CHAPTER IV

Frédéric Soulié, his character, his talent--Choruses of the various plays, sung as prologues and epilogues--Transformation of the vaudeville--The Gymnase and M. Scribe--The _Folle de Waterloo_

Adolphe took me to Frédéric Soulié's house that evening. Frédéric Soulié had a gathering of friends to celebrate his refusal at the Gymnase; for he looked upon the acceptance on condition of alteration as a refusal.

I shall often return to, and speak much of Soulié: he was one of the most powerful literary influences of the day, and his personality was one of the most marked I have known. He died young. He died, not only in the full tide of his talent, but even before he had produced the perfect and finished work he would certainly have created, some day or other, had not death hastened its footsteps. Soulié's brain was a little confused and obscure; his thoughts were only lighted up on one side, after the fashion of this planet; the reverse side to the one illuminated by the sun was pitifully dark. Soulié did not know how to begin either a novel or a drama. The opening explanation of his work was done hap-hazard: sometimes in the first act, sometimes in the last, if it were a play; if it were a novel, sometimes in the first, sometimes in the last volume. His introduction, timidly begun, nearly always was laboriously unravelled. It seemed as though, like those night birds which need the darkness to develop all their faculties, Soulié was not at ease save in twilight.

I was for ever quarrelling with him on this point. As he was gifted with unrivalled imagination and power, when he was on the warpath, I used to beseech him continually to let in the utmost possible daylight at the beginning of his action. "Be clear to the verge of transparency," I continually said to him. "God's greatness consists in His making of light; without light, we should not have known how to appreciate the sublime grandeur of creation."

Soulié was twenty-six when I first knew him. He was a lusty young man, of medium height, but capitally proportioned; he had a prominent forehead; dark hair, eyebrows and beard; a well-shaped nose and full eyes; thick lips and white teeth. He laughed readily, although it was never a fresh young laugh. It sounded ironical and strident, which gave it the quality of age. Being naturally of a bantering disposition, irony was a weapon he could wield admirably.

He had tried his hand at most things, and he retained some slight knowledge of everything he had done. After having received an excellent education in the provinces, I believe he studied law at Rheims, to which we owe the admirable description of student's life in his book entitled _Confession générale._ He passed his legal examinations and was called to the Bar; but he did not take kindly to the profession. Rather than follow that very liberal avocation, he preferred a mercantile calling. This aversion led to his developing the notion of a big steam sawmill in 1824 or 1825.

In the meantime, Soulié (who then signed himself Soulié de Lavelanet) lived upon a small allowance his father made him a hundred louis, as far as I am able to remember. He lived in the rue de Provence, on the first floor, in a bewitching room that seemed a palace to us. There was, above all else, a most unwonted luxury in this room, a piano on which Soulié could play two or three tunes. He was both very radical and very aristocratic, two qualities which often went together at that period: see, for example, Carrel, whom we have already seen in the Béfort affair, and who will reappear on the scene presently, after the amnesty to be accorded by Charles X. on his accession to the throne.

Soulié was brave, without being quarrelsome; but he had the sensitiveness both of the student and of the Southerner. He was passably skilful as a swordsman and a first-rate shot.

Soulié at first thought me a worthless lad, of no importance; and it was quite natural he should. He was astonished and almost overwhelmed by my early successes. By that time I knew Soulié as he was; jealous almost to envy, but, by reason of the strong kindliness of his good and upright heart, able to keep all the evil tendencies of his character under control. A constant struggle was waged within him between good and bad principles, and yet not once perhaps did the evil principle get the better of him. He very often tried to hate me, but never managed to succeed: very often, when he set out to run me down in conversation, he would end by praising me. And, as a matter of fact, I was the man who hampered his career more than any other: in the theatre, in the newspapers, in the matter of books, I was everywhere in his path, doing him involuntary but actual damage everywhere; and, in spite of this, I was so certain of Soulié, and so sure of his supreme justice and goodness of heart, that, if I had needed any act of service, I should have gone to Soulié to ask it of him, rather than of any other--and he would have rendered me this service, more readily than any other person would.

At first Soulié turned his attention towards poetry. It was in the domain of poetry, I believe, that he looked to make his conquests. His first stage-play was an imitation of Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet._ I never experienced greater emotion than that which I felt at the first representation of this play.

