Chapter VI: Preface (5)

_Pascaline [to Hélène]._ Of course, you are burning to tell me
all about poor mama’s divorce. Well: let me show you I know all
about it already. I know that, in spite of my father’s orders,
mama would go on singing, and then she was rather extravagant,
and, well, she was not domesticated, and chose to follow her
artistic vocation. There you have the whole story of her sins.
Oh, _if_ there _is_ anything else, I invite you, or rather, I
require you to tell me. _Was_ there anything else?

_Hélène [avoiding Pascaline’s eyes]._ There was nothing else.

_Pascaline [triumphantly]._ There, you are forced to admit it!
Mama’s _only_ fault was that she had an artistic vocation!
Again I beg you to contradict me, if you can. _Was_ there
anything else against her?

_Hélène._ No; only that—nothing else.

However, one little awakening, one little shock. In the Third Act Pascaline visits the theatrical agency, sees the tawdriness of the place, hears noisy laughter and is even addressed at length by a shabby old comedian—a veritable _cabotin_—who mistakes her for an _ingénue_, in quest of an engagement. The comedian is delightful. He might have stepped straight on to the Odéon stage from one of those dim little cafés haunted by broken-down actors in the neighbourhood of the Porte St-Martin. He appals Pascaline with his grins, grimaces and familiarity. Pascaline’s silence he attributes to worry. And he seeks to console her by declaring that one must always be gay, always be smiling, even if one has eaten nothing all day and the landlord has threatened to turn one out into the street. He calls her _mon petit enfant_, and _mon petit chat_, and he _tutoies_ her. Pure, irresistible comedy! The scene deserves to be quoted in full, but we must hasten on to the _dénouement_.

It is close. Life at the Nantais publisher’s has become intolerable. Constant strife; day after day, scenes between Pascaline and her step-mother. And, at last, Hélène decides on a daring step: to visit Gabrielle, tell her of Forjot’s unhappiness, implore her to interfere no longer between father and daughter. But she fails to move Gabrielle, who is cold and impertinent. And then, believing that if she herself disappeared, Pascaline would be entirely restored to Forjot, Hélène determines to leave Nantes and resume her dull career of governess. And this determination becomes all the stronger when she learns that Pascaline has fled Nantes and taken refuge with her mother. Poor Forjot has aged and withered when next we see him. Pascaline’s flight has been a bitter blow. But the music publisher will not hear of Hélène’s sacrifice, and is passionately bidding her remain, when Gabrielle is announced. Hélène leaves the room. And Gabrielle and Forjot find themselves face to face again.

In the great scene that follows, Gabrielle begins by saying that, as Hélène has determined to leave Nantes, she, Gabrielle, no longer wishes to keep Pascaline away from her father, and has brought her home.

Forjot declares that Hélène shall not be sacrificed; and upon this, Gabrielle proclaims her intention of keeping Pascaline.

Now again we have the Bourgeois Forjot displaying qualities of temper, character and moral sense, of the very highest order: qualities of the chivalrous sort. He does not fly into a passion. He does not taunt this offender against maternal and conjugal obligations. But earnestly and simply he addresses the author of all this trouble; and with a self-restraint that would certainly not have been found in his English prototype, he invites her to examine her own conduct; and to ask herself whether it is Hélène and himself, or whether it is Gabrielle herself, and Gabrielle only, who has behaved cruelly and selfishly to Pascaline, as well as to the husband she betrayed and the good woman who has taken care of the child she abandoned.

_Forjot._ Gabrielle, just remember. _You_ are the cause of all
this trouble. It only depended upon you to stay on here, and
never to be separated from your child. I never made your life
unhappy! I loved you; and you know very well I should have
forgiven you. I begged you to stay and you would not. What harm
you have done by obeying your caprice! Just now I saw very well
you hardly recognised me—so aged am I by all this. For my part,
I have never harmed you. Hélène has never harmed you—what do
you say? No, no; she has never harmed you! And yet it is we who
are punished. It is because _you_ behaved badly in the past
that _we_ are threatened to-day with distress and loneliness.
After having poisoned my life, you wish then to hasten my death?

