CHAPTER XI

A parenthesis_--Hariadan Barberousse_ at Villers-Cotterets--I play the rôle of Don Ramire as an amateur--My costume--The third act of the _Vampire_--My friend the bibliomaniac whistles at the most critical moment--He is expelled from the theatre--Madame Allan-Dorval--Her family and her childhood--Philippe--His death and his funeral

The only definite feeling I was conscious of, when my neighbour had gone, was one of utter loneliness in that vast building. So I gave my whole attention to the play. Could I judge clearly? No, certainly not as yet: the _Vampire_ was one of the first melodramas I had come across. The first was _Hariadan Barberousse._ I have forgotten to tell at the proper time and place how I became acquainted with the work of MM. Saint-Victor and Corse.

A troop of poverty-stricken actors came to Villers-Cotterets (you will understand they must have been poor indeed to come to Villers-Cotterets), and there they pretty nearly died of starvation. They consisted of but one family named Robba. These poor devils were possessed with the idea of giving a benefit for themselves, and they thought of begging two or three young ladies and young gentlemen of the town to play with them and for them. Naturally I was applied to. Nature had already implanted in my heart that fountain of goodwill through which everything that I had, that I have, that I shall have, passed, passes, and always will pass. I agreed to undertake the rôle of Don Ramire. All the other mothers refused to allow their boys and girls to act. Were their children going to mount the boards and play with ordinary actors? No indeed! My mother alone kept her promised word, and I was the only artiste on this special occasion whose name, printed in big letters on the bills, was utilised in the philanthropic mission of obtaining a good audience for them.

I had to concoct a costume. It was a lengthy business to bring such an operation to a conclusion. Happily, no one was very exacting at that period, above all at Villers-Cotterets. Even Talma, who was a great renovator, played _Hamlet_ in white satin breeches, _bottes à cœur_ and a polonaise. But of this wardrobe I only had the _bottes à cœur:_ I could not play Don Ramire with the aid only of the boots. We made a tunic,--everybody played in tunics at that epoch,--and a splendid tunic it was, indeed, for it was made out of two red cashmere shawls, ornamented with a great gold-flowered pattern; my father had brought the shawls from Egypt, and I believe I have already referred to them. We contented ourselves with sewing them together, leaving an opening on each side for my arms, a sword-belt at the waist serving as a girdle; out of each arm-hole appeared a satin sleeve, and Don Ramire was, if not exactly sufficiently, at least sumptuously and modestly, clad from the shoulders to half-way down his thighs. A turned-down collar and a satin toque to match the tunic in colour completed the upper part of the costume. But the question of the lower half was more serious. Tights were rare in Villers-Cotterets; I might even say that they were unknown; so it was of no use wishing to procure tights: it would have been time wasted, a vision, a dream. The longest pair of silk stockings that could be found, sewed into a pair of drawers, did the business. Then came the laced boots. Ah! these laced boots, they were an invention of my own. A second pair of silk stockings were dyed red; soles were sewed to them; they were put over the first pair, then turned back, rolled up to within three inches of the ankle; the roll was tied fast to make a pad; we imitated the lacing of a laced boot with green ribbon; and then this footgear formed the base of a presentable-looking Don Ramire, who, atop, indulged in the luxury of a satin toque with an ostrich plume. Finally came the sword. My father's sword, the sword of a Republican, with its cap of Liberty, looked somewhat odd when compared with the rest of Don Ramire's attire. The mayor, M. Mussart, lent me a silver-mounted Louis XV. sword: the chain which had fastened it was detached; but, though the guard had disappeared, the hilt and the sheath were left, and this was sufficient to satisfy the most exacting.

The announcement of this important entertainment made a great sensation: people came from all the towns and all the villages round, even from Soissons. I looked perfectly absurd, having never seen any play but _Paul et Virginie_ at the age of three, and the _Jeunesse de Henri V._ when I was eleven. But the Robbas took eight hundred francs at the doors--a fortune to them; and a mother, a father, children and grandchildren had wherewithal to keep themselves in food for two-thirds of a year.

