CHAPTER XVII

Collaboration

I had to let a few days go by before I had the courage to return to my own verses after having heard and re-read those of Hugo. I felt inclined to do to _Charles VII._ what Harel had asked me to do to _Christine_: to put it into prose. Finally, I gathered together some friends at my house, and read them my new drama. But, whether I read badly or whether they came to me with biased minds, the reading did not have the effect upon them that I expected. This want of success discouraged me. Two days later, I had to read to Harel, who had already sent me my premium of a thousand francs, and also to Georges, to whom the part of Bérengère was allotted. I wrote to Harel not to count on the play and I sent him back his thousand francs. I decided not to have my drama played. Harel believed neither in my abnegation nor in my honesty. He came rushing to me in alarm. I laid my reasons before him, taking as many pains to depreciate my work as another would have done to exalt his. But to everything I said Harel took exception, repeating--

"It is not that ... it is not that ... it is not that!"

"What, then, is it?" I exclaimed.

"The Théâtre-Français had offered you five thousand francs premium!"

"Me?"

"I know it."

"Me, five thousand francs premium?"

"I tell you I know it, and in proof ..." He drew five one-thousand franc notes from his pocket.

"The proof lies here in the five thousand francs I bring you." And he held out the five notes to me.

I took one of them.

"All right," I said, "there is nothing to change in the programme; I will read it the day after to-morrow. Only, tell Lockroy to be at the reading."

"Well, what about the remaining four thousand francs?"

"They do not belong to me, my dear fellow; therefore you must take them back."

Harel scratched his ear and looked at me sideways. It was evident he did not understand.

Poor Harel! how sharp he was!

Two days later, before Harel, Georges, Janin and Lockroy I read the play with immense success. It was at once put in rehearsal and was to appear soon after a drama of _Mirabeau_, which was being studied. I would fain say what the drama of _Mirabeau_ was like, but I cannot now remember. All I know is that the principal part was for Frédérick, and that they thought a great deal of the work.

_Charles VII._ was distributed as follows:--Savoisy, Ligier; Bérengère, Georges; Yaqoub, Lockroy; Charles VII., Delafosse: Agnes Sorel, Noblet. This business of the distribution done, I immediately turned to _Richard_; its wholly modern colouring, political theme, vivid and rather coarse treatment was more in accord with my own age and special tastes than studies of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Let me hasten to say that I was then not anything like as familiar with those periods as I am now.

I wrote to Goubaux that I was at his disposition if it pleased him to come, either next day to breakfast at my house, or at his own if he preferred. We had become neighbours; I had left my lodgings in the rue de l'Université and had taken a third floor in the square d'Orléans, a very fine house just built in the rue Saint-Lazare, 42, where several of my friends already lived, Zimmermann, Étienne Arago, Robert Fleury and Gué. I believe Zimmermann and Robert Fleury still live there: Gué is dead and Étienne Arago is in exile. Goubaux, who lived at No. 19 rue Blanche, fixed a rendezvous there for six in the evening. We were to dine first and talk of _Richard Darlington_ afterwards. I say _talk_, because, at the time of reading, it was found that hardly anything had been written. However, Goubaux had found several guide-posts to serve as beacons for our three acts. There were, pre-eminently, traits of character to suit ambitious actors. One of the principal was where Dr. Grey recalls to Richard and Mawbray, when Richard is about to marry Jenny, the circumstances of the famous night which formed the subject of the prologue, relating how a carriage stopped at the door. "Had that carriage a _coat of arms?_" asked Richard. Another item, still more remarkable, was given me to make what I liked of it: the daughter of Da Sylva, Caroline, Richard's mother, has married a Lord Wilmor; it is his daughter who is to marry Richard, led away by the king determined to divorce Jenny. Only, Caroline, who sees no more in Richard than an influential Member of Parliament, one day destined to become a minister, demands an interview with Richard to reveal a great secret to him; the secret is the existence of a boy who was lost in the little village of Darlington, and who, being her son, has the right to her fortune. Richard listens with growing attention; then, at one particular passage, Wilmor's recital coincides so remarkably with that of Mawbray as to leave no room for doubt in his mind; but, instead of revealing himself, instead of flinging himself into the arms of the woman who confesses her shame and weeps, asking for her child back again, he gently disengages himself from her in order to say to himself in a whisper, "She is my mother!" and to ask himself, still in a whisper, "Who can my father be?" Finally, Richard accepts the king's proposals; he must get rid of his wife, no matter at what price, even were it that of a crime. This is about as far as the work had progressed at our first talk with Goubaux. I kept my word and brought the prologue entirely finished. I had done it exactly as Goubaux had imagined it should be written; I had, therefore, but to take courage and to continue. While Goubaux talked, my mind was gathering up all the threads he held, and, like an active weaver, in less than an hour, I had almost entirely sketched out the plan on my canvas. I shared my mental travail with him, all unformed as it was. The divorce scene between Richard and his wife, in especial, delighted me immensely. A scene of Schiller had returned to my memory, a scene of marvellous beauty and vigour. I saw how I could apply the scene between Philip II. and Elizabeth, to Richard and Jenny. I will give the two scenes in due course. All this preparatory work was settled between us;--in addition to this, it was decided that Goubaux and Beudin should write the election scene together, for which I had not the necessary data, while Beudin had been present at scenes of this nature in London. Then Goubaux looked at me.

