CHAPTER XI

Reading of _Marion Delorme_ at the house of Devéria--Steeplechase of directors--_Marion Delorme_ is stopped by the Censorship--Hugo obtains an audience with Charles X.--His drama is definitely interdicted--They send him the brevet of a pension, which he declines--He sets to work on _Hernani_, and completes it in twenty-four days

Hugo had no need to write to Nodier as I had done, and to wait for an appointment with Taylor: he was already as famous before _Marion Delorme_ as I was unknown before _Henri III._

As I have already mentioned, Hugo notified me of a reading at Devéria's house, and invited Taylor to this reading, together with de Vigny, Émile Deschamps, Sainte-Beuve, Soumet, Boulanger and Beauchesne--in fact, the whole Pleiades; and so the reading began.

The first act of _Marion Delorme_ is a masterpiece; there is nothing in it to which one can take exception, apart from Hugo's mania for making his characters enter by windows instead of by doors, which here betrayed itself for the first time. No one could be more free from envious feelings than I am. So I listened to this first act with the profoundest admiration, intermingled, however, with some sadness. I felt how far behind his style I was, and how long it would be before I attained to it, if I ever should at all. Then came the second and the last three acts successively. I was seated next to Taylor, and at the last line of the play he leant over to me and said--

"Well, what do you think of that?"

I replied that I would be hanged if Victor had not shown us his finest piece of work. And I added, "I am certain he has."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because _Marion Delorme_ shows all the qualities of the work of a mature man and none of the faults of a young one. Progress is impossible to one who begins by perfect work or work very nearly perfect."

I am interested to find I was right, whether from conceit or not; I still believe that _Marion Delorme_ is, if not quite his best piece of work, yet one of his best. I congratulated him very heartily and very sincerely; I had never heard anything to compare with the lines of _Marion Delorme._ I was overwhelmed by the splendour of their style, I who lacked style throughout my work. If I had been asked to exchange ten years of my life in return for some day attaining such a style as that, I should not have hesitated for one moment, I should have given them instantly! One thing offended me greatly in the fifth act: Didier goes to his death without forgiving Marion. I entreated Hugo to substitute a more humane spirit for that inflexible character. Sainte-Beuve agreed with me and, between us, we obtained poor Marion's pardon.

Now came the question of the Censorship. None of us believed that it would pass the character of Louis XIII., though admirably drawn, simply because of its accurate drawing and the vividness of its colouring. True, the act which contained Louis XIII. could have been taken out without in any way spoiling the interest of the piece, and Crosnier many times omitted it at the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin, without the public perceiving the omission. It was what critics of petty words and petty things call a superfetation, a _hors d'œuvre._ What a magnificent _hors d'œuvre_ it was! What a sublime superfetation! I would allow anyone to take their choice among my dramas, if I might but have written the fourth act of _Marion Delorme._ For that matter, it was a great failing with Victor Hugo, for a time, to compose his fourth acts so that they could be taken out like separate episodes. The fourth act of _Hernani_, which contains the stupendous monologue of Charles V., can be taken out without injury to the play, and it is the same with the fourth act of _Ruy Blas._ But, because this fourth act was not an integral part of the play, does it follow that a marvellous conception ought to be suppressed? Because a woman is beautiful, is it absolutely necessary to throw her jewels into the water, especially if they be worth thousands?...

Reports of the reading leaked out in Paris, and there was quite a steeplechase of theatrical managers to the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs to obtain _Marion Delorme_. Harel came first. Directly he entered, he seized hold of the manuscript and, regardless of everything, began writing on it below the title, "Received by the Odéon theatre, 14 July 1829." It was the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, and Harel thought he would take _Marion Delorme_ by surprise as the Bastille had been taken by our fathers! Harel was repulsed with loss; but, as his name was on the manuscript, he stuck to it that he had taken possession of it.

A day or two after Harel's attempt, M. Crosnier was announced and introduced into the drawing-room. Hugo was reading a newspaper; he rose and showed M. Crosnier to a seat. When M. Crosnier took it, Hugo himself resumed his seat and waited. But, as M. Crosnier kept silence, Hugo took up his paper again; which course decided M. Crosnier to open his mouth.

"Monsieur," he said, addressing Hugo, "I have come to see your father; I was told he lived here. If it is not taking too much advantage of your kindness, would you be so good as to tell him I am here?"

"Alas I monsieur," Hugo replied, "my father died a year ago, and I presume it is with me you desire to speak."

"I wish to speak to M. Victor Hugo."

"I am he, monsieur."

