comédie-Française if you don't believe me. True, the police of the Consulate suspended the work; but the censorship of the Empire was better informed as to the tragedy and returned it to its author.
Those are the actual words! Check the records of the Comédie-Française if you don't believe me. It’s true that the Consulate's police put the work on hold, but the Empire's censorship knew more about the tragedy and gave it back to its author.
Hence it arose that, contrary to the opinion of many people who preferred the First Consul to the Emperor, M. Fulchiron preferred the Emperor to the First Consul.
Hence it happened that, contrary to what many people thought, who preferred the First Consul to the Emperor, M. Fulchiron preferred the Emperor to the First Consul.
During the whole of the Empire,—that is to say, from 1805 to 1814—during the whole of the Restoration—that is to say, from 1815 to 1830—M. Fulchiron wrote, begged, prayed with, it must be admitted, that gentleness which is indissolubly bound up with his real character. In 1830, M. Fulchiron became a politician. Then he had an excuse to offer. To his friends—M. Fulchiron actually took those people for his friends! think of it!—who asked him—
During the entire time of the Empire—from 1805 to 1814—and throughout the Restoration—from 1815 to 1830—M. Fulchiron wrote, pleaded, and requested with that gentleness that's truly part of who he is. In 1830, M. Fulchiron entered politics. Then he had a reason to present. To his friends—M. Fulchiron really considered those people his friends! Can you believe it?—who asked him—
"Why, then, dear Monsieur Fulchiron, did you not get your Pizarre played when so many good things had been said about it for a long time?"
"Why, then, dear Monsieur Fulchiron, didn't you have your Pizarre performed when so many positive things had been said about it for such a long time?"
He replied—"Because I am a politician, and one cannot be both a politician and a man of letters at the same time."
He replied, "Because I'm a politician, and you can't be both a politician and a writer at the same time."
"Bah! look at M. Guizot, M. Villemain, M. Thiers!"
"Ugh! Look at M. Guizot, M. Villemain, M. Thiers!"
"M. Guizot, M. Villemain and M. Thiers have their own ideas on the subject; I have mine."
"M. Guizot, M. Villemain, and M. Thiers have their own perspectives on the topic; I have mine."
"Oh! influence in high quarters, then!"
"Oh! influence in high places, then!"
M. Fulchiron blushed and smiled; then, with that air which M. Viennet puts on, when talking of Louis-Philippe, he said, Mon illustre ami—
M. Fulchiron blushed and smiled; then, with that demeanor that M. Viennet adopts when discussing Louis-Philippe, he said, My distinguished friend—
"Well, yes," replied M. Fulchiron, "the king took hold of the button of my coat, which is a habit of his, as you know."
"Well, yeah," replied M. Fulchiron, "the king grabbed the button on my coat, which is something he tends to do, as you know."
"No, I did not know."
"No, I didn't know."
"Ah! that is because you are not one of the frequenters of the château."
"Ah! that's because you don't often visit the château."
"There are people who lay great stress on being intimates of a château! You understand?"
"There are people who put a lot of emphasis on being close to a château! You get it?"
"When he took me by my coat button," continued M. Fulchiron, "the king said to me, 'My dear Fulchiron, in spite of the beauties it contains, do not have your tragedy played.' 'But why not?' 'How can one make a man a minister who has written a tragedy?' 'Sire, the Emperor Napoléon said, "If Corneille had lived in my day, I should have made him a prince!" 'I am not the Emperor Napoléon, and you are not Corneille.' 'Nevertheless, sire, when one has had a tragedy calling from the deeps for the last thirty years ...' 'You shall read it to me, M. Fulchiron ...' 'Ah! sire, your Majesty's desires are commands. When would your Majesty like me to read Pizarre?' Some day ... when all these devils of Republicans leave me a bit of respite!'"
"When he grabbed me by my coat button," M. Fulchiron continued, "the king said, 'My dear Fulchiron, even though it has its merits, don’t have your tragedy performed.' 'But why not?' 'How can you make someone a minister who has written a tragedy?' 'Sire, Emperor Napoléon once said, "If Corneille had lived in my time, I would have made him a prince!" 'I’m not Emperor Napoléon, and you’re not Corneille.' 'Still, sire, when you have a tragedy that’s been calling out for the last thirty years...' 'You’ll read it to me, M. Fulchiron...' 'Ah! sire, your Majesty’s wishes are commands. When would your Majesty like me to read Pizarre?' Some day... when all these damned Republicans give me a little break!'"
The Republicans never left Louis-Philippe, who, you will agree, was an intelligent man, any respite. That is why M. Fulchiron hated Republicans so much. What! was that the reason? Yes! You thought that M. Fulchiron hated Republicans because they tended to usurp power, to disturb order, to put, as Danton expressed it in his curt description of the Republic, à mettre dessus ce qui est dessous? You are mistaken; M. Fulchiron hated Republicans because by means of all their riots—their 5 June, 14 April, etc. etc. etc.—upon my word, I forget all the dates!—they prevented him from reading his play to Louis-Philippe. So, on 24 February 1848, however devoted he seemed to be to the established government, M. Fulchiron allowed Louis-Philippe to fall.
The Republicans never gave Louis-Philippe, who you have to admit was a smart guy, a break. That's why M. Fulchiron despised Republicans so much. What? Was that really the reason? Yes! You thought M. Fulchiron hated Republicans because they usually tried to take over, disrupt order, to put, as Danton put it in his blunt summary of the Republic, to put upside down what is right side up? You’re mistaken; M. Fulchiron hated Republicans because all their riots—the 5th of June, the 14th of April, and so on—I honestly can’t remember all the dates!—kept him from presenting his play to Louis-Philippe. So, on 24 February 1848, no matter how loyal he seemed to the established government, M. Fulchiron let Louis-Philippe go.
See on what slender threads hang great events! If Louis-Philippe had heard the reading of Pizarre, M. Fulchiron would have supported the Government of July, and perhaps Louis-Philippe might still be on the throne. So, after the fall of[Pg 422] Louis-Philippe, M. Fulchiron was as happy as the Prince of Monaco when they took away his principality from him.
See how fragile the connections are that lead to major events! If Louis-Philippe had listened to the reading of Pizarre, M. Fulchiron would have backed the July Government, and maybe Louis-Philippe would still be on the throne. So, after the fall of[Pg 422] Louis-Philippe, M. Fulchiron was as content as the Prince of Monaco when they stripped him of his principality.
"My political career is a failure," says M. Fulchiron, "and you see me once more a literary man! I shall not be a minister, but I will be an academician."
"My political career is a failure," says M. Fulchiron, "and here I am again as a writer! I won’t be a minister, but I will be a member of the academy."
"Indeed!" say you; "then why is not M. Fulchiron an academician?"
"Exactly!" you say; "so why isn’t M. Fulchiron an academician?"
"Because Pizarre has not been played."
"Because Pizarre hasn't been played."
"Good! Was not M. Dupaty received into the Academy on condition that his tragedy Isabelle should not be played?"
"Good! Wasn't M. Dupaty accepted into the Academy on the condition that his play Isabelle wouldn't be performed?"
"Oh! really?"
"Oh, really?"
"They were already sufficiently troubled by the fact that his Seconde Botanique had been played! That youthful indiscretion delayed his entry for ten years ... But ten years are not fifty."
"They were already worried enough that his Seconde Botanique had been performed! That moment of youthful recklessness postponed his entry by ten years ... But ten years isn’t fifty."
So M. Fulchiron began to be impatient, as impatient, that is, as he can be. From time to time he appears at the Théâtre-Français, and, with that smile which, it seems to me, should prevent anyone from refusing him anything, he says—
So M. Fulchiron started to get impatient, as impatient as he can get. Every now and then he shows up at the Théâtre-Français, and with that smile that, to me, should make anyone hesitant to say no to him, he says—
"About my Pizarre, it must be high time they were putting it in hand!"
"Regarding my Pizarre, it's definitely time they started working on it!"
"Monsieur," says Verteuil to him—the secretary of the Comédie-Française, a clever fellow, whom we have already had occasion to mention, through whose hands many plays pass, but who does not compose any himself—"Monsieur, they are even now busy with it."
"Monsieur," Verteuil says to him—the secretary of the Comédie-Française, a smart guy we've mentioned before, through whom many plays are circulated, but who doesn’t write any himself—"Monsieur, they are currently working on it."
"Ah! very good!"
"Awesome!"
And M. Fulchiron's smile becomes still more winning.—
And M. Fulchiron's smile becomes even more charming.—
"Yes, and as soon as M. Viennet's Achille, now under rehearsal, has been played, Pizarre will occupy the stage."
"Yes, and as soon as M. Viennet's Achille, now in rehearsal, has been performed, Pizarre will take the stage."
"But, if I remember rightly, M. Viennet's Achille was only accepted in 1809, and, consequently, I have the priority."
"But if I remember correctly, M. Viennet's Achille was only accepted in 1809, so I have the priority."
"Doubtless; but M. Viennet had two tours de faveur and you only one."
"Doubtless; but M. Viennet had two tours de faveur and you only have one."
"Then I was wrong to complain."
"Then I was wrong to complain."
And M. Fulchiron goes away always smiling, takes his visiting-card in person to M. Viennet, and writes in pencil on it[Pg 423] these few words, "Dear colleague, hasten your rehearsals of Achille!"
And Mr. Fulchiron always leaves with a smile, personally delivers his business card to Mr. Viennet, and writes in pencil on it[Pg 423] these few words, "Dear colleague, please speed up your rehearsals of Achille!"
Thus he leaves his card with M. Viennet's porter, the same porter who informed the said M. Viennet that he was a peer of France; and M. Viennet, who is horribly spiteful, has not bowed to M. Fulchiron since the second card. He treats the seven pencilled words of M. Fulchiron as an epigram and says to everybody—
Thus he leaves his card with M. Viennet's doorman, the same doorman who told M. Viennet that he was a peer of France; and M. Viennet, who is extremely spiteful, has not acknowledged M. Fulchiron since the second card. He dismisses the seven handwritten words of M. Fulchiron as an epigram and says to everyone—
"Fulchiron may, perhaps, be a Martial, but I swear he is not an Æschylus!"
"Fulchiron might be a Martial, but I swear he is not an Aeschylus!"
And M. Fulchiron, his arms hung down, continues to walk abroad and through life, as Hamlet says, never doubting that if he is no Æschylus it is all owing to M. Viennet.[1]
And M. Fulchiron, with his arms hanging loosely, keeps walking around and going through life, as Hamlet puts it, never questioning that if he isn’t an Æschylus, it’s all because of M. Viennet.[1]
I will close my parenthesis about M. Fulchiron, and return to M. Arnault and Pertinax, which the ungrateful prompter, in spite of the dedicatory epistle to the Guelfes, has never called anything but Père Tignace (Daddy Tignace).
I will finish my thought about M. Fulchiron and get back to M. Arnault and Pertinax, which the ungrateful prompter, despite the dedicatory letter to the Guelfes, has always referred to as Père Tignace (Daddy Tignace).
Pertinax, then, was played as some compensation for the disappearance of the Guelfes. Oh! what a pity it is that Pertinax has not been printed! How I would like to have given you specimens of it and then you would understand the merriment of the pit! All I recollect is, that at the decisive moment the Emperor Commodus called for his secretary. I had in front of me a tall man whose broad shoulders and thick locks hid the actor from me every time he happened to be in the line of sight. Unluckily, I did not possess the scissors of Sainte-Foix. By his frantic applause I gathered that this gentleman understood many things which I did not. The upshot of it was that, when the Emperor Commodus called his secretary, the play upon words seemed to me to require an explanation, and I leant over towards the gentleman in front, and, with all the politeness I could command, I said to him—
Pertinax was performed as a sort of consolation for the absence of the Guelfes. Oh! what a shame it is that Pertinax hasn’t been published! I would have loved to share some excerpts with you so you could appreciate the laughter from the audience! All I remember is that, at the crucial moment, Emperor Commodus called for his secretary. In front of me was a tall guy with broad shoulders and thick hair, which blocked my view of the actor every time he stood in my line of sight. Unfortunately, I didn’t have Sainte-Foix’s scissors. From his enthusiastic applause, I could tell this gentleman understood a lot more than I did. In the end, when Emperor Commodus called for his secretary, the wordplay seemed to need some clarification, so I leaned over to the gentleman in front of me and, with all the politeness I could muster, I said to him—
"Pardon me, monsieur, but it seems to me that this is a pièce à tiroirs!" (Comedy made up of unconnected episodes.)
"Pardon me, sir, but it appears to me that this is a pièce à tiroirs!" (Comedy made up of unconnected episodes.)
He jumped up in his stall, uttered a sort of roar but controlled himself. True, the curtain was on the point of falling,[Pg 424] and before it had actually fallen our enthusiast was shouting with all his might—"Author!"
He jumped up in his stall, let out a kind of roar but held himself back. Sure enough, the curtain was about to drop,[Pg 424] and before it actually came down, our enthusiast was shouting at the top of his lungs—"Author!"
Unfortunately, everybody was by no means as eager to know the author as was my neighbour in front. Something like three-quarters of the house—and, perhaps, among these were M. Arnault's own friends—did not at all wish him to be named. Placed in the orchestra between M. de Jouy and Victor Hugo, feeling, on my left, the elbows of Romanticism and, on my right, those of Classicism, if I may be allowed to coin a word, I waited patiently and courageously until they stopped hissing, just as M. Arnault had acted towards me in turning the cold shoulder towards me after Henri III., leaving me the privilege of neutrality.
Unfortunately, not everyone was as eager to find out who the author was as my neighbor in front. About three-quarters of the audience—and probably some of M. Arnault's own friends—didn't want him to be revealed at all. Sitting in the orchestra between M. de Jouy and Victor Hugo, feeling the elbows of Romanticism on my left and those of Classicism on my right, if I can be allowed to make up a word, I waited patiently and bravely until the hissing stopped, just like M. Arnault had done towards me by ignoring me after Henri III., leaving me in the position of neutrality.
But man proposes and God disposes. God, or rather the devil, inspired the neighbour to whom I had perhaps put an indiscreet, although very innocent question, to point me out to his friends, and, consequently, to M. Arnault, as the Æolus at whose signal all the winds had been let loose which blew from the four cardinal points of the theatre in such different ways. A quarrel ensued between me and the tall man, a quarrel which instantly made a diversion in the strife that was going on. Next day all the journals gave an account of this quarrel, with their usual impartiality, generosity and accuracy towards me. It was imperative that I should reply. I chose the Journal de Paris in which to publish my reply; it was edited, at that period, by the father of Léon Pillet, a friend of mine. Therefore, the following day, the Journal de Paris published my letter, preceded and followed by a few bitter and sweet lines. This is the exordium. After my letter will come the peroration.
But man makes plans and God decides. God, or rather the devil, inspired the neighbor to whom I might have asked an indiscreet yet very innocent question, to point me out to his friends, and, as a result, to M. Arnault, as the one who summoned all the winds that blew differently from all directions of the theater. A fight broke out between me and the tall man, which quickly shifted attention from the ongoing conflict. The next day, all the newspapers reported on this altercation with their usual impartiality, generosity, and accuracy regarding me. I had to respond. I chose the Journal de Paris to publish my reply; at that time, it was edited by Léon Pillet's father, who was a friend of mine. Thus, the following day, the Journal de Paris published my letter, prefaced and followed by a few bitter and sweet lines. This is the introduction. After my letter will be the conclusion.
"In reporting the failure which the tragedy of Pertinax met with at the hands of the critics, we mentioned that a dispute took place in the centre of the orchestra. M. Alexandre Dumas, one of the actors in this little drama, which was more exciting than the one that had preceded it, has addressed a letter to us on this subject. We hasten to publish it without wishing to constitute ourselves judges of the accompanying[Pg 425] accusations which the author of Henri III. brings against the newspapers.
"In reporting the criticism that the tragedy of Pertinax received, we mentioned a dispute that arose in the orchestra. M. Alexandre Dumas, one of the participants in this little drama, which was more exciting than the previous one, has sent us a letter about it. We are publishing it promptly, without intending to judge the accusations made against the newspapers by the author of Henri III..
"'Friday, 29 May 1829
"'Friday, 29 May 1829
'In spite of the fixed resolution I had taken and have adhered to until to-day, of never replying to what the papers say of me, I think it my duty to ask you to insert this letter in your next issue. It is a reply to the short article which forms the complement of the account in your issue of yesterday, in which you give an account of Pertinax. Your article is couched in these terms—
'Despite my firm resolve to never respond to what the newspapers say about me, which I've adhered to until now, I feel it's necessary to ask you to publish this letter in your next issue. It’s a response to the short article that complements your coverage from yesterday, where you discuss Pertinax. Your article mentions—
"'"As we were leaving the house, a lively contest arose in the orchestra, between an old white-haired man and a very youthful author, in other words, doubtless, between a 'classic' and a 'romantic.' Let us hope that that altercation will not lead to unpleasant consequences."
"As we were leaving the theater, an intense debate erupted in the orchestra between an elderly man with white hair and a young author, which truly represented a clash between 'classical' and 'romantic.' Let's hope this dispute doesn't result in any negative consequences."
"'It is I, monsieur, who have the misfortune to be the very youthful author, to whom it is of great importance, from the very fact of his being young and an author, that he should lay down the facts exactly as they happened. I was in the orchestra of the Français, between M. de Jouy and M. Victor Hugo, during the whole of the performance of Pertinax. Obliged, in a manner, as a student of art and as a student of all that which makes masters to listen, I had listened attentively and in silence to the five acts which had just concluded, when, in the middle of the lively dispute that was going on between some spectators who wished M. Arnault to be called and others who did not, I was impudently apostrophised, whilst sitting quite silent, by a friend of M. Arnault, who stood up and pointed at me with his finger. I will repeat what he said word for word—
"'I am the unfortunate very young author, and it’s crucial for me, as both young and an author, to present the facts as they occurred. I was in the orchestra of the Français, sitting between M. de Jouy and M. Victor Hugo, throughout the entire performance of Pertinax. As a student of art and all that embodies greatness, I listened carefully and silently to the five acts that had just concluded. Then, in the midst of a heated discussion among some audience members who wanted M. Arnault to be summoned and others who disagreed, a friend of M. Arnault stood up, pointed at me, and shouted while I sat quietly. I'll repeat his words exactly—
"'"It is not surprising that they are hissing in the orchestra when M. Dumas is there. Are you not ashamed, monsieur, to make yourself the ringleader of a cabal?"
"It's no wonder they're hissing in the orchestra when M. Dumas is present. Aren't you ashamed, sir, to lead a group like this?"
"'"And when I replied that I had not said one word, he added—
"'When I responded that I hadn't said a word, he added—
"'"That does not matter, it is you who direct the whole league!"
"'That doesn't matter, you're the one who orchestrates the whole league!"
"'As some persons may believe this stupid accusation I have appealed to the testimony of MM. de Jouy and Victor Hugo. This testimony is, as it was inevitable that it would be, unanimous.
"'Since some people might believe this absurd accusation, I've resorted to the testimonies of MM. de Jouy and Victor Hugo. Their accounts are, as expected, unanimous.
"'That is enough, I think, to exonerate myself. But,[Pg 426] whilst I have the pen in my hand, monsieur, as it is probably the first and, perhaps, the last time that I write to a newspaper.[2] I desire to add a few words relative to the absurd attacks my drama of Henri III. has brought down on me; such a favourable occasion as this one may, perhaps, never present itself again: allow me, therefore, to take advantage of it.
"'That should suffice to clear my name. However,[Pg 426] while I have the pen in hand, sir, as this is likely the first and possibly the last time I write to a newspaper,__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ I want to add a few words regarding the ridiculous criticism my play Henri III. has received; such an opportunity might not come again: so let me take advantage of it."
"'I think I understand, and I honestly believe that I accept, true literary criticism as well as anyone. But, seriously, monsieur, are the facts I have just quoted really literary criticism?
"'I think I grasp it, and I genuinely believe that I understand true literary criticism as well as anyone. But seriously, sir, are the facts I just mentioned truly literary criticism?
"'The day after the reception of my drama Henri III. at the Comédie-Française, the Courrier des Théâtres, which did not know the work, denounced it to the censorship, in the hope, so it was said, that the censor would not suffer the scandal of such a performance. That seems to me rather a matter for the police than for literature. Is it not so, monsieur? I will not speak of a petition which was presented to the king during my rehearsals pleading that the Théâtre-Français should return to the road of the really beautiful.[3]
"'The day after my play Henri III. premiered at the Comédie-Française, the Courrier des Théâtres, which was unfamiliar with the work, criticized it for censorship, hoping that the censor would not allow such a scandalous performance. To me, that seems more like a policing issue than a literary one. Don’t you agree, monsieur? I won’t even mention the petition presented to the king during my rehearsals, requesting that the Théâtre-Français return to producing truly beautiful works.[3]
"'It is stated that the august personage to whom it was addressed replied simply, "What can I do in a question of this nature? I only have a place in the pit, like all other Frenchmen." I have not really the courage to be angered against the signatories of a denunciation which has brought us such a reply. Besides, several of us would have blushed, since, for what they had done, and have said that they thought they were signing quite a different thing. Then came the day of the representation. It will be granted that, on that day alone, the newspapers had the right to speak of the work. They made great use of their privileges; but several of them, as they themselves confessed, were not choice in their style of criticism. The Constitutionnel and the Corsaire said much kinder things the first day than the play deserved. A week later, the Constitutionnel compared the play with the Pie Voleuse, and accused the author of having[Pg 427] danced a round dance in the green room of the Comédie-Française with some wild fanatics, about the bust of Racine—which stands with its back against the wall—shouting, "Racine is done for!" This was merely ridicule, and people shrugged their shoulders. The next day, the Corsaire said that the work was a monstrosity, and that the author was a Jesuit and a pensioner. This, it must be admitted, was an excellent joke, addressed to the son of a Republican general whose mother never received the pension which, it seems, was due to her, whether from the government of the Empire or from the king's government. This was more than ridicule, it was contemptible. As for the Gazette de France, I will do it the justice of saying that it has not varied for an instant from the opinion that M. de Martainville expressed in it on the first day. This journal made out that there was a flagrant conspiracy in the play against the throne and the altar; while the journalist expressed the liveliest regret that he had not seen the author appear when he was called for. "People declare," he said, "that his face has a typically romantic air about it." Now, as Romanticism is M. de Martainville's bête noire, I can believe, without being too punctilious, that he had no intention of paying me a compliment. It is not merely impolite on M. de Martainville's part, but, worse still, it is indelicate: M. de Martainville is very well aware that one can make one's reputation but that one cannot make one's own physiognomy. His own physiognomy is extremely respectable. I could go on explaining the causes of these alterations and insults, and make known various sufficiently curious anecdotes concerning certain individuals; still more could I ... But the twelve columns of your newspaper would not suffice. I will therefore conclude my letter, monsieur, by asking advice of you, since you have great experience. What ought an author to do in order to spare himself the quarrels arising out of first performances? I have had three of this nature during the last three months;—three quarrels, that is to say: had it been three representations I should not have survived!
"'It’s said that the important person to whom it was addressed simply replied, "What can I do about this issue? I’m just a regular guy in the pit, like any other Frenchman." I honestly lack the energy to be angry at those who signed a denunciation that led to such a response. Moreover, many of us would have felt embarrassed since, for what they did, they believed they were signing something entirely different. Then came the performance day. It’s fair to say that on that day alone, the newspapers had the right to comment on the work. They made good use of that privilege, but several of them, as they admitted, weren’t very careful in their criticism style. The Constitutionnel and the Corsaire offered kinder assessments on the first day than the play deserved. A week later, the Constitutionnel compared the play to the Pie Voleuse and accused the author of having[Pg 427] partied in the green room of the Comédie-Française with some enthusiastic fans near Racine's bust—which is against the wall—shouting, "Racine is finished!" This was pure mockery, and people shrugged it off. The next day, the Corsaire condemned the work as a monstrosity and labeled the author a Jesuit and a government pensioner. I must say, that was quite a joke aimed at the son of a Republican general whose mother never received the pension she was entitled to, whether from the Empire or the king. This was more than just mockery; it was outright contempt. As for the Gazette de France, I must commend it for adhering to the opinion that M. de Martainville expressed on the first day. This publication claimed there was a blatant conspiracy in the play against the throne and the church, while the journalist expressed his disappointment that the author hadn’t appeared when summoned. "People say," he commented, "he has a distinctly romantic look." Now, as Romanticism is M. de Martainville's bête noire, I believe, without being overly sensitive, that he meant no compliment. It’s not just rude on M. de Martainville's part, but, even worse, it’s inconsiderate: M. de Martainville knows well that one can build a reputation, but one cannot alter their facial features. His own features are quite respectable. I could continue discussing the reasons for these insults and share various intriguing stories about certain individuals; I could go on... But twelve columns of your newspaper wouldn’t be enough. So let me conclude my letter, sir, by seeking your advice, given your vast experience. What should an author do to avoid the disputes that arise with first performances? I’ve faced three of these in the last three months—three quarrels, that is; had there been three performances, I wouldn’t have survived!
"'One concerning Isabelle de Bavière, with an admirer of M. de Lamothe-Langon, who made out that I had hissed. One at the Élections, with an enemy of M. de Laville, who contended that I had applauded. Lastly, one at Pertinax with a friend of M. Arnault, because I neither clapped nor[Pg 428] hissed. I await your kind advice, monsieur, and I give you my word that I will follow it, if it be anyway possible for me to do so.—I have the honour, etc.'"
"'One was about Isabelle de Bavière, concerning an admirer of M. de Lamothe-Langon, who claimed that I had been booing. One at the Élections, with an adversary of M. de Laville, who insisted that I had applauded. Lastly, one at Pertinax with a friend of M. Arnault, because I neither clapped nor[Pg 428] booed. I await your kind advice, sir, and I promise you that I will follow it, if it’s at all feasible for me to do so.—I have the honor, etc.'"
After the last line of the above, the Journal de Paris attempted a sort of reply—
After the last line above, the Journal de Paris tried to respond—
"As to the advice which M. Alexandre Dumas is kind enough to ask us to give because of our experience concerning the line of conduct he should take to avoid disputes at first-night performances, we will reply to him that a young author, happy in the enjoyment of a real success, and who knows how to conceal his joyous pride beneath suitable modesty; a student of art who, like M. Dumas, gives himself up to the study of the works of masters, including, therein, the author of Pertinax,—does not need to fear insulting provocations. If, in spite of these dispositions, natural, no doubt, to the character of M. Dumas, people persist on picking these Teuton or classic quarrels with him, I should advise him to treat them with contempt, the quarrels, I mean, not the Teutons or the classics. Or, indeed, there is another expedient left him: namely, to abstain from going to first performances."
"Regarding the advice that M. Alexandre Dumas is kindly seeking from us based on our experience about how to avoid conflicts on opening night, we would say that a young author, who is genuinely successful and can hide his joyful pride behind proper modesty; a student of art who, like M. Dumas, immerses himself in studying the works of masters, including the author of Pertinax—shouldn’t have to worry about insulting provocations. If, despite these qualities that are likely a natural part of M. Dumas's character, people continue to engage him in these petty or traditional disputes, I would suggest he dismiss them with scorn; I’m referring to the disputes, not the Teutons or the classics. Alternatively, he might consider not attending opening performances at all."
The advice, it will be admitted, was difficult, if not impossible, to follow. I was too young, and my heart was too near my head, I had, as is vulgarly said, "la tête trop près du bonnet" i.e. I was too hot-headed, to treat quarrels with contempt, whether with Teutons or classics, and I was too inquisitive not to attend first nights regularly. I have since been cured of this latter disease; but it has been for want of time. And yet, it is not so much lack of time which has cured me; it is the first performances themselves.
The advice was pretty tough to follow, if not impossible. I was too young, and my emotions were too close to my thoughts; I had, as people often say, "my head too close to my hat," meaning I was too hot-headed to dismiss arguments, whether with Germans or classical folks, and I was too curious not to go to first nights regularly. I've since gotten over this habit, but it's mostly because I haven't had the time. However, it's not just the lack of time that cured me; it's the performances themselves.
NOTE
NOTE
I have an apology to make concerning M. Fulchiron. It seems I was in error, not about the date of the reception of Pizarre; not upon the turn of favour[4] which led to the performance of that piece in 1803; not,[Pg 429] finally, upon the darkness of the spaces of Limbo in which it balanced with eyes half shut, between death and life—but about the cause which prevented it from being played in 1803.
I owe you an apology regarding M. Fulchiron. I was wrong, not about the date of the reception of Pizarre; not about the change of circumstances__A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__ that led to the performance of that piece in 1803; and not about the unclear state of Limbo where it lingered with half-closed eyes, caught between life and death—but about the reason that prevented it from being performed in 1803.
First of all, let me say that no one claimed again in respect of M. Fulchiron, not even he himself. If he had claimed again, my pleasantries would have pained him, and then, I confess, I should have been as sad as, and even sadder than, he, to have given occasion for a protest on the part of so honourable a man and, above all, so unexacting an author. This is what happened.
First of all, I want to clarify that no one claimed anything about M. Fulchiron, not even him. If he had claimed something, my jokes would have upset him, and honestly, I would have felt just as sad, if not sadder than he was, to have caused such distress for such an honorable man and, most importantly, such a relaxed author. Here’s what happened.
One day, recently, when entering the green room at the Théâtre-Français, where I was having a little comedy called Romulus rehearsed, which, in spite of its title, had nothing to do with the founder of Rome, I was accosted by Régnier, who plays the principal part in the work.
One day, not long ago, as I was walking into the green room at the Théâtre-Français, where I was rehearsing a light comedy called Romulus, which, despite its title, had nothing to do with the founder of Rome, I was approached by Régnier, who plays the lead role in the show.
"Ah!" he said, "is that you?... I am delighted to see you!"
"Ah!" he said, "is that you? I'm so glad to see you!"
"And I to see you ... Have you some good advice to give me about my play?"
"And I want to see you ... Do you have any good advice for me about my play?"
I should tell you that, in theatrical matters, Régnier gives the wisest advice I know.
I should mention that when it comes to theater, Régnier gives the best advice I’ve ever heard.
"Not about your play," he replied, "but about yourself."
"Not about your play," he replied, "but about you."
"Oh come, my dear fellow! I would have shaken hands with you for advice about my play; but for personal advice, I will embrace you."
"Oh come on, my dear friend! I would have shaken your hand for advice about my play; but for personal advice, I’d give you a hug."
"You lay great stress on being impartial?"
"You really emphasize being fair?"
"Why! You might as well ask me if I am keen on living."
"Wow! You might as well ask me if I even want to live."
"And when you have been unjust you are very anxious to repair your injustice?"
"And when you’ve been unfair, you’re really eager to make it right?"
'Indeed I am!"
'Absolutely!"
"Then, my dear friend, you have been unfair to M. Fulchiron: repair your injustice."
"Then, my dear friend, you have been unfair to Mr. Fulchiron: correct your mistake."
"What! Was his tragedy by chance received in 1804, instead of 1803, as I thought?"
"What! Was his tragedy actually released in 1804 instead of 1803, like I thought?"
"No."
"No."
"Will it be played without my knowing anything about it, as was M. Viennet's Arbogaste?"
"Will it be performed without me knowing anything about it, like M. Viennet's Arbogaste?"
"No, but M. Fulchiron has given his turn of favour to a young briefless barrister, who wrote a tragedy in his spare moments. M. Raynouard was the barrister; Les Templiers was the tragedy."
"No, but M. Fulchiron has supported a young, inexperienced lawyer who wrote a tragedy in his spare time. M. Raynouard was the lawyer; Les Templiers was the tragedy."
"Are you telling me the truth?"
"Are you being honest with me?"
"I am going to give you proof of it."
"I’m going to show you proof of it."
"How will you do that?"
"How will you do that?"
"Come upstairs with me to the archives."
"Come upstairs with me to the archives."
"Show me the way."
"Lead the way."
Régnier walked in front and I followed him as Dante's Barbariceia followed Scarmiglione, but without making so much noise as he.
Régnier walked ahead, and I followed him like Dante's Barbariceia trailed Scarmiglione, though without making as much noise.
Five minutes later, we were among the archives, and Régnier asked M. Laugier, the keeper of the records of the Théâtre-Français, for the file of autograph letters from M. Fulchiron. M. Laugier gave them to him. I was going to carry them off, and I stretched out my hand with that intention, when Régnier snatched them back from me as one snatches a bit of pie-crust from a clever dog who does not yet know how to count nine properly.
Five minutes later, we were in the archives, and Régnier asked M. Laugier, the curator of the Théâtre-Français records, for the file of autograph letters from M. Fulchiron. M. Laugier handed them over. I was about to take them, and I reached out my hand when Régnier quickly snatched them back from me like someone would take a piece of pie crust from a clever dog who hasn’t learned to count to nine yet.
"Well?" I asked him.
"Well?" I asked him.
"Wait."
"Wait."
He pressed the palm of his hand on M. Fulchiron's letters, which were encased in their yellow boards. Please note carefully that the epithet is not a reproach; I know people who, after fifty years of age, are yellow in a quite different sense from that of M. Fulchiron's letter-book backs.
He pressed his palm on M. Fulchiron's letters, which were covered in their yellow boards. Just to clarify, the term isn’t an insult; I know people who, after turning fifty, have a yellowish tint that's completely different from the color of M. Fulchiron's letter-book backs.
"You must know, first of all, my dear friend," continued Régnier, "that formerly, particularly under the Empire, as soon as they produced a new tragedy the receipts decreased."
"You should know, first of all, my dear friend," Régnier continued, "that in the past, especially during the Empire, whenever a new tragedy was performed, ticket sales dropped."
"I conjecture so; but I am very glad to know it officially."
"I think so; but I'm really glad to hear it confirmed."
"The result is that the committee of the Comédie-Française had great difficulty in deciding to play fresh pieces."
"As a result, the committee of the Comédie-Française had a hard time deciding to stage new plays."
"I can imagine so——"
"I can imagine—"
"A turn was therefore a precious possession."
"A turn was, therefore, a valuable asset."
"A thing which had no price!" as said Lagingeole.
"Something that had no price!" said Lagingeole.
"Very well, now read that letter of M. Fulchiron's."
"All right, now read that letter from Mr. Fulchiron."
I took the paper from Régnier's hands and read as follows—
I took the paper from Régnier's hands and read as follows—
"To the Members of the Administrative Committee of the Comédie-Française
To the Members of the Administrative Committee of the Comédie-Française
"GENTLEMEN,—I have just learnt that the préfect has given his permission to the Templiers. Desiring to do full justice and to pay all respect to that work and to its author, which they deserve, I hasten to tell you that I give up my turn to the tragedy; but, at the same time, I ask that mine shall be taken up immediately after, so that the second tragedy which shall be played, reckoning from this present time, shall be one of mine; if you will have the kindness to give me an actual promise of this in writing, it will confirm my definite abandonment of my turn.—I remain, gentlemen, respectfully yours,
"FULCHIRON, fils"GENTLEMEN,—I’ve just learned that the prefect has approved the Templiers. Wanting to fully recognize and honor that production and its creator, which they truly deserve, I’m eager to let you know that I'm stepping back from my turn for the tragedy; however, I request that my turn be taken up immediately afterward, so that the second tragedy performed, starting now, will be one of mine; if you could kindly give me a written promise of this, it will confirm my complete withdrawal from my turn.—I remain, gentlemen, respectfully yours,
"FULCHIRON, fils"
"Ah! but," said I to Régnier, "allow me to point out to you that the sacrifice was not great and its value was much depreciated owing to the precautions taken by M. Fulchiron to get one of his tragedies played."
"Ah! but," I said to Régnier, "let me point out that the sacrifice wasn't significant and its value was greatly diminished because of the precautions M. Fulchiron took to get one of his plays performed."
"Wait a bit, though," resumed Régnier. "The suggestion made by M. Fulchiron was rejected. They made him see that the injustice which he did not wish done to himself would oppress a third party.[Pg 431] If he renounced his turn it would have to be a complete renunciation, and, if M. Fulchiron fell out of rank, he must take his turn again at the end of the file. Now this was a serious matter. Suppose all the chances were favourable it would mean ten years at least! It must be confessed that M. Fulchiron took but little time to reflect, considering the gravity of the subject: then he said, "Well, gentlemen, I know the tragedy of the Templiers; it is much better that it should be performed at once; and that Pizarre should not have its turn for ten years. It was, thanks to this condescension, of which very few authors would be capable towards a colleague, that the tragedy of the Templiers was played; and, as one knows, that tragedy was one of the literary triumphs of the Empire. Les Deux Gendres and the Tyran domestique complete the dramatic trilogy of the period. Almost as much as eighteen hundred years ago they 'rendered to Cæsar the things which were Cæsar's.' Why not render to M. Fulchiron the justice which is his due?" Chateaubriand "I am not the person to refuse this," I said to Régnier, "and I am delighted to have the opportunity to make M. Fulchiron a public apology! M. Fulchiron did better than write a good tragedy: he did a good deed; whilst I, by sneering at him, did a bad action—without even the excuse of having written a good tragedy!"
"Hold on a second," Régnier continued. "The suggestion from M. Fulchiron was turned down. They made him realize that the injustice he didn’t want for himself would end up hurting someone else.[Pg 431] If he gave up his turn, it had to be a total renouncement, and if M. Fulchiron fell out of line, he would have to wait until the end of the line to get his turn again. This was a big deal. If all the odds were in his favor, it could mean waiting at least ten years! To be honest, M. Fulchiron didn't take much time to think about it, given the seriousness of the situation: then he said, "Well, gentlemen, I know the tragedy of the Templiers; it's much better to perform it right away, and let Pizarre wait ten years. It was thanks to this graciousness, which very few authors would show toward a peer, that the tragedy of the Templiers was staged; and, as you know, that tragedy became one of the great literary successes of the Empire. Les Deux Gendres and Tyran domestique complete the dramatic trilogy of the era. Almost as long ago as eighteen hundred years, they 'rendered to Cæsar the things which were Cæsar's.' So why not give M. Fulchiron the recognition he deserves?" Chateaubriand "I'm not the one to refuse this," I said to Régnier, "and I'm happy to publicly apologize to M. Fulchiron! M. Fulchiron did more than just write a great tragedy: he did a good deed; while I, by mocking him, did a bad thing—without even having the excuse of having written a great tragedy!"
[3] I have forgotten to inscribe M. de Laville, author of Folliculaire and of Une Journée d'Élections, among the number of the signers of that petition, which I have cited in another part of these Memoirs. One of these signatories, who survives the others, has pointed out my error to me and I here repair it.
[3] I forgot to include M. de Laville, the author of Folliculaire and Une Journée d'Élections, in the list of those who signed that petition, which I've mentioned elsewhere in these Memoirs. One of the surviving signatories brought this mistake to my attention, and I'm correcting it here.
[4] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—Littré defines un tour de faveur as the decision of a theatrical committee or manager by virtue of which a piece is given precedence over others received earlier.
[4] TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.—Littré defines un tour de faveur as the choice made by a theater committee or manager that allows one play to be prioritized over others that were submitted earlier.
CHAPTER VI
Chateaubriand ceases to be a peer of France—He leaves the country—Béranger's song thereupon—Chateaubriand as versifier—First night of Charles VII.—Delafosse's vizor—Yaqoub and Frédérick-Lemaître—The Reine d'Espagne—M. Henri de Latouche—His works, talent and character—Interlude of The Reine d'Espagne—Preface of the play—Reports of the pit collected by the author
Chateaubriand stops being a peer of France—He leaves the country—Béranger's song follows—Chateaubriand as a poet—First night of Charles VII.—Delafosse's disguise—Yaqoub and Frédérick-Lemaître—The Reine d'Espagne—Mr. Henri de Latouche—His works, talent, and character—Interlude of The Reine d'Espagne—Preface of the play—Audience feedback collected by the author
People were very full at this time of the resignation and exile of Chateaubriand, both of which were voluntary acts. The previous government had caused his dismissal from the French peerage, by reason of its abolition of heredity in the peerage. The author of the Martyrs exiled himself because the uproar caused by his opposition became daily less evident and he feared that it would die away altogether.
People were very aware of Chateaubriand's resignation and voluntary exile at this time. The previous government had removed him from the French peerage because it abolished hereditary peerage. The author of the Martyrs chose to exile himself because the uproar caused by his opposition was becoming less and less noticeable, and he feared it would fade away completely.
"Do you know, madame, that Chateaubriand is growing deaf?" I said once to Madame O'Donnel, a witty woman, the sister and daughter of witty women.
"Did you know, ma'am, that Chateaubriand is becoming deaf?" I mentioned once to Madame O'Donnel, a clever woman, who is the sister and daughter of clever women.
"Indeed!" she replied, "then it is since people have stopped talking about him."
"Absolutely!" she replied, "so it’s been since people stopped discussing him."
It must be confessed that a terrible conspiracy, that of silence, was on foot against Chateaubriand, who had not the strength to bear it. He hoped that the echo of his great reputation, which once upon a time had nearly as much weight in the world as Napoléon's, would spread abroad. The newspapers made a great stir about this voluntary exile. Béranger made it the subject of one of his short poems, and he, Voltairian and Liberal, addressed lines to the author of Atala, René and the Martyrs, a Catholic and Royalist. This[Pg 433] poem of Béranger's it will be remembered began with these four lines—
It must be admitted that a terrible conspiracy, one of silence, was unfolding against Chateaubriand, who couldn't handle it. He hoped that the echo of his impressive reputation, which once had nearly as much influence in the world as Napoléon's, would resonate widely. The newspapers made a big deal about his voluntary exile. Béranger turned it into a short poem, addressing lines to the author of Atala, René, and the Martyrs, a Catholic and Royalist, combining his Voltairian and Liberal views. This[Pg 433] poem by Béranger is remembered for starting with these four lines—
"Chateaubriand, pourquoi fuir la patrie,
Fuir notre amour, notre encens et nos soins?
N'entends-tu pas la France qui s'écrie:
'Mon beau ciel pleure une étoile de moins!'"
"Chateaubriand, why flee the homeland,
Flee our love, our admiration, and our care?
Don't you hear France crying out:
'My beautiful sky weeps for one less star!'"
Chateaubriand had the good taste to reply in prose. The best verses are very far below Béranger's worst. It was one of the obsessions of Chateaubriand's life that he made such bad verses and he persisted in making them. He shared this eccentricity with Nodier: these two geniuses of modern prose were haunted by the demon of rhyme. Happily people will forget Moïse and the Contes en vers, just as one has forgotten that Raphael played the violin. While Béranger sang, and Chateaubriand retired to Lucerne,—where eight or ten months later, I was to help him to feed his chickens,—the day for the first performance of Charles VII. arrived, 20 October.
Chateaubriand had the good sense to respond in prose. The best poetry is still far below Béranger's worst. One of Chateaubriand's lifelong obsessions was that he wrote such terrible verses, yet he kept at it. He shared this quirk with Nodier: these two modern prose geniuses were tormented by the urge to rhyme. Fortunately, people will forget Moïse and the Contes en vers, just as they've forgotten that Raphael played the violin. While Béranger sang, Chateaubriand retreated to Lucerne—where eight or ten months later, I was to help him feed his chickens. The day for the first performance of Charles VII. arrived on October 20.
