CHAPTER XXIII
“It was to take from the Ministers all idea of my ambition, to conjure the storm, that I began again to amuse myself with frivolous theatrical plays, while guarding a profound silence upon my political actions.”
Petition to MM. the Representatives of the Commune of Paris by P. A. Caron de Beaumarchais.
The Mariage de Figaro—Its Composition—Difficulties Encountered in Getting it Produced—It is Played at Grennevilliers—The First Representation—Its Success—Institut des mères nourrices—Beaumarchais at Saint Lazare.
SEVERAL years before Beaumarchais had written in answer to the question,—“What gives you so gay a philosophy?”
“The habit of misfortune, I hasten to laugh at everything so as not to be obliged to weep.”
So now in 1778 after seeing Deane recalled, his own service ignored, and jealousies aroused even among the ministers themselves he turned from all this bitterness, to develop in his own inimitable way, the gay scenes of his Mariage de Figaro.
“In this piece,” says Gudin, “the combinations were so new, the situations so varied that one would be tempted to believe that such a work would have absorbed all the faculties of the mind of its author during many years, but for him it was only a relaxation from the many and diverse affairs in which he was engaged.”
M. de Maurepas said to him one day, “And how, occupied as you are, have you been able to write it?”
“I, M. le Comte! I composed it the day when the ministers of the King had sufficient leisure to go together to the Redoute.”
“Are there many repartees equal to that in your comedy? If so, I answer for its success,” retorted Maurepas; for just the day before all the ministers had gone in a body to spend several hours at one of the new and fashionable pleasure gardens of Paris known as the Redoute.
But having written his play was very far from having it produced, for the daring boldness of the author since the marvelous success of his first comedy was known not to have diminished. The authorities rightly suspected that the new play would contain even more pointed criticisms upon the existing social order than had the Barbier. To be produced in public it must first pass the censors and have the approbation of the king.
La Harpe has said of this play, “It took much wit to write it—but not so much as to get it played.”
Letters given by Loménie show that already in October, 1781, the actors of the Théâtre-Français had seen the piece and were discussing with Beaumarchais the distribution of the parts. The author had appealed to the lieutenant of police to name a censor and asked as a special favor that the play should not leave his office. Six weeks later Beaumarchais learned that the king had read his play and that it had been condemned.
Madame Campan in her Memoires speaks of the incident.
Marie Antoinette who had always liked and protected Beaumarchais said to the King,
“Will the piece not be played?”
“Certainly not,” answered the King, “it is detestable. Why, the Bastille would have to be pulled down if that were allowed!”
The situation against which the versatile author had to contend was the positive prohibition by the supreme head of authority—the King himself, but who was seconded, however, by very few of those personages who were nearest to him. In fact this very prohibition excited the curiosity of the court to such an extent that everyone from the loftiest personages down, and notably the Duke d’Artois, brother of Louis XVI, was demanding the favor of hearing Beaumarchais read his play.
“Every day,” explained Madame de Campan, “one hears on every side, ‘I have heard,’ or ‘I shall hear the piece of Beaumarchais.’”
Flattered as the author must have been by the enthusiasm of the courtiers, he was far too clever to lose his head or grant lightly the privilege of a reading.
“Even the most considerable personages of the realm,” says Loménie, “obtained the privilege on condition that they asked at least twice. The Princess Lamballe, for instance, personal friend of the queen, had a violent desire to have Beaumarchais read the Mariage de Figaro in her salon. She sent an ambassador to him, one of the greatest nobles of the court, the oldest son of the Maréchal de Richelieu, the Duc de Fronsac—an ardent patron of the Mariage.—Beaumarchais refused to see him. The duc wrote next day:
“You closed your door against me yesterday which was not well. However, I do not hold against you enough malice to prevent me from speaking of the negotiation with which I am charged by Mme. the Princess of Lamballe—and I propose you come next Wednesday to Versailles to dine with me, after which we will go to her. Your very humble servant, etc.
“Le duc de Fronsac.”
Beaumarchais evidently refused a second time for again the Duke wrote another letter, more urgent, to which the author finally yielded.
The grand Duke (afterward Paul I) and Duchess of Russia, while visiting Versailles in the spring of 1782, also became ardent supporters of the piece, after Beaumarchais had accorded them the privilege of a reading.