Crosnier could not believe that this slightly built, fresh-coloured young man, who looked nothing but a boy of twenty, could be the man about whom there had already been so much stir for the past five or six years. However, he revealed the object of his visit. He had come to ask _Marion Delorme_ for the theatre of the Porte-Saint-Martin. Hugo smiled and gave him the same answer that Harel had received, namely, that the Théâtre-Français had been promised the first refusal. Crosnier smiled in his turn, with the fine-edged smile that is peculiarly his own; then, taking up a pen--

"Monsieur Hugo," he said, "allow me to inscribe my acceptance under that of my confrère."

"Write what you please, monsieur," said Hugo; "but you must remember that there are already two acceptances before yours."

"No matter, monsieur; I wish to take my place. For, bless me! who knows? I may be the one to bring out your play in spite of its having been already accepted twice!"

And he wrote under Harel's acceptance--

"Received by the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre, 16 July 1829."

Supported by this twofold acceptance, _Marion Delorme_ was presented to the Théâtre-Français and was received with unanimous applause. I recollect that as we were leaving the reading, full of enthusiasm over what we had all heard, Émile Deschamps pointed to a bill which announced the evening's play and, shrugging his shoulders, exclaimed compassionately, at the sight of Racine's _chef-d-œuvre_--

"And _they_ are going to play _Britannicus_!..."

None of us to-day, not even Émile Deschamps, would confess to having given utterance to the above _mot._ I am certain that we should all have said it in 1829, and more than one who has since paid his visit to the thirty-nine Academicians envied him the phrase at the moment.

The play was distributed, and immediately after its reception began to be rehearsed. Mademoiselle Mars played Marion; Firmin, Didier; Joanny, Nangis; Menjaud, Saverny, etc. But, one morning, the dreadful news spread abroad that the play had been stopped by the Censor! The same thing had happened to _Henri III._; the Censor always stopped everything; it was his business, and then the sentence could afterwards be relaxed, if the work justified its existence, or the author clamoured loudly enough. I had remonstrated and _Henri III._ had escaped safe and sound out of his claws, thanks to M. de Martignac, who had come to my aid. So Hugo applied to M. de Martignac. But well-meaning, cultured and even literary as was this model of ministers past, present and future, he confessed himself powerless. It was a question that did not merely affect a Valois but a Bourbon; not merely a predecessor but the grandfather of Charles X. No one but Charles X. could pronounce judgment on this family question. Hugo decided to ask an audience of Charles X. and it was granted him. In those days persons who approached the kings of France had to wear court dress _à la française_ and a sword. Hugo raised great objections at having to submit to this disguise; but Taylor undertook to collect the necessary articles of apparel. He set great store by _Marion Delorme_, and to gain permission to produce it he would have dressed up Hugo as a Turk or a Chinaman. The day of the audience came and Hugo went to Saint-Cloud, where he found the antechamber crowded. Among those in attendance were Madame du Cayla, who had just put the finishing touch to the Polignac ministry; and Michaud of the Académie, who was going to Palestine. Michaud was Reader to the king. He was covered with as much gold braid as the coats of four generals all put together! Nevertheless, he was a man of much genius. Hugo was busily talking to him when the two doors opened and His Royal Highness Monseigneur the Dauphin was announced. Hugo had never seen the being for whom he had wished the Arc de triomphe to be raised, except at a distance:--

"Que le géant de notre gloire Pût y passer sans se baisser!"

He saw what looked like a monkey, yet without a monkey's grace; a kind of mummy, with its face perpetually contorted with neuralgia, crossing the hall, responding to all the bows and greetings and homage with a deep growl, from which you could not make out one single word clearly. And that was the conqueror of the Trocadero! the pacificator of Spain! He took no more notice of Madame du Cayla than of the rest. Perhaps, if some courtier had whispered to him that a great poet was present, he might have stopped to see what sort of an animal a poet was. No courtier informed Monseigneur le Dauphin and he passed without stopping. Soon afterwards, King Charles X. passed through with as gracious and smiling a presence as his son's was grotesque and ill-tempered. He greeted Madame du Cayla with a word, shook hands with Michaud and Victor, bowed to others and entered his audience-chamber. A moment later, Madame la Comtesse du Cayla was summoned. Without troubling himself concerning the length of time she had been waiting, or whether she had come before the other visitors, the last king of the line of chivalrous kings sent for her first, because she was a woman. Madame du Cayla remained nearly an hour with the king. This was not too long wherein to give birth to a ministry which itself a year later was to give birth to the Revolution of July. Then, when Madame du Cayla withdrew, the poet was called. Charles X. first recollected that he was the successor of François I. and then that he was the descendant of Louis XIV. The poet went in, and we will let him relate what took place at that remarkable interview in his own words:--

