An Englishman In Paris Part 9

For it should be added that the sumptuous dwelling which was to be, was at that moment absolutely bare of furniture, save a few deal chairs and tables. The garden was a wilderness, intersected by devious paths, sloping so suddenly as to make it impossible to keep one's balance without the aid of an Alpenstock or the large stones imbedded in the soil, but only temporarily, by the considerate owner. One day, Dutacq, the publisher, having missed his footing, rolled as far as the wall inclosing the domain, without his friends being able to stop him.

The garden, like everything else connected with the schemes of Balzac, was eventually to become a gold-mine. Part of it was to be built upon, and converted into a dairy; another part was to be devoted to the culture of the pineapple and the Malaga grape, all of which would yield an income of 30,000 francs annually "at least"--to borrow Balzac's own words.

The apartments had been furnished in the same grandiose way--theoretically. The walls were, as I have already remarked, absolutely bare, but on their plaster, scarcely dry, were magnificent inscriptions of what was to be. They were mapped out regardless of expense. On that facing the north there was a splendid piece of thirteenth-century Flemish tapestry--in writing, of course, flanked by two equally priceless pictures by Raphael and t.i.tian. Facing these, one by Rembrandt, and, underneath, a couch, a couple of arm-chairs, and six ordinary ones, Louis XV., and upholstered in Aubusson tapestry--subjects, Lafontaine's Fables. Opposite again, a monumental mantelpiece in malachite (a present of Czar Nicholas, who had expressed his admiration of Balzac's novels), with bronzes and clock by De Gouttieres. The place on the ceiling was marked for a chandelier of Venetian gla.s.s, and in the dining-room a square was drawn on the carpetless floor for the capacious sideboard, whereon would be displayed "the magnificent family plate."

Pending the arrival of the furniture, the building of the dairy, hothouses, and vineries, the guests had to sit on hard wooden chairs, to eat a vile dinner, supplemented, however, by an excellent dessert.

Balzac was very fond of fruit, and especially of pears, of which he always ate an enormous quant.i.ty. The wine was, as a rule, very inferior, but on that particular occasion Balzac's guests discovered that their host's imagination could even play him more cruel tricks in the selection of his vintages than it played him in his pursuit of financial schemes and the furnishing of his house.

When the fruit was placed upon the table, Balzac a.s.sumed a most solemn air. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am going to give you some Chateau-Lafitte, such as you have never tasted--such as it has been given to few mortals to taste. I wish you to sip it carefully--I might almost say reverently, because the opportunity may not repeat itself in our lives."

Wherewith the guests' gla.s.ses were filled; all of them made horrible faces, for it was abominable stuff, but one more outspoken than the rest gave his opinion there and then--

"This may be 'Chateau de la Rue Lafitte,' but it is enough to give one the colic."

Any one else but Balzac would have been horribly disconcerted; he, on the contrary, did not budge. "Yes," he said proudly, "you are right in one respect; this ambrosial nectar comes in a straight line from the Rue Lafitte, for it is Baron James de Rothschild who made me a present of two barrels, for which I am profoundly grateful. Drink, gentlemen, drink, and be thankful also."

Those who would consider this a clever piece of acting on Balzac's part, would be greatly mistaken. His imagination at times affected his palate as well as his other organs, and at that moment he was under the distinct impression that he was offering his guests one of the rarest vintages on record.

I have endeavoured hitherto to digress as little as possible in my recollections, though their very nature made it difficult. In this instance, digression was absolutely necessary to convey an idea of the shock which would naturally result from the contact of two such brains as those of Balzac and Lireux; for it was not long after the young manager's advent to the Odeon that Balzac found his way to his sanctum.