Strong now with the support of so many notables, he took occasion to write a vigorous letter to M. the Garde des Sceaux, to which august personage he began by apologizing for bothering him with such a “frivolous subject” but ended by a very ardent plea that his play be permitted to appear before the public.
“In June of 1783,” says Loménie, “Beaumarchais, who, it must not be forgotten, conducted twenty other operations at the same time, seemed on the point of succeeding.... By the influence of some one unknown, the comedians received an order to learn the piece so that it might be played before the court of Versailles. Later it was decided that it should be performed in Paris itself at the hôtel des Menus-Plaisirs.”
Everything was ready, even the tickets were out, when suddenly an express order of the king arrived, forbidding the performance. “This prohibition of the king,” says Madame de Campan, “seemed like an attack upon the liberty of the public. The disappointed hopes of the people excited discontent to such an extent that the words, ‘oppression,’ ‘tyranny’ were never pronounced in the days before the fall of the throne, with so much passion and vehemence.”
Beaumarchais could well afford, as he writes, “to put his piece back in its portfolio, waiting until some event should draw it out again,” for the prohibition of the king had acted only as the most serviceable advertisement. Therefore he had not long to wait.
Being in England on business the latter part of the summer, he received a letter from the Duc de Fronsac, from which the following is an extract:
“Paris, the 4th of September, 1783.
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will not object that I shall write to obtain your consent to have the Mariage de Figaro played at Grennevilliers.... You know that I have for several years turned over my estate of Grennevilliers to M. de Vaudreuil. M. le Comte d’Artois comes there to hunt the 18th and Madame the Duchess de Polignac with her society comes to supper. Vaudreuil has asked me to arrange a spectacle, for there is a good enough hall. I told him that there was nothing more charming than the Mariage de Figaro, but that we must have the consent of the king. We have secured that and I went running to find you and was astonished and distressed to find that you were far away in the north.
“Will you not give your consent that the piece be played? I promise you that I will do my utmost to have it well given. M. le Comte d’Artois and his whole society are waiting with the greatest eagerness to see it, and certainly it will be a great step in advance towards having it given at Fontainebleau and Paris.... I, in particular, have the greatest desire and I beg you to reply quickly, quickly. Let it be favorable, I beg you, and never doubt my gratitude and the esteem and friendship with which I shall always be, Monsieur, yours, etc.
“Le duc de Fronsac.”
“While the duc de Fronsac,” says Loménie, “sent after Beaumarchais, the comte de Vaudreuil who was arranging the festival in honor of the comte d’Artois and Madame de Polignac, waited with impatience for the consent of Beaumarchais. We have under our eyes a letter of the comte written to the duc de Fronsac which was found among the papers of Beaumarchais, apparently because the latter fearing some sudden change of feeling in the King, had requested that the duc give him the entire correspondence, in order that he might be in a position to prove that he had acted only at the urgent solicitations of the courtiers.
“This circumstance enables us to observe closely what was passing in those frivolous heads that were soon to be stricken off, and to realize with what blind impatience those thoughtless patricians aspired to be pointed out by Figaro for the contempt of the masses.”
In this letter of the count, after running over a half dozen plays that do not satisfy him, he says: “Fearing the permission of M. de Beaumarchais would not reach us in time we will postpone the spectacle for three or four days so it will not be given until the 21st or the 22nd. Will you please see that the comedians hold themselves ready for that date? But hors du ‘Mariage de Figaro,’ point de salut (our only salvation is in the Mariage de Figaro). Thank you a thousand times, my dear Fronsac, for all your trouble. I know that it is for these ladies and M. the comte d’Artois, who join in my gratitude. Receive the renewed expression of my deep regard which is yours for life;
“Le comte de Vaudreuil.”
Again to quote Loménie:
“Beaumarchais, then in England, learned that nothing was now lacking but his own consent to play the piece prohibited by the king several months before. He returned immediately to Paris and it was he now who was the one to make the conditions. He was not satisfied simply to amuse the court, but wished rather to reach the public and to make them laugh at the expense of the court, which was a very different matter. If, however, the one would lead to the other, Beaumarchais would be charmed to gratify MM. de Vaudreuil and de Fronsac, but before consenting to the representation taking place at Grennevilliers, he required that the favor be accorded him of a new censure. Singular request!
