The rehearsals of Antony were going on concurrently with those of Napoléon. But there was this difference between the two pieces and the two theatres: at the Odéon, everybody was satisfied with his or her own part, and from the manager to the prompter everyone did his best to help me, while at the Théâtre-Français everyone was dissatisfied with his part, and from manager to prompter everybody hindered the author and his work. My reader knows Mademoiselle Mars already. I pointed her out at a rehearsal of Hernani pulling to pieces the rôle of Doña Sol. I am sorry I was in such a hurry, I could have shown her in Antony pulling the part of Adèle to pieces. On his side, Firmin plucked the part of Antony as hard as he could. Every feather of slightly vivid colouring made a blur on the kind of grey tint that they wished to give to a work whose ruling theme had, in the first place, been colour, so that by dint of plucking out gently each feather the part was quietly transformed into that of a lover on the stage of the Gymnase.
By the end of a month of rehearsals the piece, deprived of all its salient features, might have been reduced to three acts or even to a single one. One fine morning the suggestion was made to me to suppress the second and fourth acts, because they made the play too wearisome. I had taken such a disgust for the work that I was quite ready to suppress it entirely; I had even got to the point of believing that Napoléon was the real work of art, and Antony the common ordinary run of work. They settled the day for the production of it, because they must get it out of the way as it blocked the theatre, which was in urgent haste to put on Don Carlos, ou l'Inquisition, a drama from which they were expecting great things, but whose author desired to preserve his anonymity at the first performance; and with good reason too.
Meanwhile Hugo had sought me out; he had come to realise that we should never be looked upon at the Théâtre-Français by its actors and frequenters, and even by the public itself, as anything but usurpers; the stupid heresies that they had attributed to us concerning Molière, Corneille and Racine had sprung up in the orchestra; and everyone who was above the age of fifty came nightly to bask voluptuously under the shadow of our audacity! Consequently, Hugo had looked about for and found a theatre which was not an Olympus, where our triumphs would not be regarded as sacrilege, and where those he should cater for would be plain ordinary mortals and not gods. This theatre was the Porte-Saint-Martin. He had entered into negotiations with its manager, M. Crosnier, for the taking of Marion Delorme. Thus was realised the prophecy made by Crosnier to Hugo when, on 16 July 1829, the latter had said to him—
"Monsieur, you have come too late; there are two plays of mine accepted, which have priority over yours."
To which Crosnier had replied—
"By Jove! monsieur, who knows? In spite of these two acceptances I may, after all, be the one to play your works!"
When treating with Crosnier, Hugo had negotiated in my name as well as his own, subject to my agreement thereto. I thanked him for his friendly attention; but the only two plays I possessed were in rehearsal, one at the Odéon and the other at the Théâtre-Français. I should therefore have to wait till I had produced another piece. But I did not need to wait for this. The nearer the day of the first representation of Antony approached, the more I became conscious of the ill feeling throughout the theatre. On the other hand, those of my friends who had been present at the rehearsals had gone away shaking their heads, and when urged by me to give them opinions they frankly confessed that they could not see any play in it at all. I was completely demoralised, for the further I advanced in my dramatic career the more I lost that early confidence in myself which had kept me up through all the tribulations connected with Henri III. I began to think I must be deceived, and that there could be absolutely nothing in Antony.
Two things happened at the time which ought to have driven me to the extreme of discouragement, but which, on the contrary, restored all my determination. The day of the première was fixed for the following Saturday, and it was then Tuesday or Wednesday, when Firmin took me aside.
"My dear friend," he said to me, "I did not want to refuse to act the part of Antony for you, first, because I will play all the parts you assign me; secondly, because having given me the rôle of Saint Mégrin, which is a good one, you acquired the right to give me a bad one after it...."
He waited for me to stop him midway, but I, on the contrary, let him say his say out. So he went on—