"Well," continued the Postmaster-general, "that letter was laid before King Louis XVIII., who already knew you asa poet. 'Ah! ah!' said the king, 'he possesses great talents and a good heart ... that young man must be rewarded!' and he ordered a pension of twelve hundred francs to be settled on you."
"But," Victor finally stammered out, "how did my letter get to the notice of King Louis XVIII.?"
The Postmaster-general burst into shouts of Homeric laughter. And, simple-minded though the poet was, at last he understood.
"But," he exclaimed, "what became of the letter?"
"Why,naturally, it was replaced in the post."
"And reached its destination?"
"Probably."
"But if Delon had accepted my offer and had come to me, what would have happened?"
"He would have been arrested, tried and probably executed, my dear poet."
"So that my letter would have been regarded as a deathtrap for him; and if he had been arrested, tried and executed ... the pension I have received would have been blood-money! Oh!..."
Victor uttered a cry of horror at what might have happened, clapped his hands to his head and rushed out into the antechamber, where M. Roger followed him, laughing greatly, telling him he had left his hat behind him and saying—
"Remember that the mail coach is entirely at your service, for the day after to-morrow, April 15."
His horror at what might have happened gradually subsided into calmness, and Hugo breathed again when he realised that Delon was in safety in England. But he began to believe in the existence of that famous black cabinet that he had looked on as a fable, and he vowed never again to offer an outlaw shelter through the medium of the ordinary post.
When the day of departure for Blois arrived, he and Madame Hugo and her lady's-maid went to the hôtel des Postes and, just as he was about to enter the coach, an orderly officer, who was very nearly too late, rode up at full gallop and placed a letterin his hand which bore the king's seal. It contained a commission making him a chevalier of the Légion d'honneur, signed by Charles X. Hugo was only twenty-three at the time, and that is an age when such things cause immense delight, especially if they are bestowed graciously. In the general promotion, Hugo and Lamartine had at first been mixed up together in what is popularly termed abatch, and King Charles X. had struck off both their names. M. de la Rochefoucauld, who approved of the list and was particularly glad of the inclusion of the two young poets, ventured to inquire of His Majesty why he had cancelled two such celebrated names as theirs?
"Precisely because they are so famous, monsieur," replied Charles X., "in order that they may not be confounded with other names. You must present me with a separate report for MM. Lamartine and Hugo."
The warrant was accompanied by an official letter from M. le Comte Sosthène de la Rochefoucauld and by a friendly letter from his secretary, M. de Beauchesne.
M. de Beauchesne, or rather Beauchesne, was a true guide to M. de la Rochefoucauld in every piece of good work he did, and it should be mentioned that the Director of the Fine Arts, who was greatly taunted by the Opposition papers at that time—I am not referring to political matters—did excellent work in the way of encouraging literary efforts. Let me repeat, however, that Beauchesne was his guide in these matters. Beauchesne was then a charming fellow of twenty-four or twenty-five, and has since developed into a charming poet. So loyal a heart was his that he seemed to have taken for his motto, "Video nec invideo"; and, indeed, what more could he have wanted? All who were great called himbrother, and all who were good called himfriend.A free and loyal Breton when the true monarchy fell, but Beauchesne remained faithful to its ruins. I shall relate in its proper place how once we very nearly had a duel over politics, and I shall maintain that we were never better friends than then, when we faced each other sword in hand. Dear Beauchesne! He disappeared quitesuddenly: it was ten or fifteen years before I saw him again, but one morning he came to see me as though he had only left the previous day, and we embraced heartily. He brought with him a charming tragedy or drama, I forget which now, a phantasy taken from one of our ancientfabliaux—theÉpreuves de la belle Griseldis—which, in all probability, will be read, received, played and applauded at the Théâtre-Français. He had a bewitching little mansion in the bois de Boulogne which he sold. Ivy has no time to grow over the homes of poets. I remember when he had just built his house he sent me his album to write a few lines in, and I wrote these:—
"Beauchesne, vous avez une douce retraite;Moi, je suis sans abri pour les jours de malheur!Que votre beau castel, pour reposer sa tête,Garde dans son grenier, une place au poëte,Qui vous garde en échange une place en son cœur."
I lost sight of Beauchesne a second time. A catastrophe happened to me which left me indifferent, but which most people look upon as a great misfortune. I opened a letter full of tender sympathy. It was from Beauchesne. I did not answer it then; I will answer it to-day. As this is by no means the last time I shall mention dear Beauchesne I will not bid himadieubutau revoir !...
So Hugo received his brevet of chevalier, and M. de la Rochefoucauld's official letter, with Beauchesne's friendly one, at the same time. He buttoned them all three next to his heart, climbed upon the coach and composed the whole of the ballad of theDeux Archersduring the drive between Paris and Blois. When he arrived at Blois he joyfully laid his brevet in his father's hands. The old soldier took off from an ancient coat, that had received the dust of many lands, one of his old decorations that had faced the fire of many battles, and tied it to his son's buttonhole, wiping away a tear—I strongly suspect that every father's eye is capable of that weakness. During this visit to Blois the poet received a private letter from Charles X., inviting him tobe present at his coronation at Rheims, and Hugo set out in company with Nodier.
At Rheims he found Lamartine, with whom he became acquainted. They each acknowledged the king's hospitality, Lamartine by hisChant du sacre; Hugo by hisOde à Charles X.
In 1826Bug-Jargalappeared. Just asChristinehad been composed beforeHenri III., soBug-Jargalhad been finished beforeHan d'Islande.I do not know why this chronological transposition was made in the publication.
In 1827 the Austrian Ambassador gave a grand soirée, to which he invited all the most illustrious persons in France, and all the most illustrious persons in France, who are always eager to attend soirées, went to that of the ambassador. The marshals were there among the rest of the people, and a singular thing happened at this particular soirée. At the door of the salon was the customary lackey to announce the names of the visitors who had been deemed worthy of an invitation. When Marshal Soult arrived, the lackey asked him, "What name shall I announce?"
"The Duc de Dalmatie," replied the marshal.
"M. le maréchal Soult," announced the lackey, who had received his orders.
This might very well have been thought to be a mistake, so theillustre épée(as he had been called since the time of Louis-Philippe, who, probably, did not care to call him the Duc de Dalmatie any more than did the Austrian Ambassador) paid no attention to the matter.
Marshal Mortier came next.
"What name shall I give?" asked the lackey.
"The Duc de Trévise."
"M. le maréchal Mortier," called out the lackey.
The eyes of the two old comrades of the emperor flashed lightnings of interrogation across at one another; but they did not know what to reply, for it was not yet quite clear what would be the best course to take.
Marshal Marmont came third.
"What name shall I announce?" asked the lackey.
"The Duc de Raguse."
"M. le maréchal Marmont," announced the lackey.
This time there could not be any mistake about it; so the two first arrivals joined the third and told him of their difficulty. But they all three decided to wait a while longer.
