[1]Madame de le Peyrouse avait promis à son mari de rester voilée jusqu'à son retour; madame de la Peyrouse a tenu parole, et a gardé son voile jusqu'à la mort.
[1]Madame de le Peyrouse avait promis à son mari de rester voilée jusqu'à son retour; madame de la Peyrouse a tenu parole, et a gardé son voile jusqu'à la mort.
The painter Lethière—Brutus unveiled by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the new school—My dramatic education—I enter the offices of the Forestry Department—The cupboard full of empty bottles—Three days away from the office—Am summoned before M. Deviolaine
The painter Lethière—Brutus unveiled by M. Ponsard—Madame Hannemann—Gohier—Andrieux—Renaud—Desgenettes—Larrey, Augereau and the Egyptian mummy—Soldiers of the new school—My dramatic education—I enter the offices of the Forestry Department—The cupboard full of empty bottles—Three days away from the office—Am summoned before M. Deviolaine
In the meantime, as I have stated, I had become master of my evenings as I had no longer to see after the portfolio, and I took advantage of my liberty to taste a little of life. My mother recollected an old friend of my father, and we ventured to call upon him. He belonged to the good-natured order of human beings, and gave us a warm welcome. He was the famous artist Lethière, painter ofBrutus Condamnant ses fils, a heroism that always seemed to me a trifle too Spartan, but which M. Ponsard'sLucrècehas since made clearer to me. M. Ponsard was the first to reveal the great conjugal mystery that the sons of Brutus were not the sons of Brutus, but only the fruit of adultery: by beheading them Brutus exhibited revenge, not his devotion to them!
M. Ponsard, it will be noted, deserved not only to belong to the Academy, but also to the Suscriptions and Belles-Lettres. Well, my father's old friend was the painter of the fine picture entitledBrutus Condamnant ses fils.He had painted my father's portrait, representing him just as a horse had been shot dead under him by a cannon-ball; my father had also sat to him for the model of hisPhiloctète, in the Chamber of Deputies. We soon made ourselves known to him, and were received with open arms. He embraced both my mother and me, and invited us to look upon his house asour own, particularly on Thursdays, when places should always be laid for us at his table. We were greatly delighted with the latter offer. I have no desire to hide from my readers that we were in a position to welcome the economy effected by the gain of a dinner not at our own expense! M. Lethière possessed fine talents, a kind heart and a winning manner. There lived with him then, as ruling spirit in his household, a young woman, fair, tall and thin, who nearly always dressed in black; her name was Mademoiselle d'Hervilly, and under that name she became known in painting and literature. She afterwards became Madame Hannemann, and under that name became known in the medical profession. Her nature was cold and very hard, but she possessed plenty of will-power. I believe Madame Hannemann, now a widow, is extremely wealthy. This lady, who was of a very superior character, did the honours of M. Lethière's house and entertained his old friends, several of whom had been old friends of my father. These old friends were: M. Gohier, past President of the Directoire; Andrieux, Desgenettes, an old painter named Renaud and several others.
Desgenettes, who had known my father very intimately in Egypt, at once made friendly overtures to me, and introduced me to Larrey.
I shall have occasion several times to refer to the latter gentleman and his son, who was one of my best friends. The Siege of Anvers in 1832 gloriously enabled him to prove himself a worthy son of his father.
Of all these men, Gohier struck me as the most remarkable. Contrary to the laws of perspective, there are certain persons of ordinary calibre, who having, through stress of eventful circumstance, occupied high positions, loom larger in one's view the further away they recede. Now I could not help but look upon the man who had presided over Barras, Roger-Ducos, Moulin and Sièyes as worth notice; for, for the time being, he had been first of the five kings who had governed France. But I was deceived in my estimate of his greatness:M. Gohier was a solid, worthy man who knew just so much of history as one cannot help learning, who knew nothing of politics and who possessed no depth of judgment. I cannot do better than compare him with our Boulay (de la Meurthe), whom history will enroll as having been three years Vice-President of the Republic, although he may pretend to have no idea of such a thing, even on 2 December! Gohier cordially detested Bonaparte; but his hatred was neither philosophical nor political, but wholly a personal matter. He could never forgive the future First Consul for the ridiculous part he had made him play on 18 Brumaire, by inviting him to lunch with Joséphine, and in inviting himself to dine at his house, whilst he was changing the whole Government.
I need not draw the portrait of Andrieux: everybody knows that petty, old, shrivelled man, with his petty voice and his petty eyes, the author of petty fables and petty comedies and petty stories, who died at the age of eighty, leaving behind him a petty reputation after having raised petty hopes.
Renaud was an old artist who had once painted a picture that was thought well of, theJeunesse d'Achille.He had grown old in painting the nude. And in his old age he painted nothing but the Graces, naiads and nymphs, turning to the public their ... blue and rosy backs.
Desgenettes was an old libertine of an extremely quick-witted and very cynical turn of mind, half soldier, half doctor, very fond of the real flesh-and-blood goddesses that old Renaud was so fond of copying; he would relate in season and out" the broadest and most immodest of stories, with great glee. There was much of the eighteenth century about him.
Larrey, on the contrary, was austerely puritanic in appearance. He wore his hair quite long, trimmed after the fashion of Merovingian princes: he spoke slowly and seriously. The emperor was said to have spoken of him as the most honest man he ever knew. Apart from the influence ofsincere kindliness that he diffused among young people, Larrey presented a curious study to us all. He had known every celebrated personage of the Empire; and he had cut off most of the arms and legs that needed amputation; he had collected much curious information indicative of character or of the secrets of the soul, by listening to the first words of the wounded and the last words of the dying. He would sometimes relate anecdotes which, without any malicious intention, gave one an idea of the ignorance of those decorated and beplumed warriors, who were in the main lion-hearted, but also, for the most part, of dull intellect, and infinitely less brilliant in any drawing-room than on a battlefield. When Larrey returned from Egypt he brought back a curiosity that is not thought much of nowadays, in the shape of a mummy, but which at that time raised scientific curiosity to the highest pitch. When he met Augereau, he said to him—
"Ah! come now and dine with me to-morrow; I will show you a mummy I have brought back from the Pyramids."
"With pleasure," Augereau replied; and he went next day to dinner.
"Well," he said at dessert, "why have we not seen that mummy yet?"
"Because it is in my study," said Larrey. "Follow me, and you shall see it."
Larrey led the way, Augereau following full of curiosity. When they reached the study, Larrey went to the box, which was leaning up against the wall, opened it, and revealed the mummy. Then Augereau approached and touched it with his finger.
"I declare," he exclaimed contemptuously, "it is dead!"
Larrey was so astonished by this exclamation that he did not even bethink himself to offer apologies to Augereau for having disturbed him to look at so uninteresting an object as adead mummy.