I have already said what I thought of the merits of my play: as poetry, it was a great advance upon Christine; as a dramatic work it was an imitation of Andromaque, the Cid and the Camargo. Ample justice was done to it: it had a great success and did not bring in a sou! Let us here state, in passing, that when it was transferred to the Théâtre-Français, it was performed twenty or twenty-five times, and made a hundred louis at each performance. The same thing happened later with regard to the Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr. That comedy, represented in 1842 or 1843 with creditable but not every remunerative success—although it then had Firmin, Mesdemoiselles Plessy and Anaïs as its exponents—had, at its revival, six years later, twice the number of performances which it had had when it was a novelty, making an incredible amount of money during its odd Saint Martin's summer. But let us return to Charles VII. We have mentioned what success the work met with; a comic incident very nearly compromised it. Delafosse, one of the most conscientious comedians I ever knew, played the part of[Pg 434] Charles VII. As I have said, Harel did not want to go to any expense over the play (this time, indeed, he acted like a wise man); to such a degree that I had been obliged, as is known, to borrow a fifteenth-century suit of armour from the Artillery Museum; this cuirass was, on a receipt from me, taken to the property room at the Odéon; there, the theatrical armourer had occasion,—not to clean it, for it shone like silver,—but to oil the springs and joints in order to bring back the suppleness which they had lost during a state of rigidity that had endured for four centuries. By degrees, the obliging cuirass was, indeed, made pliable, and Delafosse, whose shell at the proper moment it was to become, was able, although in an iron sheath, to stretch out his legs and move his arms. The helmet alone declined all concessions; its vizor had probably not been raised since the coronation of Charles VII.; and, having seen such a solemnity as this it absolutely refused to be lowered. Delafosse, a conscientious man, as I have already indicated, looked with pain upon the obstinacy of his vizor, which, during the whole time of his long war-like speech did him good service by remaining raised, but which, when the speech was ended, and he was going off the stage, would give him when lowered a formidable appearance, upon which he set great store. The armourer was called and, after many attempts, in which he used in turn both gentle and coercive measures, oil and lime, he got the wretched vizor to consent to be lowered. But, when this end was achieved, it was almost as difficult a task to raise it again as it had been to lower it. In lowering, it slipped over a spring, made in the head of a nail, which, after several attempts, found an opening, resumed its working, and fixed the vizor in such a way that neither sword nor lance-thrusts could raise it again; this spring had to be pressed with a squire's dagger before it could be pushed back again into its socket, and permit the vizor to be raised. Delafosse troubled little about this difficulty; he went out with lowered vizor and his squire had plenty of time to perform the operation in the green room. Had Henri II. but worn such a vizor he would not have died at the hand of[Pg 435] Montgomery! Behold on what things the fate of empires depend! I might even say the same about the fate of plays! Henri II. was killed because his vizor was raised. Charles VII. avoided this because his vizor remained lowered. In the heat of delivery, Delafosse made so violent a gesture that the vizor fell of itself, yielding, doubtless, to the emotion that it felt. This may have been its manner of applauding. Whatever the cause, Delafosse suddenly found himself completely prevented from continuing his discourse. The lines began in the clearest fashion imaginable; they were emphasised most plainly, but ended in a lugubrious and unintelligible bellowing. The audience naturally began to laugh. It is said that it is impossible for our closest friend to refrain from laughter when he sees us fall. It is no laughing matter, I can tell you, when a play fails, but my best friends began to laugh. Luckily, the squire of King Charles VII., or, rather, Delafosse's super (whichever you like), did not forget on the stage the part he played behind the scenes; he rushed forward, dagger in hand, on the unfortunate king; the public only saw in the accident that had just happened a trick of the stage and, in the action of the super, a fresh-incident. The laughter ceased and the audience remained expectant. The result of the pause was that in a few seconds the vizor rose again, and showed Charles VII., as red as a peony and very nearly stifled. The play concluded without any other accident. Frédérick-Lemaître was angry with me for a long time because I did not give him the part of Yaqoub; but he was certainly mistaken about the character of that personage, whom he took for an Othello. The sole resemblance between Othello and Yaqoub lies in the colour of the face; the colour of the soul, if one may be allowed to say so, is wholly different. I should have made Othello—and I should have been very proud of it if I had!—jealous, violent, carried away by his passions, a man of initiative and of will-power, leader of the Venetian galleys; an Othello with flattened nose, thick lips, prominent cheek-bones, frizzy hair; an Othello, more negro than Arab, should I have given to Frédérick. But my Othello, or, rather, my Yaqoub[Pg 436] was more Arab than negro, a child of the desert, swarthy complexioned rather than black, with straight nose, thin lips, and smooth and flat hair; a sort of lion, taken from his mother's breast and carried off from the red and burning sands of the Sahara to the cold and damp flagstones of a château in the West; in the darkness and cold he becomes enervated, languid, poetical. It was the fine, aristocratic and rather sickly nature of Lockroy which really suited the part. And, according to my thinking, Lockroy played it admirably. The day after the first performance of Charles VII. I received a good number of letters of congratulation. The play had just enough secondary merit not to frighten anybody, and brought me the compliments of people who, whether unable or unwilling to pay them any longer to Ancelot, felt absolutely obliged to pay them to somebody.
I already shared my thoughts on the strengths of my play: as poetry, it was a significant improvement over Christine; as a dramatic piece, it borrowed from Andromaque, The Cid, and Camargo. It received fair treatment: it had great success but didn't earn a penny! It's worth noting that when it was moved to the Théâtre-Français, it was performed twenty or twenty-five times and brought in a hundred louis for each show. The same thing later happened with Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr. This comedy, performed in 1842 or 1843 with respectable but not overly profitable success—although it featured Firmin, Mesdemoiselles Plessy, and Anaïs—had, when revived six years later, twice as many performances as it had during its initial run, making an astonishing sum of money during that odd Saint Martin's summer. But back to Charles VII. We've mentioned the success it had; a comedic incident almost jeopardized it. Delafosse, one of the most dedicated actors I ever knew, played the part of [Pg 434] Charles VII. As I mentioned, Harel was reluctant to spend money on the production (this time, he truly acted wisely); to the point that I had to borrow a fifteenth-century suit of armor from the Artillery Museum. This cuirass, with a receipt from me, was brought to the property room at the Odéon; there, the theatrical armorer had to oil the springs and joints to restore the flexibility they had lost after four hundred years of stillness. Gradually, this accommodating cuirass became flexible, and Delafosse, who was to wear it, was finally able to stretch his legs and move his arms, even though he was encased in iron. The helmet, however, refused all concessions; its visor had likely not been raised since Charles VII's coronation, and having witnessed such a significant event, it absolutely refused to lower. Delafosse, being a conscientious man, felt a pang of frustration at his visor's stubbornness, which, throughout his lengthy warlike speech, served him well by remaining raised, but when that speech ended and he was leaving the stage, the lowered visor would give him a formidable appearance that he valued greatly. The armorer was summoned, and after trying a variety of gentle and forceful techniques, oil and lime, he finally got the unfortunate visor to agree to lower. But once that was accomplished, raising it again proved almost as challenging as lowering it had been. As he lowered it, it slipped over a spring made from the head of a nail, which, after numerous attempts, found an opening, resumed functioning, and secured the visor in a way that no sword or lance could lift it again; this spring had to be pressed with a squire's dagger before it could be shoved back into its socket, allowing the visor to be raised. Delafosse didn't concern himself too much with this problem; he went out with his visor down, and his squire had plenty of time to fix it in the green room. If only Henri II had worn such a visor, he might not have died at the hands of [Pg 435] Montgomery! It's interesting to see how much rides on such things, isn’t it? I could say the same about the fate of plays! Henri II was killed because his visor was raised. Charles VII avoided this fate because his visor stayed down. In the heat of his performance, Delafosse made such a vigorous gesture that the visor fell off by itself, likely yielding to the emotion it felt. This must have been its way of applauding. Whatever the reason, Delafosse suddenly found himself unable to continue his speech. His lines started off as clearly as possible, delivered with emphasis, but ended in a mournful and unintelligible bellow. Naturally, the audience began to laugh. They say it’s impossible for our closest friends not to laugh when they see us stumble. It's not funny, I assure you, when a play flops, but my closest friends began to chuckle. Thankfully, Charles VII's squire, or rather, Delafosse’s super (whichever you prefer), didn’t forget his role on stage; he rushed forward, dagger in hand, towards the unfortunate king. The audience perceived the mishap as a clever stage trick and the super's action as a new development. Laughter subsided and the audience leaned in, waiting. Shortly after, the visor rose again, revealing Charles VII, red as a peony and nearly suffocated. The play finished without any further incidents. Frédérick-Lemaître was upset with me for a long time because I didn't give him the role of Yaqoub; but he was mistaken about that character, assuming he was an Othello. The only similarity between Othello and Yaqoub lies in the color of their skin; the color of their souls, if I can put it that way, is entirely different. I would have made Othello—and I would have been very proud of it!—jealous, violent, swept away by his passions, a proactive leader of the Venetian galleys; an Othello with a flat nose, thick lips, prominent cheekbones, and curly hair; an Othello, more Black than Arab, I would have given to Frédérick. But my Othello, or rather my Yaqoub, [Pg 436] was more Arab than Black, a child of the desert, swarthy rather than black, with a straight nose, thin lips, and smooth, flat hair; a kind of lion taken from his mother's breast and whisked away from the blazing sands of the Sahara to the cold, damp flagstones of a chateau in the West; in the cold and darkness, he becomes weak, languid, and poetic. It was Lockroy's fine, aristocratic, and somewhat frail nature that really suited the role. And I believe Lockroy played it brilliantly. The day after the premiere of Charles VII., I received many letters of congratulations. The play had just enough secondary merit not to scare anyone away and earned me the compliments of those who, either unable or unwilling to continue paying them to Ancelot, felt they must direct them to someone.
Meanwhile, the Théâtre-Français was preparing a play which was to cause a much greater flutter than my poor Charles VII. This was the Reine d'Espagne, by Henri de Latouche. M. de Latouche,—to whom we shall soon have to devote our attention in connection with the appearance upon our literary horizon of Madame Sand,—was a sort of hermit, who lived at the Vallée-aux-Loups. The name of the hermitage quite sufficiently describes the hermit. M. de Latouche was a man of genuine talent; he has published a translation of Hoffmann's Cardillac, and a very remarkable Neapolitan novel. The translation—M. de Latouche obliterated the name on his stolen linen—was called Olivier Brusson; the Neapolitan novel was called Fragoletta. The novel is an obscure work, badly put together, but certain parts of it are dazzling in their colour and truth; it is the reflection of the Neapolitan sun upon the rocks of Pausilippe. The Parthenopean Revolution is described therein in all its horrors, with the bloodthirsty and unblushing nakedness of the peoples of the South. M. de Latouche had, besides, rediscovered, collected and published the poetry of André Chénier. He easily made people believe that these poems were if not quite all his own, at least in a great measure his. We will concede that M. Henri de Latouche concocted[Pg 437] a hemistich here and there where it was wanting, and joined up a rhyme which the pen had forgotten to connect, but that the verses of André Chénier are by M. de Latouche we will not grant!
Meanwhile, the Théâtre-Français was getting ready for a play that would create a much bigger stir than my poor Charles VII. This was Reine d'Espagne by Henri de Latouche. M. de Latouche—whom we’ll soon need to focus on regarding Madame Sand entering our literary scene—was a bit of a recluse living in Vallée-aux-Loups. The name of the hermitage describes him perfectly. M. de Latouche was genuinely talented; he published a translation of Hoffmann's Cardillac and a notable Neapolitan novel. The translation—M. de Latouche erased the name on his borrowed linen—was titled Olivier Brusson; the Neapolitan novel was called Fragoletta. The novel is somewhat obscure and poorly constructed, but some parts of it shine with vibrant color and truth; it’s like the reflection of the Neapolitan sun on the rocks of Pausilippe. The Parthenopean Revolution is depicted in all its horror, showing the bloodthirsty and unashamed rawness of the Southern peoples. M. de Latouche also rediscovered, gathered, and published the poetry of André Chénier. He managed to make people believe that these poems were, if not entirely his, at least largely so. We’ll admit that M. Henri de Latouche crafted[Pg 437] a few lines where they were missing and connected some rhymes that the pen had neglected, but we will not concede that the verses of André Chénier belong to M. de Latouche!
We only knew M. de Latouche slightly; at the same time, we do not believe that there was so great a capacity for the renunciation of glory on his part as this, that he gave to André Chénier, twenty-five years after the death of the young poet, that European reputation from which he was able to enrich himself. Yet M. de Latouche wrote very fine verse; Frédérick Soulié, who was then on friendly terms with him, told me at times that his poetry was of marvellous composition and supreme originality. In short, M. de Latouche, a solitary misanthrope, a harsh critic, a capricious friend, had just written a five-act prose comedy upon the most immodest subject in France and Spain; not content with shaking the bells of Comus, as said the members of the Caveau, he rang a full peal on the bells of the theatre of the rue de Richelieu. This comedy took for its theme the impotence of King Charles II., and for plot, the advantage accruing to Austria supposing the husband of Marie-Louise d'Orléans produced a child, and the advantage to France supposing his wife did not have one. As may be seen it was a delicate subject. It must be admitted that M. de Latouche's redundant imagination had found a way of skating over the risks of danger which threatened ordinary authors. When one act is finished it is usually the same with the author as with the sufferer put to the rack: he has a rest, but lives in expectation of fresh tortures to follow. But M. de Latouche would not allow himself any moments of repose; he substituted Interludes between the acts. We will reproduce verbatim the interlude between the second and the third act. It is needless to explain the situation: the reader will easily guess that, thanks to the efforts of the king's physician, Austria is on the way to triumph over France.
We only knew M. de Latouche a little; however, we don't believe he was actually that capable of giving up fame when he gave André Chénier, twenty-five years after the young poet's death, the European reputation he could use to profit. Still, M. de Latouche wrote some really great poetry; Frédérick Soulié, who was friends with him at the time, often told me that his work was incredibly well-crafted and uniquely original. In short, M. de Latouche, a lonely misanthrope, a tough critic, and a fickle friend, had just written a five-act prose comedy on the most scandalous topic in France and Spain. Not satisfied with just making a little noise, as the members of the Caveau said, he made a big splash at the theatre on rue de Richelieu. This comedy was about the impotence of King Charles II., with a plot revolving around the benefits to Austria if Marie-Louise d'Orléans' husband had a child and the benefits to France if he didn't. As you can see, it was a sensitive topic. It must be said that M. de Latouche's overflowing imagination had figured out how to navigate the dangers that regular authors faced. After finishing one act, authors usually feel a bit like a victim on the rack: they get a break but expect more torture to come. But M. de Latouche didn’t allow himself any rest; he filled the gaps between acts with Interludes. We will reproduce the interlude between the second and third acts verbatim. There's no need to explain the situation: the reader will easily gather that, thanks to the efforts of the king's physician, Austria is close to winning over France.
"INTERLUDE
"INTERLUDE
"The personages go out, and after a few minutes interval, the footlights are lowered; night descends. The Chamberlain,[Pg 438] preceded by torches, appears at the door of the Queen's apartment, and knocks upon it with his sword-hilt; the head lady-in-waiting comes to the door. They whisper together; the Chamberlain disappears; then, upon a sign from the head lady-in-waiting, the Queen's women arrive successively and ceremoniously group themselves around their chief. A young lady-in-waiting holds back the velvet curtain over the Queen's bedroom. The king's cortège advances; two pages precede his Majesty, holding upon rich cushions the king's sword and the king's breeches. His Majesty is in his night attire of silk, embroidered with gold flowers, edged with ermine; two crowns are embroidered on the lapels. Charles II. wears, carried on a sash, the blue ribbon of France, in honour of the niece of Louis XIV. While passing in front of the line of courtiers, he makes sundry gestures of recognition, pleasure and satisfaction, and the recipients of these marks of favour express their delight. Charles II. stops a moment: according to etiquette he has to hand the candlestick borne by one of the officers to one of the Queen's ladies. His Majesty chooses at a glance the prettiest girl and indicates this favour by a gesture. Two ladies receives the breeches and the sword from the hands of the pages, the others allow the King to pass and quickly close up their ranks. When the curtain has fallen behind his Majesty, the nurse cries, Vive le roi! This cry is repeated by all those present. A symphony, which at first solemnly began with the air of the Folies d'Espagne, ends the concert with a serenade."
The characters leave the stage, and after a brief pause, the lights fade to create the night. The Chamberlain, escorted by torches, arrives at the Queen's door and knocks with the hilt of his sword; the head lady-in-waiting answers. They exchange whispers before the Chamberlain departs. Following a signal from the head lady-in-waiting, the Queen's ladies arrive one by one and gather around their leader in a formal manner. A young lady-in-waiting holds back the velvet curtain over the Queen's bedroom. The king's entourage approaches; two pages lead the way, carrying the king's sword and breeches on luxurious cushions. His Majesty is dressed in silk nightwear decorated with gold flowers and lined with ermine, featuring two crowns embroidered on the lapels. Charles II wears the blue ribbon of France across his chest, honoring Louis XIV's niece. As he walks in front of the line of courtiers, he gestures in acknowledgment, showing pleasure and satisfaction, which prompts delighted reactions from those he recognizes. Charles II pauses briefly; according to protocol, he has to pass the candlestick held by one of the officers to one of the Queen's ladies. He quickly picks the prettiest girl and indicates his choice with a gesture. Two ladies take the breeches and sword from the pages, while the others clear a path for the King and quickly form back up behind him. Once the curtain falls behind his Majesty, the nurse exclaims, Vive le roi! This cry is echoed by everyone present. A symphony, which began solemnly with the tune of the Folies d'Espagne, concludes the concert with a serenade.
The work was performed but once and it has not yet been played in its entirety. From that very night M. de Latouche withdrew his play. But, although the public forgot his drama, M. de Latouche was of too irascible and too vindictive a nature to let the public forget it. He did pretty much what M. Arnault did: he appealed from the performance to the printed edition; only, he did not dedicate the Reine d'Espagne to the prompter. People had heard too much of what the actors had said, from the first word to the last; the play failed through a revolt of modesty and morality, and so the author contested the question of indecency and immorality. We will reproduce the preface of our fellow-dramatist de Latouche. As annalist we[Pg 439] relate the fact; as keeper of archives, we find room for the memorandum in our archives.[1]
The play was performed just once and hasn’t been staged in full since. That same night, M. de Latouche pulled his play. However, even though the audience moved on from his drama, M. de Latouche was too hot-tempered and vindictive to let them forget it. He did pretty much what M. Arnault did: he appealed from the performance to the printed version; the only difference was that he didn’t dedicate the Reine d'Espagne to the prompter. People had heard too much of what the actors said, from the first word to the last; the play failed due to a backlash of modesty and morality, which led the author to challenge the issues of indecency and immorality. We will include the preface from our fellow dramatist de Latouche. As a record-keeper, we note the fact; as archivist, we make room for this memorandum in our archives.[1]
The protest he made was not enough; he followed it up by pointing out, in the printed play, every fluctuation of feeling shown in the pit and even in the boxes. Thus, one finds successively the following notes at the foot of his pages—
The protest he made wasn't enough; he followed it up by highlighting, in the printed play, every change in emotion shown in the pit and even in the boxes. Thus, one finds the following notes at the bottom of his pages—
.·. Here they begin to cough.
.·. This is where they begin to cough.
.·. Whispers. The piece is attacked by persons as thoroughly informed beforehand as the author of the risks of this somewhat novel situation.
.·. Whispers. The piece is criticized by people who are just as aware of the risks of this somewhat new situation as the author.
As a matter of fact, the situation was so novel, that the public would not allow it to grow old.
In fact, the situation was so new that the public wouldn't let it become old.
.·. Here the whispers redouble.
.·. Here the whispers grow louder.
.·. The pit rises divided between two opinions.
.·. The group is split between two viewpoints.
.·. This detail of manners, accurately historic, excites lively disapproval.
.·. This aspect of behavior, which is historically accurate, causes great disapproval.
See, at page 56 of the play, the detail of manners.
See, on page 56 of the play, the details of behavior.
.·. Uproar.
.·. Uproar.
.·. A pretty general rising caused by a chaste interpretation suggested by the pit.
.·. A fairly typical uprising caused by a straightforward interpretation proposed by the audience.
See page 72, for the suggestion of this chaste interpretation.
See page 72 for the suggestion of this pure interpretation.
.·. Prolonged, Oh! oh!'s.
.·. Extended, Oh! oh!'s.
.·. They laugh.
.·. They laugh.
.·. They become indignant. A voice: "It takes two to make a child!"
.·. They become angry. A voice: "It takes two to make a child!"
.·. Interruption.
.·. Interruption.
.·. Movement of disapprobation; the white hair of the old monk should, however, put aside all ideas of indecency in this interview.
.·. A gesture of disapproval; the old monk's white hair should, however, dispel any thoughts of wrongdoing in this meeting.
.·. Deserved disapproval.
.·. Justified disapproval.
.·. The sentence is cut in two by an obscene interruption.
.·. The sentence is interrupted inappropriately.
See the sentence, on page 115.
See the sentence on page 115.
.·. Disapproval.
Disapproval.
.·. After this scene (the seventh of the fourth act) the piece, scarcely listened to at all, was not criticised any further.
After this scene (the seventh of the fourth act), the play had very few attendees and didn’t receive any further critiques.
This was the only attempt M. de Latouche made at the theatre, and, from that time onwards, la Vallée-aux-Loups more than ever deserved its name.
This was the only attempt M. de Latouche made at the theater, and from that point on, la Vallée-aux-Loups truly lived up to its name.
CHAPTER VII
Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras
Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras
Meanwhile, the drama of Pierre III. by the unfortunate Escousse was played at the Théâtre-Français. I did not see Pierre III.; I tried to get hold of it to read it, but it seems that the drama has not been printed.
Meanwhile, the play Pierre III. by the unfortunate Escousse was performed at the Théâtre-Français. I didn’t see Pierre III.; I tried to find it to read, but it appears that the play hasn’t been published.
This is what Lesur said about it in his Annuaire for 1831—
This is what Lesur said about it in his Annuaire for 1831—
"THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS (28 December.)—First performance of Pierre III., a drama in five acts; in verse, by M. Escousse.
"THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS (28 December.)—First performance of Pierre III., a five-act drama; in verse, by M. Escousse."
"The failure of this work dealt a fatal blow to its author; carried away, as he probably was, with the success of Farruck le Maure. In Pierre III., neither history, nor probability, nor reason, was respected. It was a deplorable specimen of the fanatical and uncouth style of literature (these two epithets are my own), made fashionable by men possessed of too real a talent for their example not to cause many lamentable imitations. But who could suspect that the author's life was bound up in his work? Yet one more trial, one more failure and the unhappy young man was to die!..."
"The failure of this work was a devastating blow for its author; he likely got caught up in the success of Farruck le Maure. In Pierre III., none of the elements of history, probability, or reason were upheld. It was a tragic example of the extreme and awkward writing style (these two terms are my own) that became popularized by those who had enough talent to inspire many unfortunate imitations. But who could have guessed that the author's life was so closely linked to his work? Just one more trial, one more failure, and the unfortunate young man was destined for disaster!..."
And, indeed, Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras in collaboration soon put on at the Gaieté the drama of Raymond, which also failed. Criticism must have been cruelly incensed against this drama, since we find, after the last words of the play, a postscript containing these few lines, signed by one of the authors—
And, in fact, Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras working together soon staged the play Raymond at the Gaieté, which also flopped. Critics must have been brutally harsh toward this play, as we see after the final lines of the performance a postscript with these few lines, signed by one of the authors—
"P.S.—This work roused much criticism against us, and it must be admitted, few people have made allowances for two poor young fellows, the oldest of whom is scarcely twenty, in the attempt which they made to create an interesting situation with[Pg 441] five characters, rejecting all the accessories of melodrama. But I have no intention of seeking to defend ourselves. I simply wish to proclaim the gratitude that I owe to Victor Escousse, who, in order to open the way for my entry into theatrical circles, admitted me to collaboration with himself; I also wish to defend him, as far as it is in my power, against the calumnious statements which are openly made against his character as a man; imputing a ridiculous vanity to him which I have never noticed in him. I say it publicly, I have nothing but praise to give him in respect of his behaviour towards me, not only as collaborator, but still more as a friend. May these few words, thus frankly written, soften the darts which hatred has been pleased to hurl against a young man whose talent, I hope, will some day stifle the words of those who attack him without knowing him!
"AUGUSTE LEBRAS""P.S.—This work has drawn a lot of criticism against us, and I must say, few people have considered the challenges faced by two young guys, the oldest of whom is just barely twenty, in trying to create an engaging situation with[Pg 441] five characters, while avoiding all the melodramatic elements. But I’m not here to defend ourselves. I just want to thank Victor Escousse, who, in order to help me enter the theater world, brought me on as a collaborator; I also want to stand up for him as much as I can against the slanderous accusations made about his character, claiming he has an absurd vanity that I’ve never perceived in him. I say this publicly—I can only commend him for his conduct towards me, not just as a collaborator but even more so as a friend. May these few honest words help soften the attacks that hatred has chosen to direct at a young man whose talent, I hope, will one day silence the critics who judge him without knowing him!
"AUGUSTE LEBRAS"
Yet Escousse had so thoroughly understood the fact that with success would come struggle, and with the amelioration of material position would come a recrudescence in moral suffering, that, after the success in Farruck le Maure, when he left his little workman's room to take rather more comfortable quarters as an honoured author, he addressed to that room, the witness of his first emotions as poet and lover, the lines here given—
Yet Escousse deeply understood that with success would come struggle, and with an improvement in his material situation would come a resurgence of moral pain. So, after the success of Farruck le Maure, when he left his small workroom for a more comfortable place as a respected author, he addressed that room, the witness of his first feelings as a poet and lover, with the lines provided here—
À MA CHAMBRE
"De mon indépendance,
Adieu, premier séjour,
Où mon adolescence
A duré moins d'un jour!
Bien que peu je regrette
Un passé déchirant,
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!
Du sort, avec courage,
J'ai subi tous les coups;
Et, du moins, mon partage
N'a pu faire un jaloux.
La faim, dans ma retraite,
M'accueillait en rentrant ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
[Pg 442]
Je vous quitte en pleurant!
Au sein de la détresse,
Quand je suçais mon lait,
Une tendre maîtresse
Point ne me consolait,
Solitaire couchette
M'endormait soupirant ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!
De ma muse, si tendre,
Un Dieu capricieux
Ne venait point entendre
Le sons ambitieux.
Briller pour l'indiscrète,
Est besoin dévorant ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!
Adieu! le sort m'appelle
Vers un monde nouveau;
Dans couchette plus belle,
J'oublîrai mon berceau.
Peut-être, humble poète
Lion de vous sera grand ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!"
In My Room
"Goodbye to my independence,
Farewell, first home,
Where my youth
Lasted less than a day!
Though I regret little
Of a painful past,
Still, oh, my little room,
I'm leaving you in tears!
With courage, I've faced
All that fate threw at me;
And at least, my share
Could not make anyone jealous.
Hunger, in my retreat,
Welcomed me home ...
Yet, oh, my little room,
[Pg 442]
I'm leaving you in tears!
In the depths of distress,
When I was nursing,
A tender mistress
Did not comfort me,
Solitary bed
Lulled me to sleep with sighs ...
Yet, oh, my little room,
I'm leaving you in tears!
From my muse, so gentle,
A fickle god
Did not come to hear
My ambitious sounds.
To shine for the indiscreet
Is a devouring need ...
Yet, oh, my little room,
I'm leaving you in tears!
Goodbye! Fate calls me
To a new world;
In a more beautiful bed,
I'll forget my cradle.
Maybe, humble poet,
You'll be great in your own right ...
Yet, oh, my little room,
I'm leaving you in tears!"
In fact, that set of apartments which Escousse had taken in place of his room, and where, it will be seen, he had not installed himself without pain, saw him enter on 18 February, with his friend Auguste Lebras, followed by the daughter of the porter, who was carrying a bushel of charcoal. He had just bought this charcoal from the neighbouring greengrocer. While the woman was measuring it out, he said to Lebras—
In fact, the set of apartments that Escousse had chosen instead of his room, and where, as we’ll see, he had not moved in easily, saw him enter on February 18, with his friend Auguste Lebras, followed by the porter’s daughter, who was carrying a bag of charcoal. He had just bought this charcoal from the nearby greengrocer. While the woman was measuring it out, he said to Lebras—
"Do you think a bushel is enough?"
"Do you think a bushel is enough?"
"Oh, yes!" replied the latter.
"Oh, yes!" replied the latter.
They paid, and asked that the charcoal might be sent at once. The porter's daughter left the bushel of charcoal in the anteroom at their request, and went away, little supposing she had just shut in Death with the two poor lads. Three days before, Escousse had taken the second key of his room from the portress on purpose to prevent any hindrance to this pre-arranged[Pg 443] plan. The two friends separated. The same night Escousse wrote to Lebras—
They paid and requested that the charcoal be sent right away. The porter’s daughter left the bushel of charcoal in the entryway at their request and left, unaware that she had just locked Death in with the two poor guys. Three days earlier, Escousse had taken the second key to his room from the portress to avoid any obstacles to this planned[Pg 443] arrangement. The two friends parted ways. That same night, Escousse wrote to Lebras—
"I expect you at half-past eleven; the curtain will be raised. Come, so that we may hurry on the dénoûment!"
"I expect you at 11:30; the show will start then. Come, so we can wrap things up quickly!"
Lebras came at the appointed hour; he had no thought of failing to keep the appointment: the fatal thought of suicide had been germinating for a long while in his brain. The charcoal was already lit. They stuffed up the doors and windows with newspapers. Then Escousse went to a table and wrote the following note:—
Lebras arrived at the scheduled time; he had no intention of missing the appointment: the devastating idea of suicide had been brewing in his mind for quite some time. The charcoal was already ignited. They blocked the doors and windows with newspapers. Then Escousse went to a table and wrote the following note:—
"Escousse has killed himself because he does not feel he has any place in this life; because his strength fails him at every step he takes forwards or backwards; because fame does not satisfy his soul, if soul there be!
"Escousse has taken his own life because he feels he doesn't belong in this world; because he struggles with every move he makes, whether it's forward or backward; because fame doesn’t satisfy his spirit, if he even has one!
"I desire that the motto of my book may be—
"I want the motto of my book to be—
"'Adieu, trop inféconde terre,
Fléaux humains, soleil glacé!
Comme un fantôme solitaire,
Inaperçu j'aurai passé.
Adieu, les palmes immortelles,
Vrai songe d'une âme de feu!
L'air manquait: J'ai fermé mes ailes, Adieu!'"
"'Goodbye, barren land,
Human plagues, icy sun!
Like a solitary ghost,
Unnoticed I will have passed.
Goodbye, the immortal palms,
True dream of a fiery soul!
There was no air: I closed my wings, Goodbye!'"
This, as we have said, took place at half-past eleven. At midnight, Madame Adolphe, who had just been acting at the Théâtre Porte-Saint-Martin, returned home; she lodged on the same floor as Escousse, and the young man's suite of rooms was only separated from her's by a partition. A strange sound seemed to her to come from those rooms. She listened: she thought she heard a twofold noise as of raucous breathing. She called, she knocked on the partition, but she did not obtain any reply. Escousse's father also lived on the same floor, on which four doors opened; these four doors belonged to the rooms of Escousse, his father, Madame Adolphe and Walter, an actor I used to know well at that time, but of whom I have since lost sight. Madame Adolphe ran to the father of Escousse, awakened him (for he was already asleep), made him get up[Pg 444] and come with her to listen to the raucous breathing which had terrified her. It had decreased, but was still audible; audible enough for them to hear the dismal sound of two breathings. The father listened for a few seconds; then he laughingly said to Madame Adolphe, "You jealous woman!" And he went off to bed not wishing to listen to her observations any further.
This, as we mentioned, happened at 11:30 PM. At midnight, Madame Adolphe, who had just performed at the Théâtre Porte-Saint-Martin, returned home; she lived on the same floor as Escousse, and the young man’s rooms were only separated from hers by a partition. A strange noise seemed to be coming from those rooms. She listened intently and thought she heard a dual sound of harsh breathing. She called out and knocked on the partition, but didn’t get any response. Escousse’s father also lived on the same floor, where four doors led to the rooms of Escousse, his father, Madame Adolphe, and Walter, an actor I used to know well back then, but I have since lost track of him. Madame Adolphe rushed to Escousse’s father, woke him up (as he was already asleep), and made him get up[Pg 444] to listen to the harsh breathing that had scared her. It had lessened but was still audible; loud enough for them to hear the gloomy sound of two breaths. The father listened for a few seconds, then jokingly said to Madame Adolphe, "You jealous woman!" and went back to bed, not wanting to hear any more of her concerns.
Madame Adolphe remained by herself. Until two o'clock in the morning she heard this raucous sound to which she alone persisted in giving its true significance. Incredulous though Escousse's father had been, he was haunted by dismal presentiments all night long. About eight o'clock next morning he went and knocked at his son's door. No one answered. He listened; all was silent. Then the idea came to him that Escousse was at the Vauxhall baths, to which the young man sometimes went. He went to Walter's rooms, told him what had passed during the night, and of his uneasiness in the morning. Walter offered to run to Vauxhall, and the offer was accepted. At Vauxhall, Escousse had not been seen by anyone. The father's uneasiness increased; it was nearly his office hour, but he could not go until he was reassured by having his son's door opened. A locksmith was called in and the door was broken open with difficulty, for the key which had locked it from the inside was in the keyhole. The key being still in the lock frightened the poor father to such an extent that, when the door was open, he did not dare to cross the threshold. It was Walter who entered, whilst he remained leaning against the staircase bannisters. The inner door was, as we have said, stuffed up, but not closed either with bolt or key; Walter pushed it violently, broke through the obstructing paper and went in. The fumes of the charcoal were still so dense that he nearly fell back. Nevertheless, he penetrated into the room, seized the first object to hand, a water-bottle, I believe, and hurled it at the window. A pane of glass was broken by the crash, and gave ingress to the outer air. Walter could now breathe, and he went to the window and opened it.
Madame Adolphe was alone. Until two in the morning, she heard a loud noise that she alone gave its true meaning. Despite Escousse's father's disbelief, he was troubled by dark feelings all night. Around eight the next morning, he knocked on his son’s door. No one answered. He listened; everything was quiet. Then it struck him that Escousse might be at the Vauxhall baths, a place his son sometimes visited. He went to Walter’s apartment, explained what happened during the night, and shared his growing worry that morning. Walter offered to head to Vauxhall, and the father gladly accepted. At Vauxhall, no one had seen Escousse. The father's anxiety grew; it was almost time for him to go to work, but he couldn’t leave without checking on his son. He called a locksmith, and they struggled to break open the door because the key was still in the lock on the inside. Seeing the key there terrified the father so much that he didn’t dare step inside when the door finally opened. Walter went in while he stayed back, leaning against the staircase railing. The inner door was blocked but not locked, so Walter forcefully pushed it, breaking through the barrier and entering. The air was still thick with charcoal fumes, and he nearly stumbled back. However, he moved into the room, grabbed the first thing he could find—a water bottle, if he remembered correctly—and threw it at the window. The glass shattered with a loud crash, letting fresh air in. Now able to breathe, Walter went to the window and opened it.
Then the terrible spectacle revealed itself to him in all its[Pg 445] fearful nakedness. The two young men were lying dead: Lebras on the floor, upon a mattress which he had dragged from the bed; Escousse on the bed itself. Lebras, of weakly constitution and feeble health, had easily been overcome by death; but with his companion it had been otherwise; strong and full of health, the struggle had been long and must have been cruel; at least, this was what was indicated by his legs drawn up under his body and his clenched hands, with the nails driven into the flesh. The father nearly went out of his mind. Walter often told me that he should always see the two poor youths, one on his mattress, the other on his bed. Madame Adolphe did not dare to keep her rooms: whenever she woke in the night, she thought she could hear the death-rattle, which the poor father had taken for the sighs of lovers!
Then the terrible scene unfolded before him in all its[Pg 445] frightening reality. The two young men lay dead: Lebras on the floor, on a mattress he had pulled from the bed; Escousse on the bed itself. Lebras, with his frail body and poor health, had succumbed to death easily; but with his friend, it was different; strong and healthy, his struggle must have been long and brutal, as shown by his legs drawn up under his body and his clenched hands, with the nails digging into his skin. The father nearly lost his mind. Walter often told me he would always remember the two young men, one on his mattress, the other on his bed. Madame Adolphe didn’t dare stay in her rooms: whenever she woke up at night, she thought she could hear the death rattle, which the poor father had mistaken for the sighs of lovers!
The excellent elegy which this suicide inspired Béranger to write is well-known; we could wish our readers had forgotten that we had given them part of it when we were speaking of the famous song-writer: that would have allowed us to quote the whole of it here; but how can they have forgotten that we have already fastened that rich poetic embroidery on to our rags of prose?
The amazing elegy that this suicide inspired Béranger to write is well-known; we wish our readers had forgotten that we had shared part of it when we talked about the famous songwriter: that would have let us quote the whole thing here; but how can they have forgotten that we’ve already attached that beautiful poetic embroidery to our shabby prose?
CHAPTER VIII
First performance of Robert le Diable—Véron, manager of the Opéra—His opinion concerning Meyerbeer's music—My opinion concerning Véron's intellect—My relations with him—His articles and Memoirs—Rossini's judgment of Robert le Diable—Nourrit, the preacher—Meyerbeer—First performance of the Fuite de Law, by M. Mennechet—First performance of Richard Darlington—Frédérick-Lemaître—Delafosse—Mademoiselle Noblet
First performance of Robert le Diable—Véron, the manager of the Opéra—His thoughts on Meyerbeer's music—My thoughts on Véron's intelligence—My relationship with him—His articles and Memoirs—Rossini's opinion on Robert le Diable—Nourrit, the preacher—Meyerbeer—First performance of Fuite de Law, by M. Mennechet—First performance of Richard Darlington—Frédérick-Lemaître—Delafosse—Mademoiselle Noblet
Led away into reminiscences of Escousse and of Lebras, whom we followed from the failure of Pierre III. to the day of their death, from the evening of 28 December 1831, that is, to the night of 18 February 1832, we have passed over the first performances of Richard Darlington and even of Térésa. Let us go back a step and return to the night of 21 October, at one o'clock in the morning, to Nourrit's dressing room, who had just had a fall from the first floor of the Opéra owing to an ill-fitting trap-door.
Led away into memories of Escousse and Lebras, whom we followed from the failure of Pierre III. to the day of their death, from the evening of December 28, 1831, to the night of February 18, 1832, we have skipped over the first performances of Richard Darlington and even Térésa. Let’s take a step back and return to the night of October 21, at one o'clock in the morning, to Nourrit's dressing room, who had just fallen from the first floor of the Opéra due to a malfunctioning trap-door.
The first representation of Robert le Diable had just been given. It would be a curious thing to write the history of that great opera, which nearly failed at the first representation, now reckons over four hundred performances and is the doyen of all operas now born and, probably, yet to be born. At first, Véron, who had passed from the management of the Revue de Paris to that of the Opéra, had from the first hearing of Meyerbeer's work,—in full rehearsal since its acceptance at the theatre of the rue Lepeletier,—declared that he thought the score detestable, and that he would only play it under compulsion or if provided with a sufficient indemnity. The government, which had just made, with respect to that new management, one of the most scandalous contracts which[Pg 447] have ever existed; the government, which at that period gave a subsidy to the Opéra of nine hundred thousand francs, thought Véron's demand quite natural; and convinced, with him, that the music of Robert le Diable was execrable, gave to its well-beloved manager sixty or eighty thousand francs subsidy for playing a work which now provides at least a third of the fifty or sixty thousand francs income which Véron enjoys. Does not this little anecdote prove that the tradition of putting a man at the Opéra who knows nothing about music goes back to an epoch anterior to the nomination of Nestor Roqueplan,—who, in his letters to Jules Janin, boasts that he does not know the value of a semibreve or the signification of a natural? No, it proves that Véron is a speculator of infinite shrewdness, and that his refusal to play Meyerbeer's opera was a clever speculation. Now, does Véron prefer that we should say that he was not learned in music? Let him correct our statement. It is common knowledge with what respect we submit to correction. There is one point concerning which we will not admit correction: namely, what we have just said about Véron's intellect. What we here state we have repeated a score of times speaking to him in person, as a certain class of functionaries has it. Véron is a clever man, even a very clever man, and it would not be doubted if he had not the misfortune to be a millionaire. Véron and I were never on very friendly terms; he has never, I believe, had a high opinion of my talent. As editor of the Revue de Paris he never asked me for a single article; as manager of the Opéra, he has never asked me for anything but a single poem for Meyerbeer, and that on condition I wrote the poem in collaboration with Scribe; which nearly landed me in a quarrel with Meyerbeer and wholly in one with Scribe. Finally, as manager of the Constitutionnel, he only made use of me when the success which I had obtained on the Journal des Débats, the Siècle and the Presse had in some measure forced his hand. Our engagement lasted three years. During those three years we had a lawsuit which lasted three months; then, finally, we amicably broke the contract, when[Pg 448] I had still some twenty volumes to give him, and at the time of this rupture I owed him six thousand francs. It was agreed that I should give Véron twelve thousand lines for these six thousand francs. Some time after, Véron sold the Constitutionnel. For the first journal that Véron shall start, he can draw upon me for twelve thousand lines, at twelve days' sight: on the thirteenth day the signature shall be honoured. Our position with regard to Véron being thoroughly established, we repeat that it is Véron's millions which injure his reputation. How can it be admitted that a man can both possess money and intellect? The thing is impossible!
The first performance of Robert le Diable had just taken place. It would be interesting to write the story of this great opera, which almost flopped at its premiere, but now boasts over four hundred performances and is the oldest opera currently performed and likely to be performed in the future. Initially, Véron, who had moved from managing the Revue de Paris to managing the Opéra, declared from the very first hearing of Meyerbeer's work — in full rehearsal since it was accepted at the theater on rue Lepeletier — that he found the score awful, saying he would only stage it under duress or for a hefty fee. The government, which had just signed one of the most scandalous contracts that[Pg 447] ever existed with respect to this new management, and at that time was providing a subsidy of nine hundred thousand francs to the Opéra, thought Véron's demands were perfectly reasonable. They also agreed with him that the music of Robert le Diable was terrible and granted their favored manager a subsidy of sixty or eighty thousand francs to stage a work that now brings in at least a third of the fifty or sixty thousand francs in income Véron enjoys. Does this little anecdote not demonstrate that the tradition of placing someone at the Opéra who knows nothing about music goes back to a time before Nestor Roqueplan — who, in his letters to Jules Janin, boasts that he does not know the value of a whole note or what a natural means? No, it shows that Véron is a shrewd speculator, and his refusal to stage Meyerbeer's opera was a clever financial move. Now, does Véron prefer we say he isn’t knowledgeable about music? He can correct us if he likes. It’s well known how much we welcome corrections. There is one point we won’t allow to be corrected: that is our statement about Véron's intellect. What we are saying here is something we've repeated many times in person to him. Véron is clever, even very clever, and no one would doubt it if he weren’t unfortunately a millionaire. Véron and I were never on particularly friendly terms; I don't think he ever had a high opinion of my talent. As editor of the Revue de Paris, he never asked me for a single article; as manager of the Opéra, he only requested a single poem for Meyerbeer, but only on the condition that I wrote it in collaboration with Scribe, which nearly caused a fight with Meyerbeer and definitely led to one with Scribe. Lastly, as the manager of the Constitutionnel, he only reached out to me when my success with the Journal des Débats, the Siècle, and the Presse had somewhat forced his hand. Our contract lasted three years. During those three years, we had a lawsuit that lasted three months; in the end, we happily terminated the contract when[Pg 448] I still had about twenty volumes to deliver, and at the time of breaking the contract, I owed him six thousand francs. We agreed that I would give Véron twelve thousand lines for those six thousand francs. Not long after, Véron sold the Constitutionnel. For the first publication that Véron starts, he can count on me for twelve thousand lines, with twelve days' notice: on the thirteenth day, the payment will be honored. Now that our relationship with Véron is clearly established, we reiterate that it is Véron’s wealth that tarnishes his reputation. How can people accept that someone can have both money and brains? It's simply impossible!
"But," it will be urged, "if Véron is a clever man, who writes his articles? Who composes his Memoirs?"
"But," it will be argued, "if Véron is such a clever guy, who writes his articles? Who puts together his Memoirs?"
Some one else will reply—"He did not; they are written by Malitourne."
Someone else will respond—"He didn't; they were written by Malitourne."
I pay no regard to what may lie underneath. When the articles or the Memoirs are signed Véron, both articles and Memoirs are by Véron so far as I am concerned: what else can you do? It is Véron's weakness to imagine that he can write. Good gracious! if he did not write, his reputation as an intellectual man would be made, in spite of his millions! But it happens that, thanks to these deuced articles and those blessed Memoirs, people laugh in my face when I say that Véron has intellect. It is in vain for me to be vexed and angry, and shout out and appeal to people who have supped with him, good judges in the matter of wit, to believe me; everybody replies, even those who have not supped with him: That is all very well! You say this because you owe M. Véron twelve thousand lines! As if because one owes a man twelve thousand lines it were a sufficient excuse for saying that he has intellect! Take, for example, the case of M. Tillot, of the Siècle, who says that I owe him twenty-four thousand lines; at that rate, I ought to say that he has twice as much intellect as Véron. But I do not say so; I will content myself with saying that I do not owe him those twenty-four thousand lines, and that he, on the contrary, owes me something like three or four hundred thousand francs or more, certainly not less.
I don't care about what might be beneath the surface. When the articles or the Memoirs are signed Véron, both the articles and the Memoirs are considered to be by Véron as far as I'm concerned: what else can you do? It's Véron's delusion to think that he can write. Seriously! If he didn't write, he'd have a good reputation as an intellectual man, even with his millions! But unfortunately, because of these annoying articles and those blessed Memoirs, people laugh at me when I say Véron is intelligent. It's pointless for me to be upset and furious, shouting and asking people who have dined with him—who are good judges of wit—to believe me; everyone answers, even those who haven’t dined with him: "That's nice! You say this because you owe M. Véron twelve thousand lines!" As if owing a guy twelve thousand lines is a good reason to say he has intellect! For instance, take M. Tillot from the Siècle, who claims I owe him twenty-four thousand lines; by that logic, I should say he has twice as much intellect as Véron. But I won’t say that; I'll just say that I don’t owe him those twenty-four thousand lines, and that, on the contrary, he owes me around three or four hundred thousand francs or more, definitely not less.
But where on earth were we? Oh! I remember! we were talking about the first night of Robert le Diable. After the third act I met Rossini in the green-room.
But where on earth were we? Oh! I remember! We were talking about the first night of Robert le Diable. After the third act, I ran into Rossini in the green room.
"Come now, Rossini," I asked him, "what do you think of that?"
"Come on, Rossini," I asked him, "what do you think about that?"
"Vat do I zink?" replied Rossini.
"Vat do I think?" replied Rossini.
"Yes, what do you think of it?"
"Yeah, what do you think about it?"
"Veil, I zink zat if my best friend vas vaiting for me at ze corner of a wood vis a pistol, and put zat pistol to my throat, zaying, 'Rossini, zu art going to make zur best opera!' I should do it."
