Now, this time, the Rubicon was passed, the lance thrown down, and war declared. The young painter had just broken with the whole of the Imperial School. When clearing the precipice which divided the past from the future, his foot had pushed the plank into the abyss below, and had he wished to retrace his steps it was henceforth an impossibility. From that moment—a rare thing at twenty-six years of age!—Delacroix was proclaimed a master, started a school of his own, and had not only pupils but disciples, admirers and fanatical worshippers. They hunted out someone to stand in opposition to him; they exhumed the man who was least like him in all points, and rallied round him; they discovered Ingres, exaltedhim, proclaimed him and crowned him in their hatred of Delacroix. As in the age of the invasion of the Huns, the Burgundians and the Visigoths, they called upon the savages to help them, they invoked St. Geneviève, they adjured the king, they implored the pope! Ingres, certainly, did not owe his revived reputation to the love and admiration which his grey monochromes inspired, but to the fear and hatred which were inspired by the flashing brush of Delacroix. All men above the age of fifty were for Ingres; all young people below the age of thirty were for Delacroix.
We will study and examine and appreciate Ingres in his turn, never fear! His name, flung down in passing, shall not remain in obscurity; although we warn our readers beforehand—and let them now take note and only regard our judgment for what it is worth—that we are not in sympathy with either the man or his talents.
Thiers did not fail the painter of theMassacre de Scio, any more than he had failed the creator ofDante.Quite as eulogistic an article as the first, and a surprising one to find in the columns of the classicConstitutionnel, came to the aid of Delacroix in the battle where, as in the times of theIliad, the gods of art were not above fighting like ordinary mortals. The Government had its hands forced, in some measure, by Gérard, Gros and M. de Forbin. The latter bought theMassacre de Scioin the name of the king for six thousand francs for the Luxembourg Museum.
Géricault died just when Delacroix received his six thousand francs. Six thousand francs! It was a fortune. The fortune was spent in buying sketches at the sale of the famous dead painter's works, and in making a journey to England. England is the land of fine private collections, the immense fortunes of certain gentlemen permitting them—either because it is the fashion or from true love of art—to satisfy their taste for painting.
Delacroix bethought himself once more of the Old Museum Napoléon, the museum which the conquest had overthrown in 1818; it abounded in Flemish and Italian art. That oldmuseum was a wonderful place, with its collection of masterpieces from all over Europe, and in the midst of which the English cooked their raw meat after Waterloo.
It was during this period of prosperity—public talk about art always signifies prosperity; if it does not lead to fortune, it gratifies pride, and gratified pride assuredly brings keener joy than the acquiring of a fortune;—it was during this period of prosperity, we repeat, that Delacroix painted his firstHamlet, hisGiaour, hisTasse dans la prison des fous, hisGrèce sur les ruines de MissolonghiandMarino Faliero.I bought the first three pictures; they are even now the most beautiful Delacroix painted. TheGrècewas bought by a provincial museum.Marino Falierohad a singular fate. Criticism was furious against this picture. Delacroix would have sold it, at the time, for fifteen or eighteen hundred francs; but nobody wanted it. Lawrence saw it, appreciated it, wished to have it and was about to purchase it when he died. The picture remained in Delacroix's studio. In 1836, I was with the Prince Royal when he was going to send Victor Hugo a snuff-box or a diamond ring or something or other, I forget what, in thanks for a volume of poetry addressed by the great poet to Madame la duchesse d'Orléans. He showed me the object in question, and told me of its destination, letting me understand that I was threatened with a similar present.
"Oh! Monseigneur, for pity's sake!" I said to him, "do not send Hugo either a ring or snuff-box."
"Why not?"
"Because that is what every prince does, and Monseigneur le duc d'Orléans, my own particular Duc d'Orléans, is not like other princes; he is himself a man of intellect, a sincere man and an artist."
"What would you have me send him, then?"
"Take down some picture from your gallery, no matter how unimportant a one, provided it has belonged to your Highness. Put underneath it, 'Given by the Prince Royal to Victor Hugo,' and send him that."
"Very well, I will. Better still, hunt out for me among your artist friends a picture which will please Hugo; buy it, have it sent to me, I will give it him. Then two people will be pleased instead of one; the painter from whom I buy it, and the poet to whom I give it."
"I will do what you wish, Monseigneur," I said to the prince.
I took my hat and ran out. I thought of Delacroix'sMarino Faliero.I crossed bridges, I climbed the one hundred and seventeen steps to Delacroix's studio, who then lived on the quai Voltaire, and I fell into his studio utterly breathless.
"Hullo!" he said to me. "Why the deuce do you come upstairs so fast?"
"I have good news to give you."
"Good!" exclaimed Delacroix; "what is it?"
"I have come to buy yourMarino Faliero."
"Ah!" he said, sounding more vexed than pleased.
"What! Are you not delighted!"
"Do you want to buy it for yourself?"
"If it were for myself, what would the price be?"
"Whatever you like to give me: two thousand francs, fifteen hundred francs, one thousand francs."
"No, it is not for myself; it is for the Duc d'Orléans. How much for him?"
"Four, five, six thousand francs, according to the gallery in which he will place it."
"It is not for himself."
"For whom?"
"It is for a present."
"To whom?"
"Iam not authorised to tell you; I am only authorised to offer you six thousand francs."
"MyMarino Falierois not for sale."
"Why is it not for sale? Just now you would have given it me for a thousand francs."
"To you, yes."
"To the prince for four thousand!"
"To the prince, yes; but only to the prince or you."
"Why this choice?"
"To you, because you are my friend; to the prince, because it is an honour to have a place in the gallery of a royal artist as intelligent as he is; but to any one else save you two, no."
"Oh! what an extraordinary notion!"
"As you like! It is my own."
"But, really, you must have a better reason."
"Very likely."
"Would you sell any other picture for which you could get the same price?"
"Any other, but not that one."
"And why not this one?"
"Because I have been told so often that it is bad that I have taken an affection for it, as a mother loves her poor, weakly, sickly deformed child. In my studio, poor pariah that it is! it stands for me to look it in the face when people look askance at it; to comfort it when people humiliate it; to defend it when it is attacked. With you, it would have at all events a guardian, if not a father; for, if you were to buy it, it would be because you love it, as you are not a rich man. In the case of the prince, in place of sincere praise there would be that of courtiers: 'The painting is good, because Monseigneur has bought it. Monseigneur is too much of an artist and a connoisseur to make a mistake. Criticism must be at fault, the old witch! Detestable old Sibyl!' But in the hands of a stranger, an indifferent person, whom it cost nothing and who had no reason for taking its part, no, no, no. My poorMarino Faliero, do not be anxious, thou shalt not go!"