But throughout that period everybody was literary, not in themselves, or from choice, but from tradition. No one had yet forgotten that Bonaparte had signed his own proclamationsto the Army of Egypt, and that Napoleon had accosted M. de Fontanes every time he met him with the question—
"Well, Monsieur de Fontanes, have you found me a poet?"
But the day and the appointed hour had come for all those poets who had escaped the notice of M. de Fontanes and Napoleon's munificent offers. They were springing up, blossoming and glowing like hawthorn in the month of May; and their names had already begun to give promise of the immense sensation they were to create in the future. Their names were Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Sainte-Beuve, Méry, Soulié, Barbier, Alfred de Musset, Balzac; these were already filling, at the cost of their heart's blood, that great and unique stream of poetry from which France and Europe and the whole world were to drink during the nineteenth century.
But the movement was taking place not only amidst thatpléiadewhich I have just named; a whole host of others was fighting, each helping forward the general cause by separate attacks, to make a breach in the walls of the old school of poetry. Dittmer and Cavé were publishing theSoirées de Neuilly; Vitet, theBarricadesand theÉtats de Blois; Mérimée theThéâtre de Clara Gazul.And note carefully that all these movements took place away from the stage whereon the real struggle took place, and apart from its manifestations. The real struggle was that in which I, and Victor Hugo (I put myself first for chronological reasons) were to take part. I was preparing for it not only by the continuation of myChristine, but still more by studying humanity as a whole, combined with individual characterisations.
I have referred to the immense service the English actors had done me; Macready, Kean, Young had in turn completed the work begun by Kemble and Miss Smithson. I had seenHamlet,Romeo,Shylock,Othello,Richard III.andMacbeth.I had read and devoured not only the whole of Shakespeare, but even the whole of the foreign dramatic output. I had recognised that, in the theatrical world, everything emanated from Shakespeare, just as in the external worldeverything owes its existence to the sun; that nothing could be compared with him; for, coming before everyone else, he was yet as supreme in tragedy as Corneille, in comedy as Molière, as original as Calderon, as full of thought as Goethe, as passionate as Schiller. I realised that his works contained as many types as the works of all the others put together. I recognised, in short, that, after the Creator Himself, Shakespeare had created more than any other being. As I have stated, when I saw these English artists, actors who forgot that they were on a stage,—the life of the imagination became actual life through the power of Art; their convincing words and gestures seeming to transform them from actors into creatures of God, with their virtues and their vices, their passions and their failings,—from that moment my career was decided. I felt I had received that special call which comes to every man. I felt a confidence in my own powers that I had lacked until then, and I boldly hurled myself upon the unknown future that had hitherto held such terrors for me. But, at the same time, I did not disguise from myself the difficulties in the way of the career to which I had devoted my life; I knew that it would require deeper and more special study than any other profession; that before I could experiment successfully on living nature I must first perseveringly study the works of others. So I did not rest satisfied with a superficial study. One after the other, I took the works of men of genius, like Shakespeare, Molière, Corneille, Calderon, Goethe and Schiller, laid them out as bodies on a dissecting table, and, scalpel in hand, I spent whole nights in probing them to the heart in order to find the sources of life and the secret of the circulation of their blood. And after a while I discovered with what admirable science they galvanised nerve and muscle into life, and by what skill they modelled the differing types of flesh that were destined to cover the one unchangeable human framework of bone. For man does not invent. God has given the created world into his hands, and left him to apply it to his needs. Progress simply means the daily, monthly and everlasting conquest of man over matter. Each individualas he appears on the scene takes possession of the knowledge of his fathers, works it up in different ways, and then dies after he has added one ray more to the sum of human knowledge which he bequeaths to his sons,—one star in the Milky Way! I was then not only trying to complete my dramatic work but also my dramatic education. But that is an error, one's work may be finished some day, but one's education never!
I had just about concluded my play, after two months' peace and encouragement in my humble post in the Archives Office, when I received notice from the Secretariat that, as my position was almost a sinecure, it had been done away with, and that I must hold myself ready to enter the Forestry Department—under M. Deviolaine. So the storm that had been hanging over my head for long had burst at last. I said good-bye to old father Bichet with tears in my eyes, and to his two friends MM. Pieyre and Parseval de Grandmaison, who promised to follow my career with sympathetic interest wherever I might be. The reader knows M. Deviolaine. During the five years I had been in the Government offices I had been looked upon as abête-noir, so I entered upon my new official work under no very favourable auspices.
The struggle began immediately I took up my new duties. They wanted to herd me together with five or six of my fellow-clerks in one large room, and I revolted against the proceeding. My companions were good enough to explain to me in all innocence that they found it an advantageous way of killing time—that deadly enemy to employés—to sit together, for then they could talk. Now, talk was just what I most dreaded; to them it was a pleasure, to me a torture, for chattering distracted my own ever-increasing imaginative ideas. No, instead of wanting to be in this big office, strewn thick with supernumeraries, clerks and assistants, I had my eye on a sort of recess separated by a simple partition from the office-boy's cubicle, and in which he kept the ink-bottles that were returned to him empty. I asked if I might take possession of this place. I might as well have asked for thearchbishopric of Cambrai, which was just vacant. A fearful clamour went up at this demand, from the office boy to the head of the department(directeur général).The office boy asked the clerks in the big room where he could put his empty bottles henceforth; the clerks in the big room asked the assistant head clerk (the one who had never heard of Byron) whether I thought myself too good to work with them; the assistant head clerk asked the chief clerk whether I had come to the Forestry Department to give or to receive orders; the chief clerk asked the head of the department if it were usual for a clerk paid fifteen hundred francs to have an office to himself, as though he were a head clerk at four thousand. The head of the department replied that it was not only absolutely contrary to administrative customs, but that no such precedent would be allowed me, and that my claim was most presumptuous! I was trying to fit myself into the unlucky recess which, for the moment, formed the sum of my ambition, when the head clerk walked haughtily from the office of the head of the department, bearing the verbal command that the rebellious employé, who had dared for one moment to entertain the ambitious hope of leaving the ordinary ranks, should at once return to his place there. He transmitted the order immediately to the assistant head clerk, who passed it on to the ordinary clerks of the large office, who transmitted it to the office boy! There was joy throughout the department: a fellow-clerk was to be humiliated and, if he did not take his humiliation in a humble spirit, he I would lose his situation! The office boy opened the door between his cubicle and mine; he had just come from making a general clearance throughout the office and had brought back all the empty bottles he could manage to unearth.
"But, my dear Féresse," I said, watching him uneasily, "how do you think I can manage here with all those bottles, or, rather, how are all those bottles going to fit in with me,—unless I live in one of them, after the style ofle Diable boiteux?"
"That's just it!" leered Féresse, as he deposited fresh bottles by the old ones. "M. le Directeur généraldoes not look upon it in that light: he wishes me to keep this room for myself, and does not intend a new-comer to lay down the law."
I walked up to him, the blood mantling my face.
"The new-comer, however insignificant he may be, is still your superior," I said; "so you should speak to him with your head uncovered. Take your cap off, you young cub!"