The Duc de Reggio, the Duc de Tarente and all the other dukes of the Imperial creation came, one after another, and, although they all gave their ducal titles, they were only announced by their family names.
The insult was open and patent, and offered publicly, and yet the insulted men silently withdrew, to nurse the insult they had endured. Not one of them thought of striking the insulter. But a poet was ready to demand redress and to obtain it on their behalf! Three days after this insult had been offered to the whole of the army, in the person of its chiefs, theOde à la Colonneappeared.
ODE À LA COLONNE"O monument vengeur, trophée indélébile!Bronze qui, tournoyant sur ta base immobile,Sembles porter au ciel ta gloire et ton néant,Et de tout ce qu'a fait une main colossale,Seul es resté debout! ruine triomphaleDe l'édifice du géant!Débris du grand empire et de la grande armée,Colonne d'où si haut parle la renommée!Je t'aime; l'étranger t'admire avec effroi,J'aime tes vieux héros sculptés par la victoire,Et tous ces fantômes de gloireQui se pressent autour de toi.J'aime à voir sur tes flancs, colonne étincelante!Revivre ces soldats qu'en leur onde sanglanteOnt roulés le Danube, et le Rhin, et le Pô;Tu mets, comme un guerrier, le pied sur ta conquête,J'aime ton piédestal d'armures et ta tête,Dont le panache est un drapeau.Au bronze de Henri, mon orgueil te marie.J'aime à vous voir tous deux, honneur de la patrie,Immortels, dominant nos troubles passagers,Sortir, signes jumeaux d'amour et de colère,Lui, de l'épargne populaire,Toi, des arsenaux étrangers.Que de fois, tu le sais, quand la nuit sous ses voilesFait fuir la blanche lune, ou trembler les étoiles,Je viens, triste, évoquer tes fastes devant moi,Et d'un œil enflammé, dévorant ton histoire,Prendre, convive obscur, ma part de tant de gloireComme un pâtre au banquet d'un roi!Que de fois j'ai cru voir, ô colonne française!Ton airain ennemi rugir dans la fournaise;Que de fois, ranimant des combattants épars,Heurtant sur tes parois leurs armees dérouillées,J'ai ressuscité ces mêléesQui s'assiègent de toutes parts!Jamais, ô monument! même ivres de leur nombre,Les étrangers sans peur, n'ont passé sur ton ombre;Leurs pas n'ébranlent point ton bronze souverain,Quand le sort une fois les poussa vers nos rives;Ils n'osaient étaler leurs parades oisivesDevant tes batailles d'airain.Mais, quoi! n'entend-je point, avec de sourds murmures,De ta base à ton front bruire les armures?Colonne! il m'a semblé qu'éblouissant mes yeux,Tes bataillons cuivrés cherchaient à redescendre;Que tes demi-dieux, noirs d'une héroïque cendre,Interrompaient soudain leur marche vers les cieux.Leurs voix mêlaient des noms à leur vieille devise:TARENTE, REGGIO, DALMATIE ET TRÉVISE,Et leurs aigles, sortant de leur puissant sommeil,Suivaient d'un bec ardent cette aigle à double têteDont l'œil, ami de l'ombre où son essor s'arrête,Se baisse à leur regard comme au feu de soleil.Qu'est-ce donc, et pourquoi, bronze envie de Rome,Vois-je tes légions frémir comme un seul homme?Quel impossible outrage à ta hauteur atteint?Qui donc a réveillé ces ombres immortelles,Ces aigles qui, battant ta base de leurs ailes,Dans leur ongle captif pressent leur foudre éteint?Je comprends: l'étranger, qui nous croit sans mémoire,Veut, feuillet par feuillet, déchirer notre histoire,Écrite avec du sang, à la pointe du fer ...Ose-t-il, imprudent, heurter tant de trophées?De ce bronze, forgé de foudres étouffées,Chaque étincelle est un éclair.Est-ce Napoléon qu'il frappe en notre armée?Veut-il, de cette gloire en tant lieux semée,Disputer l'héritage à nos vieux généraux?Pour un fardeau pareil il a la main débile:L'empire d'Alexandre et les armes d'AchilleNe se partagent qu'aux héros.Mais non; l'Autrichien, dans sa fierté qu'il dompte,Est content si leurs noms ne disent que sa honte;Il fait de sa défaite un titre à nos guerriers,Et, craignant des vainqueurs moins que des feudataires,Ils pardonne aux fleurons de nos ducs militaires,Si ne sont que des lauriers.Bronze! il n'a donc jamais, fier pour une victoire,Subi de tes splendeurs l'aspect expiatoire?D'où vient tant de courage à cet audacieux?Croit-il impunément toucher à nos annales?Et comment donc lit-il ces pages triomphalesQue tu déroules dans les cieux?Est-ce un langage obscur à ses regards timides?Eh! qu'il s'en fasse instruire au pied des Pyramides,A Vienne, au vieux Kremlin, au morne Escurial;Qu'il en parle à ces rois, cour dorée et nombreuse,Qui naguère peuplaient, d'une tente poudreuse,Le vestibule impérial!A quoi pense-t-il donc, l'étranger qui nous brave?N'avions nous pas hier l'Europe pour esclave?Nous, subir de son joug l'indigne talion!Non, au champ du combat nous pouvons reparaître.On nous a mutilés, mais le temps a peut-êtreFait croître l'ongle du lion....De quel droit viennent-ils découronner nos gloires?Les Bourbons ont toujours adopté des victoires;Nos rois t'ont défendu d'un ennemi tremblant,O trophée! A leur pieds tes palmes se déposent;Et si tes quatre aigles reposent,C'est à l'ombre du drapeau blanc.Quoi! le globe est ému de volcans électriques,Derrière l'Océan grondent les Amériques,Stamboul rugit, Hellé remonte aux jours anciens;Lisbonne se débat aux mains de l'Angleterre;Seul, le vieux peuple franc s'indigne que la terreTremble a d'autres pas que les siens.Prenez garde, étrangers! nous ne savons que faire;La paix nous berce en vain dans son oisive sphère,L'arène de la guerre a pour nous tant d'attrait!Nous froissons dans nos mains, hélas! inoccupées.Des lyres à défaut d'épées;Nous chantons comme on combattrait.Prenez garde! la France, où grandit un autre âge,N'est pas si morte encor, qu'elle souffre un outrage;Les partis pour un temps voileront leur drapeau.Contre une injure, ici, tout grandi, tout se lève,Tout s'arme, et la Vendée aiguisera son glaiveSur la pierre de Waterloo.Vous dérobez des noms! Quoi donc, faut-il qu'on ailleLever sur tous vos champs des titres de bataille?Faut-il, quittant ces noms par la valeur trouvés,Pour nos gloires chez vous chercher d'autres baptèmes;Sur l'airain de vos canons mêmesNe sont-ils point assez gravés?L'étranger briserait le blason de la France!On verrait, enhardi par notre indifférence.Sur nos fiers écussons tomber son vil marteau!Ah! comme ce Romain qui remuait la terre,Vous portez, ô Français, et la paix et la guerreDans les plis de votre manteau!Votre aile en ce moment touche, à sa fantaisie,L'Afrique par Cadix et par Moscou l'Asie;Vous chassez en courant Anglais, Russes, Germains;Les tours croulent devant vos trompettes fatales,Et de toutes les capitalesVos drapeaux savent les chemins.Quand leur destin se pèse avec vos destinées,Toutes les nations s'inclinent détrônées;La gloire pour vos noms n'a point assez de bruit;Sans cesse autour de vous les États se déplacentQuand votre astre paraît tous les autres s'effacent;Quand vous marchez, l'univers suit.Que l'Autriche en rampant, de nœuds vous environne,Les deux géants de France ont foulé sa couronne;L'histoire, qui des temps ouvre le Panthéon,Montre, empreints aux deux fronts du vautour d'Allemagne,La sandale de Charlemagne,L'éperon de Napoléon.Allez, vous n'avez plus l'aigle qui, de son aire,Sur tous les fronts trop hauts portait votre tonnerreMais il vous reste encor l'oriflamme et le lys;Mais c'est le coq gaulois qui réveille le monde,Et son cri peut promettre à votre nuit profondeL'aube du soleil d'Austerlitz.C'est moi qui me tairais! moi qu'enivrai naguèreMon nom saxon mêlé parmi des cris de guerre;Moi qui suivais le vol d'un drapeau triomphant;Qui, joignant aux clairons ma voix entrecoupée,Eus pour premier hochet le nœud d'or d'une épée;Moi qui fus un soldat quand j'étais un enfant!Non, frères! non, Français de cette âge d'attente!Nous avons tous grandi sur le seuil de la tente;Condamnés à la paix, aiglons bannis des cieux,Sachons du moins, veillant aux gloires paternelles,Garder de tout affront, jalouses sentinelles,Les armures de nos aïeux."
