CHAPTER V

The first representation of _Antony_--The play, the actors, the public--_Antony_ at the Palais-Royal--Alterations of the _dénoûment_

The times were unfavourable for literature: all minds were turned upon politics, and disturbances were flying in the air as, on hot summer evenings, swifts fly overhead with their shrill screams, and black-winged bats wheel round. My piece was as well put on as it could be; but, except for the expenditure of talent which the actors were going to make, M. Crosnier had gone to no other cost; not a single new carpet or decoration, not even a salon was renovated. The work might fail without regret, for it had only cost the manager the time spent over the rehearsals.

The curtain rose, Madame Dorval, in her gauze dress and town attire, a society woman, in fact, was a novelty at the theatre, where people had recently seen her in _Les Deux Forçats_, and in _Le Joueur_: so her early scenes only met with a half-hearted success; her harsh voice, round shoulders and peculiar gestures, of which she so often made use that, in the scenes which contained no passionate action, they became merely vulgar, naturally did not tell in favour of the play or the actress. Two or three admirably true inflections, however, found grace with the audience, but did not arouse its enthusiasm sufficiently to extract one single cheer from it. It will be recollected that Bocage has very little to do in the first act: he is brought in fainting, and the only chance he has for any effect is where he tears off the bandage from his wound, uttering, as he faints away for the second time: "And now I shall remain, shall I not?" Only after that sentence did the audience begin to understand the piece, and to feel the hidden dramatic possibilities of a work whose first act ended thus. The curtain fell in the midst of applause. I had ordered the intervals between the acts to be short. I went behind the scenes myself to hurry the actors, managers and scene-shifters. In five minutes' time, before the excitement had had time to cool down, the curtain went up again. The second act fell to the share of Bocage entirely. He threw himself vigorously into it, but not egotistically, allowing Dorval as much part as she had a right to take; he rose to a magnificent height in the scene of bitter misanthropy and amorous threatening, a scene, by the bye, which--except for that of the foundlings--took up pretty nearly the whole act. I repeat that Bocage was really sublime in these parts: intelligence of mind, nobleness of heart, expression of countenance,--the very type of the Antony, as I had conceived him, was presented to the public. After the act, whilst the audience were still clapping, I went behind to congratulate him heartily. He was glowing with enthusiasm and encouragement, and Dorval told him, with the frankness of genius, how delighted she was with him. Dorval had no fears at all. She knew that the fourth and fifth acts were hers, and quietly waited her turn. When I re-entered the theatre it was in a state of excitement; one could feel the air charged with those emotions which go to the making of great success. I began to believe that I was right, and the whole world wrong, even my manager; I except Alfred de Vigny, who had predicted success. My readers know the third act, it is all action, brutal action; with regard to violence, it bears a certain likeness to the third act of _Henri III._, where the Duc de Guise crushes his wife's wrist to force her to give Saint-Mégrin a rendezvous in her own handwriting. Happily, the third act at the Théâtre-Français having met with success, it made a stepping-stone for that at the Porte-Saint-Martin. Antony, in pursuit of Adèle, is the first to reach a village inn, where he seizes all the post-horses to oblige her to stop there, chooses the room that suits him best of the only two in the house, arranges an entrance into Adèle's room from the balcony, and withdraws as he hears the sound of her carriage wheels. Adèle enters and begs to be supplied with horses. She is only a few leagues from Strassburg, where she is on her way to join her husband; the horses taken away by Antony are not to be found: Adèle is obliged to spend the night in the inn. She takes every precaution for her safety, which, the moment she is alone, becomes useless, because of the opening by the balcony, forgotten in her nervous investigations. Madame Dorval was adorable in her feminine simplicity and instinctive terrors. She spoke as no one had spoken, or ever will speak them, those two extremely simple sentences: "But this door will not shut!" and "No accident has ever happened in your hotel, Madame?" Then, when the mistress of the inn has withdrawn, she decides to go into her bedroom. Hardly had she disappeared before a pane of the window falls broken to atoms, an arm appears and unlatches the catch, the window is opened and both Antony and Adèle appear, the one on the balcony of her window, the other on the threshold of the room. At the sight of Antony, Adèle utters a cry. The rest of the scene was terrifyingly realistic. To stop her from crying out again, Antony placed a handkerchief on Adèle's mouth, drags her into the room, and the curtain falls as they are both entering it together. There was a moment of silence in the house. Porcher, the man whom I have pointed out as one of our three or four pretenders to the crown as the most capable of bringing about a restoration, was charged with the office of producing my restoration, but hesitated to give the signal. Mahomet's bridge was not narrower than the thread which at that moment hung Antony suspended between success and failure. Success carried the day, however. A great uproar succeeded the frantic rounds of applause which burst forth in a torrent. They clapped and howled for five minutes. When I have failures, rest assured I will not spare myself; but, meanwhile, I ask leave to be allowed to tell the truth. On this occasion the success belonged to the two actors; I ran behind the theatre to embrace them. No Adèle and no Antony to be found! I thought for a moment that, carried away by the enthusiasm of the performance, they had resumed the play at the words, "_Antony lui jette un mouchoir sur la bouche, et remporte dans sa chambre_," and had continued the piece. I was mistaken: they were both changing their costumes and were shut in their dressing-rooms. I shouted all kinds of endearing terms through the door.