And, at the same moment, I gave the lad a back-hander that sent his hat flying against the wall, and took my departure. All this happened in the absence of M. Deviolaine; therefore I had not the last word in the matter. M. Deviolaine would not return for two or three days; so I decided to go home to my poor mother, and there await his return. But, before I left the office, I went and told Oudard all that had happened, who said he could not do anything in the matter, and I told M. Pieyre, who said that he could not do much. My mother was in a state of despair: it reminded her too much of my return home from Maître Lefèvre's in 1823. She rushed off to Madame Deviolaine. Madame Deviolaine was an excellent woman but narrow-minded, and she could not understand why a clerk should have any other ambition beyond that of ultimately becoming a first class clerk; why a first class clerk should desire to become anything beyond an assistant chief clerk; why an assistant chief clerk should have any other ambition than that of becoming chief clerk, and so forth. So she did not hold out any promises to my mother; for that matter, the poor woman had not much influence over her husband, as she well knew, and she but rarely tried to exercise what little she did possess. Meanwhile, I had begged Porcher to come to our house. I showed him my almost completed tragedy, and I asked him whether, in case of adverse circumstances, he would advance me a certain sum.
"Confound it!" Porcher replied—"a tragedy!... If it had been a vaudeville I do not say but that I would!... However,get it receivedand we will see."
"Get it received!" Therein, of course, lay the whole question.
My mother returned at that moment, and Porcher's answer was not of the kind to reassure her. I wrote to M. Deviolaine, and begged that my letter might be given him on his return; then I waited. We spent three days of suspense; but during those three days I stayed in bed and worked incessantly. Why did I stop in bed? That requires an explanation. Whilst I was at the Secretariat, and had to be at the office from ten in the morning until five in the evening, returning there from eight until ten o'clock, I had to traverse the distance between the faubourg Saint-Denis No. 53 to the rue Saint-Honoré No. 216, eight times a day, and I was so tired out that I could rarely work if I sat up. So I went to bed and slept, first putting my work on the table near my bed; I slept for two hours, and then at midnight my mother woke me and went to sleep in her turn. That was the reason I worked in bed. This habit of working in bed attained such hold of me that I kept it up long after I had gained freedom of action, doing all my theatrical work thus. Perhaps this revelation may satisfy those physiologists who dilated upon the kind of rude passion which has been noted in my earliest works, and with which, perhaps not unreasonably, I have been reproached. I contracted another habit, too, at that time, and that was to write my dramas in a backward style of handwriting: this habit I never lost, like the other, and to this day I have one style of handwriting for my dramas and another for my romances. During those three days I made immense progress withChristine.On the fourth day, I received a letter from M. Deviolaine, summoning me to his office. I hurried there, and this time my heart did not beat any the faster; I had faced the worst that could happen and I was prepared for anything.
"Ah! there you are, you cursed blockhead!" cried M. Deviolaine, when he saw me.
"Yes, monsieur, here I am."
"So! so, monsieur!"
I made no reply.
"So we are too grand a lord to work with ordinary mortals?" M. Deviolaine continued.
"You are mistaken ... quite the contrary. I am not a sufficiently grand lord to work with the others, that is why I want to work alone."
"And you ask for an office to yourself, on purpose to do nothing in it but to write your dirty plays?"
"I ask for an office to myself so that I can have the right to think while I am working."
"And if I do not let you have an office to yourself?"
"I shall try to earn my living as an author. You know I have no other resource."
"And if I do not immediately send you packing, you may be very sure it is for your mother's sake and not for your own."
"I am fully aware of that, and I am grateful to you on my mother's account."
"Very well, take your office to yourself, then; but I give you warning that...."
"You will give me double the work of any other clerk?"
"Exactly so."
"It will be unjust, that is all; but, since I am not the stronger, I shall submit."
"Unjust! unjust!" shrieked M. Deviolaine. "I would have you know that I have never done an unjust thing in my life."
"It would seem there is a beginning for everything."
"Did you ever see—oh, did you ever see such a young rip!" continued M. Deviolaine, as he paced up and down his office,—"did you ever see! did you ever see!..."
Then, turning to me again, he said—
"Very well, I will not treat you unjustly; no, indeed no, you shall not have more work to do than the others; but you shall have as much, and you shall be watched to see that you get through it! M. Fossier shall receive orders from me to carry out this inspection."
I moved my lips.
"What next! Have you something now to say against M. Fossier?"
"No, only that I think him ugly."
"Well, what then?"
"Why, I would much rather he were good-looking, on his own account first and also on my own."
"But what does it matter to you whether M. Fossier be ugly or beautiful?"
"If I have to meet a face three or four times in a day I should much prefer it to be agreeable rather than disagreeable."
"Well, I never met such a cursed young puppy in all my days! You will soon want me to choose my head clerks to suit your taste!... Get out! Go back to your office, and try to make up for lost time."
"I will do so; but, first, I want to ask a promise from you, monsieur."
"Well, upon my word, if he isn't actually going to impose his own conditions on me!"
"You will accept this one, I am sure."
"Now, what do you wish, Monsieur le poëte?"
"I should like you yourself each day to overlook the work I have done and see how I have done it."
"Well, I promise you that.... And when is the first performance to take place?"
"I can hardly tell you; but I am very sure you will be present at it!"
"Yes, I will be there, in more senses than one; you may be quite easy on that score.... Now, go and behave yourself!"
And he made a threatening gesture, upon which I went out.
M. Deviolaine kept his word to me. He gave me plenty of work to do without overdoing me. But, as he had promised, M. Fossier always came and brought the work to me himself, and if, by ill luck, I was not at my desk, M. Deviolaine was instantly informed of my absence.
Conclusion ofChristine—A patron, after a fashion—Nodier recommends me to Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the author ofHécube—Semi-official reading before Taylor—Official reading before the Committee—I am received with acclamation—The intoxication of success—How history is written—M. Deviolaine's incredulity—Picard's opinions concerning my play—Nodier's opinion—Second reading at the Théâtre-Français and definite acceptance
Conclusion ofChristine—A patron, after a fashion—Nodier recommends me to Taylor—The Royal Commissary and the author ofHécube—Semi-official reading before Taylor—Official reading before the Committee—I am received with acclamation—The intoxication of success—How history is written—M. Deviolaine's incredulity—Picard's opinions concerning my play—Nodier's opinion—Second reading at the Théâtre-Français and definite acceptance
But none of these hindrances prevented me from finishingChristine.I had, however, scarcely written the famous last line—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père ... Qu'on l'achève!"
when I found myself in as embarrassing a situation as any poor girl who has just given birth to a child outside the pale of legitimate matrimony. What was I to do with this bastard child of my creation, born outside the gates of the Institute and the Academy? Was I to stifle her as I had smothered her elders? That would have been hard lines indeed! Besides, this little girl was strong, and quite capable of living; it seemed good, therefore, to acknowledge her; but first it was necessary to find a theatre to receive her, actors to clothe her and a public to adopt her!