This was the first sign of opposition against the Government of the Bourbons of the older branch that Hugo had given.
In the course of that same year, 1827,Cromwellwas published. The poem itself did not raise so much discussion as the preface, which was a novelty in the poetic world. In 1828 appeared theOrientalesand theDernier jour d'un condamné.Finally, on 16 February 1829, as I have said,Henri III.was played.
Hugo and Lamartine were almost entirely responsible for the revolution in the poetical world, but the revolutionising of the whole of the drama had yet to come. HappilyHenri III.began the work with its bold and new style. Besides, this representation, the full details of which I have already given, delighted Hugo, and gave him much encouragement. We saw each other after the play and he held out his hand to me.
"Ah!" I cried, "at last I have the chance of grasping your hand!"
I was very happy over my success, but the right to clasp those hands was the most precious thing I had won.
"Now," said Hugo, "it will be my turn next!"
"When the day comes don't forget me...."
"You shall be at the first reading."
"Is that a promise?"
"It is a definite engagement!"
With that we parted.
And, indeed, the very next day Hugo chose the drama ofMarion Delormefrom among the different subjects that were already in his mind. For, just as a mother carries her babe within her until it is ripe for birth, so we mental creators carry our subjects in our brains before they are brought forth. Then, one day, he said to himself, "On 1 June 1829 Iwill begin my drama." And on that date he did actually set to work upon it.
On the 19th, he had completed the first three acts. On the 20th, at break of day, as the sun rose and filled his window with its golden rays, lighting up his room in the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, he composed the first lines of his fourth act:—
"LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE.Condamné?LE MARQUIS DE NANGIS.Condamné!LE DUC DE BELLEGARDE.Bien!... mais le roi fait grâce?..."
Next day, just twenty-four hours later, when the sun was again paying his accustomed visit, he wrote the last line—
"On peut bien, une fois, être roi par mégarde!"
During those twenty-four hours he had neither eaten, nor drunk, nor slept; but he had written an act containing nearly six hundred lines—an act which I take to be a masterpiece; six hundred lines which to my thinking are among the finest in the French language.
On 27 JuneMarion Delormewas finished.
Reading ofMarion Delormeat the house of Devéria—Steeplechase of directors—Marion Delormeis stopped by the Censorship—Hugo obtains an audience with Charles X.—His drama is definitely interdicted—They send him the brevet of a pension, which he declines—He sets to work onHernani, and completes it in twenty-four days
Reading ofMarion Delormeat the house of Devéria—Steeplechase of directors—Marion Delormeis stopped by the Censorship—Hugo obtains an audience with Charles X.—His drama is definitely interdicted—They send him the brevet of a pension, which he declines—He sets to work onHernani, and completes it in twenty-four days
Hugo had no need to write to Nodier as I had done, and to wait for an appointment with Taylor: he was already as famous beforeMarion Delormeas I was unknown beforeHenri III.
As I have already mentioned, Hugo notified me of a reading at Devéria's house, and invited Taylor to this reading, together with de Vigny, Émile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, Soumet, Boulanger and Beauchesne—in fact, the whole Pleiades; and so the reading began.
The first act ofMarion Delormeis a masterpiece; there is nothing in it to which one can take exception, apart from Hugo's mania for making his characters enter by windows instead of by doors, which here betrayed itself for the first time. No one could be more free from envious feelings than I am. So I listened to this first act with the profoundest admiration, intermingled, however, with some sadness. I felt how far behind his style I was, and how long it would be before I attained to it, if I ever should at all. Then came the second and the last three acts successively. I was seated next to Taylor, and at the last line of the play he leant over to me and said—
"Well, what do you think of that?"
I replied that I would be hanged if Victor had not shown us his finest piece of work. And I added, "I am certain he has."
"Why do you think so?"
"BecauseMarion Delormeshows all the qualities of the work of a mature man and none of the faults of a young one. Progress is impossible to one who begins by perfect work or work very nearly perfect."
I am interested to find I was right, whether from conceit or not; I still believe thatMarion Delormeis, if not quite his best piece of work, yet one of his best. I congratulated him very heartily and very sincerely; I had never heard anything to compare with the lines ofMarion Delorme.I was overwhelmed by the splendour of their style, I who lacked style throughout my work. If I had been asked to exchange ten years of my life in return for some day attaining such a style as that, I should not have hesitated for one moment, I should have given them instantly! One thing offended me greatly in the fifth act: Didier goes to his death without forgiving Marion. I entreated Hugo to substitute a more humane spirit for that inflexible character. Sainte-Beuve agreed with me and, between us, we obtained poor Marion's pardon.
Now came the question of the Censorship. None of us believed that it would pass the character of Louis XIII., though admirably drawn, simply because of its accurate drawing and the vividness of its colouring. True, the act which contained Louis XIII. could have been taken out without in any way spoiling the interest of the piece, and Crosnier many times omitted it at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, without the public perceiving the omission. It was what critics of petty words and petty things call a superfetation, ahors d'œuvre.What a magnificenthors d'œuvreit was! What a sublime superfetation! I would allow anyone to take their choice among my dramas, if I might but have written the fourth act ofMarion Delorme.For that matter, it was a great failing with Victor Hugo, for a time, to compose his fourth acts so that they could be taken out like separate episodes. The fourth act ofHernani, which contains the stupendous monologue of Charles V., can be taken out without injury to the play, and it is the same with the fourth act ofRuy Blas.But,because this fourth act was not an integral part of the play, does it follow that a marvellous conception ought to be suppressed? Because a woman is beautiful, is it absolutely necessary to throw her jewels into the water, especially if they be worth thousands?...