"Are you satisfied?" Bocage inquired.

"Enchanted."

"Bravo! the rest of the piece belongs to Dorval."

"You will not leave her in the lurch?"

"Oh! be easy on that score!"

I ran to Dorval's door.

"It is superb, my child--splendid! magnificent!"

"Is that you, my big bow-wow?"

"Yes."

"Come in, then!"

"But the door is fast."

"To everybody but you." She opened it; she was unstrung; and, half undressed as she was, she flung herself into my arms.

"I think we have secured it, my dear!"

"What?"

"Why! a success, of course!"

"H'm! h'm!"

"Are you not satisfied?"

"Yes, quite."

"Hang it! You would be hard to please, if you were not."

"It seems to me, however, that we have passed out of the worst troubles!"

"True, all has gone well so far; but ..."

"But what, come, my big bow-wow! Oh! I do love you for giving me such a fine part!"

"Did you see the society women, eh?"

"No."

"What did they say of me?"

"But I did not see them ..."

"You will see them?"

"Oh yes."

"Then you will repeat what they say ... but frankly, mind."

"Of course."

"Look, there is my ball dress."

"Pretty swell, I fancy!"

"Oh! big dog, do you know how much you have cost me?"

"No."

"Eight hundred francs!"

"Come here." I whispered a few words in her ear.

"Really?" she exclaimed.

"Certainly!"

"You will do that?"

"Of course, since I have said so."

"Kiss me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I never kiss people when I make them a present."

"Why?"

"I expect them to kiss me."

She threw her arms round my neck.

"Come now, good luck!" I said to her.

"And you must have it too."

"Courage? I am going to seek it."

"Where?"

"At the Bastille."

"At the Bastille?"

"Yes, I have a notion the beginning of the fourth act will not get on so well."

"Why not?"

"Come now! the fourth act is delightful: I will answer for it."

"Yes, you will make the end go, but not the beginning."

"Ah I yes, that is a _feuilleton_ which Grailly speaks."

"Bah! it will succeed all the same: the audience is enthusiastic; we can feel that, all of us."

"Ah I you feel that?"

"Then, too, see you, my big bow-wow; there are people in the stalls of the house, _gentlemen_ too! who stare at me as they never have stared before."

"I don't wonder."

"I say ..."

"What?"

"If I am going to become the rage?"

"It only depends on yourself."

"Liar!"

"I swear it only depends on yourself."

"Yes ... but ... Alfred, eh?"

"Exactly!"

"Upon my word, so much the worse! We shall see."

The voice of the stage-manager called Madame Dorval!

"Can we begin?"

"No, no, no; I am not dressed yet, I am only in my chemise! He's a pretty fellow, that Moëssard! What would the audience say?... It is you who have hindered me like this ... Go off with you then!"

