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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
and Chateaubriand retired to Lucerne,—where eight or ten months
later, I was to help him to feed his chickens,—the day for the first
performance of Charles VII. arrived, 20 October.
I have already said what I thought of the merits of my play: as
poetry, it was a great advance upon Christine; as a dramatic work it
was an imitation of Andromaque, the Cid and the Camargo. Ample
justice was done to it: it had a great success and did not bring in a
sou! Let us here state, in passing, that when it was transferred to
the Théâtre-Français, it was performed twenty or twenty-five times,
and made a hundred louis at each performance. The same thing
happened later with regard to the Demoiselles de Saint-Cyr. That
comedy, represented in 1842 or 1843 with creditable but not every
remunerative success—although it then had Firmin, Mesdemoiselles
Plessy and Anaïs as its exponents—had, at its revival, six years later,
twice the number of performances which it had had when it was a
novelty, making an incredible amount of money during its odd Saint
Martin's summer. But let us return to Charles VII. We have
mentioned what success the work met with; a comic incident very
nearly compromised it. Delafosse, one of the most conscientious
comedians I ever knew, played the part of Charles VII. As I have
said, Harel did not want to go to any expense over the play (this
time, indeed, he acted like a wise man); to such a degree that I had
been obliged, as is known, to borrow a fifteenth-century suit of
armour from the Artillery Museum; this cuirass was, on a receipt
from me, taken to the property room at the Odéon; there, the
theatrical armourer had occasion,—not to clean it, for it shone like
silver,—but to oil the springs and joints in order to bring back the
suppleness which they had lost during a state of rigidity that had
endured for four centuries. By degrees, the obliging cuirass was,
indeed, made pliable, and Delafosse, whose shell at the proper
moment it was to become, was able, although in an iron sheath, to
stretch out his legs and move his arms. The helmet alone declined
all concessions; its vizor had probably not been raised since the
coronation of Charles VII.; and, having seen such a solemnity as this
it absolutely refused to be lowered. Delafosse, a conscientious man,
as I have already indicated, looked with pain upon the obstinacy of
his vizor, which, during the whole time of his long war-like speech
did him good service by remaining raised, but which, when the
speech was ended, and he was going off the stage, would give him
when lowered a formidable appearance, upon which he set great
store. The armourer was called and, after many attempts, in which
he used in turn both gentle and coercive measures, oil and lime, he
got the wretched vizor to consent to be lowered. But, when this end
was achieved, it was almost as difficult a task to raise it again as it
had been to lower it. In lowering, it slipped over a spring, made in
the head of a nail, which, after several attempts, found an opening,
resumed its working, and fixed the vizor in such a way that neither
sword nor lance-thrusts could raise it again; this spring had to be
pressed with a squire's dagger before it could be pushed back again
into its socket, and permit the vizor to be raised. Delafosse troubled
little about this difficulty; he went out with lowered vizor and his
squire had plenty of time to perform the operation in the green
room. Had Henri II. but worn such a vizor he would not have died at
the hand of Montgomery! Behold on what things the fate of empires
depend! I might even say the same about the fate of plays! Henri II.
was killed because his vizor was raised. Charles VII. avoided this
because his vizor remained lowered. In the heat of delivery,
Delafosse made so violent a gesture that the vizor fell of itself,
yielding, doubtless, to the emotion that it felt. This may have been
its manner of applauding. Whatever the cause, Delafosse suddenly
found himself completely prevented from continuing his discourse.
The lines began in the clearest fashion imaginable; they were
emphasised most plainly, but ended in a lugubrious and unintelligible
bellowing. The audience naturally began to laugh. It is said that it is
impossible for our closest friend to refrain from laughter when he
sees us fall. It is no laughing matter, I can tell you, when a play fails,
but my best friends began to laugh. Luckily, the squire of King
Charles VII., or, rather, Delafosse's super (whichever you like), did
not forget on the stage the part he played behind the scenes; he
rushed forward, dagger in hand, on the unfortunate king; the public
only saw in the accident that had just happened a trick of the stage
and, in the action of the super, a fresh-incident. The laughter ceased
and the audience remained expectant. The result of the pause was
that in a few seconds the vizor rose again, and showed Charles VII.,
as red as a peony and very nearly stifled. The play concluded
without any other accident. Frédérick-Lemaître was angry with me
for a long time because I did not give him the part of Yaqoub; but
he was certainly mistaken about the character of that personage,
whom he took for an Othello. The sole resemblance between Othello
and Yaqoub lies in the colour of the face; the colour of the soul, if
one may be allowed to say so, is wholly different. I should have
made Othello—and I should have been very proud of it if I had!—
jealous, violent, carried away by his passions, a man of initiative and
of will-power, leader of the Venetian galleys; an Othello with
flattened nose, thick lips, prominent cheek-bones, frizzy hair; an
Othello, more negro than Arab, should I have given to Frédérick. But
my Othello, or, rather, my Yaqoub was more Arab than negro, a child
of the desert, swarthy complexioned rather than black, with straight
nose, thin lips, and smooth and flat hair; a sort of lion, taken from
his mother's breast and carried off from the red and burning sands
of the Sahara to the cold and damp flagstones of a château in the
West; in the darkness and cold he becomes enervated, languid,
poetical. It was the fine, aristocratic and rather sickly nature of
Lockroy which really suited the part. And, according to my thinking,
Lockroy played it admirably. The day after the first performance of
Charles VII. I received a good number of letters of congratulation.
The play had just enough secondary merit not to frighten anybody,
and brought me the compliments of people who, whether unable or
unwilling to pay them any longer to Ancelot, felt absolutely obliged
to pay them to somebody.
Meanwhile, the Théâtre-Français was preparing a play which was to
cause a much greater flutter than my poor Charles VII. This was the
Reine d'Espagne, by Henri de Latouche. M. de Latouche,—to whom
we shall soon have to devote our attention in connection with the
appearance upon our literary horizon of Madame Sand,—was a sort
of hermit, who lived at the Vallée-aux-Loups. The name of the
hermitage quite sufficiently describes the hermit. M. de Latouche
was a man of genuine talent; he has published a translation of
Hoffmann's Cardillac, and a very remarkable Neapolitan novel. The
translation—M. de Latouche obliterated the name on his stolen linen
—was called Olivier Brusson; the Neapolitan novel was called
Fragoletta. The novel is an obscure work, badly put together, but
certain parts of it are dazzling in their colour and truth; it is the
reflection of the Neapolitan sun upon the rocks of Pausilippe. The
Parthenopean Revolution is described therein in all its horrors, with
the bloodthirsty and unblushing nakedness of the peoples of the
South. M. de Latouche had, besides, rediscovered, collected and
published the poetry of André Chénier. He easily made people
believe that these poems were if not quite all his own, at least in a
great measure his. We will concede that M. Henri de Latouche
concocted a hemistich here and there where it was wanting, and
joined up a rhyme which the pen had forgotten to connect, but that
the verses of André Chénier are by M. de Latouche we will not grant!
We only knew M. de Latouche slightly; at the same time, we do not
believe that there was so great a capacity for the renunciation of
glory on his part as this, that he gave to André Chénier, twenty-five
years after the death of the young poet, that European reputation
from which he was able to enrich himself. Yet M. de Latouche wrote
very fine verse; Frédérick Soulié, who was then on friendly terms
with him, told me at times that his poetry was of marvellous
composition and supreme originality. In short, M. de Latouche, a
solitary misanthrope, a harsh critic, a capricious friend, had just
written a five-act prose comedy upon the most immodest subject in
France and Spain; not content with shaking the bells of Comus, as
said the members of the Caveau, he rang a full peal on the bells of
the theatre of the rue de Richelieu. This comedy took for its theme
the impotence of King Charles II., and for plot, the advantage
accruing to Austria supposing the husband of Marie-Louise d'Orléans
produced a child, and the advantage to France supposing his wife
did not have one. As may be seen it was a delicate subject. It must
be admitted that M. de Latouche's redundant imagination had found
a way of skating over the risks of danger which threatened ordinary
authors. When one act is finished it is usually the same with the
author as with the sufferer put to the rack: he has a rest, but lives in
expectation of fresh tortures to follow. But M. de Latouche would not
allow himself any moments of repose; he substituted Interludes
between the acts. We will reproduce verbatim the interlude between
the second and the third act. It is needless to explain the situation:
the reader will easily guess that, thanks to the efforts of the king's
physician, Austria is on the way to triumph over France.