Oh! if only Talma were living! But Talma was dead and I did not know anyone at the Théâtre-Français. Perhaps it might be possible for me to manage it through M. Arnault. But he would ask to see the work on behalf of which his services were requested, and he would not have read ten lines before he would fling it as far from him as poor M. Drake had the rattlesnake that bit him at Rouen.I went to look for Oudard. I told him that my play was completed and I boldly asked him for a letter of introduction to the Théâtre-Français. Oudard refused under pretence that he did not know anyone there. I had the courage to tell him that his introduction as head of the Secretariat of the Duc d'Orléans would be all-powerful.
He replied, after the manner of Madame Méchin, when she did not incline to promote any particular end—
"I will never lend myinfluencein that direction."
I had several times noticed a man with thick eyebrows and a long nose, in the Secretarial Department, who took his tobacco Swiss-fashion. This man periodically brought the ninety theatre tickets to all parts of the house that M. Oudard had the prerogative of giving away every month, at the rate of three per day. I did not know who this man was, but I asked. I was told that he was the prompter.
I lay in wait for this prompter, took him by surprise in the corridor and begged him to tell me what steps were necessary to obtain the honour of a reading before the Committee of the Théâtre-Français. He told me I must first deposit my play with the Examiner; but he warned me that so many other works were already deposited there that I must expect to wait at least a year. As though it were possible for me to wait a year!
"But," I asked, "is there no short cut through all these formalities?"
"Oh dear me, yes!" he replied, "if you know Baron Taylor."
I thanked him.
"There is nothing to thank me for," he said.
And he was right; there wasn't anything to thank him for, for I did not know Baron Taylor in the slightest.
"Do you know Baron Taylor?" I asked Lassagne.
"No," he answered; "but Charles Nodier is his intimate friend."
"What of that?"
"Well, did you not tell me that you once talked with Charles Nodier a whole evening at a representation of theVampire?"
"Certainly."
"Write to Charles Nodier."
"Bah! he will have forgotten all about me."
"He never forgets anything; write to him."
I wrote to Charles Nodier, recalling to his memory the Elzevirs, the rotifer, the vampires, and in the name of his well-known kindliness towards young people I entreated him to introduce me to Baron Taylor. It can be imagined with what impatience I awaited the reply. Baron Taylor himself replied, granting my request and fixing an appointment with me five or six days later. He apologised at the same time for the hour he had fixed; but his numerous engagements left him so little time that seven o'clock in the morning was the only hour at which he could see me. Although I am probably the latest riser in Paris, I was ready at the appointed hour. True, I had kept awake all the night. Taylor then lived at No. 42 rue de Bondy, fourth floor. His suite of rooms consisted of an anteroom filled with books and busts; a dining-room full of pictures and books; a drawing-room full of weapons and books; and a bedroom full of manuscripts and books. I rang at the door of the antechamber, my heart beating at a terrible rate. The good or ill natured mood of a man who knew nothing about me, who had no inducement to be kindly disposed towards me, who had received me out of pure good-nature, was to decide my future life. If my play displeased him, it would stand in the way of anything I could bring him later, and I was very nearly at the end of my courage and strength. I had rung the bell, gently enough, I admit, and no one had answered it; I rang a second time, as gently as at first; again no one took any notice of me. And yet, putting my ear close, I seemed to hear a noise indicative of something unusual taking place inside: confused sounds and snarls which now sounded like bursts of anger, and now, decreasing in pitch, seemed like a continuous monotonous bass accompaniment. I could not imagine what it could be; I was afraid to disturb Taylor at such a moment and yet it was the very hour he had himself fixed for mycoming. I rang louder. I heard a door open, and simultaneously the mysterious noise from inside that had greatly roused my curiosity for the last ten minutes sounded louder than ever. At last the door was opened by an old serving-woman.
"Ah! monsieur," she said, with a flustered manner, "your coming will do M. le Baron an excellent turn. He is waiting anxiously for you; go in."
"What do you mean?"
"Go in, go in ... do not lose a minute."
I went quickly into the sitting-room, where I found Taylor caught in his bath-tub like a tiger in his den, a gentleman near him reading a tragedy calledHécube.This gentleman had forced his entrance, no matter what was said to him. He had surprised Taylor as Charlotte Corday had surprised Marat when she stabbed him in his bath; but the agony that the King's Commissary endured was more prolonged than that of the Tribune of the People. The tragedy was two thousand four hundred lines long! When the gentleman caught sight of me, he realised that his victim was to be snatched away from him; he clutched hold of the bath, exclaiming—
"There are only two more acts, monsieur,—there are only two more acts!"
"Two sword-cuts, two stabs with a knife, two thrusts with a dagger! Select from among the arms round about—there are all kinds here—choose the one that will slice the best and kill me straight off!"
"Monsieur," replied the author ofHécube, "the Government appointed youcommissaire du roion purpose to listen to my play; it is your duty to listen to my play—you shall hear my play!"
"Ah! that is just where the misfortune comes in!" cried Taylor, wringing his hands. "Yes, monsieur, to my sorrow I amcommissaire du roil... But you and such people as you will make me hand in my resignation; you and your like will force me to give it up and leave France. I havehad an offer to go to Egypt, I will accept it; I will explore the sources of the Nile as far as Nubia, right to the Mountains of the Moon,—and I will go at once and get my passport."
"You can go-to China, if you like," replied the gentleman, "but you shall not go until you have heard my play."
Taylor gave one long moan, like a vanquished athlete, made a sign to me to go into his bedroom and, falling back into his bath-tub, he bowed his head in resignation upon his breast. The gentleman went on. Taylor's precaution of putting a door between him and his reader and me was quite useless; I heard every word of the last two acts ofHécube.The Almighty is great and full of compassion—may He bestow peace on that author! At last, when the play was finished, the gentleman got up and, at Taylor's earnest entreaty, consented to depart. I heard the old woman double lock the door after him. The bath-water had made good use of the time spent on the reading to grow cold, and Taylor came back into his bedroom shivering. I would have sacrificed a month's pay for him to have found a warmed bed to creep into. And the reason is not far to seek; for, naturally, a man who is half frozen, after just listening to five acts, is not in a favourable mood to hear five more acts.
"Alas! monsieur," I said to him, "I have happened upon a most unsuitable time, and I fear you will not be in the least disposed to listen to me, at least with the patience I could desire."
"Oh, monsieur, I will not admit that, since I do not yet know your work," Taylor replied; "but you can guess what a trial it is to have to listen to-such stuff as I have just heard, every blessed day of my life."
"Every day?"
"Yes, indeed, and oftener! See, here is my agenda for to-day's Committee. We are to hear anÉpaminondas."
I heaved a sigh. My poorChristinewas caught between two cross-fires of classicism.
"M. le Baron," I ventured to say, "would you rather I came another day?"