We were often months or a year without seeing each other; but when fate turned us face to face, no matter how far off we might be, we each walked straight to the other's heart and open arms. Perhaps, before catching sight of me, Soulié had not particularly cared to meet me; perhaps, had someone told him, "Dumas is over there," he would have made a detour; but, directly he caught sight of me, the electric current dominated his will and he was mine, body and soul, as though never a single jealous thought had crossed his mind. It was different with regard to Hugo or Lamartine: he did not like them, and he rarely spoke impartially of their talent. I feel convinced that it was Hugo's _Odes et Ballades_ and Lamartine's _M&ditations_ which led Frédéric Soulié to write in prose. Rest in peace, friend of my youth, companion of my first serious efforts, I will depict thee as thou wert; I will design a statue of thee, not a bust; I will isolate thee; I will place thee on the pedestal of thy works, so that all those who never knew thee may take the measure of thy impressive figure; for thou art one of those who can be studied from all aspects, and who, living or dead, have no need to be afraid of being placed in a full light.

At the time of which I am writing, Soulié was linked in literary friendship with Jules Lefèvre and Latouche,--Latouche, with whom he quarrelled so fiercely later over _Christine._ In private life, his chief friend was a tall, stout fellow called David, who was at that time, and may still be, a stockbroker. I do not know whether Soulié was his only friend; but I believe that on the Exchange he made not a few enemies.

When we went to see Soulié, he was entertaining a dozen of his friends to tea, cake and sandwiches. Such luxuries quite dazzled me. Soulié was conscious of his own powers, and this rendered him extremely scornful towards second-rate literature. In his efforts to poach upon other writers' preserves, until the time came when he could do better than they, he treated certain contemporary celebrities, whose positions I envied greatly, with lofty off-handedness. He proposed, he said, to publish an Almanac for the coming year, 1824, entitled the _Parfait Vaudevilliste_, which should consist of ready-made verses from old soldiers and young colonels. Among these verses from old soldiers were some of the first order, and the following may be taken as a model: it is one which Gontier sang in _Michel et Christine_, and for which he was enthusiastically applauded nightly:--

"Sans murmurer, Votre douleur amère, Frapp'rait mes yeux, plutôt tout endurer! Moi, j'y suis fait, c'est mon sort ordinaire; Un vieux soldat sait souffrir et se taire, Sans murmurer!"

There were also, at that time, in the plays in course of representation, a certain number of choruses applicable to current events, and these found a fitting place in the _Parfait Vaudevilliste._ Unfortunately, I did not copy any of them at Soulié's at that period. Three or four months before his death, I begged him to send me his collection: he had lost it. Instead, he sent me five or six of the choruses he remembered; only he could not tell me exactly to what period they belonged; he could only affirm that they were not bastard waifs and strays, as might readily be believed, but acknowledged and legitimate offspring; and, by way of proof, he sent along with them the names of their begetters.

These choruses were, of course, the author's exclusive property. He placed them in identical situations: some of them had already done duty ten, twenty, thirty times, and only waited the opportunity to be used a thirty-first time. We will begin with a chorus from the _Barbier châtelain_, by Théaulon: to every man his due.

"Bonne nuit! Bonne nuit! Ça soulage, En voyage. Bonne nuit! Bonne nuit! Retirons-nous sans bruit."

This became proverbial: directly the scene began, everyone commenced to hum in advance the chorus which came at the end of it. Another chorus, of Brazier and Courcy, in the _Parisien à Londres,_ was also not devoid of merit. Unluckily, the scene it belonged to was so peculiar that it was only used once. Nevertheless, it remained in the memories of a fair number of connoisseurs. It was about a Frenchman who was surprised during a criminal amour and who, when led before his judges, excited a lively curiosity among the audience.

So the audience sang:--

"Nous allons voir juger Cet étranger, Qui fut bien léger!... A l'audience, On défend l'innocence, Et l'on sait la venger."

The stranger was condemned to marriage, and the audience, satisfied, left, singing the same chorus, with this slight variation:--

"Nous _avons vu_ juger Cet étranger, Qui fut bien léger!... A l'audience, On défend l'innocence, Et l'on sait la venger."

But as breakfasts, dinners and suppers are more frequent at theatres than foreigners condemned to espouse Englishwomen, there was a chorus of Dumanoir which, always sung when people were sitting down to the table, gave the public some notion of the drunkenness of the partakers.

They sang this:--

"Quel repas Plein d'appas, Où, gai convive, L'Amour arrive!... Quel repas Plein d'appas! On n'en fait pas De pareils ici-bas!"

