"Je ne l'aurais pas cru! C'est bien mal! C'est affreux!"
as he gets up and traverses the stage in despair. No human anguish was ever more clearly revealed than in this sob.
Vulgar amateurs and second-rate critics praised exceedingly the character of one of Danville's college chums, in this comedy by Casimir Delavigne, played with much humour by an actor called Vigny. It is the part of an old bachelor, who, after remaining in single blessedness for sixty years, decides to marry on the strength of the description Danville draws of conjugal happiness, and comes to tell his friend of his decision at the very moment when he is racked with jealous pangs.
No, indeed, a hundred times no, it is not here where the real beauty of the École des Vieillards lies. No, it is not that scene wherein Danville repeats incessantly: "Mais moi, c'est autre chose!" that should be applauded. No, the matter to be applauded is the presentation of the deep and agonising torture of a broken heart; what should be applauded is the situation that gives scope for Talma to display both dignity and simplicity at the same time, and that shows how much suffering that creature, born of woman, cradled in grief and brought up to grief, whom we call man, is capable of enduring.
Talma's friends blamed him for playing the part in a frock-coat; he told them he had been sacrificed to Mademoiselle Mars. They asked him why he had so easily allowed himself to be made the footstool of an actress placed above him, the pedestal for one whose renown rivalled his own: Talma let them say.
He knew well enough that in spite of all Mademoiselle Mars' talent, all her winsomeness, all her ease of manner on the stage, all the pretty things she said in her charming voice, everything was eclipsed, effaced, annihilated, by a single utterance, a sob, a sigh of his. It must have been a proud moment for the poet when he saw his work thus finely interpreted by Talma; but it must have been quite a different matter to Talma, for he felt that the limits of art could be extended farther, or rather that art has no boundaries. For Talma had been educated in the spacious school of Shakespeare, which intermingles laughter with tears, the trivial with the sublime, as they are intermingled in the pitiful struggle which we call life. He knew what the drama should aim at: he had played tragedy all his life and had never ventured to attempt comedy. We will briefly relate how he came to be the man we knew.
Talma was born in Paris, in the rue des Ménétriers, on 15 January 1766. When I became acquainted with him he would be about fifty-seven. He received from his godfather and godmother the names François-Joseph and from his father that of Talma. In a letter from Talma which I have by me, it is stated that the name of Talma, which became celebrated by the deeds of the great artiste, was several times made the subject of investigation by etymologists.
This autograph letter by Talma is the copy of one in which he replies in 1822 to a savant of Gruningen, named Arétius Sibrandus Talma, who, after giving details of his ancestry, asks the modern Roscius if he cannot lay claim to the honour of relationship with him. This is Talma's reply:—
"I do not know, monsieur, and it would be a difficult matter for me to find out, whether you and I are of the same family. When I was in Holland, more than fifteen years ago, I learnt that there were many people bearing the same name as myself in the land of Ruyter and of Jan de Witt My family mainly inhabited a little strip of country six leagues from Cambrai, in French Flanders. This is not the first time, monsieur, that my name has given rise to discussion with regard to my origin, on the part of foreigners. About forty or fifty years ago, a son of the Emperor of Morocco staying in Paris and hearing mention of my father's name came and asked him if it were not of Arabian derivation—a question that my father was unable to answer. Later, an Arab merchant whom I met in Paris in my youth put the same question to me: I could not answer him more explicitly than could my father, the son of His Majesty of Morocco.
"M. Langlais, a distinguished savant, who had made a very profound study of Oriental languages, told me, at that time that the word Talma, in the Arabic tongue, meant intrepid, and that it was a very customary name among the descendants of Ishmael, to distinguish the different branches of the same family. You may be sure, monsieur, that such an interpretation ought to make me very proud, and I have ever done my utmost not to fall short of it. I have consequently given rein to my imagination and conjecture that a Moorish family remained in Spain, embraced Christianity and wandered from that kingdom to the Netherlands, which were formerly under allegiance to the Spaniards, and that by degrees members of this family wandered into French Flanders, where they settled. But, on the other hand, I have been informed that our name has a Dutch ending and that it was once very common in one of the provinces of Holland. This new version has completely upset my castle in Spain, and conveyed me from the African deserts to the marshes of the United Netherlands. Now, monsieur, you ought to be able to decide better than anyone, certainly better than I, since you speak Dutch, whether we really came from the North or from the South, whether our ancestors wore turbans or hats, whether they offered their prayers to Mahomed or to the God of the Christians.
"I have omitted to give you another piece of information, which is not without its relevancy—namely, that the Count de Mouradgea d'Olisson, who lived in the East for some years, and who has brought out a work on the religious systems of Oriental peoples, quotes a passage from one of their authors which tells us that the king, or rather the pharaoh, who drove the Israelites out of Egypt, was called Talma. I have to admit that that king was a great scoundrel, if the account given of him by Moses (surely a reliable authority) be correct; but we must not look too closely into the matter if we wish to claim so illustrious an origin.
"You see, monsieur, there is not a single German baron who boasts his sixteen quarterings, not even a king, throughout the four quarters of the globe, were he even of the house of Austria, that oldest of all royal families, who can boast such a lofty descent as mine. However it may be, monsieur, believe me, I hold it a much greater honour to be related to so distinguished a savant as yourself than to be the descendant of a crowned head. Such men as you work only for the good of men, whilst others—and by others I mean kings, pharaohs and emperors—think only of driving them mad. I trust, monsieur, that, since you seem to have made up your mind on this matter, you would be so good as to inform me whether the name we bear is Dutch or Arabian. In any case, I congratulate myself, monsieur, upon bearing the name that you have made celebrated.—Believe me, etc. etc.
"TALMA"