[CHAPTER XIII]
A reading at Nodier's—The hearers and the readers—Début—Les Marrons du feu—La Camargo and the Abbé Desiderio—Genealogy of a dramatic idea—Orestes and Hermione—Chimène and Don Sancho-Goetz von Berlichingen—Fragments—How I render to Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's
Towards the close of 1830, or the beginning of 1831, we were invited to spend an evening with Nodier. A young fellow of twenty-two or twenty-three was to read some portions of a book of poems he was about to publish. This young man's name was then almost unknown in the world of letters, and it was now going to be given to the public for the first time. Nobody ever failed to attend a meeting called by our dear Nodier and our lovely Marie. We were all, therefore, punctual in our appearance. By everybody, I mean our ordinary circle of the Arsenal: Lamartine, Hugo, de Vigny, Jules de Rességuier, Sainte-Beuve, Lefèbvre, Taylor, the two Johannots, Louis Boulanger, Jal, Laverdant, Bixio, Amaury Duval, Francis Wey, etc.; and a crowd of young girls with flowers in their dresses, who have since become the beautiful and devoted mothers of families. About ten o'clock a young man of ordinary height—thin, fair, with budding moustache and long curling hair, thrown back in clusters to the sides of his head, a green, tight-fitting coat and light-coloured trousers—entered, affecting a very easy demeanour which, perhaps, was meant to conceal actual timidity. This was our poet. Very few among us knew him personally, even by sight or name. A table, glass of water and two candles had been put ready for him. He sat down, and, so far as I can remember, he read from a printed book and not from a manuscript. From the very start that assembly of poets trembled with excitement; they felt they had a poet before them, and the volume opened with these lines, which I may be permitted to quote, although they are known by all the world. We have said, and we cannot repeat it too often, that these memoirs are not only Memoirs but recollections of the art, poetry, literature and politics of the first fifty years of the century. When we have attacked, severely, perhaps, but honestly and loyally, things that were base and low and shameful; when we have tracked down hypocrisy, punished treachery, ridiculed mediocrity, it has been both good and sweet to raise our eyes to the sky, to look at, and to worship in spirit, those beautiful golden clouds which, to many people, seem but flimsy vapours, but which to us are planetary worlds wherein we hope our souls will find refuge throughout eternity; and, even though conscious that we may, perhaps, be wrong in so doing, we hail their uncommon outlines with more pride and joy than when setting forth our own works. I am entirely disinterested in the matter of the author of these verses; for I scarcely knew him and we hardly spoke to one another a dozen times. I admire him greatly, although he, I fear, has not a great affection for me. The poet began thus—
"Je n'ai jamais aimé, pour ma part, ces bégueules
Qui ne sauraient aller au Prado toutes seules;
Qu'une duègne toujours, de quartier en quartier,
Talonne, comme fait sa mule un muletier;
Qui s'usent, à prier, les genoux et la lèvre,
Se courbent sur le grès plus pâles, dans leur fièvre,
Qu'un homme qui, pieds nus, marche sur un serpent,
Ou qu'un faux monnayeur au moment qu'on le pend.
Certes, ces femmes-là, pour mener cette vie,
Portent un cœur châtré de tout noble envie;
Elles n'ont pas de sang e pas d'entrailles!—Mais,
Sur ma télé et mes os, frère, je vous promets
Qu'elles valent encor quatre fois mieux que celles
Dont le temps se dépense en intrigues nouvelles.
Celles-là vont au bal, courent les rendez-vous,
Savent dans un manchon cacher un billet doux,
Serrar un ruban noir sur un beau flanc qui ploie,
Jeter d'un balcon d'or une échelle de soie,
Suivre l'imbroglio de ces amours mignons
Poussés dans une nuit comme des champignons;
Si charmantes d'ailleurs! Aimant en enragées
Les moustaches, les chiens, la valse et les dragées.
Mais, oh! la triste chose et l'étrange malheur,
Lorsque dans leurs filets tombe un homme de cœur!