"INTERLUDE
"The personages go out, and after a few minutes interval, the
footlights are lowered; night descends. The Chamberlain,
preceded by torches, appears at the door of the Queen's
apartment, and knocks upon it with his sword-hilt; the head
lady-in-waiting comes to the door. They whisper together; the
Chamberlain disappears; then, upon a sign from the head lady-
in-waiting, the Queen's women arrive successively and
ceremoniously group themselves around their chief. A young
lady-in-waiting holds back the velvet curtain over the Queen's
bedroom. The king's cortège advances; two pages precede his
Majesty, holding upon rich cushions the king's sword and the
king's breeches. His Majesty is in his night attire of silk,
embroidered with gold flowers, edged with ermine; two crowns
are embroidered on the lapels. Charles II. wears, carried on a
sash, the blue ribbon of France, in honour of the niece of Louis
XIV. While passing in front of the line of courtiers, he makes
sundry gestures of recognition, pleasure and satisfaction, and
the recipients of these marks of favour express their delight.
Charles II. stops a moment: according to etiquette he has to
hand the candlestick borne by one of the officers to one of the
Queen's ladies. His Majesty chooses at a glance the prettiest girl
and indicates this favour by a gesture. Two ladies receives the
breeches and the sword from the hands of the pages, the
others allow the King to pass and quickly close up their ranks.
 When the curtain has fallen behind his Majesty, the nurse cries,
Vive le roi! This cry is repeated by all those present. A
symphony, which at first solemnly began with the air of the
Folies d'Espagne, ends the concert with a serenade."

The work was performed but once and it has not yet been played in
its entirety. From that very night M. de Latouche withdrew his play.
But, although the public forgot his drama, M. de Latouche was of too
irascible and too vindictive a nature to let the public forget it. He did
pretty much what M. Arnault did: he appealed from the performance
to the printed edition; only, he did not dedicate the Reine d'Espagne
to the prompter. People had heard too much of what the actors had
said, from the first word to the last; the play failed through a revolt
of modesty and morality, and so the author contested the question
of indecency and immorality. We will reproduce the preface of our
fellow-dramatist de Latouche. As annalist we relate the fact; as
keeper of archives, we find room for the memorandum in our
archives.[1]
The protest he made was not enough; he followed it up by pointing
out, in the printed play, every fluctuation of feeling shown in the pit
and even in the boxes. Thus, one finds successively the following
notes at the foot of his pages—

.·. Here they begin to cough.

.·. Whispers. The piece is attacked by persons as thoroughly
informed beforehand as the author of the risks of this somewhat
novel situation.

