Part 10
But to return to our particular _jeune fille_, Pascaline. In the Second Act, she is seventeen and charming. Nevertheless, it is still necessary to hide from her all dangerous knowledge, all doubts or suspicions, even of the existence of evil outside her own experience. Father, governess, nurse, family friends and all who approach her are in league to keep from her the true history of her mother’s desertion. The legend, as she hears it, is that the brilliant, captivating mother she recollects abandoned her home in order to follow her vocation—to become a great and famous singer. And this passionately interests Pascaline; consequently, she is wild with excitement when, after a four years’ absence, her mother claims the right to see her daughter, and obtains legal authorisation to do so. Then, trouble. For, in the meanwhile, Forjot has married the excellent, trustworthy governess, Hélène, chiefly because she was so devoted to the little Pascaline and would make her a second mother. Pascaline at thirteen—dazzled and overawed by the brilliant Gabrielle—had treated the kind and homely governess as a confidante; but at seventeen—flattered, fascinated and caressed by Gabrielle—she sees in Hélène only the “Stranger,” who has usurped her mother’s place.
Then begins the second struggle; that is once again to make havoc of poor Forjot’s domestic peace! The struggle of Hélène, on the one side, to reconquer by patience and kindness, and sometimes by affectionate reproaches, the confidence of the child she loves, and has cared for as her own; and of Pascaline, on the other side, to resist these attentions and appeals to her feelings and to remain true to her more brilliant mother, who, she is convinced, has been harshly turned out of her home, simply because she was too artistic to make a good bourgeoise housekeeper of the usual type.
The knot in the entangled situation is that Pascaline must not be told the truth. So that misunderstanding the position, she cannot, from her own point of view, without disloyalty to her admired and adored mother, recognise the interloper, Hélène, as the rightful mistress of her father’s home, and with claims upon herself, Pascaline, for respect and gratitude, on account of the care and affection she has shown one whom she has robbed of her natural guardian.
Pascaline comes back from her first interview with Gabrielle fascinated and enthusiastic, and full of anger and disdain for the homelier, much less outwardly demonstrative Hélène. This condition of mind becomes aggravated later on, when Gabrielle is in misfortune. Alas! her voice has failed her. She is no longer able to follow her artistic vocation, for the sake of which she sacrificed her home. She now is directress of a theatrical agency, and she is no longer so gay, although still full of noble courage. All this Pascaline confides to her old nurse, Marion, with whom she is still able to talk about her mother.
_Pascaline._ Oh, Marion dear! When one thinks of mama coming back; and of her having no right to enter this house, and of someone else installed in her place! If you only could have seen how sad she was when she left me, my poor mama, who is generally so gay! And no wonder she is sad. All alone there at Auteuil in a little pavilion, Rue des Martyrs, at her office, a stuffy little place without sunshine, without air.
_The Nurse._ At her “office”?
_Pascaline._ Yes. You must know that, for some time, mama has not been able to sing. It is all the trouble she has gone through. You see to be constantly crying is not good for the voice, so that now she is the directress of an agency for theatrical tours. You can understand that, as I am no longer a child, I have a right to know things. I _do_ know _now_ why papa sent mama away.
_Marion._ Did your mother tell you?
_Pascaline._ Yes. Papa would not allow her to sing anywhere! So then mama, who had an admirable voice, felt obliged to follow an irresistible vocation.
This is the legend as Pascaline has received it from her mother. Marion does not contradict it. Nor yet do Forjot and Hélène ever hint at the true facts of Gabrielle’s desertion. Hélène’s reticence is heroic, for Pascaline becomes more and more bitter against the good Hélène and defies her to justify herself by some real fault discovered in Gabrielle, worse than the noble ambition of a gifted artist.
_Pascaline [to Hélène]._ Of course, you are burning to tell me all about poor mama’s divorce. Well: let me show you I know all about it already. I know that, in spite of my father’s orders, mama would go on singing, and then she was rather extravagant, and, well, she was not domesticated, and chose to follow her artistic vocation. There you have the whole story of her sins. Oh, _if_ there _is_ anything else, I invite you, or rather, I require you to tell me. _Was_ there anything else?
_Hélène [avoiding Pascaline’s eyes]._ There was nothing else.
_Pascaline [triumphantly]._ There, you are forced to admit it! Mama’s _only_ fault was that she had an artistic vocation! Again I beg you to contradict me, if you can. _Was_ there anything else against her?
_Hélène._ No; only that—nothing else.