"Oh! certainly not," said Taylor, "now we are here...."
"Very well," I said, "I will just read you one act, and if that tires you or bores you, you must stop me."
"All right," Taylor murmured; "you are more merciful than your confrères. And that is a good sign.... Go on, go on; I am listening."
Tremblingly I drew my play from my pocket;—it looked a terribly big volume. Taylor cast a glance on the immense bulk with such an alarmed expression that I cried out to him—
"Oh, monsieur, do not be afraid! The manuscript is only written on one side of the paper."
He breathed again. I began. I was so nervous I could not see to read; my voice shook so that I could not hear my own voice. Taylor reassured me; he was unaccustomed to such modesty! I resumed my reading, and I managed somehow to get through my first act.
"Well, monsieur, shall I go on?" I asked in a faint voice, without daring to raise my eyes.
"Certainly, certainly," Taylor replied, "go on. Upon my word, it is excellent!"
Fresh life came to me, and I read my second act with more confidence than the first. When I had finished, Taylor himself told me to go on with the third, then the fourth, then the fifth. I felt an inexpressible desire to embrace him; but I refrained, for fear of the consequences.
When the reading was finished, Taylor leapt from his bed.
"You must come to the Théâtre-Français with me," he said.
"But what must I do there?"
"Why, get your turn to read your play as soon as possible."
"Do you really mean it? Shall I read it to the Committee?"
"Not a day later than next Saturday." And Taylor called out, "Pierre!"
An old man-servant came in.
"Give me all my clothes, Pierre."
Then turning to me, he said, "You will excuse me?"
"Oh, there is nothing to excuse!..." I replied.
On the following Thursday (for Taylor would not wait until the Saturday, but had called a special Committee) the Committee, whether from chance or because Taylor had praised my play extravagantly, was a very large one; there were as many well-dressed men and women present as though a dance were on the way. The ladies decked out in gay hats and flowers, the gentlemen in fashionable dress, the large green carpet, the inquisitive looks which were fixed upon me, every detail down to the glass of water which Granville solemnly placed by my side—which struck me as very ludicrous—all this combined to inspire me with profound emotion.
Christinewas then quite different from what it is to-day: it was a simple play, romantic in style, but founded on classical traditions. It was confined to five acts; the action took place entirely at Fontainebleau, and it conformed with the unity of time, place and action laid down by Aristotle. Stranger still! it did not contain the character of Paula, which is now the best creation in the play, and the real dramatic mainspring of the whole work. Monaldeschi betrayed Christine's ambition, but not her love. And yet I have rarely known any work to have such a successful first reading. They made me read the monologue of Sentinelli and the scene with Monaldeschi three times over. I was intoxicated with delight. My play was received with acclamation. Only, three or four of the agenda papers contained the following cautious phrase:—
"A second, reading, or the manuscript to be submitted to an author in whom the Committee has confidence."
The result of the deliberations of the Comédie-Française was that the tragedy ofChristinewas accepted; but, on account of the great innovations which it contained, they would not undertake to perform it until after another reading, or the manuscript had been submitted to another author, to be named by them.
The whole thing had passed before my eyes like a mist. I had seen face to face for the first time the kings andqueens of the tragic and comic stage: Mademoiselle Mars, Mademoiselle Leverd, Mademoiselle Bourgoin, Madame Valmonzey, Madame Paradol and Mademoiselle Demerson, an engagingly cleversoubrette, who played Molière with great freshness, and Marivaux with such finished style as I never saw in anyone else. I knew I was accepted and that was all I wished to know: the conditions I would fulfil, the difficulties I would overcome. Therefore I did not wait until the conclusion of the conference. I thanked Taylor, and I left the theatre as proud and as light-hearted as though my first mistress had said to me, "I love you." I made off for the faubourg Saint-Denis, ogling everybody I met, as much as to say, "You haven't writtenChristine; you haven't just come away from the Théâtre-Français; you haven't been received with acclamation, you, you, you!" And, in the joyful preoccupation of my thoughts, I did not take care to measure my steps across a gutter but stumbled into the middle of it; I took no notice of carriages, I jostled in and out among the horses. When I reached the faubourg Saint-Denis I had lost my manuscript; but that did not matter! I knew my play by heart. With one leap, I bounded into our rooms, and my mother cried out, for she never saw me back before five o'clock.
"Received with acclamation, mother! received with acclamation!" I shouted. And I began to dance round our rooms, which allowed but little space for such exercise. My mother thought I must have gone mad; I had not told her I was going to the reading for fear of disappointment.
"And what will M. Fossier say?" my poor mother exclaimed.
"Oh!" I replied, suiting my words to the tune ofMalbrouck, "M. Fossier can say whatever he likes, and if he is not satisfied, I will send him about his business!"
"Take care, my dear lad," my mother replied, shaking her head; "it will be you who will be sent packing and in good earnest, too."
"All right, mother; so much the better! It will give me time to attend my rehearsals."
"And suppose your play is a failure, and you have lost your situation, what will become of us?"
"I will write another play that will succeed."
"But in the meantime we must live."
"Ah yes! it's very unfortunate that one has to live; happily, in seven or eight days we shall receive something on account."
"Yes, but while we are waiting for that, which you have not yet got, my lad, take my advice and return to your desk, so that no one may suspect anything, and do not boast of what has happened to a single person."
"I fancy you are in the right, mother; and although I asked the whole day off from M. Deviolaine, I will return to my desk. It is half-past two. Why, I shall yet have time to despatch my day's work."
And I set forth at a run to the rue Saint-Honoré. The exercise did me good, for I needed fresh air and action; I felt stifled in our tiny rooms. I found a pile of reports ready for me; I set to my task, and by six o'clock everything was finished. But by this time Féresse's anger against me amounted to hatred: I had compelled him to stay till the stroke of six before I had finished the last lines. I had never written so fast or so well. I re-read everything twice for fear I might have interpolated some lines fromChristinein the reports. But, as usual, they were innocent of poetic effusions. I gave them back to Féresse, who went with them to M. Fossier's office, growling like a bear. I then went home to my dear mother, quite spent and utterly exhausted with the great events of that day. It was 30 April 1828. I spent the evening, the night and the morning of the next day in rewriting my manuscript afresh. By ten o'clock, when I reached the Administration, I found Ferésse at the door of his office. He had been looking out for me since eight o'clock that morning, although he knew well enough that I never came before ten.
"Ah! there you are," he said. "So you have been writing a tragedy, I hear."
"Who told you that?"
"Why, good gracious, it is in the newspaper."
"In the paper?"
"Yes, read it for yourself."
And he handed me a paper which did, indeed, contain the following lines:—
"The Théâtre-Français to-day accepted with acclamation and unanimity a five-act tragedy in verse, by a young man who has not yet produced anything. This young man is in the administrative offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans, who made his path easy for him and who strongly recommended him to the Reading Committee."