The play he offered him was "Les Ressources de Quinola." Strange as it may seem to us, even as late as '42, Balzac's name as a novelist did not rank first in the list with the general public, still it is very doubtful whether any young manager would have refused a stage play by him; consequently, Lireux accepted "Les Ressources de Quinola" almost without fear. It is not to the purpose to say that it was a bad play, and that he ought to have known better; it has been amply proved by now that the most experienced manager is not infallible; but it is a moot point whether the greatest masterpiece would have succeeded with the tactics adopted by Balzac to insure its success. The following may appear like a scene from a farcical comedy; I can vouch for the truth of every word of it, because I had it from the lips of Lireux himself, who, after all, was the heaviest sufferer by Balzac's incurable greed, or, to put it as leniently as one can, by his constant chase after a capital stroke of business. His resolve to pack the house on the first night was not due to a desire to secure a favourable reception from a friendly audience, but to the determination to secure "a lump sum," let come what might. In Balzac are found the two contradictory traits of the money-grubber and the spendthrift.

The scene alluded to just now, took place when the rehearsals were far advanced; the author and the manager were discussing the invitations to be sent out, etc. All at once Balzac declared that he would have none but Knights of the Order of Saint-Louis in the pit. "I am agreeable,"

replied Lireux, "provided you ferret them out."[22]

[Footnote 22: It shows that Lireux was not very familiar with the royal edicts affecting that order, and that Balzac himself exaggerated the social and monetary importance of its wearers.

For, though Louis-Philippe at his accession suppressed the order, not less than twelve thousand new knights had been created by his two immediate predecessors. They, the recently created knights, were allowed to retain their honours and pensions; but, even before the fall of the Bourbons, the distinction had lost much of its prestige. After the Battle of Navarino, Admiral de Rigny, soliciting rewards for his officers who had distinguished themselves, tacitly ignored the order of Saint-Louis in favour of that of the Legion of Honour. The order, as founded by Louis XIV. in 1693, was only available to officers and Catholics. Several modifications were introduced afterwards in its statutes. The Order of Saint-Louis and that of "Military Merit" were the only two recognized by the Const.i.tuent a.s.sembly of 1789; but the Convention suppressed the former, only leaving the latter.--EDITOR.]

"I'll see to that," said Balzac. "Pray go on. What is the next part of the house?"

"Orchestra stalls."

"Nothing but peers of France there."

"But the orchestra stalls will not hold them all, Monsieur de Balzac."

"Those who cannot find room in the house will have to stand in the lobbies," said Balzac, imperturbably.

"Stage boxes?" continued Lireux.

"They will be reserved for the Court."

"Stage boxes on the first tier?"

"For the amba.s.sadors and plenipotentiaries."

"The open boxes on the ground floor?"

"For the wives and families of the amba.s.sadors."

"Upper circle?" enumerated Lireux, not a muscle of his face moving.

"For the deputies and grand officers of State."

"Third circle?" enumerated Lireux.

"The heads of the great banking and financial establishments."

"The galleries and amphitheatre?"

"A carefully selected, but varied, bourgeoisie," wound up Balzac.

Lireux, who was a capital mimic, re-enacted the scene for us four-and-twenty hours after it had been enacted in his own room, and while he was still under the impression that it was merely a huge joke on Balzac's part. He soon discovered, however, that the latter was terribly in earnest, when, a few days later, Balzac claimed the whole of the seats for the first three nights, on the penalty of withdrawing his piece there and then. Lireux foolishly submitted, the box office was closed; every one applying for tickets was referred to Balzac himself, or rather to the shady individual who had egged him on to this speculation. The latter, at the first application, had run up the prices; the public felt disgusted, and when the curtain rose upon "Les Ressources de Quinola," the house was almost empty. Thereupon a batch of nondescripts was sent into the streets to dispose of the tickets at any price; the bait was indignantly rejected, and the curtain fell amidst violent hisses. I repeat, a masterpiece would have failed under such circ.u.mstances; but the short run of the revival, almost a quarter of a century later at the Vaudeville, proved that the piece was not even an ordinary money-drawing one. It only kept the bills for about nine or ten days.

Lireux was more fortunate with several other pieces, notably with that of Leon Gozlan, known to students of the French drama as "La Main Droite et la Main Gauche," but which originally bore the t.i.tle of "Il etait une Fois un Roi et une Reine." There could be no doubt about its tendency in its original form; it was nothing less than an indictment for bigamy both against Queen Victoria and her Consort; and the authorities had to insist not only upon the change of t.i.tle and the names of the _dramatis personae_, but upon the action being shifted from London to Stockholm.