However, one little awakening, one little shock. In the Third Act Pascaline visits the theatrical agency, sees the tawdriness of the place, hears noisy laughter and is even addressed at length by a shabby old comedian—a veritable _cabotin_—who mistakes her for an _ingénue_, in quest of an engagement. The comedian is delightful. He might have stepped straight on to the Odéon stage from one of those dim little cafés haunted by broken-down actors in the neighbourhood of the Porte St-Martin. He appals Pascaline with his grins, grimaces and familiarity. Pascaline’s silence he attributes to worry. And he seeks to console her by declaring that one must always be gay, always be smiling, even if one has eaten nothing all day and the landlord has threatened to turn one out into the street. He calls her _mon petit enfant_, and _mon petit chat_, and he _tutoies_ her. Pure, irresistible comedy! The scene deserves to be quoted in full, but we must hasten on to the _dénouement_.
It is close. Life at the Nantais publisher’s has become intolerable. Constant strife; day after day, scenes between Pascaline and her step-mother. And, at last, Hélène decides on a daring step: to visit Gabrielle, tell her of Forjot’s unhappiness, implore her to interfere no longer between father and daughter. But she fails to move Gabrielle, who is cold and impertinent. And then, believing that if she herself disappeared, Pascaline would be entirely restored to Forjot, Hélène determines to leave Nantes and resume her dull career of governess. And this determination becomes all the stronger when she learns that Pascaline has fled Nantes and taken refuge with her mother. Poor Forjot has aged and withered when next we see him. Pascaline’s flight has been a bitter blow. But the music publisher will not hear of Hélène’s sacrifice, and is passionately bidding her remain, when Gabrielle is announced. Hélène leaves the room. And Gabrielle and Forjot find themselves face to face again.
In the great scene that follows, Gabrielle begins by saying that, as Hélène has determined to leave Nantes, she, Gabrielle, no longer wishes to keep Pascaline away from her father, and has brought her home.
Forjot declares that Hélène shall not be sacrificed; and upon this, Gabrielle proclaims her intention of keeping Pascaline.
Now again we have the Bourgeois Forjot displaying qualities of temper, character and moral sense, of the very highest order: qualities of the chivalrous sort. He does not fly into a passion. He does not taunt this offender against maternal and conjugal obligations. But earnestly and simply he addresses the author of all this trouble; and with a self-restraint that would certainly not have been found in his English prototype, he invites her to examine her own conduct; and to ask herself whether it is Hélène and himself, or whether it is Gabrielle herself, and Gabrielle only, who has behaved cruelly and selfishly to Pascaline, as well as to the husband she betrayed and the good woman who has taken care of the child she abandoned.
_Forjot._ Gabrielle, just remember. _You_ are the cause of all this trouble. It only depended upon you to stay on here, and never to be separated from your child. I never made your life unhappy! I loved you; and you know very well I should have forgiven you. I begged you to stay and you would not. What harm you have done by obeying your caprice! Just now I saw very well you hardly recognised me—so aged am I by all this. For my part, I have never harmed you. Hélène has never harmed you—what do you say? No, no; she has never harmed you! And yet it is we who are punished. It is because _you_ behaved badly in the past that _we_ are threatened to-day with distress and loneliness. After having poisoned my life, you wish then to hasten my death?
_Gabrielle._ You know very well that I regret having made you suffer.
_Forjot._ Let me tell you this: a great many people would not have acted as we have done. They might not have told our child the real story of your desertion; but they would not have invented excuses for you.
_Gabrielle._ Yes; I know you have been very kind, and I thank you for it.
_Forjot._ I am not the only one you ought to thank. Hélène has always respected you: she has taught Pascaline to love you! It seems to me that should touch you. Give our child back to us. Now, admit it, you have launched yourself upon a new life. You have made yourself different from us. I can’t well explain myself; and it is difficult to make you understand my feelings because I don’t want to use words that might hurt or irritate you; but I must put the facts before you plainly.
Always generous is Forjot. Not one brutal, not one harsh word does he throw at his wife! He promises that Pascaline shall continue to visit her as often as she pleases, if Gabrielle, on the other side, will promise not to poison Pascaline’s mind against him and Hélène. Gabrielle is touched. Rising, she opens the door, and brings in Pascaline. And Pascaline, seeing her poor father’s anxious, care-worn face, runs up to him.
_Pascaline._ Oh, father! father! advise me. I am puzzled, bewildered. Something tells me I am acting badly; but I don’t know what I ought to do. Oh, dear, I don’t know what I ought to do!
_Forjot._ My little Girl, it all depends upon you whether I am to finish my life in misery, or in peace. You can give me happiness in the days I have still to live. But to do that, you must come back to us; and you must try to treat Hélène with the respect and gratitude you owe her. In her despair at not being able to win back your affection, she wants to leave us. She wishes to return once more to the lonely, uncertain life of a governess. She wants to plunge herself into this unknown, uncertain destiny. It is I who appeal to you to have mercy upon her, and upon me.
_Pascaline._ Ah, if only I might love you without being false to Mama!