As a matter of fact, the situation was so novel, that the public would
not allow it to grow old.

.·. Here the whispers redouble.

.·. The pit rises divided between two opinions.
 .·. This detail of manners, accurately historic, excites lively
disapproval.

See, at page 56 of the play, the detail of manners.

.·. Uproar.
.·. A pretty general rising caused by a chaste interpretation
suggested by the pit.

See page 72, for the suggestion of this chaste interpretation.

.·. Prolonged, Oh! oh!'s.

.·. They laugh.
.·. They become indignant. A voice: "It takes two to make a
child!"
.·. Interruption.
.·. Movement of disapprobation; the white hair of the old monk
should, however, put aside all ideas of indecency in this
interview.
.·. Deserved disapproval.
.·. The sentence is cut in two by an obscene interruption.

See the sentence, on page 115.

.·. Disapproval.
.·. After this scene (the seventh of the fourth act) the piece,
scarcely listened to at all, was not criticised any further.

This was the only attempt M. de Latouche made at the theatre, and,
from that time onwards, la Vallée-aux-Loups more than ever
deserved its name.

[1] See end of volume.

 CHAPTER VII

Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras

Meanwhile, the drama of Pierre III. by the unfortunate Escousse was

played at the Théâtre-Français. I did not see Pierre III.; I tried to get
hold of it to read it, but it seems that the drama has not been
printed.
This is what Lesur said about it in his Annuaire for 1831—

"THÉÂTRE-FRANÇAIS (28 December.)—First performance of Pierre

III., a drama in five acts; in verse, by M. Escousse.
"The failure of this work dealt a fatal blow to its author; carried
away, as he probably was, with the success of Farruck le Maure.
In Pierre III., neither history, nor probability, nor reason, was
respected. It was a deplorable specimen of the fanatical and
uncouth style of literature (these two epithets are my own),
made fashionable by men possessed of too real a talent for their
example not to cause many lamentable imitations. But who
could suspect that the author's life was bound up in his work?
Yet one more trial, one more failure and the unhappy young
man was to die!..."

And, indeed, Victor Escousse and Auguste Lebras in collaboration

soon put on at the Gaieté the drama of Raymond, which also failed.
Criticism must have been cruelly incensed against this drama, since
we find, after the last words of the play, a postscript containing
these few lines, signed by one of the authors—

"P.S.—This work roused much criticism against us, and it must

be admitted, few people have made allowances for two poor
young fellows, the oldest of whom is scarcely twenty, in the
attempt which they made to create an interesting situation with
 five characters, rejecting all the accessories of melodrama. But I
have no intention of seeking to defend ourselves. I simply wish
to proclaim the gratitude that I owe to Victor Escousse, who, in
order to open the way for my entry into theatrical circles,
admitted me to collaboration with himself; I also wish to defend
him, as far as it is in my power, against the calumnious
statements which are openly made against his character as a
man; imputing a ridiculous vanity to him which I have never
noticed in him. I say it publicly, I have nothing but praise to give
him in respect of his behaviour towards me, not only as
collaborator, but still more as a friend. May these few words,
thus frankly written, soften the darts which hatred has been
pleased to hurl against a young man whose talent, I hope, will
some day stifle the words of those who attack him without
knowing him!
"AUGUSTE LEBRAS"

Yet Escousse had so thoroughly understood the fact that with

success would come struggle, and with the amelioration of material
position would come a recrudescence in moral suffering, that, after
the success in Farruck le Maure, when he left his little workman's
room to take rather more comfortable quarters as an honoured
author, he addressed to that room, the witness of his first emotions
as poet and lover, the lines here given—
À MA CHAMBRE

"De mon indépendance,

Adieu, premier séjour,
Où mon adolescence
A duré moins d'un jour!
Bien que peu je regrette
Un passé déchirant,
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!
Du sort, avec courage,
J'ai subi tous les coups;
Et, du moins, mon partage
N'a pu faire un jaloux.
La faim, dans ma retraite,
M'accueillait en rentrant ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!

Au sein de la détresse,
Quand je suçais mon lait,
Une tendre maîtresse
Point ne me consolait,
Solitaire couchette
M'endormait soupirant ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!

De ma muse, si tendre,
Un Dieu capricieux
Ne venait point entendre
Le sons ambitieux.
Briller pour l'indiscrète,
Est besoin dévorant ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!

Adieu! le sort m'appelle

Vers un monde nouveau;
Dans couchette plus belle,
J'oublîrai mon berceau.
Peut-être, humble poète
Lion de vous sera grand ...
Pourtant, pauvre chambrette,
Je vous quitte en pleurant!"
In fact, that set of apartments which Escousse had taken in place of
his room, and where, it will be seen, he had not installed himself
without pain, saw him enter on 18 February, with his friend Auguste
Lebras, followed by the daughter of the porter, who was carrying a
bushel of charcoal. He had just bought this charcoal from the
neighbouring greengrocer. While the woman was measuring it out,
he said to Lebras—
"Do you think a bushel is enough?"
"Oh, yes!" replied the latter.
They paid, and asked that the charcoal might be sent at once. The
porter's daughter left the bushel of charcoal in the anteroom at their
request, and went away, little supposing she had just shut in Death
with the two poor lads. Three days before, Escousse had taken the
second key of his room from the portress on purpose to prevent any
hindrance to this pre-arranged plan. The two friends separated. The
same night Escousse wrote to Lebras—

"I expect you at half-past eleven; the curtain will be raised.