Frère, mieux lui vaudrait, comme ce statuaire
Qui pressait de ses bras son amante de pierre,
Réchauffer de baisers un marbre! Mieux vaudrait
Une louve enragée en quelque âpre forêt!..."
You see he was not mistaken in his own estimate; these lines were thoughtful and well-constructed; they march with a proud and lusty swing, hand-on-hip, slender-waisted, splendidly draped in their Spanish cloak. They were not like Lamartine, or Hugo or de Vigny: a flower culled from the same garden, it is true; a fruit of the same orchard even; but a flower possessed of its own odour and a fruit with a taste of its own. Good! Here am I, meaning to relate worthless things concerning myself, saying good things about Alfred de Musset. Upon my word, I do not regret it and it is all the better for myself.[1] I have, however, do not let us forget, yet to explain how that dramatic pastiche which goes by the name of Charles VII. came to be written. The night went by in a flash. Alfred de Musset read the whole volume instead of a few pieces from it: Don Paez, Porcia, the Andalouse, Madrid, the Ballade à la lune, Mardoche, etc., probably about two thousand lines; only, I must admit that the young girls who were present at the reading, whether they were with their mammas or alone, must have had plenty to do to look after their eyelids and their fans. Among these pieces was a kind of comedy entitled the Marrons du feu. La Camargo, that Belgian dancer, celebrated by Voltaire, who was the delight of the opera of 1734 to 1751, is its heroine; but, it must be said, the poor girl is sadly calumniated in the poem. In the first place, the poet imagines she was loved to distraction by a handsome Italian named Rafaël Garuci, and that this love was stronger at the end of two years than it had ever been. Calumny number one. Then, he goes on to suppose that Seigneur Garuci, tired of the dancer, gives his clothes to the Abbé Annibal Desiderio, and tells him how he can gain access to the beautiful woman. Calumny number two—but not so serious as the first, Seigneur Rafaël Garuci having probably never existed save in the poet's brain. Finally, he relates that, when she finds herself face to face with the abbé disguised as a gentleman, and finds out that it is Rafaël who has provided him with the means of access to her, whilst he himself is supping at that very hour with la Cydalise, la Camargo is furious against her faithless lover, and says to the abbé—
"Abbé, je veux du sang! j'en suis plus altérée
Qu'une corneille au vent d'un cadavre attirée!
Il est là-bas, dis-tu? Cours-y donc! coupe-lui
La gorge, et tire-le par les pieds jusqu'ici!
Tords-lui le cœur, abbé, de peur qu'il n'en réchappe;
Coupe-le en quatre, et mets les morceaux dans la nappe!
Tu me l'apporteras; et puisse m'écraser
La foudre, si tu n'as par blessure un baiser!...
Tu tressailles, Romain? C'est une faute étrange,
Si tu te crois conduit ici par ton bon ange!
Le sang te fait-il peur? Pour t'en faire un manteau
De cardinal, il faut la pointe d'un couteau!
Me jugeais-tu le cœur si large, que j'y porte
Deux amours à la fois, et que pas un n'en sorte?
C'est une faute encor: mon cœur n'est pas si grand,
Et le dernier venu ronge l'autre en entrant ..."
The abbé has to fight Rafaël on the morrow; he entreats her to wait at least until after that.
"Et s'il te tu
Demain? et si j'en meurs? si j'en suis devenue
Folle? si le soleil, de prenant à pâlir,
De ce sombre horizon ne pouvait plus sortir?
On a vu quelquefois de telles nuits au monde!
Demain! le vais-je attendre à compter, par seconde,
Les heures sur mes doigts, ou sur les battements
De mon cœur, comme un juif qui calcule le temps
D'un prêt? Demain, ensuite, irai-je, pour te plaire,
Jouer à croix ou pile, et mettre ma colère.
Au bout d'un pistolet qui tremble avec ta main?
Non pas! non! Aujourd'hui est à nous, mais demain
Est a Dieu!..."