And it was in vain that I begged and prayed and urged him; Delacroix stuck to his word. Certain that the Duc d'Orléans should not think my action wrong, I went as far as eight thousand francs. Delacroix obstinately refused. The picture is still in his studio. That was just like the man, or, rather, the artist!
At the Salon of 1826, which lasted six months, and was three times replenished, Delacroix exhibited aJustinienandChrist au jardin des Oliviers, wonderful for their pain and sadness; they can now be seen in the rue Saint-Antoine and the Church of St. Paul on the right as you enter. I never miss going into the church when I pass that way, to make my oblation as a Christian and an artist should before the picture. All these subjects were wisely chosen; and as they were beautiful and not bizarre they did not raise a stir. People indeed said thatJustinienlooked like a bird, and theChrist, like.... some thing or other; but they were harking back more to the past than the present. But, suddenly, at the final replenishing, arrived ... what? Guess ... Do you not remember?—No—TheSardanapale.Ah! so it did! This time there was a general hue-and-cry.
The King of Assyria, his head wrapped round with a turban, clad in royal robes, sitting surrounded with silver vases and golden water-jugs, pearl collars and diamond bracelets, bronze tripods with his favourite, the beautiful Mirrha, upon a pile of faggots, which seemed like slipping down and falling on the public. All round the pile, the wives of the Oriental monarch were killing themselves, whilst the slaves were leading away and killing his horses. The attack was so violent, criticism had so many things to find fault with in that enormous canvas—one of the largest if not the largest in the Salon—that the attack drowned defence: his fanatical admirers tried indeed to rally in square of battle about their chief; but the Academy itself, the Old Guard ofClassicism, charged determinedly; the unlucky partizans ofSardanapalewere routed, scattered and cut to pieces! They disappeared like a water-spout, vanished like smoke, and, like Augustus, Delacroix called in vain for his legions! Thiers had hidden himself, nobody knew where. The creator ofSardanapale,—it goes without saying that Delacroix was no longer remembered as the painter ofDante, of theMassacre de Scioor ofGrèce sur les ruines de Missolonghi, or ofChrist au jardin des Oliviers, no, he was the creator ofSardanapaleand of no other work whatever!—was for five yearswithout an order. Finally, in 1831, as we have already said, he exhibited hisTigres, hisLibertéand hisAssassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and, round these three most remarkable works, those who had survived the last defeat began to rally. The Duc d'Orléans bought theAssassinat de l'Évêque de Liège, and the government, theLiberté.TheTigresremained with its creator.
Three portraits in one frame
Now—judging by myself at least—next to the appreciation of the work of great men, that which rouses the most curiosity is their method of working. There are museums where one can study all the phases of human gestation; conservatories where one can almost by the aid of the naked eye alone follow the development of plants and flowers. Tell me, is it not just as curious to watch the varying phenomena of the working of the intellect? Do you not think that it is as interesting to see what is passing in the brain of man, especially if that man be an artist like Vernet, or Delaroche or Delacroix; a scientist like Arago, Humboldt or Berzélius; a poet like Goethe, Hugo or Lamartine, as it is to look through a glass shade and see what is happening inside a bee-hive?
One day I remarked to one of my misanthropic friends that, amongst animals, the brain of the ant most resembled that of man.
"Your statement is not very complimentary to the ant!" replied the misanthrope.
I am not entirely of my friend's way of thinking. I believe, on the contrary, that the brain of man is, of all brains, the most interesting to examine. Now, as it is the brain—so far, at least, as our present knowledge permits us to dogmatise—which creates thought, thought which controls action and action which produces deeds, we can boldly say that to study character, to examine the execution of works which are the productions of temperament, is to study the brain. We have described Horace Vernet's physical appearance: small, thin, slight,pleasant to look at, good to listen to, with his unusual hair, his thick eyebrows, his blue eyes, his long nose, his smiling mouth beneath its long moustache, and his beard cut to a point. He is, we added, all life and movement. Vernet, at the end of his career, will, indeed, be one who has lived a full life, and, when he stops, he will have gone farthest; thanks to the post, to horses, camels, steamboats and the railroad, he has certainly, by now (and he is sixty-five), travelled farther than the Wandering Jew! True, the Wandering Jew goes on foot, his five sous not permitting him rapid ways of locomotion, and his pride declining gratuitous locomotion. Vernet, we say, had already travelled farther than the Wandering Jew had done in a thousand years; his work itself is a sort of journey: we saw him paint theSmalawith a scaffold mounting as high as the ceiling and terraces extending the whole length of the room; it was curious to see him, going, coming, climbing up, descending, only stopping at each station for five minutes, as one stops at Osnières for five minutes, at Creil for ten minutes and at Valenciennes for half an hour—and, in the midst of all this, gossiping, smoking, fencing, riding on horseback, on mules, on camels, in tilburys, in droschkys, in palanquins, relating his travels, planning fresh ones, impalpable, becoming apparently almost invisible: he is flame, water, smoke—a Proteus! Then there was another odd thing about Vernet: he would start for Rome as he would set out for Saint-Germain; for China as if for Rome. I have been at his house six or seven times; the first time he was there—the oddness of the thing fascinated me; the second time he was in Cairo; the third, in St. Petersburg; the fourth, in Constantinople; the fifth, in Warsaw; and the sixth, in Algiers. The seventh time—namely, the day before yesterday—I found him at the Institute, where he had come after following the hunt at Fontainebleau, and was giving himself a day's rest by varnishing a little eighteen-inch picture representing an Arab astride an ass with a still bleeding lion-skin for saddle-cloth, which had just been taken from the body of the animal; doing it in as sure and easy a manner as though he were but thirty. The ass is crossing a stream, unconsciousof the terrible burden it bears, and one can almost hear the stream prattling over the pebbles; the man, with his head in the air, looks absently at the blue sky which appears through the leaves; the flowers with their glowing colours twining up the tree-trunks and falling down like trumpets of mother-of-pearl or purple rosettes. This Arab, Vernet had actually come across, sitting calm and indifferent upon his ass, fresh from killing and skinning the lion. This is how it had happened. The Arab was working in a little field near a wood;—a wood is always a bad neighbour in Algeria;—a slave woman was sitting twenty paces from him, with his child. Suddenly, the woman uttered a cry ... A lion was by her side. The Arab flew for his gun, but the woman shouted out to him—
"Let me alone!"
