My Memoirs, Vol. II, 1822 to 1825

by Alexandre Dumas

"For guilty men, idiot!" replies Richard, "but not for innocent ones...."

How small, to my thinking, is Mézence, that scoffer at men and at gods, by the side of Richard III., who kills his innocent enemies just as another would kill his guilty enemies. It will be understood that, since Casimir Delavigne was devoid both of picturesqueness and dignity, he succeeded much better in comedy than in tragedy; and we think his two best productions were the two comedies, Les Comédiens and the École des Vieillards. It should be clearly understood that all we have to say is said from the point of view of a rigid standard of criticism, and it does not therefore follow that Casimir Delavigne was not gifted with very genuine qualities. These good qualities were: a facile aptitude for versification which only occasionally rises to poetic expression, it is true, but which on the other hand never quite descends to flabbiness and slackness; and, indeed, from the beginning to the end of his work, from the first line to the last, whatever else his work may be, it is careful, presentable and particularly honest; and please note that we have used the word "honest" as the most suitable word we could choose; for Casimir Delavigne was never the kind of man to try and rob his public by stinting the work he had in hand in order to use similar material in his next piece. No; in the case of Casimir Delavigne, one got one's money's worth, as the saying is: he gave all he possessed, to the last farthing. The spectators at the first production of each of his new plays had everything he had at that time to give them. When midnight arrived, and, amidst the cheering of the audience, his signature was honoured—that is to say, what he had promised he had performed—he was a ruined man. But what mattered it to be reduced to beggary! He had owed a tragedy, a drama, a comedy, he had paid to the uttermost farthing; true, it might perhaps mean his being compelled to make daily economies of mind, spirit and imagination, for one year, two years, three years, before he could achieve another work; but he would achieve it, cost what it might, at the expense of sleepless nights, of his health, of his life, until the day came when he died worn out at fifty-two years of age, before he had completed his last tragedy.

Well, there was no need for the poet of the Messéniennes, the author of the École des Vieillards, of Louis XI. and of Don Juan to commiserate himself. He who does all he can does all that can be expected of him. Nevertheless, we shall always maintain that Casimir Delavigne would have done better still without his restraining body-guard; and we need not seek through his long-winded works for proof of what we assert; we will take, instead, one of the shorter poems, which the poet wrote under stress of sadness—a similar effort to M. Arnault's admirable Feuille—M. Arnault, who was not only far less of a poet but still less of a versifier than Casimir Delavigne.

Well, we will hunt up a little ballad which Delavigne relegated to notes, as unworthy of any other place and which we, on the contrary, consider a little masterpiece.

"La brigantine
Qui va tourner,
Roule et s'incline
Pour m'entraîner ...
O Vierge Marie!
Pour moi priez Dieu.
Adieu, patrie!
Provence, adieu!
Mon pauvre père
Verra son vent
Pâlir ma mère
Au bruit du vent ...
O Vierge Marie!
Pour moi priez Dieu.
Adieu, patrie!
Mon père, adieu!
La vieille Hélène
Se confira
Dans sa neuvaine,
Et dormira ...
O Vierge Marie!
Pour moi priez Dieu.
Adieu, patrie!
Hélène, adieu!
Ma sœur se lève,
Et dit déjà:
'J'ai fait un rêve,
Il reviendra!'
O Vierge Marie!
Pour moi priez Dieu.
Adieu, patrie!
Ma sœur, adieu!
De mon Isaure
Le mouchoir blanc
S'agite encore
En m'appelant ...
O Vierge Marie!
Pour moi priez Dieu.
Adieu, patrie!
Isaure, adieu!
Brise ennemie,
Pourquoi souffler,
Quand mon amie
Veut me parler?
O Vierge Marie!
Pour moi priez Dieu.
Adieu, patrie!
Bonheur, adieu!"

Scudo, the author of that delightful melody, Fil de la Vierge, once asked Casimir Delavigne for some lines to put to music. Casimir seized his pen and dashed off Néra. Perhaps you do not know Néra? Quite so: it is not a poem, only a simple song: the Brigantine was relegated to the notes; Néra was excluded from his works.

A day will come—indeed, we believe that day has already come—when the Messéniennes and Néra will be weighed in the same balance and we shall see which will turn the scale.

This is Néra:—

"Ah! ah!... de la montagne
Reviens, Néra, reviens!
Réponds-moi, ma compagne,
Ma vache, mon seul bien.
La voix d'un si bon maître,
Néra,
Peux-tu la méconnaître?
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Reviens, reviens; c'est l'heure
Où le loup sort des bois.
Ma chienne, qui te pleure,
Répond seule à ma voix.
Hors l'ami qui t'appelle,
Néra,
Qui t'aimera comme elle?
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Dis-moi si dans la crêche,
Où tu léchais ma main,
Tu manquas d'herbe fraîche,
Quand je manquais de pain?
Nous n'en avions qu'à peine,
Néra,
Et ta crêche était pleine!
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Hélas! c'est bien sans cause
Que tu m'as délaissé.
T'ai-je dit quelque chose,
Hors un mot, l'an passé?
Oui, quand mourut ma femme,
Néra,
J'avais la mort dans l'âme,
Ah! ah!
Néra!
De ta mamelle avide,
Mon pauvre enfant crira;
S'il voit l'étable vide,
Qui le consolera?
Toi, sa mère nourrice,
Néra,
Veux-tu donc qu'il périsse?
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Lorsque avec la pervenche
Pâques refleurira,
Des rameaux du dimanche
Qui te couronnera?
Toi, si bonne chrétienne,
Néra,
Deviendras-tu païenne?
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Quand les miens, en famille,
Tiraient les Rois entre eux,
Je te disais: 'Ma fille,
Ma part est à nous deux!'
A la fête prochaine,
Néra,
Tu ne seras plus reine.
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Ingrate! quand la fièvre
Glaçait mes doigts roidis,
Otant mon poil de chèvre,
Sur vous je l'étendis ...
Faut-il que le froid vienne,
Néra,
Pour qu'il vous en souvienne
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Adieu! sous mon vieux hêtre
Je m'en reviens sans vous;
Allez chercher pour maître
Un plus riche que nous ...
Allez! mon cœur se brise,
Néra!...
Pourtant, Dieu te conduise
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Je n'ai pas le courage
De te vouloir du mal;
Sur nos monts crains l'orage
Crains l'ombre dans le val.
Pais longtemps l'herbe verte,
Néra!
Nous mourrons de ta perte,
Ah! ah!
Néra!
Un soir, à ma fenêtre,
Néra, pour t'abriter,
De ta come peut-être
Tu reviendras heurter;
Si la famille est morte,
Néra,
Qui t'ouvrira la porte?
Ah! ah!
Néra!"

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