"Well, I think that if my best friend were waiting for me at the corner of a woods with a pistol and pointed that pistol at my throat, saying, 'Rossini, you are going to make your best opera!' I would do it."
"And suppose you had no one friendly enough towards you to render you this service?"
"And what if you didn't have anyone who cared enough about you to help with this?"
"Ah! in zat case all vould be at an end, and I azzure you zat I vould never write one zingle note of music again!"
"Ah! In that case, everything would be over, and I assure you that I would never write a single note of music again!"
Alas! the friend was not forthcoming, and Rossini kept his oath.
Unfortunately, the friend didn't show up, and Rossini stuck to his promise.
I meditated upon these words of the illustrious maestro during the fourth and fifth acts of Robert, and, after the fifth act, I went to the stage to inquire of Nourrit if he was not hurt. I felt a strong friendship towards Nourrit, and he, on his side, was much attached to me. Nourrit was not only an eminent actor, he was also a delightful man; he had but one fault: when you paid him a compliment on his acting or on his voice, he would listen to you in a melancholy fashion, and reply with his hand on your shoulder—
I thought about these words from the famous maestro during the fourth and fifth acts of Robert, and after the fifth act, I went to the stage to check on Nourrit to see if he was okay. I had a strong friendship with Nourrit, and he felt the same way about me. Nourrit wasn't just an outstanding actor; he was also a wonderful person. He had only one flaw: when you complimented him on his acting or his voice, he would listen to you with a sad expression and respond with his hand on your shoulder—
"Ah! my friend, I was not born to be a singer or a comedian!"
"Ah! my friend, I wasn't born to be a singer or a comedian!"
"Indeed! Then why were you born?"
"Seriously! So why were you born?"
"I was born to mount a pulpit, not a stage."
"I was meant to stand behind a pulpit, not on a stage."
"A pulpit!"
"A podium!"
"Yes."
"Yep."
"And what the deuce would you do in a pulpit?"
"And what on earth would you do in a pulpit?"
"I should guide humanity in the way of progress.... Oh! you misjudge me; you do not know my real character."
"I should lead humanity towards progress.... Oh! you misunderstand me; you don't know my true nature."
Poor Nourrit! He made a great mistake in wanting to have been or to appear other than he was: he was a[Pg 450] delightful player! a dignified and noble and kindly natured man! He had taken the Revolution of 1830 very seriously, and, for three months, he appeared every other day on the stage of the Opéra as a National Guard, singing the Marseillaise, flag in hand. Unluckily, his patriotism was sturdier than his voice, and he broke his voice in that exercise. It was because his voice had already become weaker that Meyerbeer put so little singing in the part of Robert. Nourrit was in despair, not because of his failure, but because of that of the piece. In common with everyone else, he thought the work had failed. Meyerbeer was himself quite melancholy enough! Nourrit introduced us to one another. Our acquaintance dates from that night.
Poor Nourrit! He made a big mistake by wanting to be or seem different from who he really was: he was a[Pg 450] delightful performer! a dignified, noble, and kind-hearted man! He took the Revolution of 1830 very seriously, and for three months, he showed up on the stage of the Opéra every other day as a National Guard, singing the Marseillaise with a flag in hand. Unfortunately, his patriotism was stronger than his voice, and he ended up straining it. It was because his voice had already weakened that Meyerbeer included so little singing in the role of Robert. Nourrit was in despair, not because he had failed, but because the piece had. Like everyone else, he thought the work didn't succeed. Meyerbeer was already quite gloomy about it! Nourrit introduced us to each other. Our friendship began that night.
Meyerbeer was a very clever man; from the first he had had the sense to place a great fortune at the service of an immense reputation. Only, he did not make his fortune with his reputation; it might almost be said that he made his reputation with his fortune. Meyerbeer was never for one instant led aside from his object,—whether he was by himself or in society, in France or in Germany, at the table of the hotel des Princes or at the Casino at Spa,—and that object was success. Most assuredly, Meyerbeer gave himself more trouble to achieve success than in writing his scores. We say this because it seems to us that there are two courses to take. Meyerbeer should leave his scores to make their own successes; we should gain one opera out of every three. I admire the more this quality of tenacity of purpose in a man since it is entirely lacking in myself. I have always let managers look after their interests and mine on first nights; and, next day, upon my word! let people say what they like, whether good or ill! I have been working for the stage for twenty-five years now, and writing books for as long: I challenge a single newspaper editor to say he has seen me in his office to ask the favour of a single puff. Perhaps in this indifference lies my strength. In the five or six years that have just gone by, as soon as my plays have been put on the stage, with all the care and[Pg 451] intelligence of which I am capable, it has often happened that I have not been present at my first performance, but have waited to hear any news about it that others, more curious than myself, who had been present, should bring me.
Meyerbeer was a very smart guy; from the beginning, he had the foresight to use his significant wealth to build a massive reputation. However, he didn't earn his wealth through his fame; you could argue that he earned his fame through his wealth. Meyerbeer never lost sight of his goal—whether he was alone or with others, in France or Germany, at the hotel des Princes or the Casino at Spa—and that goal was success. Without a doubt, Meyerbeer put in more effort to achieve success than he did in writing his music. We say this because we believe there are two ways to approach this. Meyerbeer should let his music achieve its own successes; we would then gain one opera out of every three. I admire this tenacity in him even more because it's something I completely lack. I've always let managers take care of their interests and mine on opening nights; then, the next day, honestly! I let people say whatever they want, good or bad! I've been working in theater for twenty-five years now, and writing books for just as long: I dare any newspaper editor to say they've seen me in their office to request a single write-up. Maybe my indifference is my strength. In the past five or six years, as soon as my plays have hit the stage, with all the care and[Pg 451] intelligence I can muster, it has often happened that I haven't been there for my first performance but waited to hear any updates from others, more curious than I, who were there.
But at the time of Richard Darlington I had not yet attained to this high degree of philosophy. As soon as the play was finished, it had been read to Harel, who had just left the management of the Odéon to take up that of the Porte-Saint-Martin, and, be it said, Harel had accepted it at once; he had immediately put it in rehearsal, and, after a month of rehearsals, all scrupulously attended by me, we had got to 10 December, the day fixed for the first performance. The Théâtre-Français was in competition with us, and played the same day La Fuite de Law, by M. Mennechet, ex-reader to King Charles X. In his capacity of ex-reader to King Charles X., Mennechet was a Royalist. I shall always recollect the sighs he heaved when he was compelled, as editor of Plutarque français, to insert in it the biography of the Emperor Napoléon. Had he been in a position to consult his own personal feelings only, he would certainly have excluded from his publication the Conqueror of Marengo, of Austerlitz and of Jena; but he was not the complete master of it: since Napoléon had taken Cairo, Berlin, Vienna and Moscow, he had surely the right to monopolise fifty or sixty columns in the Plutarque français. I know something about those sighs; for he came to ask me for that biography of Napoléon, and it was I who drew it up. In spite of the competition of the Théâtre-Français there was a tremendous stir over Richard. It was known beforehand that the play had a political side to it of great significance, and the feverishness of men's minds at that period made a storm out of everything. People crushed at the doors to get tickets. At the rising of the curtain the house seemed full to overflowing. Frédérick was the pillar who supported the whole affair. He had supporting him, Mademoiselle Noblet, Delafosse, Doligny and Madame Zélie-Paul. But so great was the power of[Pg 452] this fine dramatic genius that he electrified everybody. Everyone in some degree was inspired by him, and by contact with him increased his own strength without decreasing that of the great player. Frédérick was then in the full zenith of his talent. Unequal like Kean,—whose personality he was to copy two or three years later,—sublime like Kean, he had the same qualities he exhibits to-day, and, though in a lesser degree, the same defects. He was just the same then in the relations of ordinary life,—difficult, unsociable, capricious, as he is to-day. In other respects he was a man of sound judgment; taking as much interest in the play as in his own part in the suggestions he proposed, and as much interest in the author as in himself. He had been excellent at the rehearsals. At the performance itself he was magnificent! I do not know where he had studied that gambler on the grand scale whom we style an ambitious man; men of genius must study in their own hearts what they cannot know except in dreams. Next to Frédérick, Doligny was capital in the part of Tompson. It was to the recollection I had of him in this rôle that the poor fellow owed, later, the sad privilege of being associated with me in my misfortunes. Delafosse, who played Mawbray, had moments of genuine greatness. One instance of it was where he waits at the edge of a wood, in a fearful storm, for the passing of the post-chaise in which Tompson is carrying off Jenny. An accident which might have made a hitch and upset the play at that juncture was warded off by his presence of mind. Mawbray has to kill Tompson by shooting him; for greater security, Delafosse had taken two pistols; real stage-pistols, hired from a gunsmith,—they both missed fire! Delafosse never lost his head: he made a pretence of drawing a dagger from his pocket, and killed Tompson with a blow from his fist, as he had not been able to blow out his brains. Mademoiselle Noblet was fascinatingly tender and loving, a charming and poetic being. In the last scene she fell so completely under Frédérick's influence as to utter cries of genuine not feigned terror. The fable took on all the proportions of[Pg 453] reality for her. The final scene was one of the most terrible I ever saw on the stage. When Jenny asked him, "What are you going to do?" and Richard replied, "I do not know; but pray to God!" a tremendous shudder ran all over the house, and a murmur of fear, escaping from every breast, became an actual shriek of terror. At the conclusion of the second act Harel had come up to my avant-scène:[1]—I had the chief avant-scène by right, and from it I could view the performance as though I were a stranger. Harel, I say, came up to entreat me to have my name mentioned with that of Dinaux: the name, be it known, by which Goubaux and Beudin were known on the stage. I refused. During the third act he came up again, accompanied this time by my two collaborators, and furnished with three bank-notes of a thousand francs each. Goubaux and Beudin, good, excellent, brotherly hearted fellows, came to ask me to have my name given alone. I had done the whole thing, they said, and my right to the success was incontestable. I had done the whole thing!—except finding the subject, except providing the outlines of the development, except, finally, the execution of the chief scene between the king and Richard, the scene in which I had completely failed. I embraced them and refused. Harel offered me the three thousand francs. He had come at an opportune moment: tears were in my eyes, and I held a hand of each of my two friends in mine. I refused him, but I did not embrace him. The curtain fell in the midst of frantic applause. They called Richard before the curtain, then Jenny, Tompson, Mawbray, the whole company. I took advantage of the spectators being still glued to their places to go out and make for the door of communication. I wanted to take the actors in my arms on their return to the wings. I came across Musset in the corridor; he was very pale and very much moved.
But at the time of Richard Darlington, I hadn't reached that high level of understanding yet. As soon as the play was finished, it was read to Harel, who had just left the management of the Odéon to take over the Porte-Saint-Martin, and, to be honest, Harel accepted it right away. He immediately put it into rehearsals, and after a month of rehearsals that I attended closely, we reached December 10, the day set for the first performance. The Théâtre-Français was competing with us and was showing La Fuite de Law by Mr. Mennechet, the former reader for King Charles X. In his role as ex-reader for King Charles X, Mennechet was a Royalist. I’ll always remember the sighs he let out when, as the editor of Plutarque français, he had to include the biography of Emperor Napoléon. If he had been able to listen to his own feelings, he would have definitely left out the Conqueror of Marengo, Austerlitz, and Jena from his publication; but he wasn’t in full control of it: since Napoléon had taken Cairo, Berlin, Vienna, and Moscow, he certainly had the right to claim fifty or sixty columns in Plutarque français. I know something about those sighs because he came to me for that biography of Napoléon, and I was the one who wrote it. Despite the competition from the Théâtre-Français, there was a massive buzz around Richard. It was widely known that the play had a politically significant angle, and the heightened sensitivity of the public at that time turned everything into a spectacle. People were packed at the doors trying to get tickets. When the curtain rose, the audience seemed to overflow. Frédérick was the cornerstone of the production. Supporting him were Mademoiselle Noblet, Delafosse, Doligny, and Madame Zélie-Paul. But Frédérick’s impressive talent energized everyone. Each person was somewhat inspired by him, and interacting with him boosted their own performance without diminishing his. Frédérick was then at the peak of his abilities. Unpredictable like Kean—whose style he would imitate two or three years later—magnificent like Kean, he had the same qualities he shows today, and though to a lesser extent, the same flaws. He was just the same then in everyday life—difficult, unsociable, and capricious, as he is now. However, he was a person of good judgment; he cared about the play as much as his own role, showing as much interest in the author as in himself. He had been outstanding in rehearsals. During the performance, he was magnificent! I don’t know where he learned to portray that high-stakes gambler we call an ambitious man; men of genius must search their hearts for things they can only know in dreams. Next to Frédérick, Doligny was excellent in the role of Tompson. It was my memory of him in this role that, later on, made the poor guy sadly associated with my misfortunes. Delafosse, who played Mawbray, had moments of real greatness. One was when he stands at the edge of a forest, in a raging storm, waiting for the passing post-chaise that Tompson is using to take away Jenny. An incident that could have caused a hitch and disrupted the play at that point was avoided by his quick thinking. Mawbray needs to kill Tompson by shooting him; for extra security, Delafosse had brought two pistols; real stage pistols rented from a gunsmith—but both misfired! Delafosse kept his cool: he pretended to pull out a dagger from his pocket and took out Tompson with a blow from his fist, since he couldn’t shoot him. Mademoiselle Noblet was beautifully tender and affectionate, a charming and poetic person. In the final scene, she fell so completely under Frédérick’s spell that she emitted cries of authentic, not feigned, terror. The story became entirely real for her. The last scene was one of the most intense I’ve ever witnessed on stage. When Jenny asked him, “What are you going to do?” and Richard replied, “I don’t know; but pray to God!” a gigantic shudder went through the crowd, and a murmur of fear turned into an actual scream of terror. After the second act, Harel came up to my avant-scène:[1]—I had the main avant-scène by right, and from it, I could watch the performance as if I were a stranger. Harel came up to ask me to have my name mentioned alongside Dinaux’s: the name under which Goubaux and Beudin were known on stage. I refused. During the third act, he came back again, this time with my two collaborators and three banknotes of a thousand francs each. Goubaux and Beudin, being good, kind-hearted friends, urged me to have my name given alone. They insisted that I had done everything, and my claim to the success was undeniable. I had done it all!—except choosing the subject, outlining the development, and finally executing the key scene between the king and Richard, the scene in which I completely failed. I embraced them and declined. Harel offered me the three thousand francs. He arrived at just the right moment: tears were in my eyes, and I held a hand of each of my two friends in mine. I refused him, but I didn’t hug him. The curtain fell amid wild applause. They called Richard before the curtain, then Jenny, Tompson, Mawbray, the whole cast. I took advantage of the audience still being in their seats to slip away toward the exit. I wanted to hug the actors as they returned to the wings. I ran into Musset in the hallway; he looked very pale and quite moved.
"Well," I asked him; "what is the matter, my dear poet?"
"Well," I asked him, "what's wrong, my dear poet?"
"I am suffocating!" he replied.
"I'm suffocating!" he replied.
It was, I think, the finest praise he could have paid the work,—the drama of Richard is, indeed, suffocating. I reached the wings in time to shake hands with everybody. And yet I did not feel the same emotion as on the night of Antony! The success had been as great, but the players were nothing like as dear to me. There is an abyss between my character and habits and those of Frédérick which three triumphs in common have not enabled either of us to bridge. What a difference between my friendship with Bocage! Between Mademoiselle Noblet and myself, pretty and fascinating as she was at that date, there existed none but purely artistic relations; she interested me as a young and beautiful person of promising future, and that was all. What a difference, to be sure, from the double and triple feelings with which Dorval inspired me! Although to-day the most active of these sentiments has been extinguished these twenty years; though she herself has been dead for four or five years, and forgotten by most people who should have remembered her, and who did not even see her taken to her last resting-place, her name falls constantly from my pen, just as her memory strikes ever a pang at my heart! Perhaps it will be said that my joy was not so great because my name remained unknown and my personality concealed. On that head I have not even the shadow of a regret. I can answer for it that my two collaborators were more sadly troubled at being named alone than I at not being named at all. Richard had an immense success, and it was just that it should: Richard, without question, is an excellent drama. I beg leave to be as frank concerning myself as I am with regard to others.
I believe it was the highest compliment he could give to the work— the drama of Richard is truly overwhelming. I made it to the wings in time to shake hands with everyone. Yet, I didn’t feel the same emotion as I did on the night of Antony! The success was just as significant, but the actors weren't nearly as dear to me. There’s a huge gap between my character and habits and those of Frédérick that three shared triumphs haven't allowed us to bridge. What a difference compared to my friendship with Bocage! With Mademoiselle Noblet and me, as pretty and charming as she was back then, we only had purely artistic connections; I found her interesting as a young and beautiful person with a promising future, and that was it. There’s certainly a huge contrast to the complex feelings Dorval evoked in me! Even though today the strongest of those feelings have faded over the past twenty years; even though she has been gone for four or five years, forgotten by most who should remember her and who didn’t even witness her burial, her name still flows from my pen, just as her memory continues to tug at my heart! Some might say my joy was lesser because my name went unrecognized and my identity hidden. On that point, I have no regrets at all. I assure you, my two collaborators were far more upset about being named alone than I was about not being mentioned at all. Richard enjoyed tremendous success, and rightly so: Richard is undoubtedly a fantastic play. I wish to be just as honest about myself as I am about others.
Twenty-one days after the performance of Richard Darlington the year 1831 went to join its sisters in that unknown world to which Villon relegates dead moons, and where he seeks, without finding them, the snows of yester year. Troubled though the year had been by political disturbances, it had been splendid for art. I had produced three pieces,—one bad, Napoléon Bonaparte; one mediocre, Charles VII.; and one good, Richard Darlington.
Twenty-one days after the performance of Richard Darlington, the year 1831 passed away, joining its counterparts in that unknown realm to which Villon consigns dead moons, and where he searches, without success, for the snows of the past. Although the year was troubled by political unrest, it was excellent for art. I created three pieces—one bad, Napoléon Bonaparte; one mediocre, Charles VII.; and one good, Richard Darlington.
Hugo had put forth Marion Delorme, and had published Notre-Dame de Paris—something more than a roman, a book!—and his volume the Feuilles d'Automne.
Hugo had presented Marion Delorme and had published Notre-Dame de Paris—something more than a novel, a book!—and his collection Feuilles d'Automne.
Balzac had published the Peau de chagrin, one of his most irritating productions. Once for all, my estimation of Balzac, both as a man and as an author, is not to be relied upon: as a man, I knew him but little, and what I did know did not rouse in me the least sympathy; as regards his talent, his manner of composition, of creation, of production, were so different from mine, that I am a bad judge of him, and I condemn myself on this head, quite conscious that I can justly be called in question.
Balzac had published the Peau de chagrin, one of his most frustrating works. To be clear, my opinion of Balzac, both as a person and as a writer, shouldn't be taken too seriously: I barely knew him, and what I did know didn't spark any sympathy in me; as for his talent, his way of writing, creating, and producing was so different from mine that I'm not a good judge of him, and I acknowledge that I can be questioned on this point.
But to continue. Does my reader know, omitting mention of M. Comte's theatre and of that of the Funambules, what was played in Paris from 1 January 1809 to 31 December 1831? Well, there were played 3558 theatrical pieces, to which Scribe contributed 3358; Théaulor, 94; Brazier, 93; Dartois, 92, Mélesville, 80; Dupin, 56; Antier, 53; Dumersan, 55; de Courcy, 50. The whole world compared with this could not have provided a quarter of it! Nor was painting far behind: Vernet had reached the zenith of his talent; Delacroix and Delaroche were ascending the upward path of theirs. Vernet had exhibited ... But before speaking of their works, let us say a few words of the men themselves.
But to continue. Does my reader know, without mentioning M. Comte's theater and that of the Funambules, what was performed in Paris from January 1, 1809, to December 31, 1831? Well, during that time, 3,558 theatrical pieces were staged, with Scribe contributing 3,358; Théaulor, 94; Brazier, 93; Dartois, 92; Mélesville, 80; Dupin, 56; Antier, 53; Dumersan, 55; and de Courcy, 50. The entire world couldn't have produced a quarter of that! Painting wasn't far behind: Vernet had reached the peak of his talent, while Delacroix and Delaroche were on their way up. Vernet had exhibited... But before discussing their works, let’s say a few words about the men themselves.
CHAPTER IX
Horace Vernet
Horace Vernet
Vernet was then a man of forty-two. You are acquainted with Horace Vernet, are you not? I will not say as painter—pooh! who does not know, indeed, the artist of the Bataille de Montmirail, of the Prise de Constantine, of the Déroute de la Smala? No, I mean as man. You will have seen him pass a score of times, chasing the stag or the boar, in shooting costume; or crossing the place du Carrousel, or parading in the court of the Tuileries, in the brilliant uniform of a staff officer. He was a handsome cavalier, a dainty, lithe, tall figure, with sparkling eyes, high cheek-bones, a mobile face and moustaches à la royale Louis XIII. Imagine him something like d'Artagnan. For Horace looked far more like a musketeer than a painter; or, say, like a painter of the type of Velasquez, or Van Dyck, and, like the Cavalier Tempesta, with curled-up moustache, sword dangling against his heels, his horse snorting forth fire from its nostrils. The whole race of Vernets were of a similar type. Joseph Vernet, the grandfather, had himself bound to a ship's mast during a tempest. Karl Vernet, the father, would, I am certain, have given many things to have been carried off, like Mazeppa, across the Steppes of Ukraine on a furious horse, reeking with foam and blood. For, be it known, Horace Vernet brings up the rear of a quadruple series, the latest of four generations of painters,—he is the son of Karl, the grandson of Joseph Vernet, the great-grandson of Antoine. Then, as though this were not enough, his maternal ancestor was the younger Moreau, that is to say, one of the foremost draughts-men[Pg 457] and ablest engravers of the eighteenth century. Antoine Vernet painted flowers upon sedan chairs. There are two chairs painted and signed by him at Marseilles. Joseph Vernet has adorned every museum in France with his sea pictures. He is to Havre, Brest, Lorient, Marseilles and Toulon what Canaletto is to Venice.
Vernet was then a man of forty-two. You know Horace Vernet, don’t you? I won’t call him a painter—come on, who doesn’t know the artist behind the Bataille de Montmirail, the Prise de Constantine, and the Déroute de la Smala? No, I mean as a person. You’ve probably seen him around a hundred times, hunting stag or boar in his shooting gear; or crossing the Place du Carrousel, or strutting in the Tuileries courtyard in the flashy uniform of a staff officer. He was a striking man, a stylish, tall figure with sparkling eyes, high cheekbones, a flexible face, and moustaches styled like Louis XIII. Picture him somewhat like d'Artagnan. Because Horace looked much more like a musketeer than a painter; or like a painter in the vein of Velasquez or Van Dyck, with curled moustaches and a sword hanging at his side, on a horse snorting fire from its nostrils. The whole Vernet family was of a similar style. Joseph Vernet, the grandfather, once tied himself to a ship's mast during a storm. Karl Vernet, the father, would have given anything to be swept away like Mazeppa, across the Ukrainian Steppes on a furious horse covered in foam and blood. Just so you know, Horace Vernet is the last in a line of four generations of painters—he is Karl's son, Joseph Vernet's grandson, and Antoine's great-grandson. And as if that weren’t enough, his maternal ancestor was the younger Moreau, one of the top draftsmen and most skilled engravers of the eighteenth century. Antoine Vernet painted flowers on sedan chairs. There are two chairs he painted and signed in Marseille. Joseph Vernet has filled every museum in France with his seascapes. He is to Havre, Brest, Lorient, Marseille, and Toulon what Canaletto is to Venice.
Karl, who began by bearing off the grand prix of Rome with his composition of the Enfant prodigue, became, in 1786, an enthusiastic painter of everything English. The Duc d'Orléans bought at fabulous prices the finest of English horses. Karl Vernet became mad on horses, drew them, painted them, made them his speciality and so became famous. As for Horace, he was born in 1789, the year in which his grandfather Joseph died and his father Karl was made an Academician. Born a painter, so to say, his first steps were taken in a studio.
Karl, who started by winning the grand prix in Rome for his piece Enfant prodigue, became a passionate painter of everything British in 1786. The Duc d'Orléans bought the best English horses at incredible prices. Karl Vernet became obsessed with horses, drawing and painting them, which became his specialty and made him famous. As for Horace, he was born in 1789, the same year his grandfather Joseph passed away and his father Karl was made an Academician. Born to be a painter, he began his journey in a studio.
"Who is your master?" I once asked him.
"Who is your boss?" I once asked him.
"I never had one."
"I've never had one."
"But who taught you to draw and paint?"
"But who showed you how to draw and paint?"
"I do not know.... When I could only walk on all fours I used to pick up pencils and paint brushes. When I found paper I drew; when I found canvas I painted, and one fine day it was discovered that I was a painter."
"I don't know.... When I could only crawl, I used to grab pencils and paintbrushes. When I found paper, I drew; when I found canvas, I painted, and one day it was realized that I was a painter."
When ten years old, Horace sold his first drawing to a merchant: it was a tulip commissioned by Madame de Périgord. This was the first money he had earned, twenty-four sous! And the merchant paid him these twenty-four sous in one of those white coins that were still to be seen about in 1816, but which we do not see now and shall probably not see again. This happened in 1799. From that moment Horace Vernet found a market for drawings, rough sketches and six-inch canvases. In 1811 the King of Westphalia commissioned his first two pictures: the Prise du camp retranché de Galatz and the Prise de Breslau. I have seen them scores of times at King Jérome's palace; they are not your best work, my dear Horace! But they brought him in sixteen thousand francs. It was the first considerable sum of money he had received; it was the first out of which he could[Pg 458] put something aside. Then came 1812, 1813 and 1814, and the downfall of the whole Napoléonic edifice. The world shook to its foundations: Europe became a volcano, society seemed about to dissolve. There was no thought of painting, or literature, or art! What do you suppose became of Vernet, who could not then obtain for his pictures eight thousand francs, or four thousand, or a thousand, or five hundred, or a hundred, or even fifty? Vernet drew designs for the Journal des Modes;—three for a hundred francs: 33 francs 33 centimes each drawing! One day he showed me all these drawings, a collection of which he kept; I counted nearly fifteen hundred of them with feelings of profound emotion. The 33 francs 33 centimes brought to my mind my 166 francs 65 centimes,—the highest figure my salary had ever reached. Vernet was a child of the Revolution; but as a young man he knew only the Empire. An ardent Bonapartist in 1815, more fervent still, perhaps, in 1816, he gave many sword strokes and sweeps of the paint brush in honour of Napoléon, both exercised as secretly as possible. In 1818, the Duc d'Orléans conceived the idea of ordering Vernet to paint pictures for him. The suggestion was transmitted to the painter on the prince's behalf.
When he was ten, Horace sold his first drawing to a merchant: it was a tulip commissioned by Madame de Périgord. This was the first money he ever earned, twenty-four sous! The merchant paid him these twenty-four sous in one of those white coins that were still around in 1816, but which we don’t see anymore and probably won’t see again. This happened in 1799. From that point on, Horace Vernet found a market for drawings, rough sketches, and six-inch canvases. In 1811, the King of Westphalia commissioned his first two paintings: the Prise du camp retranché de Galatz and the Prise de Breslau. I’ve seen them dozens of times at King Jérôme's palace; they’re not his best work, my dear Horace! But they earned him sixteen thousand francs. It was the first significant amount of money he received; it was the first time he could[Pg 458] set something aside. Then came 1812, 1813, and 1814, and the collapse of the entire Napoleonic structure. The world shook to its core: Europe became a volcano, and society seemed on the verge of falling apart. There was no thought of painting, literature, or art! What do you think happened to Vernet, who couldn’t get eight thousand francs for his paintings, or four thousand, or a thousand, or five hundred, or a hundred, or even fifty? Vernet created designs for the Journal des Modes; three for a hundred francs: 33 francs 33 centimes for each drawing! One day he showed me all these drawings, a collection he kept; I counted nearly fifteen hundred of them with deep emotion. The 33 francs 33 centimes reminded me of my 166 francs 65 centimes—the highest my salary had ever reached. Vernet was a child of the Revolution, but as a young man, he only knew the Empire. An ardent Bonapartist in 1815, even more so, perhaps, in 1816, he made many strokes of the sword and brush in honor of Napoleon, each done as secretly as possible. In 1818, the Duc d'Orléans had the idea to commission Vernet to paint for him. The suggestion was passed along to the painter on the prince's behalf.
"Willingly," said the painter, "but on condition that they shall be military pictures."
"Willingly," said the painter, "but only if they are military pictures."
The prince accepted.
The prince agreed.
"That the pictures," added the painter, "shall be of the time of the Republic and of the Empire."
"That the pictures," the painter added, "should be from the time of the Republic and the Empire."
Again the prince acceded.
The prince agreed again.
"Finally," added the painter, "on condition that the soldiers of the Empire and of the Revolution shall wear tricolor cockades."
"Finally," added the painter, "on the condition that the soldiers of the Empire and the Revolution will wear tricolor cockades."
"Tell M. Vernet," replied the prince to this, "that he can put the first cockade in my hat."
"Tell M. Vernet," the prince replied, "that he can put the first cockade in my hat."
And as a matter of fact the Duc d'Orléans decided that the first picture which Vernet should execute for him should be of himself as Colonel of Dragoons, saving a poor refractory priest: a piece of good fortune which befell the prince in 1792, and[Pg 459] which has been related by us at length in our Histoire de Louis Philippe. Horace Vernet painted the picture and had the pleasure of putting the first tricolor cockade ostentatiously on the helmet. About this time the Duc de Berry urgently desired to visit the painter's studio, whose reputation grew with the rapidity of the giant Adamastor. But Vernet did not love the Bourbons, especially those of the Older Branch. With the Duc d'Orléans it was different; he had been a Jacobin. Horace refused admission to his studio to the son of Charles X.
And actually, the Duc d'Orléans decided that the first painting he wanted Vernet to create for him should be of himself as Colonel of Dragoons, rescuing a poor, stubborn priest: a stroke of luck for the prince in 1792, and[Pg 459] which we have detailed extensively in our Histoire de Louis Philippe. Horace Vernet painted the picture and took pride in being the first to place the tricolor cockade prominently on the helmet. Around this time, the Duc de Berry eagerly wanted to visit the painter's studio, whose reputation soared rapidly like the giant Adamastor. But Vernet didn't have a fondness for the Bourbons, especially those from the Older Branch. With the Duc d'Orléans, it was a different story; he had been a Jacobin. Horace denied entry to his studio to the son of Charles X.
"Oh! Good gracious!" said the Duc de Berry, "if in order to be received by M. Vernet it is but a question of putting on a tricolor cockade, tell him that, although I do not wear M. Laffitte's colours at my heart, I will put them in my hat, if it must be so, the day I enter his house."
"Oh wow!" said the Duc de Berry, "if all I have to do to be welcomed by M. Vernet is to wear a tricolor cockade, tell him that, even though I don't support M. Laffitte's colors, I’ll put them in my hat, if that's what it takes, the day I go to his house."
The suggestion did not come to anything either, because the painter did not accede to it; or because, the painter having acceded to it, the prince declined to submit to such an exacting condition.
The suggestion didn’t lead to anything either, because the painter didn’t agree to it; or because, after the painter agreed to it, the prince refused to accept such a demanding condition.
In less than eighteen months Vernet painted for the Duc d'Orléans—the condition concerning the tricolor cockades being always respected—the fine series of pictures which constitute his best work: Montmirail, in which he puts more than tricolor cockades, namely, the Emperor himself riding away into the distance on his white horse; Hanau, Jemappes and Valmy. But all these tricolor cockades, which blossomed on Horace's canvases like poppies, cornflowers and marguerites in a meadow, and above all, that detestable white horse, although it was no bigger than a pin's head, frightened the government of Louis XVIII. The exhibition of 1821 declined Horace Vernet's pictures. The artist held an exhibition at his own house, and had a greater success by himself than the two thousand painters had who exhibited at the Salon. This was the time of his great popularity. No one was allowed at that period, not even his enemies, to dispute his talent. Vernet was more than a celebrated painter: he belonged to the nation, representing in the world of art the spirit of opposition which was beginning to make the reputations of Béranger and of[Pg 460] Casimir Delavigne in the world of poetry. He lived in the rue de la Tour-des-Dames. All that quarter had just sprung into being; it was the artists' quarter. Talma, Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Duchesnois, Arnault lived there. It was called La Nouvelle Athènes. They all carried on the spirit of opposition in their own particular ways: Mademoiselle Mars with her violets, M. Arnault with his stories, Talma with his Sylla wig, Horace Vernet with his tricolor cockades, Mademoiselle Duchesnois with what she could. One consecration was still lacking in the matter of Horace Vernet's popularity; he obtained it, that is to say, he was appointed director of the École Française at Rome. Perhaps this was a means of getting him sent away from Paris. But the exile, if such it was, looked so much more like an honour that Vernet accepted it with joy. Criticism grumbled a little;—it was the time of the raising of Voices!—Some complained in the hoarse notes, others in the screaming tones which are the peculiar property of the envious, exclaiming that it was rather a risk to send to Rome the propagator of tricolor cockades, and rather a bold stroke to bring into juxtaposition Montmirail and The Transfiguration, Horace Vernet and Raphael; but these voices were drowned in the universal acclamation which hailed the honour done to our national painter. It was certainly not Vernet's enemies who should have indulged in recrimination; but rather his friends who should have felt afraid. In fact, when Horace Vernet found himself confronted with the masterpieces of the sixteenth century, even as Raphael when led into the Sistine Chapel by Bramante, he was seized with a spasm of doubt. The whole of his education as a painter was called in question. He felt he had been self-deceived for thirty years of his life;—at the age of thirty-two, Horace had already been a painter for thirty years!—he asked himself whether, instead of those worthy full-length soldiers, clad in military capot and shako, he was not destined to paint naked giants; the Iliad of Homer instead of the Iliad of Napoléon. The unhappy painter set himself to paint great pictures. The Roman school was in a flourishing state upon his arrival—Vernet succeeded to[Pg 461] Guérin;—under Vernet it became splendid. The indefatigable artist, the never-ceasing creator, communicated a portion of his fecund spirit to all those young minds. Like a sun he lighted up and warmed throughout and ripened everything with his rays. One year after his arrival in Rome he must needs erect an exhibition hall in the garden of the École. Féron, from whom the institute asked an eighteen-inch sketch, gave a twenty-feet picture, the Passage des Alpes; Debay gave the Mort de Lucrèce; Bouchot, a Bacchanale; Rivière, a Peste apaisée par les prières du pape. Sculptors created groups of statuary, or at the least statues, instead of statuettes; Dumont sent Bacchus aux bras de sa nourrice; Duret, the Invention de la Lyre. It was such an outpouring of productions that the Academy was frightened. It complained that the École de Rome produced too much. This was the only reproach they had to bring against Vernet during his Ultramontane Vice-regency. He himself worked as hard as a student, two students, ten students. He sent his Raphael et Michel-Ange, his Exaltation du pape, his Arrestation du prince de Condé, his ... Happily for Horace, I cannot recollect any more he sent in at that period.
In less than eighteen months, Vernet painted for the Duc d'Orléans—always respecting the rule about the tricolor cockades—a remarkable series of works that are his best: Montmirail, where he includes more than just tricolor cockades, namely, the Emperor himself riding off into the distance on his white horse; Hanau, Jemappes, and Valmy. But all those tricolor cockades, which blossomed on Horace's canvases like poppies, cornflowers, and daisies in a meadow, and especially that awful white horse, even though it was no bigger than a pinhead, alarmed the government of Louis XVIII. The exhibition of 1821 rejected Horace Vernet's paintings. The artist held his own exhibition at his house and had greater success on his own than the two thousand painters who displayed at the Salon. This was the peak of his popularity. No one was allowed to challenge his talent at that time, not even his critics. Vernet was more than a famous painter: he represented the nation and embodied the spirit of opposition that was starting to elevate the reputations of Béranger and [Pg 460] Casimir Delavigne in poetry. He lived on rue de la Tour-des-Dames. The whole area had just come to life; it was the artists' district. Talma, Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Duchesnois, and Arnault all lived there. It was known as La Nouvelle Athènes. They all embodied the spirit of resistance in their own unique ways: Mademoiselle Mars with her violets, M. Arnault with his stories, Talma with his Sylla wig, Horace Vernet with his tricolor cockades, and Mademoiselle Duchesnois in whatever way she could. There was still one acknowledgment missing in Horace Vernet's popularity; he received it when he was appointed director of the École Française in Rome. This might have been a way to send him away from Paris. But the exile, if that’s what it was, felt so much more like an honor that Vernet accepted it with joy. Criticism grumbled a bit;—it was the era of rising voices!—Some complained in low tones, others in shrill sounds unique to the envious, claiming that sending the advocate of tricolor cockades to Rome was quite a risk, and that pairing Montmirail with The Transfiguration, Horace Vernet with Raphael, was rather audacious; but these voices were drowned out by the widespread acclaim celebrating the honor bestowed upon our national painter. It wasn’t Vernet’s critics who should have voiced complaints; it should have been his friends who felt anxious. When Horace Vernet confronted the masterpieces of the sixteenth century, just like Raphael being led into the Sistine Chapel by Bramante, he experienced a wave of doubt. Everything he had learned as a painter was thrown into question. He felt he had been fooling himself for thirty years;—at thirty-two, Horace had already been painting for thirty years!—He wondered if, instead of picture-perfect soldiers in military capots and shakos, he was meant to paint naked giants; the Iliad of Homer instead of Napoleon's Iliad. The troubled painter set out to create great artworks. The Roman school was thriving by the time he arrived—Vernet took over from [Pg 461] Guérin;—under Vernet it became outstanding. The tireless artist, the ever-creative force, infused part of his fertile spirit into all those young minds. Like a sun, he illuminated, warmed, and nurtured everything with his rays. A year after arriving in Rome, he constructed an exhibition hall in the garden of the École. Féron, from whom the institute requested a sketch eighteen inches long, delivered a twenty-foot painting, Passage des Alpes; Debay provided Mort de Lucrèce; Bouchot offered a Bacchanale; Rivière created Peste apaisée par les prières du pape. Sculptors produced large statues or groups of sculptures instead of small figurines; Dumont contributed Bacchus aux bras de sa nourrice; Duret, Invention de la Lyre. It was such a flood of works that the Academy was alarmed. They complained that the École de Rome produced too much. This was the only criticism they aimed at Vernet during his Ultramontane Vice-regency. He worked as hard as a student, two students, or even ten students. He sent in his Raphael et Michel-Ange, his Exaltation du pape, his Arrestation du prince de Condé, his ... Thankfully for Horace, I can’t recall any more he submitted during that time.
I repeat once more, the sight of the old masters had upset all his old ideas;—in the slang of the studio, Horace splashed about. I say this because I am quite certain that it is his own opinion. If it is possible that Horace could turn out any bad painting—if he has ever done so—and he alone has the right to say this—is it not the fact, dear Horace, that the bad painting which many artists point out with glee and triumph was done in Rome. But this period of relative inferiority for Horace, which was only below his own average in painting in what is termed the "grand style," was not without its profit to the artist; he drank the wine of life from its main source, the eternal spring! He returned to France strengthened by a force invisible to all, unrealised by himself, and after seven years spent in the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel and the Farnesina, he found himself more at ease among his barracks and battlefields, which many people said, and said wrongly, that he ought not to have quitted.
I’ll say it again, seeing the old masters completely shook up all his old ideas; in studio slang, Horace was flailing around. I bring this up because I’m pretty sure it’s his own view. If there’s any chance that Horace could produce a bad painting—if he has ever done so—and he alone has the right to say this—aren’t we all aware, dear Horace, that the bad painting that many artists point to with glee and triumph was made in Rome? But this time of relative weakness for Horace, which was only below his own average in painting in what’s called the "grand style," was still beneficial for the artist; he experienced life fully from its core, the eternal spring! He came back to France revitalized by a force invisible to everyone, and even unrecognized by himself, and after seven years spent in the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, and the Farnesina, he found himself more comfortable among his barracks and battlefields, which many people mistakenly claimed he shouldn’t have left.
Ah! Horace led a fine life, dashing through Europe on horseback, across Africa on a dromedary, over the Mediterranean in a ship! A glorious, noble and loyal life at which criticism may scoff, but in respect of which no reproach can be uttered by France.
Oh! Horace lived an amazing life, racing through Europe on horseback, traveling across Africa on a camel, and sailing the Mediterranean in a ship! A glorious, noble, and loyal life that critics may mock, but for which no one in France can speak ill.
Now, during this year—nous revenons à nos moutons, as M. Berger puts it—Horace sent two pictures from Rome, namely, those we have mentioned already: the Exaltation du pape, one of the best of his worst pictures, and the Arrestation du prince de Condé, one of the best of his best pictures.
Now, during this year—let's get back to the point, as M. Berger puts it—Horace sent two paintings from Rome, namely, those we’ve already mentioned: the Exaltation du pape, one of the best of his lesser works, and the Arrestation du prince de Condé, one of the best of his great works.
CHAPTER X
Paul Delaroche
Paul Delaroche
Delaroche exhibited his three masterpieces at the Salon of 1831: the Enfants d'Édouard; Cinq-mars et de Thou remontant le Rhône à la remorque du Cardinal de Richelieu, and the Jeu du Cardinal de Mazarin à son lit de mort.
Delaroche showcased his three masterpieces at the 1831 Salon: the Enfants d'Édouard; Cinq-mars and de Thou ascending the Rhône with the Cardinal de Richelieu's help, and the Game of Cardinal de Mazarin on his deathbed.
It is hardly necessary to say that of these three pictures we prefer the Cinq-mars et de Thou remontant le Rhône.
It’s pretty obvious that out of these three pictures, we prefer the Cinq-mars et de Thou remontant le Rhône.
The biography of the eminent artist will not be long. His is not an eccentric character, nor one of those impetuous temperaments which seek adventures. He did not have his collar-bone broken when he was fifteen, three ribs staved in at thirty, and his head cut open at forty-five, as did Vernet; he does not expose his body in every political quarrel; his recreations are not those of fencing, horse-riding and shooting. He rests from work by dreaming, and not by some fresh fatiguing occupation; for although his work is masterly, it is heavy, laboured and melancholy. Instead of saying before Heaven openly, when showing his pictures to men and thanking God for having given him the power to paint them, "Behold, I am an artist! Vivent Raphaël and Michael Angelo!" he conceals them, he hides them, he withdraws them from sight, murmuring, "Ah! I was not made for brush, canvas and colours: I was made for political and diplomatic career. Vivent M. de Talleyrand and M. de Metternich!" Oh! how unhappy are those spirits, those restless souls, who do one thing and torment themselves with the everlasting anxiety that they were created to do something else.
The biography of the famous artist won't be long. He's not an eccentric character or one of those impulsive types looking for adventures. He didn’t break his collarbone at fifteen, didn’t fracture three ribs at thirty, and didn’t have his head cut open at forty-five like Vernet; he doesn't throw himself into every political fight; his hobbies aren't fencing, horseback riding, or shooting. He takes breaks from work by dreaming, not by engaging in more tiring activities; because even though his work is brilliant, it's heavy, laborious, and melancholic. Instead of proudly declaring before Heaven when showing his paintings to others and thanking God for giving him the talent to create them, "Look, I'm an artist! Long live Raphael and Michelangelo!" he hides them, concealing them, pulling them out of sight, murmuring, "Ah! I wasn't meant for brush, canvas, and colors; I was meant for a political and diplomatic career. Long live M. de Talleyrand and M. de Metternich!" Oh! how unfortunate are those spirits, those restless souls, who do one thing while constantly worrying that they were meant to do something else.
In 1831, Paul Delaroche was thirty-four, and just about at the height of his strength and his talent. He was the second son of a pawnbroker. He early entered the studio of Gros, who was then in the zenith of his fame, and who, after his beautiful pictures of Jaffa, Aboukir and Eylau, was about to undertake the gigantic dome of the Panthéon. He made genuine and rapid advance in harmony with the design and taste of the master. Nevertheless, Delaroche began with landscape. His brother painted historical subjects, and the father did not wish both his two sons to apply themselves to the same kind of painting. Claude Lorraines and Ruysdaels were accordingly the studios preferred by Paul; a woman with whom he fell in love, and whose portrait he persisted in painting, changed his inclinations. This portrait finished and found to be acceptable (bien venu), as they say in studio language, Delaroche was won over to the grand school of painting. He made his first appearance in the Salon of 1822, when he was twenty-five years of age, with a Joas arraché du milieu des morts par Josabeth, and a Christ descendu de la croix. In 1824, he exhibited Jeanne d'Arc interrogée dans son cachot par le Cardinal de Winchester, Saint Vincent de Paul prêchant pour les enfants trouvés, Saint Sébastien secouru par Irene and Filippo Lippi chargé de peindre une vierge pour une convent, et devenant amoureux de la religieuse qui lui sert de modèle.