I am mistaken, it was not a slave woman, but the mother who called out thus. He let her alone. She took her child, put it between her knees and, turning to the lion, she said to it, shaking her fist at the animal—
"Ah, you coward! to attack a defenceless woman and child! You think to terrify me; but I know you. Go and attack my husband instead, who is down there with a gun ... Go, I tell you! You dare not; you wretch! It is you who are afraid! Go, you jackal! Off with you, you wolf, you hyæna! You have a lion's skin on your back but you are no lion!"
The lion withdrew, but, unfortunately, it met the Arab's mother, who was bringing him his dinner. It leapt on the old woman and began to eat her. At the cries of his mother the Arab ran up with his gun, and, whilst the lion was quietly cracking the bones and flesh with its teeth, he put the muzzle of his gun into the animal's ear and killed it outright. In conclusion, the Arab did not seem to be any the sadder for being an orphan, or in better spirits for having killed a lion. Vernet told me this whilst putting the finishing touches to his picture, which ought to be completed by now.
Delaroche worked in a very different way; he led no such adventurous life; he had not too much time for his work.With Delaroche, work is a constant study and not a game. He was not a born painter, like Vernet; he did not play with brushes and pencils as a child; he learnt to draw and to paint, whilst Vernet never learnt anything of the kind. Delaroche is a man of fifty-six, with smooth hair, once black and now turning grey, a broad bare forehead, dark eyes fuller of intelligence than of vivacity, and no beard or whiskers. He is of middle height, well-set up, even to gracefulness; his movements are slow, his speech is cold; words and actions, one clearly feels, are subjected to reflection, and, instead of being spontaneous, like Vernet's, only come, so to speak, as the result of thought. Just as Vernet's life is turbulent, emotional and, like a leaf, carried unresistingly by the wind that blows, so the life of Delaroche, of his own free will, was tranquil and sedentary. Every time Delaroche went a journey,—and he went very few, I believe,—it was necessity which compelled him to leave his studio: it was some real, serious, artistic business which called him away. Wherever he goes, he stays, plants himself down and takes root, and it costs him as much pain to go back as it did to come. No one could less resemble Vernet in his method of working than Delaroche. Vernet knows all his sitters through and through, from the aigrette on the schako to the gaiter-buttons. He has so often lived under a tent, that its cords and piquets are familiar objects to him; he has seen and ridden and drawn so many horses, that he knows every kind of harness, from the rough sheep-skin of the Baskir to the embroidered and jewel-bespangled saddle-cloths of the pacha. He has, therefore, hardly any need of preparatory studies, no matter what his subject may be. He scarcely sketches them out beforehand:Constantinecost him an hour's work; theSmala, a day. Furthermore, what he does not know, he guesses. It is quite the reverse with Delaroche. He hunts a long time, hesitates a great deal, composes slowly; Vernet only studies one thing, the locality; this is why, having painted nearly all the battlefields of Europe and of Africa, he is always riding over hill and dale, and travelling by rail and by boat.
Delaroche, on the contrary, studies everything: draperies, clothing, flesh, atmosphere, light, half-tones, all the effects of Delaroche are laboured, calculated, prepared; Vernet's are done on the spur of the moment. When Delaroche is pondering on a picture, everything is laid under contribution by him: the library for engravings, museums for pictures, old clothes' shops for draperies; he tires himself out with making rough sketches, exhausts himself in first attempts, and often puts his finest talent into a sketch. A certain feeling of laboriousness in the picture is the result of this preparatory fatigue, which, however, is a virtue and not a fault in the eyes of industrious people.
Like all men of transition periods Delaroche was bound to have great successes, and he has had them. During the exhibitions of 1826, 1831 and 1834, everyone, before venturing to go to the Salon, asked, "Has M. Delaroche exhibited?" But from the period, the intermediate year, in which he united the classical school of painting with the romantic, the past with the future, David with Delacroix, people were unjust to him, as they are towards all who live in a state of transition. Besides, Delaroche does not exhibit any longer; he scarcely even works now. He has done one composition of foremost excellence, his hemicycle of the Palais des Beaux-Arts, and that composition, which, in 1831, was run after by the whole of Paris and annoyed most artists. Why? Has Delaroche's talent become feebler since the time when people stood in rows before his pictures and fought in front of his paintings? No, on the contrary, he has improved; he has become more elevated and masterly. But, what would you expect! I have compared Paul Delaroche with Casimir Delavigne, and the same thing happened to the poet as to the painter; only, with this difference, that the genius of the poet had decreased, whilst that of the painter not only did not remain stationary, but went on progressing constantly. At the present time, one needs to be among the most intimate of the friends of Delaroche to have the right to enter his studio. Besides, he is not even any longer in Paris: he is at Nice; he is said to beill. Hot sun, beautiful starlit nights, an atmosphere sparkling with fireflies, will cure the soul, and then the body will soon be cured!...
There is no sort of physical resemblance between Delacroix and his two rivals. He is like Vernet in figure, almost as slender as he, very neat and fashionable and dandified. He is fifty-five years old, his hair, whiskers and moustache, are as dark as when he was thirty; his hair waves naturally, his beard is scanty, and his moustache, a little bristly, looks like two wisps of tobacco; his forehead is broad and prominent, with two thick eyebrows below, over small eyes, which flash like fire between the long black eyelashes; his skin is brown, swarthy, mobile and wrinkled like that of a lion; his lips are thick and sensual, and he smiles often, showing teeth as white as pearls. All his movements are quick, rapid, emphatic; his words are pictures, his gestures speaking; his mind is subtle, argumentative, quick at repartee; he loves a discussion, and is ever ready with some fresh, sparkling, telling and brilliant hit; although of an adventurous, fanciful, erratic talent, at the same time he is wise, temperate in his use of paradox, even classical; one might say that Nature, which tends to equilibrium, has posed him as a clever coachman, reins well in hand, to restrain those two fiery steeds called imagination and fancy. His mind at times overflows its bounds; speech becomes inadequate, his hand drops the brush, incapable of expressing the theory it wishes to uphold, and seizes the pen. Then those whose business it is to make phrases and style and appreciate the value of words are amazed at the artist's facility in constructing sentences, in handling style, in bringing out his points; they forget theDante, theMassacre de Scio, theHamlet, theTasso, theGiaour, theEvêque de Liège, theFemmes d'Alger,the frescoes of the Chamber of Deputies, the ceiling of the Louvre; they regret that this man, who writes so well and so easily and so correctly, is not an author. Then, immediately, one remembers that many can write like Delacroix, but none can paint as he does, and one is ready to snatch the pen from his hand in a movement of terror.