Reports of the reading leaked out in Paris, and there was quite a steeplechase of theatrical managers to the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to obtainMarion Delorme. Harel came first. Directly he entered, he seized hold of the manuscript and, regardless of everything, began writing on it below the title, "Received by the Odéon theatre, 14 July 1829." It was the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, and Harel thought he would takeMarion Delormeby surprise as the Bastille had been taken by our fathers! Harel was repulsed with loss; but, as his name was on the manuscript, he stuck to it that he had taken possession of it.
A day or two after Harel's attempt, M. Crosnier was announced and introduced into the drawing-room. Hugo was reading a newspaper; he rose and showed M. Crosnier to a seat. When M. Crosnier took it, Hugo himself resumed his seat and waited. But, as M. Crosnier kept silence, Hugo took up his paper again; which course decided M. Crosnier to open his mouth.
"Monsieur," he said, addressing Hugo, "I have come to see your father; I was told he lived here. If it is not taking too much advantage of your kindness, would you be so good as to tell him I am here?"
"Alas I monsieur," Hugo replied, "my father died a year ago, and I presume it is with me you desire to speak."
"I wish to speak to M. Victor Hugo."
"I am he, monsieur."
Crosnier could not believe that this slightly built, fresh-coloured young man, who looked nothing but a boy of twenty, could be the man about whom there had already been so much stir for the past five or six years. However, he revealed the object of his visit. He had come to askMarion Delormefor the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin. Hugo smiled and gavehim the same answer that Harel had received, namely, that the Théâtre-Français had been promised the first refusal. Crosnier smiled in his turn, with the fine-edged smile that is peculiarly his own; then, taking up a pen—
"Monsieur Hugo," he said, "allow me to inscribe my acceptance under that of my confrère."
"Write what you please, monsieur," said Hugo; "but you must remember that there are already two acceptances before yours."
"No matter, monsieur; I wish to take my place. For, bless me! who knows? I may be the one to bring out your play in spite of its having been already accepted twice!"
And he wrote under Harel's acceptance—
"Received by the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre, 16 July 1829."
Supported by this twofold acceptance,Marion Delormewas presented to the Théâtre-Français and was received with unanimous applause. I recollect that as we were leaving the reading, full of enthusiasm over what we had all heard, Émile Deschamps pointed to a bill which announced the evening's play and, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed compassionately, at the sight of Racine'schef-d-œuvre—
"Andtheyare going to playBritannicus!..."
None of us to-day, not even Émile Deschamps, would confess to having given utterance to the abovemot.I am certain that we should all have said it in 1829, and more than one who has since paid his visit to the thirty-nine Academicians envied him the phrase at the moment.
The play was distributed, and immediately after its reception began to be rehearsed. Mademoiselle Mars played Marion; Firmin, Didier; Joanny, Nangis; Menjaud, Saverny, etc. But, one morning, the dreadful news spread abroad that the play had been stopped by the Censor! The same thing had happened toHenri III.; the Censor always stopped everything; it was his business, and then the sentence could afterwards be relaxed, if the work justified its existence, or the author clamoured loudly enough. I had remonstrated andHenri III.had escaped safe and sound out of his claws, thanks to M. de Martignac, who had come to my aid. So Hugo applied to M. de Martignac. But well-meaning, cultured and even literary as was this model of ministers past, present and future, he confessed himself powerless. It was a question that did not merely affect a Valois but a Bourbon; not merely a predecessor but the grandfather of Charles X. No one but Charles X. could pronounce judgment on this family question. Hugo decided to ask an audience of Charles X. and it was granted him. In those days persons who approached the kings of France had to wear court dressà la françaiseand a sword. Hugo raised great objections at having to submit to this disguise; but Taylor undertook to collect the necessary articles of apparel. He set great store byMarion Delorme, and to gain permission to produce it he would have dressed up Hugo as a Turk or a Chinaman. The day of the audience came and Hugo went to Saint-Cloud, where he found the antechamber crowded. Among those in attendance were Madame du Cayla, who had just put the finishing touch to the Polignac ministry; and Michaud of the Académie, who was going to Palestine. Michaud was Reader to the king. He was covered with as much gold braid as the coats of four generals all put together! Nevertheless, he was a man of much genius. Hugo was busily talking to him when the two doors opened and His Royal Highness Monseigneur the Dauphin was announced. Hugo had never seen the being for whom he had wished the Arc de triomphe to be raised, except at a distance:—
"Que le géant de notre gloirePût y passer sans se baisser!"