“‘But,’ they said to him, ‘your play has already been censored, approved, and we have the permission of the king.’
“‘No matter, it must be censored again.’
“To M. de Breteuil he wrote, ‘they found me a little difficult in my turn and they said it was only because I was so sought after; but since I desired absolutely to fix public opinion by a new examination of the piece, I insisted, and so they have accorded me the severe historian, Gaillard of the French Academy.’
“This,” continues Loménie, “was well thought out. Just before a court festival, where all were eagerly awaiting the representation, what censor, no matter how arbitrary, would dare interfere by spoiling their joy and provoking the anger of the powerful lords who ordered the festival? And so, as was to be expected, the report of the censure was ‘completely favorable.’”
But Beaumarchais was not yet satisfied. “The play approved once more,” he wrote in his memoirs to M. de Breteuil, “I carried my precaution so far that I required before I would consent to its being played at the festival, the express promise of the magistracy that the Comédie-Française might consider it as belonging to their theater and I dare certify that that assurance was given by M. Lenoir, who certainly believed everything complete as did I myself.”
“To appreciate the diplomatic value,” continues Loménie, “of this passage, and the art with which Beaumarchais in the suppleness of his tenacity knew how to bind over the people who inconvenienced him, and that he could not openly attack, it is well to recall that at this moment he was struggling against an express prohibition of the representation of his play by the king, a prohibition that his majesty consented to lift only for one day, in a particular house and that only to gratify his brother the Comte d’Artois and M. de Vaudreuil.”
Beaumarchais, on his side, was sincere in not wishing to let it be played at Grennevilliers except on condition that he be formally promised that sooner or later it would be given to the public; but since he did not dare to push the matter so far, he saw the way to take one step in advance, by inventing the beautiful paraphrase that had just been read, which became a sort of vague engagement contracted with him and upon which he would depend very soon to push matters still further.
On these conditions he finally accorded the permission asked, and M. de Vaudreuil thanked him in a letter which proves as far as he was concerned, that he accepted the engagement in the sense understood by Beaumarchais. He wrote:
JOHN JAY
“The comte de Vaudreuil has the honor to thank M. de Beaumarchais for the kindness which he has shown in allowing his piece to be played at Grennevilliers. The comte de Vaudreuil has seized with alacrity this opportunity of giving to the public a chef d’œuvre which it awaits with impatience. The presence of Monseigneur the comte d’Artois and the real merit of this charming piece will in the end destroy all the obstacles which have retarded its representation. The comte de Vaudreuil hopes very soon to be able to thank M. de Beaumarchais personally.
“This Monday, Sept. 15th, 1783.”
“The success of this representation at Grennevilliers was such,” to continue the account of Loménie, “that a complete change operated in Beaumarchais’s attitude toward the piece. Resigned hitherto under the royal prohibition, working slowly and carefully to gain ground, he now became impatient, pressing and almost imperious. It is clear to anyone who will reflect, that on the day when Louis XVI permitted at the insistence of the Queen, the Comte d’Artois and M. de Vaudreuil to the representation at Grennevillier, he placed himself where he would be unable long to resist public curiosity, carried now to the heights by that very representation, of which everyone spoke, and by the address of Beaumarchais.” It was not, however, until March, 1784, that the desired permission was given.
“The picture of that representation of Le Mariage de Figaro,” says Loménie, “is in all the chronicles of the times, it is the best remembered scene of the eighteenth century. All Paris from earliest morning, pressed the doors of the Théâtre-Français; the greatest ladies dining in the boxes of the actresses so as to be sure of their places—the guards dispersed, the doors broken down, the iron railings giving way before the crowd of assailants. When the curtain rose upon the scene, the finest reunion of talent which the Théâtre-Français had ever possessed was there with but one thought, to bring out to the best advantage a comedy, flashing with esprit, carrying one away in its movement and audacity, which if it shocks some of the boxes, enchants, stirs, enflames and electrifies the parterre.”
And what is this play that roused such wild enthusiasm a century and more ago, and which to-day, although its political significance has long vanished, would still give its author, had he done nothing but create its characters, a right to a place among the immortals?