"Only one thing troubles me now," he said.

"Only one?"

"Yes; I see all the rest of the play, which cannot fail to turn out all right in your hands."

"Then what is the thing that troubles you?"

"The _dénoûment._"

"Why the _dénoûment?_ We have got that already."

Mawbray comes forward as witness and says to Richard, who is about to sign: 'You are my son, and I am the executioner!' Richard falls to the ground and a fit of apoplexy sends him to the devil, which is the right place for him."

"No, that is not it at all," said Goubaux, shaking his head.

"What is it then?"

"It is the way in which he gets rid of his wife."

"Ah!" I said. "And you have no idea how that is to be done?"

"I had indeed some idea of making him put poison in her tea."

It was now my turn to shake my head.

"The death of Jenny must be caused by something in the situation, an act of frenzy, not by premeditation."

"Oh, yes! I am well aware of that ... but think of a dagger thrust ... Richard is not an Antony, he does not carry daggers about in his coat pockets!"

"Then," said I, "he shall not stab her."

"But if he does not poison her or stab her what shall he do?"

"Chuck her out of the window!"

"What?"

I repeated my phrase.

"I must have misunderstood you," said Goubaux.

"No."

"But, my dear friend, you must be out of your mind."

"Leave it to me."

"But it is impossible!"

"I see the scene ... just when Richard thinks Jenny has been carried off by Tompson, he finds her hidden in the cupboard of the very room where they are going to sign the contract; at the same moment he hears the steps of Da Sylva and his daughter on the staircase. In order not to be surprised with Jenny, there is but one way out of the difficulty--to throw her out of the window. So he throws her out of the window."

"I must confess you frighten me with your methods of procedure! In the second act, he breaks Jenny's head against the furniture; in the third act he flings her out of the window. . . . Oh! come, come!"

"Listen, let me finish the thing as I like--then, if it is absurd, we will alter it."

"Will you listen to reason?"

"I? Set your mind at rest; when I am convinced, I will, if necessary, reconstruct the whole play from beginning to end."

"When will the first act be ready?"

"What day of the week is this?"

"Monday."

_"_ Come and dine with me on Thursday: it will be done."

"But your rehearsals at the Odéon?"

"Bah! The parts are being collated to-day; for a fortnight they will read round a table or rehearse with the parts in their hands. By the end of the fortnight Richard will be finished."

_"Amen!_"

"Adieu."

"Are you going already?"

"I must get to work."

"At what?"

"Why at _Richard_, of course! Do you think I have too much time? Our first act is not an easy one to begin."

"Don't forget the part of Tompson!"

"You needn't be anxious, I have it ... When we come to the scene where Mawbray kills him we will give him a Shakespearian death!"

"Mawbray kills him then?"

"Yes ... Did I not tell you that?"

"No."

"The deuce! does it displease you, then, that Mawbray kills Tompson?"

"I? Not the slightest."

"You will leave it to me? Tompson?"

"Certainly."

"Then he is a dead man. Adieu."

