CHAPTER II

My régime against the cholera--I am attacked by the epidemic--I invent etherisation--Harel comes to suggest to me _La Tour de Nesle_--Verteuil's manuscript--Janin and the tirade of the _grandes dames_--First idea of the _prison scene_--My terms with Harel--Advantages offered by me to M. Gaillardet--The spectator in the Odéon--Known and unknown authors--My first letter to M. Gaillardet

The cholera was running its course, but we had arrived at the stage of getting accustomed to it. In France, alas! we get used to everything! It was even said that the best way of fighting the cholera was not to think about it but to live as far as possible in one's ordinary way. This régime suited me excellently at the period in question. I wrote _Gaule et France,_ a work which fatigued me very much in the way of study, to such an extent that I was not sorry to forget my day's work in the evening. Every night, accordingly, I had some friends with me: Fourcade, Collin, Boulanger, Liszt, Châtillon, Hugo at times, Delanoue nearly always. We talked and talked of art; sometimes we persuaded Hugo to read us poetry; Liszt, who never required much pressing, thumped on a bad piano with all his might, and he ended by breaking it to pieces; so the evening would fly by without any one thinking any more of the cholera than if it had been at St. Petersburg or Benares or Pekin. Besides, it had been calculated that five hundred deaths per day, out of a million of men, was not quite one death per thousand, and, taking everything into consideration, one had far more chance of being one of the thousand living souls than the one dead one. This calculation, it will be seen, was exceedingly reassuring. In the midst of all this, Harel, who was at loggerheads with Hugo, came to me from time to time to tease me to write him another play. He made out that it was a most favourable time, that nothing was being a success elsewhere, and that the first-comer to make a success under such circumstances would have a run of a hundred performances.

As for the cholera, he treated it as a myth, and put it on a level with the ghosts of Semiramis and of Hamlet; he put a bit of paper into his snuff-box to remind himself that he was in Paris. The object of his pursuing me with such determination was a drama entitled _La Tour de Nesle,_ in which he said there was originality enough to set all Paris on fire with excitement. I rejected the tempter energetically, telling him that the same subject had been suggested to me twice before; once by Roger de Beauvoir, author of _L'Écolier de Cluny;_ also by Fourcade, who, at that time, was anxious to produce literature.

Henri Fourcade was Fourcade's brother, my old friend, of whom I have already spoken with reference to my early love affairs at Villers-Cotterets; who, it will be recollected, danced so well, and had in his pocket a second pair of gloves to change, when he went to the ball--a luxury at which I had been struck dumb. One night, then, when we had been laughing, talking, spouting verses, playing music, and having supper, as I was about to see my friends out and was lighting them from the top of my landing, I felt suddenly overtaken with a slight trembling in my legs; I took no notice of it and lent against the bannisters, half to light those who were going downstairs and half to support myself, as I shouted a ringing, cheerful _au revoir_! to them. Then, when the sound of their footsteps was lost in the square, I turned round to go into my rooms.

"Oh, monsieur!" said Catherine to me, "how pale you are!"

"Nonsense; am I really, Catherine?" I said laughingly. "Go and look in the glass, sir, and see."

I followed her advice and looked in the glass. I was, indeed, exceedingly pale. At the same time, I was seized with a shaking which gradually turned to a violent shivering fit.

"It is queer," I said; "I feel very cold."

"Ah! monsieur," cried Catherine; "that is how it begins."

"What, Catherine?"

"The cholera, monsieur."

"You think I have the cholera then, Catherine?"

"Oh! I am sure of it, monsieur."

"Oh! Then, Catherine, let us lose no time: get a lump of sugar, dip it in ether and fetch a doctor."

Catherine went away, tumbling against the furniture as she left, and exclaiming--

"Oh! _mon Dieu!_ Master has the cholera!"