In 1831, Paul Delaroche was thirty-four, and at the peak of his strength and talent. He was the second son of a pawnbroker. He joined Gros's studio early on, when Gros was at the height of his fame and was about to take on the massive dome of the Panthéon after his stunning works like Jaffa, Aboukir, and Eylau. He quickly made genuine progress in line with the style and taste of his mentor. However, Delaroche initially focused on landscapes. His brother painted historical subjects, and their father didn't want both of his sons to pursue the same type of painting. Thus, Paul preferred the studios of Claude Lorrains and Ruysdaels. A woman he fell in love with, whose portrait he continuously painted, changed his direction. Once that portrait was completed and deemed acceptable (bien venu, as they say in studio lingo), Delaroche was drawn to the grand school of painting. He first exhibited at the Salon in 1822, when he was twenty-five, showcasing Joas arraché du milieu des morts par Josabeth and Christ descendu de la croix. In 1824, he displayed Jeanne d'Arc interrogée dans son cachot par le Cardinal de Winchester, Saint Vincent de Paul prêchant pour les enfants trouvés, Saint Sébastien secouru par Irene, and Filippo Lippi chargé de peindre une vierge pour une convent, et devenant amoureux de la religieuse qui lui sert de modèle.
The Jeanne d'Arc made a great impression. Instead of being talked of as a painter of great promise, Delaroche was looked upon as a master who had realised these hopes.
The Jeanne d'Arc made a strong impression. Instead of being seen as a painter with great potential, Delaroche was viewed as a master who had fulfilled those expectations.
In 1826 he exhibited his Mort de Carrache, Le Prétendant sauvé par Miss MacDonald, the Nuit de la Saint Barthélemy, the Mort d'Élisabeth and the full-length portrait of the Dauphin.
In 1826, he showcased his Mort de Carrache, Le Prétendant sauvé par Miss MacDonald, the Nuit de la Saint Barthélemy, the Mort d'Élisabeth, and a full-length portrait of the Dauphin.
The whole world stood to gaze at Elizabeth, pallid, dying, dead already from the waist down. I was riveted in front of the young Scotch girl, exquisitely sympathetic and admirably romantic in feeling. Cinq-Mars and Miss MacDonald were alone enough to make Delaroche a great painter. What delicious handling there is in the latter picture, sweet, tender,[Pg 465] moving! What suppleness and morbidezza in those golden fifteen years, born on the wings of youth, scarcely touching the earth! O Delaroche! you are a great painter! But if you had only painted four pictures equal to your Miss MacDonald, how you would have been adored!
The whole world watched Elizabeth, pale, dying, dead already from the waist down. I was captivated by the young Scottish girl, beautifully sympathetic and wonderfully romantic in her feelings. Cinq-Mars and Miss MacDonald alone would make Delaroche a great painter. The handling in the latter painting is so delightful, sweet, tender, [Pg 465] and moving! There’s such flexibility and morbidezza in those golden fifteen years, carried on the wings of youth, barely touching the ground! Oh Delaroche! You are a great painter! But if only you had painted four pieces as good as your Miss MacDonald, how much you would have been adored!
In 1827, he first produced a political picture, the Prise du Trocadéro; then the Mort du Président Duranti, a great and magnificent canvas, three figures of the first order: the president, his wife and his child; the figure of the child, in particular, who is holding up—or, rather, stretching up—its hands to heaven; and a ceiling for the Charles X. Museum, of which I will not speak, as I do not remember it. Finally, in 1831, the period we have reached, Delaroche exhibited Les Enfants d'Édouard, Cinq-Mars et de Thou, the Jeu de Mazarin, the portrait of Mlle. Sontag and a Lecture. The painter's reputation, as we have said, had then reached its height. You remember those two children sitting on a bed, one sickly, the other full of health; the little barking dog; the ray of light that comes into the prison through the chink beneath the door. You remember the Richelieu—ill, coughing, attenuated, with no more strength to cause the death of others; the beautiful figure of Cinq-Mars, calm, in his exquisite costume of white satin, pink and white under his pearl-grey hat; the grave de Thou, in his dark dress, looking at the scaffold in the distance, which was to assume for him so terrible an aspect on nearer view; those guards, those rowers, the soldier eating and the other who is spluttering in the water. The whole is exquisitely composed and executed, full of intellect and thought, and particularly full of skill—skill, yes! for Delaroche par excellence is the dexterous painter. He possesses the expertness of Casimir Delavigne, with whom he has all kinds of points of resemblance, although, in our opinion, he strikes us as being stronger, as a painter, than Casimir Delavigne as a dramatic author. Every artist has his double in some kindred contemporary. Hugo and Delacroix have many points of contact; I pride myself upon my resemblance to Vernet.
In 1827, he created his first political artwork, Prise du Trocadéro; then came Mort du Président Duranti, a large and remarkable canvas featuring three main figures: the president, his wife, and their child. The child's figure, in particular, stands out as it reaches up— or rather, stretches its hands— toward heaven. He also created a ceiling for the Charles X. Museum, which I won’t discuss since I can't recall it. Finally, in 1831, which brings us to the present, Delaroche displayed Les Enfants d'Édouard, Cinq-Mars et de Thou, Jeu de Mazarin, a portrait of Mlle. Sontag, and a Lecture. The painter's reputation had, as we've mentioned, reached its peak. You remember those two children on a bed, one frail and sickly, the other healthy; the little barking dog; the beam of light coming into the prison through the crack under the door. You recall Richelieu—sick, coughing, weakened, no longer able to cause others' deaths; the handsome figure of Cinq-Mars, serene in his exquisite white satin outfit, with pink and white beneath his pearl-grey hat; the serious de Thou, in his dark clothing, gazing at the scaffold in the distance, which would soon look so terrifying up close; those guards, the rower, the soldier eating, and the other splashing in the water. The entire scene is beautifully composed and executed, filled with intellect and thought, and especially brimming with skill—yes, skill! For Delaroche par excellence is the masterful painter. He has the expertise of Casimir Delavigne, with whom he shares many similarities, though, in our view, he appears to be a stronger painter than Casimir Delavigne is as a playwright. Every artist has a counterpart among their contemporaries. Hugo and Delacroix share many connections; I take pride in my resemblance to Vernet.
Delaroche's skill is, indeed, great; not that we think it the fruit of studied calculation, such cleverness is intuitive, and, perhaps, not so much an acquired quality as a natural gift, a gift that is doubtless rather a negative one, from the point of view of art. I prefer certain painters, poets and players who are inclined to err on the side of being awkward rather than too skilful. But, just as all the studying in the world will not change clumsiness into skilfulness, so you cannot cure a clever man of his defect. Therefore, although it is a singular statement to make, Delaroche has the defect of being too skilful. If a man is going to his execution, Delaroche will not choose the shuddering moment when the guards open the doors of the prison, nor the terror-stricken instant when the victim catches sight of the scaffold. No, the resigned victim will pass before the window of the Bishop of London; as he descends a staircase, will kneel with downcast eyes and receive the benediction bestowed on him by two white aristocratic trembling hands thrust through the bars of that window. If he paints the assassination of the Duc de Guise, he does not choose the moment of struggle, the supreme instant when the features contract in spasms of anger, in convulsions of agony; when the hands dig into the flesh and tear out hair; when hearts drink vengeance and daggers drink blood. No, it is the moment when all is over, when the Duc de Guise is laid dead at the foot of the bed, when daggers and swords are wiped clean and cloaks have hidden the rending of the doublet, when the murderers open the door to the assassin, and Henri III. enters, pale and trembling, and recoils as he comes in murmuring—
Delaroche's talent is truly impressive; we don't think it's the result of careful planning. That kind of skill is instinctive, maybe more of a natural talent than something learned, a talent that, from an artistic standpoint, might not be all that positive. I tend to prefer certain painters, poets, and performers who might stumble a bit instead of being overly skilled. Just like no amount of practice can turn clumsiness into skillfulness, you can’t fix a clever person’s shortcomings. So, although it sounds odd, Delaroche's flaw is that he’s too skilled. When a man is on his way to execution, Delaroche won’t capture the chilling moment when the guards open the prison doors, nor the terrifying instant when the condemned sees the scaffold. Instead, the resigned victim will walk past the Bishop of London’s window; as he goes down the staircase, he’ll kneel with his head down and receive the blessing given by two trembling, aristocratic hands reaching through the bars of that window. If he depicts the assassination of the Duc de Guise, he won’t focus on the moment of struggle, the peak moment when faces contort in anger and agony; when hands dig into flesh and pull out hair; when hearts yearn for revenge and daggers thirst for blood. No, he captures the moment when it’s all over, when the Duc de Guise lies dead at the foot of the bed, when daggers and swords are cleaned and cloaks hide the ripped doublet, when the murderers open the door for the assassin, and Henri III. enters, pale and trembling, instinctively recoiling as he steps in, murmuring—
"Why, he must have been ten feet high?—he looks taller lying down than standing, dead than alive!"
"Wow, he must have been ten feet tall! He looks taller lying down than he does standing, dead than alive!"
Again, if he paints the children of Edward, he does not choose the moment when the executioners of Richard III. rush upon the poor innocent boys and stifle their cries and their lives with bedding and pillows. No, he chooses the time when the two lads, seated on the bed which is to become their grave, are terrified and trembling by reason of a presentiment of the[Pg 467] footsteps of Death, as yet unrecognised by them, but noted by their dog. Death is approaching, as yet hidden behind the prison door, but his pale and cadaverous light is already creeping in through the chinks.
Again, if he paints the children of Edward, he doesn't pick the moment when the executioners of Richard III rush in on the poor innocent boys, silencing their cries and taking their lives with bedding and pillows. No, he opts for the time when the two young boys, sitting on the bed that will soon be their grave, are frightened and trembling, sensing the looming presence of Death, which they don't recognize yet, but their dog does. Death is getting closer, still hidden behind the prison door, but his pale, ghostly light is already seeping through the cracks.
It is evident that this is one side of art, one aspect of genius, which can be energetically attacked and conscientiously defended. It does not satisfy the artist supremely, but it gives the middle classes considerable pleasure. That is why Delaroche had, for a time, the most universal reputation, and the one that was least disputed among all his colleagues. It also explains why, after having been too indulgent towards him, and from the very fact of being over-indulgent, criticism has become too severe. And this is why we are putting the artist and his works in their true place and light. We say, then: Delaroche must not be so much blamed for his skill as felicitated for it. It is an organic part not merely of his talent, but still more of his temperament and character. He does not look all round his subject to find out from which side he can see it the best. He sees his subject immediately in just that particular pose; and it would be impossible for the painter to realise it in any other way. Along with this, Delaroche puts all the consciousness of which he is capable into his work. Here is yet another point of resemblance between him and Casimir Delavigne; only, he does not pour his whole self out as does Delavigne; he does not need, as does Delavigne, friends to encourage him and give him strength;—he is more prolific: Casimir is cunning; Delaroche is merely freakish. Then, Casimir shortens, contracts and is niggardly. He treats the same subject as does Delaroche; but why does he treat it? Not by any means because the subject is a magnificent one; or because it moves the heart of the masses and stirs up the Past of a People; or because Shakespeare has created a sublime drama from it, but because Delaroche has made a fine picture out of it. Thus the fifteen more or less lengthy acts of Shakespeare become, under the pen of Casimir Delavigne, three short acts; there is no mention whatever of the king's procession, the scene between Richard III. and Queen Anne,[Pg 468] the apparition of the victims between the two armies, the fight between Richard III. and Richmond. Delavigne's three acts have no other aim than to make a tableau-vivant framed in the harlequin hangings of the Théâtre-Français, representing with scrupulous exactitude, and in the manner of a deceptive painting of still-life, the canvas of Delaroche. It happens, therefore, that the drama finds itself great, even as is the Academy, not by any means because of what it possesses, but by what it lacks. Then, although, in the case of both, their convictions or, if you prefer it, their prejudices exceed the bounds of obstinacy and amount to infatuation, Delaroche, being the stronger of the two, rarely giving in, although he does occasionally! while Casimir never does so! To give one instance,—I have said that each great artist has his counterpart in a kindred contemporary art; and I have said that Delaroche resembled Casimir Delavigne. This I maintain. This is so true that Victor Hugo and Delacroix, the two least academic talents imaginable, both had the ambition to be of the Academy. Both competed for it: Hugo five times and Delacroix ten, twelve, fifteen.... I cannot count how many times. Very well, you remember what I said before; or rather, lest you should not remember it, I will repeat it. During one of the vacancies in the Academy I took it upon myself to call on some academicians, who were my friends, on Hugo's behalf. One of these calls was in the direction of Menus-Plasirs, where Casimir Delavigne had rooms. I have previously mentioned how fond I was of Casimir Delavigne, and that this feeling was reciprocated. Perhaps it will be a matter for surprise that, being so fond of him, and boasting of his affection for myself, I speak ill of him. In the first place, I do not speak ill of his talent, I merely state the truth about it. That does not prevent me from liking the man Casimir personally. I speak well of the talent of M. Delaroche, but does that prove that I like him? No, I do not like M. Delaroche; but my friendship for the one and my want of sympathy with the other does not influence my opinion of their talent. It is not for me either to blame or to praise their talent, and I may be permitted[Pg 469] both to praise and to blame individuals. I put all these trifles on one side, and I judge their works. With this explanation I return to Casimir Delavigne, who liked me somewhat, and whom I liked much. I had decided to make use of this friendship on behalf of Hugo, whom I loved, and whom I still love with quite a different affection, because admiration makes up at least two kinds of my friendship for Hugo, whilst I have no admiration for Casimir Delavigne at all. So I went to find Casimir Delavigne. I employed all the coaxing which friendship could inspire, all the arguments reason could prompt to persuade him to give his vote to Hugo. He refused obstinately, cruelly and, worse still, tactlessly. It would have been a stroke of genius for Casimir Delavigne to have voted for Hugo. But he would not vote for him. Cleverness, in the case of Casimir Delavigne, was an acquired quality, not a natural gift. Casimir gave his vote to I know not whom—to M. Dupaty, or M. Flourens, or M. Vatout. Well, listen to this. The same situation occurred when Delacroix paid his visits as when Hugo was trying to get himself placed among applicants for the Academy. Once, twice, Delaroche refused his vote to Delacroix. Robert Fleury,—you know that excellent painter of sorrowful situations and supreme anguish, an apparently ideal person to be an impartial appreciator of Delacroix and of Delaroche! Well, Robert Fleury sought out Delaroche and did what I had done in the case of Casimir Delavigne, he begged, implored Delaroche to give his vote to Delacroix. Delaroche at first refused with shudders of horror and cries of indignation; and he showed Robert Fleury to the door. But when he was by himself his conscience began to speak to him; softly at first, then louder and still louder; he tried to struggle against it, but it grew bigger and bigger, like the shadow of Messina's fiancée! He sent for Fleury.
It’s clear that this is one side of art, one aspect of genius, which can be vigorously criticized and thoughtfully defended. It doesn’t completely satisfy the artist, but it brings a lot of joy to the middle class. That’s why Delaroche had, for a period, the most popular reputation, and the one that was least questioned among all his peers. This also explains why, after being overly lenient towards him, criticism has now become too harsh. And this is why we are placing the artist and his works in their proper context and perspective. So, we assert: Delaroche shouldn’t be blamed for his skill but celebrated for it. It’s an inherent part not just of his talent but even more of his temperament and character. He doesn’t look around his subject to find the best angle; he sees it instantly in that specific pose, and it would be impossible for him to depict it in any other way. Along with this, Delaroche pours all the awareness he has into his work. Here’s another similarity between him and Casimir Delavigne; however, he doesn’t express his entire self like Delavigne does; he doesn’t rely on friends for encouragement and strength like Delavigne does—he's more productive: Casimir is clever; Delaroche is just unpredictable. Casimir tends to simplify, narrow down, and be stingy. He tackles the same subject as Delaroche; but why does he choose it? Not because it’s a magnificent theme or because it resonates with the masses and evokes the past of a people; or because Shakespeare created a grand drama from it, but because Delaroche made a beautiful painting of it. Thus, the fifteen or so lengthy acts of Shakespeare become, in the hands of Casimir Delavigne, three short acts; there’s no mention of the king’s procession, the scene between Richard III and Queen Anne,[Pg 468] the appearance of the victims between the two armies, or the fight between Richard III and Richmond. Delavigne’s three acts aim solely to create a tableau vivant framed by the harlequin drapes of the Théâtre-Français, accurately representing the canvas of Delaroche, almost like a deceptive still-life painting. Therefore, the drama ends up feeling impactful, just like the Academy—not because of what it possesses, but because of what it’s missing. Although, in both cases, their beliefs or, if you prefer it, their biases go beyond stubbornness and approach obsession, Delaroche, being the stronger of the two, rarely gives in—though he does occasionally!—while Casimir never does! To give an example, I’ve said that every great artist has their counterpart in a similar contemporary art, and I’ve mentioned that Delaroche resembled Casimir Delavigne. I maintain this. It’s so true that Victor Hugo and Delacroix, the two least academic talents imaginable, both aspired to be part of the Academy. Both competed for it: Hugo five times and Delacroix ten, twelve, fifteen... I’ve lost count. Now, you recall what I mentioned before; or rather, in case you don’t remember, I’ll repeat it. During one of the Academy’s vacancies, I took it on myself to visit some academicians, who were my friends, on Hugo’s behalf. One of these visits was to Menus-Plasirs, where Casimir Delavigne had his rooms. I’ve previously mentioned how fond I was of Casimir Delavigne, and that this feeling was mutual. Perhaps it might be surprising that, being so fond of him and claiming that he liked me, I speak ill of him. First of all, I don’t criticize his talent; I simply state the truth about it. That doesn’t stop me from liking Casimir as a person. I speak well of M. Delaroche’s talent, but does that mean I like him? No, I don’t like M. Delaroche; but my friendship for one and my lack of sympathy for the other doesn’t affect my opinion of their talent. It’s not for me to blame or praise their talent, but I can be allowed[Pg 469] to praise or criticize individuals. I set all these trivial matters aside and judge their works. With this clarification, I return to Casimir Delavigne, who had some affection for me, and whom I liked a lot. I decided to use this friendship for Hugo, whom I loved, and still love with a different kind of affection because my admiration for Hugo creates at least two types of friendship for him, while I have no admiration for Casimir Delavigne at all. So, I went to find Casimir Delavigne. I used all the charm that friendship could inspire, all logical arguments to persuade him to support Hugo. He stubbornly, cruelly, and worse yet, tactlessly refused. It would have been a stroke of genius for Casimir Delavigne to vote for Hugo. But he wouldn’t do it. Cleverness for Casimir Delavigne was something he had to acquire, not a natural talent. Casimir gave his vote to someone else—I don’t know if it was M. Dupaty, M. Flourens, or M. Vatout. Now, listen to this. The same scenario occurred when Delacroix came around trying to gain acceptance into the Academy as it did when Hugo was trying to secure his position. Once, twice, Delaroche denied his vote to Delacroix. Robert Fleury—you know that excellent painter of tragic situations and deep anguish, seemingly the ideal person to fairly appreciate both Delacroix and Delaroche! Well, Robert Fleury sought out Delaroche and did what I had done with Casimir Delavigne; he asked, pleaded with Delaroche to support Delacroix. Initially, Delaroche refused with shock and indignation, showing Robert Fleury to the door. But when he was alone, his conscience began to speak to him; softly at first, then increasingly louder; he tried to resist it, but it grew larger and larger, like the shadow of Messina’s bride! He called Fleury back.
"You can tell Delacroix he has my vote!" he burst out;—"all things considered, he is a great painter."
"You can tell Delacroix he has my support!" he exclaimed;—"when you look at the big picture, he's an amazing artist."
And he fled to his bed-chamber as a vanquished lion retires into his cave, as the sulky Achilles withdrew into his tent. Now, in exchange for that concession made to his conscience[Pg 470] when it said to him: "You are wrong!" let us show Delaroche's stubbornness when conscience said, "You are right!" Delaroche was not only a great painter, but, as you will see, he was still more a very fine and a very great character.
And he ran to his bedroom like a defeated lion retreats to its den, just like the moody Achilles isolated himself in his tent. Now, in exchange for the concession he made to his conscience[Pg 470] when it told him, "You’re wrong!" let’s contrast Delaroche’s stubbornness when his conscience said, "You’re right!" Delaroche was not just a great painter, but, as you’ll see, he was even more a truly fine and remarkable person.
In 1835, Delaroche, who was commissioned to paint six pictures for the dome of the Madeleine, learnt that M. Ingres, who also had been commissioned to paint the dome, had drawn back from the immense task and retired. He ran off to M. Thiers, then Minister of the Interior.
In 1835, Delaroche, who was hired to paint six pictures for the dome of the Madeleine, found out that M. Ingres, who had also been hired to paint the dome, had stepped back from the huge task and withdrawn. He rushed to M. Thiers, who was then the Minister of the Interior.
"Monsieur le Ministre," he said to him, "M. Ingres is withdrawing; my work is bound up with his, I am at one with him concerning it; he discussed his plans with me, and I showed him my sketches; his task and mine were made to harmonise together. It may not be thus with his successor. May I ask who his successor is, in order that I may know whether we can work together as M. Ingres and I have worked together? In case you should not have any person in view, and should wish me to undertake the whole, I will do the dome for nothing, that is to say, you shall pay me the sum agreed upon for my six pictures and I will give you the dome into the bargain."
"Mister Minister," he said to him, "Mr. Ingres is stepping down; my work is connected to his, and I completely agree with him on it; he shared his plans with me, and I showed him my sketches; our tasks were meant to fit together. It might not be the same with his successor. May I ask who his successor is, so I can know if we can collaborate as Mr. Ingres and I have? If you don’t have anyone in mind and want me to take on the whole project, I will do the dome at no extra charge, meaning you would still pay me the agreed amount for my six pictures, and I’ll throw in the dome for free."
M. Thiers got up and assumed the attitude of Orosmane, and said as said Orosmane—
M. Thiers stood up and took on the pose of Orosmane, saying what Orosmane said—
"Chrétien, te serais tu flatté,
D'effacer Orosmane en générosité."
"Chrétien, would you be flattered,
To erase Orosmane in generosity?"
The result of the conversation was that the Minister, after having said that there might not perhaps be any dome to paint, and that it was possible they might content themselves with a sculptured frieze, passed his word of honour to Delaroche—the word of honour which you knew, which I knew, which Rome and Spain knew!—that, if the dome of the Madeleine had to be painted, he, Delaroche, should paint it. Upon that assurance Delaroche departed joyously for Rome, carrying with him the hope of his life. That work was to be his life's work, his Sistine Chapel. He reached Rome; he shut himself up, as did Poussin, in a Camaldule monastery, copied monks'[Pg 471] heads, made prodigious studies and admirable sketches—and the sketches of Delaroche are often worth more than his pictures—painted by day, designed by night and returned with huge quantities of material. On his return he learned that the dome was given to Ziégler! Even as I after the interdiction of Antony, he took a cab, forced his way to the presence of M. Thiers, found him in his private room, and stopped in front of his desk.
The outcome of the conversation was that the Minister, after mentioning that there might not even be a dome to paint and that they might settle for a sculpted frieze, gave his word of honor to Delaroche—the word of honor that you knew, that I knew, that all of Rome and Spain knew!—that if the dome of the Madeleine needed painting, Delaroche would be the one to do it. With that promise, Delaroche happily set off for Rome, carrying the hope of his life with him. That project was meant to be his life's work, his Sistine Chapel. He arrived in Rome; he isolated himself, like Poussin, in a Camaldolese monastery, copied monks' heads, created astonishing studies and excellent sketches—and Delaroche's sketches are often more valuable than his paintings—painting by day, designing by night, and returned with tons of material. Upon his return, he learned that the dome was given to Ziégler! Just like I did after the ban of Antony, he took a cab, pushed his way to M. Thiers, found him in his private office, and stood in front of his desk.
"Monsieur le Ministre, I do not come to claim the work you had promised me; I come to return you the twenty-five thousand francs you advanced me."
"Mister Minister, I'm not here to ask for the work you promised me; I'm here to return the twenty-five thousand francs you gave me in advance."
And, flinging down the bank-notes for that sum upon the Minister's desk, he bowed and went out.
And, tossing the banknotes for that amount onto the Minister's desk, he bowed and left.
This was dignified, noble and grand! But it was dismal. The unhappiness of Delaroche, let us rather say, his misanthropy, dates from that day.
This was dignified, noble, and grand! But it was bleak. Delaroche's unhappiness, or we might say his misanthropy, began on that day.
CHAPTER XI
Eugène Delacroix
Eugène Delacroix
Eugène Delacroix had exhibited in the Salon of 1831 his Tigres, his Liberté, his Mort de l'Évêque de Liége. Notice how well the grave and misanthropie face of Delaroche is framed between Horace Vernet, who is life and movement, and Delacroix, who is feeling, imagination and fantasy. Here is a painter in the full sense of the term, à la bonne heure! Full of faults impossible to defend, full of qualities impossible to dispute, for which friends and enemies, admirers and detractors can cut one another's throats in all conscience. And all will have right on their side: those who love him and those who hate him; those who admire, those who run him down. To battle, then! For Delacroix is equally a fait de guerre and a cas de guerre.
Eugène Delacroix showcased his Tigres, Liberté, and Mort de l'Évêque de Liége at the Salon of 1831. Notice how Delaroche's serious and cynical expression is surrounded by Horace Vernet, who embodies life and movement, and Delacroix, who represents emotion, imagination, and fantasy. Here is a true artist in every sense, à la bonne heure! He has undeniable flaws, but also undeniable strengths, which allow both friends and foes, fans and critics, to passionately argue their points. And each will have a valid perspective: those who admire him and those who revile him; those who praise him and those who criticize him. Let the debates begin! For Delacroix is both a fait de guerre and a cas de guerre.
We will try to draw this great and strange artistic figure, which is like nothing that has been and probably like nothing that ever will be; we will try to give, by the analysis of his temperament, an idea of the productions of this great painter, who bore a likeness to both Michael Angelo and Rubens; not so good at drawing as the first, nor as good at composition as the second, but more original in his fancies than either. Temperament is the tree; works are but its flowers and fruit.
We will attempt to depict this remarkable and unconventional artist, who is unlike anyone who has come before and probably unlike anyone who will come after; we will try to convey, through analyzing his personality, an idea of the works of this great painter, who resembled both Michelangelo and Rubens; not as skilled in drawing as the first, nor as talented in composition as the second, but more original in his visions than either. Temperament is the foundation; works are merely its blossoms and fruits.
Eugène Delacroix was born at Charenton near Paris,—at Charenton-les-Fous; nobody, perhaps, has painted such fools as did he: witness the stupid fool, the timid fool and the angry fool of the Prison du Tasse. He was born in 1798, in the full tide of the Directory. His father was first a Minister[Pg 473] during the Revolution, then préfet at Bordeaux, and was later to become préfet at Marseilles. Eugène was the last of his family, the culot—the nestling, as bird-nest robbers say; his brother was twenty-five years old when he was born, and his sister was married before he was born. It would be difficult to find a childhood fuller of events than that of Delacroix. At three, he had been hung, burned, drowned, poisoned and strangled! He must have been made very tough by Fate to escape all this alive. One day his father, who was a soldier, took him up in his arms, and raised him to the level of his mouth; meantime the child amused itself by twisting the cord of the cavalryman's forage cap round his neck; the soldier, instead of putting him down on the ground, let him fall, and behold there was Delacroix hung. Happily, they loosened the cord of the cap in time, and Delacroix was saved. One night, his nurse left the candle too near his mosquito net, the wind set the net waving and it caught fire; the fire spread to the bedding, sheets and child's nightshirt, and behold Delacroix was on fire! Happily he cries; and, at his cries people come in, and Delacroix is extinguished. It was high time, the man's back is to this day marked all over with the burns which scarred the child's skin. His father passed from the prefecture of Bordeaux to that of Marseilles, and they gave an inaugural fête to the new préfet in the harbour; while passing from one boat to another, the serving lad who carried the child made a false step, dropped him and there was Delacroix drowning! Luckily, a sailor jumped into the sea and fished him out just when the serving lad, thinking of his own salvation, was about to drop him. A little later, in his father's study, he found some vert-de-gris which was used to clean geographical maps; the colour pleased his fancy,—Delacroix has always been a colourist;—he swallowed the vert-de-gris, and there he was poisoned! Happily, his father came back, found the bowl empty, suspected what had happened and called in a doctor; the doctor ordered an emetic and freed the child from the poison. Once, when he had been very good, his mother gave him a bunch of dried[Pg 474] grapes; Delacroix was greedy; instead of eating his grapes one by one, he swallowed the whole bunch; it stuck in his throat, and he was being suffocated in exactly the same way as was Paul Huet with the fish bone! Fortunately, his mother stuffed her hand into his mouth up to the wrist, caught hold of the bunch by its stalk, managed to draw it up, and Delacroix, who was choking, breathed again. These various events no doubt caused one of his biographers to say that he had an unhappy childhood. As we see, it should rather have been said exciting. Delacroix was adored by his father and mother, and it is not an unhappy childhood to grow up and develop surrounded by the love of father and mother. They sent him to school at eight,—to the Lycée Impérial. There he stayed till he was seventeen, making good progress with his studies, spending his holidays sometimes with his father and sometimes with his uncle Riesener, the portrait-painter. At his uncle's house he met Guérin. The craze to be a painter had always stuck to him: at six years old, in 1804, when in the camp at Boulogne, he had made a drawing with white chalk on a black plank, representing the Descente des Français en Angleterre; only, France figured as a mountain and England as a valley; and a company of soldiers was descending the mountain into the valley: this was the descent into England. Of the sea itself there was no question. We see that, at six years of age, Delacroix's geographical ideas were not very clearly defined. It was agreed upon between Riesener and the composer of Clymnestre and Pyrrhus that, when Delacroix left college, he should enter the studio of the latter. There were, indeed, some difficulties raised by the family, the father inclining to law, the mother to the diplomatic service; but, at eighteen, Delacroix lost his fortune and his father; he had only forty thousand francs left, and liberty to make himself a painter. He then went to Guérin, as soon as it could be arranged, and, working like a negro, dreamed, composed and executed his picture of Dante. This picture, not the worst of those he has painted,—strong men sometimes put as much or even more into their first work as into any afterwards,—came under the[Pg 475] notice of Géricault. The gaze of the young master when in process of painting his Naufrage de la Méduse was like the rays of a hot sun. Géricault often came to see the work of Delacroix; the rapidity and original fancy of the brush of his young rival, or, rather, of his young disciple, amused him. He looked over his shoulder—Delacroix is of short and Géricault of tall stature,—or he looked on seated astride a chair. Géricault was so fond of horses that he always sat astride something. When the last stroke of the brush was put to the dark crossing of hell, it was shown to M. Guérin. M. Guérin bit his lips, frowned and uttered a little growl of disapprobation accompanied by a negative shake of the head. And that was all Delacroix could extract from him. The picture was exhibited. Gérard saw it as he was passing by, stopped short, looked at it a long time and that night, when dining with Thiers,—who was making his first campaign in literature, as was Delacroix in painting,—he said to the future Minister—
Eugène Delacroix was born in Charenton near Paris—specifically, Charenton-les-Fous. No one has painted fools quite like he did: just look at the foolish fool, the timid fool, and the angry fool in the Prison du Tasse. He was born in 1798 during the height of the Directory. His father started as a Minister[Pg 473] during the Revolution, then became préfet in Bordeaux, and later, préfet in Marseilles. Eugène was the last child in his family; his brother was twenty-five when he was born, and his sister was already married. It's hard to find a childhood more eventful than Delacroix's. By the age of three, he had been hung, burned, drowned, poisoned, and strangled! Fate must have toughened him up to survive all that. One day, his father, a soldier, picked him up and held him at mouth level while the child entertained himself by wrapping the cord of the cavalry cap around his neck. Instead of putting him down, the soldier let him fall, and lo and behold, Delacroix was hanging. Luckily, they loosened the cord in time, and Delacroix was saved. One night, his nurse placed a candle too close to his mosquito net, and the wind caused the net to catch fire, which then spread to the bedding, sheets, and the child’s nightshirt. Suddenly, Delacroix was on fire! Thankfully, he cried out; people came running, and Delacroix was extinguished just in time. His back still bears the scars of those childhood burns. His father moved from the prefecture of Bordeaux to that of Marseilles, where they held an inaugural celebration for the new préfet at the harbor. While moving from one boat to another, the servant carrying the child stumbled and dropped him, and there was Delacroix drowning! Fortunately, a sailor jumped into the sea and saved him just when the serving lad was thinking only of his own escape. Later, in his father’s study, he found some vert-de-gris, which was used to clean maps; the color fascinated him—Delacroix was always drawn to color—so he swallowed the vert-de-gris and got poisoned! Thankfully, his father returned, saw the empty bowl, suspected what happened, and called a doctor. The doctor gave him an emetic and relieved him of the poison. Once, as a reward for being good, his mother gave him a bunch of dried[Pg 474] grapes. Delacroix was greedy; instead of eating them one at a time, he swallowed them all at once, which got stuck in his throat, almost choking him just like Paul Huet with a fish bone! Luckily, his mother managed to reach deep into his mouth, grabbed the bunch by the stem, and pulled it out, allowing Delacroix to breathe again. Given all these incidents, one of his biographers said he had an unhappy childhood. However, it could more accurately be described as exciting. Delacroix was cherished by his parents, and it’s not an unhappy childhood to grow up surrounded by their love. They enrolled him in school at eight years old, sending him to the Lycée Impérial. He attended until he was seventeen, doing well in his studies and spending his holidays either with his father or his uncle Riesener, the portrait painter. At his uncle's home, he met Guérin. The desire to be a painter had always been with him: at six years old, in 1804, during the camp at Boulogne, he created a drawing with white chalk on a black plank depicting the Descente des Français en Angleterre; in this picture, France appeared as a mountain and England as a valley with a company of soldiers descending into it—this was his descent into England. The sea wasn’t even part of the picture. Clearly, at six, Delacroix had a rather vague understanding of geography. It was agreed between Riesener and the composer of Clymnestre and Pyrrhus that once Delacroix finished college, he would join the latter's studio. There were some family objections; his father preferred law while his mother leaned towards the diplomatic service. But at eighteen, Delacroix lost both his fortune and his father, leaving him with only forty thousand francs and the freedom to pursue painting. He then went to study with Guérin as soon as possible, working tirelessly and dreaming up his piece on Dante. This painting, which is one of his better works—strong artists often pour as much or even more into their first creation as into any after—caught the attention of Géricault. The look on the young master’s face while painting his Naufrage de la Méduse was intense, like the rays of a hot sun. Géricault often visited Delacroix to see his progress; the speed and originality of his young rival’s brushwork entertained him. He would lean over Delacroix’s shoulder—Delacroix was short while Géricault was tall—or sit astride a chair, as Géricault loved horses and would always sit in such a manner. When the final touch was added to the dark scene of hell, it was shown to M. Guérin. M. Guérin bit his lips, frowned, and let out a small growl of disapproval, shaking his head negatively. That was all Delacroix could get from him. The painting was eventually exhibited. Gérard saw it while passing by, stopped, stared at it for a long time, and that night, when dining with Thiers—who was just beginning his literary career, much like Delacroix was with painting—he said to the future Minister—
"We have a new painter!"
"Check out our new painter!"
"What is his name?"
"What’s his name?"
"Eugène Delacroix!"
"Eugène Delacroix!"
"What has he done?"
"What has he done?"
"A Dante passant l'Acheron avec Virgile. Go and see his picture."
"A Dante crossing the Acheron with Virgil. Go check out his painting."
Next day Thiers goes to the Louvre, seeks for the picture, finds it, gazes at it and goes out entranced.
The next day, Thiers goes to the Louvre, looks for the painting, finds it, stares at it, and leaves feeling mesmerized.
Intellectually, Thiers possessed genuine artistic feeling, even if it did not spring from the heart. He did what he could for art; and when he displeased, wounded and discouraged an artist, the fault has lain with his environment, his family, or some salon coterie, and, even when causing pain to an artist, and in failing to keep his promises, he did his utmost to spare the artist any pain he may have had to cause him, at the cost of pain to himself. He was lucky, also, in his dealings, if not always just; it was his idea to send Sigalon to Rome. True, Sigalon died there of cholera; but not till after he had sent from Rome his beautiful copy of the Jugement dernier. So Thiers went back delighted with Delacroix's picture; he[Pg 476] was then working on the staff of the Constitutionnel, and he wrote a splendid article on the new painter. In short, the Dante did not raise too much envy. It was not suspected what a family of reprobates the exile from Florence dragged in his wake! The Government bought the picture for two thousand francs, upon the recommendation of Gérard and Gros, and had it taken to the Luxembourg, where it still is. You can see it there, one of the finest pictures in the palace.
Intellectually, Thiers had a true appreciation for art, even if it didn’t come from the heart. He did what he could to support artists; when he upset, hurt, or discouraged an artist, the blame lay with his surroundings, his family, or some exclusive social group. Even when he caused pain to an artist and failed to keep his promises, he tried his best to minimize any hurt he might have inflicted, even at the expense of his own well-being. He was fortunate in his interactions, if not always fair; it was his idea to send Sigalon to Rome. True, Sigalon died there from cholera, but not before he sent back his beautiful copy of the Jugement dernier. So Thiers returned thrilled with Delacroix's painting; he[Pg 476] was then writing for the Constitutionnel, and he penned a fantastic article on the new artist. In summary, the Dante didn’t provoke too much jealousy. Nobody suspected what a group of misfits the exiled Florentine brought along with him! The Government purchased the painting for two thousand francs, based on recommendations from Gérard and Gros, and it was taken to the Luxembourg, where it remains. You can see it there, one of the finest paintings in the palace.
Two years flew by. At that time exhibitions were only held every two or three years. The salon of 1824 then opened. All eyes were turned towards Greece. The memories of our young days formed a kind of propaganda, recruiting under its banner, men, money, poems, painting and concerts. People sang, painted, made verses, begged for the Greeks. Whoever pronounced himself a Turkophile ran the risk of being stoned like Saint Stephen. Delacroix exhibited his famous Massacre de Scio.
Two years passed quickly. Back then, exhibitions took place only every two or three years. The salon of 1824 opened, and everyone was focused on Greece. The memories of our youth created a sort of movement, gathering support in the form of people, money, poems, paintings, and concerts. People sang, painted, wrote poetry, and pleaded on behalf of the Greeks. Anyone who declared themselves a Turkophile risked being stoned like Saint Stephen. Delacroix showcased his famous Massacre de Scio.
Good Heavens! Have you who belonged to that time forgotten the clamour that picture roused, with its rough and violent style of composition, yet full of poetry and grace? Do you remember the young girl tied to the tail of a horse? How frail and fragile she looked! How easily one could see that her whole body would shed its fragments like the petals of a rose, and be scattered like flakes of snow, when it came in contact with pebbles and boulders and bramble thorns!
Good heavens! Have you who were around back then forgotten the uproar that picture caused, with its rough and wild style but still full of beauty and grace? Do you remember the young girl tied to the tail of a horse? She looked so delicate and fragile! It was easy to see that her whole body would fall apart like the petals of a rose and get scattered like flakes of snow when it hit pebbles, boulders, and thorny brambles!
Now, this time, the Rubicon was passed, the lance thrown down, and war declared. The young painter had just broken with the whole of the Imperial School. When clearing the precipice which divided the past from the future, his foot had pushed the plank into the abyss below, and had he wished to retrace his steps it was henceforth an impossibility. From that moment—a rare thing at twenty-six years of age!—Delacroix was proclaimed a master, started a school of his own, and had not only pupils but disciples, admirers and fanatical worshippers. They hunted out someone to stand in opposition to him; they exhumed the man who was least like him in all points, and rallied round him; they discovered Ingres, exalted[Pg 477] him, proclaimed him and crowned him in their hatred of Delacroix. As in the age of the invasion of the Huns, the Burgundians and the Visigoths, they called upon the savages to help them, they invoked St. Geneviève, they adjured the king, they implored the pope! Ingres, certainly, did not owe his revived reputation to the love and admiration which his grey monochromes inspired, but to the fear and hatred which were inspired by the flashing brush of Delacroix. All men above the age of fifty were for Ingres; all young people below the age of thirty were for Delacroix.
Now, the line had been crossed, the challenge issued, and war declared. The young painter had just severed ties with the entire Imperial School. In leaping over the gap that separated the past from the future, he had sent the plank tumbling into the abyss below, making any attempt to go back impossible. From that moment—a rare feat at twenty-six—Delacroix was hailed as a master, launched his own school, and attracted not just students but disciples, admirers, and passionate followers. They sought someone to oppose him; they unearthed the person who was his complete opposite and rallied around him; they found Ingres, exalted[Pg 477] him, proclaimed him, and crowned him out of their disdain for Delacroix. Just like in the era of the Hunnic invasion, when the Burgundians and Visigoths called for help from savages, they turned to St. Geneviève, beseeched the king, and implored the pope! Ingres certainly didn’t regain his reputation through the love and admiration sparked by his dull monochromes but rather through the fear and resentment ignited by Delacroix’s vibrant brushwork. All men over fifty supported Ingres; all young people under thirty supported Delacroix.
We will study and examine and appreciate Ingres in his turn, never fear! His name, flung down in passing, shall not remain in obscurity; although we warn our readers beforehand—and let them now take note and only regard our judgment for what it is worth—that we are not in sympathy with either the man or his talents.
We will study, analyze, and appreciate Ingres in due time, don’t worry! His name, mentioned briefly, will not be forgotten; however, we want to inform our readers in advance—and they should take note and consider our opinion for what it is—that we do not have good feelings about either the man or his abilities.
Thiers did not fail the painter of the Massacre de Scio, any more than he had failed the creator of Dante. Quite as eulogistic an article as the first, and a surprising one to find in the columns of the classic Constitutionnel, came to the aid of Delacroix in the battle where, as in the times of the Iliad, the gods of art were not above fighting like ordinary mortals. The Government had its hands forced, in some measure, by Gérard, Gros and M. de Forbin. The latter bought the Massacre de Scio in the name of the king for six thousand francs for the Luxembourg Museum.
Thiers didn’t overlook the painter of the Massacre de Scio, just like he hadn’t overlooked the creator of Dante. A similarly praising article, just as surprising to see in the classic Constitutionnel as the first, supported Delacroix in the fight where, reminiscent of the times in the Iliad, the gods of art weren’t above battling like regular people. The Government was somewhat pressured by Gérard, Gros, and M. de Forbin. The latter purchased the Massacre de Scio on behalf of the king for six thousand francs for the Luxembourg Museum.
Géricault died just when Delacroix received his six thousand francs. Six thousand francs! It was a fortune. The fortune was spent in buying sketches at the sale of the famous dead painter's works, and in making a journey to England. England is the land of fine private collections, the immense fortunes of certain gentlemen permitting them—either because it is the fashion or from true love of art—to satisfy their taste for painting.
Géricault died just when Delacroix received his six thousand francs. Six thousand francs! It was a fortune. The money was spent on buying sketches at the auction of the famous deceased painter's works and on traveling to England. England is home to amazing private collections, where the huge wealth of some individuals allows them—either because it’s trendy or out of a genuine love for art—to indulge their passion for painting.
Delacroix bethought himself once more of the Old Museum Napoléon, the museum which the conquest had overthrown in 1818; it abounded in Flemish and Italian art. That old[Pg 478] museum was a wonderful place, with its collection of masterpieces from all over Europe, and in the midst of which the English cooked their raw meat after Waterloo.
Delacroix recalled once again the Old Museum Napoléon, the museum that the conquest had destroyed in 1818; it was filled with Flemish and Italian art. That old[Pg 478] museum was an amazing place, showcasing masterpieces from all over Europe, where the English cooked their raw meat after Waterloo.
It was during this period of prosperity—public talk about art always signifies prosperity; if it does not lead to fortune, it gratifies pride, and gratified pride assuredly brings keener joy than the acquiring of a fortune;—it was during this period of prosperity, we repeat, that Delacroix painted his first Hamlet, his Giaour, his Tasse dans la prison des fous, his Grèce sur les ruines de Missolonghi and Marino Faliero. I bought the first three pictures; they are even now the most beautiful Delacroix painted. The Grèce was bought by a provincial museum. Marino Faliero had a singular fate. Criticism was furious against this picture. Delacroix would have sold it, at the time, for fifteen or eighteen hundred francs; but nobody wanted it. Lawrence saw it, appreciated it, wished to have it and was about to purchase it when he died. The picture remained in Delacroix's studio. In 1836, I was with the Prince Royal when he was going to send Victor Hugo a snuff-box or a diamond ring or something or other, I forget what, in thanks for a volume of poetry addressed by the great poet to Madame la duchesse d'Orléans. He showed me the object in question, and told me of its destination, letting me understand that I was threatened with a similar present.
It was during this time of prosperity—public discussions about art always indicate prosperity; if it doesn't lead to wealth, it satisfies pride, and satisfied pride definitely brings more joy than just gaining wealth—it was during this time of prosperity, we repeat, that Delacroix painted his first Hamlet, his Giaour, his Tasse dans la prison des fous, his Grèce sur les ruines de Missolonghi, and Marino Faliero. I bought the first three paintings; they are still the most beautiful works Delacroix created. The Grèce was purchased by a provincial museum. Marino Faliero had a strange fate. The criticism against this painting was fierce. At that time, Delacroix would have sold it for fifteen or eighteen hundred francs; but nobody wanted it. Lawrence saw it, recognized its value, wanted to buy it, and was about to make the purchase when he died. The painting stayed in Delacroix's studio. In 1836, I was with the Prince Royal when he was planning to send Victor Hugo a snuff-box or a diamond ring or something like that, I forget what it was, as a thank you for a poetry volume addressed by the great poet to Madame la duchesse d'Orléans. He showed me the item in question, told me about where it was going, and hinted that I might be receiving a similar gift.