“The Mariage de Figaro,” to quote his own words, “was the most trivial of intrigues:
“A great Spanish nobleman, in love with a young girl whom he wishes to seduce, and the efforts of that same girl and of him to whom she is engaged, and of the wife of the nobleman united to outwit his designs—and he an absolute master whose rank, fortune and prodigality render all powerful its accomplishment—that and nothing more.”
The characters are those in the main of the Barbier: the Comte Almaviva, the Comtesse Rosine, and the valet Figaro, are old friends. But there are new ones, the page Cherubim, and Suzanne, lady’s maid to the Comtesse—“Always laughing, tender, full of gaiety, of esprit, of love and delicious!—but good.”
“Like the Barbier,” says Lintilhac, “it is here a question of marriage, but it is the valet this time who is to marry and the obstacles which retard this desired dénouement arise, not from the jealousy of a guardian, or the resistance of a father but from the covetousness of a young libertine master.... It is the master who is outwitted, the valet and his fiancée who triumph, and in this dénouement lies the whole secret of the wild enthusiasm with which the piece was greeted. Right here lies the Revolution.”
But the master is as truly painted in the play as the other characters. “The Comte Almaviva,” says Imbert de Saint Amand, “is the old régime, Figaro is the new society. Almaviva is corrupt, but he is always comme il faut. Even in his anger he remains the man of good society; no doubt his faults are great; he is a libertine from ennui, jealous from vanity, but he is not odious, not ridiculous.”
But to return to Lintilhac: “We may see that Figaro, by the aid of two clever women and his own esprit has the opportunity to interest the public and to bring all to a happy ending.
“‘Be on your guard that day, M. Figaro! First put the clocks in advance so as to be a little surer of marrying. Get rid of Marceline who wants to marry you herself—take all the money and the presents, let the count have his way, in little things; drub Basil roundly,... (Act I, Scene II). And let us finish the programme which the fat doctor interrupts,—giving yourself full rein, invective politics, graft and those who live by it; ridicule censorship, and the law, as well as those who abuse both—banter privileges and the privileged and all that attaches itself to either, in a word—open the way for the men of genius who are preparing there below in the obscure crowd, and who wish to emerge.
“But the time to laugh, la folle journée commences. Quel imbroglio! Twenty times everything seems finished, and suddenly, an unexpected incident, but always arising out of the situation, throws forward in rapid movement that brilliant group of personages. They seek, they evade one another, group themselves in tableaux turn by turn, animated and gracious, laughing or grotesque....
“And the new song to the old music! And the scene which a moment ago framed these charming groups, suddenly fills with the noise of the crowd and the whole village which sings. Quel crescendo of gaiety!...
“Take the most ingenious comedy of Lope de Vega, or Calderon, add the gaiety of Regnard, the comique of George Dandin, the amusing of Vadé, and one will scarcely have in imagination the equivalent of the scene on the night which terminates the Mariage de Figaro.”
And his faithful friend Gudin says of it: “In this piece the parterre applauded not only scenes founded upon true comique—that of situations, new characters, like Cherubim and Bridoison—but also the courageous man who dared undertake to combat by ridicule the libertinage of the great lords, the ignorance of magistrates, the venality of officers and the unbecoming way of pleading of lawyers.
“Beaumarchais might perhaps consider himself more authorized in this than anyone else since he had been calumniated so outrageously by great lords, and injured by the insolent pleadings of lawyers, and blâmé by bad judges.... Let us dare to say what is true, that since Molière no author had better understood the human heart, or better painted the manners of his time.”
And his latest critic, Lintilhac, a hundred years after Gudin, corroborates his judgment. “By the creation of Figaro, Beaumarchais is the first comic French author after Molière, the incomparable painter of character.”
Of the famous monologue of the piece, Gudin says, “I remember that when the author composed it in a moment of enthusiasm, he was alarmed himself at its extent. We examined it together; I regarded it with severe attention. Everything seemed to me in its place; not a word could be omitted without regretting it. Every phrase had a moral or a useful object proper to cause the spectator to reflect either on human nature or on the abuses of society.”
Of its moral significance Beaumarchais has commented in his preface to the play: “An author has but one duty; to correct men in making them see themselves as they are, whether he moralizes in laughing or weeps in moralizing.”
And let us now close this brief summary of the famous play by the description given by Imbert de Saint-Amand in “La fin de l’ancien Régime.”