Meanwhile, as I felt my strength failing rapidly, I went up to my bed, undressed myself as fast as possible, and lay down. I shivered more and more. Catherine returned; the poor girl was nearly off her head: instead of bringing me a lump of sugar dipped in ether, she brought me a wineglassful of ether. When I say full, I should add that, by good fortune, her hand had trembled so much that the glass was no more than two-thirds full. She gave it to me. With more reason for my condition than she, I hardly knew what I was doing; I did not remember what it was I had asked her for, and was ignorant of the contents of the glass she held out to me, I carried it to my lips and swallowed a whole ounce of ether at a gulp. I felt as though I had swallowed the sword of the Avenging Angel! I heaved a sigh, closed my eyes, and my head fell back on the pillow. No chloroform ever produced a quicker result. From that moment and for two hours my unconsciousness lasted, I knew nothing at all; only, when I opened my eyes again, I was in a vapour bath which, by means of a pipe, my doctor was administering to me beneath my bedclothes, whilst a good neighbour was rubbing me on the top of the sheets with a warming-pan full of embers. I do not know what I shall feel like in hell, but I shall never even there be more nearly roasted than I was that night. I spent five or six days without being able to put a foot out of my bed; I was literally exhausted. Every day Harel's card was brought in; he was told, as was everybody else, that I could not see visitors. When I again opened my doors to people, the first thing I saw through the half-opened door was his smiling, clever face.

"What about the cholera?" I asked.

"It has departed!"

"Are you sure of it?"

"It did not pay its expenses.... Ah! my friend, what a capital time for launching a drama!"

"Do you think so?"

"There will be a reaction in favour of the theatres; besides, you saw what I put in the newspapers?"

"Yes, about the places of entertainment not having had a single case of cholera in them.... My dear Harel, you are the cleverest man of the nineteenth century!"

"Oh! not so!"

"Why not?"

"You can well see why not, since I cannot get you to write me a play."

"In all conscience, am I in a fit state for doing it?"

"You?..."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I am possessed with all the devils of a fever."

"They will give you an inspiration."

"But, seriously, let me see what your play is about."

"Well, I am going to tell you the truth."

"Really?"

"On my honour."

"Harel! Harel! Harel!"

"How stupid you are!"

"You can see very well that I did not make you say it."

"But if you make me say it; it only proves your cleverness, because you make me stupid."

"Come, stop affectations! what were we saying?"

"That a young man from Tonnerre, named Frédérick Gaillardet, has brought me a MS. which has some ideas in it, but he has never had anything to do with the stage; it is not, dramatically speaking, any good as it is. But I have entered into treaty with him because I have my own plans."

"Let us hear what they are."

"For a long time Janin has wanted to write a drama."

"Good!"

"I said, 'Here is your excuse ready to hand!' I took my young author's MS. to him."

"Next?"

"He read it."

"And then?"

"He agreed with me that there was dramatic material in it.

"And that drama ...?"

"He has hunted for it for six weeks, and not found it."

"Then he has added nothing to the original manuscript." "Indeed, he has rewritten it."

"What then?"

"It is better written, but no more fit for acting."

"So that it has already two authors?"

"You need not trouble yourself about Janin."

"Why not?"

"Because, this morning, he took his own MS. and that of M. Gaillardet in his arms, and flung them on Georges's sofa, saying to me, 'You and your drama there can go to the devil! '"

"Then you came to me; thanks!"

"What does that matter to you, my friend? Read this."

"But I tell you I am very weak. I cannot even read."

"I will send Verteuil to you; he will read the piece to you: he reads very well."

"Shall I not get into trouble with your young man?"

"He is as meek as a lamb, my dear fellow!"

"I see, and you wish to shear him?"

"There is no talking seriously with you."

"Send Verteuil to me."

"When?"

"When you like."

"He shall be here in an hour."

"Very well, are you going?"

"I have no mind to stay."

"Why not?"

"You would only have some one to contradict you."

"Oh! I do not promise anything."

"That is needless, since you are pledged."

"To what?"

"To deliver me the play in a fortnight."

"Harel!"

"Take pains over Georges' part."

"Harel!"

"Good-bye!"

Harel was gone.

"Oh, the brute!" I muttered, falling back on to my pillow; "he will give me a relapse."

An hour later, as Harel had said, Verteuil was in the house. He expected to find me sitting up and convalescent; but he found me in bed, burning with fever, and reduced in weight by twenty-five pounds. I frightened him.

"Oh!" he said, "you are not going to work in that state?" "What the deuce do you expect else, my dear fellow, as Harel insists on it!"

"No, I will take the MS. away, and tell Mademoiselle Georges that it is impossible, short of killing you."

"Is there anything in that MS.?"

"Certainly, it has some ideas, but..."

"But what?"

"Ah! you shall see ... I dare not say."

"Then leave it to me; I will read it."

"When?"

"At my leisure. Is the writing clear, by the way?"

"I recopied it myself."

"Good!"

"I have only brought Janin's version of the MS., to save you as much time as possible."[1]

"Is there much difference between the two MSS.?"

"What do you mean?"