_Gabrielle._ You know very well that I regret having made you
suffer.

_Forjot._ Let me tell you this: a great many people would not
have acted as we have done. They might not have told our child
the real story of your desertion; but they would not have
invented excuses for you.

_Gabrielle._ Yes; I know you have been very kind, and I thank
you for it.

_Forjot._ I am not the only one you ought to thank. Hélène has
always respected you: she has taught Pascaline to love you!
It seems to me that should touch you. Give our child back to
us. Now, admit it, you have launched yourself upon a new life.
You have made yourself different from us. I can’t well explain
myself; and it is difficult to make you understand my feelings
because I don’t want to use words that might hurt or irritate
you; but I must put the facts before you plainly.

Always generous is Forjot. Not one brutal, not one harsh word does he throw at his wife! He promises that Pascaline shall continue to visit her as often as she pleases, if Gabrielle, on the other side, will promise not to poison Pascaline’s mind against him and Hélène. Gabrielle is touched. Rising, she opens the door, and brings in Pascaline. And Pascaline, seeing her poor father’s anxious, care-worn face, runs up to him.

_Pascaline._ Oh, father! father! advise me. I am puzzled,
bewildered. Something tells me I am acting badly; but I don’t
know what I ought to do. Oh, dear, I don’t know what I ought to
do!

_Forjot._ My little Girl, it all depends upon you whether I
am to finish my life in misery, or in peace. You can give me
happiness in the days I have still to live. But to do that, you
must come back to us; and you must try to treat Hélène with
the respect and gratitude you owe her. In her despair at not
being able to win back your affection, she wants to leave us.
She wishes to return once more to the lonely, uncertain life
of a governess. She wants to plunge herself into this unknown,
uncertain destiny. It is I who appeal to you to have mercy upon
her, and upon me.

_Pascaline._ Ah, if only I might love you without being false
to Mama!

_Gabrielle [emotionally]._ You can, you can, Pascaline! Yes,
my daughter, I am not the mother that you believe in! Since I
left you I have created for myself a new life, new habits, new
affections; and then, Pascaline, I am going to marry again!

Always, emotionally, Gabrielle tells how she once had two paths to choose, and that she chose the wrong one.

But Pascaline interrupts her with a cry of: “What a calumny!” and vows that her mother has never done wrong. And that she knows for certain, _as Hélène herself has often told her so_.

_Gabrielle._ Eh bien, va embrasser Hélène pour cela. Je te le
demande. Je vous la confie, Hélène.

And so, the end. Not heroic, in accordance with the English poetic sentiment, demanding that Gabrielle should pass out sorrowing and penitent; convicted in her child’s eyes, who flies for safety to the virtuous bosom of Hélène, but _à l’amiable_, in accordance with the French sentiment expressed by Forjot: “Mon enfant, si l’on n’avait pas d’indulgence les uns pour les autres, la vie des plus braves gens ne serait pas possible.”

But what comes of it all? No argument for or against divorce; no attack upon, no justification of the French method of educating the _jeune fille_. But a picture of the feelings and emotions bound up with that method; and a picture also of the generous reasonableness, sense of justice, and human kindness that lie at the root of French character—and that may to some extent compensate for a lack of the absolutely sincere and unadulterated love of decency and respectability for their own sakes that are our own distinguishing characteristics.

[3] _Briant_ père. Il suffit aujourd’hui—et je le constate sans en être le moins du monde troublé, croyez-le bien—il suffit qu’un enfant soit naturel pour se voir l’objet de la sympathie générale, comme il suffit qu’une femme ne soit pas légitime pour être immédiatement entourée du respect universel. Que les femmes et les enfants ne se le dissimulent pas, ils sont en train de passer un mauvais quart d’heure.

[4] In a criticism of M. Paul Hervieu’s _Le Dédale_ given in _The Fortnightly Review_ series of articles upon “French Life and the French and the French Stage,” by John F. Macdonald. By the kind permission of the Editor of _The Fortnightly Review_ these articles are reprinted here.—F. M.