Come, so that we may hurry on the dénoûment!"

Lebras came at the appointed hour; he had no thought of failing to

keep the appointment: the fatal thought of suicide had been
germinating for a long while in his brain. The charcoal was already
lit. They stuffed up the doors and windows with newspapers. Then
Escousse went to a table and wrote the following note:—

"Escousse has killed himself because he does not feel he has

any place in this life; because his strength fails him at every
step he takes forwards or backwards; because fame does not
satisfy his soul, if soul there be!
"I desire that the motto of my book may be—
"'Adieu, trop inféconde terre,
Fléaux humains, soleil glacé!
Comme un fantôme solitaire,
 Inaperçu j'aurai passé.
Adieu, les palmes immortelles,
Vrai songe d'une âme de feu!
L'air manquait: J'ai fermé mes ailes, Adieu!'"

This, as we have said, took place at half-past eleven. At midnight,

Madame Adolphe, who had just been acting at the Théâtre Porte-
Saint-Martin, returned home; she lodged on the same floor as
Escousse, and the young man's suite of rooms was only separated
from her's by a partition. A strange sound seemed to her to come
from those rooms. She listened: she thought she heard a twofold
noise as of raucous breathing. She called, she knocked on the
partition, but she did not obtain any reply. Escousse's father also
lived on the same floor, on which four doors opened; these four
doors belonged to the rooms of Escousse, his father, Madame
Adolphe and Walter, an actor I used to know well at that time, but of
whom I have since lost sight. Madame Adolphe ran to the father of
Escousse, awakened him (for he was already asleep), made him get
up and come with her to listen to the raucous breathing which had
terrified her. It had decreased, but was still audible; audible enough
for them to hear the dismal sound of two breathings. The father
listened for a few seconds; then he laughingly said to Madame
Adolphe, "You jealous woman!" And he went off to bed not wishing
to listen to her observations any further.
Madame Adolphe remained by herself. Until two o'clock in the
morning she heard this raucous sound to which she alone persisted
in giving its true significance. Incredulous though Escousse's father
had been, he was haunted by dismal presentiments all night long.
About eight o'clock next morning he went and knocked at his son's
door. No one answered. He listened; all was silent. Then the idea
came to him that Escousse was at the Vauxhall baths, to which the
young man sometimes went. He went to Walter's rooms, told him
what had passed during the night, and of his uneasiness in the
morning. Walter offered to run to Vauxhall, and the offer was
accepted. At Vauxhall, Escousse had not been seen by anyone. The
father's uneasiness increased; it was nearly his office hour, but he
could not go until he was reassured by having his son's door
opened. A locksmith was called in and the door was broken open
with difficulty, for the key which had locked it from the inside was in
the keyhole. The key being still in the lock frightened the poor father
to such an extent that, when the door was open, he did not dare to
cross the threshold. It was Walter who entered, whilst he remained
leaning against the staircase bannisters. The inner door was, as we
have said, stuffed up, but not closed either with bolt or key; Walter
pushed it violently, broke through the obstructing paper and went in.
The fumes of the charcoal were still so dense that he nearly fell
back. Nevertheless, he penetrated into the room, seized the first
object to hand, a water-bottle, I believe, and hurled it at the
window. A pane of glass was broken by the crash, and gave ingress
to the outer air. Walter could now breathe, and he went to the
window and opened it.
Then the terrible spectacle revealed itself to him in all its fearful
nakedness. The two young men were lying dead: Lebras on the
floor, upon a mattress which he had dragged from the bed; Escousse
on the bed itself. Lebras, of weakly constitution and feeble health,
had easily been overcome by death; but with his companion it had
been otherwise; strong and full of health, the struggle had been long
and must have been cruel; at least, this was what was indicated by
his legs drawn up under his body and his clenched hands, with the
nails driven into the flesh. The father nearly went out of his mind.
Walter often told me that he should always see the two poor youths,
one on his mattress, the other on his bed. Madame Adolphe did not
dare to keep her rooms: whenever she woke in the night, she
thought she could hear the death-rattle, which the poor father had
taken for the sighs of lovers!
The excellent elegy which this suicide inspired Béranger to write is
well-known; we could wish our readers had forgotten that we had
given them part of it when we were speaking of the famous song-
writer: that would have allowed us to quote the whole of it here; but
how can they have forgotten that we have already fastened that rich
poetic embroidery on to our rags of prose?

CHAPTER VIII

First performance of Robert le Diable—Véron, manager of the

Opéra—His opinion concerning Meyerbeer's music—My opinion
concerning Véron's intellect—My relations with him—His articles
and Memoirs—Rossini's judgment of Robert le Diable—Nourrit,
the preacher—Meyerbeer—First performance of the Fuite de
Law, by M. Mennechet—First performance of Richard Darlington
—Frédérick-Lemaître—Delafosse—Mademoiselle Noblet