Poor Robbas! I recollect that the whole of their _répertoire_ only consisted of _Adolphe et Clara_ and the _Déserteur._ God alone knows what became of the poor things! That was how I came to know _Hariadan Barberousse_, which, with the _Vampire_, whose last act I was about to see, completed the sum total of my melodramatic equipment.

The third act was but a repetition of what had passed in the first. Ruthven, whom his friend Aubrey believed dead at

Marsden's farm, comes to life again, a sepulchral Endymion, under the kisses of the moon. He returns to the castle before Malvina's brother and urges forward his marriage; then Aubrey comes back and finds the bride adorned and the chapel prepared. He approaches his sister to tell her the terrible news of the death of her betrothed, and, seeing him pale and distressed, Malvina exclaims--

"Dear brother, you are in trouble!... For heaven's sake, tell me all!"

"Rally your courage, then," says Aubrey.

"You terrify me!" exclaims Malvina.

Then, turning towards the door--

"Milord is long a-coming," she says.

"Since I must rend your heart, know that all my plans are broken. A fearful, an unlooked-for event has deprived us, me of a friend, you of a husband!... The unfortunate Ruthven."

At this juncture Ruthven comes forward, seizes Aubrey by the arm and says to him in a grim voice--

"Think of thy oath!"

At these words, and just as the whole audience burst into applause, a loud whistle sounded from one of the boxes. I turned round, and everybody in the orchestra and the pit did likewise. The hired applauders rose in a body and, climbing on the forms, shouted, "Put him out!" This formidable mountain could be seen rising up in the centre of the theatre, like the enormous counterfeit Parnassus of M. Titon-Dutillet at the Bibliothèque. But the whistler continued to whistle, hidden in his box, sheltered behind the railing as behind an impregnable rampart. I do not know why, but I came to the conclusion that it was my neighbour who was at last gratifying to his heart's content his desire to deride the piece which had disgusted him throughout the night. The play was totally stopped: Philippe, Madame Dorval and Thérigny stood on the stage without being able to utter a syllable; shouts of "Put him out!" increased and a police officer was sent for. By dint of gazing hard into the box I could see through the bars, and there I discerned, in the dusky interior, the untoward whistler. It was indeed my neighbour the bibliomaniac. The police officer arrived. In spite of all his protestations, the whistler was expelled from the theatre, and the piece went on in the midst of stampings and bravoes.

The play was drawing to its close. Aubrey, seized by Lord Ruthven's attendants, is carried away from Malvina's side, and she remains unprotected. Ruthven bears her off; a door opens--it is that of the chapel, illuminated for the nocturnal marriage. Malvina hesitates to contract the marriage without the presence of her brother; but Ruthven becomes more and more urgent; for unless the blood of a young damsel gives him renewed life within a very few minutes, he _will be annihilated,_ as the angel of marriage had predicted! Suddenly, Aubrey, who has escaped from his guardians, appears in the chapel; he stops his sister; he implores her not to go on any farther with the proceedings. Ruthven again recalls Aubrey to his oath.

"Yes," says Aubrey, "but the hour is just about to strike when I may reveal everything."

"Wretch!" cries Ruthven, drawing a dagger, "if you utter one word...."

"You shall only take her bathed in my blood!" cries Aubrey, redoubling his resistance.

"Well, then, you shall both perish!" says Ruthven.

He is about to strike Aubrey. One o'clock sounds; Malvina falls fainting in the arms of Bridget; thunder rumbles.

"Annihilation! annihilation!" shrieks Ruthven.

He lets his dagger fall and tries to flee. Shades come up out of the ground and carry him off; the destroying angel appears in a cloud; lightning flashes, and Ruthven is engulfed amidst the shades.

"_PLUIE DE FEU_"

It will be gathered that we are copying from the manuscript itself.