He saw what looked like a monkey, yet without a monkey's grace; a kind of mummy, with its face perpetually contorted with neuralgia, crossing the hall, responding to all the bows and greetings and homage with a deep growl, from which you could not make out one single word clearly. And that was the conqueror of the Trocadero! the pacificatorof Spain! He took no more notice of Madame du Cayla than of the rest. Perhaps, if some courtier had whispered to him that a great poet was present, he might have stopped to see what sort of an animal a poet was. No courtier informed Monseigneur le Dauphin and he passed without stopping. Soon afterwards, King Charles X. passed through with as gracious and smiling a presence as his son's was grotesque and ill-tempered. He greeted Madame du Cayla with a word, shook hands with Michaud and Victor, bowed to others and entered his audience-chamber. A moment later, Madame la Comtesse du Cayla was summoned. Without troubling himself concerning the length of time she had been waiting, or whether she had come before the other visitors, the last king of the line of chivalrous kings sent for her first, because she was a woman. Madame du Cayla remained nearly an hour with the king. This was not too long wherein to give birth to a ministry which itself a year later was to give birth to the Revolution of July. Then, when Madame du Cayla withdrew, the poet was called. Charles X. first recollected that he was the successor of François I. and then that he was the descendant of Louis XIV. The poet went in, and we will let him relate what took place at that remarkable interview in his own words:—
"C'était le sept août.—O sombre destinée!C'était le premier jour de leur dernière année!Seuls, dans un lieu royal, côte à côte marchant,Deux hommes, par endroits du coude se touchant,Causaient.... Grand souvenir qui dans mon cœur se grave!Le premier avait l'air fatigué, triste et grave,Comme un trop faible front qui porte un lourd projet.Une double épaulette à couronne chargeaitSon uniforme vert à ganse purpurine,Et l'ordre et la toison faisaient, sur sa poitrine,Près du large cordon moiré de bleu changeant,Deux foyers lumineux, l'un d'or, l'autre d'argent.C'était un roi, vieillard à la tête blanchie,Penché du poids des ans et de la monarchie!L'autre était un jeune homme étranger chez les rois,Un poëte, un passant, une inutile voix ...Dans un coin, une table, un fauteuil de veloursMiraient dans le parquet leurs pieds dorés et lourds;Par une porte en vitre, au dehors, l'œil, en foule,Apercevait au loin des armoires de Boule,Des vases du Japon, des laques, des émauxEt des chandeliers d'or aux immenses rameaux.Un salon rouge orné de glaces de Venise,Plein de ces bronzes grecs que l'esprit divinise,Multipliait sans fin ses lustres de cristal;Et, comme une statue à lames de métal,On voyait, casque au front, luire, dans l'encoignure,Un garde argent et bleu, d'une fière tournure.Or, entre le poëte et le vieux roi courbé,De quoi s'agissait-il?D'un pauvre ange tombéDont l'amour refaisait l'âme avec son haleine:De Marion, lavée ainsi que Madeleine,Qui boitait et traînait son pas estropié,La censure, serpent, l'ayant mordue au pied.Le poëte voulait faire, un soir, apparaîtreLouis-Treize, ce roi sur qui régnait un prêtre;Tout un siècle: marquis, bourreaux, fous, bateleurs;Et que la foule vînt, et qu'à travers les pleurs,Par moments, dans un drame étincelant et sombre,Du pâle cardinal on crût voir passer l'ombre.Le vieillard hésitait.—Que sert de mettre à nuLouis-Treize, ce roi, chétif et mal venu?A quoi bon remuer un mort dans une tombe?Que veut-on? où court-on? sait-on bien où l'on tombe?Tout n'est-il pas déjà croulant de tout côté?Tout ne s'en va-t-il pas dans trop de liberté?N'est-il pas temps plutôt, après quinze ans d'épreuve,De relever la digue et d'arrêter le fleuve?Certe, un roi peut reprendre alors qu'il a donné.Quant au théâtre, il faut, le trône étant miné,Étouffer des deux mains sa flamme trop hardie;Car la foule est le peuple, et d'une comédiePeut jaillir l'étincelle aux livides rayonsQui met le feu dans l'ombre aux révolutions!Puis il niait l'histoire, et, quoi qu'il en puisse être,A ce jeune rêveur disputait son ancêtre;L'accueillant bien, d'ailleurs; bon, royal, gracieux,Et le questionnant sur ses propres aïeux.Tout en laissant aux rois les noms dont on les nomme,Le poëte luttait fermement, comme un hommeÉpris de liberté, passionné pour l'art,Respectueux pourtant pour ce noble vieillard.Il disait: 'Tout est grave, en ce siècle où tout penche.L'art, tranquille et puissant, veut une allure franche.Les rois morts sont sa proie; il faut la lui laisser.Il n'est pas ennemi; pourquoi le courroucerEt le livrer, dans l'ombre, à des tortionnaires,Lui dont la main fermée est pleine de tonnerres?Cette main, s'il l'ouvrait, redoutable envoyé,Sur la France éblouie et le Louvre effrayé,On s'épouvanterait—trop tard, s'il faut le dire,—D'y voir subitement tant de foudres reluire!Oh! les tyrans d'en has nuisent au roi d'en haut.Le peuple est toujours là qui prend la muse au mot,Quand l'indignation, jusqu'au roi qu'on révère,Monte du front pensif de l'artiste sévère!Sire, à ce qui chancelle est-on bien appuyé?La censure est un toit mauvais, mal étayé,Toujours prêt à tomber sur les noms qu'il abrite.Sire, un souffle imprudent, loin de l'éteindre, irriteLe foyer, tout à coup terrible et tournoyant,Et, d'un art lumineux, fait un art flamboyant.D'ailleurs, ne cherchât-on que la splendeur royale,Pour cette nation moqueuse mais loyale,Au lieu des grands tableaux qu'offrait le grand Louis,Roi-soleil fécondant les lis épanouis,Qui, tenant sous son sceptre un monde en équilibre,Faisait Racine heureux, laissait Molière libre,Quel spectacle, grand Dieu! qu'un groupe de censeursArmés et parlant has, vils esclaves chasseurs,A plat ventre couchés, épiant l'heure où rentreLe drame, fier lion, dans l'histoire, son antre!'Ici, voyant vers lui, d'un front plus incliné,Se tourner doucement le vieillard étonné,Il hasardait plus loin sa pensée inquiète,Et, laissant de côté le drame et le poëte,Attentif, il sondait le dessein vaste et noirQu'au fond de ce roi triste, il venait d'entrevoir.—Se pourrait-il? quelqu'un aurait cette espérance?Briser le droit de tous! retrancher à la France,Comme on ôte un jouet à l'enfant dépité,De l'air, de la lumière et de la liberté!Le roi ne voudrait pas, lui? roi sage et roi juste!Puis, choisissant les mots pour cette oreille auguste,Il disait que les temps ont des flots souverains;Que rien, ni ponts hardis, ni canaux souterrains,Jamais, excepté Dieu, rien n'arrête et ne dompteLe peuple qui grandit ou l'Océan qui monte;Que le plus fort vaisseau sombre et se perd souvent,Qui veut rompre de front et la vague et le vent,Et que, pour s'y briser, dans la lutte insensée,On a derrière soi, roche partout dressée,Tout son siècle, les mœurs, l'esprit qu'on veut braver,Le port même où la nef aurait pu se sauver!...Charles-Dix, souriant, répondit: 'O poète!'Le soir, tout rayonnant de lumière et de fête.Regorgeant de soldats, de princes, de valets,Saint-Cloud, joyeux et vert, autour du fier palaisDont la Seine, en fuyant, reflète les beaux marbres,Semblait avec amour presser sa touffe d'arbres;L'arc de triomphe, orné de victoires d'airain;Le Louvre, étincelant, fleurdelysé, serein,Lui répondaient de loin du milieu de la ville;Tout ce royal ensemble avait un air tranquille,Et, dans le calme aspect d'un repos solennel,Je ne sais quoi de grand qui semblait éternel!"
The day after this interview and the refusal—for Charles X. refused to allowMarion Delormeto be played—Victor Hugo's pension, which had been 2400 francs, was raised to 6000 livres, in compensation. Everybody knows how the poet refused—we will not say scornfully, but with dignity—this increase of his pension. A great deal of discussion has since raged round this refusal. Certain puritans even now hold to the opinion of the senator of M. Louis Bonaparte, and blame the poet for keeping his original pension of 2400 francs after the interdiction ofMarion Delormeby Charles X. God have mercy on them! They are now in the Halls of Elysium andthe finest poet of France, and therefore of the world, is in Jersey! I ask Lamartine's forgiveness for speaking of Hugo as the first poet of France and of the world: Hugo is exiled, and Lamartine is too generous not to yield the palm to him. If Lamartine were banished like Hugo—and, for the sake of his fame, I am sorry that he is not—I would have said, "The first two poets of France and of the world!"