4. PARIS, M. EDMOND ROSTAND, AND “CHANTECLER”

Six years have elapsed since a Paris newspaper announced that M. Constant Coquelin—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_—had suddenly taken train to the south-west of France in the following circumstances:—

“Yesterday morning the greatest of our comedians received a telegram urging him to proceed without delay to Cambo, the tranquil, beautiful country seat, in the Pyrenees, of M. Edmond Rostand. No sooner had he read the message than M. Coquelin bade Gillett, his devoted valet, pack a valise, hail a _fiacre_, and accompany him to the Gare d’Orléans. Excitement and delight were depicted on the face of the distinguished traveller, whom we found smoking a cigarette in front of a first-class compartment. ‘Yes,’ he joyously admitted. ‘Yes, I am off to the Pyrenees—but that is all I shall tell you.’ Never, indeed, such indomitable discretion! In reply to our adroit, persuasive questions regarding the object of his journey, M. Coquelin made such irrelevant observations as these: ‘The weather looks threatening,’ and ‘Gillett is the most admirable of valets,’ and ‘Ah, my friends, has it ever occurred to you what an extraordinary thing is a railway station?’ And then, as the train steamed slowly away: ‘You may state in your article that the cushions of this carriage are exceedingly restful and sympathetic.’ Still, in spite of M. Coquelin’s reticence, we are in a position to acquaint our readers with the reason of this sudden, this sensational visit to Cambo. _M. Edmond Rostand is engaged upon a new play, and the leading part in it will be sustained by M. Coquelin._ Down there in the golden calm of the Pyrenees—yes, even as we pen these words—the most exquisite of poets is reading to the most brilliant of actors... another _chef-d’œuvre_. It will surpass the triumphant, the glorious _Cyrano de Bergerac_! Parisians will certainly rejoice, Parisians will assuredly be thrilled to hear of the superb, artistic festival in store for them.”

Such, six years ago, was the very first—and very florid—_potin_ to be published on _Chantecler_; and no sooner had it appeared than Paris, truly enough, “rejoiced” and was “thrilled”—but complained that it was maddening and heart-breaking to know so little about the new masterpiece. What was its theme? What, too, was the title? And when—oh, when—would the first performance take place? In order to satisfy the Parisian’s curiosity, newspaper editors despatched their Yellowest Reporters to Cambo with instructions to force a statement out of the comedian and the poet. With the Yellow Ones went alert, sharp photographers. And then, what strange, indelicate scenes in that once-tranquil and refined spot in the Pyrenees! Since M. Rostand and his guest refused to receive the invaders, the latter set about performing their vulgar mission from a distance. Outside the poet’s picturesque Basque villa, cameras and cameras; and again and again was the “golden calm” of Cambo disturbed by shouts of “There’s Madame Rostand at that window,” and “There’s her son, Maurice, picking a flower,” and “There’s Rostand talking hard to Coquelin on a bench.” Nobody, nothing in the far-spreading grounds, escaped the photographers. The gardener was “taken”; so were a housemaid, a peacock, a mowing-machine, a dog and a hammock. As for the reporters, they followed MM. Rostand and Coquelin when the latter took their afternoon walks, even hid themselves behind bushes and hedges in the hopes of overhearing a fragment of their conversation; and minutely they described in their newspapers the gait and the gestures of the comedian, and the smile, the eyeglass and the extreme elegance of the poet; and wildly they declared that insomuch as MM. Rostand and Coquelin discussed naught but the new masterpiece during those afternoon walks, every step they took left a glorious, an historic imprint in the dusty white lane. But the subject of the play, the date of its production?—“mystery, mystery!” admitted the reporters. Nor was it until many months later, and until after M. Coquelin had paid half-a-dozen visits to Cambo, that Paris heard with amazement that M. Rostand’s hero was a cock, his heroine a hen pheasant, his chief scene a farm-yard, in which all kinds of feathered creatures were to fly, strut and waddle about. As Paris was marvelling at the novelty and audacity of the idea, the poet fell ill. A severe operation kept him an invalid a whole year. The successive deaths of a relative and of three close friends so shocked him that he had not the heart to return to his work. But when in the autumn of 1908 M. Coquelin made yet another expedition to Cambo, the “glorious,” “historic” walks were resumed. In M. Rostand’s study, animated, all-night sittings. In the drawing-room, extraordinary rehearsals—M. Coquelin the cock, Madame Rostand the pheasant, M. Rostand a dog, young Maurice Rostand a blackbird. Then visits from wig-makers, costumiers, scene-painters, electricians. And at last the official, stirring announcement that M. Rostand and the play were leaving for Paris, that the name of the play was _Chantecler_, and that the first performance would be given at the Porte St-Martin Theatre in the spring of 1909.