I ran off and got into bed. At that time I still maintained the habit of writing my dramas in bed. Whilst I wrote the first scene of the first act, Goubaux and Beudin did the election scene, a lively, animated scene, full of character. When Goubaux came to dine with me, on the following Thursday, everything was ready and the two scenes could be fitted together. I then began on the second act, that is to say, upon the vital part of the drama. Richard's talent has caused him to reach the front rank of the Opposition, and he refuses all offers made him by the ministers; but he is cleverly brought in contact with an unknown benefactor, who makes him such offers and promises that Richard sells his conscience to become the son-in-law of Lord Wilmor and to be a minister. It is in the second scene of that act that the divorce incident takes place between Richard and Jenny, which was imitated from Schiller. On the Tuesday following we had a fresh meeting. All went swimmingly, except the scene between the king and Richard. I had completely failed in this, and so Goubaux undertook to remould it, and he made it what it is, that is to say, one of the best and cleverest in the work. Here is the scene imitated from Schiller--

"ACTE IV.--SCENE IX.

LE ROI.--Je ne me connais plus moi-même! je ne respecte plus aucune voix, aucune loi de la nature, aucun droit des nations!

LA REINE.--Combien je plains Votre Majesté!

LE ROI.--Me plaindre? La pitié d'une impudique!

L'INFANTE, _se jetant tout effrayée dans les bras de sa mère._--Le roi est en colère, et ma mère chérie pleure! (_Le roi arrache l'infante des bras de sa mère._)

LA REINE, _avec douceur et dignité mais à une voix tremblante._--Je dois pourtant garantir cette enfant des mauvais traitements!... Viens avec moi, ma fille! (_Elle la prend dans ses bras._) Si le roi ne veut pas te reconnaîtra, je ferai venir de l'autre côté des Pyrénées des protecteurs pour défendre notre cause!

(_Elle veut sortir._)

LE ROI, _trouble._--Madame!

LA REINE.--Je ne puis plus supporter ... C'en est trop! (_Elle s'avance vers la porte, mais s'évanouit et tombe avec l'infante._)

LE ROI, _courant a elle avec effroi._--Dieu! qu'est-ce donc?

L'INFANTE, _avec des cris de frayeur._--Hélas! ma mère saigne! (_Elle s'enfuit en pleurant._)

LE ROI, _avec anxiété._--Quel terrible accident! Du sang! ... Ai-je mérité que vous me punissiez si cruellement?... Levez-vous! remettez-vous ... On vient ... levez-vous ... On vous surprendra ... levez-vous!... Faut-il que toute ma cour se repaisse de ce spectacle? Faut-il donc vous prier de vous lever?..."

Now to _Richard._ Richard wants to force Jenny to sign the act of divorce and she refuses.

"JENNY.--Mais que voulez-vous donc, alors? Expliquez-vous clairement; car tantôt je comprends trop, et tantôt pas assez.

RICHARD.--Pour vous et pour moi, mieux vaut un consentement mutuel.

JENNY.--Vous m'avez donc crue bien lâche? Que, moi, j'aille devant un juge, sans y être traînée par les cheveux, déclarer de ma voix, signer de ma main que je ne suis pas digne d'être l'épouse de sir Richard? Vous ne me connaissez donc pas, vous qui croyez que je ne suis bonne qu'aux soins d'un ménage dédaigné; que me croyez anéantie par l'absence; qui pensez que je ploierai parce que vous appuierez le poing sur ma tête; Dans le temps de mon bonheur, oui, cela aurait pu être; mais mes larmes ont retrempé mon cœur; mes nuits d'insomnie ont affermi mon courage? le malheur enfin m'a fait une volonté! Ce que je suis, je vous le dois, Richard; c'est votre faute; ne vous en prenez donc qu'a vous ... Maintenant, voyons! à qui aura le plus de courage, du faible ou du fort. Sir Richard, je ne veux pas!

RICHARD.--Madame, jusqu'ici, je n'ai fait entendre que des paroles de conciliation.

JENNY.--Essayez d'avoir recours à d'autres!

RICHARD, _marchant à elle._--Jenny!

JENNY, _froidement._--Richard!

RICHARD.--Malheureuse! savez-vous ce dont je suis capable?

JENNY.--Je le devine.

RICHARD.--Et vous ne tremblez pas?

JENNY.--Voyez.

RICHARD, _lui prenant les mains._--Femme!

JENNY, _tombant à genoux de la secousse._--Ah!...