One day, in a club, I was speaking of Prince Louis Bonaparte, and I called him "Monseigneur." It was at the time of Prince Louis Bonaparte's exile. A voice shouted to me—
"There is no longer anyMonseigneur."
"I always speak of those who are exiled by that title," I replied.
And my voice was drowned by applause.
When Hugo returned from Saint-Cloud, he found Taylor awaiting him. The news he brought back was bad enough, like the news of Madame Malbrouck's page. Taylor was in despair.
"We have nothing else in our portfolios!" he repeated.
At that time the Comédie-Française had ten plays of M. Viennet, four or five of M. Delrieu, two or three of M. Lemercier, without reckoning M. Arnault'sPertinaxand M. de Jouy'sJulien, etc. etc. And that was what Taylor called having nothing in his portfolios!
"We were building onMarion Delormefor the winter season," he said, "and now our winter season will be ruined!"
Hugo let him go on lamenting and then asked—
"When did you hope to playMarion Delorme?"
"Why, either in January or February."
"Ah, good! then we shall have a margin.... Very well...." and he fell to making a calculation. "This is the 7th of August: come back to me on the 1st of October."
Taylor returned on the 1st of October. Hugo picked up a manuscript and gave it to him. It wasHernani.Hugo hadbegun this second work on 17 September and had finished it on the 25th of the same month. He had taken three days less over its composition than in the case ofMarion Delorme.Let us, however, hasten to explain that the plots of both plays had been matured beforehand in the poet's head.
The invasion of barbarians—Rehearsals ofHernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about thelion—The scene over theportraits—Hugo takes away from Mademoiselle Mars the part of Doña Sol—Michelot's flattering complaisance to the public—The quatrain about the cup-board—Joanny
The invasion of barbarians—Rehearsals ofHernani—Mademoiselle Mars and the lines about thelion—The scene over theportraits—Hugo takes away from Mademoiselle Mars the part of Doña Sol—Michelot's flattering complaisance to the public—The quatrain about the cup-board—Joanny
There was this time nothing to fear from the Censorship: unless it were on the ground of modesty, there was nothing inHernanito which it could take exception. I really believe I have spoken of themodestyof the Censorship! Upon my word, how shocking of me! but since I have said it, let it stay!
The piece naturally took the place of his first-born,Marion Delorme; it was read for form's sake, received with shouts of hurrahs and acclamation—Hugo read very well, especially his own works—the parts were allotted and the rehearsals started at once. I do not state the fact of Hugo's fine reading here because I think his manner of reading had any influence either way on the enthusiasm of his reception, but because, never having heard him speak at the Tribune, I cannot form any idea of the style of his public speaking from the very different opinions I have heard expressed concerning his oratorical style. I can only say that his speeches when read always seemed to me to be masterpieces of language and logic.
With the rehearsals began the worries. No one at the Théâtre-Français felt much real sympathy with the Romantic school save old Joanny; the rest (and Mademoiselle Mars was first among their number, in spite of the splendid success she had just achieved in the Duchesse de Guise) really lookedupon the encroachment as a species of invasion by barbarians, to which they were laughingly obliged to submit. Underneath the flattery paid us by Mademoiselle Mars, there was always the mental reservation of an outraged woman. Michelot, professor at the Conservatoire, a man of the world, with finished manners, showed us his most gracious and agreeable side; but at heart he loathed us. And as to Firmin, whose talent was so essential to us—a real talent, although it had nothing to do with the highest reaches of form, namely, the plastic side of art—well, his literary judgment was worthless; he merely possessed a kind of dramatic instinct, which served in lieu of art, and gave movement and life to his acting. He liked us well enough, because we supplied him with means to exercise his qualities of action and life; but he was terribly in fear of the older school, and accordingly remained neutral in all the literary quarrels, rarely appearing at a reading, so that he might avoid being obliged to give his opinion. He was not a stumbling-block, but, on the other hand, he was certainly not a support.
The play—by which we mean the leading parts—was distributed between the four principal actors of the Théâtre-Français whom we have just mentioned. Mademoiselle Mars played Doña Sol; Joanny, Ruy Gomez; Michelot, Charles V.; and Firmin, Hernani. I have said that Mademoiselle Mars felt no sympathy with our style of literature; but I ought to add or, rather, to repeat that, in her theatrical dealings, she was strictly honourable, and, when she had gone through her first representation of a part and endured the fire of applause or of hissings that had greeted the fall of the curtain, no matter what the play was in which she was acting, she would have died rather than give in; she would submit to a martyrdom rather than—we will not say deny her faith, because our School was not included in her creed—break her word.
But, before this point was reached, there were between fifty and sixty rehearsals to be gone through, at which an incalculable number of observations were hazarded at the expenseof the author, faces were made, and pin-pricks given him. And of course it often happened that these pin-pricks penetrated through the skin and stabbed to the heart. I have recounted my own sufferings from Mademoiselle Mars during the rehearsals ofHenri III.; the discussions, quarrels, disputes even which I had with her, the passionate scenes which, in spite of my obscurity, I was unable to refrain from causing, no matter what I risked in the future. The same thing was just as likely to happen to Hugo, and did happen. But Hugo and I were two absolutely different characters: he was cold and calm and polished and severe, and harboured the remembrance of good or ill done him; whilst I am open and quick and demonstrative, and make game of things, forgetful of ill, and sometimes of good. So the arguments between Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo were entirely different from mine. And remember that, on the stage, dialogues between actor and author usually take place before the foot-lights—that is to say, between the stage and the orchestra—so that not a word is lost by all the thirty to forty actors, musicians, managers, supernumeraries, call-boys, lighters-up, and firemen present at rehearsals. This audience, as will be understood, always does its best to catch any episode likely to distract theennuiof the daily work, the rehearsal itself; this fact considerably adds to the nervous irritability of the interlocutors and, in consequence, tends to introduce a certain amount of tartness in the telephonic communications which take place between the orchestra and the stage.
Things happened somewhat after this fashion. In the middle of the rehearsal Mademoiselle Mars would suddenly stop.
"Excuse me, my friend," she would say to Firmin or Michelot or Joanny, "I want a word with the author."
The actor to whom she addressed her remark would bow his assent and stand motionless and silent where he happened to be.
Mademoiselle Mars would come up close to the footlights, with her hand shading her eyes, although she knew wellenough in what part of the orchestra to look for the author whom she was pretending to find. This was her little curtain raiser.
"M. Hugo?" she would ask. "Is M. Hugo here?".
"I am here, madame," Hugo would reply, as he rose from his seat.
"Ah! that is all right!—thanks.... Will you please tell me, M. Hugo...."
"Madame?"
"I have this line to say—
'Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
"Yes, madame; Hernani says to you—
'Hélas! j'aime pourtant d'une amour bien profonde!Ne pleure pas ... Mourons plutôt! Que n'ai-je un monde,Je te le donnerais! Je suis bien malheureux!'
And you reply to him—
"Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
"Do you like that phrase, M. Hugo?"
"Which?"
'"Vous êtes, mon lion!'"
"That was how I wrote it, madame; so I think it is all right."