_Gabrielle [emotionally]._ You can, you can, Pascaline! Yes, my daughter, I am not the mother that you believe in! Since I left you I have created for myself a new life, new habits, new affections; and then, Pascaline, I am going to marry again!
Always, emotionally, Gabrielle tells how she once had two paths to choose, and that she chose the wrong one.
But Pascaline interrupts her with a cry of: “What a calumny!” and vows that her mother has never done wrong. And that she knows for certain, _as Hélène herself has often told her so_.
_Gabrielle._ Eh bien, va embrasser Hélène pour cela. Je te le demande. Je vous la confie, Hélène.
And so, the end. Not heroic, in accordance with the English poetic sentiment, demanding that Gabrielle should pass out sorrowing and penitent; convicted in her child’s eyes, who flies for safety to the virtuous bosom of Hélène, but _à l’amiable_, in accordance with the French sentiment expressed by Forjot: “Mon enfant, si l’on n’avait pas d’indulgence les uns pour les autres, la vie des plus braves gens ne serait pas possible.”
But what comes of it all? No argument for or against divorce; no attack upon, no justification of the French method of educating the _jeune fille_. But a picture of the feelings and emotions bound up with that method; and a picture also of the generous reasonableness, sense of justice, and human kindness that lie at the root of French character—and that may to some extent compensate for a lack of the absolutely sincere and unadulterated love of decency and respectability for their own sakes that are our own distinguishing characteristics.
[3] _Briant_ père. Il suffit aujourd’hui—et je le constate sans en être le moins du monde troublé, croyez-le bien—il suffit qu’un enfant soit naturel pour se voir l’objet de la sympathie générale, comme il suffit qu’une femme ne soit pas légitime pour être immédiatement entourée du respect universel. Que les femmes et les enfants ne se le dissimulent pas, ils sont en train de passer un mauvais quart d’heure.
[4] In a criticism of M. Paul Hervieu’s _Le Dédale_ given in _The Fortnightly Review_ series of articles upon “French Life and the French and the French Stage,” by John F. Macdonald. By the kind permission of the Editor of _The Fortnightly Review_ these articles are reprinted here.—F. M.
4. PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER”
Six years have elapsed since a Paris newspaper announced that M. Constant Coquelin—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_—had suddenly taken train to the south-west of France in the following circumstances:—
“Yesterday morning the greatest of our comedians received a telegram urging him to proceed without delay to Cambo, the tranquil, beautiful country seat, in the Pyrenees, of M. Edmond Rostand. No sooner had he read the message than M. Coquelin bade Gillett, his devoted valet, pack a valise, hail a _fiacre_, and accompany him to the Gare d’Orléans. Excitement and delight were depicted on the face of the distinguished traveller, whom we found smoking a cigarette in front of a first-class compartment. ‘Yes,’ he joyously admitted. ‘Yes, I am off to the Pyrenees—but that is all I shall tell you.’ Never, indeed, such indomitable discretion! In reply to our adroit, persuasive questions regarding the object of his journey, M. Coquelin made such irrelevant observations as these: ‘The weather looks threatening,’ and ‘Gillett is the most admirable of valets,’ and ‘Ah, my friends, has it ever occurred to you what an extraordinary thing is a railway station?’ And then, as the train steamed slowly away: ‘You may state in your article that the cushions of this carriage are exceedingly restful and sympathetic.’ Still, in spite of M. Coquelin’s reticence, we are in a position to acquaint our readers with the reason of this sudden, this sensational visit to Cambo. _M. Edmond Rostand is engaged upon a new play, and the leading part in it will be sustained by M. Coquelin._ Down there in the golden calm of the Pyrenees—yes, even as we pen these words—the most exquisite of poets is reading to the most brilliant of actors... another _chef-d’œuvre_. It will surpass the triumphant, the glorious _Cyrano de Bergerac_! Parisians will certainly rejoice, Parisians will assuredly be thrilled to hear of the superb, artistic festival in store for them.”