Delacroix holds the middle course between Vernet and Delaroche as regards rapidity of working: he works up his sketches more carefully than the former, less so than the latter. He is incontestably superior to both as a colourist, but strikingly inferior in form. He sees the colour of flesh as violet, and, in the matter of form, he sees rather the ugly than the beautiful; but his ugliness is always made poetical by deep feeling. Entirely different from Delaroche, he is attracted by extremes. His struggles are terrible, his battles furious; all the suppleness and strength and extraordinary movements of the body are drawn on his canvas, and he even adds thereto, like a strange varnish which heightens the vivid qualities of his picture, a certain automatic impossibility which does not in the least disconcert him. His fighters seem actually to be fighting, strangling, biting, tearing, hacking, cleaving one another in two and pounding one another about; his swords are broken in two, his axes bloody, his heaps of bodies damp with crushed brains. Look at theBataille de Taillebourg, and you will have an idea of the strength of his genius: you can hear the neighing of the horses, the shouts of men, the clashing of steel. You will find it in the great gallery of Versailles; and, although Louis-Philippe curtailed the canvas by six inches all round because the measurement had been incorrectly given, mutilated as it is, dishonoured by being forced into M. Fontaines' Procrustes' bed, it still remains one of the most beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful, of all the pictures in the whole gallery.
At this moment, Delacroix is doing a ceiling at the Hôtel de Ville. He leaves his home at daybreak and only returns to it at night. Delacroix belongs to that rugged family of workers which has produced Raphael and Rubens. When he gets home, he takes a pen and makes sketches. Formerly, Delacroix used to go out into society a great deal, where he was a great favourite; a disease of the larynx has compelled him to retire into private life. Yesterday I went to see him at midnight. He was in a dressing-gown, his neck wrapped in a woollen cravat, at work close to a big fire, which made thetemperature of the room 30°.[1]I asked to see his studio by lamplight. We passed through a corridor crowded with dahlias, agapanthus lilies and chrysanthemums; then we entered the studio. The absence of the master, who had been working at the other end of Paris for six months, had made itself felt; yet there were four splendid canvases, two representing flowers and two fruit. I thought from a distance that these were pictures borrowed by Delacroix from Diaz. That was why there were so many flowers in the anteroom. Then, after the flowers, which to me were quite fresh, I saw a crowd of old friends hanging on the walls:Chevaux anglais qui se mordent dans une prairie, aGrèce qui traverse un champ de bataille au galop, the famousMarino Faliero, faithful companion of the painter's sad moods, when he has such moods; and, last, by itself, in a little room at the side of the great studio, a scene fromGoetz von Berlichingen.We parted at two o'clock in the morning.
[1]30° Cent.=85° Fahr.
[1]30° Cent.=85° Fahr.
Collaboration—A whim of Bocage—Anicet Bourgeois—Teresa—Drama at the Opéra-Comique—Laferrière and the eruption of Vesuvius—Mélingue—Fancy-dress ball at the Tuileries—The place de Grève and the barrière Saint-Jacques—The death penalty
Collaboration—A whim of Bocage—Anicet Bourgeois—Teresa—Drama at the Opéra-Comique—Laferrière and the eruption of Vesuvius—Mélingue—Fancy-dress ball at the Tuileries—The place de Grève and the barrière Saint-Jacques—The death penalty
During the interval which had elapsed between the construction ofRichard Darlingtonits first performance, I had blocked out another play entitledTeresa.I have said what I thought ofCharles VII.; I hope that my collaborator Anicet will allow me to say the same in the case ofTeresa.I have no wish to defer expressing my opinion upon this drama: it is one of my very worst, asAngèle, also done in collaboration with Anicet, is one of my best. The evil of a first collaboration is that it leads to a second; the man who has once collaborated is comparable to one who lets his finger-end be entrapped in a rolling press: after the finger the hand goes, then the arm and, finally, his whole body! Everything is drawn in—one goes in a man and one comes out a bit of iron wire.
One day Bocage came to see me with a singular idea in his head. As he had just played a man of thirty, in the character of Antony, he had got it into his head that he would do well to play an old man of sixty; it mattered little to him what manner of man it might be. The old man inHernaniand inMarion Delormerose up before him during his sleep and haunted him in his waking hours: he wanted to play an old man, were it Don Diègue in theCid, Joad inAthalieor Lusignan inZaïre.He had found his old man out at nurse with Anicet Bourgeois; he came to fetch me to be foster-father. I did not know Anicet; we became acquainted on this matter and at this time. Anicet had written the plan ofTeresa.Ibegan by laying aside the written sketch and begging him to relate me the play. There is something more living and lifelike about a told story. To me a written plot is like a corpse, not a living thing; one may galvanise it but not give it life. Most of the play as it stands to-day was in Anicet's original plan. I was at once conscious of two things, the second of which caused me to overlook the first: namely, that I could never makeTeresaanything more than a mediocre play, but that I should do Bocage a good turn. And this is how I did Bocage that service.
