CHAPTER VI

English actors in Paris--Literary importations--_Trente Ans_, or _la Vie d'un Joueur_--The _Hamlet_ of Kemble and Miss Smithson--A bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau--Visit to Frédéric Soulié--He declines to write _Christine_ with me--A night attack--I come across Adèle d'Alvin once more--I spend the night _au violon_

Somewhere about 1822 or '23, I believe, a company of English actors attempted to give a series of representations in the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, but they were received with so much opposition and hooting, and so many apples and oranges had been flung at the unfortunate actors from the pit, that they were compelled to abandon the field of battle under the heavy firing of projectiles. And that was how the national spirit expressed itself in 1822. But then, in 1822, it was considered degrading for any theatre where the productions of MM. Caignez and Pixérécourt were performed (not to mention those of Corneille and Molière) to lend its boards to such a barbarian as Shakespeare, and to the train of _œuvres immondes_ which followed in his wake.

Only five years had gone by since that period, and now the second Théâtre-Français greatly astonished everybody by advertising that a company of English actors was going to act the chief plays of Shakespeare. So quickly did ideas mature in the burning sun of the nineteenth century that only five years were necessary to bring about such an enlightenment of public opinion as this. However, the example of courtesy had been set us by our neighbours across the Channel. Mademoiselle Georges had just succeeded--thanks, no doubt, to the political reminiscences that surrounded her--in obtaining what Talma never obtained, in spite of his Anglo-French descent, namely, a public non-subsidised performance of a French play.

On 28 June 1827, Mademoiselle Georges gave a most successful representation of _Sémiramis_, under the patronage of the Duke of Devonshire. The receipts amounted to eight hundred pounds sterling (20,000 francs). A few days later, again with similar success, she played _Mérope._ This twofold triumph suggested to the director of the Odéon the idea of inviting a company of English actors over, and a series of performances, announced for the beginning of September, was looked forward to eagerly. In fact, opinion had changed from complete disdain of English literature to enthusiastic admiration of it. M. Guizot, who did not then know a word of English--and who has known it but too well since--had re-translated Shakespeare with the help of Letourneur. Walter Scott, Cooper and Byron were in everybody's hands. M. Lemercier had made a tragedy out of _Richard III._; M. Liadière had produced another on _Jane Shore. Kenilworth Castle_ had been played at the Porte-Saint-Martin; _Louis XI. à Péronne_ at the Théâtre-Français; _Macbeth_ at the Opéra. People talked of Frédéric Soulié's _Juliette_ and of Alfred de Vigny's _Othello._ Assuredly, the wind had veered round to the west and pointed to a literary revolution. Nor was this all: a play was produced at the Porte-Saint-Martin, with a denouement borrowed from Werner's _Vingt-Quatre Février_, which had brought about a revolution both by its style and its execution.

We should like to say a few words with reference to _Trente Ans_, or _la Vie d'un Joueur_, by MM. Victor Ducange and Goubaux. Besides the dramatic importance of this work, it brought to light two eminent artistes, Frédérick and Madame Dorval. It is rarely one finds two actors so highly endowed, the one as good as the other. He, as a matter of fact, was the wretched tragedian who, three years before, had played one of the brothers Macchabée at the Odéon! She was the little girl, forgotten as soon as she had played the thankless part of Malvina, in the _Vampire!_

Popular drama had its Talma, and boulevard tragedy its Mademoiselle Mars. Everybody has become familiar with _Trente Ans_; everybody has seen it played by the two artistes I have just named. But not everybody witnessed the fever of excitement that mastered both actors and spectators during those first representations.

So the English artistes found Parisian playgoers warmly enthusiastic, eagerly demanding new emotions to take the place of those they had just experienced. Such moments as these are experienced at various times and seasons when everything is quiet outside the realms of imagination. As physical life is in no danger, minds sigh after imaginary dangers; human sympathy must exercise itself on something. Twelve years of calm caused everyone to cry out for emotion; ten years of laughter called aloud for tears. With a national spirit restless and adventurous by nature, we must ever express ourselves dramatically, whether on the stage or in real life.

In 1827 the theatre had things all its own way. On 7 September the English actors gave their first performance. Abbott opened the proceedings with a short speech in very carefully pronounced French, and they played _The Rivals_ by poor Sheridan, who had just been buried amidst financial difficulties; then Allingham's _Caprice of Fortune._ The comic actors of the company carried off the honours of the first night, and, although one noticed a comic actor called Liston, and a sweetheart played by Miss Smithson, we felt quite certain that the much longed for company had not been brought across the Channel just for this exhibition of its powers. I had made up my mind to attend these English performances with some assiduity, and as Porcher had nearly got back the advances he had lent me, I asked him for two hundred francs, a hundred and fifty of which went towards our housekeeping expenses, and fifty were intended to initiate me into the beauties revealed in the English drama. I already nearly knew Shakespeare by heart at this period; but plays, according to the Germans, are meant to be seen and not read. So I resisted the temptation of going to the first representation, and waited to see the English company in Shakespeare.