"Structurally?"

"It is the same thing, except for one or two tirades added by Janin."

"What about the form?"

"Oh well! it has style, you know; it is smart, brilliant, trenchant."

"I will take note of that."

"When do you wish me to return?"

"Return to-morrow."

"At what hour?"

"About noon."

"To-morrow at noon, then; rest as much as you can till then."

"I will try.... Adieu."

"Adieu!" He gave me his hand.

"Take care of yourself, you are frightfully feverish."

"That is just what I am reckoning upon. A thousand compliments to Georges; she need not be anxious; if there is a suitable rôle for her, it shall be created, or I will know the reason why."

"Have you nothing else for me to tell her?"

"Only that that I love her with all my heart."

Verteuil went away, leaving me alone with the fever and the copy of Janin's MS.

Once again I repeat it (and these lines are addressed to M. Frédérick Gaillardet), Heaven save me, after the lapse of twenty-one years, from seeming to have hostile intentions towards a man who did me the honour of risking his life against mine, in exchanging pistol shots with me; but I must, according to my accustomed frankness, relate things as they happened, very certain that, if it is still necessary at this date, the memories of Bocage, of Georges, of Janin and of Verteuil will agree with mine. Having made this assertion, I will continue my narrative. When left to myself, I began to read the manuscript. The play began at the second scene, that is to say, with Orsini's monologue. Finally, the second scene, which was then the first, remained pretty much as it was. There was, as Verteuil had told me, and as I myself recognised later, no other difference between M. Gaillardet's MS. and Janin's than the style. Janin, as is known, is, in this respect, a master before whom small fry bow and great ones salute. But a complete tirade, probably the most brilliant in the whole drama, belonged to Janin: it was the one of the _grandes dames._ Did he avenge himself here on some _lady,_ some one he believed to be a _great lady_? I do not know at all; but although the tirade is well known, we will reproduce it here.

"BURIDAN. Vous ne savez donc pas où nous sommes?

PHILIPPE. Où sommes-nous?

BURIDAN. Vous ne savez donc pas quelles sont ces femmes?

PHILIPPE. Vous êtes tout ému, Buridan!

BURIDAN. Ces femmes, n'avez-vous pas quelque soupçon de leur rang?... N'avez-vous pas remarqué que ce doivent être de grandes dames?... Avez-vous vu, car je pense qu'il vient de vous arriver, à vous, ce qui vient de m'arriver, à moi,--avez-vous vu, dans vos amours de garnison, beaucoup de mains aussi blanches, beaucoup de sourires aussi froids?... Avez-vous remarqué ces riches habits, ces voix si douces, ces regards si faux? Ce sont de grandes dames voyez-vous!... Elles nous fait chercher dans la nuit par une femme vieille et voilée, qui avait des paroles mielleuses. Oh! ce sont de grandes dames!... A peine sommes nous entrés dans cet endroit éblouissant, parfumé et chaud à enivrer, qu'elles nous accueillis, avec mille tendresses, qu'elles se sont livrées à nous sans détour, sans retard, à nous tout de suite, à nous inconnus et tout mouillés de cet orage. Vous voyez bien que ce sont de grandes dames!... A table,--et c'est notre histoire à tous deux, n'est-ce pas?--à table, elles se sont abandonées à tout ce que l'amour et l'ivresse ont d'emportement et d'oubli; elles ont blasphémé; elles ont tenu d'étranges discours et d'odieuses paroles; elles ont oublié toute retenue, toute pudeur, oublié la terre, oublié le ciel. Ce sont de grandes dames, de très-grandes dames, je vous le répète!"

The first fault which struck me, a theatrical man, in the work, was that the play began really at the second scene, and, consequently, none of the parts were known or the characters properly revealed; so that while reading this tower scene, the tavern scene began to appear to me as in a cloud. But I did not stop short there, it was not a suitable moment. I began the second; but I protest that I did not go further than the eighth or tenth page. The drama completely deviated from the course which, in my opinion, it ought to have taken.

The essential crux of the drama to me was the struggle between Buridan and Margaret of Burgundy, between an adventurer and a queen, the one armed with all the resources of his genius, the other with the powerful allies of her rank. Of course, genius is naturally made to triumph over power. Then I had had an idea in my head for a long time which I thought highly dramatic; and I wanted to try to get that situation put before the public.

