Later on, when I apologized to Dumas fils for the way in which I had cut down his play, he answered: “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when any anyone tells it to me, I think it is perfect, as the person always forgets half of it.”
The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to the Gaiety Theater, and I remained the favorite. I mention this now with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.
Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had, therefore, taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a hundred in all.
His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, let me know that he would come with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities of London came to the inauguration. I had sent out only a hundred invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived, and were introduced to me. I was delighted and enjoyed it all immensely.
Mr. Gladstone did me the great honor of talking to me for about ten minutes. With his genial mind he spoke of everything in a singularly gracious way. He asked me what impression the attacks of certain clergymen on the Comédie Française and the damnable profession of dramatic artistes, had made on me. I answered that I considered our art quite as profitable, morally, as the sermons of Catholic and Protestant preachers.
“But will you tell me, mademoiselle,” he insisted, “what moral lesson you can draw from ‘Phèdre’?”
“Oh, Mr. Gladstone,” I replied, “you surprise me! ‘Phèdre’ is an ancient tragedy; the morality and customs of those times belong to a perspective quite different from ours, and different from the morality of our present society. And yet in that there is the punishment of the old nurse Œnone, who commits the atrocious crime of accusing an innocent person. The love of Phèdre is excusable on account of the fatality which hangs over her family, and descends pitilessly upon her. In our times we should call that fatality atavism, for Phèdre was the daughter of Minos and Pasiphæ. As to Theseus, his verdict, against which there could be no appeal, was an arbitrary and monstrous act, and was punished by the death of that beloved son of his who was the sole and last hope of his life. We ought never to cause what is irreparable.”
“Ah!” said the Grand Old Man, “you are against capital punishment?”
“Yes, Mr. Gladstone.”
“And quite right, mademoiselle.”