Harel, as we have said, had gone from the management of the Odéon to that of the Porte-Saint-Martin. He had Frédérick, Lockroy, Ligier: Bocage was no use to him. So he had broken with him, and, in consequence of this rupture, Bocage found himself without an engagement. Liberty, in the case of an actor, is not always a gift of the gods. Bocage was anxious to put an end to this as soon as possible, and, thanks to my drama, he hoped soon to lose his liberty. That is why he treatedTeresaso enthusiastically as achef d'œuvre.I have ever been less able to resist unspoken arguments than spoken ones. I understood the situation. I had had need of Bocage; he had played Antony admirably, and by so doing had rendered me eminent service: I could now do him a good turn, and I therefore undertook to writeTeresa.Not thatTeresawas entirely without merit as a work. Besides the three artificial characters of Teresa, Arthur and Paolo, there were two excellent parts, those of Amélie and Delaunay. Amélie is a flower from the same garden as Miranda inThe Tempest, Thekla inWallensteinand Claire inComte d'Egmont; she is young, chaste and beautiful, and, at the same time, natural and poetic; she passes through the play with her bouquet of orange blossom at her side, her betrothal veil on her head, in the midst of the ignoble incestuous passion of Arthur and Teresa, without guessing or suspecting or understanding anything of it. She is like a crystal statue which cannot see through others but lets others see through it. Delaunay is a fine type, a little too much copied from Danville in theÉcole de Vieillards, and from Duresnel in theMère et laFille.However—one must be just to everyone, even to oneself,—there are two scenes in his part which reach to the greatest heights of beauty to be met with on the stage: the first is where he insults Arthur, when the secret of the adultery is revealed to him; the second is where, learning that his daughter isenciente, and not desiring to make the mother a widow and the child an orphan, he makes excuses to his son-in-law. The drama was begun and almost finished in three weeks or a month; but I made the same condition with Anicet which I have always made when working in collaboration, namely, that I alone should write the play. When the drama was completed, Bocage took it, and we did not trouble our heads further about it. For three weeks or a month I did not see Bocage again. At the end of that time he came to me.
"Our business is settled," he said.
"Good! And how?"
"Your play is received in advance; you are to have a premium of a thousand francs upon its reading, and it is to be played immediately."
"Where?"
"At the Opéra-Comique."
I thought I must have misunderstood. "What?" I said.
"At the Opéra-Comique," repeated Bocage.
"Oh! that's a fine tale! Who made that up?"
"They are engaging the actors."
"Who are they?"
"Myself, in the first place."
"You do not play the drama all alone?"
"Then there is Laferrière."
"You two will not play it by yourselves?"
"Then a talented young girl who is at Montmartre."
"What is her name?"
"Oh! you will not even know her name; she is called Ida; she is just beginning."
"And then?"
"Then a young man recommended to me by your son."
"What! By my son? At six and a half years of age my son make recommendations of that sort?"
"It is his tutor."
"I see; he wants to get rid of him. But if that one leaves he will have another. Such is the simplicity of childhood! And what is the name of my son's tutor?"
"Guyon. He is a tall fellow of five foot six, with dark hair and eyes, and a magnificent head! He will make us a superb Paolo."
"So much for Paolo? Next?"
"Next we shall have the Opéra-Comique company, from which we can help ourselves freely. They sing."
"They sing, you are pleased to say; but can they speak?"
"That is your affair."
"So, is it settled like that?"
"If you approve. Are you agreeable?"
"Perfectly."
"Then we are to read it to the actors to-morrow."
"Let us do so."
Next day I read it to the actors; two days later the play was put in rehearsal. I knew Laferrière only slightly; but he had already at that period, when less used to the stage, the elements of talent to which he owed his reputation later as the first actor in love-scenes to be found between the Porte-Saint-Denis and the Colonne de Juillet. Mademoiselle Ida had a delicate, graceful, artless style, quite unaffected by any theatrical convention. Bocage was the man we know, endowed with youth, that excellent and precious fault, which is never injurious even in playing the parts of old men. So we were in the full tide of rehearsal, when the year 1832 began and the newspapers of I January announced a fearful eruption of Vesuvius.
I was considerably surprised to receive a visit from Laferrière with a newspaper in his hand, on the 7th or 8th. He was as much out of breath as I was the day I went to Delacroix to buy hisMarino Faliero.
"Hullo!" I said to him, "is the Opéra-Comique burnt down?"
"No, butTorre-del-Grècois burning."
"It ought to be used to it by now, for, if I mistake not, it has been rebuilt eleven times!"
"It must be a magnificent sight!"
"Do you happen to want to start for Naples?"
"No; but you might derive profit from it."
"How?"
"Read."
He handed me his newspaper, which contained a description of the latest eruption of Vesuvius.
"Well?" I said to him when I had read it.
"Well, do you not think that superb?"
"Magnificent!"
"Put that in my part then. Run your show with Vesuvius; the play would gain by it."
"And your rôle likewise."
"Of course!"
"You infernal mountebank; what an idea!"
Laferrière began to laugh.
There are two men who possess a great advantage for authors in two very different functions, with two very different types of talent: Laferrière is the one, and Mélingue the other. From the very hour when they have first listened to the reading of a work, to the moment when the curtain goes up, they have but one thought: to collect, weld together and work in anything that might be useful to the work. Their searching eyes are not distracted for one instant; not for a second do their minds wander from the point. They think of their parts while they are walking, eating and drinking; they dream of them while they sleep. I shall return to Mélingue more than once in reference to this quality, one of the most precious a great actor can possess.
Laferrière has plenty of pertinacity.
"Well," I said to him, "it is a good idea and I will adopt it."
"Will you really?"
"Yes."
"You promise me?"
"I promise you."
"Very well then.."
"What?"
"It is all the same to you..
"Say on."
"You will do it ..."
"Immediately?"
"Yes."
"Now, at once?"
"I beseech you."
"I have not time."
"Oh! mon petit Dumas! Do me my Vesuvius. I promise you, if you will do it to-day I will know it by to-morrow."
"Once more I tell you I haven't time."
"How long would it take you to do it?"
"How long?"
"Ten minutes ... come, that is all.... I entreat you!"
"Go to the deuce with you!"
"Mon petit Dumas!..."
"All right, we will see."
"You are kind!"
"Give me a pen, ink and paper."
"Here they are!... No, do not get up: I will bring the table up to you ... Come, is it comfortable like that?"
"Splendid! Now, go away and come back in a quarter of an hour."
"Oh! what will you be up to when I am gone?"
"I cannot work when anybody is with me. Even my dog disturbs me."
"I will not stir, mon petit Dumas! I will not utter one word; I will keep perfectly still."
"Then go and sit before the glass, button up your coat, put on a gloomy look and pass your hand through your hair."
"Certainly."
"And I will do my part of the work."
A quarter of an hour later, Vesuvius was making an eruption in Laferrière's part, and he took himself off in great glee and pride.
All things considered, the race of players are a good sort! A trifle ungrateful, at times; but has not our friend Roqueplan proclaimed the principle that "ingratitude is the independence of the heart?..."