"The Théâtre-Français to-day accepted with acclamation and unanimity a five-act tragedy in verse, by a young man who has not yet produced anything. This young man is in the administrative offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans, who made his path easy for him and who strongly recommended him to the Reading Committee."
You see how accurately the daily press gauged the situation! it has not lost the tradition even to-day. Nevertheless, although inaccurate enough in detail, the news was fundamentally true; and it circulated from corridor to corridor and from storey to storey. It flew from office to office, by means of people coming in and going out, just as though Madame la Duchesse d'Orléans had given birth to twins. I was congratulated by all my colleagues, some with sincerity, others mockingly; only the chief of my office hid himself from view. But, since he kept me going with four times my usual amount of work, it was quite evident he had seen the paper. M. Deviolaine came in at two o'clock and at five minutes past two he sent for me. I walked into his office with my head in the air and my hands perched jauntily on my hips.
"Ah! there you are, you young blade!" he said.
"Yes, here I am."
"So you asked me for a holiday yesterday in order to play pranks!"
"Have I neglected my work?"
"That is not the question."
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine, on the contrary it is the only question."
"But don't you see that they have been making game of you?"
"Who has?"
"The Comedians."
"Nevertheless, they have accepted my play."
"Yes, but they will not put it on the stage."
"Ah! we shall see!"
"And if they do produce your play...."
"Yes?"
"You will still need the approbation of the public."
"Why should you imagine it will not please the public since it has pleased the Comedians?"
"Come now, do you want to make me believe that you, who only had an education that cost three francs a month, will be successful when such people as M. Viennet and M. Lemercier and M. Lebrun fall flat?... Go along with you!"
"But instead of judging me beforehand, wouldn't it be fairer to wait?"
"Oh yes, wait ten years, twenty years! I sincerely hope I shall be buried before your play is acted, and then I shall never see it."
At this juncture, Ferésse slily opened the door.
"Excuse me, M. Deviolaine," he said, "but there is aComedianhere (he carefully emphasised the word) asking for M. Dumas."
"A Comedian! What Comedian?" M. Deviolaine asked.
"M. Firmin, from the Comédie-Française."
"Yes," I replied quietly; "he takes the part of Monaldeschi."
"Firmin plays in your piece?"
"Yes, he takes Monaldeschi.... Oh, it is admirably cast: Firmin plays Monaldeschi, Mademoiselle Mars Christine...."
"Mademoiselle Mars plays in your piece?"
"Certainly."
"It is not true."
"Would you like her to tell it you herself?"
"Do you imagine I am going to take the trouble to assure myself you are lying?"
"No; she will come here."
"Mademoiselle Mars will come here?"
"I am sure she will have the kindness to do that for me."
"Mademoiselle Mars?"
"Yes, you see that Firmin...."
"Stop! Go your own way! for upon my word you are enough to turn my brain!... Mademoiselle Mars ... Mademoiselle Mars put herself out for you? Think of it!... Mademoiselle Mars!" and he raised his hands to heaven in despair that such a mad idea should ever enter the head of any member of his family.
I took advantage of this theatrical display to escape. Firmin was, indeed, waiting for me. He had made use of his time in looking round the office, and he had ascertained that the windows of my office looked exactly across to those of the Comédie-Française—a circumstance that offered great facilities for my future communications. He came so that no time should be lost, to offer to take me to Picard's house, who was going to read my manuscript. Picard enjoyed the absolute confidence of the Comédie-Française and the Comédie-Française would rely implicitly on his decision. I felt an intense aversion towards Picard, who, according to my views, had retarded the development of real comedy as much as Scribe had advanced the cause of the vaudeville. It was out of the question that Picard could understandChristinefrom the point of view either of style or of construction. I therefore fought as long as I could against having to submit to Picard's arbitrament. But Firmin knew Picard very well and said that he had such a partiality for young people, and that his advice was so good that, rather than vex Firmin at the outset of my career, I was persuaded to go. It was arranged that, at half-past four that evening, Firmin should call for me and take me to see Picard. At half-past four we set off.Christinehad been neatly re-copied. It may be guessed that since I had taken such pains over the plays of Théaulon, I took extra care of my own! The manuscript was rolled and tied up with a pretty new piece of ribbon that my mother had given me.
Where did Picard live? Upon my word, I could not say and I will not lose any time in trying to find his address. Wherever he lived, we arrived at his house. His appearance corresponded exactly with the idea that I had formed of him:he was a little, deformed man with long hands, small bright eyes, and a nose as sharp as a weasel's. He received us with that polite, bantering manner peculiar to him, which many people take for intellectual good-fellowship. We conversed for ten minutes and he pretended entire ignorance of the news he had been possessed of since morning; he laid bare the object of our visit and he asked us to leave the manuscript with him, and to return a week later. He gave us his humble advice upon this important matter, pleading for our leniency beforehand if his judgment were more inclined to the shorter classic forms of comedy, rather than to thelong Romantic productions (des grandes machines romantiques).This exordium foreboded no good. We saw Picard a week later; he was expecting us, and we found him seated in the same arm-chair, with the same smile on his lips. He bade us be seated and politely inquired after our health; finally, he stretched his long fingers over his desk and rolled up my manuscript carefully, wrapped it and tied it up. Then, with a winning smile, he said to me—
"My dear monsieur, have you any means of subsistence?"
"Monsieur," I replied, "I am a clerk at fifteen hundred francs a year in the offices of M. le Duc d'Orléans."
"Well, then, my advice to you, my dear lad, is to return to your desk—to return to your desk!"
After such a declaration, the conversation was, of necessity, brief. Firmin and I rose, bowed and departed. Or, rather, I departed; Firmin stayed behind a moment after me: he probably wished a further explanation. Through the half-opened door I could see Picard shrugging his shoulders with such violence that his head seemed in danger of coming off his body. The modern Molière looked extremely repulsive thus, his expression above all being remarkably malicious. Had Picard really given us a conscientious opinion? Firmin was convinced he had, but I doubted it always. It was impossible that an intellectual man, no matter how narrow his views might be, should not discern—I will not go so far as to say a remarkable work inChristine,but remarkable works belonging to the school ofChristine.
Next day, I went to see Taylor, carrying with me my manuscript containing Picard's annotations. These annotations consisted of crosses, bracketing and marks of exclamation, which might well be called marks of stupefaction. Certain lines especially seemed to have astounded the author of thePetite Villeand theDeux Philibert.These had been honoured by three exclamation marks.
CHRISTINE"Vous êtes Français, vous; mais ces Italiens,L'idiome mielleux qui détrempe leurs âmesSemblerait fait exprès pour un peuple de femmes;D'énergiques accents ont peine à s'y mêler.Un homme est là; l'on croit qu'en homme il va parler;Il parle, on se retourne, et, par un brusque échange,A la place d'un homme, on trouve une louange."—!!!