The author and manager had to comply; but the public, who had got wind of the affair, crowded the house every night in order to read between the lines.

One of my great sources of amus.e.m.e.nt for many years has been the perusal of political after-dinner speeches, and political leaders in the English papers, especially when the speakers and writers have endeavoured to lay stress upon the cordial relations between the French and the English, upon the friendly feelings guiding their actions on both sides. I am putting together these notes nearly fourteen years after the conclusion of the Franco-German War, nearly three quarters of a century after Waterloo. There is not a single Frenchman, however Chauvinistic, who ever thinks, let alone talks, of avenging Napoleon's defeat by Wellington; while, on the other hand, there is not a single Frenchman, however unpatriotic, who does not dream now and then of wiping out the humiliation suffered at Sedan. Well, in spite of the almost entire oblivion of the one disaster, and the poignant recollection of the other, the French of to-day hate the English more than the Germans; or--let me put it more correctly--they hate the Germans, they despise us. Nothing that we can do will ever remove this dislike of us.

It has been thus as long as I can remember; no royal visits, no exchange of so-called international courtesies will alter the feeling. It is ready to burst forth, the smallest provocation or fancied one will set it ablaze. During the forties there were a good many real or imaginary provocations on the part of England, and, as a consequence, the hostile feeling against her broke forth where it is almost always sure to break forth first in France--on the stage and in song. After "La Main Droite et la Main Gauche," came Halevy's opera of "Charles VI." It is but fair to say that the Government did all it could to stem the tide, but, notwithstanding its positive orders to modify the chorus of the famous war song in the first act, the song was henceforth regarded as a patriotic hymn. Nor did the visit of the Queen to Louis-Philippe at Eu, in 1843, effect much improvement in this state of things; and, as a matter of course, we on the English side of the Channel retaliated the skits, etc., though I do not think we took them au grand serieux. When, in January, '44, I went to London for a few days, I found the Christmas pantomime of "King Pippin" in full swing at Drury Lane. I well remember a scene of it, laid in the shop of a dealer in plaster figures. Two of these represented respectively the King of France and the Queen of Great Britain and Ireland. At a given moment, the two statues became animated, drew close to one another, and exchanged the most profuse salutations. But meanwhile, at the back of the stage, the Gallic c.o.c.k and the British lion (or leopard) a.s.sumed a threatening att.i.tude, and at each mark of affection between the two royal personages, shook their heads violently and seemed to want desperately to come to close quarters. The audience applauded vociferously, and it was very evident to me that neither in Paris nor in London the two nations shared the entente cordiale of their rulers.

CHAPTER VI.

Rachel and some of her fellow-actors -- Rachel's true character -- Her greediness and spitefulness -- Her vanity and her wit -- Her powers of fascination -- The cost of being fascinated by her -- Her manner of levying toll -- Some of her victims, Comte Duchatel and Dr. Veron -- The story of her guitar -- A little transaction between her and M. Fould -- Her supposed charity and generosity -- Ten tickets for a charity concert -- How she made them into twenty -- How she could have made them into a hundred -- Baron Taylor puzzled -- Her manner of giving presents -- Beauvallet's precaution with regard to one of her gifts -- Alexandre Dumas the younger, wiser or perhaps not so wise in his generation -- Rachel as a raconteuse -- The story of her _debut_ at the Gymnase -- What Rachel would have been as an actor instead of an actress -- Her comic genius -- Rachel's mother -- What became of Rachel's money -- Mama Felix as a p.a.w.nbroker -- Rachel's trinkets -- Two curious bracelets -- Her first appearance before Nicholas I. -- A dramatic recital in the open air -- Rachel's opinion of the handsomest man in Europe -- Rachel and Samson -- Her obligations to him -- How she repays them -- How she goes to Berryer to be coached in the fable of "The Two Pigeons" -- An anecdote of Berryer -- Rachel's fear of a "warm reception" on the first night of "Adrienne Lecouvreur" -- How she averts the danger -- Samson as a man and as an actor -- Petticoat-revolts at the Comedie-Francaise -- Samson and Regnier as buffers -- Their different ways of pouring oil upon the troubled waters -- Mdlle. Sylvanie Plessy -- A parallel between her and Sarah Bernhardt -- Samson and Regnier's pride in their profession -- The different character of that pride -- "Apollo with a bad tailor, and who dresses without a looking-gla.s.s" -- Samson gives a lesson in declamation to a procureur-imperial -- The secret of Regnier's greatness as an actor -- A lesson at the Conservatoire -- Regnier on "make-up" -- Regnier's opinion of genius on the stage -- A mot of Augustine Brohan -- Giovanni, the wigmaker of the Comedie-Francaise -- His pride in his profession -- M. Ancessy, the musical director, and his three wigs.