Philippe was recalled. But Madame Dorval's part was so execrable that no one dreamt of recalling her; she was only engaged at the Porte-Saint-Martin to play the worst parts; the favourite artiste, Mademoiselle Lévesque, took the good ones.

Allow me a few words concerning that poor dear creature, whom I then saw for the first time, and who died in my arms twenty-six years later.[1]

A large portion of these Memoirs will be devoted to remarks concerning the influence of eminent artistes, great comedians or famous poets; for my pages are intended to deal with the development of art in France during one half of the nineteenth century.

Political events will also no doubt have their share of attention, but only their due share. It is time things were relegated to their proper positions, and, as our century is first and foremost one of appreciation, it is desirable that men and things should be appreciated at their proper value.

Mademoiselle Mars and Talma, those two great artistic glories of the Empire and the Restoration, will still survive in the thoughts of the twentieth and the twenty-first centuries, when the very names of those political actors whom men call ministers will long have been forgotten, the men who disdainfully flung to these glorious mendicants the grant annually allowed by the Chamber as though it were an alms.

Who was minister in England the year Shakespeare wrote _Othello_? Who was gonfalonier in Florence when Dante wrote his _Inferno_? Who was minister to King Hiero when the author of _Prometheus_ came to beg protection from him? Who was archon of Athens when the divine Homer died on one of the Sporades, towards the middle of the tenth century B.C.?

To answer such queries one must needs be my neighbour,--my neighbour who knew so many things, who could recognise Elzevirs, who knew where vampires were to be found, who knew the origin of hired applauders and who had been put out of the theatre for whistling at the prose of MM.... for no name was ever printed on the _Vampire_ pamphlet, published by Barba, who ostentatiously put below his name: _Publisher of the Works of Pigault-Lebrun._

Let us return to Madame Allan-Dorval, as she was called at that period. As I advance with these Memoirs there are many men and women, literary or political comedians whom we shall meet with, who made a name for themselves in their day, and I shall do for these personages what I am just about to do for poor Marie Dorval. When she died I undertook to raise a monument over her grave--a literary monument in my writings, a sepulchral monument in stone. The stones were to be paid for by my literary labours, and it pleased me to think of being the architect of both monuments.

Unluckily, I began the erection of my literary monument in the _Constitutionnel._ At the second article, I referred to _Antony_ and the old _Constitutionnel._ M. Véron's susceptibility took fright: the literary monument was arrested at its first attempt. And as the sepulchral monument depended on the literary monument, the sepulchral monument was never begun.

Some day we will take up this matter again, among many others we have been compelled to drop, and with God's help, and in spite of the ill-will of men, we will finish them.

The age of artistes is ever a problem that is never solved until after their death. I never learned Dorval's age until she died. She was born on Twelfth Night in the year 1798; so in 1823, when I was twenty, she was twenty-five. She did not call herself Marie Dorval then: those two names, so easy to pronounce that they seem always to have belonged to her, were not then linked to each other by the golden chain of genius. Her real name was Thomase-Amélie Delaunay: she was born close to the théâtre de Lorient and her earliest steps were patters across its boards. Her mother was an actress who took the part of leading singer. _Camille ou le Souterrain_ was then the comic opera in vogue. The little maiden was rocked on the stage to these lines, which her mother could hardly sing save with tears in her eyes:--

"Oh! non, non, il n'est pas possible D'avoir un plus aimable enfant!"

Directly she could talk, her lips stammered out the prose of Panard and Collé, Sedaine and Favart; at seven, she passed into what was called the _emploi des Betsy._ Her most popular air was in _Sylvani_--

"Je ne sais pas si mon cœur aime."