Such, six years ago, was the very first—and very florid—_potin_ to be published on _Chantecler_; and no sooner had it appeared than Paris, truly enough, “rejoiced” and was “thrilled”—but complained that it was maddening and heart-breaking to know so little about the new masterpiece. What was its theme? What, too, was the title? And when—oh, when—would the first performance take place? In order to satisfy the Parisian’s curiosity, newspaper editors despatched their Yellowest Reporters to Cambo with instructions to force a statement out of the comedian and the poet. With the Yellow Ones went alert, sharp photographers. And then, what strange, indelicate scenes in that once-tranquil and refined spot in the Pyrenees! Since M. Rostand and his guest refused to receive the invaders, the latter set about performing their vulgar mission from a distance. Outside the poet’s picturesque Basque villa, cameras and cameras; and again and again was the “golden calm” of Cambo disturbed by shouts of “There’s Madame Rostand at that window,” and “There’s her son, Maurice, picking a flower,” and “There’s Rostand talking hard to Coquelin on a bench.” Nobody, nothing in the far-spreading grounds, escaped the photographers. The gardener was “taken”; so were a housemaid, a peacock, a mowing-machine, a dog and a hammock. As for the reporters, they followed MM. Rostand and Coquelin when the latter took their afternoon walks, even hid themselves behind bushes and hedges in the hopes of overhearing a fragment of their conversation; and minutely they described in their newspapers the gait and the gestures of the comedian, and the smile, the eyeglass and the extreme elegance of the poet; and wildly they declared that insomuch as MM. Rostand and Coquelin discussed naught but the new masterpiece during those afternoon walks, every step they took left a glorious, an historic imprint in the dusty white lane. But the subject of the play, the date of its production?—“mystery, mystery!” admitted the reporters. Nor was it until many months later, and until after M. Coquelin had paid half-a-dozen visits to Cambo, that Paris heard with amazement that M. Rostand’s hero was a cock, his heroine a hen pheasant, his chief scene a farm-yard, in which all kinds of feathered creatures were to fly, strut and waddle about. As Paris was marvelling at the novelty and audacity of the idea, the poet fell ill. A severe operation kept him an invalid a whole year. The successive deaths of a relative and of three close friends so shocked him that he had not the heart to return to his work. But when in the autumn of 1908 M. Coquelin made yet another expedition to Cambo, the “glorious,” “historic” walks were resumed. In M. Rostand’s study, animated, all-night sittings. In the drawing-room, extraordinary rehearsals—M. Coquelin the cock, Madame Rostand the pheasant, M. Rostand a dog, young Maurice Rostand a blackbird. Then visits from wig-makers, costumiers, scene-painters, electricians. And at last the official, stirring announcement that M. Rostand and the play were leaving for Paris, that the name of the play was _Chantecler_, and that the first performance would be given at the Porte St-Martin Theatre in the spring of 1909.
It was in January of that year that M. Rostand took up his abode in an hotel facing the Tuileries Gardens. The corridor outside the poet’s suite of apartments was guarded by footmen—so many sentinels with instructions to let nobody pass; and thus M. Rostand was secure from cameras and Yellow scribbling pencils except when he left the hotel, entered a motor car and sped off to the pleasant little country town of Pont-aux-Dames, where Constant Coquelin had founded a home for aged and infirm actors. Of this establishment Coquelin _aîné_ himself was then an inmate. Not that he was feeling old or infirm—“only a little fatigued and in need of calm and repose ere disguising myself as a proud, majestic cock.” Kindly Coquelin was never so happy as when playing the host to his score of superannuated actors and actresses. He called them his “guests,” and had provided them with easy-chairs, a library, a billiard-table, playing cards, backgammon boards and gramophones; and with summer-houses in the garden where the old ladies might gossip and gossip out of the glare of the sun, and with a lake, too, in which the old fellows might fish. Also, he invited them to relate their theatrical experiences—the rôles they had played, the successes they had achieved, the costumes they had worn long, long ago; and, oh, dear me, how the “guests” took their host at his word—yes, heavens, how garrulously and lavishly they responded! Withered old Joyeux (late—very late—of the Palais Royal) described how emperors and kings had been convulsed by his grins, winks and tricks; swollen, red-faced Hector Duchatel (slim, elegant, irresistible at the Vaudeville in the seventies) declared that beautiful _mondaines_ had sighed, almost swooned, when he passionately made love on the stage; wrinkled, haggard Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle (once such a radiant _blonde_ at the Bouffes) narrated how she could scarcely turn round in her dressing-room for the _corbeilles_ of flowers, in which jewels and _billets-doux_ from illustrious personages lay concealed. Then, after all these reminiscences, the “guests” produced faded, tattered newspaper cuttings, that proclaimed Joyeux “extraordinaire de fantaisie et de verve,” and Hector Duchatel “le roi de la mode,” and Mademoiselle de Perle “the most exquisite, the most incomparable of blondes”—“Cabotinville,” if you like; the tawdry, flashy talk of M. le Cabot and Madame la Cabotine. But I like, nevertheless, to call up the vision of Coquelin _aîné_, wrapped in a dressing-gown, a skull-cap pulled down over his ears, listening patiently and sympathetically to these confidences of the past, and reading through the faded newspaper cuttings, and saying to haggard Mademoiselle de Perle: “I myself, like everybody else, was once madly in love with you,” and to withered old Joyeux: “Those winks and grins of yours were excruciating,” and—— But an end to this digression. The scene between Coquelin _aîné_ and his superannuated “guests” is cut short by the arrival, from the hotel in the rue de Rivoli, of the author of _Chantecler_.