RICHARD.--A genoux!

JENNY, _les mains au ciel._--Mon Dieu, ayez pitié de lui! (_Elle se releve._)

RICHARD.--Ah! c'est de vous qu'il a pitié, car je m'en vais ... Adieu, Jenny; demandez au ciel que ce soit pour toujours!

JENNY, _courant à lui, et lui jetant les bras autour du you._--Richard! Richard! ne t'en va pas!

RICHARD.--Laissez-moi partir.

JENNY.--Si tu savais comme je t'aime!

RICHARD.--Prouvez-le-moi.

JENNY.--Ma mère! ma mère!

RICHARD--Voulez-vous?

JENNY.---Tu me l'avais bien dit!

RICHARD.--Un dernier mot.

JENNY.--Ne le dis pas.

RICHARD.--Consens-tu?

JENNY.--Écoute-moi.

RICHARD.--Consens-tu? (_Jenny se tait._) C'est bien. Mais plus de messages, plus de lettres ... Que rien ne vous rappelle à moi, que je ne sache même pas que vous existez! Je vous laisse une jeunesse sans époux, une vieillesse sans enfant.

JENNY.--Pas d'imprécations! pas d'imprécations!

RICHARD.--Adieu!

JENNY.--Vous ne partirez pas!

RICHARD.--Damnation!

JENNY.--Vous me tuerez plutôt!

RICHARD.--Ah! laissez-moi! (_Jenny, repoussée, va tomber la tête sur l'angle d'un meuble._)

JENNY.--Ah!... (_Elle se relève tout ensanglantée._) Ah! Richard!... (_Elle chancelle en étendant les bras de son côté, et retombe._) Il faut que je vous aime bien! (_Elle Évanouit._)

RICHARD.--Évanouie!... blessée!... du sang!... Malédiction!... Jenny!... Jenny! (_Il la porte sur un fauteuil._) Et ce sang qui ne s'arrête pas ... (_Il l'étanche avec son mouchoir._) Je ne peux cependant pas rester éternellement ici. (_Il se rapproche d'elle._) Jenny, finissons ... Je me retire ... Tu ne veux pas répondre?... Adieu donc!..."

There remained the last act; it was composed of three scenes: the first takes place in Richard's house in London, the second in a forest, the third in Jenny's chamber. My reader knows the engagement I had undertaken, to have Jenny thrown out of the window. Very well, I boldly prepared myself to keep it, and I wrote the scene in my bed, as usual. This is the situation: Mawbray has killed Tompson, who carried Jenny off, and has brought her into the room where in the second act the scene between her and her husband took place. This room has only two doors: one leading to the stairs, the other into a cupboard, and one window, the view from which looks deep down into a precipice. Scarcely is Jenny left alone with her terror,--for she has no doubt that it is her husband who has had her carried off,--than she hears and recognises Richard's step. Not able to flee she takes refuge in the cabinet. Richard enters.

"RICHARD.--J'arrive à temps! À peine si je dois avoir, sur le marquis et sa famille, une demi-heure d'avance.--James, apportez des flambeaux, et tenez-vous à la porte pour conduire ici les personnes qui arriveront dans un instant ... Bien ... Allez! (_Tirant sa montre._) Huit heures! Tompson doit être maintenant à Douvres, et, demain matin, il sera à Calais. Dieu le conduise!... Voyons si rien n'indique que cet appartement a été habité par une femme. (_Apercevant le chapeau et le châle que Jenny vient de déposer sur une chaise._) La précaution n'était pas inutile ... Que faire de cela? Je n'ai pas la clef des armoires ... Les jeter par la fenêtre: on les retrouvera demain ... Ah! des lumières sur le haut de la montagne ... C'est sans doute le marquis; il est exact ... Mais où diable mettre ces chiffons? Ah! ce cabinet ...j'en retirerai la clef. (_Il ouvre le cabinet._)

JENNY.--Ah!

RICHARD, _la saisissant par le bras._--Qui est là?

JENNY.--Moi, moi, Richard ... Ne me faites point de mal!

RICHARD, _l'attirant sur le théâtre_.--Jenny! mais c'est donc un démon qui me la jette à la face toutes les fois que je crois être débarrassé d'elle?... Que faites-vous ici? qui vous y ramène? Parlez vite ...

