CHAPTER VI

First dramatic impressions--The _Hamlet_ of Ducis_--The Bourbons en 1815_--Quotations from it

Among the pleasures we had promised ourselves in the second capital of the department of Aisne we had put the theatre in the first rank. A company of pupils from the Conservatoire, who were touring in the provinces, were that night to give a special performance of Ducis's _Hamlet._ I had absolutely no idea who _Hamlet_ was; I will go farther and admit that I was completely ignorant who was Ducis. No one could have been more ignorant than I was. My poor mother had tried to induce me to read Corneille's and Racine's tragedies; but, I confess it to my shame, the reading of them had bored me inexpressibly. I had no notion at that time what was meant by style or form or structure; I was a child of nature in the fullest acceptance of the term: what amused me I thought good, what wearied me--bad. So I read the word _tragedy_ on the placard with some misgivings.

But, after all, as this tragedy was the best that Soissons had to offer us to pass away the evening, we put ourselves in the queue waiting outside; in good time, and in spite of the great crowd, we succeeded in getting into the pit.

Something like thirty-two years have rolled by since that night, but such an impression did it make upon my mind that I can still remember every little detail connected with it. The young fellow who took the part of Hamlet was a tall, pale, sallow youth called Cudot; he had fine eyes, and a strong voice, and he imitated Talma so closely, that when I saw Talma act the same part, I almost thought he imitated Cudot.

As I have said, the subject of literature was completely unknown to me. I did not even know that there had ever existed an author named Shakespeare, and when, on my return, I was instructed by Paillet that _Hamlet_ was only an imitation, I pronounced, before my sister, who knew English, the name of the author of _Romeo_ and of _Macbeth_ as I had seen it written, and it cost me one of those prolonged jokings my sister never' spared me when occasion offered. Of course on this occasion I delighted her. Now, as the _Hamlet_ of Ducis could not lose in my estimation by comparison, since I had never heard Shakespeare's spoken of, the play seemed to me, with Hamlet's grotesque entrance, the ghost, visible only to himself, his struggle against his mother, his urn, his monologue, the gloomy questionings concerning the fear of death, to be a masterpiece, and produced an immense effect upon me. So, when I returned to Villers-Cotterets, the first thing I did was to collect together the few francs left over from the trip to Soissons and to write to Fourcade (who had given up his place to Camusat, of whom I spoke in connection with old Hiraux, and who had returned to Paris) to send me the tragedy of _Hamlet._

For some reason or other Fourcade delayed sending it to me for five or six days: so great was my impatience that I wrote him a second letter, filled with the keenest reproaches at his negligence and want of friendliness. Fourcade, who would never have believed anyone could accuse a man of being a poor friend because he did not hurry over sending _Hamlet_, sent me a charming letter the gist of which I did not appreciate until I had studied more deeply the question of what was good and what was bad, and was able to place Ducis's work in its due rank. In the meantime I became demented. I asked everybody, "Do you know _Hamlet_? do you know Ducis?" The tragedy arrived from Paris. At the end of three days I knew the part of Hamlet by heart and, worse still, I have such an excellent memory that I have never been able to forget it. So it came to pass that _Hamlet_ was the first dramatic work which produced an impression upon me--a profound impression, composed of inexplicable sensations, aimless longings, mysterious rays of light which only made my darkness more visible. Later, in Paris, I again saw poor Cudot, who had played Hamlet. Alas! the grand talent that had carried me away had not obtained him the smallest foothold, and I believe he has long since given up hope--that daughter of pride so hard to kill in the artist's soul--the hope of making a position on the stage.

Now--as if the spirit of poetry, when wakened in me, had sworn never to go to sleep again and used every means to that end, by even succeeding in making Maître Mennesson himself his accomplice--scarcely had I returned from Soissons, when, instead of giving me a deed of sale to copy out or a bond to engross, or sending me out on business, Maître Mennesson gave me a piece of poetry of which he wanted three copies made. This piece of poetry was entitled _Les Bourbons en 1815._

M. Mennesson, as I have said, was a Republican; I found him a Republican in 1830, and when I saw him again in 1848 he was still a Republican. And to do him justice, he had the courage of his opinions through all times and under all regimes; so freely did he express his opinions that his friends were frightened by them and made their observations thereon with bated breath. He only shrugged his shoulders.

"What the devil will they do to me?" he would exclaim. "My office is paid for, my clientèle flourishing; I defy them to find a flaw in any of my contracts; and that being the case, one can afford to mock at kings and parsons."