It was in January of that year that M. Rostand took up his abode in an hotel facing the Tuileries Gardens. The corridor outside the poet’s suite of apartments was guarded by footmen—so many sentinels with instructions to let nobody pass; and thus M. Rostand was secure from cameras and Yellow scribbling pencils except when he left the hotel, entered a motor car and sped off to the pleasant little country town of Pont-aux-Dames, where Constant Coquelin had founded a home for aged and infirm actors. Of this establishment Coquelin _aîné_ himself was then an inmate. Not that he was feeling old or infirm—“only a little fatigued and in need of calm and repose ere disguising myself as a proud, majestic cock.” Kindly Coquelin was never so happy as when playing the host to his score of superannuated actors and actresses. He called them his “guests,” and had provided them with easy-chairs, a library, a billiard-table, playing cards, backgammon boards and gramophones; and with summer-houses in the garden where the old ladies might gossip and gossip out of the glare of the sun, and with a lake, too, in which the old fellows might fish. Also, he invited them to relate their theatrical experiences—the rôles they had played, the successes they had achieved, the costumes they had worn long, long ago; and, oh, dear me, how the “guests” took their host at his word—yes, heavens, how garrulously and lavishly they responded! Withered old Joyeux (late—very late—of the Palais Royal) described how emperors and kings had been convulsed by his grins, winks and tricks; swollen, red-faced Hector Duchatel (slim, elegant, irresistible at the Vaudeville in the seventies) declared that beautiful _mondaines_ had sighed, almost swooned, when he passionately made love on the stage; wrinkled, haggard Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle (once such a radiant _blonde_ at the Bouffes) narrated how she could scarcely turn round in her dressing-room for the _corbeilles_ of flowers, in which jewels and _billets-doux_ from illustrious personages lay concealed. Then, after all these reminiscences, the “guests” produced faded, tattered newspaper cuttings, that proclaimed Joyeux “extraordinaire de fantaisie et de verve,” and Hector Duchatel “le roi de la mode,” and Mademoiselle de Perle “the most exquisite, the most incomparable of blondes”—“Cabotinville,” if you like; the tawdry, flashy talk of M. le Cabot and Madame la Cabotine. But I like, nevertheless, to call up the vision of Coquelin _aîné_, wrapped in a dressing-gown, a skull-cap pulled down over his ears, listening patiently and sympathetically to these confidences of the past, and reading through the faded newspaper cuttings, and saying to haggard Mademoiselle de Perle: “I myself, like everybody else, was once madly in love with you,” and to withered old Joyeux: “Those winks and grins of yours were excruciating,” and—— But an end to this digression. The scene between Coquelin _aîné_ and his superannuated “guests” is cut short by the arrival, from the hotel in the rue de Rivoli, of the author of _Chantecler_.