"C'était le sept août.--O sombre destinée! C'était le premier jour de leur dernière année! Seuls, dans un lieu royal, côte à côte marchant, Deux hommes, par endroits du coude se touchant, Causaient.... Grand souvenir qui dans mon cœur se grave! Le premier avait l'air fatigué, triste et grave, Comme un trop faible front qui porte un lourd projet. Une double épaulette à couronne chargeait Son uniforme vert à ganse purpurine, Et l'ordre et la toison faisaient, sur sa poitrine, Près du large cordon moiré de bleu changeant, Deux foyers lumineux, l'un d'or, l'autre d'argent. C'était un roi, vieillard à la tête blanchie, Penché du poids des ans et de la monarchie! L'autre était un jeune homme étranger chez les rois, Un poëte, un passant, une inutile voix...

Dans un coin, une table, un fauteuil de velours Miraient dans le parquet leurs pieds dorés et lourds; Par une porte en vitre, au dehors, l'œil, en foule, Apercevait au loin des armoires de Boule, Des vases du Japon, des laques, des émaux Et des chandeliers d'or aux immenses rameaux. Un salon rouge orné de glaces de Venise, Plein de ces bronzes grecs que l'esprit divinise, Multipliait sans fin ses lustres de cristal; Et, comme une statue à lames de métal, On voyait, casque au front, luire, dans l'encoignure, Un garde argent et bleu, d'une fière tournure.

Or, entre le poëte et le vieux roi courbé, De quoi s'agissait-il? D'un pauvre ange tombé Dont l'amour refaisait l'âme avec son haleine: De Marion, lavée ainsi que Madeleine, Qui boitait et traînait son pas estropié, La censure, serpent, l'ayant mordue au pied.

Le poëte voulait faire, un soir, apparaître Louis-Treize, ce roi sur qui régnait un prêtre; Tout un siècle: marquis, bourreaux, fous, bateleurs; Et que la foule vînt, et qu'à travers les pleurs, Par moments, dans un drame étincelant et sombre, Du pâle cardinal on crût voir passer l'ombre.

Le vieillard hésitait.--Que sert de mettre à nu Louis-Treize, ce roi, chétif et mal venu? A quoi bon remuer un mort dans une tombe? Que veut-on? où court-on? sait-on bien où l'on tombe? Tout n'est-il pas déjà croulant de tout côté? Tout ne s'en va-t-il pas dans trop de liberté? N'est-il pas temps plutôt, après quinze ans d'épreuve, De relever la digue et d'arrêter le fleuve? Certe, un roi peut reprendre alors qu'il a donné. Quant au théâtre, il faut, le trône étant miné, Étouffer des deux mains sa flamme trop hardie; Car la foule est le peuple, et d'une comédie Peut jaillir l'étincelle aux livides rayons Qui met le feu dans l'ombre aux révolutions! Puis il niait l'histoire, et, quoi qu'il en puisse être, A ce jeune rêveur disputait son ancêtre; L'accueillant bien, d'ailleurs; bon, royal, gracieux, Et le questionnant sur ses propres aïeux.

Tout en laissant aux rois les noms dont on les nomme, Le poëte luttait fermement, comme un homme Épris de liberté, passionné pour l'art, Respectueux pourtant pour ce noble vieillard. Il disait: 'Tout est grave, en ce siècle où tout penche. L'art, tranquille et puissant, veut une allure franche. Les rois morts sont sa proie; il faut la lui laisser. Il n'est pas ennemi; pourquoi le courroucer Et le livrer, dans l'ombre, à des tortionnaires, Lui dont la main fermée est pleine de tonnerres? Cette main, s'il l'ouvrait, redoutable envoyé, Sur la France éblouie et le Louvre effrayé, On s'épouvanterait--trop tard, s'il faut le dire,-- D'y voir subitement tant de foudres reluire! Oh! les tyrans d'en has nuisent au roi d'en haut. Le peuple est toujours là qui prend la muse au mot, Quand l'indignation, jusqu'au roi qu'on révère, Monte du front pensif de l'artiste sévère! Sire, à ce qui chancelle est-on bien appuyé? La censure est un toit mauvais, mal étayé, Toujours prêt à tomber sur les noms qu'il abrite. Sire, un souffle imprudent, loin de l'éteindre, irrite Le foyer, tout à coup terrible et tournoyant, Et, d'un art lumineux, fait un art flamboyant. D'ailleurs, ne cherchât-on que la splendeur royale, Pour cette nation moqueuse mais loyale, Au lieu des grands tableaux qu'offrait le grand Louis, Roi-soleil fécondant les lis épanouis, Qui, tenant sous son sceptre un monde en équilibre, Faisait Racine heureux, laissait Molière libre, Quel spectacle, grand Dieu! qu'un groupe de censeurs Armés et parlant has, vils esclaves chasseurs, A plat ventre couchés, épiant l'heure où rentre Le drame, fier lion, dans l'histoire, son antre!'

