[CHAPTER XIV]
First representation of Soulié's Roméo et Juliette—Anaïs and Lockroy—Why French actresses cannot act Juliet—The studies of the Conservatoire—A second Christine at the Théâtre-Français—M. Évariste Dumoulin and Madame Valmonzey—Conspiracy against me—I give up my turn to have my play produced—How I found the subject of Henri III.—My opinion of that play
Meantime, we had reached the beginning of June 1828, and I was informed by Soulié that the Odéon had accepted his Roméo, were rehearsing it and were nearly ready to perform it. We had not seen each other since the night when we had agreed each to write our own version of Christine. But he had not forgotten me, and I received two gallery stall tickets for the first night. As my mother had often heard me talk of Soulié, and as she knew that Soulié was one of my friends, it was by way of preparing her for the first representation of my work that I took her to see the first representation of Soulié's. Poor mother! It was a great treat to her to go out with me. Alas! I had neglected her sadly for months past. We become so accustomed to those guardian angels, our mothers, that we never dream, as we leave them to pursue all the foolish fancies of youth, that a moment will come—a terrible and unanticipated moment—when they, in their turn, will leave us! Then only do we recollect, with tears in our eyes and remorse at our hearts, those many thoughtless and cruel absences and we exclaim, "Good God! why did I so often leave her for this and that, now to be separated from her by you for ever?"
We made our way to the Odéon. A first representation was a great affair in those days—especially when the play to be acted for the first time was by a man belonging to the new school. Nevertheless, this play of Soulié was not epoch-making: had it been produced before the visit of the English company to Paris, it would have been looked upon as extremely advanced, but, coming after their representations, it was by no means up to date. There was no fear, indeed, of its being an out-and-out failure, but there was no chance, either, of its being a grand success. Observe, too, that it was to be played on the same stage, and, probably, with the same mise-en-scène that had accompanied Kemble's and Miss Smithson's acting of Shakespeare's chef d'œuvre. Anaïs and Lockroy were entrusted with the principal parts. It was almost Lockroy's first appearance. He was handsome, young, romantic and daring—an actor of whom great things were expected, especially in this particular kind of rôle. But it was otherwise with regard to Anaïs. In comedy she was admirable and delightful, unfailing in taste, in wit, in delicacy of style and of interpretation; but in drama and tragedy she was entirely inadequate. And she was to appear on those same boards, before that same audience, in the same part of Juliet which Miss Smithson had presented with wonderful skill, and with all the qualities that go to the making of a great tragedienne! Besides, there was not a single woman in Paris in those days who could act Juliet, nor, we may add, have we anyone who could do it now. What is the reason for our lack of that charming type, the woman who combines gaiety of spirit with dramatic and poetic faculties? Why have we never produced, and probably never shall until some far distant future, anyone who will recall to both eyes and memory the personalities of Miss Smithson and Miss Faucett? Why was Mademoiselle Mars unequal to the part of Desdemona, and Madame Dorval herself unequal to Juliet? Because the dramatic education of our actresses is only conducted on the lines of three masters, without doubt of great merit, but whose genius does not include, as Shakespeare's did, that happy mixture of natural, dramatic and poetic expression to be found in most of the works of the English poet. Moreover, at the Conservatoire, pupils are only prepared for a single branch of the art, either tragedy or comedy, never for tragedy and comedy combined. Why, again? Because in the masters studied—Molière, Corneille and Racine—these two styles are never found intermingled. It is a fatal mistake to exclude comedy from the education of the tragedienne, and tragedy from the training of the comedienne; it makes the tragedienne heavy in comedy, the comedienne affected in tragedy. Our seventeenth and eighteenth century theatres knew nothing beyond the realism of Molière's women, the boorishness of Corneille's women; the rage or the gentleness of the women of Racine; the Agnès and Célimène of Molière; Corneille's Émilie and Rodogune; Racine's Hermione and Aricie. You will search in vain among them all for anything which resembles the nurse, balcony and tomb scenes, all of which centre round the single character of Juliet. To attain to the standard of the English actors it would be necessary either not to be trained at the Conservatoire—which I, for one, should look upon as a distinct advantage—or that the Conservatoire should allow, combined with the study of the French masters, the study of foreign masters or contemporary authors, whose dramatic works contain the threefold elements of nature, dramatic art and poetic feeling. It would be a very simple matter to arrange; it would, I am quite well aware, annoy MM. Samson and Provost; but what would it matter to an intelligent Minister of the Interior to meet opposition of that kind? It would, of course, rouse MM. Viennet, Lebrun and Jouy; but M. Viennet is no longer a member of the Chamber of Deputies, and M. Lebrun is no longer a member of the Chamber of Peers; M. Jouy no longer belongs to the editorial staff of the Constitutionnel; so what would their remonstrances matter to a Minister of the Interior who does not care whether he belong to the Academy or not? At first blush it would seem to be very easy indeed to discover a clear-headed Minister of the Interior who thinks lightly of belonging to the Academy; ah, well! we are mistaken. We have been trying to find such a man for the last thirty years! We have seen two revolutions without finding such a minister, and we may have to live through two more revolutions before he appears. I have no desire to see two other revolutions before I die, but I should much like to find the minister.
The upshot of all this is that Anaïs, although a charming comedienne (she was probably trained at the Conservatoire), made an inadequate Juliette; and Lockroy, who had studied his part from Kemble and Macready and, above all, had thought about it himself, did marvels in the part of Romeo. One of these marvellous things was a stroke of genius. When he sees Juliette rise from her tomb and walk, he retreats backward, keeping his eyes fixed on her, for fear lest she whom he takes for a ghost should vanish, and feels in the funeral couch she has just left, refraining from uttering his cry of joy until he has assured himself that the bed is empty. The play obtained the literary success it deserved—a success that culminated in the last act, which was almost entirely borrowed from Shakespeare.
I do not think I ever felt so much moved at any of my own representations as I was at this representation of Soulié; I never suffered more than during these first four acts, when I felt that the piece dragged along lifeless and dull, realising that this dulness and lack of life arose from the excessive good taste of the poet, who had thought it necessary to improve on Shakespeare. However, it was quite original enough to satisfy the public, and the public was content; but I am very sure that Soulié himself was not.
Meanwhile, the influence of Picard's criticism on Christine was making itself felt at the Comédie-Française. Mademoiselle Mars, who was at first fired with enthusiasm over the part of Christine, cooled in her study of it; for, incomplete as it then was, she felt it beneath her powers; Firmin, inspired comedian though he was, lacked a sense of composition and was beginning to feel uneasy over the part of Monaldeschi; finally, Ligier, who was to have acted the part of Sentinelli, left the Comédie-Française and went to the Odéon. Something still more serious had happened. The Committee of the Théâtre-Français had received a second play entitled Christine.