At this time, people were tremendously taken up with a forthcoming event, as they were with everything of an artistic nature. King Louis-Philippe was giving a fancy-dress ball. Duponchel had been ordered to design the historic costumes; and people begged, prayed and implored for invitations. It was a splendid ball. All the political celebrities were present; but, as always happens, all the artistic and literary celebrities were absent.
"Will you do something which shall surpass the Tuileries ball?" said Bocage to me.
"What is that?"
"Give one yourself!"
"I! Who would come to it?"
"First of all, those who did not go to King Louis-Philippe's, then those who do not belong to the Academy. It seems to me that the guests I offer you are quite distinguished enough."
"Thanks, Bocage, I will think about it."
I thought about it to some purpose, and the result of my reflections will be seen in one of our forthcoming chapters.
On the 23rd of the month of January,—the next day but one after the anniversary of the death of King Louis XVI.,—the usual place for executions was changed from the place de Grève to the barrière Saint-Jacques. This was one step in advance in civilisation: let us put it down here, by quoting the edict of M. de Bondy.
"We, a peer of France, Préfet de la Seine, etc.; In view of the letter addressed to us by M. le Procureur-général at the Royal Court of Paris:"Whereas the place de Grève can no longer be used as a place of execution, since the blood of devoted citizens was gloriously spilled there in the national cause: whereas it is important to choose, if possible, a place farther removed from the centre of Paris, yet which shall be easily accessible: whereas, for different reasons, the place situated at the extremity of the rue du faubourg Saint-Jacques seems to suit the requisite conditions; we have decided that—"Criminals under capital punishment shall in future be executed on the ground at the end of the faubourg Saint-Jacques.COMTE DE BONDY"
"We, a peer of France, Préfet de la Seine, etc.; In view of the letter addressed to us by M. le Procureur-général at the Royal Court of Paris:
"Whereas the place de Grève can no longer be used as a place of execution, since the blood of devoted citizens was gloriously spilled there in the national cause: whereas it is important to choose, if possible, a place farther removed from the centre of Paris, yet which shall be easily accessible: whereas, for different reasons, the place situated at the extremity of the rue du faubourg Saint-Jacques seems to suit the requisite conditions; we have decided that—
"Criminals under capital punishment shall in future be executed on the ground at the end of the faubourg Saint-Jacques.COMTE DE BONDY"
This is what we wrote on the subject on 26 November 1849, in an epilogue toComte Hermann,—one of our best dramas,—an epilogue not written to be spoken, but to be read, after the fashion of German plays—
"The death penalty, as applied to-day, has already undergone a great modification, not with respect to its final issue, but with regard to the details which precede the last moments of the condemned."Twenty years ago, executions still took place in the centre of Paris, at the most stirring hour of the day and before the greatest possible number of spectators. Thus an external means of support was provided for the doomed man against his own weakness. It did not make the sufferer into a repentant criminal, but a species of cynical victor, who, instead of confessing God upon the scaffold, bore testimony against the inadequacy of human justice, which could, indeed, kill the criminal, but was powerless to extinguish the crime."Now, it is quite otherwise. A step has been taken towards the abolition of capital punishment, by transporting the instrument of execution almost outside the precincts of the town, choosing the hour when the majority of the inhabitants of Paris are still asleep, only allowing the criminal during his last moments the rare witnesses that chance or excessive curiosity may attract to the scaffold."Nowadays, it is left to the priests who devote themselves to the salvation of the souls of the doomed to tell us if they find as much hardness of heart in the journey between Bicêtre and the barrière Saint-Jacques as they used to find in the journey from the Conciergerie to the place de Grève; andwhether there are more tears shed at the foot of the crucifix now, at four o'clock in the morning, than formerly, at four in the afternoon. We firmly believe so. Yes, there are more repentances in the silence and solitude than there ever were in the tumult of the crowd. Now, let us consider that the act of execution, supported by the eager looks of the people, does not correct them or instruct them but only hardens their hearts; let us suppose that the execution takes place in the prison, with priest and executioner as sole witnesses; that, instead of the guillotine,—which, according to Dr. Guillotin, only occasions a feeling of aslight chillon the neck, but which, according to Dr. Sue, causes terrible suffering,—the sole means of execution used is electricity, which kills like lightning, or even one of those stupefying poisons which act like sleep; will it not happen that the hearts of the doomed will soften still more in the night and silence and solitude, than in the open air, were it even at four o'clock in the morning, and in the presence of the few witnesses who are present at the execution, but who, few though they be, will none the less say to the criminal's companions, to his prison friends, 'un tel est bien mort!' that is to say I such a one died without repenting, pushing the crucifix away from him?"
"The death penalty, as applied to-day, has already undergone a great modification, not with respect to its final issue, but with regard to the details which precede the last moments of the condemned.
"Twenty years ago, executions still took place in the centre of Paris, at the most stirring hour of the day and before the greatest possible number of spectators. Thus an external means of support was provided for the doomed man against his own weakness. It did not make the sufferer into a repentant criminal, but a species of cynical victor, who, instead of confessing God upon the scaffold, bore testimony against the inadequacy of human justice, which could, indeed, kill the criminal, but was powerless to extinguish the crime.
"Now, it is quite otherwise. A step has been taken towards the abolition of capital punishment, by transporting the instrument of execution almost outside the precincts of the town, choosing the hour when the majority of the inhabitants of Paris are still asleep, only allowing the criminal during his last moments the rare witnesses that chance or excessive curiosity may attract to the scaffold.
"Nowadays, it is left to the priests who devote themselves to the salvation of the souls of the doomed to tell us if they find as much hardness of heart in the journey between Bicêtre and the barrière Saint-Jacques as they used to find in the journey from the Conciergerie to the place de Grève; andwhether there are more tears shed at the foot of the crucifix now, at four o'clock in the morning, than formerly, at four in the afternoon. We firmly believe so. Yes, there are more repentances in the silence and solitude than there ever were in the tumult of the crowd. Now, let us consider that the act of execution, supported by the eager looks of the people, does not correct them or instruct them but only hardens their hearts; let us suppose that the execution takes place in the prison, with priest and executioner as sole witnesses; that, instead of the guillotine,—which, according to Dr. Guillotin, only occasions a feeling of aslight chillon the neck, but which, according to Dr. Sue, causes terrible suffering,—the sole means of execution used is electricity, which kills like lightning, or even one of those stupefying poisons which act like sleep; will it not happen that the hearts of the doomed will soften still more in the night and silence and solitude, than in the open air, were it even at four o'clock in the morning, and in the presence of the few witnesses who are present at the execution, but who, few though they be, will none the less say to the criminal's companions, to his prison friends, 'un tel est bien mort!' that is to say I such a one died without repenting, pushing the crucifix away from him?"