JENNY.--Mawbray!

RICHARD.--Mawbray! toujours Mawbray! Où est-il, que je ma venge enfin sur un homme?

JENNY.--Il est loin ... bien loin ... reparti pour Londres ... Grâce pour lui!

RICHARD.--Eh bien?

JENNY.--Il a arrêté la voiture.

RICHARD.--Après?... Ne voyez-vous pas que je brûle?

JENNY.--Et moi, que je ...

RICHARD.--Après? vous dis-je?

JENNY.--Ils se sont battus.

RICHARD.--Et?...

JENNY.--Et Mawbray a tué Tompson.

RICHARD.--Enfer!... Alors, il vous a ramenée ici?

JENNY.--Oui ... oui.. pardon!

RICHARD.--Jenny, écoutez!

JENNY.--C'est le roulement d'une voiture.

RICHARD.--Cette voiture ...

JENNY.--Eh bien?

RICHARD.--Elle amène ma femme et sa famille.

JENNY.--Votre femme et sa famille!... Et moi, moi, que suis-je donc?

RICHARD.--Vous, Jenny? vous?... Vous êtes mon mauvais génie! vous êtes l'abîme où vont s'engloutir toutes mes espérances! vous êtes le démon qui me pousse à l'échafaud, car je ferai un crime!

JENNY.--Oh! mon Dieu!

RICHARD.--C'est qu'il n'y à plus a reculer, voyez-vous! vous n'avez pas voulu signer le divorce, vous n'avez pas voulu quitter l'Angleterre ...

JENNY.--Oh! maintenant, maintenant, je veux tout ce que vous voudrez.

RICHARD.--Eh! maintenant, il est trop tard!

JENNY.--Qu'allez-vous donc faire alors?

RICHARD.--Je ne sais ... mais priez Dieu!

JENNY.--Richard!

RICHARD, _lui mettant la main sur la bouche._--Silence! ne les entendez-vous pas? ne les entendez-vous pas? Ils montent!... ils montent!... ils vont trouver une femme ici!"

Here I stopped short. I had gone as far as I could go. But there was the question of keeping my promise to Goubaux. I leapt out of my bed. It is impossible! I cried out to myself, and Goubaux said well. Richard is to be forced to take his wife, and drag her towards the window; she will defend herself; the public will not bear the sight of that struggle and it will be perfectly right ... Besides, when he lifts her up over the balcony, Richard will give the spectators a view of his wife's legs: the spectators will laugh, which is much worse than if they hissed ... Decidedly I am a fool. There must be some way out of the difficulty!... But it was not easy to find means. I racked my brains for a fortnight all in vain. Goubaux had no notion of the time it took me to compose the third act. He wrote me letter after letter. I did not wish to tell him the real cause of my delay; I made all sorts of excuses: I was busy with my rehearsals; I had gone to see my daughter at her nurse's house; I had a shooting party and all sorts of other things;--all pretexts nearly as valid as those which Pierre Schlemihl gave in excuse for not having a shadow. Finally, one fine night, I woke up with a start, crying like Archimedes Ευρηκα! and in the same costume as he, I ran, not through the streets of Syracuse, but into the corners and recesses of my bedroom to find a tinder-box. When the candles were lit, I got back into bed and took hold of my pencil and manuscript, shrugging my shoulders in disgust at myself. Good Heavens! said I, it is as simple as Christopher Columbus's egg; only, one must break the end off! The end was broken; there was no more difficulty, Jenny no longer would have to risk showing her ankles and Richard would still throw his wife out of the window. Behold the mechanism thereof! After the words: "Ils vont trouver une femme ici!" Richard ran to the door, closed it and double-locked it. Meanwhile, Jenny ran to the window and cried from the balcony, "Help! help!" Richard followed her precipitately; Jenny fell on her knees. A noise was heard on the stairs; Richard closed the two shutters of the window on himself, shutting himself out with Jenny on the balcony. A cry was heard. Richard, pale and wiping his brow, reopened the two shutters with a blow of his fist; he was alone on the balcony; Jenny had disappeared! The trick was taken.

By eight o'clock next morning I was writing the last line of the third act of _Richard_, and, by nine, I was with Goubaux; by ten, he had acknowledged that the window was, indeed, Jenny's only way of exit.