Well, Constant Coquelin was wearing a dressing-gown and a skull-cap, because he felt a little “fatigued.” But the visits of M. Rostand, and of the wig-makers, scene-painters and costumiers, as well as the impatience of the Parisians to behold the new “masterpiece,” restored to the comedian all his former energy, enthusiasm. Final resolutions were made. The first rehearsal at the Porte St-Martin Theatre was fixed for the following week; the first performance would be given, irrevocably, in the middle of May. “What a triumph we shall have!” said Coquelin _aîné_ to the few friends he received in the Home. “Ah, my admirable Gillett, what a work of genius is _Chantecler_!” he exclaimed, when the devoted valet lighted him to his bedroom. “Listen, I will recite to you Rostand’s _Hymn to the Sun_. And after that, my good Gillett, you shall hear me crow.” Replied faithful Gillett: “To-morrow—not to-night. It is wiser to go to sleep.” But Constant Coquelin refused to sleep until he had recited and crowed. Up and down the room, in the dressing-gown and skull-cap, he strutted. The superannuated actors and actresses were awakened by his cry: “Je t’adore, Soleil!” Five minutes later there resounded throughout the Home a clarion, peremptory—“Cocorico.” Said the old players: “The master is rehearsing.” Said Gillett: “Your old servant insists upon your going to bed.” Said Coquelin _aîné_: “When I have played Chantecler I shall retire from the stage, and you and I, my faithful Gillett, will pass the rest of our lives down here, tranquilly, happily, amidst our twenty old guests.” But next morning, after Gillett had helped his master into the dressing-gown, Constant Coquelin fell heavily to the floor. Cry after cry from admirable Gillett, cries from the superannuated players—then profound silence and gloom. Gloom, too, in Paris. The blinds darkly drawn in the windows of the first floor of the rue de Rivoli hotel. The Porte St-Martin—other theatres—closed. All kinds of _soirées_, banquets and fêtes postponed. “What a disaster, what a tragedy, _mon ami_; what a blow, what a calamity, _ma chère_.” Gloom—dear, wonderful Coquelin _aîné_ was dead....

In the summer of 1909 M. Edmond Rostand, after spending four months in seclusion at Cambo, returned to Paris; a few days later the rehearsals of _Chantecler_ at the Porte St-Martin Theatre began. “Should anything happen to me, you must ask Guitry to play my part,” had said Coquelin, to the poet. M. Guitry, therefore, was appointed “Chantecler,” Madame Simone, ex-Le Bargy, was made the Hen Pheasant. Gay, frisky M. Galipaux was created Blackbird, M. Jean Coquelin, the great comedian’s son, chose the rôle of the Dog. “Irrevocably in November,” stated the newspapers, “we shall hear ‘Chantecler’ sound his first cocorico.” And Paris rejoiced once again and was “thrilled.”

But, ah me, how that positive word, “irrevocable,” was misused! No _Chantecler_ in November, no “Cocorico” in December—only multitudinous newspaper _potins_ that constantly announced the postponement of the event, and described “life” at the Porte St-Martin and in M. Rostand’s hotel on the Champs Elysées. It was repeatedly stated that the poet, after hot words with M. Guitry, had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.” It was asserted that Madame Simone had thrown her type-written rôle on to the stage, stamped hysterically on the rôle, and left the theatre in tears. It was furthermore reported that M. Guitry was about to undergo an operation for cancer; that lively Galipaux was suffering from acute melancholia; that M. Jean Coquelin, distracted, prematurely ancient and infirm, had taken refuge in the Home at Pont-aux-Dames. Then, the insinuation that Chantecler would never, never “cocorico.”... Nor, according to the same newspaper _potins_, was “life” in M. Rostand’s hotel more serene. He was as closely guarded as the Tsar of All the Russias. Nevertheless, a waiter who served him was, in reality, a Yellow Italian journalist; threatening letters and telegrams from lunatics arrived by the score; and wizened old cranks sent the poet baskets of feathers, with the solemn warning that unless these, and only these feathers, were worn by the Cock and the Hen Pheasant, well, M. Guitry and Madame Simone, and M. Rostand and _Chantecler_ would be ridiculed, ruined, and done for.... In fine, what a November, what a December—and what a January of the present year! And when MM. Hertz and Jean Coquelin, the proprietors of the Porte St-Martin Theatre, themselves announced that the first performance of _Chantecler_ would be given on 28th January “_most irrevocably_,” how delirious became the _potins_, and how agitated the Parisians! The great question was: Would _Chantecler_ be a triumphant success, or only a moderate success, or a catastrophe? To determine this problem, clairvoyantes—positively—were consulted. And Madame Olga de Sonski, at present of the rue des Martyrs, and late—so her card asserted—of Persia, Budapest, Cairo and Bond Street—Madame de Sonski declared she already felt the Porte St-Martin, massive theatre that it was, trembling, almost tottering, from applause. But not so Madame Juliette de Magenta, of the rue des Ténèbres, from Morocco, St Petersburg, Constantinople and Broadway: “I hear [_sic_] the silence, the coldness, the gloom of disappointment and disapproval,” funereally she said. However, in spite of Madame de Magenta’s lugubrious prognostications, the news came that M. Rostand had disposed of the publishing rights of _Chantecler_ for one million francs; that stalls and dress-circle seats (for the box-office was now open) for the first three performances were selling like wildfire at six pounds apiece; that critics and millionaires from America, and French Ambassadors and Ministers from divers parts of Europe, and even dark-skinned, dyspeptic merchants from Buenos Ayres, were all hastening to Paris to hear the “cocorico” of Chantecler. What excitement, what a whirl! For the twentieth time it was rumoured that M. Rostand had taken “the 9.39 train back to Cambo.” Now M. Guitry had appendicitis; and Madame Simone had injured herself by falling through a trap-door. Nevertheless, the first performance remained fixed “most irrevocably” for 28th January—on which day many a quarter of Paris and most of the _banlieue_ were flooded.