"Put me out."

"Go! go! go!"

She kissed me three times and pushed me to the door. Poor lips, then fresh and smiling and trembling, which I was to see closed and frozen for ever at the touch of death!

I went outside; as I was in need of air. I met Bixio in the corridors.

"Come with me," I said.

"Where the dickens are you off to?"

"I am going for a walk."

"What! a walk?"

"Yes!"

"Just when the curtain is going to rise?"

"Exactly! I do not feel sure about the fourth act and would much rather it began without me."

"Are you sure about the end?"

"Oh! the end is a different matter ... We will come back for that, never fear!"

And we hurried out on to the boulevard.

"Ah!" I exclaimed, as I breathed the air.

"What is the matter with you?... Is it your piece that is upsetting you like this?"

"Get along, hang my piece!"

I dragged Bixio in the direction of the Bastille. I do not remember what we talked of. I only know we walked for half a league, there and back, chattering and laughing. If anybody had said to the passers-by, "You see that great lunatic of a man over there? He is the author of the play being acted at this very moment at the theatre of la Porte-Saint-Martin!" they would indeed have been amazed.

I came in again at the right moment, at the scene of the insult. The _feuilleton_, as Dorval called it, meaning the apology for this modern style of drama, the real preface to _Antony_, had passed over without hindrance and had even been applauded. I had a box close to the stage and I made a sign to Dorval that I was there; she signalled back that she saw me. Then the scene began between Adèle and the Vicomtesse, which is summed up in these words, "But I have done nothing to this woman!" Next comes the scene between Adèle and Antony, where Adèle repeatedly exclaims, "She is his mistress!"

Well! I say it after twenty-two years have passed by,--and during those years I have composed many plays, and seen many pieces acted, and applauded many actors,--he who never saw Dorval act those two scenes, although he may have seen the whole repertory of modern drama, can have no conception how far pathos can be carried.

The reader knows how this act ends; the Vicomtesse enters; Adèle, surprised in the arms of Antony, utters a cry and disappears. Behind the Vicomtesse, Antony's servant enters in his turn. He has ridden full gallop from Strassburg, to announce to his master the return of Adèle's husband. Antony dashes from the stage like a madman, or one driven desperate, crying, "Wretch! shall I arrive in time?"

I ran behind the scenes. Dorval was already on the stage, uncurling her hair and pulling her flowers to pieces; she had at times her moments of transports of passion, exceeding those of the actress. The scene-shifters were altering the scenes, whilst Dorval was acting her part. The audience applauded frantically. "A hundred francs," I cried to the shifters, "if the curtain be raised again before the applause ceases!" In two minutes' time the three raps were given: the curtain rose and the scene-shifters had won their hundred francs. The fifth act began literally before the applause for the fourth had died down. I had one moment of acute anguish. In the middle of the terrible scene where the two lovers, caught in a net of sorrows, are striving to extricate themselves, but can find no means of either living or dying together, a second before Dorval exclaimed, "Then I am lost!" I had, in the stage directions, arranged that Bocage should move the armchair ready to receive Adèle, when she is overwhelmed at the news of her husband's arrival. And Bocage forgot to turn the chair in readiness. But Dorval was too much carried away by passion to be put out by such a trifle. Instead of falling on the cushion, she fell on to the arm of the chair, and uttered a cry of despair, with such a piercing grief of soul wounded, torn, broken, that the whole audience rose to its feet. This time the cheers were not for me at all, but for the actress and for her alone, for her marvellous, magnificent performance! The _dénoûment_ is known; it is utterly unexpected, and is summed up in a single phrase of six startling words. The door is burst open by M. de Hervey just as Adèle falls on a sofa, stabbed by Antony.

"Dead?" cries Baron de Hervey.