Maître Mennesson was right, too; for, in spite of all these demonstrations, all these accusations of imprudence made by timid souls, his practice was the best in Villers-Cotterets and improved daily. At this very moment he was in the seventh heaven of delight. He had got hold of a piece of poetry, in manuscript, against the Bourbons--I do not know how. He had read it to everybody in the town, and then after reading it to everybody, when I came back from Soissons, he, as I have said, ordered me to make two or three copies of it, for those of his friends who, like himself, were anxious to possess this poetical pamphlet. I have never seen it in print, I have never read it since the day I copied it out three times, but such is my memory that I can repeat it from beginning to end. But lest I alarm my readers, I will content myself with quoting a few lines of it.

This was how it began:--

"Où suis-je? qu'ai je vu? Les voilà donc ces princes Qu'un sénat insensé rendit à nos provinces; Qui devaient, abjurant les prejugés des rois, Citoyens couronnés, régner au nom des lois; Qui venaient, disaient-ils, désarmant la victoire, Consoler les Français de vingt-cinq ans de gloire! Ils entrent! avec eux, la vengeance de l'orgueil. Ont du Louvre indigné franchi l'antique seuil! Ce n'est plus le sénat, c'est Dieu, c'est leur naissance, C'est le glaive étranger qui leur soumet la France; Ils nous osent d'un roi reprocher l'_échafaud_: Ah! si ce roi, sortant de la nuit du _tombeau_, Armé d'un fer vengeur venait punir le crime, Nous les verrions pâlir aux yeux de leur victime!"

Then the author exclaims--in those days authors all exclaimed--abandoning general considerations for the detailed drawing of individuals, and passing the royal family in review:--

"C'est d'Artois, des galants imbécile doyen, Incapable de mal, incapable de bien; Au pied des saints autels abjurant ses faiblesses, Et par des favoris remplaçant ses maîtresses; D'Artois, dont rien n'a pu réveiller la vertu, Qui fuit a Quiberon sans avoir combattu, Et qui, s'il était roi, monterait à la France Des enfants de Clovis la stupide indolence! C'est Berry, que l'armée appelait à grands cris, Et qui lui prodigua l'insulte et le mépris; Qui, des ces jeunes ans, puisa dans les tavernes Ces mœurs, ce ton grossier, qu'ignorent nos casernes. C'est son frère, avec art sous un masque imposteur, Cachant de ses projets l'ambitieuse horreur! Qui, nourri par son oncle aux discordes civiles, En rallume les feux en parcourant nos villes; Ce Thersite royal, qui ne sut, à propos, Ni combattre ni fuir, et se croit un héros! C'est, plus perfide encor, son épouse hautaine, Cette femme qui vit de vengeance et de haine, Qui pleure, non des siens le funeste trépas, Mais le sang qu'à grands flots elle ne verse pas! Ce sont ces courtisans, ces nobles et ces prêtres, Qui, tour à tour flatteurs et tyrans de leur maîtres, Voudraient nous ramener au temps où nos aieux Ne voyaient, ne pensaient, n'agissaient que par eux!"

Then the author ends off his discourse with a peroration worthy of the subject and exclaims once more in his liberal enthusiasm:--

"Ne balonçons done plus, levons-nous! et semblables Au fleuve impétueux qui rejette les sables, La fange et le limon qui fatiguaient sous cours, De notre sol sacré rejetons pour toujours Ces tyrans sans vertu, ces courtisans perfides, Ces chevaliers sans gloire et ces prêtres avides, Qui, jusqu'à nos exploits ne pouvant se hausser, Jusques à leur néant voudraient nous abaisser!"

Twelve years later the Bourbons were hounded out of France. It is not only revolutionary bullets which overturn thrones; it is not only the guillotine that kills kings: bullets and the guillotine are but passive instruments in the hands of principles. It is the deadly hatred, it is the undercurrent of rebellion, which, so long as it is but the expression of the desires of the few, miscarries and spends its fury; but which, the moment it becomes the expression of general requirements, swallows up thrones and nations, kings and royal families.

It is easy to understand how the _Messéniennes_ of Casimir Delavigne, which appeared in print the same time as these manuscript pamphlets, seemed pale and colourless. Casimir Delavigne was one of those men who celebrate in song revolutions that were accomplished facts, but who do not help revolutions in the making. The Maubreuil trial was the outcome of the piece of poetry from which I have just quoted these brief extracts--a most mysterious and ill-omened business, in which names, if not the most illustrious in Europe, yet at least the best known at that time, were mixed up with acts of thievery and premeditated assassination.

Probably I am the only person in France who now thinks of the "affaire Maubreuil." Perhaps also I am the only person who has kept a shorthand account of the sittings of that terrible trial, during which the horrors of the dungeon and secret torture were employed in the endeavour to drive a man mad whom they dare not kill outright, to whom they could not succeed in giving the lie. I made a copy at the time from a manuscript in a strange and unknown hand, which gave an account of the sittings. Later, I read the account the illustrious Princess of Wurtemberg took down in her own writing, first for her husband, Marshal Jérôme Bonaparte, and then intended to be included in her Memoirs, which are in the hands of her family, and are still unpublished.