"Oh! Monseigneur, for pity's sake!" I said to him, "do not send Hugo either a ring or snuff-box."
"Oh! Monseigneur, please!" I said to him, "don't send Hugo a ring or a snuff box."
"Why not?"
"Why not?"
"Because that is what every prince does, and Monseigneur le duc d'Orléans, my own particular Duc d'Orléans, is not like other princes; he is himself a man of intellect, a sincere man and an artist."
"Because that’s what every prince does, and Monseigneur le duc d'Orléans, my own special Duc d'Orléans, is not like other princes; he is an intellectual, a genuine man, and an artist."
"What would you have me send him, then?"
"What do you want me to send him, then?"
"Take down some picture from your gallery, no matter how unimportant a one, provided it has belonged to your Highness. Put underneath it, 'Given by the Prince Royal to Victor Hugo,' and send him that."
"Take down a picture from your gallery, no matter how unimportant it is, as long as it has belonged to your Highness. Write beneath it, 'Given by the Prince Royal to Victor Hugo,' and send it to him."
"Very well, I will. Better still, hunt out for me among your artist friends a picture which will please Hugo; buy it, have it sent to me, I will give it him. Then two people will be pleased instead of one; the painter from whom I buy it, and the poet to whom I give it."
"Alright, I will. Even better, look for a painting among your artist friends that will impress Hugo; buy it and send it to me, and I’ll give it to him. That way, two people will be happy instead of just one—the artist I buy it from and the poet I give it to."
"I will do what you wish, Monseigneur," I said to the prince.
"I'll do what you want, Your Highness," I said to the prince.
I took my hat and ran out. I thought of Delacroix's Marino Faliero. I crossed bridges, I climbed the one hundred and seventeen steps to Delacroix's studio, who then lived on the quai Voltaire, and I fell into his studio utterly breathless.
I grabbed my hat and dashed out. I thought about Delacroix's Marino Faliero. I crossed bridges and climbed the one hundred seventeen steps to Delacroix's studio, where he lived on the quai Voltaire, and I stumbled into his studio, completely out of breath.
"Hullo!" he said to me. "Why the deuce do you come upstairs so fast?"
"Helloo!" he said to me. "Why on earth are you rushing upstairs?"
"I have good news to give you."
"I have great news to share with you."
"Good!" exclaimed Delacroix; "what is it?"
"Great!" Delacroix said. "What is it?"
"I have come to buy your Marino Faliero."
"I've come to buy your Marino Faliero."
"Ah!" he said, sounding more vexed than pleased.
"Ah!" he said, sounding more annoyed than happy.
"What! Are you not delighted!"
"What! Aren't you excited?"
"Do you want to buy it for yourself?"
"Do you want to get it for yourself?"
"If it were for myself, what would the price be?"
"If it were for me, what would the cost be?"
"Whatever you like to give me: two thousand francs, fifteen hundred francs, one thousand francs."
"Whatever you want to give me: two thousand francs, fifteen hundred francs, one thousand francs."
"No, it is not for myself; it is for the Duc d'Orléans. How much for him?"
"No, it's not for me; it's for the Duke of Orléans. How much for him?"
"Four, five, six thousand francs, according to the gallery in which he will place it."
"Four, five, six thousand francs, depending on the gallery where he displays it."
"It is not for himself."
"It’s not for him."
"For whom?"
"Who for?"
"It is for a present."
"It's for a gift."
"To whom?"
"Who to?"
"I am not authorised to tell you; I am only authorised to offer you six thousand francs."
"I can't tell you; I'm only allowed to offer you six thousand francs."
"My Marino Faliero is not for sale."
"My Marino Faliero isn't for sale."
"Why is it not for sale? Just now you would have given it me for a thousand francs."
"Why isn’t it for sale? Just a moment ago, you would have sold it to me for a thousand francs."
"To you, yes."
"Yes, to you."
"To the prince for four thousand!"
"To the prince for four thousand!"
"To the prince, yes; but only to the prince or you."
"To the prince, yes; but only to the prince or you."
"Why this choice?"
"Why this decision?"
"To you, because you are my friend; to the prince, because it is an honour to have a place in the gallery of a royal artist as intelligent as he is; but to any one else save you two, no."
"To you, because you're my friend; to the prince, because it's an honor to be in the gallery of such a smart royal artist; but to anyone else except you two, no."
"Oh! what an extraordinary notion!"
"Oh! What an amazing idea!"
"As you like! It is my own."
"Sure thing! It's mine."
"But, really, you must have a better reason."
"But seriously, you need to have a better reason."
"Very likely."
"Highly likely."
"Would you sell any other picture for which you could get the same price?"
"Would you sell any other picture for the same price?"
"Any other, but not that one."
"Anything else, but not that one."
"And why not this one?"
"And why not this one?"
"Because I have been told so often that it is bad that I have taken an affection for it, as a mother loves her poor, weakly, sickly deformed child. In my studio, poor pariah that it is! it stands for me to look it in the face when people look askance at it; to comfort it when people humiliate it; to defend it when it is attacked. With you, it would have at all events a guardian, if not a father; for, if you were to buy it, it would be because you love it, as you are not a rich man. In the case of the prince, in place of sincere praise there would be that of courtiers: 'The painting is good, because Monseigneur has bought it. Monseigneur is too much of an artist and a connoisseur to make a mistake. Criticism must be at fault, the old witch! Detestable old Sibyl!' But in the hands of a stranger, an indifferent person, whom it cost nothing and who had no reason for taking its part, no, no, no. My poor Marino Faliero, do not be anxious, thou shalt not go!"
"Because I've been told so many times that it's bad for me to have a liking for it, like a mother loves her poor, weak, sickly, deformed child. In my studio, poor outcast that it is! it stands here for me to face when people look at it with disdain; to comfort it when people humiliate it; to defend it when it gets attacked. With you, at least, it would have a protector, if not a father; because if you were to buy it, it would be because you genuinely love it, since you aren't a wealthy man. In the case of the prince, instead of genuine praise, there would be that of courtiers: 'The painting is good because Monseigneur has purchased it. Monseigneur is too much of an artist and a connoisseur to make a mistake. Criticism must be mistaken, that old witch! Detestable old Sibyl!' But in the hands of a stranger, someone indifferent, who didn't spend anything and had no reason to defend it, no, no, no. My poor Marino Faliero, don't worry, you won't leave!"
And it was in vain that I begged and prayed and urged him; Delacroix stuck to his word. Certain that the Duc d'Orléans should not think my action wrong, I went as far as eight thousand francs. Delacroix obstinately refused. The picture is still in his studio. That was just like the man, or, rather, the artist!
And it was pointless for me to beg, plead, and push him; Delacroix stuck to his promise. Hoping that the Duc d'Orléans wouldn't judge my actions negatively, I even offered him eight thousand francs. Delacroix stubbornly refused. The painting is still in his studio. That was just typical of the guy, or rather, the artist!
At the Salon of 1826, which lasted six months, and was three times replenished, Delacroix exhibited a Justinien and Christ au jardin des Oliviers, wonderful for their pain and sadness; they can now be seen in the rue Saint-Antoine and the Church of St. Paul on the right as you enter. I never miss going into the church when I pass that way, to make my oblation as a Christian and an artist should before the picture. All these subjects were wisely chosen; and as they were beautiful and not bizarre they did not raise a stir. People indeed said that Justinien looked like a bird, and the Christ, like.... some thing or other; but they were harking back more to the past than the present. But, suddenly, at the final replenishing, arrived ... what? Guess ... Do you not remember?—No—The Sardanapale. Ah! so it did! This time there was a general hue-and-cry.
At the Salon of 1826, which lasted six months and had three updates, Delacroix showed a Justinien and Christ au jardin des Oliviers, both striking for their emotion and sorrow; you can now see them on rue Saint-Antoine and at the Church of St. Paul on the right as you enter. I always make it a point to go into the church when I'm in that area, to pay my respects as a Christian and an artist should before the painting. All these subjects were thoughtfully chosen; since they were beautiful and not weird, they didn't cause a stir. People did say that Justinien looked like a bird, and that the Christ resembled... something or other; but they were looking back more than forward. Then, suddenly, at the final update, came... what? Can you guess?—No—The Sardanapale. Ah! yes, that's right! This time, there was a huge uproar.
The King of Assyria, his head wrapped round with a turban, clad in royal robes, sitting surrounded with silver vases and golden water-jugs, pearl collars and diamond bracelets, bronze tripods with his favourite, the beautiful Mirrha, upon a pile of faggots, which seemed like slipping down and falling on the public. All round the pile, the wives of the Oriental monarch were killing themselves, whilst the slaves were leading away and killing his horses. The attack was so violent, criticism had so many things to find fault with in that enormous canvas—one of the largest if not the largest in the Salon—that the attack drowned defence: his fanatical admirers tried indeed to rally in square of battle about their chief; but the Academy itself, the Old Guard of Classicism, charged determinedly; the unlucky partizans of Sardanapale were routed, scattered and cut to pieces! They disappeared like a water-spout, vanished like smoke, and, like Augustus, Delacroix called in vain for his legions! Thiers had hidden himself, nobody knew where. The creator of Sardanapale,—it goes without saying that Delacroix was no longer remembered as the painter of Dante, of the Massacre de Scio or of Grèce sur les ruines de Missolonghi, or of Christ au jardin des Oliviers, no, he was the creator of Sardanapale and of no other work whatever!—was for five years[Pg 482] without an order. Finally, in 1831, as we have already said, he exhibited his Tigres, his Liberté and his Assassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and, round these three most remarkable works, those who had survived the last defeat began to rally. The Duc d'Orléans bought the Assassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and the government, the Liberté. The Tigres remained with its creator.
The King of Assyria, with a turban on his head and dressed in royal robes, sat surrounded by silver vases and golden water jugs, pearl necklaces, and diamond bracelets, with bronze tripods holding his favorite, the beautiful Mirrha, atop a pile of firewood that looked precarious and ready to fall on the crowd. All around the pile, the wives of the Eastern monarch were destroying themselves, while the slaves were leading away and slaughtering his horses. The criticism was so intense, with so many things to point out in that massive painting—one of the largest, if not the largest in the Salon—that the attack overshadowed any defense. His fervent supporters tried to regroup around their leader, but the Academy itself, the staunch defenders of Classicism, attacked fiercely; the unfortunate followers of Sardanapale were defeated, scattered, and destroyed! They vanished like a water spout, disappeared like smoke, and, like Augustus, Delacroix called out in vain for his legions! Thiers had disappeared, no one knew where. The creator of Sardanapale—it’s worth noting that Delacroix was no longer remembered as the painter of Dante, Massacre de Scio or Grèce sur les ruines de Missolonghi, or Christ au jardin des Oliviers; no, he was known only as the creator of Sardanapale—went five years[Pg 482] without receiving a commission. Finally, in 1831, as we've mentioned, he exhibited his Tigres, Liberté, and Assassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and around these three exceptional works, those who survived the last defeat began to regroup. The Duc d'Orléans purchased the Assassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and the government bought the Liberté. The Tigres remained with its creator.
CHAPTER XII
Three portraits in one frame
Three portraits in one frame
Now—judging by myself at least—next to the appreciation of the work of great men, that which rouses the most curiosity is their method of working. There are museums where one can study all the phases of human gestation; conservatories where one can almost by the aid of the naked eye alone follow the development of plants and flowers. Tell me, is it not just as curious to watch the varying phenomena of the working of the intellect? Do you not think that it is as interesting to see what is passing in the brain of man, especially if that man be an artist like Vernet, or Delaroche or Delacroix; a scientist like Arago, Humboldt or Berzélius; a poet like Goethe, Hugo or Lamartine, as it is to look through a glass shade and see what is happening inside a bee-hive?
Now—at least judging by myself—besides appreciating the work of great individuals, the thing that sparks the most curiosity is their process of working. There are museums where you can study all the stages of human development; conservatories where you can almost with the naked eye alone observe the growth of plants and flowers. Tell me, isn’t it just as fascinating to watch the different ways the mind works? Don’t you think it's as interesting to see what’s happening in the mind of someone, especially if that person is an artist like Vernet, Delaroche, or Delacroix; a scientist like Arago, Humboldt, or Berzélius; a poet like Goethe, Hugo, or Lamartine, as it is to look through a glass container and see what’s going on inside a beehive?
One day I remarked to one of my misanthropic friends that, amongst animals, the brain of the ant most resembled that of man.
One day I mentioned to one of my misanthropic friends that, among animals, the brain of the ant was most similar to that of a human.
"Your statement is not very complimentary to the ant!" replied the misanthrope.
"Your comment isn't very flattering to the ant!" replied the misanthrope.
I am not entirely of my friend's way of thinking. I believe, on the contrary, that the brain of man is, of all brains, the most interesting to examine. Now, as it is the brain—so far, at least, as our present knowledge permits us to dogmatise—which creates thought, thought which controls action and action which produces deeds, we can boldly say that to study character, to examine the execution of works which are the productions of temperament, is to study the brain. We have described Horace Vernet's physical appearance: small, thin, slight,[Pg 484] pleasant to look at, good to listen to, with his unusual hair, his thick eyebrows, his blue eyes, his long nose, his smiling mouth beneath its long moustache, and his beard cut to a point. He is, we added, all life and movement. Vernet, at the end of his career, will, indeed, be one who has lived a full life, and, when he stops, he will have gone farthest; thanks to the post, to horses, camels, steamboats and the railroad, he has certainly, by now (and he is sixty-five), travelled farther than the Wandering Jew! True, the Wandering Jew goes on foot, his five sous not permitting him rapid ways of locomotion, and his pride declining gratuitous locomotion. Vernet, we say, had already travelled farther than the Wandering Jew had done in a thousand years; his work itself is a sort of journey: we saw him paint the Smala with a scaffold mounting as high as the ceiling and terraces extending the whole length of the room; it was curious to see him, going, coming, climbing up, descending, only stopping at each station for five minutes, as one stops at Osnières for five minutes, at Creil for ten minutes and at Valenciennes for half an hour—and, in the midst of all this, gossiping, smoking, fencing, riding on horseback, on mules, on camels, in tilburys, in droschkys, in palanquins, relating his travels, planning fresh ones, impalpable, becoming apparently almost invisible: he is flame, water, smoke—a Proteus! Then there was another odd thing about Vernet: he would start for Rome as he would set out for Saint-Germain; for China as if for Rome. I have been at his house six or seven times; the first time he was there—the oddness of the thing fascinated me; the second time he was in Cairo; the third, in St. Petersburg; the fourth, in Constantinople; the fifth, in Warsaw; and the sixth, in Algiers. The seventh time—namely, the day before yesterday—I found him at the Institute, where he had come after following the hunt at Fontainebleau, and was giving himself a day's rest by varnishing a little eighteen-inch picture representing an Arab astride an ass with a still bleeding lion-skin for saddle-cloth, which had just been taken from the body of the animal; doing it in as sure and easy a manner as though he were but thirty. The ass is crossing a stream, unconscious[Pg 485] of the terrible burden it bears, and one can almost hear the stream prattling over the pebbles; the man, with his head in the air, looks absently at the blue sky which appears through the leaves; the flowers with their glowing colours twining up the tree-trunks and falling down like trumpets of mother-of-pearl or purple rosettes. This Arab, Vernet had actually come across, sitting calm and indifferent upon his ass, fresh from killing and skinning the lion. This is how it had happened. The Arab was working in a little field near a wood;—a wood is always a bad neighbour in Algeria;—a slave woman was sitting twenty paces from him, with his child. Suddenly, the woman uttered a cry ... A lion was by her side. The Arab flew for his gun, but the woman shouted out to him—
I don’t fully agree with my friend’s perspective. On the contrary, I think that the human brain is, of all brains, the most fascinating to study. After all, it's the brain—which, at least based on our current understanding, we can assert— that generates thought, and thought governs action, which results in our deeds. Therefore, we can confidently state that studying character and analyzing the execution of works that stem from temperament is essentially studying the brain. We’ve already described Horace Vernet's appearance: he is small, thin, and slight, pleasant to look at and to listen to, with his unique hair, thick eyebrows, blue eyes, long nose, and a smiling mouth beneath his long mustache, along with a pointed beard. He is, as we’ve noted, full of life and energy. By the end of his career, Vernet will truly be someone who has lived life to the fullest; at sixty-five, he has undoubtedly traveled farther than the Wandering Jew—thanks to posts, horses, camels, steamboats, and railways! True, the Wandering Jew travels on foot, his five sous limiting his options and his pride shunning free rides. We say Vernet has already explored more than the Wandering Jew would in a thousand years; his work itself is a type of journey: we watched him paint the Smala with a scaffold reaching the ceiling and terraces spanning the room; it was fascinating to see him moving around—climbing up, going down, stopping only briefly, like a traveler stopping at Osnières for five minutes or Creil for ten, and at Valenciennes for half an hour—in the midst of all this, chatting, smoking, fencing, riding on horses, mules, camels, in tilburys, in droschkys, in palanquins, sharing stories of his travels, planning new ones, almost becoming intangible: he is like flame, water, smoke—a Proteus! Another strange thing about Vernet was that he would set off for Rome as casually as he would for Saint-Germain; for China as if it were just another trip to Rome. I’ve been to his house six or seven times; during my first visit he was there—the peculiarity of the situation intrigued me; the second time he was in Cairo; the third time in St. Petersburg; the fourth in Constantinople; the fifth in Warsaw; and the sixth in Algiers. The seventh time—just the day before yesterday—I found him at the Institute, where he had come after a hunt in Fontainebleau and was taking a day off by varnishing a small eighteen-inch painting of an Arab riding an ass, with a still-warm lion skin as a saddlecloth, freshly taken from the animal; he worked at it as confidently and easily as if he were only thirty years old. The ass was crossing a stream, blissfully unaware of the heavy load it carried, and you could almost hear the water babbling over the stones; the man, looking up, gazed absently at the blue sky peeking through the leaves, while the flowers with their vibrant colors twined up the tree trunks and fell like trumpets of mother-of-pearl or purple rosettes. Vernet had actually encountered this Arab, who was sitting calmly on his ass, freshly having killed and skinned the lion. Here’s how it happened: the Arab was working in a small field near a wood—a wood is always a troublesome neighbor in Algeria—a slave woman was sitting twenty paces away with his child. Suddenly, the woman screamed... A lion was right beside her. The Arab rushed for his gun, but the woman shouted to him—
"Let me alone!"
"Leave me alone!"
I am mistaken, it was not a slave woman, but the mother who called out thus. He let her alone. She took her child, put it between her knees and, turning to the lion, she said to it, shaking her fist at the animal—
I was wrong; it wasn't a slave woman, but the mother who shouted like that. He left her alone. She grabbed her child, placed it between her knees, and turning to the lion, she said to it, shaking her fist at the animal—
"Ah, you coward! to attack a defenceless woman and child! You think to terrify me; but I know you. Go and attack my husband instead, who is down there with a gun ... Go, I tell you! You dare not; you wretch! It is you who are afraid! Go, you jackal! Off with you, you wolf, you hyæna! You have a lion's skin on your back but you are no lion!"
"Ah, you coward! Attacking a defenseless woman and child! You think you can scare me, but I know you. Go and face my husband instead, who's down there with a gun ... Go, I say! You won't dare; you scoundrel! It’s you who are scared! Get out of here, you jackal! Leave, you wolf, you hyena! You wear a lion's skin, but you're no lion!"
The lion withdrew, but, unfortunately, it met the Arab's mother, who was bringing him his dinner. It leapt on the old woman and began to eat her. At the cries of his mother the Arab ran up with his gun, and, whilst the lion was quietly cracking the bones and flesh with its teeth, he put the muzzle of his gun into the animal's ear and killed it outright. In conclusion, the Arab did not seem to be any the sadder for being an orphan, or in better spirits for having killed a lion. Vernet told me this whilst putting the finishing touches to his picture, which ought to be completed by now.
The lion backed off, but sadly, it came across the Arab's mother, who was bringing him his dinner. It pounced on the old woman and started to eat her. At the sound of his mother's screams, the Arab ran over with his gun, and while the lion was leisurely cracking the bones and flesh with its teeth, he shoved the muzzle of his gun into the animal's ear and shot it dead. In the end, the Arab didn’t seem any sadder about being an orphan, nor did he look any happier for having killed the lion. Vernet told me this while adding the finishing touches to his painting, which should be done by now.
Delaroche worked in a very different way; he led no such adventurous life; he had not too much time for his work.[Pg 486] With Delaroche, work is a constant study and not a game. He was not a born painter, like Vernet; he did not play with brushes and pencils as a child; he learnt to draw and to paint, whilst Vernet never learnt anything of the kind. Delaroche is a man of fifty-six, with smooth hair, once black and now turning grey, a broad bare forehead, dark eyes fuller of intelligence than of vivacity, and no beard or whiskers. He is of middle height, well-set up, even to gracefulness; his movements are slow, his speech is cold; words and actions, one clearly feels, are subjected to reflection, and, instead of being spontaneous, like Vernet's, only come, so to speak, as the result of thought. Just as Vernet's life is turbulent, emotional and, like a leaf, carried unresistingly by the wind that blows, so the life of Delaroche, of his own free will, was tranquil and sedentary. Every time Delaroche went a journey,—and he went very few, I believe,—it was necessity which compelled him to leave his studio: it was some real, serious, artistic business which called him away. Wherever he goes, he stays, plants himself down and takes root, and it costs him as much pain to go back as it did to come. No one could less resemble Vernet in his method of working than Delaroche. Vernet knows all his sitters through and through, from the aigrette on the schako to the gaiter-buttons. He has so often lived under a tent, that its cords and piquets are familiar objects to him; he has seen and ridden and drawn so many horses, that he knows every kind of harness, from the rough sheep-skin of the Baskir to the embroidered and jewel-bespangled saddle-cloths of the pacha. He has, therefore, hardly any need of preparatory studies, no matter what his subject may be. He scarcely sketches them out beforehand: Constantine cost him an hour's work; the Smala, a day. Furthermore, what he does not know, he guesses. It is quite the reverse with Delaroche. He hunts a long time, hesitates a great deal, composes slowly; Vernet only studies one thing, the locality; this is why, having painted nearly all the battlefields of Europe and of Africa, he is always riding over hill and dale, and travelling by rail and by boat.
Delaroche worked in a very different way; he didn't lead an adventurous life and didn’t have much time for his art.[Pg 486] For Delaroche, work is a constant study, not a game. He wasn’t a natural-born painter like Vernet; he didn't play with brushes and pencils as a child; he learned how to draw and paint, while Vernet never learned anything like that. Delaroche is fifty-six years old, with smooth hair that was once black and is now turning gray, a broad forehead, dark eyes that show more intelligence than liveliness, and no beard or whiskers. He is of average height, well-built, even graceful; his movements are slow, and his speech is reserved; you can tell that his words and actions are carefully considered, unlike Vernet’s, which are spontaneous and natural. Just as Vernet's life is chaotic and emotional, like a leaf being blown around by the wind, Delaroche's life is calm and settled by choice. Every time Delaroche traveled—and he did so very rarely, I believe—it was out of necessity that pulled him away from his studio: it was some serious artistic matter that required his attention. When he goes somewhere, he stays, roots himself, and it costs him just as much effort to return as it did to go. No one could be less like Vernet in their working style than Delaroche. Vernet knows all his subjects inside and out, from the aigrette on their hats to their gaiter buttons. He has spent so much time under a tent that the ropes and pegs are familiar to him; he has seen, ridden, and drawn so many horses that he knows every kind of harness, from the rough sheepskin of the Baskir to the embroidered, jewel-decorated saddlecloths of the pasha. Because of this, he hardly needs any preparatory studies, no matter the subject. He barely sketches things out in advance: Constantine took him just an hour to create; the Smala, a day. Moreover, what he doesn’t know, he guesses. The situation is completely different for Delaroche. He takes a long time to search, hesitates a lot, and composes slowly; Vernet only studies the location; that’s why, having painted almost all the battlefields in Europe and Africa, he is always riding over hills and valleys, traveling by train and boat.
Delaroche, on the contrary, studies everything: draperies, clothing, flesh, atmosphere, light, half-tones, all the effects of Delaroche are laboured, calculated, prepared; Vernet's are done on the spur of the moment. When Delaroche is pondering on a picture, everything is laid under contribution by him: the library for engravings, museums for pictures, old clothes' shops for draperies; he tires himself out with making rough sketches, exhausts himself in first attempts, and often puts his finest talent into a sketch. A certain feeling of laboriousness in the picture is the result of this preparatory fatigue, which, however, is a virtue and not a fault in the eyes of industrious people.
Delaroche, on the other hand, studies everything: fabrics, clothing, skin tones, atmosphere, light, and gradients; all of Delaroche's effects are carefully crafted, calculated, and prepared, while Vernet's are more spontaneous. When Delaroche contemplates a painting, he draws from all sources: libraries for engravings, museums for images, second-hand shops for fabrics; he exhausts himself creating rough sketches, drains his energy in initial attempts, and often pours his finest talent into a sketch. This sense of effort in the artwork is a product of this preparatory strain, which, in the eyes of diligent individuals, is seen as a virtue rather than a flaw.
Like all men of transition periods Delaroche was bound to have great successes, and he has had them. During the exhibitions of 1826, 1831 and 1834, everyone, before venturing to go to the Salon, asked, "Has M. Delaroche exhibited?" But from the period, the intermediate year, in which he united the classical school of painting with the romantic, the past with the future, David with Delacroix, people were unjust to him, as they are towards all who live in a state of transition. Besides, Delaroche does not exhibit any longer; he scarcely even works now. He has done one composition of foremost excellence, his hemicycle of the Palais des Beaux-Arts, and that composition, which, in 1831, was run after by the whole of Paris and annoyed most artists. Why? Has Delaroche's talent become feebler since the time when people stood in rows before his pictures and fought in front of his paintings? No, on the contrary, he has improved; he has become more elevated and masterly. But, what would you expect! I have compared Paul Delaroche with Casimir Delavigne, and the same thing happened to the poet as to the painter; only, with this difference, that the genius of the poet had decreased, whilst that of the painter not only did not remain stationary, but went on progressing constantly. At the present time, one needs to be among the most intimate of the friends of Delaroche to have the right to enter his studio. Besides, he is not even any longer in Paris: he is at Nice; he is said to be[Pg 488] ill. Hot sun, beautiful starlit nights, an atmosphere sparkling with fireflies, will cure the soul, and then the body will soon be cured!...
Like all men in transitional periods, Delaroche was bound to achieve great successes, and he certainly has. During the exhibitions of 1826, 1831, and 1834, everyone would first ask, "Has M. Delaroche exhibited?" before heading to the Salon. However, from that interim period when he blended the classical school of painting with the romantic, merging the past with the future and David with Delacroix, people were unfair to him, just as they often are to those living in a state of transition. Furthermore, Delaroche doesn’t exhibit anymore; he hardly even works now. He created one outstanding piece, his hemicycle at the Palais des Beaux-Arts, which, in 1831, everyone in Paris was clamoring for, annoying many artists. Why is that? Has Delaroche's talent weakened since the days when crowds lined up to see his paintings? No, on the contrary, he has improved; he has become more refined and masterful. But, what can you expect? I've compared Paul Delaroche to Casimir Delavigne, and the same fate befell the poet as the painter; though, unlike the poet whose genius decreased, the painter's talent not only didn’t stagnate but continued to progress constantly. Currently, you need to be one of Delaroche's closest friends to gain access to his studio. Additionally, he is no longer in Paris; he is in Nice and is said to be[Pg 488] ill. The hot sun, beautiful starry nights, and an atmosphere filled with fireflies will heal the soul, and soon, the body will follow!...
There is no sort of physical resemblance between Delacroix and his two rivals. He is like Vernet in figure, almost as slender as he, very neat and fashionable and dandified. He is fifty-five years old, his hair, whiskers and moustache, are as dark as when he was thirty; his hair waves naturally, his beard is scanty, and his moustache, a little bristly, looks like two wisps of tobacco; his forehead is broad and prominent, with two thick eyebrows below, over small eyes, which flash like fire between the long black eyelashes; his skin is brown, swarthy, mobile and wrinkled like that of a lion; his lips are thick and sensual, and he smiles often, showing teeth as white as pearls. All his movements are quick, rapid, emphatic; his words are pictures, his gestures speaking; his mind is subtle, argumentative, quick at repartee; he loves a discussion, and is ever ready with some fresh, sparkling, telling and brilliant hit; although of an adventurous, fanciful, erratic talent, at the same time he is wise, temperate in his use of paradox, even classical; one might say that Nature, which tends to equilibrium, has posed him as a clever coachman, reins well in hand, to restrain those two fiery steeds called imagination and fancy. His mind at times overflows its bounds; speech becomes inadequate, his hand drops the brush, incapable of expressing the theory it wishes to uphold, and seizes the pen. Then those whose business it is to make phrases and style and appreciate the value of words are amazed at the artist's facility in constructing sentences, in handling style, in bringing out his points; they forget the Dante, the Massacre de Scio, the Hamlet, the Tasso, the Giaour, the Evêque de Liège, the Femmes d'Alger, the frescoes of the Chamber of Deputies, the ceiling of the Louvre; they regret that this man, who writes so well and so easily and so correctly, is not an author. Then, immediately, one remembers that many can write like Delacroix, but none can paint as he does, and one is ready to snatch the pen from his hand in a movement of terror.
There’s no physical similarity between Delacroix and his two rivals. He shares a figure with Vernet, being almost as slender as him, quite neat, fashionable, and a bit dandyish. At fifty-five years old, his hair, whiskers, and mustache remain as dark as they were at thirty. His hair has a natural wave, his beard is sparse, and his mustache, somewhat bristly, resembles two wisps of tobacco. He has a broad, prominent forehead, with thick eyebrows over small eyes that shine like fire between long black eyelashes. His skin is brown, swarthy, flexible, and wrinkled like a lion’s; his lips are thick and sensual, and he smiles frequently, revealing teeth that are as white as pearls. All his movements are quick, lively, and emphatic; his words paint images, and his gestures speak. His mind is keen, argumentative, quick with comebacks; he enjoys a good debate and is always ready with fresh, sparkling, striking, and brilliant remarks. Despite his adventurous, whimsical, and unpredictable talent, he is wise, moderate in his use of paradox, and remarkably classical; one could say that Nature, seeking balance, has placed him as a skilled coachman, reins firmly in hand, to rein in those two fiery steeds known as imagination and fancy. Sometimes, his mind overflows; his speech falls short, his hand drops the brush, unable to express the theory he wants to defend, and instead, he grabs a pen. Then, those who specialize in crafting phrases, style, and understanding the power of words are astonished by the artist’s ability to construct sentences, manage style, and articulate his ideas. They forget about the Dante, the Massacre de Scio, the Hamlet, the Tasso, the Giaour, the Evêque de Liège, the Femmes d'Alger, the frescoes in the Chamber of Deputies, the ceiling of the Louvre; they lament that this man who writes so well, so easily, and so correctly isn’t an author. Then, right away, it strikes them that many can write like Delacroix, but no one can paint like he does, and they feel a sudden urge to snatch the pen from his hand in a moment of panic.
Delacroix holds the middle course between Vernet and Delaroche as regards rapidity of working: he works up his sketches more carefully than the former, less so than the latter. He is incontestably superior to both as a colourist, but strikingly inferior in form. He sees the colour of flesh as violet, and, in the matter of form, he sees rather the ugly than the beautiful; but his ugliness is always made poetical by deep feeling. Entirely different from Delaroche, he is attracted by extremes. His struggles are terrible, his battles furious; all the suppleness and strength and extraordinary movements of the body are drawn on his canvas, and he even adds thereto, like a strange varnish which heightens the vivid qualities of his picture, a certain automatic impossibility which does not in the least disconcert him. His fighters seem actually to be fighting, strangling, biting, tearing, hacking, cleaving one another in two and pounding one another about; his swords are broken in two, his axes bloody, his heaps of bodies damp with crushed brains. Look at the Bataille de Taillebourg, and you will have an idea of the strength of his genius: you can hear the neighing of the horses, the shouts of men, the clashing of steel. You will find it in the great gallery of Versailles; and, although Louis-Philippe curtailed the canvas by six inches all round because the measurement had been incorrectly given, mutilated as it is, dishonoured by being forced into M. Fontaines' Procrustes' bed, it still remains one of the most beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful, of all the pictures in the whole gallery.
Delacroix strikes a balance between Vernet and Delaroche regarding the speed of his work: he develops his sketches more thoughtfully than the former but less so than the latter. He is undeniably a better colorist than both, yet noticeably less skilled in form. He perceives the color of skin as violet and tends to focus on the ugly rather than the beautiful; however, his ugliness is always infused with deep emotion, making it poetic. Completely unlike Delaroche, he is drawn to extremes. His struggles are intense, his battles fierce; all the flexibility, strength, and extraordinary movements of the body are depicted on his canvas, enhanced by a peculiar quality that seems to heighten the vividness of his work, which he embraces without hesitation. His fighters appear to actively engage in combat, choking, biting, tearing, and hacking at each other; his swords are shattered, his axes stained with blood, and the piles of bodies are soaked with crushed brains. Look at the Bataille de Taillebourg, and you will grasp the power of his genius: you can almost hear the horses neighing, the men shouting, and the clash of steel. You can find it in the grand gallery of Versailles; and although Louis-Philippe shortened the canvas by six inches all around due to incorrect measurements, even in its mutilated state, forced into M. Fontaines' Procrustes' bed, it remains one of the most stunning, perhaps the most stunning, of all the artworks in the entire gallery.
At this moment, Delacroix is doing a ceiling at the Hôtel de Ville. He leaves his home at daybreak and only returns to it at night. Delacroix belongs to that rugged family of workers which has produced Raphael and Rubens. When he gets home, he takes a pen and makes sketches. Formerly, Delacroix used to go out into society a great deal, where he was a great favourite; a disease of the larynx has compelled him to retire into private life. Yesterday I went to see him at midnight. He was in a dressing-gown, his neck wrapped in a woollen cravat, at work close to a big fire, which made the[Pg 490] temperature of the room 30°.[1] I asked to see his studio by lamplight. We passed through a corridor crowded with dahlias, agapanthus lilies and chrysanthemums; then we entered the studio. The absence of the master, who had been working at the other end of Paris for six months, had made itself felt; yet there were four splendid canvases, two representing flowers and two fruit. I thought from a distance that these were pictures borrowed by Delacroix from Diaz. That was why there were so many flowers in the anteroom. Then, after the flowers, which to me were quite fresh, I saw a crowd of old friends hanging on the walls: Chevaux anglais qui se mordent dans une prairie, a Grèce qui traverse un champ de bataille au galop, the famous Marino Faliero, faithful companion of the painter's sad moods, when he has such moods; and, last, by itself, in a little room at the side of the great studio, a scene from Goetz von Berlichingen. We parted at two o'clock in the morning.
At this moment, Delacroix is working on a ceiling at the Hôtel de Ville. He leaves his home at dawn and only comes back at night. Delacroix comes from that tough lineage of artists that produced Raphael and Rubens. When he gets home, he picks up a pen and sketches. He used to socialize a lot and was quite popular, but a throat illness has forced him to retreat into a quieter life. Yesterday, I visited him at midnight. He was in a bathrobe, his neck wrapped in a wool scarf, working near a large fire that made the room feel like 30°.[Pg 490][1] I asked to see his studio by lamplight. We walked through a hallway filled with dahlias, agapanthus lilies, and chrysanthemums, and then we entered the studio. You could feel the absence of the master, who had been working on the other side of Paris for six months; still, there were four stunning canvases, two depicting flowers and two showing fruit. From a distance, I thought these paintings were borrowed from Diaz, which is why there were so many flowers in the hallway. After the fresh flowers, I spotted a bunch of old friends hanging on the walls: Chevaux anglais qui se mordent dans une prairie, a Grèce qui traverse un champ de bataille au galop, the famous Marino Faliero, which mirrors the painter’s melancholic moods when they strike him; and finally, by itself, in a small room beside the large studio, a scene from Goetz von Berlichingen. We said goodbye at two o'clock in the morning.
CHAPTER XIII
Collaboration—A whim of Bocage—Anicet Bourgeois—Teresa—Drama at the Opéra-Comique—Laferrière and the eruption of Vesuvius—Mélingue—Fancy-dress ball at the Tuileries—The place de Grève and the barrière Saint-Jacques—The death penalty
Collaboration—A fancy of Bocage—Anicet Bourgeois—Teresa—Drama at the Opéra-Comique—Laferrière and the eruption of Vesuvius—Mélingue—Costume party at the Tuileries—The place de Grève and the barrière Saint-Jacques—The death penalty
During the interval which had elapsed between the construction of Richard Darlington its first performance, I had blocked out another play entitled Teresa. I have said what I thought of Charles VII.; I hope that my collaborator Anicet will allow me to say the same in the case of Teresa. I have no wish to defer expressing my opinion upon this drama: it is one of my very worst, as Angèle, also done in collaboration with Anicet, is one of my best. The evil of a first collaboration is that it leads to a second; the man who has once collaborated is comparable to one who lets his finger-end be entrapped in a rolling press: after the finger the hand goes, then the arm and, finally, his whole body! Everything is drawn in—one goes in a man and one comes out a bit of iron wire.
During the time that passed between the creation of Richard Darlington and its first performance, I had outlined another play called Teresa. I've shared my thoughts on Charles VII.; I hope my collaborator Anicet will let me do the same for Teresa. I have no desire to hold back my opinion on this drama: it is one of my worst, while Angèle, also created in collaboration with Anicet, is one of my best. The downside of a first collaboration is that it leads to a second; someone who has collaborated once is like someone letting their fingertip get caught in a rolling press: after the finger, the hand follows, then the arm, and eventually, the whole body! Everything gets pulled in—one starts as a person and ends up as a bit of iron wire.
One day Bocage came to see me with a singular idea in his head. As he had just played a man of thirty, in the character of Antony, he had got it into his head that he would do well to play an old man of sixty; it mattered little to him what manner of man it might be. The old man in Hernani and in Marion Delorme rose up before him during his sleep and haunted him in his waking hours: he wanted to play an old man, were it Don Diègue in the Cid, Joad in Athalie or Lusignan in Zaïre. He had found his old man out at nurse with Anicet Bourgeois; he came to fetch me to be foster-father. I did not know Anicet; we became acquainted on this matter and at this time. Anicet had written the plan of Teresa. I[Pg 492] began by laying aside the written sketch and begging him to relate me the play. There is something more living and lifelike about a told story. To me a written plot is like a corpse, not a living thing; one may galvanise it but not give it life. Most of the play as it stands to-day was in Anicet's original plan. I was at once conscious of two things, the second of which caused me to overlook the first: namely, that I could never make Teresa anything more than a mediocre play, but that I should do Bocage a good turn. And this is how I did Bocage that service.
One day, Bocage came to see me with a unique idea in his head. Since he had just played a thirty-year-old man in the role of Antony, he thought it would be great to play an old man of sixty; he didn’t really care what kind of old man it would be. The old man from Hernani and Marion Delorme kept appearing to him in dreams and haunting him while he was awake: he wanted to portray an old man, whether it was Don Diègue in Cid, Joad in Athalie, or Lusignan in Zaïre. He had discovered his old man being cared for by Anicet Bourgeois; he came to get me to be the foster-father. I didn’t know Anicet; we got to know each other during this project. Anicet had written the outline for Teresa. I[Pg 492] started by putting aside the written sketch and asked him to tell me about the play. There’s something more vibrant and relatable about a story told. To me, a written plot feels like a corpse, not a living thing; you can try to animate it, but you can’t give it life. Most of the play as it exists today was in Anicet's original outline. I immediately realized two things, the second of which made me overlook the first: that I could never turn Teresa into anything more than a mediocre play, but that I would be doing Bocage a favor. And that’s how I helped Bocage.
Harel, as we have said, had gone from the management of the Odéon to that of the Porte-Saint-Martin. He had Frédérick, Lockroy, Ligier: Bocage was no use to him. So he had broken with him, and, in consequence of this rupture, Bocage found himself without an engagement. Liberty, in the case of an actor, is not always a gift of the gods. Bocage was anxious to put an end to this as soon as possible, and, thanks to my drama, he hoped soon to lose his liberty. That is why he treated Teresa so enthusiastically as a chef d'œuvre. I have ever been less able to resist unspoken arguments than spoken ones. I understood the situation. I had had need of Bocage; he had played Antony admirably, and by so doing had rendered me eminent service: I could now do him a good turn, and I therefore undertook to write Teresa. Not that Teresa was entirely without merit as a work. Besides the three artificial characters of Teresa, Arthur and Paolo, there were two excellent parts, those of Amélie and Delaunay. Amélie is a flower from the same garden as Miranda in The Tempest, Thekla in Wallenstein and Claire in Comte d'Egmont; she is young, chaste and beautiful, and, at the same time, natural and poetic; she passes through the play with her bouquet of orange blossom at her side, her betrothal veil on her head, in the midst of the ignoble incestuous passion of Arthur and Teresa, without guessing or suspecting or understanding anything of it. She is like a crystal statue which cannot see through others but lets others see through it. Delaunay is a fine type, a little too much copied from Danville in the École de Vieillards, and from Duresnel in the Mère et la[Pg 493] Fille. However—one must be just to everyone, even to oneself,—there are two scenes in his part which reach to the greatest heights of beauty to be met with on the stage: the first is where he insults Arthur, when the secret of the adultery is revealed to him; the second is where, learning that his daughter is enciente, and not desiring to make the mother a widow and the child an orphan, he makes excuses to his son-in-law. The drama was begun and almost finished in three weeks or a month; but I made the same condition with Anicet which I have always made when working in collaboration, namely, that I alone should write the play. When the drama was completed, Bocage took it, and we did not trouble our heads further about it. For three weeks or a month I did not see Bocage again. At the end of that time he came to me.
Harel, as we mentioned, had moved from managing the Odéon to the Porte-Saint-Martin. He had Frédérick, Lockroy, and Ligier; Bocage was of no use to him. So he cut ties with him, and as a result of this split, Bocage found himself without a job. For an actor, being free isn’t always a blessing. Bocage was eager to change that as quickly as possible, and with my play, he hoped to regain his freedom soon. That’s why he praised Teresa so enthusiastically as a masterpiece. I have always found it harder to resist unspoken pressures than verbal ones. I understood the situation. I had needed Bocage; he had played Antony brilliantly and had done me a great service: now I could return the favor, so I decided to write Teresa. Not that Teresa was completely without merit as a piece of work. Besides the three somewhat shallow characters of Teresa, Arthur, and Paolo, there were two strong roles, those of Amélie and Delaunay. Amélie is a character akin to Miranda in The Tempest, Thekla in Wallenstein, and Claire in Comte d'Egmont; she is young, pure, and beautiful, while also being natural and poetic; she moves through the play with her bouquet of orange blossoms by her side, her engagement veil on her head, amidst the disgusting incestuous love of Arthur and Teresa, without a clue or suspicion of what’s happening. She is like a crystal statue that can’t see through others but lets others see through her. Delaunay is a strong character, slightly too much inspired by Danville in the École de Vieillards and Duresnel in the Mère et la Fille. However—one must be fair to everyone, even to oneself—there are two scenes in his role that reach the highest levels of beauty found on stage: the first is when he insults Arthur after the secret of the affair is revealed to him; the second is when he discovers that his daughter is pregnant, and not wanting to make the mother a widow and the child an orphan, he tries to apologize to his son-in-law. The play was started and almost completed in three weeks to a month; but I made the same demand with Anicet that I always do when collaborating, which is that I should be the sole writer of the play. When the drama was finished, Bocage took it, and we didn’t concern ourselves with it any further. For three weeks to a month, I didn’t see Bocage again. After that time, he came to me.
"Our business is settled," he said.
"Our business is settled," he said.
"Good! And how?"
"Awesome! And how?"
"Your play is received in advance; you are to have a premium of a thousand francs upon its reading, and it is to be played immediately."
"Your play has been accepted; you’ll receive a bonus of a thousand francs for its reading, and it will be performed right away."
"Where?"
"Where at?"
"At the Opéra-Comique."
"At the Opéra-Comique."
I thought I must have misunderstood. "What?" I said.
I figured I must have misunderstood. "What?" I said.
"At the Opéra-Comique," repeated Bocage.
"At the Opéra-Comique," Bocage repeated.
"Oh! that's a fine tale! Who made that up?"
"Oh! That's a great story! Who came up with that?"
"They are engaging the actors."
"They are hiring the actors."
"Who are they?"
"Who's that?"
"Myself, in the first place."
"Me, first and foremost."
"You do not play the drama all alone?"
"You aren't doing the whole play by yourself, are you?"
"Then there is Laferrière."
"Then there's Laferrière."
"You two will not play it by yourselves?"
"You two aren't going to play it by yourselves?"
"Then a talented young girl who is at Montmartre."
"Then a skilled young girl who is in Montmartre."
"What is her name?"
"What's her name?"
"Oh! you will not even know her name; she is called Ida; she is just beginning."
"Oh! You won't even know her name; it's Ida; she's just starting out."
"And then?"