"Yes, dead!" coldly answers Antony. _Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée!_ And he flings his dagger at the husband's feet. The audience gave vent to such cries of terror, dismay and sorrow, that probably a third of the audience hardly heard these words, a necessary supplement to the piece, which, however, without them would be nothing but an ordinary intrigue of adultery, unravelled by a simple assassination. The effect, all the same, was tremendous. They called for the author with frantic cries. Bocage came forward and told them. Then they called for Antony and Adèle again, and both returned to take their share in such an ovation as they had never had, nor ever would have again. For they had both attained to the highest achievement in their art! I flew from my box to go to them, without noticing that the passages were blocked with spectators coming out of their seats. I had not taken four steps before I was recognised; then I had my turn, as the author of the play. A crowd of young persons of my own age (I was twenty-eight), pale, scared, breathless, rushed at me. They pulled me right and left and embraced me. I wore a green coat buttoned up from top to bottom; they tore the tails of it to shreds. I entered the green-room, as Lord Spencer entered his, in a round jacket; the rest of my coat had gone into a state of relics. They were stupefied behind the scenes; they had never seen a success taking such a form before, never before had applause gone so straight from the audience to the actors; and what an audience it was too! The fashionable world, the exquisites who take the best boxes at theatres, those who only applaud from habit, who, this time, made themselves hoarse with shouting so loudly, and had split their gloves with clapping! Crosnier was hidden. Bocage was as happy as a child. Dorval was mad! Oh, good and brave-hearted friends, who, in the midst of their own triumphs, seemed to enjoy my success more even than their own! who put their own talent on one side and loudly extolled the poet and the work! I shall never forget that night; Bocage has not forgotten it either. Only a week ago we were talking of it as though it had happened only yesterday; and I am certain, if such matters are remembered in the other world, Dorval remembers it too! Now, what became of us all after we had been congratulated? I know not. Just as there is around every luminous body a mist, so there was one over the rest of the evening and night, which my memory, after a lapse of twenty-two years, is unable to penetrate. In conclusion, one of the special features of the drama of _Antony_ was that it kept the spectators spell-bound to the final fall of the curtain. As the _morale_ of the work was contained in those six words, which Bocage pronounced with such perfect dignity, "_Elle me résistait: je l'ai assassinée!_" everybody remained to hear them, and would not leave until they had been spoken, with the following result. Two or three years after the first production of _Antony_, it became the piece played at all benefit performances; to such an extent that once they asked Dorval and Bocage to act it for the Palais-Royal Theatre. I forget, and it does not matter, for whom the benefit was to be performed. The play met with its accustomed success, thanks to the acting of those two great artistes; only, the manager had been told the wrong moment at which to call the curtain down! So it fell as Antony is stabbing Adèle, and robbed the audience of the final _dénoûment._ That was not what they wanted: it was the _dénoûment_ they meant to have; so, instead of going they shouted loudly for _Le dénoûment! le dénoûment!_ They clamoured to such an extent that the manager begged the actors to let him raise the curtain again, and for the piece to be concluded.

Dorval, ever good-natured, resumed her pose in the armchair as the dead woman, while they ran to find Antony. But he had gone into his dressing-room, furious because they had made him miss his final effect, and withdrawing himself into his tent, like Achilles; like Achilles, too, he obstinately refused to come out of it. All the time the audience went on clapping and shouting and calling, "Bocage! Dorval!.... Dorval! Bocage!" and threatening to break the benches. The manager raised the curtain, hoping that Bocage, when driven to bay, would be compelled to come upon the stage. But Bocage sent the manager about his business. Meanwhile, Dorval waited in her chair, with her arms hung down, and head lying back. The audience waited, too, in profound silence; but, when they saw that Bocage was not coming back, they began cheering and calling their hardest. Dorval felt that the atmosphere was becoming stormy, and raised her stiff arms, lifted her bent head, rose, walked to the footlights, and, in the midst of the silence which had settled down miraculously, at the first movement she had ventured to make:

"_Messieurs_" she said, "_Messieurs, je lui résistais, il m'a assassinée!_" Then she made a graceful obeisance and left the stage, hailed by thunders of applause. The curtain fell and the spectators went away enchanted. They had had their _dénoûment_, with a variation, it is true; but this variation was so clever, that one would have had to be very ill-natured not to prefer it to the original form.