So, another postponement. Successively, and always “positively irrevocably,” it was announced that the great event would take place on 31st January, 2nd February, 5th February and 6th February. And thus the critics and millionaires from America, the French Ambassadors and Ministers from divers European capitals, the merchants from Buenos Ayres (looking sallow and bloodshot from the voyage) were detained in Paris at much personal inconvenience and loss to themselves. Nothing would move them until they had heard the clarion cry of—“Cocorico.” And M. Pichon, Minister of Foreign Affairs, became uneasy at the prolonged sojourn of the Ministers and Ambassadors. “Diplomatic relations between France and many a foreign Power are interrupted,” he cried tragically, “and all because of a cock and a hen pheasant.” Social life, too, was interrupted. _Le Tout Paris_ refrained from issuing dinner invitations lest they should clash with the first performance, and countermanded rooms engaged weeks beforehand in the Riviera hotels.

A final rumour to the effect that M. Rostand had returned to Cambo by the 9.39 train—a train which, by the way, does not figure in the time-table. Another _canard_ stating that M. Guitry had contracted typhoid fever through drinking water contaminated by the floods. A third Yellow _potin_ reporting Madame Simone to have “mysteriously,” “sensationally” disappeared. What chaos, what incoherency! And what a scene in the Porte St-Martin when at last, on Sunday night, 6th February, _Chantecler_, in the presence of the most brilliant audience yet assembled in a Paris theatre, came, crowed and conquered.

A new handsome curtain, new carpets, new velvet fauteuils, programmes printed on vellum, and red ribbons (also supplied by the management) in the grisly hair of the middle-aged _ouvreuses_. “I have been an _ouvreuse_ for twenty years, but never have I seen an audience so vast, so animated, so _chic_,” said one of these ladies to me as she bundled up my overcoat, pinned a ticket to it and dropped it on to the floor. “Not a peg left,” she continued. “Immediately beneath your overcoat lies the overcoat of Prince Murat. In the heap next to it is a Rothschild overcoat. And as for that other pile of overcoats in the corner, all fur-lined, all magnificent, well, they belong to ambassadors, dukes, American millionaires, English milords, famous writers, politicians, jockeys—all the great personages in the world. Thus, although it lies on the floor, your overcoat is in illustrious company.” After warning me that no one would be admitted into the theatre when the curtain had risen, the _ouvreuse_ showed me to my seat, held out her hand, was rewarded, and left me free to admire the jewels, feathers, dresses and coiffures of _le Tout Paris_. All eyes—or rather opera-glasses—on the box occupied by Madame Rostand and her two sons. In another box, M. Briand, the Prime Minister. In the stalls, Academicians, generals, playwrights, critics, newspaper proprietors, aviators, financiers, leading actors and actresses. Everyone afoot, or rather on tip-toe, gossiping, laughing, singling out celebrities with their glasses. But at ten minutes to nine o’clock the three traditional thuds made by a mallet behind the curtain (the signal in French theatres that the play is about to begin) caused a hush. Everyone sat down. “_Chantecler_ at last,” said, emotionally, a lady behind me. The curtain rose two or three inches. “_Pas encore, pas encore_,” cried a voice. Consternation, dismay of _le Tout Paris_; was the play again to be postponed, was it true that M. Rostand had taken that 9.39 train, and that Madame Simone had “sensationally” disappeared, and that M. Guitry—— “_Pas encore, pas encore!_” But it was—thank heaven—only the voice of M. Jean Coquelin who appeared in the front of the stalls in a dress-suit, mounted a footstool and recited the prologue to M. Rostand’s fantastic, symbolical _chef-d’œuvre_.