"And then what?"
"Then a young man recommended to me by your son."
"Then a young man recommended by your son."
"What! By my son? At six and a half years of age my son make recommendations of that sort?"
"What! My son? At six and a half years old, he's making suggestions like that?"
"It is his tutor."
"That's his tutor."
"I see; he wants to get rid of him. But if that one leaves he will have another. Such is the simplicity of childhood! And what is the name of my son's tutor?"
"I see; he wants to get rid of him. But if that one leaves, he will just find another. That's the simplicity of childhood! And what is the name of my son's tutor?"
"Guyon. He is a tall fellow of five foot six, with dark hair and eyes, and a magnificent head! He will make us a superb Paolo."
"Guyon. He is a tall guy, five foot six, with dark hair and eyes, and an impressive head! He's going to make a great Paolo."
"So much for Paolo? Next?"
"That's it for Paolo? What's next?"
"Next we shall have the Opéra-Comique company, from which we can help ourselves freely. They sing."
"Next, we will have the Opéra-Comique company, from which we can help ourselves freely. They sing."
"They sing, you are pleased to say; but can they speak?"
"They sing, and you’re happy to say that; but can they talk?"
"That is your affair."
"That's your business."
"So, is it settled like that?"
"So, is it agreed like that?"
"If you approve. Are you agreeable?"
"If you're okay with it. Do you agree?"
"Perfectly."
"Perfect."
"Then we are to read it to the actors to-morrow."
"Then we will read it to the actors tomorrow."
"Let us do so."
"Let's do that."
Next day I read it to the actors; two days later the play was put in rehearsal. I knew Laferrière only slightly; but he had already at that period, when less used to the stage, the elements of talent to which he owed his reputation later as the first actor in love-scenes to be found between the Porte-Saint-Denis and the Colonne de Juillet. Mademoiselle Ida had a delicate, graceful, artless style, quite unaffected by any theatrical convention. Bocage was the man we know, endowed with youth, that excellent and precious fault, which is never injurious even in playing the parts of old men. So we were in the full tide of rehearsal, when the year 1832 began and the newspapers of I January announced a fearful eruption of Vesuvius.
The next day, I read it to the actors; two days later, the play went into rehearsal. I only knew Laferrière a little, but even then, when he was less familiar with the stage, he had the talent that would later earn him a reputation as the best actor in love scenes between the Porte-Saint-Denis and the Colonne de Juillet. Mademoiselle Ida had a delicate, graceful, and natural style, completely untouched by any theatrical conventions. Bocage was the same guy we know now, blessed with youth, that excellent and rare quality, which is never a drawback, even when playing older characters. So, we were deep into rehearsals when 1832 began, and the newspapers on January 1st reported a terrifying eruption of Vesuvius.
I was considerably surprised to receive a visit from Laferrière with a newspaper in his hand, on the 7th or 8th. He was as much out of breath as I was the day I went to Delacroix to buy his Marino Faliero.
I was really surprised to get a visit from Laferrière with a newspaper in his hand, on the 7th or 8th. He was just as out of breath as I was the day I went to Delacroix to buy his Marino Faliero.
"Hullo!" I said to him, "is the Opéra-Comique burnt down?"
"Hello!" I said to him, "has the Opéra-Comique burned down?"
"No, but Torre-del-Grèco is burning."
"No, but Torre del Greco is on fire."
"It ought to be used to it by now, for, if I mistake not, it has been rebuilt eleven times!"
"It should be used to it by now, because, if I’m not mistaken, it has been rebuilt eleven times!"
"It must be a magnificent sight!"
"It must be an amazing sight!"
"Do you happen to want to start for Naples?"
"Do you want to head to Naples?"
"No; but you might derive profit from it."
"No, but you could benefit from it."
"How?"
"How?"
"Read."
"Read it."
He handed me his newspaper, which contained a description of the latest eruption of Vesuvius.
He handed me his newspaper, which had an article about the latest eruption of Vesuvius.
"Well?" I said to him when I had read it.
"Well?" I said to him after I had read it.
"Well, do you not think that superb?"
"Well, don't you think that's amazing?"
"Magnificent!"
"Awesome!"
"Put that in my part then. Run your show with Vesuvius; the play would gain by it."
"Put that in my section then. Do your thing with Vesuvius; the performance would benefit from it."
"And your rôle likewise."
"And your role too."
"Of course!"
"Absolutely!"
"You infernal mountebank; what an idea!"
"You obnoxious trickster; what a thought!"
Laferrière began to laugh.
Laferrière started to laugh.
There are two men who possess a great advantage for authors in two very different functions, with two very different types of talent: Laferrière is the one, and Mélingue the other. From the very hour when they have first listened to the reading of a work, to the moment when the curtain goes up, they have but one thought: to collect, weld together and work in anything that might be useful to the work. Their searching eyes are not distracted for one instant; not for a second do their minds wander from the point. They think of their parts while they are walking, eating and drinking; they dream of them while they sleep. I shall return to Mélingue more than once in reference to this quality, one of the most precious a great actor can possess.
There are two men who have a huge advantage for authors in two very different roles, with two very different kinds of talent: Laferrière and Mélingue. From the moment they first hear a work being read to when the curtain rises, they focus on one thing: gathering, connecting, and working with anything that could be useful for the piece. Their keen eyes stay focused without a moment of distraction; their minds never stray from the task at hand. They think about their roles while walking, eating, and drinking; they even dream about them while sleeping. I will refer back to Mélingue more than once regarding this quality, which is one of the most valuable traits a great actor can have.
Laferrière has plenty of pertinacity.
Laferrière has plenty of grit.
"Well," I said to him, "it is a good idea and I will adopt it."
"Well," I told him, "that's a great idea and I'm going to go with it."
"Will you really?"
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"You promise me?"
"Do you promise me?"
"I promise you."
"I've got you."
"Very well then.."
"Alright then..."
"What?"
"What?"
"It is all the same to you..
It’s all the same to you.
"Say on."
"Go ahead."
"You will do it ..."
"You got this ..."
"Immediately?"
"Right now?"
"Yes."
Yes.
"Now, at once?"
"Right now?"
"I beseech you."
"I beg you."
"I have not time."
"I don't have time."
"Oh! mon petit Dumas! Do me my Vesuvius. I promise you, if you will do it to-day I will know it by to-morrow."
"Oh! my little Dumas! Make me my Vesuvius. I promise you, if you do it today, I'll know by tomorrow."
"Once more I tell you I haven't time."
"Again, I’m telling you I don’t have time."
"How long would it take you to do it?"
"How long will it take you to do it?"
"How long?"
"How much longer?"
"Ten minutes ... come, that is all.... I entreat you!"
"Just give me ten minutes ... please, that's all I ask.... I beg you!"
"Go to the deuce with you!"
"Go to hell!"
"Mon petit Dumas!..."
"My little Dumas!..."
"All right, we will see."
"Okay, we'll see."
"You are kind!"
"You’re kind!"
"Give me a pen, ink and paper."
"Give me a pen, some ink, and paper."
"Here they are!... No, do not get up: I will bring the table up to you ... Come, is it comfortable like that?"
"Here they are!... No, don’t get up: I’ll bring the table over to you... Come on, is it comfortable like that?"
"Splendid! Now, go away and come back in a quarter of an hour."
"Awesome! Now, get lost and come back in 15 minutes."
"Oh! what will you be up to when I am gone?"
"Oh! what will you do when I'm gone?"
"I cannot work when anybody is with me. Even my dog disturbs me."
"I can't work when anyone is around. Even my dog distracts me."
"I will not stir, mon petit Dumas! I will not utter one word; I will keep perfectly still."
"I won’t move, my little Dumas! I won’t say a single word; I’ll stay completely still."
"Then go and sit before the glass, button up your coat, put on a gloomy look and pass your hand through your hair."
"Then go and sit in front of the mirror, button up your coat, put on a sad expression, and run your hand through your hair."
"Certainly."
"Of course."
"And I will do my part of the work."
"And I will do my share of the work."
A quarter of an hour later, Vesuvius was making an eruption in Laferrière's part, and he took himself off in great glee and pride.
A quarter of an hour later, Vesuvius was erupting in Laferrière's area, and he left with great happiness and pride.
All things considered, the race of players are a good sort! A trifle ungrateful, at times; but has not our friend Roqueplan proclaimed the principle that "ingratitude is the independence of the heart?..."
All things considered, the group of players are a decent bunch! A bit ungrateful at times; but hasn't our friend Roqueplan stated the principle that "ingratitude is the independence of the heart?..."
At this time, people were tremendously taken up with a forthcoming event, as they were with everything of an artistic nature. King Louis-Philippe was giving a fancy-dress ball. Duponchel had been ordered to design the historic costumes; and people begged, prayed and implored for invitations. It was a splendid ball. All the political celebrities were present; but, as always happens, all the artistic and literary celebrities were absent.
At this time, people were really caught up in an upcoming event, just like they were with anything related to the arts. King Louis-Philippe was throwing a fancy-dress ball. Duponchel was asked to design the historical costumes, and people begged, pleaded, and urged for invitations. It was an extravagant ball. All the political big shots were there; but, as always happens, all the artistic and literary stars were missing.
"Will you do something which shall surpass the Tuileries ball?" said Bocage to me.
"Are you going to do something that will top the Tuileries ball?" Bocage asked me.
"What is that?"
"What's that?"
"Give one yourself!"
"Give one to yourself!"
"I! Who would come to it?"
"I! Who would come to it?"
"First of all, those who did not go to King Louis-Philippe's, then those who do not belong to the Academy. It seems to me that the guests I offer you are quite distinguished enough."
"First of all, those who didn’t go to King Louis-Philippe’s, then those who aren’t part of the Academy. It seems to me that the guests I’m suggesting are quite distinguished enough."
"Thanks, Bocage, I will think about it."
"Thanks, Bocage, I'll think about it."
I thought about it to some purpose, and the result of my reflections will be seen in one of our forthcoming chapters.
I thought about it seriously, and you'll see the outcome of my reflections in one of our upcoming chapters.
On the 23rd of the month of January,—the next day but one after the anniversary of the death of King Louis XVI.,—the usual place for executions was changed from the place de Grève to the barrière Saint-Jacques. This was one step in advance in civilisation: let us put it down here, by quoting the edict of M. de Bondy.
On January 23rd—the day after the second anniversary of King Louis XVI's death—the usual execution site moved from the place de Grève to the barrière Saint-Jacques. This was a step forward in civilization: let's note it here by quoting the edict of M. de Bondy.
"We, a peer of France, Préfet de la Seine, etc.; In view of the letter addressed to us by M. le Procureur-général at the Royal Court of Paris:
"We, a peer of France, Prefect of the Seine, etc.; Considering the letter sent to us by Mr. Attorney General at the Royal Court of Paris:"
"Whereas the place de Grève can no longer be used as a place of execution, since the blood of devoted citizens was gloriously spilled there in the national cause: whereas it is important to choose, if possible, a place farther removed from the centre of Paris, yet which shall be easily accessible: whereas, for different reasons, the place situated at the extremity of the rue du faubourg Saint-Jacques seems to suit the requisite conditions; we have decided that—
"Since the place de Grève can no longer be used as a site for executions, because the blood of devoted citizens was bravely spilled there for the national cause: since it's essential to choose, if possible, a location further away from the center of Paris, yet still easily accessible: since, for various reasons, the area at the end of the rue du faubourg Saint-Jacques seems to fulfill the necessary conditions; we have decided that—
"Criminals under capital punishment shall in future be executed on the ground at the end of the faubourg Saint-Jacques.
COMTE DE BONDY""Criminals sentenced to death will henceforth be executed on the grounds at the edge of the Saint-Jacques neighborhood.
COMTE DE BONDY"
This is what we wrote on the subject on 26 November 1849, in an epilogue to Comte Hermann,—one of our best dramas,—an epilogue not written to be spoken, but to be read, after the fashion of German plays—
This is what we wrote on the subject on November 26, 1849, in an epilogue to Comte Hermann,—one of our best dramas,—an epilogue not meant to be performed, but to be read, like in German plays—
"The death penalty, as applied to-day, has already undergone a great modification, not with respect to its final issue, but with regard to the details which precede the last moments of the condemned.
"The death penalty, as it's implemented today, has already changed significantly, not in terms of the final result, but in the details leading up to the last moments of the person being executed."
"Twenty years ago, executions still took place in the centre of Paris, at the most stirring hour of the day and before the greatest possible number of spectators. Thus an external means of support was provided for the doomed man against his own weakness. It did not make the sufferer into a repentant criminal, but a species of cynical victor, who, instead of confessing God upon the scaffold, bore testimony against the inadequacy of human justice, which could, indeed, kill the criminal, but was powerless to extinguish the crime.
"Twenty years ago, executions still took place in the center of Paris, at the most dramatic times of day, and in front of as many spectators as possible. This provided an external source of support for the condemned person against his own weaknesses. It didn’t turn the suffering individual into a remorseful criminal but rather made him a sort of cynical victor, who, instead of confessing his faith in God on the scaffold, spoke out against the failures of human justice, which could certainly execute him but was powerless to erase his crime."
"Now, it is quite otherwise. A step has been taken towards the abolition of capital punishment, by transporting the instrument of execution almost outside the precincts of the town, choosing the hour when the majority of the inhabitants of Paris are still asleep, only allowing the criminal during his last moments the rare witnesses that chance or excessive curiosity may attract to the scaffold.
"Now, it's entirely different. There's been a shift towards eliminating capital punishment by moving the execution site far from the city, choosing a time when most people in Paris are still asleep, and allowing only a few witnesses, brought by chance or intense curiosity, to be present during the condemned's final moments."
"Nowadays, it is left to the priests who devote themselves to the salvation of the souls of the doomed to tell us if they find as much hardness of heart in the journey between Bicêtre and the barrière Saint-Jacques as they used to find in the journey from the Conciergerie to the place de Grève; and[Pg 499] whether there are more tears shed at the foot of the crucifix now, at four o'clock in the morning, than formerly, at four in the afternoon. We firmly believe so. Yes, there are more repentances in the silence and solitude than there ever were in the tumult of the crowd. Now, let us consider that the act of execution, supported by the eager looks of the people, does not correct them or instruct them but only hardens their hearts; let us suppose that the execution takes place in the prison, with priest and executioner as sole witnesses; that, instead of the guillotine,—which, according to Dr. Guillotin, only occasions a feeling of a slight chill on the neck, but which, according to Dr. Sue, causes terrible suffering,—the sole means of execution used is electricity, which kills like lightning, or even one of those stupefying poisons which act like sleep; will it not happen that the hearts of the doomed will soften still more in the night and silence and solitude, than in the open air, were it even at four o'clock in the morning, and in the presence of the few witnesses who are present at the execution, but who, few though they be, will none the less say to the criminal's companions, to his prison friends, 'un tel est bien mort!' that is to say I such a one died without repenting, pushing the crucifix away from him?"
"These days, it's the priests, dedicated to saving the souls of the condemned, who inform us if they observe as much hardness of heart on the journey from Bicêtre to the barrière Saint-Jacques as they used to witness on the trip from the Conciergerie to the place de Grève; and[Pg 499] if there are more tears shed at the foot of the crucifix now, at four in the morning, than there were before at four in the afternoon. We strongly believe so. Yes, there are more moments of repentance in silence and solitude than there ever were amidst the chaos of the crowd. Now, let’s consider that the act of execution, supported by the eager gazes of onlookers, doesn’t correct or teach them but only hardens their hearts; let’s imagine that the execution occurs in prison, with only the priest and executioner as witnesses; that, instead of the guillotine—which, according to Dr. Guillotin, only gives a feeling of a slight chill on the neck, but which, according to Dr. Sue, causes terrible suffering—the only method of execution used is electricity, which kills instantly, or even one of those numbing poisons that induce a state of sleep; won’t it be true that the hearts of the condemned will soften even more in the night and silence and solitude than in the open air, even if it’s at four in the morning, in the presence of a few witnesses at the execution, who, despite being few, will still inform the condemned’s friends and prison companions, 'so-and-so is dead!' meaning that person died without repenting, pushing the crucifix away from him?"
Since that time, the guillotine has come still nearer to the condemned man: now, they execute in front of the gates of the prison de la Roquette. It is but a few steps from that to executing inside the prison itself. And to descend from the prison courtyard into the dungeon itself is but a single step!
Since then, the guillotine has gotten even closer to the condemned man: now, they carry out executions right in front of the gates of the prison de la Roquette. It's only a short walk from there to doing them inside the prison itself. And going from the prison courtyard down into the dungeon is just one step!
CHAPTER XIV
The peregrinations of Casimir Delavigne—Jeanne Vaubernier—Rougemont—His translation of Cambronne's mot—First representation of Teresa—Long and short pieces—Cordelier Delanoue and his Mathieu Luc—Closing of the Taitbout Hall and arrest of the leaders of the Saint-Simonian cult
The experiences of Casimir Delavigne—Jeanne Vaubernier—Rougemont—His translation of Cambronne's mot—First performance of Teresa—Short and long works—Cordelier Delanoue and his Mathieu Luc—Closing of the Taitbout Hall and the arrest of the leaders of the Saint-Simonian movement.
Whilst the Opéra-Comique was rehearsing Teresa, the Théâtre-Français was preparing for a great occasion. Casimir Delavigne, the dramatic Coriolanus, after having been rejected by the Volscians of the boulevards, with Marino Faliero in his hand, instead of falling beneath the dagger of M. de Mongenet, had been received back triumphantly into the Théâtre-Français. The flight, after all, had been but a passing coolness after the immense success of the École des Vieillards. Casimir had had a sort of decline; Mademoiselle Mars had not been able to uphold the Princesse Aurélié, a kind of Neapolitan imbroglio which everybody has forgotten to-day, happily for the memory of its author. Then the presence of Victor Hugo and myself at the Théâtre-Français annoyed Casimir Delavigne. He well understood that his popularity was only a political one: he possessed neither the lofty poetry of Victor, nor the movement and life of my ignorant and incorrect prose; in a word, he was ill at ease when close to us. He gave vent to a phrase concerning me which well summed up his thought—
While the Opéra-Comique was rehearsing Teresa, the Théâtre-Français was gearing up for a big event. Casimir Delavigne, the dramatic Coriolanus, after being snubbed by the Volscians of the boulevards, with Marino Faliero in hand, instead of falling victim to the dagger of M. de Mongenet, was welcomed back triumphantly into the Théâtre-Français. The departure had really just been a brief setback after the massive success of the École des Vieillards. Casimir had experienced a sort of decline; Mademoiselle Mars had failed to support the Princesse Aurélié, a kind of Neapolitan mix-up that everyone has forgotten now, thankfully for the memory of its author. The presence of Victor Hugo and myself at the Théâtre-Français irritated Casimir Delavigne. He understood well that his popularity was purely political: he lacked the high poetry of Victor, nor the movement and liveliness of my unrefined and incorrect prose; in short, he was uncomfortable around us. He expressed a sentiment about me that perfectly captured his feelings—
"The work that deuced Dumas does is bad; but it prevents people from seeing the goodness of mine."
"The work that damn Dumas does is bad; but it keeps people from seeing the goodness of mine."
So he had migrated to the Porte-Saint-Martin, because we were at the Théâtre-Français, and now he returned to the Théâtre-Français because we were at the Porte-Saint-Martin.[Pg 501] He returned to it with one of his mixed works, half classical and half romantic, which do not belong to any sort of school; literary hermaphrodites, which bear the same relation to intellectual productions as, in Natural History, do mules, i.e. animals which cannot reproduce themselves, to the ordinary productions of nature: they make a species, but not a race.
So he moved to the Porte-Saint-Martin because we were at the Théâtre-Français, and now he went back to the Théâtre-Français because we were at the Porte-Saint-Martin.[Pg 501] He returned with one of his mixed creations, half classical and half romantic, which don't fit any specific school; literary hybrids that are to intellectual works what mules are to regular animals in Natural History: they create a type, but not a breed.
The work that Casimir Delavigne brought back to the Théâtre-Français was Louis XI.,—according to our opinion, one of his most mediocre dramas, the least studied as history, and one which, engineered by a clever artifice which we will shortly relate, through the frail sickly period of its youth to its maturity, only owes its patent of longevity to the rather egotistic favour accorded by a player who was crazy to play this rôle because it was an unusual type which suited him. Do not be deceived, it is not Louis XI. that lives to-day, but Ligier.[1] We will refer again to Casimir Delavigne's drama on the occasion of its first performance.
The play that Casimir Delavigne returned to the Théâtre-Français was Louis XI.—in our opinion, one of his most average dramas, the least examined as history, and one that, due to a clever trick that we will explain shortly, only owes its survival from its weak, fragile beginnings to its maturity, thanks to the rather self-serving favor of an actor who was eager to play this role because it was an unusual character that fit him well. Don’t be fooled; it’s not Louis XI. that endures today, but Ligier.[1] We will bring up Casimir Delavigne's play again when it first performs.
The first performance of Teresa was announced for the 5th or 6th of February. Meanwhile the Odéon gave Jeanne Vaubernier. It was thus that certain authors conceived the idea of reviving the name of the Comtesse du Barry, that poor woman who was neither worthy of her high prosperity nor her deep misfortune, and who, according to Lamartine's fine expression, dishonoured both the throne and the scaffold. MM. de Rougemont, Laffitte and Lagrange were the authors of Jeanne Vaubernier. Rougemont was a clever man who, towards the close of his life, had a strange fate. The Duchesse de la Vaubalière brought him a septuagenarian reputation. It was Rougemont who translated the military substantive flung by Cambronne in the face of the English, on the terrible night of Waterloo, into the pompous, redundant and pretentious phrase which has become of European and world-wide fame: "The Guard dies, and does not return!" As far as I can remember, the drama of Jeanne Vaubernier—such as it was, with six tableaux, its Zamore, the ungrateful traitor, its prison and its executioner—was[Pg 502] a very poor concern. I have not seen it, and will not therefore discuss it any further. But, from the ghost of this drama, from the fallen statue, from the least broken fragments which could be made to do duty, the authors composed a little comedy in which Madame Dorval's wit was charmingly light. Dear Dorval! I can see her as she was that successful night, a night which, thanks to her, was saved from being a failure: she was enchanted, never suspecting that the comedy of Jeanne Vaubernier would be a chain she would have to wear for eighteen months at the Porte-Saint-Martin, from six to eight o'clock in the evening, before the benches which did not fill up until the beginning of the great drama! To Georges—especially after her reconciliation with Dorval—it was to be a matter of keen remorse, this punishment which she inflicted on her rival in expiation of her triumphs, and which compelled her to leave the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre to go and bury herself in the Théâtre-Français.
The first performance of Teresa was set for the 5th or 6th of February. In the meantime, the Odéon staged Jeanne Vaubernier. This led some writers to revive the name of the Comtesse du Barry, the unfortunate woman who was neither deserving of her great fortune nor her severe misfortune, and who, in Lamartine's elegant wording, brought shame to both the throne and the guillotine. MM. de Rougemont, Laffitte, and Lagrange were the creators of Jeanne Vaubernier. Rougemont was a clever man who faced a peculiar fate towards the end of his life. The Duchesse de la Vaubalière gave him a reputation in his seventies. It was Rougemont who turned the military expletive shouted by Cambronne at the English during the dreadful night of Waterloo into the grandiose, excessive, and pretentious phrase that has gained fame across Europe and the world: "The Guard dies, but does not surrender!" As far as I remember, the drama of Jeanne Vaubernier—as it was, with six scenes, its Zamore, the ungrateful traitor, its prison, and its executioner—was[Pg 502] quite unremarkable. I haven’t seen it, so I won't comment on it any further. But from the remnants of this play, the dilapidated statue, and the tiniest fragments that could be pieced together, the authors created a little comedy where Madame Dorval's wit was delightfully light. Dear Dorval! I can picture her on that successful night, a night that, thanks to her, avoided being a flop: she was thrilled, never realizing that the comedy of Jeanne Vaubernier would become a burden she’d have to bear for eighteen months at the Porte-Saint-Martin, from six to eight in the evening, before the seats finally filled up for the grand drama! For Georges—especially after her reconciliation with Dorval—it was a source of deep regret, this punishment she imposed on her rival as a way of atoning for her success, which forced her to leave the Porte-Saint-Martin theater to retreat to the Théâtre-Français.
The day of the first performance of Teresa arrived. The confusion of styles, the beginning of drama at the Opéra-Comique, had piqued the curiosity of the public, and people clamoured to get in. I have already said that the thing was not worth the trouble. Laferrière had given me a good idea with his story of Vesuvius; the exhibition was highly applauded. I recollect that when I entered the wings, after the first act, that excellent fellow Nourrit, who had just been praising the description of the town wherein he was to die, threw himself upon my neck in his enthusiasm. The piece unfolded itself slowly, and with a certain majestic dignity, before a select audience. The character of Amélie, which was very well carried out, made a great hit, and did not fail in any of its appearances. Madame Moreau-Sainti was ravishingly beautiful, and as sympathetic as a bad part allowed. Laferrière came and went, warming up the parts taken by others by his own enthusiastic warmth. Bocage was superb. A misfortune happened to the actor recommended by my son. Unfamiliarity with stage-craft had obliged Guyon to give up the part of Paolo to go more deeply into dramatic studies. Féréol had[Pg 503] taken his place; they had added some barcarolle or other for him to sing whilst he was acting, and he played the rest of his rôle singing. Alexandre found himself with two tutors instead of one!
The day of the first performance of Teresa arrived. The mix of styles and the start of drama at the Opéra-Comique had sparked the public's curiosity, and people were eager to get in. I've already mentioned that the show wasn't worth the hype. Laferrière had inspired me with his story about Vesuvius; the exhibition received a lot of applause. I remember that when I went backstage after the first act, the wonderful Nourrit, who had just been praising the description of the town where he was destined to die, threw his arms around me in excitement. The piece gradually unfolded with a certain majestic dignity in front of a discerning audience. The character of Amélie, which was performed exceptionally well, made a huge impression and delivered every time she appeared. Madame Moreau-Sainti was breathtakingly beautiful and as sympathetic as the poor role allowed. Laferrière moved around, energizing the performances with his own passionate enthusiasm. Bocage was outstanding. Unfortunately, the actor recommended by my son had to step down; his lack of experience with acting forced Guyon to give up the part of Paolo to focus more on dramatic studies. Féréol had[Pg 503] taken his place; they had added some barcarolle or other for him to sing while he acted, and he performed the rest of his role by singing. Alexandre found himself with two mentors instead of one!
The curtain went up for the fourth act. From that moment the piece was saved; in it are the letter scene between the father and the daughter, and that of the quarrel between the father-in-law and son-in-law. These two scenes are very fine, and produced a great sensation. This fourth act had an amazing triumph. Usually, if the fourth act is a success, it carries the fifth one with it. The first half of the fifth act of Teresa is, moreover, remarkable in itself; it is the scene of the excuses between the old man and the young one. It does not become really bad till Teresa asks Paolo for poison. All this intriguing between the adulterous woman and the amorous lackey is vulgar, and has not the merit of being really terrible. But the impression of the fourth act and of the first half of the fifth was so vivid that it extended its influence over the imperfections of the dėnoûment. In short, it was a success great enough to satisfy amour-propre, but not to satisfy the claims of art. Bocage was really grand at times. I here pay him my very sincere compliments for what he then performed. He had improved as a comedian, and was then, I think, at the height of his dramatic career. I think so, now I have somewhat outgrown my youthful illusions; I will therefore tell him, in all frankness, at what moment, according to my opinion, he took the wrong road and adopted the fatal system of nervous excitement under the dominion of which he now is.
The curtain rose for the fourth act. From that moment, the play was saved; it featured the letter scene between the father and daughter, as well as the argument between the father-in-law and son-in-law. Both scenes were excellent and created a strong impact. This fourth act had an incredible triumph. Typically, if the fourth act succeeds, it lifts the fifth along with it. The first half of the fifth act of Teresa is noteworthy on its own; it includes the scene where the old man and the young one make excuses to each other. It only starts to go downhill when Teresa asks Paolo for poison. All the scheming between the cheating woman and the lovesick servant feels cheap, lacking the genuine terror that could elevate it. However, the impression made by the fourth act and the first half of the fifth was so strong that it overshadowed the flaws of the dėnoûment. In short, it was a success great enough to satisfy the ego but not enough to meet the artistic standards. Bocage was truly impressive at times. I give him my sincere compliments for his performance then. He had improved as an actor and was, I believe, at the peak of his dramatic career. I feel that way now that I have somewhat moved past my youthful illusions; I will therefore tell him straightforwardly when I think he took a wrong turn and embraced the detrimental style of nervous excitement that he is now stuck in.
When the first rage for Teresa had passed they made me a proposal to change the play into one of three acts, so that it might become a stock piece. I refused to do it; I did not wish to make a mutilated play out of a defective one. Anicet, who had a half-share in the work, urged me so pressingly that I suggested he should perform the operation himself. He set to work bravely, pruned, cut, curtailed, and one day I was invited by some player or other, whose name I forget, who was coming out in the rôle of Arthur, to go and see the piece[Pg 504] reduced to three acts. I went, and I found it to be more detestable and, strange to say, longer than at first! Lengthiness does not exist on the stage, practically speaking. There are neither long plays nor short; only amusing plays and wearisome ones. The Marriage de Figaro, which lasts five hours, is not so long as the Épreuve nouvelle, which lasts one hour. The developments of Teresa taken away, the play had lost its artistic interest, and, having become more boresome, seemed longer.
Once the initial craze for Teresa faded, they proposed that I turn the play into a three-act version so it could be a staple production. I declined; I didn't want to create a chopped-up version of an already flawed play. Anicet, who co-owned the project, insisted so much that I suggested he take on the task himself. He bravely went to work, trimming, cutting, and shortening it, and one day I received an invitation from some actor whose name I can't recall, who was going to perform as Arthur, to come see the play[Pg 504] reduced to three acts. I attended, and to my surprise, it was even worse and, oddly enough, longer than before! Essentially, length doesn't matter in theater. There are no long or short plays; there are only those that entertain and those that bore. The Marriage de Figaro, which runs for five hours, doesn't feel as long as the Épreuve nouvelle, which is just an hour. With the developments of Teresa removed, the play lost its artistic appeal and, as a result, felt more tedious and dragged on longer.
One day Cordelier Delanoue came to me looking depressed.
One day, Cordelier Delanoue came to me looking really down.
"What is the matter?" I asked him.
"What's up?" I asked him.
"I have just been reading to the Théâtre-Français."
"I just finished reading at the Théâtre-Français."
"What!"
"What's going on!"
"A three-act drama in verse."
"A three-act verse play."
"Entitled?"
"Do you feel entitled?"
"Mathieu Luc."
"Mathieu Luc."
"And they have refused it?"
"Have they turned it down?"
"No, they have accepted it, subject to correction."
"No, they have accepted it, pending correction."
"Did they point out what corrections they wanted?"
"Did they indicate what changes they wanted?"
"Yes; the piece is too long."
"Yeah, the piece is too long."
"And they demand curtailment?"
"And they want to cut back?"
"Exactly! and I have come to read it to you."
"Exactly! And I've come to read it to you."
"So that I may point them out to you?"
"So, should I highlight them for you?"
"Yes."
"Yep."
"Read it, then!"
"Go ahead and read it!"
Delanoue began to read his three acts. I followed the play with the greatest attention. I found, whilst he was in the act of reading, a pivot of interest on which the play could advantageously turn, and which he had passed over unnoticed.
Delanoue started to read his three acts. I followed the play with intense focus. I noticed, while he was reading, a key point of interest that the play could effectively revolve around, which he had overlooked.
"Well?" said he when he had finished.
"Well?" he said when he was done.
"They were right: it is too long by a third."
"They were right: it’s a third too long."
"Then it must be cut down."
"Then it has to be cut down."
"No, on the contrary."
"No, quite the opposite."
"What do you mean by that?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"You must turn the play into five acts."
"You need to make the play five acts long."
"But when they already think it too long by a third?"
"But what if they already think it's a third too long?"
"That is neither here nor there.—Listen."
"That's irrelevant. Just listen."
And I told him how I understood the play. Delanoue reconstructed[Pg 505] his scenario under my direction, wrote out his play afresh, read it in five acts to the committee, which had thought it too long in three, and it was received with unanimity. The piece was played in five acts—not at the Théâtre-Français, but, consequent on some revival or other, at the Théâtre de Odéon, and it succeeded honourably without obtaining a great success.
And I told him how I understood the play. Delanoue reconstructed[Pg 505] his scenario under my guidance, rewrote his play from scratch, presented it in five acts to the committee, which had found it too long in three, and it was approved unanimously. The piece was performed in five acts—not at the Théâtre-Français, but due to some revival or another, at the Théâtre de Odéon, and it was well-received without achieving major success.
Some days before the performance of Teresa an event had happened which engrossed the attention of Paris. We will take the recital of it from the Globe, which was in a perfect position for telling the truth in this instance—
Some days before the performance of Teresa, an event occurred that captured the attention of Paris. We'll share the details from the Globe, which was in the best position to report the truth in this case—
"To-day, 22 January, at noon, MM. Enfantin and Olinde Rodrigues, leaders of the Saint-Simonian religion, laid their plans to go to the Taitbout Hall, where they were to preside over the preaching, when a Commissary of Police, escorted by a Municipal Guard, put in an appearance at No. 6 Rue Monsigny, where they lived, to forbid them to go out, and prevented all communication between the house and the outside world, in virtue of the orders which they declared they possessed.
"Today, January 22, at noon, Enfantin and Olinde Rodrigues, leaders of the Saint-Simonian religion, planned to go to Taitbout Hall, where they were supposed to lead a sermon. However, a police commissioner, along with a municipal guard, came to their residence at 6 Rue Monsigny to stop them from leaving and cut off all communication with the outside world, claiming they had orders to do so."
"Meantime M. Desmortiers, procureur du roi, and M. Zangiacomi, Examining Magistrate, assisted by two Commissaries of Police and escorted by Municipal Guards and troops of the line, went to the Taitbout Hall. M. Desmortiers signified to M. Barrault, who was in the hall, that the preaching could not take place, and that he had come to enjoin the meeting to break up. The procureur du roi immediately appeared in the hall with M. Barrault and there said: 'In the name of the Law and of Article 292 of the Penal Code I have come to close this hall and to seal up all the doors.' The assembly was immediately broken up, and seals were put to the doors of the Taitbout Hall. M. Zangiacomi and M. Desmortiers then repaired to No. 5 (6) Rue Monsigny, where they found MM. Enfantin and Rodrigues; they declared that they were the bearers of two search-warrants, one against M. Enfantin and the other against M. Rodrigues, and that they had come to search the house. They seized M. Enfantin's correspondence, all the account-books and the bills-due books."
"Meanwhile, M. Desmortiers, the public prosecutor, and M. Zangiacomi, the examining magistrate, along with two police officers and supported by municipal guards and soldiers, went to Taitbout Hall. M. Desmortiers informed M. Barrault, who was inside the hall, that the sermon could not continue and that he was there to order the meeting to disperse. The public prosecutor then entered the hall with M. Barrault and announced: 'In the name of the Law and Article 292 of the Penal Code, I have come to close this hall and seal all the doors.' The assembly was immediately disbanded, and seals were placed on the doors of Taitbout Hall. M. Zangiacomi and M. Desmortiers then went to No. 5 (6) Rue Monsigny, where they found MM. Enfantin and Rodrigues; they announced that they were executing two search warrants, one for M. Enfantin and the other for M. Rodrigues, and that they had come to search the premises. They seized M. Enfantin's correspondence, all the account books, and the bills due books."
Free to-day from the prosecution of MM. Zangiacomi and Desmortiers, the Saint-Simonians are not at all rid of us, and we shall hunt them out again in their retreat at Ménilmontant.
Free today from the prosecution of Messrs. Zangiacomi and Desmortiers, the Saint-Simonians are not at all free from us, and we will track them down again in their hideout at Ménilmontant.
[1] See critical analysis of Louis XI. in Études dramatiques.
[1] Check out the critical analysis of Louis XI. in Études dramatiques.
CHAPTER XV
Mély-Janin's Louis XI.
Mély-Janin's *Louis XI.*
Three days after Térésa the Louis XI. of Casimir Delavigne was played. I have spoken of Mély-Janin's drama entitled Louis XI., which had deeply impressed Soulié and me in 1827. It had, no doubt, also impressed Casimir Delavigne, who was most sensitive to such impressions. Casimir seemed to have been created and brought into this world to prove that the system of innate ideas is the falsest of philosophical systems. We are about to devote a few lines to the study of the Louis XI. of 1827 and that of 1832, Mély-Janin's drama and that of Casimir Delavigne. We do not wish to say that these two men were of the same substance; but, having Walter Scott ostensibly as ally, the journalist found himself, one fine night, a match for the dramatic author. We say ostensibly, because Casimir Delavigne did not himself totally scorn alliance with the Scottish bard; only, as Walter Scott was still unpopular in France with many people, because of his History of Napoléon, Casimir, in his capacity of National poet (it was upon that nationality the fragile pyramid of his talent was specially founded), did not want openly to confess that alliance.
Three days after Térésa, the Louis XI. by Casimir Delavigne was performed. I've mentioned Mély-Janin's play titled Louis XI., which had made a strong impression on Soulié and me back in 1827. It surely impressed Casimir Delavigne as well, who was very receptive to such influences. It seemed like Casimir was brought into this world to prove that the theory of innate ideas is the most flawed of philosophical concepts. We're about to take a closer look at the Louis XI. from 1827 and the one from 1832, both Mély-Janin's play and Casimir Delavigne's. We don't want to suggest that these two men were identical, but with Walter Scott apparently as an ally, the journalist found himself competing with the playwright one night. We say apparently because Casimir Delavigne didn’t completely dismiss the connection with the Scottish writer; however, since Walter Scott was still not well-liked in France by many, due to his History of Napoléon, Casimir, as a National poet (his fragile talent was particularly built on that nationality), did not want to openly acknowledge this alliance.
Let us begin with Mély-Janin. At the rising of the curtain one sees a landscape, representing the château of Plessis-les-Tours, a hostelry and a smiling countryside, after the fashion of the time. Wherever anything is not copied from Walter Scott we find, as in that smiling countryside, a specimen of the style of the Empire. Isabelle, the rich heiress of Croy, is on the stage with her maid of honour, her attendant, her confidential[Pg 507] friend; a theatrical device invented to enable one of the principal characters to confide in another a secret which the teller has known for ten years, and with which the general public now becomes acquainted. In ancient tragedy, when this functionary is a man, he is called Euphorbus (?), Arcas or Corasmin; when a woman, she is called Julia, Œnone or Fatima, and bears the innocent title of confidant. Well, Isabelle confides to the woman who accompanies her in her flight that she has come from the court of Burgundy to the court of France because Duke Charles, fearing to see her dispose of her immense wealth, wished to force her to marry either the Comte de Crèvecœur or the Comte de la Marck, nicknamed the Boar of the Ardennes. She informs her (this same Éléonore, who has not left her side for one moment) that she has found protection, safe although not particularly entertaining, in King Louis XI. The sole anxiety she feels is to know if he, whom she has not had time to forewarn of her flight, will have the perseverance to follow her, and the skill to find her again. This is a point upon which Éléonore, well informed as she is, cannot instruct her; but, as Éléonore has learnt nearly all she knows and the public all it needs to know, one sees advancing from the distance two men dressed like decent citizens, who come forward in their turn and gossip quite naturally of their affairs in the very place in all France least suitable for the conversation to be held. Isabelle turns round, sees them and says—
Let’s start with Mély-Janin. As the curtain rises, we see a landscape depicting the château of Plessis-les-Tours, a tavern, and a smiling countryside, typical of the era. Wherever things aren’t taken from Walter Scott, we find, like in that smiling countryside, an example of the Empire style. Isabelle, the wealthy heiress of Croy, is on stage with her maid of honor, her companion, and her trusted[Pg 507] friend; a theatrical device created to allow one of the main characters to share a secret that the teller has known for ten years, which the audience is now learning. In ancient tragedy, when this role is held by a man, he goes by Euphorbus (?), Arcas, or Corasmin; when it’s a woman, she’s called Julia, Œnone, or Fatima, and carries the innocent title of confidant. Isabelle confides in the woman who accompanies her on her escape that she has traveled from the court of Burgundy to the court of France because Duke Charles, afraid of her managing her vast wealth, wanted to force her to marry either Comte de Crèvecœur or Comte de la Marck, nicknamed the Boar of the Ardennes. She informs her (this same Éléonore, who has stayed by her side the whole time) that she has found refuge, secure but not particularly exciting, in King Louis XI. Her only worry is whether he, whom she hasn’t had the chance to warn about her escape, will have the determination to follow her and the ability to find her again. This is something Éléonore, despite being well-informed, cannot tell her; but since Éléonore has learned almost everything she knows and the audience has all they need to know, two men dressed like respectable citizens appear in the distance, coming forward and casually discussing their affairs in the most inappropriate place in all of France for such a conversation. Isabelle turns around, sees them and says—
"I see the king coming this way; he is accompanied by his crony Martigny. The simplicity of his costume shows that he wishes to keep his incognito. Here he is; let us withdraw."
"I see the king approaching; he’s with his buddy Martigny. The plainness of his outfit suggests he wants to remain incognito. Here he comes; let’s step back."
And Isabelle de Croy and her confidant withdraw to the garden side, having seen Louis XI. and his confidant, whom they must see in order that the public may know that Louis XI. and his confidant are about to take part in the scene, whilst Louis XI. and his confidant, who do not need to see Isabelle and her confidant, and who indeed ought not to see them, do not see them.
And Isabelle de Croy and her close friend step away to the garden side, having noticed Louis XI and his associate, whom they need to spot so the public understands that Louis XI and his associate are about to join the scene. Meanwhile, Louis XI and his associate, who don't need to see Isabelle and her friend—and actually shouldn’t—ignore them.
You may tell me this is not a very accurate reproduction of[Pg 508] the habits of Louis XI., who, after the nature of cats, foxes and wolves, can see in the night on all sides of him and behind, too, and is represented as not able to see things that are in front of him; but I can only reply that this was how the thing was done on the French stage in the year of grace 1827, even amongst poets who had the reputation of being innovators. It will be seen that things had not changed much in 1832. The hatred which was entertained against us can easily be imagined, since we had undertaken to change customs as convenient as these. It was enough to add in parentheses, and in another style of typography, when speaking of those who come on—as Mély-Janin does, for instance, when speaking of the king and his crony Martigny—(They come on from the back of the stage, and cannot perceive the comtesse and Éléonore hidden by the trees.) The matter was no more difficult than that! Do not forget, if I do, to remind me of the story of the monologue of Tasso. Louis XI. is also with his confidant, only his confidant is called le compère Martigny. They come forward, chatting and disputing; but do not be anxious, they have kept the most important part of their conversation, that which it is urgent the public should know, until their entrance upon the stage; so, after a few unimportant words, exchanged between Louis XI. and his crony, the king says to Martigny—
You might say this isn’t a very accurate depiction of [Pg 508] the habits of Louis XI, who, like cats, foxes, and wolves, can see in the dark from all angles, including behind him, yet seems unable to notice what’s directly in front of him. But I can only say that this was how things were done on the French stage back in 1827, even among poets known for their innovative approaches. As you'll see, not much had changed by 1832. The animosity directed toward us is easy to imagine, given that we aimed to challenge such convenient customs. It was simply a matter of adding in parentheses, and using a different style of typography, when referring to those who enter—like Mély-Janin does when mentioning the king and his buddy Martigny—(They enter from the back of the stage and can’t see the comtesse and Éléonore hidden by the trees.) It was really as straightforward as that! If I forget, please remind me about Tasso’s monologue. Louis XI is also with his confidant, but here, his confidant is called le compère Martigny. They step forward, chatting and arguing; but don’t worry, they’ve saved the most crucial part of their conversation—the part that the audience needs to hear—until they make their entrance on stage. So, after exchanging a few trivial words, Louis XI turns to Martigny and says—
"Let us return to the business we have in hand. What news have the secret emissaries you sent to the court of Burgundy brought you? Does Charles know that the Comtesse de Croy has withdrawn into my States? Does he know that I have given her shelter?"
"Let's return to what we need to talk about. What updates have the secret messengers you sent to the court of Burgundy brought you? Does Charles know that the Comtesse de Croy is hiding in my territory? Is he aware that I've given her shelter?"
You see that the old fox Louis XI. wants the emissaries of the crony Martigny to have informed their master, in order that it may be repeated to himself, that the Duc de Bourgogne knows that the Comtesse de Croy has withdrawn to his States, and that he has given her shelter! As if Louis XI. had need of the emissaries of others! As if he hadn't his own secret spies, who, at all hours, made their way, under all sorts of disguises, noiseless, into his private cabinet, where they were accustomed to talk of his affairs! You must clearly[Pg 509] understand that the two interlocutors would not have come there if the secret emissaries of the crony Martigny had not arrived. As a matter of fact, they have returned, and this is the news they have brought: Charles the Bold knows all; he flew into a violent passion when he learnt it; he sent the Comte de Crèvecoeur immediately to fetch back Isabelle. They have learnt, besides, that a young Scotsman, by name Quentin Durward, has joined the two suitors who aspire to the hand of Isabelle, the Comte de Crèvecoeur and the Boar of Ardennes, and has the advantage over them by being loved in return.