An artist at Lorient painted her portrait at that time--that is to say, in 1808. In 1839, Madame Dorval returned to Lorient, her native town. The day following a striking success, an old white-haired man came to call upon her to pay her his tribute. His offering was this painting of her as a child: a third of a century had passed by and the woman could not be recognised in it. To-day both painter and Madame Dorval are dead, but the portrait still continues to smile. It hung in Madame Dorval's bedroom. I saw it, for the first time, when I helped to close her eyes. It was a melancholy contrast, I need hardly say, to see the face of the rosy child in the picture confronting the livid face on the death-bed opposite. How many joys, hopes, disappointments and sorrows had passed between that childish smile and the death-agony! At twelve years of age little Delaunay left Lorient with the whole company. That was in 1810, when diligences did not traverse France in every direction: in those days railways had not yet carved their way through the valleys or tunnelled the mountains; if you wanted to go to Strassbourg--that is to say, to cross France from west to east--you had to club together and buy a large wicker carriage, and it took six weeks to go from the Ocean, to the Rhine.

The comedy company passed through Paris and stopped four days in the capital. It was the zenith of Talma's reputation: how could anyone pass through Paris without seeing Talma? For three days, the mother and daughter economised in their breakfasts and in their dinners, and on the fourth day they took two tickets for the second gallery. Talma was playing _Hamlet_.

Those of you who knew Madame Dorval will understand what it meant to a nature such as hers to see the famous actor play; what it meant to that heart which was so loyally filial in its early days and so motherly in later years, to listen to the gloomy ravings of the Danish prince, as he speaks of his father in a voice full of tears, in the way Talma represented him. And at these three lines--

"On remplace un ami, son épouse, une amante; Mais un vertueux père est un bien précieux Qu'on ne tient qu'une fois de la bonté des cieux!"--

the young actress, who, with the intuition of genius in her, comprehended the greatness of art displayed, as well as realised, the depth of the pathos, leant backwards, sobbed and fainted away. They carried her into an adjoining room; but the play continued in vain, so far as she was concerned: she would not see any more of it. She did not see Talma again until ten years later.

The company continued its journey and reached Strassbourg. And then Mademoiselle Delaunay gradually became famous. She changed her line of character and played _les Dugazon._ She made a fascinating young girl, overflowing with mischievousness and good humour, declaiming M. Étienne's prose excellently, but singing M. Nicholo's music out of tune. Now it is a great defect for a _Dugazon_ to sing falsely, while speaking correctly. Happily, Perrier, who was acting at Strassbourg, advised Madame Delaunay to let her daughter give up comic opera, and turn her attention to comedy. In deference to this advice, _la Dugazon_ became a young lover. Panard was given up for Molière and the actress and the public profited by the change.

From that time dated Madame Dorval's first successes. Alas! from that time dated also her first sorrows. Her mother fell ill of a long and painful disease. The engagements which Madame Delaunay found as first singer became fewer as her voice grew weaker. Then the young girl redoubled her labours; she knew that talent was not only a question of art, but still more one of necessity. Thanks to her efforts, her engagements brought in eighty francs to a hundred francs; and those of her' mother diminished, at the same time, from three hundred francs to one hundred and fifty francs, and from one hundred and fifty francs they fell to nothing. From that time began the young girl's life of devotion which continued on into womanhood.

For a year Amélie Delaunay did everything for her mother: she was servant, nurse, comforter; then, at the end of a year, the mother died, and all those nights of watching and weeping, all her careful tendings, were lost, except in the sight of God.

When her mother died the young girl was left alone in the world. She could never afterwards remember what she did during the two years after her mother's death: memory was drowned in grief! The company moved on from Lorient to Strassbourg, from Strassbourg to Bayonne, always travelling in the same wicker carriage with the same horses, which belonged to the company. However, one great event came about:

Amélie Delaunay married a poor boy of fifteen, out of loneliness. She had no love for him: he was one of her fellow-actors, who played the rôle of _les Martins;_ his name was Allan-Dorval. He died at St. Petersburg. Where he lived nobody ever knew. This marriage had no other influence on the actress's life beyond giving her the name by which she became known; her other name, that of Marie, was given her by us. Antony was her godfather and Adèle d'Hervey her godmother.