Led away into reminiscences of Escousse and of Lebras, whom we

followed from the failure of Pierre III. to the day of their death, from
the evening of 28 December 1831, that is, to the night of 18
February 1832, we have passed over the first performances of
Richard Darlington and even of Térésa. Let us go back a step and
return to the night of 21 October, at one o'clock in the morning, to
Nourrit's dressing room, who had just had a fall from the first floor
of the Opéra owing to an ill-fitting trap-door.
The first representation of Robert le Diable had just been given. It
would be a curious thing to write the history of that great opera,
which nearly failed at the first representation, now reckons over four
hundred performances and is the doyen of all operas now born and,
probably, yet to be born. At first, Véron, who had passed from the
management of the Revue de Paris to that of the Opéra, had from
the first hearing of Meyerbeer's work,—in full rehearsal since its
acceptance at the theatre of the rue Lepeletier,—declared that he
thought the score detestable, and that he would only play it under
compulsion or if provided with a sufficient indemnity. The
government, which had just made, with respect to that new
management, one of the most scandalous contracts which have ever
existed; the government, which at that period gave a subsidy to the
Opéra of nine hundred thousand francs, thought Véron's demand
quite natural; and convinced, with him, that the music of Robert le
Diable was execrable, gave to its well-beloved manager sixty or
eighty thousand francs subsidy for playing a work which now
provides at least a third of the fifty or sixty thousand francs income
which Véron enjoys. Does not this little anecdote prove that the
tradition of putting a man at the Opéra who knows nothing about
music goes back to an epoch anterior to the nomination of Nestor
Roqueplan,—who, in his letters to Jules Janin, boasts that he does
not know the value of a semibreve or the signification of a natural?
No, it proves that Véron is a speculator of infinite shrewdness, and
that his refusal to play Meyerbeer's opera was a clever speculation.
Now, does Véron prefer that we should say that he was not learned
in music? Let him correct our statement. It is common knowledge
with what respect we submit to correction. There is one point
concerning which we will not admit correction: namely, what we
have just said about Véron's intellect. What we here state we have
repeated a score of times speaking to him in person, as a certain
class of functionaries has it. Véron is a clever man, even a very
clever man, and it would not be doubted if he had not the
misfortune to be a millionaire. Véron and I were never on very
friendly terms; he has never, I believe, had a high opinion of my
talent. As editor of the Revue de Paris he never asked me for a
single article; as manager of the Opéra, he has never asked me for
anything but a single poem for Meyerbeer, and that on condition I
wrote the poem in collaboration with Scribe; which nearly landed me
in a quarrel with Meyerbeer and wholly in one with Scribe. Finally, as
manager of the Constitutionnel, he only made use of me when the
success which I had obtained on the Journal des Débats, the Siècle
and the Presse had in some measure forced his hand. Our
engagement lasted three years. During those three years we had a
lawsuit which lasted three months; then, finally, we amicably broke
the contract, when I had still some twenty volumes to give him, and
at the time of this rupture I owed him six thousand francs. It was
agreed that I should give Véron twelve thousand lines for these six
thousand francs. Some time after, Véron sold the Constitutionnel. For
the first journal that Véron shall start, he can draw upon me for
twelve thousand lines, at twelve days' sight: on the thirteenth day
the signature shall be honoured. Our position with regard to Véron
being thoroughly established, we repeat that it is Véron's millions
which injure his reputation. How can it be admitted that a man can
both possess money and intellect? The thing is impossible!
"But," it will be urged, "if Véron is a clever man, who writes his
articles? Who composes his Memoirs?"
Some one else will reply—"He did not; they are written by
Malitourne."
I pay no regard to what may lie underneath. When the articles or
the Memoirs are signed Véron, both articles and Memoirs are by
Véron so far as I am concerned: what else can you do? It is Véron's
weakness to imagine that he can write. Good gracious! if he did not
write, his reputation as an intellectual man would be made, in spite
of his millions! But it happens that, thanks to these deuced articles
and those blessed Memoirs, people laugh in my face when I say that
Véron has intellect. It is in vain for me to be vexed and angry, and
shout out and appeal to people who have supped with him, good
judges in the matter of wit, to believe me; everybody replies, even
those who have not supped with him: That is all very well! You say
this because you owe M. Véron twelve thousand lines! As if because
one owes a man twelve thousand lines it were a sufficient excuse for
saying that he has intellect! Take, for example, the case of M. Tillot,
of the Siècle, who says that I owe him twenty-four thousand lines;
at that rate, I ought to say that he has twice as much intellect as
Véron. But I do not say so; I will content myself with saying that I
do not owe him those twenty-four thousand lines, and that he, on
the contrary, owes me something like three or four hundred
thousand francs or more, certainly not less.
But where on earth were we? Oh! I remember! we were talking
about the first night of Robert le Diable. After the third act I met
Rossini in the green-room.
"Come now, Rossini," I asked him, "what do you think of that?"
"Vat do I zink?" replied Rossini.
"Yes, what do you think of it?"
"Veil, I zink zat if my best friend vas vaiting for me at ze corner of a
wood vis a pistol, and put zat pistol to my throat, zaying, 'Rossini, zu
art going to make zur best opera!' I should do it."
"And suppose you had no one friendly enough towards you to render
you this service?"
"Ah! in zat case all vould be at an end, and I azzure you zat I vould
never write one zingle note of music again!"
Alas! the friend was not forthcoming, and Rossini kept his oath.