Ici, voyant vers lui, d'un front plus incliné, Se tourner doucement le vieillard étonné, Il hasardait plus loin sa pensée inquiète, Et, laissant de côté le drame et le poëte, Attentif, il sondait le dessein vaste et noir Qu'au fond de ce roi triste, il venait d'entrevoir.

--Se pourrait-il? quelqu'un aurait cette espérance? Briser le droit de tous! retrancher à la France, Comme on ôte un jouet à l'enfant dépité, De l'air, de la lumière et de la liberté! Le roi ne voudrait pas, lui? roi sage et roi juste! Puis, choisissant les mots pour cette oreille auguste, Il disait que les temps ont des flots souverains; Que rien, ni ponts hardis, ni canaux souterrains, Jamais, excepté Dieu, rien n'arrête et ne dompte Le peuple qui grandit ou l'Océan qui monte; Que le plus fort vaisseau sombre et se perd souvent, Qui veut rompre de front et la vague et le vent, Et que, pour s'y briser, dans la lutte insensée, On a derrière soi, roche partout dressée, Tout son siècle, les mœurs, l'esprit qu'on veut braver, Le port même où la nef aurait pu se sauver!... Charles-Dix, souriant, répondit: 'O poète!'

Le soir, tout rayonnant de lumière et de fête. Regorgeant de soldats, de princes, de valets, Saint-Cloud, joyeux et vert, autour du fier palais Dont la Seine, en fuyant, reflète les beaux marbres, Semblait avec amour presser sa touffe d'arbres; L'arc de triomphe, orné de victoires d'airain; Le Louvre, étincelant, fleurdelysé, serein, Lui répondaient de loin du milieu de la ville; Tout ce royal ensemble avait un air tranquille, Et, dans le calme aspect d'un repos solennel, Je ne sais quoi de grand qui semblait éternel!" . . . . . . . . . . The day after this interview and the refusal--for Charles X. refused to allow _Marion Delorme_ to be played--Victor Hugo's pension, which had been 2400 francs, was raised to 6000 livres, in compensation. Everybody knows how the poet refused--we will not say scornfully, but with dignity--this increase of his pension. A great deal of discussion has since raged round this refusal. Certain puritans even now hold to the opinion of the senator of M. Louis Bonaparte, and blame the poet for keeping his original pension of 2400 francs after the interdiction of _Marion Delorme_ by Charles X. God have mercy on them! They are now in the Halls of Elysium and the finest poet of France, and therefore of the world, is in Jersey! I ask Lamartine's forgiveness for speaking of Hugo as the first poet of France and of the world: Hugo is exiled, and Lamartine is too generous not to yield the palm to him. If Lamartine were banished like Hugo--and, for the sake of his fame, I am sorry that he is not--I would have said, "The first two poets of France and of the world!"

One day, in a club, I was speaking of Prince Louis Bonaparte, and I called him "Monseigneur." It was at the time of Prince Louis Bonaparte's exile. A voice shouted to me--

"There is no longer any _Monseigneur._"

"I always speak of those who are exiled by that title," I replied.

And my voice was drowned by applause.

When Hugo returned from Saint-Cloud, he found Taylor awaiting him. The news he brought back was bad enough, like the news of Madame Malbrouck's page. Taylor was in despair.

"We have nothing else in our portfolios!" he repeated.

At that time the Comédie-Française had ten plays of M. Viennet, four or five of M. Delrieu, two or three of M. Lemercier, without reckoning M. Arnault's _Pertinax_ and M. de Jouy's _Julien_, etc. etc. And that was what Taylor called having nothing in his portfolios!

"We were building on _Marion Delorme_ for the winter season," he said, "and now our winter season will be ruined!"

Hugo let him go on lamenting and then asked--

"When did you hope to play _Marion Delorme_?"

"Why, either in January or February."

"Ah, good! then we shall have a margin.... Very well...." and he fell to making a calculation. "This is the 7th of August: come back to me on the 1st of October."

Taylor returned on the 1st of October. Hugo picked up a manuscript and gave it to him. It was _Hernani._ Hugo had begun this second work on 17 September and had finished it on the 25th of the same month. He had taken three days less over its composition than in the case of _Marion Delorme._ Let us, however, hasten to explain that the plots of both plays had been matured beforehand in the poet's head.