It was to the last line that the three wretched notes of exclamation had been affixed, which were intended to express many things. For the most part, Picard's criticisms were laconically brief. After the following lines came one huge note of interrogation:—
"Sur le chemin des rois, l'oubli couvre ma trace;Mon nom, comme un vain bruit, s'affaiblit dans l'espace:Ce n'est plus qu'un écho par l'écho répété,Et j'assiste vivante à la postérité.Je crus que plus longtemps—mon erreur fut profonde!—Mon abdication bruirait dans le monde ...Pour le remplir encore un but m'est indiqué;Je veux reconquérir cet empire abdiqué.Comme je la donnai, je reprends ma couronne,Et l'on dira que j'ai le caprice du trône!"—?
a point of interrogation which seemed to say, "Perhaps the author understands this passage. I, certainly, do not."
After the last line—
"Eh bien, j'en ai pitié, mon père ... Qu'on l'achève!"
was written the word "IMPOSSIBLE."
Was it the piece which wasimpossibleor only that line? Picard had had the delicacy to leave me the benefit of the doubt. I related my adventure to Taylor and showed him Picard's notes.
"All right," he said; "leave the play with me and return to-morrow morning."
I left the play with him, feeling very subdued in spirits. I was beginning to learn to my cost that the joys connected with the theatre are the opposite of those in nature, and belong only to early days—after that brief period one's real troubles immediately begin. I took good care to keep my engagement and was with Taylor by eight next morning. He showed me my manuscript, across which Nodier had written in his own handwriting—
"Upon my soul and conscience, I declareChristineis one of the most remarkable works I have read for the last twenty years."
"You realise," said Taylor to me, "I shall need that to back me up. You must keep yourself in readiness to re-read your play on Saturday."
"Monsieur le Baron," I said to him, "I am in an office, and there they are all the more strict with me because I go in for literary work, which bureaucratic eyes look upon as an unpardonable crime. Could I read it on Sunday, rather than Saturday?"
"It is contrary to all custom, but I will see what I can do."
Three days later, I received my notice for the following Sunday. The assembly was even larger than the first time and the play was even more enthusiastically applauded, if that be possible, than it had been on the previous reading. It was put to the vote and accepted unanimously, subject to some alterations which I was to arrange after consultation with M. Samson. Fortunately, M. Samson and I did not see eye to eye; I say fortunately, since the disagreement led to my recasting the whole play, which gained, by this re-handling, the prologue, the two acts at Stockholm, the epilogue at Rome and the entire part of Paula. When we come to the proper place, wewill relate how these transformations came about; they left theMetamorphosesof Ovid (of which a splendid edition had just been published by M. Villenave) a very long way behind. I must say a few words about M. de Villenave, who was one of the best informed and most original men of his day; and I must say a little about his wife, his son, his daughter and his home, all of which personages and things had a great influence on this first part of my life.
Cordelier-Delanoue—A sitting of the Athénée—M. Villenave—His family—The one hundred and thirty-two Nantais—Cathelineau—The huntaux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier
Cordelier-Delanoue—A sitting of the Athénée—M. Villenave—His family—The one hundred and thirty-two Nantais—Cathelineau—The huntaux bleus—Forest—A chapter of history—Sauveur—The Royalist Committee—Souchu—The miraculous tomb—Carrier
During the period of the first representations of the English actors (which coincided with my evening attendance at the offices of the Secretariat) I made the acquaintance of a young fellow named Cordelier-Delanoue. It came about very naturally. We were publishingPsychéat that time and Delanoue had sent us a poem which he calledHamlet; this we inserted in our journal, he came to thank us and Adolphe and I became friendly with him, I especially. Delanoue was the son of one of the generals of the Revolution, who had formerly known my father; this circumstance had drawn us together and our dramatic and political sympathies did the rest. One night Delanoue came to see me at the office and suggested taking me to the Athénée while the courier from the Palais-Royal went to Neuilly and back. I was ignorant about many things, so it will not be any cause for astonishment, I hope, if I admit that I had never heard of the Athénée. M. Villenave was giving a literary soirée there that evening. I did not know who M. Villenave was; and my ignorance in this respect was a little more excusable than my not knowing what the Athénée was. However, I accepted. At that time, I had not the horror of making fresh acquaintances which beset me later. I was promised something connected with literature and literary people, and a promise such as this would have urged me on to cross the razor edge which serves as abridge between the Mohammadan Paradise and this earth. I could cross such an edge now, prone though I am to giddiness, but it would be in order to fly from the very thing I then went to seek. So far as I can recollect, the meetings of the Athénée were held in a lower hall of the Palais-Royal, which had its entrance from the rue de Valois. They discussed all sorts of topics that would have been insufferable in drawing-rooms, but which at the Athénée were simply tedious. The people who discussed these tedious subjects had the right to a certain number of tickets to distribute among the members of their families, their friends and their acquaintances. They could have discussed these subjects quite well alone, but, for some inexplicable reason, they preferred to have an audience. On this particular evening the hall was full. M. Villenave was very popular in society, and, besides, these meetings had a certain celebrity. If I were condemned to be hung, I could not to save my life say what they talked of that night. It was probably some treatise on a second-rate deceased author, who served as an excuse to the writer to deliver a few raps to the living. M. Villenave conducted the meeting: he addressed it standing, by the aid of a couple of candelabras and a glass ofeau sucréenear him. He was a fine-looking old man of, perhaps, at that time, some sixty-six or sixty-eight years of age. He had splendid white hair, daintily curled about his temples; black eyes that flashed with quite Southern fire; he was very tall but stooped a little from much bending over a desk; there was something distinguished-looking and graceful in his movements and manners. I had stopped modestly by the door for two reasons: first, because I was yet too unknown to imagine I had the right to put the speaker himself or anybody else out for my sake; secondly, as I had to return to my office by half-past nine, it was more convenient to be near the door than elsewhere, in order to escape incognito, as I had entered. Delanoue, who was more familiar with the company than I, left me to go and joke with them, during the short intervals when the sitting broke up to give M. Villenave time to take breath.