I meditated upon these words of the illustrious maestro during the
fourth and fifth acts of Robert, and, after the fifth act, I went to the
stage to inquire of Nourrit if he was not hurt. I felt a strong
friendship towards Nourrit, and he, on his side, was much attached
to me. Nourrit was not only an eminent actor, he was also a
delightful man; he had but one fault: when you paid him a
compliment on his acting or on his voice, he would listen to you in a
melancholy fashion, and reply with his hand on your shoulder—
"Ah! my friend, I was not born to be a singer or a comedian!"
"Indeed! Then why were you born?"
"I was born to mount a pulpit, not a stage."
"A pulpit!"
"Yes."
"And what the deuce would you do in a pulpit?"
"I should guide humanity in the way of progress.... Oh! you
misjudge me; you do not know my real character."
Poor Nourrit! He made a great mistake in wanting to have been or to
appear other than he was: he was a delightful player! a dignified
and noble and kindly natured man! He had taken the Revolution of
1830 very seriously, and, for three months, he appeared every other
day on the stage of the Opéra as a National Guard, singing the
Marseillaise, flag in hand. Unluckily, his patriotism was sturdier than
his voice, and he broke his voice in that exercise. It was because his
voice had already become weaker that Meyerbeer put so little
singing in the part of Robert. Nourrit was in despair, not because of
his failure, but because of that of the piece. In common with
everyone else, he thought the work had failed. Meyerbeer was
himself quite melancholy enough! Nourrit introduced us to one
another. Our acquaintance dates from that night.
Meyerbeer was a very clever man; from the first he had had the
sense to place a great fortune at the service of an immense
reputation. Only, he did not make his fortune with his reputation; it
might almost be said that he made his reputation with his fortune.
Meyerbeer was never for one instant led aside from his object,—
whether he was by himself or in society, in France or in Germany, at
the table of the hotel des Princes or at the Casino at Spa,—and that
object was success. Most assuredly, Meyerbeer gave himself more
trouble to achieve success than in writing his scores. We say this
because it seems to us that there are two courses to take.
Meyerbeer should leave his scores to make their own successes; we
should gain one opera out of every three. I admire the more this
quality of tenacity of purpose in a man since it is entirely lacking in
myself. I have always let managers look after their interests and
mine on first nights; and, next day, upon my word! let people say
what they like, whether good or ill! I have been working for the
stage for twenty-five years now, and writing books for as long: I
challenge a single newspaper editor to say he has seen me in his
office to ask the favour of a single puff. Perhaps in this indifference
lies my strength. In the five or six years that have just gone by, as
soon as my plays have been put on the stage, with all the care and
intelligence of which I am capable, it has often happened that I have
not been present at my first performance, but have waited to hear
any news about it that others, more curious than myself, who had
been present, should bring me.
But at the time of Richard Darlington I had not yet attained to this
high degree of philosophy. As soon as the play was finished, it had
been read to Harel, who had just left the management of the Odéon
to take up that of the Porte-Saint-Martin, and, be it said, Harel had
accepted it at once; he had immediately put it in rehearsal, and,
after a month of rehearsals, all scrupulously attended by me, we had
got to 10 December, the day fixed for the first performance. The
Théâtre-Français was in competition with us, and played the same
day La Fuite de Law, by M. Mennechet, ex-reader to King Charles X.
In his capacity of ex-reader to King Charles X., Mennechet was a
Royalist. I shall always recollect the sighs he heaved when he was
compelled, as editor of Plutarque français, to insert in it the
biography of the Emperor Napoléon. Had he been in a position to
consult his own personal feelings only, he would certainly have
excluded from his publication the Conqueror of Marengo, of
Austerlitz and of Jena; but he was not the complete master of it:
since Napoléon had taken Cairo, Berlin, Vienna and Moscow, he had
surely the right to monopolise fifty or sixty columns in the Plutarque
français. I know something about those sighs; for he came to ask
me for that biography of Napoléon, and it was I who drew it up. In
spite of the competition of the Théâtre-Français there was a
tremendous stir over Richard. It was known beforehand that the
play had a political side to it of great significance, and the
feverishness of men's minds at that period made a storm out of
everything. People crushed at the doors to get tickets. At the rising
of the curtain the house seemed full to overflowing. Frédérick was
the pillar who supported the whole affair. He had supporting him,
Mademoiselle Noblet, Delafosse, Doligny and Madame Zélie-Paul. But
so great was the power of this fine dramatic genius that he
electrified everybody. Everyone in some degree was inspired by him,
and by contact with him increased his own strength without
decreasing that of the great player. Frédérick was then in the full
zenith of his talent. Unequal like Kean,—whose personality he was to
copy two or three years later,—sublime like Kean, he had the same
qualities he exhibits to-day, and, though in a lesser degree, the same
defects. He was just the same then in the relations of ordinary life,—
difficult, unsociable, capricious, as he is to-day. In other respects he
was a man of sound judgment; taking as much interest in the play
as in his own part in the suggestions he proposed, and as much
interest in the author as in himself. He had been excellent at the
rehearsals. At the performance itself he was magnificent! I do not
know where he had studied that gambler on the grand scale whom
we style an ambitious man; men of genius must study in their own
hearts what they cannot know except in dreams. Next to Frédérick,
Doligny was capital in the part of Tompson. It was to the recollection
I had of him in this rôle that the poor fellow owed, later, the sad
privilege of being associated with me in my misfortunes. Delafosse,