They announced _Hamlet._ There was no fear of my missing it this time. Fortunately, it was Ernest's week to make up the portfolio. I left the office at four o'clock and went to take my position in the queue, rather better informed, this time, than I had been on my first visit to Paris. I knew _Hamlet_ so well that I did not need to buy the words; I could follow the actors, translating the words as soon as they were uttered. I must admit that the impression made upon me far exceeded my expectations: Kemble was wonderful as Hamlet, and Miss Smithson made a divine Ophelia. The stage scene, the screen scene and that of the two portraits, the mad scene and that in the graveyard electrified me. Only then did I realise what the drama could be, and from the ruins of my past feeble attempts, which the shock of this revelation brought about, I saw what was needed to create a new world.

"And darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters"; as the Bible puts it.

This was the first time that I had seen real passions on the stage, inspiring men and women of real flesh and blood. Now I understood Talma's moans over each fresh part he created; I understood that everlasting aspiration for a literature that could give him the chance of depicting a hero who should be a living being; I understood his despair at dying before he had given expression to that side of his genius which perished unknown within him and with him. The present generation will not understand what I am saying; for its childish studies have made it as familiar with Walter Scott as with Lesage, with Shakespeare as with Molière. Our century, which has become pre-eminently a century of appreciation, smiles incredulously when it hears that a comedian could be hissed because he was an Englishman, or a play hooted because it was by Shakespeare.

These representations continued with increasing popularity. After _Hamlet_ came _Romeo and Juliet_, then _Othello_; then, finally, one after the other, all the masterpieces of the English stage. To Kemble and Miss Smithson belonged all the honours of these representations. It is impossible to describe the scene of Ophelia's madness, the balcony scene in _Juliet_, the poisoning scene in the vault among the dead, Othello's jealousy and the death of Desdemona, as played by those two great artistes. Abbott, also, showed himself a graceful comedian in the parts he played. His Mercutio, among the rest, was a real masterpiece of delightful acting.

And now let us notice how strange it is that events which are to influence a man's life seem to link themselves together. On the 10th, the English actors gave the last of their series of representations, leaving me palpitating with fresh impressions, and my mind flooded with fresh light. On the 4th, six days before, the Salon Exhibition had just opened. At this Salon, Mademoiselle de Fauveau exhibited two small bas-reliefs, round which all artists congregated.

One of these bas-reliefs represented a scene from the _Abbé_; the other, the assassination of Monaldeschi. I came up to look at these bas-reliefs with the crowd, and I probably appreciated more than most of the gazers the power and delicacy of the work thus cleverly handled by a woman's fingers. I had read the _Abbé_, so I knew all about one of these bas-reliefs; but I was so ignorant on some portions of history that I not only did not know the incident the other piece of sculpture depicted, but I was also ignorant who were either Monaldeschi or Christine; and I left the Musée without venturing to ask anyone to tell me. As it was Sunday, and as I had not seen Soulié for several days, I decided to go and spend part of the evening with him at la Gare.

At nine o'clock--after telling my mother that I should probably not be home until very late--I sweetened a cup of tea in front of a capital fire (for wood is plentiful in a saw-mill) and began a discussion with Soulié concerning the alterations his _Juliette_ would need to undergo since the English acting had come under notice. All at once, I recollected the bas-relief of the death of Monaldeschi, and, not daring to ask Soulié for particulars for fear he would make fun of me because of my ignorance, I asked him if he possessed a _Biographie universelle._ He had one, and I read the two articles on _Monaldeschi_ and on _Christine._ Then, after a few moments' reflection, in the depths of which I seemed to see all sorts of tragic characters moving amid the glitter of swords, I said to Soulié, as though he had been following my thoughts--

"Do you know, there is a terrible drama in all that?"

"In what?"

"In the assassination of Monaldeschi by Christine."

"I should just think so."

"Shall we do it together?"

"No," Soulié replied emphatically; "I do not mean to work any more with others."

"Why?"

"Because David has promised me the Cross, through the influence of M. Portalis, when I write my first important work alone."

I looked at Soulié in utter amazement. I do not think that even he himself quite realised the nature of his brusque outbursts.

"Therefore," he added, "I intend to use that subject for a tragedy myself."

"Oh!" I said, laying the volumes down.

"That need not prevent you writing your own drama, you understand, if you mean to stick to the idea."

"On the same subject as you?"

"There are more theatres than one in Paris; and a dozen ways of treating a subject."