Their journeyings were continued and, as they were _en route_ for Bayonne, they came close to Paris. I do not know in what village, upon what road, at what inn, Potier, the great actor whom Talma admired, met Madame Allan-Dorval, in what theatre he saw her play or what part she was taking, when she uttered one of those heartfelt phrases, one of those outbursts of fraternal affection by which great artistes recognise each other's talents. I know nothing of all this, for poor Marie forgot it herself; but, in a trice he described to her Paris--that is to say, splendour, fame, suffering!

The young wife came to Paris with a letter of introduction from Potier to M. de Saint-Romain, manager of the Porte-Saint-Martin. M. de Saint-Romain engaged Madame Allan-Dorval on this recommendation, and from that day her name became part of the recollections of Parisians, her life became interwoven with the literary life of Paris. This was in 1818.

What had this poor talented young woman played ere Potier's encouragement had made a path for her genius? She had acted in the _Cabane du Montagnard,_ the _Catacombes_, the _Pandoursy_ and, finally, in the _Vampire_, at which my neighbour had hooted so shamelessly. Poor Marie! only she herself could relate the sufferings of those early days. There was, I remember, one special costume on which she had to sew some lace trimming every evening before the performance, and it had to be unsewn every evening after the play.--O Frétillon! Frétillon! thy cotillion never saw half what that dress did!

She whom I now saw for the first time was the Eve from whose womb a new dramatic world was to spring. As for Philippe, who eclipsed her at that time, with the dignity and majesty of his steps and gestures, his was the acting of the pure old-fashioned melodrama of Pixérécourt and Caignez. No one could wear yellow top boots, a buff tunic embroidered in black, a plumed toque and a cross-handled sword like Philippe. This attire, at that period, went by the name of the costume of a cavalier. Lafont carried it off perfectly in _Tancrède_ and in _Adélaïde Duguesclin._

Philippe died the first. His death made almost as much stir as his life. As I shall not have occasion to speak of him again, and as, had he lived, he would not have had anything to do with contemporary art, we will finish his story here. Philippe died on 16 October 1824--that is to say, one month, to the day, after the death of Louis XVIII. On the 18th, they brought his body to the church of Saint-Laurent, his own parish church; but the clergy refused to take it in. The same thing happened with regard to Mademoiselle Raucourt. But Philippe's comrades and all his public admirers decided to go forward with stout hearts, to proceed without uproar, or violent acts, or rebellious deeds. They drew the shell from the hearse: six actors from the different Paris theatres bore it on their shoulders, and, followed by over three thousand people, they took it to the Tuileries. They meant to deposit the coffin in the Castle courtyard, to demand justice, and not to withdraw until they had received it. The resolution was all the more impressive as it was accomplished with composure and solemnity. The cortège was moving along the boulevards, and had reached the top of the rue Montmartre, when a squadron of police rushed out at full gallop, swords in hand, and barred the entire width of the boulevard. Then a council of deliberation was held over the bier, and, still with the same calmness and the same composure, a deputation of five was elected to go to the Tuileries and to ask for the prayers of the Church and a Christian burial for the body of poor Philippe. These five deputies were: MM. Étienne, Jourdan, Colombeau, Ménessier and Crosnier. Charles X. refused to receive them, and sent them back to M. de Corbières, the Minister for the Interior. M. de Corbières, very brutal by nature, replied roughly that the clergy had their laws, that it was not his business to transgress them, although he was in charge of the police of the realm. The five deputies brought back this reply to the three thousand Parisians camped in the boulevard, round the coffin that was craving burial. The bearers then took the body up again on their shoulders and pursued their course with it along the road to Père-Lachaise. Victory remained on the side of authority, as the saying is; only, it is by such kinds of victories that authority cuts its own throat. "Another victory like that," said Pyrrhus, after the battle of Heracles, "and we shall be lost!"

From that moment the generous promises made by Charles x. on his accession to the throne were valued at their true worth: and who shall say that one of the clouds that caused the storm of 27 July 1830, was not whirled into being on 18 October 1824?

[1] See _les Morts vont vite_, vol. ii. pp. 241 ff.