who played Mawbray, had moments of genuine greatness. One
instance of it was where he waits at the edge of a wood, in a fearful
storm, for the passing of the post-chaise in which Tompson is
carrying off Jenny. An accident which might have made a hitch and
upset the play at that juncture was warded off by his presence of
mind. Mawbray has to kill Tompson by shooting him; for greater
security, Delafosse had taken two pistols; real stage-pistols, hired
from a gunsmith,—they both missed fire! Delafosse never lost his
head: he made a pretence of drawing a dagger from his pocket, and
killed Tompson with a blow from his fist, as he had not been able to
blow out his brains. Mademoiselle Noblet was fascinatingly tender
and loving, a charming and poetic being. In the last scene she fell so
completely under Frédérick's influence as to utter cries of genuine
not feigned terror. The fable took on all the proportions of reality for
her. The final scene was one of the most terrible I ever saw on the
stage. When Jenny asked him, "What are you going to do?" and
Richard replied, "I do not know; but pray to God!" a tremendous
shudder ran all over the house, and a murmur of fear, escaping from
every breast, became an actual shriek of terror. At the conclusion of
the second act Harel had come up to my avant-scène:[1]—I had the
chief avant-scène by right, and from it I could view the performance
as though I were a stranger. Harel, I say, came up to entreat me to
have my name mentioned with that of Dinaux: the name, be it
known, by which Goubaux and Beudin were known on the stage. I
refused. During the third act he came up again, accompanied this
time by my two collaborators, and furnished with three bank-notes
of a thousand francs each. Goubaux and Beudin, good, excellent,
brotherly hearted fellows, came to ask me to have my name given
alone. I had done the whole thing, they said, and my right to the
success was incontestable. I had done the whole thing!—except
finding the subject, except providing the outlines of the
development, except, finally, the execution of the chief scene
between the king and Richard, the scene in which I had completely
failed. I embraced them and refused. Harel offered me the three
thousand francs. He had come at an opportune moment: tears were
in my eyes, and I held a hand of each of my two friends in mine. I
refused him, but I did not embrace him. The curtain fell in the midst
of frantic applause. They called Richard before the curtain, then
Jenny, Tompson, Mawbray, the whole company. I took advantage of
the spectators being still glued to their places to go out and make
for the door of communication. I wanted to take the actors in my
arms on their return to the wings. I came across Musset in the
corridor; he was very pale and very much moved.
"Well," I asked him; "what is the matter, my dear poet?"
"I am suffocating!" he replied.
It was, I think, the finest praise he could have paid the work,—the
drama of Richard is, indeed, suffocating. I reached the wings in time
to shake hands with everybody. And yet I did not feel the same
emotion as on the night of Antony! The success had been as great,
but the players were nothing like as dear to me. There is an abyss
between my character and habits and those of Frédérick which three
triumphs in common have not enabled either of us to bridge. What a
difference between my friendship with Bocage! Between
Mademoiselle Noblet and myself, pretty and fascinating as she was
at that date, there existed none but purely artistic relations; she
interested me as a young and beautiful person of promising future,
and that was all. What a difference, to be sure, from the double and
triple feelings with which Dorval inspired me! Although to-day the
most active of these sentiments has been extinguished these twenty
years; though she herself has been dead for four or five years, and
forgotten by most people who should have remembered her, and
who did not even see her taken to her last resting-place, her name
falls constantly from my pen, just as her memory strikes ever a pang
at my heart! Perhaps it will be said that my joy was not so great
because my name remained unknown and my personality concealed.
On that head I have not even the shadow of a regret. I can answer
for it that my two collaborators were more sadly troubled at being
named alone than I at not being named at all. Richard had an
immense success, and it was just that it should: Richard, without
question, is an excellent drama. I beg leave to be as frank
concerning myself as I am with regard to others.
Twenty-one days after the performance of Richard Darlington the
year 1831 went to join its sisters in that unknown world to which
Villon relegates dead moons, and where he seeks, without finding
them, the snows of yester year. Troubled though the year had been
by political disturbances, it had been splendid for art. I had produced
three pieces,—one bad, Napoléon Bonaparte; one mediocre, Charles
VII.; and one good, Richard Darlington.
Hugo had put forth Marion Delorme, and had published Notre-Dame
de Paris—something more than a roman, a book!—and his volume
the Feuilles d'Automne.
Balzac had published the Peau de chagrin, one of his most irritating
productions. Once for all, my estimation of Balzac, both as a man
and as an author, is not to be relied upon: as a man, I knew him but
little, and what I did know did not rouse in me the least sympathy;
as regards his talent, his manner of composition, of creation, of
production, were so different from mine, that I am a bad judge of
him, and I condemn myself on this head, quite conscious that I can
justly be called in question.
But to continue. Does my reader know, omitting mention of M.
Comte's theatre and of that of the Funambules, what was played in
Paris from 1 January 1809 to 31 December 1831? Well, there were
played 3558 theatrical pieces, to which Scribe contributed 3358;
Théaulor, 94; Brazier, 93; Dartois, 92, Mélesville, 80; Dupin, 56;
Antier, 53; Dumersan, 55; de Courcy, 50. The whole world compared
with this could not have provided a quarter of it! Nor was painting
far behind: Vernet had reached the zenith of his talent; Delacroix
and Delaroche were ascending the upward path of theirs. Vernet had
exhibited ... But before speaking of their works, let us say a few
words of the men themselves.
[1] At the front of the stage.—TRANS.