There were few authors of my time who came in contact with Rachel without writing about her; there were absolutely none who have represented her in her true character. Either her genius blinded them to her faults, or else they were content to perpetuate the popular belief in her amiability, good nature, generosity, etc. The fact is, that Rachel off the stage was made of very ordinary clay. She had few of the good qualities of her race, and a good many of the bad ones; she was greedy to a degree, and could be very spiteful. All these drawbacks, in the eyes of most of her biographers, were redeemed by her marvellous tragic abilities on the stage, by a wonderful "gift of the gab," by a "happy-go-lucky," "hail-fellow, well-met" manner off the stage to those whom she liked to propitiate. Nevertheless, there were times when she had not a single friend at the Comedie-Francaise, and though her champions attributed this hostility to jealousy of her great gifts, a moment's consideration would show us that such a feeling could scarcely have influenced the men who to a great extent shared her histrionic triumphs, viz., Beauvallet, Regnier, Provost, Samson, and least of all the latter. Still, all these would have willingly kept her out of the Comedie-Francaise after she had left it in a huff. She was difficult to get on with; her modesty, a.s.sumed in everyday life, was a sham, for woe to the host who, deceived by it, did not at once make her the queen of the entertainment! And, in reality, nothing in her warranted such a temporary elevation. She was witty in her way and after her kind--that is, she had the quick-wittedness of the French woman who is not an absolute fool, and who has for many years rubbed elbows with everything distinguished in art and literature. Notwithstanding this intimacy, I am doubtful whether she had ever read, let alone appreciated, any of the masterpieces by the writers of her own days that did not directly bear upon her profession. I exclude fiction--I mean narrative fiction, and especially that of a sensational kind, of which she was probably as fond as the meanest concierge and most romantic milliner-girl.

Nevertheless, provided one did not attempt to a.n.a.lyze it, the power of fascinating the coldest interlocutor was there. To their honor be it said, her contemporaries, especially the men, rarely made such an attempt at a.n.a.lysis. They applauded all she said (off and on the stage), they tolerated all she did, albeit that they paid the cost of many of her so-called "amiable tricks," which were mainly so many instances of greed and nothing else. One evening she was dining at Comte Duchatel's, the minister of Louis-Philippe. The table was positively laden with flowers, but Rachel did not care much about them; what she wanted was the splendid silver centre-piece. But she was too clever to unmask her batteries at once, so she began by admiring the contents, then at last she came to the princ.i.p.al point. The host was either in one of his generous or foolish moods, and made her a present of it there and then.

Rachel knew, though, that even with a grand seigneur like Comte Duchatel, there are "les lendemains de l'enthousiasme," especially when he is a married man, whose wife does not willingly submit to have her home stripped of its art-treasures. The tragedienne came in a hackney cab; the comte offered to send her back in his carriage. She struck the iron while it was hot. "Yes, that will do admirably; there will be no fear of my being robbed of your present, which I had better take with me." "Perfectly, mademoiselle," replied the comte; "but you will send me back my carriage, won't you?"