In spite of the holy laws of propriety, more respected, one knows, among dramatic authors than in any other class of society, Adolphe one day allowed himself the liberty of using this couplet and had the audacity to put it in one of his plays, without troubling to change it one single iota. There is quite a long story about this: Adolphe, threatened with a lawsuit by Dumanoir, was only able to settle matters by offering a chorus for dancers in exchange for the drinking chorus.

This is de Leuven's chorus: it will be seen that if Dumanoir did not gain much through this, he did not lose much by it:--

"A la danse, A la danse, Allons, amis, que l'on séance! Entendez-vous du bal Les gais accords, le doux signal?..."

Dumanoir faithfully adhered to the agreement, but only used the chorus once; then he returned it to Adolphe, who, on regaining possession, continued to use his chorus, to the great satisfaction of the audience.

All these choruses, however, pale before that of _Jean de Calais_. This was by Émile Vanderburch, one of the authors of the _Gamin de Paris_, and it concluded the play. It runs thus:--

"Chantons les hauts faits De Jean de Calais! On dira, dans l'histoire, Qu'il a mérité Sa gloire Et sa félicité!..."

Indeed, a great revolution was taking place at this time in comic opera; and this revolution was brought about by a man who has since proscribed others as revolutionists. We refer to Scribe, who, in the literary revolution of 1820 to 1828, played pretty nearly the rôle the Girondists played in the political revolution of 1792 and 1793.

Before Scribe, comic operas (with the exception of the delightful sketches of Désaugiers) were hardly more than bare skeletons, left for the actors to clothe as they liked. Nowadays the great thing is to create rôles for M. Arnal, M. Bouffé, or Mademoiselle Rose Chéri, but at that time no one thought of creating a rôle for M. Potier, M. Brunet or M. Perrin. M. Perrin, M. Brunet or M. Potier found their rôles outlined for them at the first rehearsal, and made them what they were at the first representation.

Scribe was the first author to make plays instead of outline sketches. Plots developed in his clever hands, and so, in three or four years, the Théâtre du Gymnase attained its full growth. It was not modelled on any other company, but created what might well be called M. Scribe's company: it was composed almost exclusively of colonels, young widows, old soldiers and faithful servants. Never had such widows been seen, never such colonels; never had old soldiers spoken thus; never had such devoted servants been met with. But the company of the Gymnase, as M. Scribe created it, became the fashion, and the direct patronage of Madame la Duchesse de Berry contributed not a little towards the fortune made by the manager, and to the author's reputation. The form of verse itself was changed. The old airs of our fathers, who had been satisfied with the gay repetition of _lon, lon, la, larira dondaine,_ and the _gai, gai, larira dondé,_ were abandoned for the more artificially mannered comic opera, pointed epigrams and long-drawn-out, elegantly turned verses. When the situation became touching, eight or ten lines would express the feelings of the character, borrowing charm from the music, and sighing declarations of love, for which prose had ceased to suffice. In short, a charming little bastard sprang into being, of which, to use a village expression, M. Scribe was both father and godfather, and which was neither the old vaudeville, nor comic opera, nor comedy.

The models of the new style were the _Somnambule, Michel et Christine_, the _Héritière_, the _Mariage de raison, Philippe_ and _Marraine._ Later, some vaudevilles went a degree farther; for example, the _Chevalier de Saint-Georges, un Duel sous Richelieu,_ the _Vie de bohème._ These bordered on comedy, and could at a pinch be played without lines. Other changes will be pointed out, so far as they affected the arts. Let us briefly state here that we had entered into the age of transition. In 1818, Scribe began by the vaudeville; from 1818 to 1820 Hugo and Lamartine appeared in the literary world, the former with his _Odes et Ballades_, the latter with his _Méditations,_ the first attempts of the new poetry; from 1820 to 1824 Nodier published novels of a kind which introduced a fresh type--namely, the picturesque; from 1824 to 1828 it was the turn of painting to attempt fresh styles; finally, from 1828 to 1835, the revolution spread to the dramatic world, and followed almost immediately on the footsteps of the historical and imaginative novel. Thus the nineteenth century, freed from parental restraint, assumed its true colour and originality. Of course it will be understood that, as I was so closely associated with all the great artists and all the great sculptors of the time, each of them will come into these Memoirs in turn; they will constitute a gigantic gallery wherein every illustrious name shall have its living monument.