You see that the crafty Louis XI wants the messengers of his buddy Martigny to report back to him that the Duke of Burgundy knows the Countess de Croy has taken refuge in his territories and that he’s offering her shelter! As if Louis XI actually needed other people's messengers! As if he didn't have his own secret spies, who, at all hours, sneaked into his private office under various disguises, where they discussed his affairs! You need to understand clearly that the two speakers wouldn't have come there if Martigny’s secret messengers hadn’t shown up. In fact, they have returned, and this is the news they brought: Charles the Bold knows everything; he flew into a rage when he found out; he immediately sent Count de Crèvecoeur to bring Isabelle back. They’ve also learned that a young Scotsman named Quentin Durward has teamed up with the two suitors vying for Isabelle’s hand, Count de Crèvecoeur and the Boar of Ardennes, and he has the upper hand because she loves him in return.
"But where, then, has he seen the countess?"
"But where has he seen the countess?"
Wait! Here is a clever rase, which prepares us for the dénoûment—
Wait! Here’s a clever twist that sets us up for the dénoûment—
"That is what I cannot find out," replies Martigny; "it is certain, however, that he has paid her frequent visits at Herbert's tower."
"That's what I can't figure out," Martigny replies; "it's obvious, though, that he's been visiting her frequently at Herbert's tower."
"At Herbert's tower, sayest thou?"
"At Herbert's tower, you say?"
"Yes; you know that the countess, before surrendering herself to the protection of your court, had already made an attempt to escape. The duke, under the first impulse of anger, had her shut up in Herbert's tower; there she was strictly guarded, and yet they say that, by some secret passage, Quentin Durward found means to get to her."
"Yes; you know that the countess, before seeking protection from your court, had already tried to escape. The duke, in a fit of anger, had her imprisoned in Herbert's tower; she was watched closely, and yet they say that, through some secret passage, Quentin Durward managed to reach her."
Louis XI. does not know this; and, as he is no doubt ashamed of not knowing it, instead of replying to Martigny's question, he says—
Louis XI doesn't know this; and since he's probably embarrassed about not knowing, instead of answering Martigny's question, he says—
"But hast thou not tried to attract this young man to my court?"
"But haven't you attempted to bring this young man to my court?"
"He had left that of the Duc de Bourgogne some time after the countess."
"He left the Duc de Bourgogne’s residence shortly after the countess did."
"He will, no doubt, follow in her track."
"He will certainly follow her lead."
As you see, Louis XI. is really much more subtle than he appears. He continues—
As you can see, Louis XI is actually much more cunning than he seems. He continues—
"Martigny, we must watch for his arrival. If he comes, my favour awaits him ... But what art thou looking at?"
"Martigny, we need to watch for him to arrive. If he comes, my support will be prepared for him... But what are you staring at?"
You, I presume, who are not Louis XI., have no doubt what crony Martigny is looking at? Why! he is looking towards[Pg 510] the young man for whom the king's favours are waiting. This is called ad eventum festinare, moving towards the dénoûment; it is recommended in the first place by Horace, and in the second by Boileau. Thanks to his disguise, and to a breakfast which he offers to the traveller, Louis XI. learns that he who has just come is, indeed, the man he is looking for, that his name is Quentin Durward, that he is a Scot; that is to say, as nobly born as a king, as poor as a Gascon, and proud, upon my faith! as proud as himself. The old king, indeed, gets some wild cat scratches from time to time; but he is used to that: these are the perquisites of an incognito. Here is an instance. Martigny has gone to order the breakfast.
You, I assume, who aren’t Louis XI., know what our buddy Martigny is staring at, right? Well, he’s looking over at[Pg 510] the young guy the king has been waiting for. This is what they call ad eventum festivare, moving towards the dénoûment; it’s recommended first by Horace and then by Boileau. Thanks to his disguise and a breakfast he offers to the traveler, Louis XI. finds out that the newcomer is, in fact, the person he’s been searching for—his name is Quentin Durward, and he’s a Scot; meaning he’s as noble as a king, as broke as a Gascon, and proud, I swear, as proud as Louis himself. The old king does get some rough treatment now and then, but he’s used to it: those are just the drawbacks of being incognito. Here’s an example. Martigny has gone to get the breakfast ordered.
"Tell me, Maître Pierre," asks Quentin Durward of the king, "what is that château which I see in the distance?"
"Tell me, Maître Pierre," asks Quentin Durward of the king, "what is that castle I see in the distance?"
"It is the royal residence."
"It's the royal residence."
"The royal residence! Why, then, those battlements, those high walls, those large moats? Why so many sentinels posted at regular distances? Do you know, Maître Pierre, that it has rather the air of a fortress or of a prison than of the palace of a king?"
"The royal residence! So, what's up with those battlements, high walls, and large moats? Why are there so many guards stationed all around? Do you realize, Maître Pierre, that it looks more like a fortress or a prison than a king's palace?"
"You think so?"
"You think so?"
"Why such great precautions?... Tell me, Maître Pierre, if you were king, would you take so much trouble to defend your dwelling?"
"Why are you being so cautious?... Tell me, Maître Pierre, if you were king, would you go to such lengths to protect your home?"
"But it is as well to be on one's guard; one has seen places taken by surprise, and princes carried away just when they least expected such a thing. It seems to me, besides, that the king's safety demands ..."
"But it's important to stay alert; we've seen places caught off guard and rulers taken when they least expected it. It also seems to me that the king’s safety requires ..."
"Do you know a surer rampart for a king than the love of his subjects?"
"Is there a better defense for a king than the love of his people?"
"No, of course ... yet ..."
"No, of course ... yet ..."
"If my lot had placed me on the throne I would rather be loved than feared; I would like the humblest of my subjects to have free access to my person; I should rule with so much wisdom that none would have approached me with evil intention."
"If I had the chance to be on the throne, I would prefer to be loved rather than feared; I would want even the humblest of my subjects to be able to come to me freely; I would govern with so much wisdom that no one would have bad intentions towards me."
That is not recommended either by Horace or by Boileau, but by the leader of the claque.[1] The fashion of giving advice to a king is always creditable to an author: it is called doing the work of the opposition; and such clap-trap methods appeal to the gallery.
That’s not suggested by Horace or Boileau, but by the leader of the claque.[1] It’s always seen as a good thing for an author to advise a king: it’s known as taking on the role of the opposition; and such cheap tricks resonate with the audience.
In spite of the advice given by Mély-Janin to Charles X.[Pg 511] which the latter should have followed as coming from a friend, he appointed the Polignac Ministry. We know the consequences of that nomination.
Despite the advice given by Mély-Janin to Charles X.[Pg 511] which he should have heeded as coming from a friend, he appointed the Polignac Ministry. We know the outcomes of that decision.
Martigny returns. The meal is ready; they sit down to the table. The wine loosens their tongues, especially the small white wine which is drunk on the banks of the Loire. Quentin Durward then informs the king that he is not engaged in the service of any prince, that he is seeking his fortune, and that he has some inclination to enlist in the Scots Guards, where he has an uncle who is an officer.
Martigny comes back. The meal is ready; they sit down at the table. The wine opens them up, especially the light white wine enjoyed along the banks of the Loire. Quentin Durward then tells the king that he isn't serving any prince, that he's looking for his fortune, and that he's considering joining the Scots Guards, where his uncle is an officer.
Here, you see, the drama begins to run on all fours with the romance. But what a difference between the handling of the romance-writer and that of the dramatist, between the man called Walter Scott and the man called Mély-Janin. Now, as the conversation begins to become interesting, the king rises and goes away without giving any other reason for his departure than that which I myself give you, and which I am obliged to guess at. If you question it, here is his bit—
Here, you see, the drama starts to align closely with the romance. But the approach of the romance writer is so different from that of the dramatist, between the person known as Walter Scott and the one known as Mély-Janin. As the conversation starts to get interesting, the king stands up and leaves without providing any reason for his departure other than the one I'm giving you, which I have to speculate about. If you doubt it, here’s his part—
"Adieu, Seigneur Quentin; we shall see each other again. Rely upon the friendliness of Maître Pierre. (Aside to Martigny) Be sure to tell him that which concerns him; I leave thee free to do what thou deemest fitting."
"Goodbye, Lord Quentin; we'll meet again. Have faith in Master Pierre's kindness. (Aside to Martigny) Be sure to share what he needs to know; I trust you to handle it as you see fit."
"Be at ease, sire."
"Don't worry, my lord."
Left alone with Quentin Durward, Martigny at once informs him that the Comtesse de Croy has taken refuge at the court of King Louis XI., and lives in the ancient château which he points out to him. Then Quentin Durward implores Martigny to go into the castle and give a letter to Isabelle.
Left alone with Quentin Durward, Martigny immediately tells him that the Comtesse de Croy has sought safety at the court of King Louis XI and resides in the old château that he indicates. Then Quentin Durward urges Martigny to enter the castle and deliver a letter to Isabelle.
"Ah! Sir Durward, what are you thinking about?" exclaimed Martigny, who in his capacity as a citizen of Tours does not know that the title of Sir is only used before a baptismal name.
"Hey! Sir Durward, what are you thinking?" shouted Martigny, who, as a citizen of Tours, doesn’t understand that the title Sir is only used before a first name.
"You must, it is absolutely imperative!" insists Quentin.
"You have to do it, it’s really important!" insists Quentin.
"I beg you to believe that if the thing were possible. (Aside) I am more anxious to get in than he. (Aloud) Listen, I foresee a way."
"I urge you to believe that if it were possible. (Aside) I'm more eager to get in than he is. (Aloud) Listen, I think I see a way."
You do not guess the way? It is, indeed, a strange one for a man who does not dare to put a love-letter behind walls,[Pg 512] doors, curtains, tapestries and portières. You shall know the method employed before long.
You can't guess the way? It's definitely a strange one for someone who doesn't dare to leave a love letter behind walls,[Pg 512] doors, curtains, tapestries, and drapes. You'll find out the method soon enough.
Quentin Durward, left alone, informs the audience that the Comte de Crèvecoeur, who comes to claim Isabelle, shall only have her at the expense of his own life. In short, he talks long enough to give Martigny time to enter the château, to see Isabelle, and to put the method in question into practice—
Quentin Durward, alone, tells the audience that the Count of Crèvecoeur, who comes to claim Isabelle, can only have her if he sacrifices his own life. Basically, he talks long enough for Martigny to enter the castle, see Isabelle, and put the plan into action—
"Well?" asks Quentin.
"Well?" asks Quentin.
"I have spoken to her."
"I talked to her."
"What did she say?"
"What did she say?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing?"
"Nothing at all; but she blushed, went pale and fainted."
"Nothing at all; but she blushed, turned pale, and fainted."
"She fainted? What happiness!"
"She fainted? What bliss!"
"When she regained consciousness she talked of taking the air. Look, look, turn your eyes in that quarter."
"When she came to, she said she wanted some fresh air. Look, look, turn your eyes that way."
"My God! It is she! (To Martigny) Go away, I implore you!" (Martigny hides behind a mass of trees.)
"My God! It's her! (To Martigny) Please go away, I'm begging you!" (Martigny hides behind a cluster of trees.)
The method employed by the man who did not dare to get a note conveyed into a closed room guarded by a confidant was to make Isabelle come out into the open air, in full view of the château de Plessis-les-Tours. Not bad, was it? Isabelle is in a tremble. And with good reason! She knows that Martigny is the King's confidant, and she has her doubts about Martigny being at a safe distance, Martigny, a gallant naturally full of cunning, since he has better emissaries than those of the king, and tells Louis XI. things he does not know. So she only comes on to say to Quentin: "Be off with you!" Only, she says it in nobler terms and in language more befitting a princess—
The method used by the man who didn’t dare to send a note into a closed room watched over by a confidant was to get Isabelle to step out into the open air, clearly visible from the château de Plessis-les-Tours. Not bad, right? Isabelle is shaking. And understandably so! She knows that Martigny is the King’s confidant, and she questions whether Martigny is far enough away. Martigny, who is naturally clever and resourceful, has better messengers than the king's and tells Louis XI things he’s unaware of. So, she only steps forward to tell Quentin: "Get lost!" But she phrases it in more noble terms and in a way that befits a princess—
"Go away, I entreat you!"
"Go away, please!"
"One single word!"
"Just one word!"
"I am spied upon, ... they might surprise us!"
"I'm being watched... they could catch us off guard!"
"But at least reassure my heart. What! go without seeing me! ... Ah! cruel one! You do not know how much absence ..."
"But at least calm my heart. What! You're leaving without seeing me!... Ah! You heartless person! You have no idea how much being apart..."
"I must be cautious for both of us, Seigneur Durward; they will explain everything to you. Go away!... Let it be enough for the present to know that you are loved more than ever. Go!"
"I have to be careful for both of us, Lord Durward; they will tell you everything. Just go!... For now, it’s enough to know that you are loved more than ever. Leave!"
"But this silence ..."
"But this silence..."
"Says more than any words ..."
"Says more than any words..."
"Adieu, then!"
"Goodbye, then!"
[He kisses the Countess's hand.]
[He kisses the Countess's hand.]
"Come, depart!" says Éléonore.
"Come on, leave!" says Éléonore.
[Quentin goes out at one side and the Countess at the other.]
[Quentin exits on one side and the Countess exits on the other.]
"And we will go and inform the king of all that has happened," says Martigny, coming out from behind his thicket of trees.
"And we will go and tell the king everything that has happened," says Martigny, stepping out from behind his thicket of trees.
END OF ACT I
END OF ACT I
We clearly perceived that rascal Martigny hiding himself behind that thicket; well, look what took place, notwithstanding: Isabelle and Quentin Durward, who had greater interest in knowing it than we, had no suspicion! Who says now that Youth is not confident? But now let us pass on to the first act of Louis XI. by Casimir Delavigne, and let us see if the national poet is much stronger and more realistic than the royalist poet.
We clearly saw that troublemaker Martigny hiding behind that thicket; but look what happened anyway: Isabelle and Quentin Durward, who had more reason to be aware of it than we did, had no idea! Who says that youth isn’t naive? But now, let’s move on to the first act of Louis XI. by Casimir Delavigne, and see if the national poet is much stronger and more realistic than the royalist poet.
CHAPTER XVI
Casimir Delavigne's Louis XI
Casimir Delavigne's Louis XI
Here is very little incident in the drama we have just been analysing. Very well, there is less still in the tragedy which we are about to examine.
There is very little happening in the drama we've just analyzed. Well, there's even less in the tragedy we're about to examine.
Mély-Janin's mise-en-scène is quite improbable enough, is it not? Well—Casimir Delavigne's is more improbable still. In the first place, the landscape is the same. Here is the description of it—
Mély-Janin's mise-en-scène is pretty unlikely, right? Well—Casimir Delavigne's is even more unlikely. First of all, the landscape is identical. Here’s the description of it—
"A countryside—the château of Plessis-les-Tours in the back ground, a few scattered cottages at the side. IT IS NIGHT."
"A countryside—the château of Plessis-les-Tours in the background, a few scattered cottages to the side. It's nighttime.."
You must know that if I underline the last three words it is not without a motive. As the curtain rises, Tristran, who is on sentry-duty, stops and compels a poor peasant named Richard to go back into his cottage instead of letting him go to Saint-Martin-des-Bois, to obtain the consolations of religion for a dying man. The scene has no other importance than to show in what manner the police of Louis XI. act in the neighbourhood of Plessis-les-Tours. The peasant re-enters his cottage, Tristran goes back into the fortress, and leaves the place to Comines, who arrives on the scene, holding a roll of parchment, and seats himself at the foot of an oak tree. It is still night. Guess why Comines comes there, in that particular place, where the police guard so strictly that they do not even allow peasants to go out to obtain the viaticum for the dying, and where they can be seen from every loophole in the château? Comines comes there to read his Mémoires, which deal with the history of Louis XI.
You should know that when I underline the last three words, it’s for a reason. As the curtain rises, Tristran, who is on watch, stops a poor peasant named Richard and forces him to go back to his cottage instead of letting him go to Saint-Martin-des-Bois to get last rites for a dying man. This scene only serves to show how Louis XI's police operate in the area around Plessis-les-Tours. The peasant goes back into his cottage, Tristran returns to the fortress, and the scene is left to Comines, who arrives with a scroll of parchment and sits at the base of an oak tree. It’s still nighttime. Can you guess why Comines is there, in that specific spot where the police guard so closely that they won’t even let peasants go out to get the sacrament for the dying, and where they can be seen from every loophole in the château? Comines is there to read his Mémoires, which cover the history of Louis XI.
"But," you will say, "he cannot read because it is dark!"
"But," you might say, "he can't read because it's too dark!"
"Wait! the dawn is coming."
"Wait! The dawn is coming."
"But, if dawn comes, Comines will be seen."
"But if dawn breaks, Comines will be visible."
"He will hide behind a tree."
"He is going to hide behind a tree."
"Would it not be much simpler, especially at such an hour, i.e. four o'clock in the morning, for him to re-read his Mémoires in his own home, in his study, with pen and ink at hand, in case he has anything to add; with his pen-knife and eraser close by, if he has something to delete?"
"Wouldn't it be much easier, especially at this time, i.e. four o'clock in the morning, for him to re-read his Mémoires at home, in his study, with a pen and paper ready, in case he wants to add anything; with his pen knife and eraser nearby, if he needs to remove something?"
"Yes, certainly, it would be much simpler; but don't you see that the author needs Comines to do this particular business out of doors; so poor Comines must, of course, do what the author wishes!" Comines himself knows very well that he would be better elsewhere, and he has not come there of his own will. He does not hide from himself the danger he is incurring if they see him working at such a task, and if his manuscripts were to fall under the king's notice. But listen to him rather than to me—
"Yeah, of course, it would be a lot easier; but don't you realize that the author needs Comines to handle this specific task outside? So, poor Comines has to do what the author wants!" Comines knows very well that he would be better off somewhere else, and he didn't come here by his own choice. He's fully aware of the risk he's taking if they see him working on such a job, especially if his manuscripts catch the king's attention. But listen to him instead of me—
"Mémoires de Comines! Ah! si les mains du roi
Déroulaient cet écrit, qui doit vivre après moi,
Où chacun de ses jours, recueillis par l'histoire,
Laisse un tribut durable et de honte et de gloire,
Tremblant on le verrait, par le titre arrêté,
Pâlir devant son règne à ses yeux présenté!"
"Mémoires de Comines! Ah! if the king's hands
Unfolded this writing, which should live on after me,
Where each of his days, collected by history,
Leaves a lasting tribute of both shame and glory,
We would see him tremble, confronted by the title,
Pale before his reign laid out before his eyes!"
I ask you what would have become of the historian who could have made Louis XI. turn pale! But, no doubt, Comines, who knew the rebels of the war of the Bien Public, the jailor of Cardinal la Balue and especially the murderer of Nemours,—since he calculated on marrying his daughter to the son of the victim,—absorbed in I know not what spirit of pre-occupation, reading his Mémoires in so dangerous a place as this, will keep one eye open whilst he reads his Mémoires with the other. Not a bit of it! You can judge whether or not this is what is meant by the stage-direction: Doctor Coitier passes at the back of the stage, looks at Comines and goes into Richard's cottage."
I ask you what would have happened to the historian who could make Louis XI turn pale! But, no doubt, Comines, who knew the rebels from the war of the Bien Public, the jailer of Cardinal la Balue, and especially the murderer of Nemours—since he was planning to marry his daughter to the victim's son—caught up in some kind of worrying thoughts, reading his Mémoires in such a dangerous place, keeps one eye open while reading his Mémoires with the other. Not at all! You can decide if this is what is implied by the stage direction: Doctor Coitier passes at the back of the stage, looks at Comines, and goes into Richard's cottage.
Thus, just as Louis XI. did not see Isabelle, though it was to his interest to see her, so Comines, who is anxious not to be[Pg 516] seen, is seen and does not himself see. You tell me such absent-mindedness cannot last long on the part of such a man as Comines. Second mistake! Instead of waking out of his rêveries—"He remains absorbed in his reading." With this result, that Coitier comes out of the peasant's cottage and says—
Thus, just as Louis XI didn’t see Isabelle, even though it would have been in his best interest to do so, Comines, who is eager to avoid being seen, ends up being seen and doesn't notice it himself. You tell me that such absent-mindedness can't continue for someone like Comines. Wrong again! Instead of snapping out of his daydreams—"He remains absorbed in his reading." This leads to Coitier stepping out of the peasant's cottage and saying—
"Rentrez, prenez courage:
Des fleurs que je prescris composez son breuvage;
Par vos mains exprimés, leurs sues adoucissants
Rafraîchiront sa plaie, et calmeront ses sens."
"Come in, be brave:"
Prepare the potion with the flowers I prescribe;
Their soothing juices, expressed by your hands,
Will refresh her wound and calm her senses."
Take particular note that these lines are said at the back of the stage, that Comines is between the audience and the person who utters them and that Comines—extraordinary to relate!—does not hear them, whilst the public, which is at a double, triple, quadruple distance from the doctor, hears them perfectly. Never mind! "Without perceiving Coitier" our historian continues—
Take special note that these lines are said at the back of the stage, that Comines is between the audience and the person saying them, and that Comines—strangely enough!—doesn't hear them, while the audience, which is twice, three times, or even four times further away from the doctor, hears them perfectly. Never mind! "Without noticing Coitier" our historian continues—
"Effrayé du portrait, je le vois en silence
Chercher un châtiment pour tant de ressemblance!"
"Frightened by the portrait, I see him silently
Searching for a punishment for such a resemblance!"
It seems to me that knowing so well to what he is exposing himself, this was the moment or never for Comines to look round him. There is no danger! He acts as children do who are sent to bed before their mother, and who are so afraid in their beds that they shut their eyes in order not to see anything. Only, there is this difference, that with children the danger is fictitious, whilst in the case of Comines it is real; children are children, and Comines is a man, a historian, a courtier and a minister. Now, I perfectly understand the terror of children; but I do not understand Comines's imprudence. And Coitier sees him, comes up to him and actually claps him on the shoulder, before Comines has either seen or heard Coitier.
It seems to me that, fully aware of the risks he’s facing, this was the moment for Comines to take a look around. There’s no danger! He behaves like children do when they’re sent to bed before their mother, being so fearful in their beds that they close their eyes to avoid seeing anything. The difference, though, is that with children, the danger is imaginary, while for Comines it’s very real; children are just kids, and Comines is a man, a historian, a courtier, and a minister. I completely understand the fear of children, but I don’t grasp Comines's recklessness. And then Coitier sees him, approaches him, and even gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder before Comines has noticed or heard Coitier.
"COITIER (clapping Comines on the shoulder.)—
Ah! Seigneur d'Argenton, salut!
Comines, tressaillant
Qui m'a parlé?
Vous!... Pardon, je rêvais ..."
"COITIER (clapping Comines on the shoulder.)—
Hey! Lord d'Argenton, hi!
Comines, shocked
Who talked to me?
You!... Sorry, I was lost in thought...
You might even, my dear Comines, say that you were sleeping, and that your sleep was heavy and imprudent.
You might even say, my dear Comines, that you were sleeping, and that your sleep was deep and careless.
Now why does Coitier, in his turn, bring Comines out of his dreams? Why does he loiter outside Plessis-les-Tours, whilst the king is waiting for him impatiently? Comines points this out to him; for poor Comines, who takes little care of his own safety, looks to the well-being of others, which ought to be Coitier's own affair, who is a doctor, rather than his, who is a minister.
Now why does Coitier, in his turn, bring Comines out of his dreams? Why does he hang around outside Plessis-les-Tours while the king is waiting for him impatiently? Comines points this out to him; because poor Comines, who doesn’t take much care of his own safety, is focused on the well-being of others, which should really be Coitier's concern as a doctor, rather than his, as a minister.
"COMINES.
Mais, vous, maître Coitier, dont les doctes secrets
Out des maux de ce roi ralenti les progrès,
Cette heure, à son lever, chaque jour vous rappelle:
Qui peut d'un tel devoir détourner votre zèle?"
COMINES.
But you, Master Coitier, whose learned secrets
Have slowed the suffering of this king's progress,
At this hour, every day, reminds you:
Who can divert your zeal from such duty?"
Coitier might well reply to him: "Et vous?" ... for it is more surprising to see a historian under an oak at four o'clock in the morning, than a doctor upon the high road. But he prefers rather to reply—
Coitier could easily respond to him: "And you?" ... because it’s more surprising to see a historian sitting under an oak tree at four in the morning than a doctor on the main road. But he would rather respond—
"Le roi! toujours le roi! Qu'il attende!..."
"Long live the king! Always the king! Let him wait!..."
You tell me that it is in order to reveal the character of the person; that Coitier does not love the king, whom he attends, and that, this morning, in particular, he is angry with him for a crime which he had failed to commit the previous day. It would have been more logical for Coitier to be angry with Louis XI. for the crimes he has committed than for those which he has failed to commit, all the more since, with regard to the former, he would have had plenty to choose from. However, here is the crime—
You say it's to show the person's true character; that Coitier doesn't love the king he serves, and that today, he's especially angry about a crime he didn't commit yesterday. It would make more sense for Coitier to be upset with Louis XI. for the crimes he's actually committed rather than the ones he hasn't, especially since there would be plenty of options to choose from regarding the former. Anyway, here's the crime—
"COITIER.
Hier, sur ces remparts,
Un pâtre que je quitte attira ses regards;
Des archers du Plessis l'adresse meurtrière
Faillit, en se jouant, lui ravir la lumière!"
"COITIER."
"Yesterday, on these walls,"
A shepherd I was leaving caught his gaze;
The deadly aim of the Plessis archers
Almost playfully snatched away his light!"
Which is equivalent to saying that the poor devil for whom Coitier, the night before, had ordered a draught of the soothing[Pg 518] syrup which would cool his wound, had received an arrow from a cross-bow, either in the arm or in the leg, it matters not where. But how can a draught cool a wound unless the remedy be so efficacious that it can both be administered as a drink and applied as a poultice? Now we will return to the question we proposed a little while ago: Why, instead of going to attend the king, who is impatient for him, does Coitier rouse Comines out of his dreams? Bless me, what a question! Why, to develop the tragedy. Now, this is what one learns in the development: that Comines, who, in conjunction with Coitier, has saved Nemours, takes with both hands all that Louis XI. gives him, in order to give it all back again, in the future, to his future son-in-law. Coitier complains bitterly, on his side, of the life led by the doctor to a king, and in such round terms, that, if the king heard, he would certainly change his doctor. The conversation is interrupted by Comines's daughter, Marie, who arrives on foot, quite alone, at half-past four in the morning!—where from, do you think? From looking for St. Francis de Paul. Where has she been to look for him? History does not say, no more than it does where Marie slept; it is, however, a question natural enough for a father to address to his daughter. But Marie relates such beautiful stories of the saint, who only needs canonisation to make him a complete saint, that Comines thinks of nothing else but of listening to her.
Which is basically saying that the poor guy for whom Coitier had ordered a dose of the soothing[Pg 518] syrup to cool his wound the night before had been shot with a crossbow, either in the arm or the leg—it doesn't really matter where. But how can a drink cool a wound unless the remedy is so effective that it can be taken as a drink and used as a poultice? Now let’s return to the question we raised a little while ago: Why, instead of going to see the king, who is waiting for him, does Coitier wake Comines from his dreams? Goodness, what a question! It’s to further the plot. Now, here’s what we learn from this development: Comines, who, along with Coitier, has saved Nemours, takes everything that Louis XI. gives him and plans to return it all later to his future son-in-law. Coitier also complains bitterly about the life of a doctor to a king, and he expresses it so strongly that if the king heard him, he would definitely change his doctor. Their conversation is interrupted by Comines's daughter, Marie, who arrives on foot, all alone, at 4:30 in the morning!—where do you think she has been? Looking for St. Francis de Paul. Where did she go to look for him? History doesn’t say, just like it doesn’t say where Marie slept; but it’s a perfectly reasonable question for a father to ask his daughter. However, Marie shares such wonderful stories about the saint, who just needs canonization to become a full saint, that Comines can’t help but focus on listening to her.
MARIE.
Le saint n'empruntait par sa douce majesté
Au sceptre pastoral dont la magnificence
Des princes du conclave alleste la puissance:
Pauvre, et, pour crosse d'or, un rameau dans les mains,
Pour robe, un lin grossier, traînant sur les chemins;
C'est lui, plus humble encor qu'an fond de sa retraite!
COITIER.
Et que disait tout has cet humble anachorète,
En voyant la litière où le faste des cours
Prodiguait sa mollesse au vieux prélat de Tours,
Et ce cheval de prix dont l'amble doux et sage
[Pg 519]
Pour monseigneur de Vienne abrégeait le voyage?
MARIE.
Tous les deux, descendus, marchaient à ses côtés."
MARIE.
The saint didn’t need the sweet majesty
Of the pastoral scepter, which glorifies
The power of princes gathered at the conclave:
Poor, and instead of a golden staff, a branch in his hands,
In a rough linen robe, trailing along the roads;
It’s him, even more humble than in the depths of his retreat!
COITIER.
And what did this humble hermit say,
Seeing the litter where the luxury of courts
Lavished its softness on the old prelate of Tours,
And that valuable horse, with its gentle and wise gait,
[Pg 519]
Shortening the journey for the bishop of Vienne?
MARIE.
Both of them, having dismounted, walked beside him."
Attention! for I am going to put a question to which I challenge you to give an answer—
Attention! I'm going to ask you a question that I challenge you to answer—
"Tous les deux, descendus, marchaient à ses côtés!"
"Both of them, walking down, were by his side!"
Who is it who walks beside the humble anchorite? Was it the litter? Was it the old prelate? Was it monseigneur from Vienna? Was it the horse? If we take the sense absolutely given by the construction of the sentence, it was not the prelate of Tours and the monseigneur of Vienna who stepped down, the one from his litter, the other from his horse, but the horse and the litter, on the contrary, who stepped down, the one from the old prelate of Tours, the other from the monseigneur of Vienna. The difficulty of understanding this riddle no doubt decides Coitier to return to the king, leaving Marie alone with her father. Then, Marie tells the latter a second piece of news, much more interesting than the first, namely, that the Comte de Rethel has arrived.
Who is walking next to the humble hermit? Was it the litter? Was it the old bishop? Was it the monsignor from Vienna? Was it the horse? If we strictly follow the structure of the sentence, it wasn’t the bishop of Tours and the monsignor of Vienna who got down, with one coming from his litter and the other from his horse. Instead, it was the horse and the litter that stepped down, one from the old bishop of Tours and the other from the monsignor of Vienna. The challenge of figuring out this puzzle likely leads Coitier to go back to the king, leaving Marie alone with her father. Then, Marie shares a second piece of news, which is much more intriguing than the first: the Comte de Rethel has arrived.
"MARIE.
Berthe, dont je le tiens, l'a su du damoisel
Qui portait la bannière où, vassal de la France,
Sous la fleur de nos rois, le lion d'or s'élance!"
"MARIE."
Berthe, from whom I got this information, heard it from the squire
Who carried the banner where, as a vassal of France,
Under the flower of our kings, the golden lion soars!"
Which means, if I am not deceived, that the Comte de Rethel bears the arms of gules either of azure on a golden lion, with a fleur-de-lys au chef. One thing makes Marie especially happy: that the Comte de Rethel is going to give her news of Nemours, whom he left at Nancy. In fact, Nemours, whose father has been executed, cannot return to France without exposing himself to capital punishment. Chanting is heard at this juncture; it is the procession of St. Francis de Paul, which is coming.
Which means, if I'm not mistaken, that the Comte de Rethel has the arms of red with either blue on a golden lion, with a fleur-de-lys at the top. One thing that makes Marie especially happy is that the Comte de Rethel is going to give her news about Nemours, whom he left in Nancy. In fact, Nemours, whose father was executed, can't return to France without risking the death penalty. At this moment, chanting is heard; it’s the procession of St. Francis de Paul, which is approaching.
"Entendez-vous ces chants, dans la forêt voisine?"
"Do you hear those songs in the neighboring forest?"
Says Marie—
Says Marie—
"Le cortège s'avance et descend la colline."
"The procession moves forward and descends the hill."
No doubt, in his capacity as historian, Comines will be curious to see so extraordinary a man as St. Francis de Paul. You are wrong. "Come in!" says Comines drily; and he and his daughter leave the stage, just as the head of the cortège appears in sight. But why on earth do they leave the stage? Is there any reason for it? Yes, indeed, there is a reason. Among the people in the procession is Nemours,—for the supposed Comte de Rethel is no other than Nemours,—and neither Comines nor Marie must know that he is there. Now what is Nemours doing under the title of the Comte de Rethel? He has come to assassinate the king; but before risking the stroke, he desires to receive absolution from St. Francis de Paul. Now we know where the saint comes from; we have learnt it in the interval; he comes from Frondi, five or six hundred leagues away. Very well, will you believe that during the whole of that long journey, with the saint in front of him, Nemours could not find a more convenient place in which to ask absolution for the crime he wants to commit, than the threshold of the château of the man he intends to assassinate? We can now sum up the improbabilities of the first act thus—
No doubt, as a historian, Comines would be interested to see such an extraordinary man as St. Francis de Paul. You're mistaken. "Come in!" Comines says flatly, and he and his daughter exit the stage just as the head of the procession comes into view. But why on earth do they leave the stage? Is there a reason for it? Yes, there is indeed a reason. Among the people in the procession is Nemours—because the supposed Comte de Rethel is actually Nemours—and neither Comines nor Marie can know that he is there. So what is Nemours doing under the title of the Comte de Rethel? He has come to assassinate the king; but before taking that risk, he wants to receive absolution from St. Francis de Paul. Now we know where the saint is coming from; we've learned it in the meantime; he comes from Frondi, five or six hundred leagues away. Alright, do you really believe that during that long journey, with the saint ahead of him, Nemours couldn't find a better place to ask for absolution for the crime he plans to commit than the doorstep of the château of the man he intends to kill? We can now summarize the improbabilities of the first act like this—
Comines is out of doors at four o'clock in the morning: first improbability. He comes, before break of day, to read his Mémoires twenty yards from the château of Plessis-les-Tours: second improbability. He does not look around him as he reads them: third improbability. Coitier, in order to chat with him about matters they both know perfectly well, keeps the king waiting for him: fourth improbability. Marie arrives alone, at four in the morning: fifth improbability. Her father never asks where she has slept: sixth improbability. Nemours, after waiting for fifteen years, returns to France in disguise to avenge the death of his father by assassinating a king who is dying, and who, in fact, will die the following day: eighth improbability. Finally, he wishes to receive absolution from Saint Francis de Paul, and instead of making his confession in a room, in a church, in a confessional, which would be the easiest thing to do, he comes to confess at the gates of the[Pg 521] château: ninth improbability, which alone is worth all the eight other improbabilities!
Comines is outside at four in the morning: first improbability. He comes, before dawn, to read his Mémoires twenty yards from the château of Plessis-les-Tours: second improbability. He doesn't look around as he reads: third improbability. Coitier, wanting to chat with him about things they both know well, keeps the king waiting for him: fourth improbability. Marie arrives alone at four in the morning: fifth improbability. Her father never asks where she spent the night: sixth improbability. Nemours, after waiting fifteen years, returns to France in disguise to get revenge for his father's death by assassinating a king who is already dying, and who will actually die the next day: eighth improbability. Finally, he wants to confess to Saint Francis de Paul, and instead of doing it in a room, in a church, or in a confessional, which would be the simplest thing, he comes to confess at the gates of the[Pg 521] château: ninth improbability, which is worth all eight of the other improbabilities combined!
Shall I go any further, and shall I pass on from the first to the second act? Bless me, no; it is too poor a job. Let us stop here. I only wanted to prove that, when the audience grumbled, nearly hissed and even hissed outright, at the first performance, it was not in error, and that when it did not come to see Louis XI. during the eight or ten times it was played, it was in the right. But is it true that the public did not go to it? The takings of the first four nights will show this—
Should I continue on, moving from the first act to the second? No way; it’s just not worth it. Let’s stop here. I just wanted to demonstrate that when the audience complained, even booed, during the first performance, they weren’t wrong, and when they didn’t show up to see Louis XI. during the eight or ten times it was performed, they had a good reason. But is it actually true that the public didn’t attend? The earnings from the first four nights will reveal this—
First performance 4061 francs
Second " 1408 "
Third " 1785 "
Fourth " 1872 "
Finally, why this failure during the first four representations, and why such great success at the twentieth, thirtieth and fortieth? I am going to tell you. M. Jouslin de la Salle was manager for nearly six months, and, after he took up the management, not a play was a failure. He created successes. When he saw that, at the fourth performance, Louis XI. brought in eighteen hundred francs, he ordered those few persons who came to hire boxes to be told that the whole of the theatre was booked up to the tenth performance. The report of this impossibility to get seats spread over Paris. Everybody wanted to have them. Everybody had them. It was a clever trick! Now let some one else than I take the trouble to undertake, in respect of the last four acts, the work which I have just done in respect of the first, and they will see that, in spite of Ligier's predilection for this drama, it is one of the most indifferent of Casimir Delavigne's works.
Finally, why did it fail during the first four performances, and why was there such great success at the twentieth, thirtieth, and fortieth? I’m going to explain. M. Jouslin de la Salle was the manager for nearly six months, and after he took over, every play was a hit. He created successes. When he saw that, at the fourth performance, Louis XI. brought in eighteen hundred francs, he had those few people who came to rent boxes told that the entire theater was booked up to the tenth performance. News of this impossibility to get seats spread across Paris. Everyone wanted them. Everyone had them. It was a smart move! Now, let someone else besides me take the time to handle the last four acts, the way I just did for the first, and they will see that, despite Ligier's preference for this play, it’s one of the most average of Casimir Delavigne's works.
END OF VOLUME V
NOTE
(BÉRANGER)
AU RÉDACTEUR DU JOURNAL LA PRESSE
TO THE EDITOR OF LA PRESSE
Je reçois d'un ami de Béranger la réclamation suivante. Comme quelques autres personnes pourraient avoir pensé ce qu'une seule m'écrit, permettez-moi de répondre, par la voie de votre journal, non-seulement à cette dernière, mais encore à toutes celles qui ne seraient pas suffisamment renseignées sur la signification du mot "philosophe épicurien."
Je reçois d'un ami de Béranger la réclamation suivante. Comme quelques autres personnes pourraient avoir pensé ce qu'une seule m'écrit, permettez-moi de répondre, par la voie de votre journal, non seulement à cette dernière, mais encore à toutes celles qui ne seraient pas suffisamment renseignées sur la signification du mot "philosophe épicurien."
Voici la lettre du réclamant:
Here's the claimant's letter:
"PASSY, PRÈS PARIS, 5 septembre 1853
"PASSY, NEAR PARIS, 5 September 1853
"MONSIEUR,—J'ai lu les deux ou trois chapitres de vos Mémoires où vous parlez de Béranger, et où vous copiez plusieurs de ses belles et prophétiques chansons. Vous faites l'éloge de ce grand homme de cœur et d'intelligence. C'est bien! cela vous honore: celui qui aime Béranger doit être bon. Cependant, monsieur, vous posez cette question, qui me semble un peu malheureuse pour vous; vous dites: 'Maintenant, peut-être me demandera-t-on comment il se fait que Béranger, républicain, habite tranquillement avenue de Chateaubriand, n° 5, à Paris, tandis que Victor Hugo demeure à Marine-Terrace, dans l'île de Jersey.'
"SIR,—I've read the few chapters of your Memoirs where you talk about Béranger and quote several of his beautiful and prophetic songs. You praise this great man of heart and mind, which is wonderful! It reflects positively on you; anyone who loves Béranger must be a good person. However, sir, you raise a question that seems a bit unfortunate for you; you ask, 'Maybe someone will wonder how it is that Béranger, a republican, lives peacefully at 5 Chateaubriand Avenue in Paris, while Victor Hugo is at Marine-Terrace on the island of Jersey.'
"Vous qui appelez M. Béranger votre père, vous devriez savoir ce que tout le monde sait: d'abord, que le modeste grand poète n'est pas un philosophe épicurien, comme il vous plaît de le dire, mais bien un philosophe pénétré du plus profond amour de l'humanité. M. Béranger habite Paris, parce que c'est à Paris, et non ailleurs, qu'il peut remplir son beau rôle de dévouement. Demandez à tous ceux qui souffrent, n'importe à quelle opinion ils appartiennent, si M. Béranger leur a jamais refusé de les aider, de les secourir. Toute la vie de cet homme de bien est employée à rendre service. À son âge, il aurait bien le droit de songer à se reposer; mais, pour lui, obliger, c'est vivre.
"Those of you who consider Mr. Béranger your father should be aware of something that everyone knows: first, that this humble, great poet is not an epicurean philosopher, as you like to label him, but rather a philosopher filled with love for humanity. Mr. Béranger lives in Paris because it's there, and nowhere else, that he can fulfill his beautiful role of devotion. Ask all those who suffer, regardless of their beliefs, if Mr. Béranger has ever turned them away, or refused to help them. His entire life is devoted to serving others. At his age, he could rightfully think about resting; but for him, helping others is living."
"Quand il s'agit de recommander un jeune homme bon et honorable, quand il faut aller voir un prisonnier et lui porter de paternelles consolations, n'importe où il y a du bien à faire,[Pg 524] l'homme que vous appelez un épicurien ne regarde pas s'il pleut ou s'il neige; il part et rentre, le soir, harassé, mais tout heureux si ses démarches ont réussi; tout triste, tout affligé si elles ont échoué. M. Béranger n'a de la popularité que les épines. C'est là une chose que vous auriez dû savoir, monsieur, puisque vous vous intitulez son fils dans vos Mémoires et un peu partout.
"Whenever there's a need to recommend a good and honorable young man or when it's time to visit a prisoner and offer some fatherly comfort, no matter where good can be done,[Pg 524] the man you call an epicurean doesn’t care if it’s raining or snowing; he sets out and comes back in the evening, exhausted but happy if his efforts were successful; completely sad and distressed if they failed. Mr. Béranger only gathers the thorns of popularity. This is something you should have known, sir, since you refer to yourself as his son in your Mémoires and in various other places."
"Pardonnez-moi cette lettre, monsieur, et ne doutez pas un moment de mon admiration pour votre beau talent et de ma considération pour votre personne.
"Please excuse my letter, sir, and don’t doubt for a moment my admiration for your great talent and my respect for you."
"M. DE VALOIS
"Grande rue, 80, à Passy""Mr. De Valois
"80 Grande Street, in Passy"
Voici, maintenant, ma réponse:
Here is my answer now:
"MONSIEUR,—Vous m'avez—dans une excellente intention, je crois—écrit une lettre tant soit peu magistrale pour m'apprendre ce que c'est que Béranger, et pour me prouver qu'il ne mérite en rien la qualification de philosophe épicurien que je lui donne.
"Sir, you have, I believe with good intentions, written me a rather authoritative letter to explain what Béranger is all about and to show me that he doesn’t deserve the title of epicurean philosopher that I attribute to him."
"Hélas! monsieur, j'ai peur d'une chose: c'est qu'en connaissant très-bien Béranger, vous ne connaissiez très-mal Épicure!
"Alas! Sir, I’m afraid of one thing: that by knowing Béranger very well, you don’t know Epicurus quite as well!"
"Cela me paraît fort compréhensible: Béranger habitait Passy en l'an de Notre-Seigneur 1848, tandis qu'Épicure habitait Athènes en l'an du monde 3683. Vous avez connu personnellement Béranger, et je répondrais que vous ne vous êtes certainement jamais donné la peine de lire un seul des trois cents volumes que, au dire de Diogine Laërce, avait laissés le fils de Néoclès et de Chérestrate.
"This seems quite understandable: Béranger lived in Passy in the year 1848, while Epicurus lived in Athens in the year 3683. You personally knew Béranger, and I would wager that you never bothered to read a single one of the three hundred volumes that, according to Diogenes Laërtius, were left by the son of Neocles and Chérestrate."
"Non, vous avez un dictionnaire de l'Académie dans votre bibliothèque; vous avez pris ce dictionnaire de l'Académie; vous y avez cherché le mot ÉPICURIEN, et vous avez lu la définition suivante, que le classique vocabulaire donne de ce mot:
"No, you have a dictionary from the Academy in your library; you grabbed this dictionary, you looked up the word ÉPICURIEN, and you read the following definition provided by the classic vocabulary:"
"ÉPICURIEN, sectateur d'Épicure. Il signifie, par extension, un voluptueux, un homme qui ne songe qu'à son plaisir."
"EPICUREAN, follower of Epicurus. It means, by extension, a pleasure-seeker, a person who only thinks about their enjoyment."
"D'abord, monsieur, vous auriez dû songer, vous, que je ne suis pas de l'Académie, et qu'il n'est point généreux de me battre avec des armes que je n'ai ni forgées ni contribué à forger.
"First of all, sir, you should have considered that I am not from the Academy, and it isn’t generous to hit me with weapons that I have neither forged nor helped to forge."
"Il en résulte que je ne me crois pas obligé d'accepter sans discussion vos reproches, et de recevoir sans examen la définition de MM. les Quarante.
As a result, I don’t believe I am obliged to accept your criticisms without a debate, and to blindly accept the definition from Mr. les Quarante.