Dr. Veron was despoiled with even less ceremony. Having taken a fancy to some silver saucers or cups in which the proprietor of the _Const.i.tutionnel_ offered ices to his visitors, she began by pocketing one, and never rested until she had the whole of the set. In short, everything was fish to her net. She made her friends give her bibelots and knickknacks of no particular value, to which she attached some particular legend--absolute inventions for the greatest part--in order to sell them for a thousand times their original cost. One day she noticed a guitar at the studio of one of her familiars. "Give me that guitar; people will think it is the one with which I earned my living on the Place Royale and on the Place de la Bastille." And as such it was sold by her to M. Achille Fould for a thousand louis. The great financier nearly fell into a fit when the truth was told to him at Rachel's death; he, in his turn, having wanted to "do a bit of business." In this instance no Christian suffered, because buyer and vendor belonged to the same race. Of course the panegyrists of Rachel, when the story came to their ears, maintained that the thousand louis were employed for some charitable purpose, without, however, revealing the particular quarter whither they went; but those who judged Rachel dispa.s.sionately could not even aver that her charity began at home, because, though she never ceased complaining of her brother's and her sisters' extravagance, both brother and sisters could have told very curious tales about the difficulty of making her loosen her purse-strings for even the smallest sums. As for Rachel's doing good by stealth and blushing to find it fame, it was all so much fudge. Contrary to the majority of her fellow-professionals, in the past as well as the present, she even grudged her services for a concert or a performance in aid of a deserving object, although she was not above swelling her own h.o.a.rd by such entertainments.

The following instance, for the absolute truth of which I can vouch, is a proof of what I say. One day the celebrated Baron Taylor, who had been the director of the Comedie-Francaise, came to solicit her aid for a charity concert; I am not certain of the object, but believe it was in aid of the Christians in Persia or China. The tickets were to be a hundred francs each. Sontag, Alboni, Rosine Stoltz, Mario, Lablache, Vieuxtemps, and I do not know how many more celebrated artists had promised their services.

It was in 1850 when M. a.r.s.ene Houssaye was her director, and I am particular about giving the year, because Rachel refused on the pretext that her director would never give her leave to appear on any other stage. Now, it so happened that no woman ever had a more devoted friend and chivalrous champion than Rachel had in a.r.s.ene Houssaye. His friendship for her was simply idolatry, and I verily believe that if she had asked him to stand on his head to please her, he would have done so, at the risk of making himself supremely ridiculous--he who feared ridicule above everything, who was one of the most sensible men of his time, who was and is the incarnation of good-nature, to whom no one in distress or difficulties ever appealed in vain.

Baron Taylor argued all this, but Rachel remained inflexible. "I am very sorry," he said at last, rising to go, "because I am positive that your name on the bill would have made a difference of several thousand francs in the receipts."

"Oh, if you only want my name," was the answer, "you may have it; you can make an apology at the eleventh hour for my absence on the score of sudden indisposition--the public at charity concerts are used to that sort of thing; besides, you will have so many celebrities that it will make very little difference. By-the-by"--as he was at the door--"I think my name is worth ten or twenty tickets." Taylor knew Rachel too well to be in the least surprised at the demand, and left ten tickets on the mantelpiece.

That same afternoon he met Count Walewski, and as a matter of course asked him to take some tickets.

"Very sorry, cher baron, but I have got ten already. You see, poor Rachel did not know very well how to get rid of the two hundred you burdened her with as a lady patroness; so she wanted me to have twenty, but I settled the matter with ten. As it is, it cost me a thousand francs."

Taylor did not say another word--he probably could not; he was struck dumb with astonishment at the quickness with which Rachel had converted the tickets into money. But what puzzled him still more was the fact of her having offered Walewski double the quant.i.ty of tickets he had given her. Where had she got the others from? He was coming to the conclusion that she had offered twenty in order to place ten, when he ran against Comte Le Hon, the husband of the celebrated Mdlle. Musselmans, the erstwhile Belgian amba.s.sador to the court of Louis-Philippe, who averred frankly that he was the father of a family, though he had no children of his own.