“Beaumarchais, that marvelous wit, was scarcely aware perhaps of the weight of his attacks and of the gravity of the piece. He did not desire the fall of the throne any more than the overturning of the altar, at heart he was monarchic.... The first representation was given April 27, 1784, by the Comédie Française.... The success went to the stars. Beaumarchais himself could not help crying out, ‘There is something more astounding than my piece, it is its success.’ ... Actors and actresses surpassed themselves. Every word told. Each bit of satire was welcomed by acclamations and bravos without end. The public recognized itself in the portrait of Figaro. ‘Never angry, always gay, giving over the present to joy and not worrying about the future any more than the past,—lively, generous, generous!’
“‘Like a robber,’ says Bartolo.
“‘Like a lord,’ replies Marceline.
“What joy for all that assembly, his definition of a courtier:
“Figaro—‘I was born to be a courtier.’
“Suzanne—‘hey say it is a very difficult business.’
“Figaro—‘Receive, take, ask, that is the secret in three words.’
“What joyous laughter at the reflection, very true, by the way:
“Le Comte—‘The domestics here take longer to dress than their masters.’
“Figaro—‘That is because they have no valets to help them.’
“What an excellent remark upon the chances for functionaries:
“Le Comte—‘With character and intelligence you may one day be promoted in office.’
“Figaro—‘Intelligence will advance me? Monsieur is making sport of mine—to be mediocre and cringing, one can arrive at anything.’
“And after this very subtle observation, what a picture of diplomacy:
“‘Pretend to be ignorant of what everyone knows, and to know what others do not know, seem to understand what nobody comprehends, not to hear what all hear, and most of all appear able to do the impossible. Seem profound when one is only empty; spread spies, pension traitors, loosen seals, and intercept letters; magnify the poverty of the methods by the importance of the object,—that’s politics, or I’m a dead man.’
“The diplomats who were in the audience were transported with pleasure in hearing their business so exactly judged.
“The great ladies went into ecstacies at the remark of Suzanne to the countess: ‘I have noticed how a knowledge of the world gives an ease to ladies well brought up, so they can lie without showing it.’
“They applauded with enthusiasm that democratic observation, but profoundly true of this same Suzanne: ‘Do you think women of my position have hysterics? That is a malady which is only to be found in the boudoir.’
“The great lords, always surrounded with flatterers and parasites, applauded with transport that phrase of Figaro to Basil: ‘Are you a prince that you must be servilely flattered? Suffer the truth, wretch, since you cannot pay a liar.’
“But the moment when the enthusiasm became delirium, frenzy—the moment when the dukes and peers, the ministers, the cordons rouges, the cordons bleus—were transported to the seventh heaven of acclaim, was when the daring Barbier transformed himself into a tribune and said to all of them in the monologue under the chestnut tree:
“‘Because you are a great lord you believe yourself a great genius. Rank, fortune, position, all that make you so proud! What have you done to deserve so many gifts? You have taken the trouble to be born, nothing else!’
“The functionaries charged with the censure were particularly enchanted with this phrase of the same monologue: ‘On condition that I do not speak in my writings, either of authority, or religion, or politics, or morals, or of people in position, or bodies in favor, or anyone who holds to anything, I am allowed to write, to print everything freely under the inspection of two or three censors.’
“The ministers charged to fill public functions found the following phrase very just: ‘They thought of me for a position, but by ill luck I was suited to it; they needed a calculator, it was a dancer who received it.’”
“The Mariage de Figaro” says Loménie, “was presented sixty-eight times consecutively, something unheard of in that day. The receipts for the first presentation amounted to 6,511 livres, that of the sixty-eighth was 5,483. During eight months, from the 27th of April, 1784, to the 10th of January, 1785, the piece had brought to the Comédie Française (not counting the fiftieth presentation which at Beaumarchais’s request had been given for the benefit of the poor) a gross sum of 347,197 livres, which left when all expenses were deducted, a net profit to the Comedians of 293,755 livres, except the part of the author which was valued at 41,499 livres....
“This sum the author of the Mariage de Figaro, as if to sanctify the piece, consecrated to works of charity.
