The Abbe Maréchal and I were very ambitious for the theatrical part of the entertainment and had views of Esther with the costumes, and choruses of Moreau, but M. Claretie said that would be impossible. It was difficult enough to arrange in Paris with all the singers, instruments, and costumes at hand—and would be impossible in the country with our modest resources. I think the idea of a tent on a village green rather frightened him; and he didn't quite see the élite of his company playing in such a cadre—no décor—and probably very bad acoustics. However, Sebline reassured him. He knew the tent and its capabilities, having seen it figure on various occasions, comices agricoles, banquets de pompiers, at village fêtes generally, and said it could be arranged quite well.
We discussed many programmes, but finally accepted whatever M. Claretie would give—an act of "Les Plaideurs," and two or three of "Bérénice," with Mme. Bartet, who is charming in that rôle. The Abbé Maréchal undertook the music in his church, and I was sure he would succeed in having some of the choruses of Esther. His heart was quite set on it. Once he had settled our programme, the conversation drifted away from the purely local talk, and was brilliant enough. All the men were clever and good talkers, and all well up in Racine, his career, and the various phases of his work.
From the classics we got into modern plays and poets, and there of course the differences of opinion were wide; but I think the general public (people in the upper galleries) like better when they go to the Française to see a classic piece—Roman emperors and soldiers, and vestal virgins and barbarians in chains—and to listen to their long tirades. The modern light comedy, even when it treats of the vital subjects of the day, seems less in its place in those old walls. I quite understand one couldn't see Britannicus,[11] Mithridate, nor the Cid every evening.
[11] I remember so well our cousin Arthur's description of his holidays spent at his grandmother's château. Every evening they read aloud some classical piece. When he had read Britannicus twice (the second time to appreciate more fully the beauties which were lightly passed over at first), he rebelled, had a migraine, or a sore throat, something which prevented his appearing in the drawing-room after dinner; and he and his cousins attired themselves in sheets, and stood on the corner of the wall where the diligence made a sharp turn, frightening the driver and his horses out of their wits.
We came down here several times to see how things were getting on, and always found the little town quite feverishly animated. We had succeeded in getting the band of the regiment stationed at Soissons. I wrote to the Colonel, who said he would send it with pleasure, but that he couldn't on his own authority. An application must be made to the Ministère de la Guerre. There is always so much red tape in France. One writes and receives so many letters about anything one wants to do—a Christmas Tree in the school-house—a distribution of soup for the poor and old—a turn in a road to be rounded, etc. However, the permission was graciously accorded for the band. The Mayor's idea was to station it on the Mail, where quantities of people would congregate who couldn't get into the church or the tent.
We went one day to have tea with the Abbé Maréchal in his nice old presbytère; the salon opening out on a large, old-fashioned garden with fine trees, and a view of the church towers in the distance. He was quite pleased with all that he had arranged for his church service. One of his friends, Abbé Vignon, a most interesting man and eloquent preacher, promised to deliver a lecture on Racine from the pulpit; and M. Vincent d'Indy, the distinguished composer and leader of the modern school of music, undertook the music with Mme. Jeanne Maunay as singer; he himself presiding at the organ.
I tried to persuade the proprietors of all the châteaux in the neighbourhood to come, but I can't say I had much success. Some had gout—some had mourning. I don't remember if any one "had married a wife and therefore couldn't come."
However, we shall fill our own house, and give breakfast and dinner to any one who will come. To-day we have been wandering about on the green near the ruins, trying to find some place where we can give our friends tea. The service in the church will certainly be long, and before the theatrical performance begins we should like to arrange a little goûter—but where? It is too far to go back to our house, and the Sauvage, our usual resort, will be packed on that day, and quite off its head, as they have two banquets morning and evening. The "Cafe des Ruines," a dirty little place just under the great walls of the château, didn't look inviting; but there was literally nothing else, so we interviewed the proprietor, went in to the big room down stairs, which was perfectly impossible, reeking with smoke, and smelling of cheap liquor; but he told us he had a "très belle salle" up stairs, where we should be quite alone. We climbed up a dark, rickety little turning staircase, and found ourselves in quite a good room, with three large windows on the green; the walls covered with pictures from the cheap illustrated papers, and on the whole not too dirty. We have taken it for the afternoon, told the patron we would come to-morrow, put up tables, and make as many preparations as we could for the great day. He was very anxious to furnish something—some "vin du pays;" but we told him all we wanted was fire, plenty of hot water, and a good scrubbing of floor and windows.
It is enchanting this afternoon. We are taking advantage of the fine weather to drive about the country, and show our friends some of our big farms and quaint little villages. They look exactly as they did a hundred years ago, "when the Cossacks were here," as they say in the country. Some of the inns have still kept their old-fashioned signs and names. Near May, on the road to Meaux, Bossuet's fine old cathedral town, there is a nice old square red-brick house, "L'Auberge du Veau qui Téte" (The Inn of the Sucking Calf), which certainly indicates that this is great farming country. There are quantities of big white oxen, cows, and horses in the fields, but the roads are solitary. One never meets anything except on market day. The Florians who live in Seine et Marne, which is thickly populated—villages and châteaux close together—were much struck with the loneliness and great stretches of wood and plain.
We are praying for fine weather, as rain would be disastrous. The main street looks really charming. The green arch is nearly finished, and at night, when everything is illuminated, will be most effective.