"Hélas! moi, monsieur, j'ai lu—mon métier de romancier français m'y force—non-seulement les Fragments d'Épicure publiés à Leipzig en 1813, avec la version latine de Schneider, mais aussi le corps d'ouvrage publié par Gassendi, et renfermant tout ce qui[Pg 525] concerne la vie et la doctrine de l'illustre philosophe athénien; mais aussi la Morale d'Épicure, petit in-8° publié en 1758 par l'abbé Batteux.
"Alas! Well, sir, I’ve read—my work as a French novelist requires it—not just the Fragments of Epicurus published in Leipzig in 1813, along with Schneider's Latin version, but also the complete works published by Gassendi, which includes everything that[Pg 525] relates to the life and teachings of the illustrious Athenian philosopher; and also the Morale d'Épicure, a small octavo published in 1758 by Abbé Batteux."
"En outre, je possède une excellente traduction de Diogène Laërce, lequel, vivant sous les empereurs Septime et Caracalla, c'est-à-dire 1680 ans avant nous et 500 ans après Épicure, devait naturellement mieux connaître celui-ci que vous et moi ne le connaissons.
"Furthermore, I have an excellent translation of Diogenes Laertius, who, living under the emperors Septimus and Caracalla, that is to say, 1680 years ago and 500 years after Epicurus, naturally had a better understanding of him than you or I do."
"Je sais bien, monsieur, que Timon dit de lui:
"Of course, sir, I know what Timon says about him:
"Vint, enfin, de Samos le dernier des physiciens; un maître d'école, un effronté, et le plus misérable des hommes!"
"Finally came the last of the physicists from Samos; a schoolteacher, bold, and the most miserable of men!"
"Mais Timon le sillographe,—ne pas confondre avec Timon le misanthrope, qui, vivant cent ans avant Épicure, ne put le connaître;—Timon le sillographe était un poète et un philosophe satirique: il ne faut donc pas, si l'on veut juger sainement Épicure, s'en rapporter à Timon le satirique.
"However, Timon the sillographe—not to be confused with Timon the misanthrope, who lived a hundred years before Epicurus and couldn’t have known him—Timon the sillographe was a poet and a satirical philosopher. So, if you want to judge Epicurus fairly, you shouldn’t rely on Timon the satirist."
"Je sais bien, monsieur, que Diotime le stoïcien le voulut faire passer pour un voluptueux, et publia, sous le nom même du philosophe qui fait l'objet de notre discussion, cinquante lettres pleines de lasciveté, et une douzaine de billets que vous diriez être sortis du boudoir de M. le marquis de Sade.
"I am fully aware, sir, that Diotime the Stoic sought to portray him as a hedonist, and published, under the very name of the philosopher we’re discussing, fifty letters filled with lust, along with about a dozen notes that you would swear came straight from the boudoir of the Marquis de Sade."
"Mais il est prouvé, aujourd'hui, que les billets étaient de Chrysippe, et que les lettres étaient de Diotime lui-même.
"However, it’s been proven today that the letters were from Chrysippus, and that the correspondence came from Diotima himself."
"Je sais bien, monsieur, que Denys d'Halicarnasse a dit qu'Épicure et sa mère allaient purgeant les maisons par la force de certaines paroles; que le jeune philosophe accompagnait son père, qui montrait à lire à vil prix aux enfants; qu'un de ses frères—Épicure avait deux frères—faisait l'amour pour exister, et que lui-même demeurait avec une courtisane nommée Léontie.
"I know well, sir, that Denys of Halicarnassus said that Epicurus and his mother were purging homes with certain words; that the young philosopher accompanied his father, who taught children to read at a low price; that one of his brothers—Epicurus had two brothers—made love to exist, and that he himself lived with a courtesan named Leontie."
"Mais vous connaissez Denys d'Halicarnasse, monsieur: c'était un romancier bien plus qu'un historien; ayant inventé beaucoup de choses sur Rome, il a bien pu en inventer quelques-unes sur Épicure. D'ailleurs, je ne vois pas qu'il y eût grand mal au pauvre petit philosophe en herbe d'accompagner sa mère, qui purgeait les maisons avec des paroles, et son pire, qui apprenait à lire à vil prix aux enfants.
"Well, you know Denys of Halicarnassus, sir: he was much more of a novelist than a historian; having invented many things about Rome, he could certainly have made up a few things about Epicurus. Besides, I don’t see what harm it did for the poor budding philosopher to accompany his mother, who purified homes with words, and his father, who taught children to read at a low price."
"Je voudrais fort que tous nos enfants apprissent à lire, et plus le prix que les précepteurs mettraient à leurs leçons serait vil, plus je les en estimerais,—en attendant que le gouvernement nous donnât des maîtres qui leur apprissent à lire pour rien! Quant à[Pg 526] cette accusation qu'Épicure demeurait avec une courtisane nommée Léontie, il me semble que Béranger nous dit quelque part qu'il a connu très-intimement deux grisettes parisiennes, l'une nommée Lisette, l'autre Frétillon; supposez que deux grisettes de Paris fassent l'équivalent d'une courtisane d'Athènes, et l'auteur des Deux sœurs de charité et du Dieu des bonnes gens n'aura rien à reprocher, ni vous non plus, monsieur, à l'auteur des trente-sept livres de la Nature.
"I strongly wish that all our children learned to read, and the lower the price that the tutors set for their lessons, the more I would appreciate them—while we wait for the government to provide us with teachers who will teach them to read for free! As for this accusation that Epicurus lived with a courtesan named Leontie, it seems that Béranger tells us somewhere that he was very close to two Parisian grisettes, one named Lisette, the other Frétillon; imagine that two grisettes from Paris are equivalent to one courtesan from Athens, and the author of The Two Charitable Sisters and The God of Good People will have nothing to criticize, nor will you, sir, against the author of the thirty-seven books of Nature."
"Je sais bien, monsieur, que Timocrate accuse notre philosophe de n'être pas bon citoyen, et lui reproche d'avoir eu une complaisance indigne et lâche pour Mythras, lieutenant de Lysimachus; je sais bien encore qu'Épictète dit que sa manière de parler était efféminée et sans pudeur; je sais bien, enfin, que l'auteur des livres de la Joie dit qu'il vomissait deux fois par jour parce qu'il mangeait trop.
"Well, sir, I know that Timocrates accuses our philosopher of not being a good citizen and criticizes him for having an unworthy and cowardly compliance with Mythras, Lysimachus’s lieutenant; I also know that Epictetus says his way of speaking was effeminate and shameless; and finally, I know that the author of the books on Joy says he threw up twice a day because he ate too much."
"Mais, monsieur, l'antiquité, vous ne l'ignorez pas, était fort cancanière, et il me semble que Diogène Laërce répond victorieusement à tous ces méchants propos par des faits.
"However, sir, you must know that antiquity was very prone to gossip, and it seems to me that Diogenes Laertius triumphantly answers all those wicked remarks with facts."
"Ceux qui lui font ces reproches, dit le biographe d'Épicure, n'ont agi, sans doute, que par excès de folie.
"Those who criticize him, says the biographer of Epicurus, have likely acted purely out of a fit of madness."
"Ce grand homme a de fameux témoins de son équité et de sa reconnaissance; l'excellence de son naturel lui a toujours fait rendre justice à tout le monde. Sa patrie consacra cette vérité par les statues qu'elle dressa pour éterniser sa mémoire; son nom fut célébré par ses amis,—dont le nombre était si grand, que les villes qu'il parcourait ne pouvaient les contenir,—aussi bien que par les disciples qui s'attachèrent à lui à cause du charme de sa doctrine, laquelle avait, pour ainsi dire, la douceur des sirènes. Il n'y eut, ajoute le biographe, que le seul Métrodore de Stratonice, qui, presque accablé par l'excès de ses bontés, suivit le parti de Carnéade!"
"This great man has famous witnesses to his fairness and gratitude; the excellence of his character always led him to deliver justice to everyone. His homeland honored this truth with the statues it erected to immortalize his memory; his name was celebrated by his friends—whose numbers were so vast that the cities he traveled through couldn’t hold them—as well as by the disciples who were drawn to him because of the charm of his teachings, which could be said to have the sweetness of sirens. There was, the biographer adds, only one, Metrodorus of Stratonice, who, almost overwhelmed by the excess of his kindness, aligned himself with the party of Carneades!"
"Diogène Laërce continue, et moi avec lui:
"Diogenes Laertius continues, and I with him:
"Sa vertu fut marquée en d'illustres caractères par la reconnaissance et la piété qu'il eut envers ses parents, et par la douceur avec laquelle il traita ses esclaves; témoin son testament, où il donna la liberté à ceux qui avaient cultivé la philosophie avec lui, et particulièrement au fameux Mus.
"His virtue was noted in bright letters by the gratitude and piety he had towards his parents, and by the kindness with which he treated his slaves; proof of this is his will, in which he granted freedom to those who had studied philosophy with him, especially the renowned Mus."
"Cette même vertu fut, enfin, généralement connue par la bonté de son naturel, qui lui fit donner universellement à tout le monde des marques d'honnêteté et de bienveillance; sa piété envers les dieux et son amour pour sa patrie ne se démentirent pas un seul instant jusqu'à la fin de ses jours. Ce philosophe eut, en outre,[Pg 527] une modestie si extraordinaire, qu'il ne voulut jamais se mêler d'aucune charge de la République.
"That same virtue was ultimately recognized for the kindness of his nature, which led him to show everyone signs of honesty and goodwill; his piety towards the gods and his love for his country never wavered for a moment until the end of his days. This philosopher also had such extraordinary modesty that he never wanted to get involved in any public office.
"Il est encore certain que, malgré les troubles qui affligèrent la Grèce, il y passa toute sa vie, excepté deux ou trois voyages qu'il fit sur les confins de l'Ionie, pour visiter ses amis, qui s'assemblaient de tous côtés, afin de venir vivre avec lui dans un jardin qu'il avait acheté au prix de quatre-vingts mines."
"It’s still certain that, despite the troubles that plagued Greece, he spent his entire life there, except for two or three trips he took to the outskirts of Ionia, to visit his friends, who gathered from all over to come live with him in a garden he bought for eighty minas."
"En vérité, monsieur, dites-moi si, en faisant la part de la différence des époques, ce portrait d'Épicure ne convient pas de toutes façons à notre cher Béranger?
"Honestly, sir, tell me if, considering the differences in time, this portrait of Epicurus doesn’t suit our dear Béranger in every respect?"
"N'est-ce pas, en effet, de Béranger que l'on peut dire que son bon naturel lui a toujours fait rendre justice à tout le monde; que le nombre de ses amis est si grand, que les villes ne peuvent les contenir; que le charme de sa doctrine a la douceur de la voix des sirènes; que sa vertu fut marquée en d'illustres caractères par la reconnaissance et la piété qu'il eut envers ses parents; que son amour pour sa patrie ne se démentit pas un instant jusqu'à la fin de ses jours, et qu'enfin, il fut d'une modestie si extraordinaire, qu'il ne voulut jamais occuper aucune charge dans la République?
"Isn’t it, indeed, of Béranger that it can be said that his good nature has always led him to do justice to everyone; that the number of his friends is so great that cities can’t contain them; that the charm of his doctrine has the sweetness of the voices of sirens; that his virtue was marked in illustrious letters by the gratitude and piety he had towards his parents; that his love for his country never faltered for a moment until the end of his days, and that finally, he was so extraordinarily modest that he never wanted to hold any office in the Republic?
"En outre, ce fameux jardin qu'Épicure avait acheté quatre-vingts mines, et où il recevait ses amis, ne ressemble-t-il pas fort à cette retraite de Passy et à cette avenue Chateaubriand où tout ce qu'il y a de bon, de grand, de généreux, a visité et visite encore le fils du tailleur et le filleul de la fée?
"Moreover, that famous garden Epicurus bought for eighty minas, where he welcomed his friends, doesn’t it resemble very much that retreat in Passy and that Chateaubriand avenue where all that is good, great, and generous has visited and continues to visit the tailor’s son and the godchild of the fairy?"
"Maintenant, monsieur, passons à ce malencontreux reproche de volupté, d'égoïsme et de gourmandise qu'on a fait à Épicure, et qui cause votre vertueuse indignation contre moi et contre tous ceux qui, d'après moi, pourraient tenir Béranger pour un philosophe épicurien.
"Now, sir, let’s address this unfortunate accusation of pleasure, selfishness, and gluttony that’s been made against Epicurus, which is the reason for your virtuous indignation towards me and towards anyone who, in my opinion, might see Béranger as an Epicurean philosopher."
"Vous allez voir, monsieur, que ce reproche n'est pas mieux fondé que celui qu'on me fait, à moi qui n'ai peut-être pas bu dans ma vie quatre bouteilles de vin de Champagne, et qui n'ai jamais pu fumer un seul cigare sans être vingt-quatre heures malade, de ne savoir travailler qu'au milieu de la fumée du tabac, des bouteilles débouchées et des verres vides!
"You’ll see, sir, that this accusation isn’t any more justified than the one against me, who may have drunk fewer than four bottles of Champagne in my entire life, and who has never smoked a single cigar without feeling sick for twenty-four hours afterward, for only being able to work amid smoke from cigarettes, opened bottles, and empty glasses!"
"Un demi-setier de vin," dit Dioclès dans son livre de l'Incursion, "suffisait aux épicuriens, et leur breuvage ordinaire n'était que de l'eau."
"Half a setier of wine," says Diocles in his book l'Incursion, "was enough for the epicureans, and their usual drink was just water."
"Le témoignage de Dioclès ne vous suffit pas? Soit! Prenez, parmi les épîtres d'Épicure lui-même, une lettre adressée à un de ses amis, et voyez ce qu'il dit à cet ami:
"Is Diocles’ testimony not enough for you? Fine! Take, from Epicurus’s own letters, a letter addressed to one of his friends, and see what he says to that friend:"
"Quoique je me tienne pour satisfait d'avoir de l'eau et du pain bis, envoyez-moi un peu de fromage cythridien, afin que je puisse faire un repas plus excellent, quand l'envie m'en prendra."
"Although I consider myself satisfied to have water and some brown bread, please send me a bit of cythridian cheese so that I can have a more excellent meal when the craving strikes."
"Dites-moi, monsieur, cette sobriété du philosophe athénien ne ressemble-t-elle pas beaucoup à celle du chansonnier que j'appelle mon père, et qui veut bien, dans une lettre que je reçois de lui en même temps que la vôtre, m'appeler son fils?
"Tell me, sir, doesn’t this sobriety of the Athenian philosopher resemble that of the songwriter whom I call my father, and who kindly, in a letter I receive from him at the same time as yours, calls me his son?"
"Après tout cela, et pour corroborer ce que j'ai eu l'honneur de vous dire sur ce pauvre Épicure,—si calomnié, comme vous voyez, par Timon, par Diotime, par Denys d'Halicarnasse, par Timocrate, par Épictète, par le dictionnaire de l'Académie, et même par vous!—laissez-moi vous citer deux ou trois des maximes qui faisaient le fond de sa philosophie, et vous serez forcé d'avouer qu'elles sont moins désolantes que celles de la Rochefoucauld.
"After all this, and to support what I had the honor to tell you about poor Epicurus—so slandered, as you can see, by Timon, by Diotime, by Denis of Halicarnassus, by Timocrates, by Epictetus, by the Academy’s dictionary, and even by you!—let me quote a few of the maxims that formed the basis of his philosophy, and you will have to admit that they are less despairing than those of La Rochefoucauld."
V
V
"Il est impossible de vivre agréablement sans la prudence, sans l'honnêteté et sans la justice. La vie de celui qui pratique l'excellence de ces vertus se passe toujours dans le plaisir; de sorte que l'homme qui est assez malheureux pour n'être ni honnête, ni prudent, ni juste, est privé de ce qui peut faire la félicité de la vie."
"One cannot live happily without prudence, honesty, and justice. The life of someone who practices these virtues is always filled with pleasure; thus, a person who is unfortunate enough to be neither honest, prudent, nor just is deprived of what can bring happiness to life."
XVI
XVI
"Le sage ne peut et ne doit jamais avoir qu'une fortune très-médiocre; mais, s'il n'est pas considérable par les biens qui dépendent d'elle, l'élévation de son esprit et l'excellence de ses conseils le mettent au-dessus des autres."
"Wise people can and should never have more than a modest fortune; however, even if they don’t possess significant wealth, their elevated mindset and exceptional advice place them above others."
XVII
XVII
"Le juste est celui qui vit sans trouble et sans désordre; l'injuste, au contraire, est toujours dans l'agitation."
"Someone who is fair lives without disturbance and disorder; the unfair person, on the other hand, is always in turmoil."
XXIX
XXIX
"Entre toutes les choses que la sagesse nous donne pour vivre heureusement, il n'y en a point de si précieuse qu'un véritable ami: c'est un des biens qui nous procurent le plus de joie dans la médiocrité!"
"Among all the things that wisdom gives us to live happily, there is nothing as precious as a true friend: it is one of the greatest joys we can have in a modest life!"
"Je regrette, monsieur, de ne pouvoir pousser plus loin les citations; mais je tiens à deux choses: la première, à vous répondre poste pour poste, et la seconde, en vous répondant poste pour poste, à vous prouver que, lorsque j'applique une épithète quelconque à un homme de la valeur de Béranger, c'est que j'ai la conviction, non-seulement instinctive, mais encore raisonnée, que cette épithète lui convient.
"Sorry, sir, I can’t go any further with the quotes; but I care about two things: first, I want to respond point for point, and second, by responding point for point, I want to show you that when I apply any label to someone like Béranger, I truly believe—not only intuitively but also thoughtfully—that this label fits him."
"J'espère donc que vous aurez l'obligeance d'écrire sur votre dictionnaire de l'Académie, en marge de la très-fausse définition donnée par la docte assemblée du mot ÉPICURIEN, ces mots, qui lui serviront de correctif:
"I hope, therefore, that you will kindly write in your Academy dictionary, next to the very false definition given by the learned assembly for the word ÉPICURIEN, these words, which will serve as a corrective:
"Sectateur d'Épicure, c'est-à-dire philosophe professant qu'un ami est le premier des biens que puisse nous accorder le ciel; que la médiocrité de la fortune est une des conditions de la sagesse; que la sobriété est la base la plus solide de la santé, et qu'enfin il est impossible de vivre, non-seulement honnêtement, mais encore agréablement, ici-has, sans la prudence, l'honnêteté et la justice.—NOTA. Les épicuriens ne buvaient qu'un setier de vin par jour, et, le reste du temps, se désaltéraient avec de l'eau pure. Épicure, les jours de gala, mangeait sur son pain,—que, les autres jours, il mangeait sec,—un peu de fromage cythridien."
"Follower of Epicurus, meaning a philosopher who believes that a friend is the greatest gift the heavens can give us; that a modest fortune is one of the conditions of wisdom; that moderation is the strongest foundation of health, and that finally it is impossible to live, not only honorably but also enjoyably, here and now, without prudence, honesty, and justice.—NOTE. The Epicureans only drank a quart of wine per day, and for the rest of the time, they refreshed themselves with pure water. Epicurus ate with his bread on gala days—while on other days, he had it dry—a little bit of Cythrian cheese."
"Et, ce faisant, monsieur, vous serez arrivé à avoir vous-même et vous contribuerez à donner aux autres une idée un peu plus exacte de l'illustre philosophe dont j'ai eu, à votre avis, le malheur de dire que notre grand chansonnier était le disciple.
"By doing this, sir, you will have achieved a better understanding yourself and will help others gain a more accurate idea of the illustrious philosopher, whom, in your opinion, I unfortunately claimed our great songwriter was a disciple of."
"Il me reste, en terminant, à vous remercier, monsieur, de votre lettre, qui, malgré l'acrimonie de certaines phrases, me paraît, au fond, inspirée par un bon sentiment.
"Before I finish, I want to thank you, sir, for your letter, which, despite the bitterness of some phrases, seems to me, at its core, to be motivated by good sentiment."
"Veuillez agréer mes salutations empressées.
"Please accept my best regards.
"ALEXANDRE DUMAS
"ALEXANDRE DUMAS
"BRUXELLES, 7 septembre 1853"
"BRUSSELS, 7 September 1853"
NOTE
(DE LATOUCHE)
"Si cette comédie fût tombée, au théâtre, sous l'accusation de manquer aux premiers principes de la vie dans les arts, je l'aurais laissée dans l'oubli qu'elle mérite peut-être; mais elle a été repoussée par une portion du public, dans une seule et douteuse épreuve, sous la prévention d'impudeur et d'immoralité; quelques journaux de mes amis l'ont traitée d'obscénité révoltante, d'œuvre de scandale et d'horreur. Je la publie comme une protestation contre ces absurdités; car, si j'accepte la condamnation, je n'accepte pas le jugement. On peut consentir à ce que le chétif enfant de quelques veilles soit inhumé par des mains empressées, mais non qu'on écrive une calomnie sur sa pierre.
"Had this play been criticized on stage for failing the fundamental principles of life in the arts, I might have left it in the obscurity it perhaps deserves; however, it has been rejected by a portion of the audience during a single and questionable trial, accused of impropriety and immorality. Some newspapers from my friends have labeled it as repulsive obscenity, a scandalous and horrific work. I publish it as a protest against these absurdities, because while I may accept the condemnation, I do not accept the judgment. One might agree to let the frail child of some bygone days be buried by eager hands, but not that a slander be inscribed on its stone."
"Ce que j'aurais voulu peindre, c'était la risible crédulité d'un roi élevé par des moines, et victime de l'ambition d'une marâtre: ce que j'aurais voulu frapper de ridicule, c'était cette éducation qui est encore celle de toutes les cours de l'Europe; ce que j'aurais voulu montrer, c'était la diplomatie rôdant autour des alcôves royales; ce que j'aurais voulu prouver, c'était comment rien n'est sacré pour la religion abaissée au rôle de la politique, et par quels éléments divers les légitimités se perpétuent.
"What I would have liked to paint was the laughable gullibility of a king raised by monks and a victim of a stepmother's ambition: what I would have liked to portray as ridiculous was that education, which is still the one practiced in all the courts of Europe; what I would have liked to show was diplomacy lurking around royal chambers; what I would have liked to prove was how nothing is sacred when religion is reduced to a political role, and what various elements sustain these legitimacies."
"Au lieu de cette philosophique direction du drame, des juges prévenus l'ont supposé complaisant au vice, et flatteur du propre dévergondage de leur esprit. Et, pourtant, non satisfait de chercher une compensation à la hardiesse de son sujet dans la peinture d'une reine innocente, et dans l'amour profondément pur de celui qui meurt pour elle, le drame avait changé jusqu'à l'âge historique de Charles II, pour atténuer le crime de sa mère, et tourner l'infirmité de sa nature en prétentions de vieillard qui confie sa postérité à la grâce de Dieu.
"Instead of this philosophical direction of the drama, biased judges assumed it was indulgent toward vice and flattering to their own moral corruption. Yet, not content with seeking compensation for the boldness of its subject through the portrayal of an innocent queen and the deeply pure love of the man who dies for her, the drama even changed the historical age of Charles II to downplay the sins of his mother and frame his personal shortcomings as the pretensions of an old man entrusting his legacy to the grace of God."
"Mais, comme l'a dit un critique qui a le plus condamné ce qu'il appelle l'incroyable témérité de la tentative, la portion de l'assemblée qui a frappé d'anathème la Reine d'Espagne;[Pg 532] ce public si violent dans son courroux, si amer dans sa défense de la pudeur blessée, ne s'est point placé au point de vue de l'auteur; il n'a pas voulu s'associer à la lutte du poète avec son sujet; il n'a pas pris intérêt à ce combat de l'artiste avec la matière rebelle. Armée d'une bonne moralité bourgeoise, cette masse aveugle, aux instincts sourds et spontanés, n'a vu, dans l'œuvre entière, qu'une espèce de bravade et de défi; elle s'est scandalisée de ce qu'on voulait lui cacher, et de ce qu'on osait lui montrer. Cette draperie à demi soulevée avec tant de précaution, cette continuelle équivoque l'ont révoltée. Plus le style et le faire de l'auteur s'assouplissaient, se voilaient, s'entouraient de réticences, de finesse, de nuances pour déguiser le fond de la pièce, plus on se choquait vivement du contraste.
"However, as a critic who harshly condemned what he calls the unbelievable audacity of the attempt pointed out, the part of the audience that denounced the Queen of Spain; [Pg 532] that crowd, so fierce in its anger and bitter in its defense of wounded modesty, did not view things from the author's perspective; it did not want to join the poet's struggle with his subject; it had no interest in this battle of the artist against the rebellious material. Armed with a solid middle-class morality, this blind mass, with its dull and instinctive reactions, saw in the entire work nothing but a kind of bravado and challenge; it was outraged by what was supposed to be hidden from it and by what dared to be shown. This drapery partially lifted with such caution, this constant ambiguity revolted it even more. The more the author's style and execution softened, veiled themselves, and surrounded themselves with hesitations, subtlety, and nuances to disguise the essence of the piece, the more sharply people reacted against the contrast."
"Que voulez-vous!" m'écrivait, le soir même de mon revers, un de mes amis,—car je me plais à invoquer d'autres témoignages que le mien dans la plus délicate des circonstances où il soit difficile de parler de soi,—"que voulez-vous! une idée fixe a couru dans l'auditoire; une préoccupation de libertinage a frappé de vertige les pauvres cervelles; des hurleurs de morale publique se pendaient à toutes les phrases, pour empêcher de voir ce qu'il y a de naturel et de vrai dans la marche de cette intrigue, qui serpente sous le cilice et sous la gravité empesée des mœurs espagnoles. On s'est attaché à des consonnances; on a pris au vol des terminaisons de mot, des moitiés de mot, des quarts de mot; on a été monstrueux d'interprétation. Il y a eu, en effet, hydrophobie d'innocence. J'ai vu des maris expliquer à leurs femmes comment telle chose, qui avait l'air bonhomme, était une profonde scélératesse. Tout est devenu prétexte à communications à voix basse; des dévots se sont révélés habiles commentateurs, et des dames merveilleusement intelligentes. Il y a de pauvres filles à qui les commentaires sur les courses de taureaux vont mettre la bestialité en tête! Et tout ce monde-là fait bon accueil, le dimanche, aux lazzi du Sganarelle de Molière? Il y a de la pudeur à jour fixe."
"What do you want!" one of my friends wrote to me on the very evening of my setback—because I like to call on other testimonies besides my own in the most delicate situations where it's hard to speak about oneself—"What do you want! A fixed idea took hold of the audience; a preoccupation with libertinism spun the poor minds around; public morality shouters hung on every phrase to prevent seeing what is natural and true in the progression of this plot, which slithers under the roughness and heavy seriousness of Spanish customs. They've focused on consonances; they snatched up endings of words, half-words, quarter-words; they’ve been outrageous in their interpretations. There has indeed been a kind of rabid fear of innocence. I’ve seen husbands explaining to their wives how something that seemed innocent was actually a deep wickedness. Everything has become an excuse for whispered communications; devout individuals revealed themselves as skilled commentators, and ladies astonishingly enlightened. There are poor girls whom the commentary on bullfighting will fill with bestiality! And all these people warmly welcome the antics of Sganarelle from Molière on Sundays? There’s modesty on certain days."
"Il se présentait, sans doute, deux manières de traiter cet aventureux sujet. J'en avais mûri les réflexions avant de l'entreprendre. On pouvait et on peut encore en faire une charade en cinq actes, dont le mot sera enveloppé de phrases hypocrites et faciles, et arriver jusqu'au succès de quelques-uns de ces vaudevilles qui éludent aussi spirituellement les difficultés que le but de l'art; mais j'ai craint, je l'avoue, que le mot de la charade (impuissant) ne se retrouvât au fond de cette manière d'aborder[Pg 533] la scène. Et puis, dans les pièces de l'école de Shakspeare et de Molière, s'offrait une autre séduction d'artiste pour répudier cette vulgaire adresse: chercher les moyens de la nature, et n'affecter pas d'être plus délicat que la vérité. Les conséquences des choix téméraires que j'ai faits m'ont porté à résister à beaucoup d'instances pour tenter avec ce drame le sort des répresentations nouvelles. Encourager l'auteur à se rattacher à la partie applaudie de l'ouvrage qu'on appelait dramatique, pour détruire ou châtrer celle qu'il espérait être la portion comique, était un conseil assez semblable à celui qu'on offrirait à un peintre, si on voulait qu'il rapprochât sur les devants de sa toile ses fonds, ses lointains, ses paysages, demi-ébauchés pour concourir à l'ensemble, et qu'il obscurcît les figures de son premier plan.
There were definitely two ways to handle this adventurous subject. I had thought it over before diving in. One could, and still can, turn it into a five-act charade, where the word would be wrapped in insincere and easy phrases, leading to the success of some of those theatrical plays that cleverly sidestep the challenges as well as the purpose of art. However, I was concerned, I admit, that the word of the charade (powerless) would end up being the underlying issue with this approach to the stage. Moreover, in the works of Shakespeare and Molière, there was another artistic temptation to reject this ordinary method: to seek the means of nature and not pretend to be more refined than the truth. The consequences of the bold choices I've made led me to resist many pressures to try with this drama the fate of new performances. Encouraging the author to stick to the well-received part of the work, which was labeled dramatic, to destroy or diminish what he hoped would be the comedic portion was advice quite similar to suggesting to a painter that he should bring closer to the foreground of his canvas his backgrounds, distant scenes, and landscapes, half-sketched to contribute to the whole, while darkening the figures in the foreground.
"Il fallait naïvement réussir ou tomber au gré d'une inspiration naïve. Je crois encore, et après l'événement, qu'il y avait pour l'auteur quelques chances favorables; mais le destin des drames ne ressemble pas mal à celui des batailles: l'art peut avoir ses défaites orgueilleuses comme Varsovie, et le capricieux parterre ses brutalités d'autocrate.
"One had to naively succeed or fail based on a naive inspiration. I still believe, even after the event, that the author had some favorable chances; however, the fate of dramas is not unlike that of battles: art can have its proud defeats just like Warsaw, and the whimsical audience can be as brutal as an autocrat."
"Ce n'est ni le manque de foi dans le zèle de mes amis, ni le sentiment inconnu pour moi de la crainte de quelques adversaires, ni la bonne volonté refroidie des comédiens qui m'ont conduit à cette résolution. Les comédiens, après notre disgrâce, sont demeurés exactement fidèles à leur première opinion sur la pièce. Et quel dévouement d'artiste change avec la fortune? Le leur m'a été offert avec amitié. Je ne le consigne pas seulement ici pour payer une dette de gratitude, mais afin d'encourager, s'il en était besoin, les jeunes auteurs à confier sans hésitation leurs plus périlleux ouvrages à des talents et à des caractères aussi sûrs que ceux de Monrose, de Perrier, de Menjaud et de mademoiselle Brocard, dont la grâce s'est montrée si poétique et la candeur si passionnée.
"Neither the lack of faith in the enthusiasm of my friends, nor the unfamiliar feeling of fear regarding some opponents, nor the cooled goodwill of the actors have led me to this decision. The actors, after our downfall, have remained completely loyal to their original opinion about the play. And what kind of artistic dedication changes with fortune? Their support has been offered to me with friendship. I’m not just noting this here to express my gratitude, but also to encourage, if needed, young authors to confidently entrust their most challenging works to talents and characters as reliable as those of Monrose, Perrier, Menjaud, and Mademoiselle Brocard, whose grace has been so poetic and whose sincerity has been so passionate."
"Mais, au milieu même de notre immense et tumultueux aréopage, entre les bruyants éloges des uns, la vive réprobation des autres, à travers deux ou trois partialités bien rivales, il m'a été révélé, dans l'instinct de ma bonne foi d'auteur, qu'il n'y avait pas sympathie entre la donnée vitale de cette petite comédie et ce public d'apparat qui s'assied devant la scène comme un juge criminaliste, qui se surveille lui-même, qui s'impose à lui-même, qui prend son plaisir en solennité, et s'électrise de délicatesse et de rigueur de convention. Que ce fût sa faute ou la mienne, qu'au lieu de goûter, comme dit Bertinazzi, la chair du poisson, le public[Pg 534] de ce jour-là se fût embarrassé les mâchoires avec les arêtes, toujours est-il que j'ai troublé sa digestion.
"However, in the midst of our vast and tumultuous gathering, between the loud praises of some and the strong disapproval of others, amidst two or three rival biases, I’ve come to realize, in the instinctive good faith of being a writer, that there was no connection between the vital essence of this little comedy and the audience, who sits before the stage like a courtroom judge, self-monitoring, imposing on themselves, taking their pleasure solemnly, and getting thrilled by delicacy and strict conventions. Whether it was their fault or mine, that instead of enjoying, as Bertinazzi puts it, the flesh of the fish, the audience[Pg 534] that day ended up struggling with the bones, the fact remains that I disturbed their digestion."
"Devant le problème matrimonial que j'essayais à résoudre sous la lumière du gaz, au feu des regards masculins, quelques dignes femmes se sont troublées peut-être avec un regret comique, peut-être avec un soupir étouffé. Mais j'avais compté sur de plus universelles innocences; j'espérais trouver la mienne par-dessus le marché de la leur. J'ai mal spéculé. Il s'en est rencontré là de bien spirituelles, de bien jolies, de bien irréprochables; mais pouvais-je raisonnablement imposer des conditions générales?
"Faced with the marital problem I was trying to solve under the gaslight, amid the gaze of men, a few respectable women may have felt a little disturbed, perhaps with a comical regret, perhaps with a suppressed sigh. But I had hoped for more universal innocence; I was looking to find my own on top of theirs. I miscalculated. There were indeed some very witty, very lovely, and very blameless ones present; but could I reasonably impose general conditions?"
"J'ai indigné les actrices de l'Opéra, j'ai scandalisé des séminaristes, j'ai fait perdre contenance à des marquis et à des marchandes de modes! Vous eussiez, dès la troisième scène du premier acte, vu quelques douairières dont les éventails se brisaient, se lever dans leur loge, s'abriter à la hâte sous le velours de leur chapeau noir, et, dans l'attitude de sortir, s'obstiner à ne pas le faire pour feindre de ne plus entendre l'acteur, et se faire répéter, par un officieux cavalier, quelques prétendues équivoques, afin de crier au scandale en toute sécurité de conscience. L'épouse éplorée du commissaire de police s'enfuit au moment où l'amoureux obtient sa grâce.—Ceci est un fait historique.—Elle a fui officiellement, enveloppée de sa pelisse écossaise! Je garde pour moi quelques curieux détails, des noms propres, plus d'une utile anecdote, et comment la clef forée du dandy était enveloppée bravement sous le mouchoir de batiste destiné à essuyer les sueurs froides de son puritanisme. Mais j'ai été perdu dans les cousins des grandes dames, qui se sont pris à venger l'honneur des maris, quand j'ai eu affaire aux chastetés d'estaminet et aux éruditions des magasins à prix fixe.
"J'ai indigné les actrices de l'Opéra, j'ai scandalisé des séminaristes, j'ai fait perdre contenance à des marquis et à des marchandes de modes ! Vous auriez, dès la troisième scène du premier acte, vu quelques veuves dont les éventails se brisaient, se lever dans leur loge, s'abriter à la hâte sous le velours de leur chapeau noir, et, dans l'attitude de sortir, s'obstiner à ne pas le faire pour feindre de ne plus entendre l'acteur, et se faire répéter, par un cavalier bienveillant, quelques prétendues ambiguïtés, afin de crier au scandale en toute sécurité de conscience. L'épouse éplorée du commissaire de police s'est enfuie au moment où l'amoureux obtient sa grâce. — Ceci est un fait historique. — Elle a fui officiellement, enveloppée de sa pelisse écossaise ! Je garde pour moi quelques détails curieux, des noms propres, plus d'une anecdote utile, et comment la clé trouée du dandy était bravement enveloppée sous le mouchoir de batiste destiné à essuyer les sueurs froides de son puritanisme. Mais j'ai été perdu dans les coussins des grandes dames, qui se sont mises à venger l'honneur des maris, quand j'ai eu affaire aux chastetés de bistrot et aux éruditions des magasins à prix fixe."
"Seulement, Dieu me préserve d'entrer en intelligence avec les scrupules de mes interprètes. Ma corruption rougirait de leur pudeur.
"However, God protect me from aligning with the scruples of my interpreters. My corruption would be embarrassed by their modesty."
"J'ai été sacrifié à la pudeur, à la pudeur des vierges du parterre; car, aller supposer que j'ai pu devenir victime de la cabale, ce serait une bien vieille et bien gratuite fatuité. Contre moi, quelques lâches rancunes? Et d'où viendraient elles? Je n'ai que des amitiés vives et des antipathies candides. A qui professe ingénument le mépris d'un gouvernement indigne de la France, pourquoi des ennemis politiques? Et pourquoi des ennemis littéraires à l'auteur d'un article oublié sur la Camaraderie, et au plus paresseux des rédacteurs d'un bénin journal qu'on appelle Figaro?
"J'ai été sacrifié à la pudeur, à la pudeur des vierges du parterre; car, aller supposer que j'ai pu devenir victime de la cabale, ce serait une bien vieille et bien gratuite fatuité. Contre moi, quelques lâches rancunes? Et d'où viendraient-elles? Je n'ai que des amitiés vives et des antipathies candides. À qui professe ingénument le mépris d'un gouvernement indigne de la France, pourquoi des ennemis politiques? Et pourquoi des ennemis littéraires à l'auteur d'un article oublié sur la Camaraderie, et au plus paresseux des rédacteurs d'un bénin journal qu'on appelle Figaro?
"Mais je n'ai pas voulu tomber obstinément comme tant d'autres[Pg 535] après vingt soirées de luttes, entre des enrouements factices, des sifflets honnêtes et des applaudissements à poings fermés. Imposer son drame au public, comme autrefois les catholiques leur rude croyance aux Albigeois; chercher l'affirmation d'un mérite dans deux négations du parterre; calculer combien il faut d'avanies pour se composer un succès, c'est là un de ces courages que je ne veux pas avoir. Il appartenait, d'ailleurs, à la reine d'Espagne de se retirer chastement du théâtre; c'est une noble princesse, c'est une épouse vierge, élevée dans les susceptibilités du point d'honneur de la France.
"But I didn't want to stubbornly fall like so many others[Pg 535] after twenty nights of struggle, amidst fake coughs, honest whistles, and applause with clenched fists. Imposing my drama on the audience, like the Catholics did with their harsh beliefs on the Albigensians; seeking validation of my worth through two rejections from the front row; calculating how many insults it takes to create a success—these are not the kinds of courage I want to have. Besides, it was fitting for the queen of Spain to withdraw gracefully from the stage; she is a noble princess, a chaste wife, raised with an awareness of the importance of honor in France."
"Quelques-uns aiment mieux sortir par la fenêtre que trébucher dans les escaliers; à qui prend étourdiment le premier parti, il peut être donné encore de rencontrer le gazon sous ses pas; mais, pour l'autre, et sans compter la multiplicité des meurtrissures, il expose votre robe de poète à balayer les traces du passant.
"Some prefer to jump out the window rather than trip down the stairs; those who recklessly choose the first option might still find themselves landing on grass, but for the other choice, not to mention the many bruises incurred, it risks getting your poetic dress dirty by sweeping up the traces left by passersby."
"Cependant, au fond d'une chute éclatante, il y a deux sentiments d'amertume que je ne prétends point dissimuler; mais je ne conseille à personne autre que moi de les conseiller: le premier est la joie de quelques bonnes âmes, et le second, le désenchantement des travaux commencés. Ce n'est pas l'ouvrage attaqué qu'on regrette, mais l'espérance ou l'illusion de l'avenir. Rentré dans sa solitude, ces pensées qui composaient la famille du poète, il les retrouve en deuil et comme éplorées de la perte d'une sœur, car vous vous êtes flatté d'un avenir plus digne de vos consciencieuses études; le sort de quelques drames prônés ailleurs avait éveillé en vous une émulation. Si le triomphe de médiocrité indigne, il encourage; s'il produit la colère, il produit aussi la confiance, et, à force d'être coudoyé à tout moment par des grands hommes, le démon de l'orgueil vous avait visité; il était venu rôder autour du lit où vous dormiez en paix; il avait évoqué le fantôme de vos rêveries bizarres; elles étaient descendues autour de vous, se tenant la main, vous demandant la vie, vous jetant des sourires, vous promettant des fleurs, et, maintenant, elles réclament toutes l'obscurité pour refuge. Ainsi tombe dans le cloître un homme qu'un premier amour a trompé.
Cependant, au fond d'une chute éclatante, il y a deux sentiments d'amertume que je ne cache pas; mais je ne conseille à personne d'autre que moi de les ressentir : le premier est la joie de quelques bonnes âmes, et le second, le désenchantement des projets inachevés. Ce n'est pas le travail entrepris qu'on regrette, mais l'espoir ou l'illusion de l'avenir. De retour dans sa solitude, ces pensées qui formaient la famille du poète, il les retrouve en deuil, comme si elles pleuraient la perte d'une sœur, car vous vous étiez bercé d'un avenir plus digne de vos études consciencieuses ; le sort de quelques drames célébrés ailleurs avait éveillé en vous une émulation. Si le triomphe de la médiocrité indigne, il encourage ; s'il suscite la colère, il engendre aussi la confiance, et, à force de côtoyer tout le temps des grands hommes, le démon de l'orgueil vous avait visité ; il était venu rôder autour du lit où vous dormiez en paix ; il avait évoqué le fantôme de vos rêves bizarres ; elles s'étaient rassemblées autour de vous, se tenant par la main, vous demandant la vie, vous lançant des sourires, vous promettant des fleurs, et, maintenant, elles réclament toutes l'obscurité pour refuge. Ainsi tombe dans le cloître un homme qu'un premier amour a trompé.
"Mais, je le répète, que ce découragement ne soit contagieux pour personne. Ne défendez pas surtout le mérite de l'ouvrage écarté comme l'unique création à laquelle vous serez jamais intéressé. N'imitez pas tel jeune homme qui se cramponne à son premier drame, comme une vieille femme à son premier amour. Point de ces colères d'enfant contre la borne où vous vous êtes heurté. Il faudrait oublier jusqu'à une injustice dans les travaux[Pg 536] d'un meilleur ouvrage. Que vos explications devant le public n'aillent pas ressembler à une apologie, et songez encore moins à vous retrancher dans quelque haineuse préface, à vous créneler dans une disgrâce, pour tirer, de là, sur tous ceux que vous n'avez pas pu séduire. Du haut de son buisson, la pie-grièche romantique dispute peut-être avec le croquant; mais, si, au pied du chêne ou il s'est posé un moment, l'humble passereau, toujours moqueur et bon compagnon, entend se rassembler des voix discordantes, il va chercher plus loin des échos favorable.
"However, I repeat, let this discouragement not be contagious for anyone. Don't defend the merit of the dismissed work as the only creation you will ever care about. Don’t be like that young man who clings to his first play, like an old woman to her first love. No childlike tantrums against the obstacle where you stumbled. You should forget even an injustice in the works of a better piece. Let your explanations to the public not sound like an apology, and think even less about retreating into some hateful preface, walling yourself off in disgrace to take shots at everyone you couldn't impress. From its bush, the romantic shrike may argue with the country bumpkin; but if, at the foot of the oak where it has momentarily settled, the humble sparrow, always mocking and good-natured, hears discordant voices gathering, it will seek out more distant echoes of support."
"Je ne finirai pas sans consigner ici un aveu dont je n'ai pu trouver la place dans la rapide esquisse de cet avertissement. Je déclare que je dois l'idée première de la partie bouffone de cette comédie à une grave tragédie allemande; plusieurs détails relatifs à la nourrice Jourdan, à un excellent livre de M. Mortonval; la réminiscence d'un sentiment de prêtre amoureux, au chapitre vu du roman de Cinq-Mars, et, enfin, une phrase tout entière, à mon ami Charles Nodier. Cette confession est la seule malice que je me permettrai contre les plagiaires qui pullulent chaque jour, et qui sont assez effrontés et assez pauvres pour ne m'épargner à moi-même ni leur vol, ni leur silence. La phrase de Nodier, je l'avais appropriée à mon dialogue avec cette superstition païenne qui pense éviter la foudre à l'abri d'une feuille de laurier, avec la foi du chrétien qui essaye à protéger sa demeure sous un rameau bénit. L'inefficacité du préservatif n'ébranlera pas dans mon cœur la religion de l'amitié.
"I won’t finish without noting a confession that I couldn't fit into the quick summary of this warning. I admit that I got the initial idea for the comic part of this play from a serious German tragedy; several details related to the nurse Jourdan come from an excellent book by Mr. Mortonval; the recollection of a feeling from a lovesick priest is from the chapter seen in the novel Cinq-Mars, and finally, an entire phrase comes from my friend Charles Nodier. This confession is the only bit of mischief I’ll allow myself against the plagiarists who multiply every day and are shameless enough to spare me neither their theft nor their silence. I had adapted Nodier’s phrase for my dialogue with this pagan superstition that believes it can avoid lightning under a laurel leaf, much like a Christian’s faith that tries to protect his home with a blessed branch. The ineffectiveness of the amulet won’t shake my heart's belief in the religion of friendship."
"H. DE LATOUCHE
"H. DE LATOUCHE"
"AULNAY, le 10 novembre 1831"
"AULNAY, November 10, 1831"
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