A man is arrested, sentenced, and laid in the depths of a dungeon, without resource or hope; a man who will be lost if his enemy has the courage not to come and mock at his abasement, but to have him poisoned, strangled, or stabbed in his corner; the man will be saved if his enemy yields to the desire to come and insult him for the last time; for, with speech, the sole weapon left him, he would frighten his enemy so that the latter would loosen the chains on his arms a little, and the iron collar round his neck, and open to him the door which he had hitherto so carefully closed upon him, and lead forth in triumph the man who expected that, if he ever left his living tomb at all, it would only be to mount the scaffold.

The struggle between Margaret of Burgundy and Buridan gave me the idea for this situation. It will be well understood that I did not let such a scene slip. It is the one that has since been named _la scène de la prison._ That settled, I did not trouble any further over the rest. I wrote to Harel that I was his man for _La Tour de Nesle,_ and begged him to come and arrange the terms under which this new drama should be done.

I must explain to the public what I mean by settling the terms. I wished--since Janin loyally, more than loyally, generously, withdrew from the collaboration--that M. Gaillardet, who had temporarily given up his share to Janin, should take that share to himself again. At that period, unless under private treaty, author's rights at the theatre Porte-Saint-Martin, for which M. Gaillardet's drama was intended, were 48 francs for author's share and 24 francs' worth of tickets per night. Consequently, 24 francs for author's rights and 12 francs' worth of tickets were conceded to Janin. Janin, as we have said, gave up his share; I wanted this share to be returned to M. Gaillardet, and my rights to be settled independently, as if I had been a complete stranger to the work. I laid down also, as a condition, _sine quâ non,_ that my name should be left. It was agreed in the contract with Janin that his name should be given. Harel raised no difficulties over granting me my separate treaty, which was the same as in _Christine_: 10 francs per hundred of the takings, and 36 to 40 francs' worth of tickets, I believe. Nothing could be objected to, as the rights were proportional--if it paid, I gained; if it did not, I only made a light demand on the receipts. Now, take careful notice, that, at this time of cholera, two or three hundred francs were quite large takings. The Odéon once played before one spectator who refused to have his money returned, and insisted that they should go through the performance for him and then hissed it. But, by hissing, the wretched man raised a weapon against himself; the manager sent for a police officer, who, with the excuse that the hisser disturbed the performance, put him outside the doors. Harel, I say, made no difficulty of any kind over my separate contract; but he did over my wishing to maintain my incognito: I had a hard struggle over this, and he poured upon me all the dazzling splendours of his wit and the thundering ammunition of his paradoxes. I held out and Harel retired conquered. It was settled and signed that I was to have my separate contract, that I should not be named, that M. Gaillardet should alone be mentioned by name on the night of the first performance and on the bills, and that he alone should take the whole of the rights granted by the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre at the time when he signed his treaty; but, I reserved to myself the right to put the drama under my own name among my complete works. From that moment, Verteuil never left me; he came every morning, and, as much dictated as written by his hand, every night he carried a scene away with him. After the prison scene, Harel rushed in. It was a _chef d'œuvre,_ which would even put the success of _Henri III._ into the shade. I laughed. I really must let my name be given; it was impossible otherwise. I grew angry, and Harel took himself off in despair. Theatrical managers, in those days, had a singular idea to which, indeed, they have returned latterly: it was that they made more money, with equal merit, when the name of the author was known, than if it were unknown. I think they were mistaken. The better the name be known, the more it rouses jealous feelings on the part of criticism: the less it be known, the more kindly does criticism favour it. Criticism, which does not produce children of its own, only picks up and fondles orphans which it can adopt; but it turns, angry and growling, on those children who are supported by a vigorous parentage. Nowadays, managers have fallen into the opposite abuse. They have hunted out from the collections of proverbs all the pieces which were no good at all--comedies which were not comedies, dramas which were not dramas--and played them with more or less success. The object of this attempt was, I believe, meant at least to prove that dramatic art is an art by itself; a rare and difficult one, seeing that Greece has only bequeathed to us Æschylus, Euripides, Sophocles and Aristophanes; Rome, only Plautus, Terence and Seneca; England, only Shakespeare and Sheridan; Italy, only Machiavelli and Alfieri; Spain, only Lopes de Vega, Calderon, Alarcon and Tirso de Molina; Germany, only Goethe and Schiller; and France, only Corneille, Rotrou, Molière, Racine, Voltaire and Beaumarchais; that is to say, but twenty-three names floating on an ocean of twenty-three centuries! Actually, this is what happens in my opinion: more noise is made round the work of a known author; people wait for and receive the appearance of such work with greater curiosity; but the public also becomes more exacting in proportion as the reputation of the writer increases: they get tired of hearing a man called _happy_; as the Athenians grew tired of hearing Aristides called _the Just_; and reaction operates with a harshness all the stronger as the previous favouritism has been great. Finally, the man who falls, if unknown, only falls from the height of the play by which he has made his début; the known author who falls, on the contrary, falls from the height of all his past successes. I have experienced this in my own case; at three epochs in my life, reaction has disturbed me to the point that, in order to keep the footing I had arrived at, I had to exert greater efforts than those I had made in reaching that stage. We are not far from the first of these epochs, and I will relate this phase of my life with the same simplicity as I have related the rest. After nine days of work, which retarded my convalescence by more than a month, Verteuil carried away the last scenes of the drama, with the following letter addressed to Harel:--