It was a delightfully humorous description of the feathered inhabitants of a farm-yard; and as M. Jean Coquelin continued to harangue the audience eloquently from his footstool, the animals were heard becoming impatient on the hidden stage.

A crowing of cocks. A cackling of geese. The stamping of a horse’s hoof. The creaking of an old cart. The bray of a donkey. The miaow of a cat. The hoot of an owl. The whistle of a blackbird. Then—distinctly—three taps from a woodpecker: “_le bec d’un pivert a frappé les trois coups_”; and with a cry of “The woodpecker says the play must commence,” M. Coquelin disappeared, down went the lights: and up amidst thunders of applause rose the curtain.

Before us, a farm-yard, not an inmate or an object of which is wanting. White, black, grey and brown hens strut hither and thither, sharply discussing the powers, vanities, infidelities of Chantecler, their lord and master. Ducks and drakes, ganders and geese take sides for or against the king of the yard. Now and again the lid of a vast wicker-work basket opens, to reveal the head of the Old Hen—a very old hen, the doyenne of the place, and Chantecler’s foster-mother. In her, of course, the cock finds an ardent defender; but whenever the withered old head protrudes from the basket the Blackbird, hopping about in his cage, holds forth mockingly, ironically. For the Blackbird, like every other feathered creature in the play, is symbolical. He represents the smart, shallow, cynical Parisian, who scoffs at principles, ridicules genius, laughs at love, denies the existence of disinterested friendship, and is enormously pleased with his empty, impudent self. So he makes fun of the Old Hen and of the white, black, grey and brown hens whilst they pay naïve tributes to the supreme genius of Chantecler—the Cock of Cocks, the superb creature whose clarion, peremptory call causes the sun to rise and makes the world radiant, beautiful and cheerful. Chantecler has betrayed the hens, but they nevertheless admire and love him. As the discussion continues, bees, butterflies, wasps fly across the stage. On a pillar, a cat dozes tranquilly in the sun. Two fluffy little chicks play at getting in and out of a gigantic sabot. To the right, a huge dog’s kennel; in the background a gigantic cart, with its shafts in the air. In a corner, a set of enormous harness. The birds and beasts being of Brobdingnagian sizes, the objects on the stage have been magnified in proportion. But all is natural; never, from first to last, a note of extravagance, grotesqueness. Well, on and on goes the discussion, and, as the Blackbird sneers and scoffs, it becomes heated and shrill. “Silence; here he comes, here he comes,” cries a pigeon. And not a sound is heard when Chantecler appears, solemn, majestic, arrogant, on the poultry-yard wall. The hens gather together, look up at him with submission, admiration. The two chicks stop their game. The cat wakes up. Even the Blackbird ceases hopping about in his cage. Magnificent, awe-inspiring, indeed, is Chantecler in his dark green and light brown feather dress—“the green of April and the ochre of October.” He is, as on the top of the wall he recites his _Hymn to the Sun_, Cyrano de Bergerac in feathers. He represents the artist, the creative genius, the dispenser of beauty and spiritual light. If he be the lord over the other denizens of the farm-yard, it is because they will have it so. They believe the sun rises because Chantecler summons it with his shrill, imperious “Cocorico.” And Chantecler, the Superb, believes it himself—believes it in spite of the sceptical Blackbird. Chantecler, in fact, might stand for a great many types besides the artistic; for example, the statesman who fancies he is the creator of the social reforms that are advancing with civilisation like a tide. “I adore thee, O sun,” begins Chantecler, his beak raised towards the skies.