“‘I propose,’ he wrote in the Journal de Paris, the 12th of August, 1784, ‘un institut de bienfaisance, to which any woman recognized as needy and inscribed in her parish, can come, her infant in her arms and with her certificate from the parish priest, say to us, “I am a mother and a wet nurse, I gain twenty sous a day, my infant makes me lose twelve.” Let us give her nine livres a month in charity.... So if the comedians have gained two hundred thousand francs from my Figaro, my nursing mothers will have twenty-eight thousand which with the thirty thousand of my friends, will produce a whole regiment of marmots stuffed with maternal milk.’”
“This institute,” continues Loménie, “of les pauvres mères nourrices, encountered obstacles at Paris which prevented its establishment in that city; but since the idea was good it did not remain fruitless. The Archbishop of Lyon, M. de Montazet, adopted it. He accepted the help and money of Beaumarchais, and the Institut de bienfaisance maternelle, if I am not mistaken still in existence in Lyon, was the outcome of the Mariage de Figaro. Beaumarchais was one of its most constant protectors and in 1790 he sent six thousand francs to it and received in return the following letter signed by three of the most respectable and important inhabitants of Lyon:
“‘Lyon, the 11th of April, 1790.
“‘Monsieur:
“‘To speak to you of the success of l’Institut de bienfaisance maternelle, is to entertain you in regard to your own work. The idea of it is yours, therefore the plan of the work belongs to you. You have aided it with your generous gifts and more than two hundred children saved to the country, already owe their lives to you. We consider ourselves happy to have contributed to it and our gratitude will always equal the respectful sentiments with which we are Monsieur, etc., Les administrateurs de l’Institut de bienfaisance maternelle.
“‘Palerne de Sacy, Chapp et Tabareau.’”
It was jealousy, Gudin tells us, that prevented the establishment of the institute at Paris. A storm of protest arose from his enemies on every hand.
“It is not enough,” they wrote, “to have gained at the bar the crown of Cicero and Parru; to have received at the theater, from the hands of Thalie, the laurels of Molière, he must needs add to the just applause with which he is greeted, the cries of joy and benediction of the unfortunate!... From this feeble stream of money will flow rivers of milk and crowds of vigorous infants.” An engraving was circulated showing Figaro helping mothers and opening the prison doors of poor debtors....
Gudin says: “The design made known, redoubled the solicitation of the unfortunates addressed to him as well as the insults which the envious poured upon him. He scarcely could open a letter which did not contain either a demand for charity if it was signed, or a series of invectives if it were anonymous.”
One of these letters contained a curious request, not for money, as was usually the case, but asking that the author of the Mariage de Figaro, send the applicant a ticket to his play. “Misfortune,” he wrote, “has driven me to despair, but before ending my life I desire once more to indulge in unrestrained laughter.”
With characteristic generosity, Beaumarchais sent at once a message, to inquire into the cause of the young man’s misfortune and not only gave him the desired ticket but restored hope to his distressed mind, found a position for him and warmed him back to a desire for life.
“But thus,” Gudin tells us, “while with his wife, his daughter, his sisters, and a few friends, he was receiving the applause of the people and the benedictions of the fathers of families—a frightful outrage and one without motive was inflicted upon him by authority.
“I was supping with him; we were at the table when the commissioner Chenu was announced and asked to speak privately with Beaumarchais. They passed into an adjoining room.
“We knew that the commissioner was his friend, still the conference made us uneasy. At length they came out together. Beaumarchais embraced us, as he said he would be obliged to go out and perhaps to pass the night away from home. He begged us not to be uneasy and that the next day we should be informed as to the cause of his going.
“These words, far from calming, troubled us. We could not doubt that he had been arrested, but why? Where would they take him? Perhaps to the Bastille?...
“Not to the Bastille, nor to Vincennes, but to St. Lazare, a prison house of correction for delinquent youths, he, a man of mature age, of the constancy, of the fortune of M. de Beaumarchais, treated as a depraved adolescent! It was a cowardly outrage.
“His enemies were charmed to see him thus humiliated. The consternation was general. Lafayette, the Prince de Nassau-Siegen, and other noblemen appealed instantly in his favor. At the end of five days he was liberated....
“I went with his wife and daughter and the Commissioner Chenu to bring him the news of his release. His first reaction was to refuse liberty.
“‘I have done nothing to merit having lost it,’ he said, ‘I shall not go from here until judged and justified....’