"Then you stick to yourlion?"
"I may or may not, madame. If you can find something better, I will insert it instead."
"It is not my place to do so; I am not the author."
"Very well, then, madame; if that be so, leave what is written exactly as you find it."
"Really it does sound to me very comic to call M. Firminmon lion!"
"Oh! that is because while acting the part of Doña Sol you think of yourself as Mademoiselle Mars. If you were a true pupil of Ruy Gomez de Sylva, a noble Castilian of the sixteenth century, you would only see Hernani in M. Firmin; you would look upon him as a terrible robber-chief, who madeeven Charles V. tremble in his capital; then you would comprehend how such a woman could call such a manson lion, and you would no longer look upon it as comic!"
"Very well! if you stick to yourlionwe will say no more. It is my duty to say what is written, and as the manuscript has 'mon lion!' I will say 'mon lion!' Of course, it is all one to me. Let us go on, Firmin!
'Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
And the rehearsal would be resumed.
But, the next day, when Mademoiselle Mars reached the same place, she stopped as on the day before and, as on the day before, she approached the footlights, again going through the pretence of looking for the author with her hands shading her eyes.
"M. Hugo?" she would say in her harsh voice, the voice of Mademoiselle Mars and not of Célimène. "Is M. Hugo there?"
"Here I am, madame," Hugo would reply with the same placidity.
"Oh! that is all right. I am glad you are here."
"I had the honour of presenting you my compliments before the rehearsal, madame."
"True.... Well, have you thought over it?"
"Over what, madame?"
"Over what I said to you yesterday."
"You did me the honour of saying a great many things to me yesterday."
"Yes, that was so ... but I mean about that famous hemistich."
"Which?"
"Oh, good gracious! you know quite well the one I mean!"
"I swear I do not, madame; you make so many neat and valuable suggestions that I confuse one with the other."
"I mean the line about thelion."
"Ah yes! 'Vous êtes, mon lion!' I remember...."
"Well, have you found another line?"
"I confess I have not tried to think of one."
"You do not then think the line risky?"
"What do you mean by risky?"
"Anything that is likely to be hissed."
"I have never presumed to claim exemption from being hissed."
"That may be; but you should avoid being hissed as much as possible."
"So you think thelionphrase will be hissed?"
"I am certain of it!"
"Then, madame, it will be because you have not rendered it with your usual talent."
"I shall say it as well as I can.... All the same, I should prefer...."
"What?"
"To say something different...."
"What?"
"To have it altered altogether!"
"For what?"
"To say"—and Mademoiselle Mars made a show of trying to find the word which she had really been turning over in her mind for three days—"to say, for instance ... ahem!... say ... ahem!
'Vous êtes,monseigneur, superbe et généreux!'
Monseigneurenables the line to be scanned just the same asmon lion, does it not?"
"Quite so, madame; onlymon lionlightens the line, andmonseigneurmakes it heavy."
"I would much rather be hissed for a good line than applauded for a bad one. Very well, very well ... we will not bother any longer about it.... I will say yourgood linewithout changing anything in it! Come, Firmin, my friend, let us go on....
'Vous êtes, mon lion, superbe et généreux!'"
It is a well-known fact that, on the day of the first representation, Mademoiselle Mars said, "Vous êtes, monseigneur!" instead of "Vous êtes, mon lion!"
The line was neither applauded nor hissed: it was not worth either notice.
A little farther on, Ruy Gomez, after having surprised Hernani and Doña Sol in one another's arms, at the announcement of the king's coming hides Hernani in a room, the door of which is hidden by a picture. Then begins the famous scene known by the title of thescène des portraits, which is composed of seventy-six lines and takes place between Don Carlos and Ruy Gomez, the scene in which Doña Sol listens as mute and motionless as a statue, in which she only takes part when the king wishes to have the duke arrested; when she tears off her veil and flings herself between the duke and the guards, exclaiming—
"Roi don Carlos, vous êtesUn mauvais roi!..."
This long silence and absence of movement had always been an offence to Mademoiselle Mars. The Théâtre-Français was used to the traditions of Molière's comedies or the tragedies of Corneille and was up in arms against themise en scèneof the modern drama, neither understanding, as a whole, the passion of action nor the poetry of stillness. The consequence was that poor Doña Sol did not know what to do with herself during these seventy-six lines. One day she decided to have the matter out with the author. You know her way of interrupting the rehearsals and of advancing to the footlights. The author was in front of the orchestra and Mademoiselle Mars was behind the footlights.
"Are you there, M. Hugo?"
"Yes, madame."
"Ah, good!... Do me a service."
"With the greatest pleasure.... What is it?"
"Tell me what I am to do here."
"Where?"
"On the stage, while M. Michelot and M. Joanny are holding their dialogue."
"You are to listen, madame."
"Yes! I am to listen.... I know that; but I find listening rather tedious."
"Yet you know the scene was originally much longer and I have already cut it down by twenty lines."
"Yes, but could you not cut out another twenty lines?"
"Impossible, madame!"
"Or, at all events, arrange that I take some sort of part in it."
"But you naturally take part by your very presence. It is a question of the man you love whose life or death is being debated; it seems to me that the situation is sufficiently moving and strong to enable you to wait in patient silence to the close."
"All the same ... it is long!"
"I do not feel it so, madame."
"Very good! then we will say no more about it.... But the public are certain to ask, 'What is Mademoiselle Mars supposed to be doing with her hand upon her breast? It was not necessary to give her a part just to remain standing still, with a veil over her eyes, without saying a word for half an act!'"
"The public will say that under the hand of Doña Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her heart is beating; that, beneath the veil of Doña Sol—not of Mademoiselle Mars—her face is crimsoning with hope or turning pale with terror; that, during the silence—not of Mademoiselle Mars but—of Doña Sol, Hernani's lover, the tempest is gathering in her heart which bursts forth in these words, none too respectful from a subject to her sovereign—
'Roi don Carlos, vous êtesUn mauvais roi!...'
And, believe me, madame, it will be sufficient for the public."
"If that is your idea, well and good. It is not on my account I am troubling myself about it: if they hiss during the scene it will not be at me they are hissing, as I do not speak one word.... Come on, Michelot; come on, Joanny; let us proceed.
'Roi don Carlos, vous êtesUn mauvais roi!..
There, does that satisfy you, M. Hugo?"
"Perfectly, madame." And Hugo bowed and sat down with his imperturbable serenity.
The next day, Mademoiselle Mars stopped the rehearsal at the same place, came up to the footlights and, shading her eyes with her hand, said, in exactly the same voice as that of the day before—
"Are you there, M. Hugo?"
"I am here, madame."
"Well, have you found me something to say?"
"Where?"
"Why, you know where ... in the famous scene where these gentlemen say a hundred and fifty lines while I stare at them and do not utter a word.... I know they are charming to contemplate, but a hundred and fifty lines take a long time to say."