Since that time, the guillotine has come still nearer to the condemned man: now, they execute in front of the gates of the prison de la Roquette. It is but a few steps from that to executing inside the prison itself. And to descend from the prison courtyard into the dungeon itself is but a single step!
The peregrinations of Casimir Delavigne—Jeanne Vaubernier—Rougemont—His translation of Cambronne'smot—First representation ofTeresa—Long and short pieces—Cordelier Delanoue and hisMathieu Luc—Closing of the Taitbout Hall and arrest of the leaders of the Saint-Simonian cult
The peregrinations of Casimir Delavigne—Jeanne Vaubernier—Rougemont—His translation of Cambronne'smot—First representation ofTeresa—Long and short pieces—Cordelier Delanoue and hisMathieu Luc—Closing of the Taitbout Hall and arrest of the leaders of the Saint-Simonian cult
Whilst the Opéra-Comique was rehearsingTeresa, the Théâtre-Français was preparing for a great occasion. Casimir Delavigne, the dramatic Coriolanus, after having been rejected by the Volscians of the boulevards, withMarino Falieroin his hand, instead of falling beneath the dagger of M. de Mongenet, had been received back triumphantly into the Théâtre-Français. The flight, after all, had been but a passing coolness after the immense success of theÉcole des Vieillards.Casimir had had a sort of decline; Mademoiselle Mars had not been able to uphold thePrincesse Aurélié, a kind of Neapolitan imbroglio which everybody has forgotten to-day, happily for the memory of its author. Then the presence of Victor Hugo and myself at the Théâtre-Français annoyed Casimir Delavigne. He well understood that his popularity was only a political one: he possessed neither the lofty poetry of Victor, nor the movement and life of my ignorant and incorrect prose; in a word, he was ill at ease when close to us. He gave vent to a phrase concerning me which well summed up his thought—
"The work that deuced Dumas does is bad; but it prevents people from seeing the goodness of mine."
So he had migrated to the Porte-Saint-Martin, because we were at the Théâtre-Français, and now he returned to the Théâtre-Français because we were at the Porte-Saint-Martin.He returned to it with one of his mixed works, half classical and half romantic, which do not belong to any sort of school; literary hermaphrodites, which bear the same relation to intellectual productions as, in Natural History, do mules,i.e.animals which cannot reproduce themselves, to the ordinary productions of nature: they make a species, but not a race.
The work that Casimir Delavigne brought back to the Théâtre-Français wasLouis XI.,—according to our opinion, one of his most mediocre dramas, the least studied as history, and one which, engineered by a clever artifice which we will shortly relate, through the frail sickly period of its youth to its maturity, only owes its patent of longevity to the rather egotistic favour accorded by a player who was crazy to play this rôle because it was an unusual type which suited him. Do not be deceived, it is notLouis XI.that lives to-day, but Ligier.[1]We will refer again to Casimir Delavigne's drama on the occasion of its first performance.
The first performance ofTeresawas announced for the 5th or 6th of February. Meanwhile the Odéon gaveJeanne Vaubernier.It was thus that certain authors conceived the idea of reviving the name of theComtesse du Barry, that poor woman who was neither worthy of her high prosperity nor her deep misfortune, and who, according to Lamartine's fine expression, dishonoured both the throne and the scaffold. MM. de Rougemont, Laffitte and Lagrange were the authors ofJeanne Vaubernier.Rougemont was a clever man who, towards the close of his life, had a strange fate. TheDuchesse de la Vaubalièrebrought him a septuagenarian reputation. It was Rougemont who translated the military substantive flung by Cambronne in the face of the English, on the terrible night of Waterloo, into the pompous, redundant and pretentious phrase which has become of European and world-wide fame: "The Guard dies, and does not return!" As far as I can remember, the drama ofJeanne Vaubernier—such as it was, with six tableaux, its Zamore, the ungrateful traitor, its prison and its executioner—wasa very poor concern. I have not seen it, and will not therefore discuss it any further. But, from the ghost of this drama, from the fallen statue, from the least broken fragments which could be made to do duty, the authors composed a little comedy in which Madame Dorval's wit was charmingly light. Dear Dorval! I can see her as she was that successful night, a night which, thanks to her, was saved from being a failure: she was enchanted, never suspecting that the comedy ofJeanne Vaubernierwould be a chain she would have to wear for eighteen months at the Porte-Saint-Martin, from six to eight o'clock in the evening, before the benches which did not fill up until the beginning of the great drama! To Georges—especially after her reconciliation with Dorval—it was to be a matter of keen remorse, this punishment which she inflicted on her rival in expiation of her triumphs, and which compelled her to leave the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre to go and bury herself in the Théâtre-Français.
The day of the first performance ofTeresaarrived. The confusion of styles, the beginning of drama at the Opéra-Comique, had piqued the curiosity of the public, and people clamoured to get in. I have already said that the thing was not worth the trouble. Laferrière had given me a good idea with his story of Vesuvius; the exhibition was highly applauded. I recollect that when I entered the wings, after the first act, that excellent fellow Nourrit, who had just been praising the description of the town wherein he was to die, threw himself upon my neck in his enthusiasm. The piece unfolded itself slowly, and with a certain majestic dignity, before a select audience. The character of Amélie, which was very well carried out, made a great hit, and did not fail in any of its appearances. Madame Moreau-Sainti was ravishingly beautiful, and as sympathetic as a bad part allowed. Laferrière came and went, warming up the parts taken by others by his own enthusiastic warmth. Bocage was superb. A misfortune happened to the actor recommended by my son. Unfamiliarity with stage-craft had obliged Guyon to give up the part of Paolo to go more deeply into dramatic studies. Féréol hadtaken his place; they had added some barcarolle or other for him to sing whilst he was acting, and he played the rest of his rôle singing. Alexandre found himself with two tutors instead of one!