"But which of us will read it at the Théâtre-Français?"

"Whichever shall finish first."

"Would it not annoy you?"

"What the devil do you think it would do to me?"

"You are not very amiable to-night."

"I am not in a good temper."

"What is the matter with you?"

"This is the matter. If only I had seen the English actors before I had constructed my _Juliette_ I should either not have done it at all, or done it differently."

"Will you take my advice?"

"In what way?"

"As the sincere advice of a friend.... Leave your _Juliette_ on one side as I have left my _Fiesque_, and dream of something else."

"Bah! when it is finished!"

I saw Soulié had made up his mind to go on with it, and I dropped the subject. Then, as I could not afford to buy the _Biographie universelle_, I asked Soulié if I might copy out the two articles, and he let me do so. It was evident my writing on the same subject did not inspire him with much terror. We separated at midnight; and, as I went along the boulevard, I dreamt already of my future _Christine._ It was a dark, rainy night, and the boulevard was almost deserted. When I reached the gate of Saint-Denis, just as I was leaving the boulevard to re-enter the street, I heard cries thirty steps ahead of me; then, in the midst of the darkness, I could see what looked like a group of people struggling violently on the boulevard, and I ran in the direction of the cries. Two fellows were attacking a man and woman. The man attacked was trying to defend himself with a cane, the woman had been thrown down and the thief was trying to snatch a chain that hung round her neck. I leapt on the thief, and the next moment he was on the ground in his turn, and I was kneeling on him. When the second thief saw this, he left off attacking the man and ran away. It would seem that, unwittingly, I had been squeezing the throat of my thief unmercifully; for suddenly, to my great surprise, he yelled out--

"Help, help, help!"

This shout, together with those already uttered by the man and woman assaulted, brought several soldiers from the military station of Bonne-Nouvelle. I had not loosened my hold of the thief, and the soldiers dragged him out of my hands. Then only was I able to respond to the thanks of those whom I had rescued. The woman's voice struck me strangely. It was Adèle d'Alvin, whom I had not seen since I left Villers-Cotterets, and the man was her husband. There had been a special performance at the Porte-Saint-Martin at which _la Noce et l'Enterrement_ had been played, and knowing I had had a hand in that masterpiece, they had wanted to see it. The performance had not finished until late, as is usual in the case of special representations, and Adèle was hungry. When they came out, they went to the theatre café for supper, and this had delayed them. Just as they reached Charlard's chemist's shop they were attacked by the two ruffians of whom I had rid them, and of whom one had been arrested by the defenders of the country. Unluckily, these defenders of the country were not as intelligent as they were brave. They could not distinguish between robbers and robbed, between thieves and honest folk, and they took us all to the guard-room, informing us we must stop there till the morning. At daybreak they sent for a police-officer, who separated the wheat from the tares.

We tried to explain ourselves, and asked that they should examine carefully our persons, our countenances, our appearances, and compare them with those of the man whom I had arrested, and that they should not keep us till next day before rendering us the justice that was our due. But to all this the defenders of the country replied imperturbably that _by night all cats look grey_; and, consequently, one might easily be deceived, whereas, on the morrow, there would be _daylight_ on the matter.

The decision was neither logical nor eloquent; but we were the weaker party. They made us, assaulted and assaulter alike, go into that part of the guard-house that is called the _violon_, and there was no help for it but to await the good pleasure of M. _le chef du poste._

We all leant up one against another, as people do in a carriage, and tried to sleep. As Adèle and her husband had taken one corner of the camp bed for themselves, there was one left for me. I gazed sadly at the woman for a long time; she was associated with the earliest recollections of my life, and now, apparently perfectly happy, she was falling asleep on the shoulder of another, to whom she spoke in accents of familiar intercourse. She had two children: motherhood had consoled her for her lost love. They both fell asleep; but neither the thief nor I slept at all. Soon my eyes tore themselves away from watching Adèle and her husband; my thoughts retraced their steps and I resumed my dream where it had been interrupted. I saw, in my mind's eye, the bas-relief of Mademoiselle de Fauveau as it hung fastened against the wall, and, in the guard-room of the boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, by the side of that woman and her husband, face to face with the thief who was to get three years' imprisonment at the next assizes, my imagination conjured up the first scenes of _Christine._ At eight next morning the police-officer entered, took down our depositions and addresses and then set us at liberty; whilst our friend the thief was immediately hustled off to the police station. I returned home to find my poor mother terribly upset. She, like myself, had never closed her eyes all night. I saw Adèle again once or twice during her stay in Paris; but, since that time, my imagination, if not my heart, has been the slave of a mistress who has supplanted all my past mistresses, and even done injury to those of later years. That mistress, or rather that master, was Art.