"In the first place, madame, the scene is not a hundred and fifty lines in length, it is only seventy-six, for I have counted them; then, I did not make you any promise to put in something for you to say, since, on the contrary, I tried to prove to you that your silence and immobility, from which you emerge with terribleéclat, is one of the beauties of the whole scene."
"Beauties, beauties!... I am much afraid the public will not agree with you."
"We shall see."
"Yes, but you may see a little too late.... So you definitely mean to have your way in not giving me anything to say through the whole scene?"
"I do."
"It is all one to me; I will go to the back of the stage and let these gentlemen talk over their business in the front of it."
"You can retire to the back of the stage if you wish, madame, but as the affairs under discussion are as much yours as theirs, you will spoil the scene.... When it suits you, madame, the rehearsal shall be proceeded with."
And the rehearsal was continued.
But, every day, there were some interruptions of the kind to which we have just drawn attention; this annoyed Hugo greatly, for he was still only at the outset of his dramatic career, and imagined that the greatest difficulty was the creation of the play and the most vexatious that of putting it into proper form; he now discovered that all this was child's play compared with the rehearsals. At last, one day, he lost patience and, when the rehearsal was over, he went on the stage and, approaching Mademoiselle Mars, he said—
"Madame, may I be allowed the honour of a few words with you?"
"With me?" replied Mademoiselle Mars in astonishment at this solemn beginning.
"With you."
"Where?"
"Where you will."
"Come this way, then"; and, walking first, Mademoiselle Mars led Hugo into what in those days was called thepetit foyer(small green-room), which was, I believe, situated where nowadays is the salon belonging to the manager's box. Louise Despréaux was seated in a corner by herself.
We have mentioned that Louise Despréaux was one of the pet aversions of Mademoiselle Mars, Madame Menjaud being her favourite. I have described, in due course, the scene I had with Mademoiselle Mars over Louise Despréaux concerning the distribution of the part of page to the Duchesse de Guise. When she saw Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo enter, she discreetly rose and left the room; although I have strong suspicions that, with the inquisitiveness of seventeen years ofage, she glued her ear and her rosy young face to the keyhole.
Mademoiselle Mars leant against the mantelpiece, holding her part in her hand.
"Well, what do you wish to say to me?" she asked.
"I wished to tell you, madame, that I have just made a resolution."
"What is it, monsieur?"
"To ask you to give up your part."
"My part!... Which?"
"The one you asked for in my drama, to my great honour."
"What! the part of Doña Sol," exclaimed Mademoiselle Mars, astounded; "do you mean this part?" ... And she pointed to the roll of paper which she held in her hand, frowning her black eyebrows over those eyes which could on occasion assume an incredibly hard expression.
Hugo bowed.
"Yes," he said, "the part of Doña Sol which you hold in your hand."
"Ah! that is it, is it?" said Mademoiselle Mars; and she struck the marble chimneypiece with the roll, and stamped on the floor with her foot. "This is the first time an author has ever asked me to give up my part!"
"Very well, madame; I think it is time an example should be set and I will set it."
"But why do you want to take it from me?"
"Because I believe I am right in saying, madame, that when you honour me with your remarks you appear totally to forget to whom you are speaking."
"In what way, monsieur?"
"Oh! I am aware that you are a highly talented lady ... but there is one point, I repeat, upon which you seem to be ignorant, to which I ought to call your attention; namely, that I also, madame, am a talented person: take this fact into consideration, I beg of you, and treat me accordingly."
"You think, then, that I shall act your part badly?"
"I know that you will play it admirably well, madame, but I also know that, from the beginning of the rehearsals, you have been extremely rude to me—conduct that is unworthy both of Mademoiselle Mars and of M. Victor Hugo."
"Oh!" she muttered, biting her pale lips, "you do indeed deserve to have your part given back to you!"
Hugo held out his hand.
"I am ready to take it, madame," he said.
"And if I do not play it, who will?"
"Oh! upon my word, madame, the first person that comes to hand.... Why, Mademoiselle Despréaux, for instance. She, of course, does not possess your talent, but she is young and she is pretty, and so will fulfil two out of the three conditions the part demands; then, too, she will yield me the deference to which I am entitled, of the lack of which, on your part, I have had to complain."
And Hugo stood with his arm stretched out and his hand open, waiting for Mademoiselle Mars to give him back the part.
"Mademoiselle Despréaux! Mademoiselle Despréaux!" muttered Mademoiselle Mars. "Ah! indeed that is a good joke!... So it seems you are paying attentions to Mademoiselle Despréaux?"
"I? I have never spoken a word to her in my life!"
"And you definitely and formally ask me to give you back my part?"
"Formally and definitely I ask you to give me back the part."
"Very well; I shall keep the rôle.... I shall play it, and as no one else would play it in Paris, I swear."
"So be it. Keep the rôle; only, do not forget what I have said to you with regard to the courtesy that should obtain between people of our distinction."
And Hugo bowed to Mademoiselle Mars and left her utterly overcome by that haughty dignity to which the authors of the Empire had not accustomed her; they had grovelledbefore her talent, conscious that, without her, their plays would not bring them in a halfpenny.
From that day, Mademoiselle Mars was cold but polite to Hugo and, as she had promised him, when the night of the first representation came, she played the part to perfection.
Michelot, a very different person from Mademoiselle Mars, was polite almost to the verge of sycophancy; but as he detested us in his heart of hearts, when the hour of the struggle came, instead of fighting loyally and valiantly, as Mademoiselle Mars did, he slyly went over to the enemy and gave the sharpshooters in the pit the hint where, at the most opportune moments, they might find our weakest places. Many liberties were taken with Michelot's part which an actor who had cared less for popular opinion would never have allowed himself to take. As a matter of fact, before the representation, we had waged rude warfare against the risky passages in the part of Don Carlos; I remember among others having very regretfully made Hugo cut out a quatrain to which Michelot seemed to cling tenaciously: I have since discovered why. These four lines were of that charmingly quaint turn which is natural to Hugo and to no one else.
When Ruy Gomez de Sylva goes back to his niece's house and is on the point of taking Don Carlos and Hernani by surprise, the latter, fearful for the reputation of Doña Sol, wishes to hide the king and himself in the very narrow cupboard which Don Carlos was about to vacate, wherein he was sufficiently uncomfortable by himself; but the king rebelled against the suggestion. Is it, indeed, he says—
"Est-ce donc une game à mettre des chrétiens?Nous nous pressons un peu; vous y tenez, j'y tiens.Le duc entre et s'en vient vers l'armoire où nous sommes,Pour y prendre un cigare.... Il y trouve deux hommes!"
For these lines to have their comic effect, they ought to be flung off with the lightheartedness and easy bearing of a king who numbers only nineteen years, and who is in the heyday of prosperity (notice that Charles V. was but nineteen whenhe was made Emperor of Germany)—well, they were declaimed in the same tones as Mahomet saying—
"Si j'avais à répondre à d'autres que Topyre,Je ne ferais parler que le Dieu qui m'inspire;Le glaive et l'Alcoran, dans mes terribles mains,Imposeraient silence au reste des humains!"