CHAPTER IX

Horace Vernet

Vernet was then a man of forty-two. You are acquainted with Horace
Vernet, are you not? I will not say as painter—pooh! who does not
know, indeed, the artist of the Bataille de Montmirail, of the Prise de
Constantine, of the Déroute de la Smala? No, I mean as man. You
will have seen him pass a score of times, chasing the stag or the
boar, in shooting costume; or crossing the place du Carrousel, or
parading in the court of the Tuileries, in the brilliant uniform of a
staff officer. He was a handsome cavalier, a dainty, lithe, tall figure,
with sparkling eyes, high cheek-bones, a mobile face and
moustaches à la royale Louis XIII. Imagine him something like
d'Artagnan. For Horace looked far more like a musketeer than a
painter; or, say, like a painter of the type of Velasquez, or Van Dyck,
and, like the Cavalier Tempesta, with curled-up moustache, sword
dangling against his heels, his horse snorting forth fire from its
nostrils. The whole race of Vernets were of a similar type. Joseph
Vernet, the grandfather, had himself bound to a ship's mast during a
tempest. Karl Vernet, the father, would, I am certain, have given
many things to have been carried off, like Mazeppa, across the
Steppes of Ukraine on a furious horse, reeking with foam and blood.
For, be it known, Horace Vernet brings up the rear of a quadruple
series, the latest of four generations of painters,—he is the son of
Karl, the grandson of Joseph Vernet, the great-grandson of Antoine.
Then, as though this were not enough, his maternal ancestor was
the younger Moreau, that is to say, one of the foremost draughts-
men and ablest engravers of the eighteenth century. Antoine Vernet
painted flowers upon sedan chairs. There are two chairs painted and
signed by him at Marseilles. Joseph Vernet has adorned every
museum in France with his sea pictures. He is to Havre, Brest,
Lorient, Marseilles and Toulon what Canaletto is to Venice.
Karl, who began by bearing off the grand prix of Rome with his
composition of the Enfant prodigue, became, in 1786, an
enthusiastic painter of everything English. The Duc d'Orléans bought
at fabulous prices the finest of English horses. Karl Vernet became
mad on horses, drew them, painted them, made them his speciality
and so became famous. As for Horace, he was born in 1789, the
year in which his grandfather Joseph died and his father Karl was
made an Academician. Born a painter, so to say, his first steps were
taken in a studio.
"Who is your master?" I once asked him.
"I never had one."
"But who taught you to draw and paint?"
"I do not know.... When I could only walk on all fours I used to pick
up pencils and paint brushes. When I found paper I drew; when I
found canvas I painted, and one fine day it was discovered that I
was a painter."
When ten years old, Horace sold his first drawing to a merchant: it
was a tulip commissioned by Madame de Périgord. This was the first
money he had earned, twenty-four sous! And the merchant paid him
these twenty-four sous in one of those white coins that were still to
be seen about in 1816, but which we do not see now and shall
probably not see again. This happened in 1799. From that moment
Horace Vernet found a market for drawings, rough sketches and six-
inch canvases. In 1811 the King of Westphalia commissioned his first
two pictures: the Prise du camp retranché de Galatz and the Prise de
Breslau. I have seen them scores of times at King Jérome's palace;
they are not your best work, my dear Horace! But they brought him
in sixteen thousand francs. It was the first considerable sum of
money he had received; it was the first out of which he could put
something aside. Then came 1812, 1813 and 1814, and the downfall
of the whole Napoléonic edifice. The world shook to its foundations:
Europe became a volcano, society seemed about to dissolve. There
was no thought of painting, or literature, or art! What do you
suppose became of Vernet, who could not then obtain for his
pictures eight thousand francs, or four thousand, or a thousand, or
five hundred, or a hundred, or even fifty? Vernet drew designs for
the Journal des Modes;—three for a hundred francs: 33 francs 33
centimes each drawing! One day he showed me all these drawings,
a collection of which he kept; I counted nearly fifteen hundred of
them with feelings of profound emotion. The 33 francs 33 centimes
brought to my mind my 166 francs 65 centimes,—the highest figure
my salary had ever reached. Vernet was a child of the Revolution;
but as a young man he knew only the Empire. An ardent Bonapartist
in 1815, more fervent still, perhaps, in 1816, he gave many sword
strokes and sweeps of the paint brush in honour of Napoléon, both
exercised as secretly as possible. In 1818, the Duc d'Orléans
conceived the idea of ordering Vernet to paint pictures for him. The
suggestion was transmitted to the painter on the prince's behalf.
"Willingly," said the painter, "but on condition that they shall be
military pictures."
The prince accepted.
"That the pictures," added the painter, "shall be of the time of the
Republic and of the Empire."
Again the prince acceded.
"Finally," added the painter, "on condition that the soldiers of the
Empire and of the Revolution shall wear tricolor cockades."
"Tell M. Vernet," replied the prince to this, "that he can put the first
cockade in my hat."
And as a matter of fact the Duc d'Orléans decided that the first
picture which Vernet should execute for him should be of himself as
Colonel of Dragoons, saving a poor refractory priest: a piece of good
fortune which befell the prince in 1792, and which has been related
by us at length in our Histoire de Louis Philippe. Horace Vernet
painted the picture and had the pleasure of putting the first tricolor
cockade ostentatiously on the helmet. About this time the Duc de
Berry urgently desired to visit the painter's studio, whose reputation
grew with the rapidity of the giant Adamastor. But Vernet did not
love the Bourbons, especially those of the Older Branch. With the
Duc d'Orléans it was different; he had been a Jacobin. Horace
refused admission to his studio to the son of Charles X.
"Oh! Good gracious!" said the Duc de Berry, "if in order to be
received by M. Vernet it is but a question of putting on a tricolor
cockade, tell him that, although I do not wear M. Laffitte's colours at
my heart, I will put them in my hat, if it must be so, the day I enter
his house."
The suggestion did not come to anything either, because the painter
did not accede to it; or because, the painter having acceded to it,
the prince declined to submit to such an exacting condition.
In less than eighteen months Vernet painted for the Duc d'Orléans—
the condition concerning the tricolor cockades being always
respected—the fine series of pictures which constitute his best work:
Montmirail, in which he puts more than tricolor cockades, namely,
the Emperor himself riding away into the distance on his white
horse; Hanau, Jemappes and Valmy. But all these tricolor cockades,
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