The usual hour for the courier having come, I was quietly escaping to return and receive him at my office, when Delanoue ran after me and caught me up under the peristyle. He had been deputed by the Villenave family to invite me to go and take tea with them at their house, after the meeting. I owed this favour to the kind things my friend Delanoue had said about me. I then had to inquire where the Villenaves lived. No. 82 rue de Vaugirard. Oh! but 53 faubourg Saint-Denis was a fair distance from my home. Fortunately, during my five years' residence in Paris, I had learnt to know its streets pretty thoroughly, so I did not feel obliged, as on my first visit, to hire a conveyance to take me from the place du Palais-Royal to the rue des Vieux-Augustins. The invitation conveyed by Delanoue had been so courteously and warmly pressed that the least I could do was to accept it. I ran off to the office, attended to the courier and returned. During the half-hour of my absence the sitting had been concluded, and I returned to find M. Villenave in a small drawing-room that opened out of the large hall, receiving the congratulations of his friends. Delanoue introduced me to M. Villenave and to his family. The Villenave family consisted first of Madame Villenave, a very gracious little old lady, very intellectual and an experienced society entertainer, but very fond of grumbling in her home-life, for she suffered, like Anne of Austria, from a cancer which ultimately killed her; Théodore Villenave, a tall, energetic young fellow, an author, at that time, of various fugitive poems, and translator ofWallenstein, which was destined to make a great commotion behind the scenes of the Odéon for three or four years before it was put on the stage, where it had a fairly successful reception; Madame Mélanie Waldor, the wife of a captain in the infantry on service and in garrison, who only put in short and rare appearances at Paris, where those who knew him spoke of him as a brave and loyal soldier. Madame Waldor composed fugitive verses, like her brother, which she published in the daily paper; like her brother, too, she afterwards wrote a play which had a successful run under the title of theÉcole des Jeunes Filles.Last came Élisa Waldor, who at that period was only a charming little child with the head of a chérubin surrounded by lovely golden curly hair; she afterwards grew into a tall, beautiful woman, and was twice married—and happily each time, I trust.[1]
The family returned home on foot, in patriarchal fashion, accompanied by five or six friends, who, like myself, were on their way to the rue de Vaugirard, to take tea and nibble cake together there. As I was the stranger, I was allotted the position of honour—namely, to give my arm to Madame Waldor. As the distance was very long, it was a good opportunity of becoming acquainted. But, as we had never seen each other or spoken together before, the long walk would have been embarrassing to us both, had not Delanoue joined us and made a third in the conversation between the place du Palais-Royal and the rue de Vaugirard. He thereby rendered us both a great service, for which both of us were profoundly grateful to him.
What a strange thing these chance meetings are! How astonished I should have been had anyone told me that this family, whose very existence I had not known a couple of hours before, and who were complete strangers to me, would become for the next two or three years almost as close to me as my own, and that I should traverse the road that thenseemed to me so long between the rue du faubourg-Saint-Denis and the rue de Vaugirard twice every day in future!
But I was in haste to reach our destination, to have a talk with M. Villenave. I do not remember how it was, or on what occasion, but a pamphlet he had written fell into my hands—a little work he had published in 1794, entitledRelation des noyades de cent trente-deux Nantais(Story of the drowning of a hundred and thirty-two people of Nantes). Directly I saw M. Villenave I remembered this pamphlet, and as soon as I thought of the pamphlet I resolved to lead the conversation to Carrier, and Nantes and the hundred and thirty-two Nantais. It was not a difficult matter to set M. Villenave talking; only, his conversation was very much like a sermon. When he talked, one had to let him go on, not interrupt him, and listen to him with reverent attention. He had, indeed, happened to be at Nantes in 1793, at the same time as Jean-Baptiste Carrier, of bloody memory. God forbid we should make the faintest excuses for that terrible proconsul and the horrors he perpetrated! But it must be admitted that the Vendeans had themselves set him an abominable example. Wars conducted by priests are apt to be barbarous wars, and it is known—or rather, it is not known, that at the beginning the insurrection was entirely in the hands of priests; the nobles did not involve themselves in it until later, and, when they did take part in it, the method of butchery became rather more humane: it changed to shooting. The first person to play a part in that bloody squabble was a sacristan named Cathelineau. Machiavelli says that, "When it was decided to. assassinate Julian de Medicis in the church of Sainte-Marie-des-Fleurs, they chose ecclesiastics to do the work of assassination, because they were less likely to be impressed by the sanctity of the place."
It is a strange but indisputable fact that when men of peace and love and charity turn into executioners, they become the most refined in cruelty of all; witness thein-pace(dungeons) of convents, witness the cells of the Inquisition, witness themassacres of Alby, witness the auto-da-fés of Madrid, witness Joan of Arc, witness Urbain Grandier.
This Cathelineau was what the country people between Angers and Saint-Laurent would term a sturdy lad (gars). Only three months elapsed between the day of his first shot and the day when he was killed, but these three months sufficed to make his name renowned in history. He was neither tall, nor had he refined manners; he was but five feet four inches high; but he had well-set shoulders and the hips were splendidly poised, and he possessed the fine cool prudent courage of the men of the West. We have mentioned that he was a sacristan, but he was many other things beside; he was mason, carrier, linen-merchant, a married man and the father of twelve or fourteen children. He had hardly gained a hearing before he set up a superior council comprised chiefly of priests: they troubled themselves but little over the nobles. The head of this council was the famous Bernier, curé d'Angers. Cathelineau was the man for him; the simple peasant discovered a quicker method of starting an insurrection than the pope with his bulls or the priests with their sermons. He advised the curés to shroud the crucifixes in black crèpe and to carry them thus in their processions. At the sight of their Christ in mourning, the peasants could no longer contain themselves; women tore their hair, men beat their breasts and all swore to kill the Republicans, root and branch, since they had grieved the Saviour. It should be added that nothing could be less knightly and less patriotic than the proclamations of these brave folk:—
"Down with conscription! Down with the militia! Let us dwell in our own countryside. People tell us the enemy may descend on us and threaten our homes. Well and good, let them first trespass on our soil, we shall be ready to meet them there!"
"Down with conscription! Down with the militia! Let us dwell in our own countryside. People tell us the enemy may descend on us and threaten our homes. Well and good, let them first trespass on our soil, we shall be ready to meet them there!"
And those who talked thus were well aware that the enemy would have devastated, pillaged and burned all France and demolished Paris before it ventured between theirhedges and among their furze bushes and in their sunken pathways.
It was equivalent to saying, "What does it matter to us what may happen to Alsace and Lorraine, Champagne and Burgundy, the Dauphiné and Provence?... What does it matter to us if they extinguish Paris, the light of the world?... Time enough to seize our guns when we see the Cossack leap his horse over our hedges!"
Now the most picturesque of writers would find great difficulty in giving a patriotic turn to such assertions as these. Personally, I much prefer the volunteers who ran in front of the Prussians as far as Valmy, to these peasants who waited quietly behind their hedgerows; and all the more so since I am not at all convinced that they were not really waiting for them on purpose to ally themselves to them. Why should they not compound with the Prussians? they entered into plenty of negotiations with the English! The war, then, began between patriots and royalists, between citizens and peasants. There were constitutional towns, manufacturing ones,—as, for example, Chollet, where very beautiful handkerchiefs are made,—which contained numbers of workpeople who did not wish for Prussians in France or for friends of the Prussians. One day they heard that the people of Bressuire had risen in revolt; they armed themselves with pikes and rushed off to attack them. So the town of Chollet was especially marked out for hatred by the peasants.
On 4 March, they attacked it in their turn. A commanding officer belonging to the National Guard trusted himself among a group of royalists; he went among them to endeavour to reconcile the two parties; soon, cries of pain issued from this group, the members of which had closed round him and were slashing at his legs with his own sword.