"DEAR FRIEND,--Do not be distressed at these two last scenes. They are weak, I grant; when I got to the end, my strength failed me. Look upon them as null and void, as they will have to be rewritten. But give me two or three days' rest, and don't be uneasy. I begin to be of your opinion: there are the elements of a tremendous success in the work.--Yours always,

"ALEX. DUMAS"

After the fourth act, the poorest in the whole work, Harel had written to me--

"MY DEAR DUMAS,--I have received your fourth act. Hum! hum! Your King Louis, the headstrong, is a droll figure, indeed! But, he has abundance of wit, and wit makes anything go well. I await the fifth act.--Yours etc. HAREL"

The fifth act arrived; only, it was even worse than the fourth! Harel rushed to me with crape on his hat and his head covered with ashes. He was in mourning for his lost success. Nothing I could say reassured him; I must set to work again that very night. Two days later, the scenes were rewritten, and Harel's mind set at rest. The same day I wrote to M. Gaillardet, keeping as far as possible to my own side of the proceedings:--

"MONSIEUR,--M. Harel, with whom I have been in continual business relations, has come to ask me to give him _some advice_ about a work _by you_ which he wishes to put on the stage.

"I seized with pleasure the opportunity of bringing forward a young fellow-dramatist, whom I have not the honour of knowing, but to whom I most sincerely wish success. I have smoothed down all the difficulties which would present themselves to you in the putting into rehearsal of a first piece of work, and _your_ play, as it now is, seems to me capable of succeeding.

"I do not need to tell you, sir, that you _alone_ will be the author, and that _my name will not even be mentioned_; this is the condition under which I undertook the work to which I have been so fortunate as to be able to add. If you look upon what I have done for you in the light of a kindness, allow me to _give_ it you rather than _sell_ it you.

"ALEX. DUMAS"

Indeed, from my point of view, at any rate, it was really giving my services; although I had superseded Janin as collaborator, I did not take either the author's rights nor the rights to tickets belonging to the collaboration, which, in the contract, remained in Harel's hands, and by virtue of which Harel returned to Janin. Had Harel the right, from Janin's consent, and at his (Janin's) entreaty to substitute me for Janin? I think he had, as my substitution left M. Gaillardet's name alone on the bills, and gave him 48 francs for rights and 12 for tickets, instead of 24 francs for rights and 6 for tickets. M. Gaillardet gained, therefore, from the monetary point of view, as he received double; and he gained in reputation, because his name alone appeared. It remains to prove that the Contract Janin-Gaillardet and Harel had passed under the control of the former contract, according only 48 francs in rights and 12 in tickets. This will be easy for me to do with the two dates. The Contract of Janin-Gaillardet and Harel was signed on 29 March 1832, and the fresh treaty, which still holds good to-day at the Porte-Saint-Martin theatre, was not signed between M. Harel and the Commission of Authors, till the following 11 April. I repeat, I would rather have passed over this ridiculous quarrel as to the paternity of the play in silence; but I am compelled to lay details before my readers which will interest them but indifferently, but for which, however, they would have the right to ask if I passed them over in silence. I am writing the history of art during the first half of the nineteenth century; I speak of myself as of a stranger; I lay my plays open to the inspection of my natural arbitrator, the public; it shall judge my work, as they say at the palace. I will neither make out M. Gaillardet to be right or wrong; I will write merely a recitative, and not an argument--

_Ad narrandum, non ad firobandum._

[Footnote 1: In the Paris edition of the _Souvenirs,_ 1854, both M. Gaillardet's and M. Janin's MSS. are referred to as having been brought, both here and later.]