“If he had not been husband and father, his obstinacy would no doubt have carried him to the point of demanding justice of the king against the king himself ... but he could not permit himself to pierce the hearts of his wife and daughter by condemning them to eternal tears in the vain hope of tearing from power the avowal of an injustice....
“Princes, Marshals of France, persons of every rank had inscribed their names at his door during his detention and came to felicitate him on his return....”
And what was the cause that had operated to bring about this sudden outburst of power directed against the author of the Mariage de Figaro?
It was this. In a dispute carried on with vigor in the pages of le Journal de Paris, between Beaumarchais and certain anonymous attacks directed against him, the former had made use of the expression, “After having been forced to conquer lions and tigers to have my comedy played....”
“Lions and tigers!” Evidently the daring man meant the King and Queen of France! The news was brought at once to the royal presence. Louis XVI, already annoyed beyond measure at the success of the play, to the performance of which he had been forced to consent in spite of himself, only needed some pretext to vent his displeasure, “so without rising from the card table at which he was seated,” says Loménie, “he wrote, if we may credit the authority of the author of Souvenirs d’un Sexagénaire, M. Arnault, ... upon the back of a seven of spades, in pencil, the order for the immediate arrest of Beaumarchais and joining insult to rigor, something which no sovereign is permitted to use, he ordered him conducted, not to an ordinary prison, but one ridiculous and shameful for a man of his years, to Saint-Lazare, where depraved adolescents were detained.
“To treat as a young good-for-nothing, a man of his age and celebrity, a man to whom confidential missions were entrusted, who carried the secrets of state, who was charged with the most important operations, and whose talents were a powerful attraction to the public and to the aristocracy, was not only a gross injustice, it was a most serious fault, because it became manifest to everyone how pernicious the influence of uncontrolled power might become even in the hands of the best prince. This arbitrary act is the only one of its kind that can be held as a reproach to Louis XVI....
“The next day, when the motive was demanded for that incarceration, the government said nothing, as it had nothing to say, for it would have been difficult to make anyone believe that Beaumarchais intended to compare Louis XVI to a tiger. The public became uneasy and began to murmur, and the day after to murmur loudly.”
“Every one,” says Arnault, “felt himself menaced, not only in his liberty but in his reputation.” The fourth day there was a general movement of indignation.... The fifth day Beaumarchais was turned out of prison almost in spite of himself ... and Loménie continues:
“A few days’ reflection had made the king realize that he could not decently admit the intention given to the author, and coming back to the sentiments of justice and goodness so natural to him, he almost begged Beaumarchais to come out of prison, and set about in every way to make up to him for the wrong done him. Grimm affirms that nearly all the ministers were present at the first performance of the play after his release, which was made the most brilliant possible, when they had the slight unpleasantness of hearing this passage of the famous monologue applauded with fervent energy: ‘Not being able to debase the spirit, they take revenge in abuse.’”
D’ESTAING
Louis XVI, very soon after this, hastened to make amends in the noblest manner and the one most worthy of a sovereign who felt that he had done wrong. “Le Barbier de Séville,” says Grimm, “was given at the little theater of the Trianon, and the very distinguished favor was accorded the author to be present at the performance.”
In the chapter on the Barbier we have spoken already of this striking scene, where the queen herself, the Comte d’Artois, M. de Vaudreuil, etc., were the actors. There is one more line to this touching picture which we have from the pen of Gudin.
“A zealous partisan of royalty, after making himself trusted by those in power and in the guise of a Sans-culotte, had penetrated to the presence of the unhappy queen, then prisoner in the Temple. He was able to speak to her and asked if there were anyone of whom she could think who might help her, and he suggested Beaumarchais. The queen’s countenance instantly fell.
“‘Alas,’ she said, ‘he now has it in his power to avenge himself for the insult once offered him.’” And Gudin adds, “She did not know the heart of Beaumarchais or that if it had been possible, now that she was in trouble, he would have come to her relief with far more alacrity than in the hey day of her power.”
But the storm now gathering, that was to sweep the mighty from their seats, was destined also to vent its fury upon the man of the people whose riches and honors long had been the objects of their jealous rage. Twice he owed his safety to the poor whom he had assisted, but in the general débâcle which followed there was no opportunity for his wit or his ingenuity to save him; the author of the Mariage de Figaro and the Barbier was forced himself to bend before the storm.