Let us return to Soulié. We had reached the date when his first piece of poetry had the honour of print: it was called the _Folk de Waterloo_, and had been written at the request of Vatout, for the work he produced on the Gallery of the Palais-Royal. I need hardly say that Soulié read it to us. Here it is: we give it in order to indicate the point of departure of all our great poets. When we take note of the end to which they have attained, we can measure the distance traversed. Probably some contemporary grumblers will tell us it matters very little where they started or where they ended: to such we would reply that we are not merely writing for the year 1851 or the year 1852, but for the sacred future which seizes chisel, brush, and pen as they drop from the hands of the illustrious dead.

LA FOLLE DE WATERLOO

"Un jour, livrant mon âme à la mélancolie, J'avais porté mes pas errants Dans ces prisons où la folie Est offerte en spectacle aux yeux indifférents. C'était à l'heure qui dégage Quelques infortunés des fers et des verrous; Et mon cœur s'étonnait d'écouter leur langage, Où se mêlaient les pleurs, le rire et le courroux.

Tandis que leur gardien les menace ou les raille, Une femme paraît pâle et le front penché; Sa main tient l'ornement qui, les jours de bataille. Brille au cou des guerriers sur l'épaule attaché, Et de ses blonds cheveux s'échappe un brin de paille A sa couche arrache

En voyant sa jeunesse et le morne délire, Qui doit, par la prison, la conduire au tombeau, Je me sends pleurer.... Elle se prit à rire, Et cria lentement:'Waterloo! Waterloo!'

'Quel malheur t'a donc fait ce malheur de la France?' Lui dis-je.... Et son regard craintif Ou, sans voir la raison, je revis l'espérance, S'unit pour m'appeler à son geste furtif.

'Français, parle plus has, dit-elle. Oh! tu m'alarmes! Peut-être ces Anglais vont étouffer ta voix; Car c'est à Waterloo que, la première fois, Adolphe m'écouta sans répondre à mes larmes.

'Lorsque, dans ton pays, la guerre s'allumait, Il me quitta pour elle, en disant qu'il m'aimait; C'est là le seul adieu dont mon cœur se souvienne ... La gloire l'appelait, il a suivi sa loi; Et, comme son amour n'était pas tout pour moi, Il servit sa patrie, et j'oubliai la mienne!

'Et, quand je voulus le chercher, Pour le voir, dans le sang il me fallut marcher; J'entendais de longs cris de douleur et d'alarmes; La lune se leva sur ce morne tableau; J'aperçus sur le sol des guerriers et des armes, Et des Anglais criaient: "Waterloo! Waterloo!"

'Et moi, fille de l'Angleterre, Indifférente aux miens qui dormaient sur la terre, J'appelais un Français, et pleurais sans remords ... Tout à coup, une voix mourante et solitaire S'éleva de ce champ des morts:

"Adolphe?" me dit-on. "Des héros de la garde Il était le plus brave et marchait avec nous; Nous combattions ici.... Va, baisse-toi, regarde, Tu l'y retrouveras, car nous y sommes tous!"

'Je tremblais de le voir et je le vis lui-même.... Dis-moi quel est ce mal qu'on ne peut exprimer? Ses yeux, sous mes baisers, n'ont pu se ranimer.... Oh! comme j'ai souffert à cette heure suprême; Car il semblait ne plus m'aimer!

Et puis ... je ne sais plus!... Connaît-il ma demeure? Jadis, quand il venait, il venait tous les jours! Et sa mère, en pleurant, accusait nos amours.... Hélas! il ne vient plus, et pourtant elle pleure!

La folle vers la porte adresse alors ses pas, Attache à ses verrous un regard immobile, M'appelle à ses côtés, et, d'une voix débile: 'Pauvre Adolphe, dit-elle, en soupirant tout bas; Comme il souffre!... il m'attend, puisqu'il ne revient pas!'

Elle dit, dans les airs la cloche balancée Apprit à la douleur que l'heure était passée D'espérer que ses maux, un jour, pourraient finir. La folle se cachait; mais, dans le sombre asile Où, jeune, elle portait un si long avenir, A la voix des gardiens d'où la pitié s'exile, Seule, il lui fallut revenir.

'Adieu! je ne crains pas qu'un Français me refuse, Dit-elle, en me tendant la main; Si tu le vois, là-bas, qui vient sur le chemin; D'un aussi long retard si son amour s'accuse, Dis-lui que je le plains, dis-lui que je l'excuse, Dis-lui que je l'attends demain!'"