The curtain went up for the fourth act. From that moment the piece was saved; in it are the letter scene between the father and the daughter, and that of the quarrel between the father-in-law and son-in-law. These two scenes are very fine, and produced a great sensation. This fourth act had an amazing triumph. Usually, if the fourth act is a success, it carries the fifth one with it. The first half of the fifth act ofTeresais, moreover, remarkable in itself; it is the scene of the excuses between the old man and the young one. It does not become really bad tillTeresaasks Paolo for poison. All this intriguing between the adulterous woman and the amorous lackey is vulgar, and has not the merit of being really terrible. But the impression of the fourth act and of the first half of the fifth was so vivid that it extended its influence over the imperfections of thedėnoûment.In short, it was a success great enough to satisfyamour-propre, but not to satisfy the claims of art. Bocage was really grand at times. I here pay him my very sincere compliments for what he then performed. He had improved as a comedian, and was then, I think, at the height of his dramatic career. I think so, now I have somewhat outgrown my youthful illusions; I will therefore tell him, in all frankness, at what moment, according to my opinion, he took the wrong road and adopted the fatal system of nervous excitement under the dominion of which he now is.
When the first rage forTeresahad passed they made me a proposal to change the play into one of three acts, so that it might become a stock piece. I refused to do it; I did not wish to make a mutilated play out of a defective one. Anicet, who had a half-share in the work, urged me so pressingly that I suggested he should perform the operation himself. He set to work bravely, pruned, cut, curtailed, and one day I was invited by some player or other, whose name I forget, who was coming out in the rôle of Arthur, to go and see the piecereduced to three acts. I went, and I found it to be more detestable and, strange to say, longer than at first! Lengthiness does not exist on the stage, practically speaking. There are neither long plays nor short; only amusing plays and wearisome ones. TheMarriage de Figaro, which lasts five hours, is not so long as theÉpreuve nouvelle, which lasts one hour. The developments ofTeresataken away, the play had lost its artistic interest, and, having become more boresome, seemed longer.
One day Cordelier Delanoue came to me looking depressed.
"What is the matter?" I asked him.
"I have just been reading to the Théâtre-Français."
"What!"
"A three-act drama in verse."
"Entitled?"
"Mathieu Luc."
"And they have refused it?"
"No, they have accepted it, subject to correction."
"Did they point out what corrections they wanted?"
"Yes; the piece is too long."
"And they demand curtailment?"
"Exactly! and I have come to read it to you."
"So that I may point them out to you?"
"Yes."
"Read it, then!"
Delanoue began to read his three acts. I followed the play with the greatest attention. I found, whilst he was in the act of reading, a pivot of interest on which the play could advantageously turn, and which he had passed over unnoticed.
"Well?" said he when he had finished.
"They were right: it is too long by a third."
"Then it must be cut down."
"No, on the contrary."
"What do you mean by that?"
"You must turn the play into five acts."
"But when they already think it too long by a third?"
"That is neither here nor there.—Listen."
And I told him how I understood the play. Delanoue reconstructedhisscenariounder my direction, wrote out his play afresh, read it in five acts to the committee, which had thought it too long in three, and it was received with unanimity. The piece was played in five acts—not at the Théâtre-Français, but, consequent on some revival or other, at the Théâtre de Odéon, and it succeeded honourably without obtaining a great success.
Some days before the performance ofTeresaan event had happened which engrossed the attention of Paris. We will take the recital of it from theGlobe, which was in a perfect position for telling the truth in this instance—
"To-day, 22 January, at noon, MM. Enfantin and Olinde Rodrigues, leaders of the Saint-Simonian religion, laid their plans to go to the Taitbout Hall, where they were to preside over the preaching, when a Commissary of Police, escorted by a Municipal Guard, put in an appearance at No. 6 Rue Monsigny, where they lived, to forbid them to go out, and prevented all communication between the house and the outside world, in virtue of the orders which they declared they possessed."Meantime M. Desmortiers,procureur du roi, and M. Zangiacomi, Examining Magistrate, assisted by two Commissaries of Police and escorted by Municipal Guards and troops of the line, went to the Taitbout Hall. M. Desmortiers signified to M. Barrault, who was in the hall, that the preaching could not take place, and that he had come to enjoin the meeting to break up. Theprocureur du roiimmediately appeared in the hall with M. Barrault and there said: 'In the name of the Law and of Article 292 of the Penal Code I have come to close this hall and to seal up all the doors.' The assembly was immediately broken up, and seals were put to the doors of the Taitbout Hall. M. Zangiacomi and M. Desmortiers then repaired to No. 5 (6) Rue Monsigny, where they found MM. Enfantin and Rodrigues; they declared that they were the bearers of two search-warrants, one against M. Enfantin and the other against M. Rodrigues, and that they had come to search the house. They seized M. Enfantin's correspondence, all the account-books and the bills-due books."
"To-day, 22 January, at noon, MM. Enfantin and Olinde Rodrigues, leaders of the Saint-Simonian religion, laid their plans to go to the Taitbout Hall, where they were to preside over the preaching, when a Commissary of Police, escorted by a Municipal Guard, put in an appearance at No. 6 Rue Monsigny, where they lived, to forbid them to go out, and prevented all communication between the house and the outside world, in virtue of the orders which they declared they possessed.
"Meantime M. Desmortiers,procureur du roi, and M. Zangiacomi, Examining Magistrate, assisted by two Commissaries of Police and escorted by Municipal Guards and troops of the line, went to the Taitbout Hall. M. Desmortiers signified to M. Barrault, who was in the hall, that the preaching could not take place, and that he had come to enjoin the meeting to break up. Theprocureur du roiimmediately appeared in the hall with M. Barrault and there said: 'In the name of the Law and of Article 292 of the Penal Code I have come to close this hall and to seal up all the doors.' The assembly was immediately broken up, and seals were put to the doors of the Taitbout Hall. M. Zangiacomi and M. Desmortiers then repaired to No. 5 (6) Rue Monsigny, where they found MM. Enfantin and Rodrigues; they declared that they were the bearers of two search-warrants, one against M. Enfantin and the other against M. Rodrigues, and that they had come to search the house. They seized M. Enfantin's correspondence, all the account-books and the bills-due books."
Free to-day from the prosecution of MM. Zangiacomi and Desmortiers, the Saint-Simonians are not at all rid of us, and we shall hunt them out again in their retreat at Ménilmontant.