There was this time nothing to fear from the Censorship: unless it were on the ground of modesty, there was nothing in Hernani to which it could take exception. I really believe I have spoken of the modesty of the Censorship! Upon my word, how shocking of me! but since I have said it, let it stay!
The piece naturally took the place of his first-born, Marion Delorme; it was read for form's sake, received with shouts of hurrahs and acclamation—Hugo read very well, especially his own works—the parts were allotted and the rehearsals started at once. I do not state the fact of Hugo's fine reading here because I think his manner of reading had any influence either way on the enthusiasm of his reception, but because, never having heard him speak at the Tribune, I cannot form any idea of the style of his public speaking from the very different opinions I have heard expressed concerning his oratorical style. I can only say that his speeches when read always seemed to me to be masterpieces of language and logic.
With the rehearsals began the worries. No one at the Théâtre-Français felt much real sympathy with the Romantic school save old Joanny; the rest (and Mademoiselle Mars was first among their number, in spite of the splendid success she had just achieved in the Duchesse de Guise) really looked upon the encroachment as a species of invasion by barbarians, to which they were laughingly obliged to submit. Underneath the flattery paid us by Mademoiselle Mars, there was always the mental reservation of an outraged woman. Michelot, professor at the Conservatoire, a man of the world, with finished manners, showed us his most gracious and agreeable side; but at heart he loathed us. And as to Firmin, whose talent was so essential to us—a real talent, although it had nothing to do with the highest reaches of form, namely, the plastic side of art—well, his literary judgment was worthless; he merely possessed a kind of dramatic instinct, which served in lieu of art, and gave movement and life to his acting. He liked us well enough, because we supplied him with means to exercise his qualities of action and life; but he was terribly in fear of the older school, and accordingly remained neutral in all the literary quarrels, rarely appearing at a reading, so that he might avoid being obliged to give his opinion. He was not a stumbling-block, but, on the other hand, he was certainly not a support.
The play—by which we mean the leading parts—was distributed between the four principal actors of the Théâtre-Français whom we have just mentioned. Mademoiselle Mars played Doña Sol; Joanny, Ruy Gomez; Michelot, Charles V.; and Firmin, Hernani. I have said that Mademoiselle Mars felt no sympathy with our style of literature; but I ought to add or, rather, to repeat that, in her theatrical dealings, she was strictly honourable, and, when she had gone through her first representation of a part and endured the fire of applause or of hissings that had greeted the fall of the curtain, no matter what the play was in which she was acting, she would have died rather than give in; she would submit to a martyrdom rather than—we will not say deny her faith, because our School was not included in her creed—break her word.
But, before this point was reached, there were between fifty and sixty rehearsals to be gone through, at which an incalculable number of observations were hazarded at the expense of the author, faces were made, and pin-pricks given him. And of course it often happened that these pin-pricks penetrated through the skin and stabbed to the heart. I have recounted my own sufferings from Mademoiselle Mars during the rehearsals of Henri III.; the discussions, quarrels, disputes even which I had with her, the passionate scenes which, in spite of my obscurity, I was unable to refrain from causing, no matter what I risked in the future. The same thing was just as likely to happen to Hugo, and did happen. But Hugo and I were two absolutely different characters: he was cold and calm and polished and severe, and harboured the remembrance of good or ill done him; whilst I am open and quick and demonstrative, and make game of things, forgetful of ill, and sometimes of good. So the arguments between Mademoiselle Mars and Hugo were entirely different from mine. And remember that, on the stage, dialogues between actor and author usually take place before the foot-lights—that is to say, between the stage and the orchestra—so that not a word is lost by all the thirty to forty actors, musicians, managers, supernumeraries, call-boys, lighters-up, and firemen present at rehearsals. This audience, as will be understood, always does its best to catch any episode likely to distract the ennui of the daily work, the rehearsal itself; this fact considerably adds to the nervous irritability of the interlocutors and, in consequence, tends to introduce a certain amount of tartness in the telephonic communications which take place between the orchestra and the stage.
Things happened somewhat after this fashion. In the middle of the rehearsal Mademoiselle Mars would suddenly stop.
"Excuse me, my friend," she would say to Firmin or Michelot or Joanny, "I want a word with the author."
The actor to whom she addressed her remark would bow his assent and stand motionless and silent where he happened to be.
Mademoiselle Mars would come up close to the footlights, with her hand shading her eyes, although she knew well enough in what part of the orchestra to look for the author whom she was pretending to find. This was her little curtain raiser.
"M. Hugo?" she would ask. "Is M. Hugo here?".