Je t’adore, Soleil! ô toi dont la lumière,
Pour bénir chaque front et mûrir chaque miel,
Entrant dans chaque fleur et dans chaque chaumière
Se divise et demeure entière
Ainsi que l’amour maternel!

...

Je t’adore, Soleil! Tu mets dans l’air des roses,
Des flammes dans la source, un dieu dans le buisson!
Tu prends un arbre obscur, et tu l’apothéoses!
O Soleil! toi sans qui les choses
Ne seraient que ce qu’elles sont!

Night falls, and Chantecler sends his subjects to bed. Then he and Patou, the dog philosopher, discuss the situation in the farm-yard. Excellent Patou might be Anatole France’s M. Bergeret. He despises the pert, cynical Blackbird. He denounces the snobbishness, the vanity, the vulgarity of the age. He is for calm, for reflection, for—— A shot is heard, the Hen Pheasant flies in and implores Chantecler to protect her from the hunter. She nestles under the Cock’s wing; she looks up at him admiringly, tenderly—and proud, gallant, idealistic Chantecler there and then falls in love with the gorgeous black, gold and red Pheasant. Majestically Chantecler struts round and round her, his chest thrown outwards, his beak in the air. Curiously, somewhat disdainfully, the Hen Pheasant surveys the farm-yard. It strikes her as poor, sordid, such an obscure little corner of the world. How different from the beauty, the spaciousness, the grandeur of her forest!

_La Faisane._

Mais tous ces objets sont pauvres et moroses!

_Chantecler._

Moi, je n’en reviens pas du luxe de ces choses!

_La Faisane._

Tout est toujours pareil, pourtant.

_Chantecler._

Rien n’est pareil,
Jamais, sous le soleil, à cause du soleil!
Car Elle change tout!

_La Faisane._

Elle... Qui?

_Chantecler._

La lumière.

Ardently, enthusiastically, then, Chantecler tells the Hen Pheasant how daylight, as it changes, floods the objects in the farm-yard with ever-varying colours. That geranium is never twice the same red. Patou’s kennel, the sabot stuffed with straw, the rusty old pitchfork—not for two successive moments do they look the same. A rake in a corner, a flower in a vase, as they change colour in the rays of the sun, fill idealistic Chantecler with ecstasy.

Still, the Hen Pheasant is not very much impressed. She consents, nevertheless, to pass the night in Patou’s kennel, which the dog-philosopher obligingly gives up to her. Owls, with huge, luminous eyes, appear. Bats dash about in the air. A mole creeps forth. As they love darkness and detest light, they fancy if Chantecler dies the night will last for ever. “I hate him,” they say, one after another.—“Je commence à l’aimer,” says the Hen Pheasant, womanlike, when she thus hears that Chantecler is in danger.

Owls, bats, the Cat, the Blackbird and strange night creatures are assembled beneath the branches of a huge tree, when the curtain rises on the second act. The Big Owl chants an Ode to the Night. “Vive la Nuit,” cry his brethren, at intervals, in a hoarse chorus. It is determined that Chantecler must die. At five o’clock in the morning, when the Guinea-Fowl holds a reception, a terrific fighting-cock shall insult, attack and slay Chantecler. “Vive la Nuit,” cry the night-birds, their eyes shining luridly in the darkness. But when a “Cocorico” sounds in the distance the night creatures fly away, and Chantecler, followed by the Hen Pheasant, struts on to the dim stage. “Tell me,” pleads the Pheasant, “the secret of your power.” At first Chantecler refuses, then hesitates, then in a glorious outburst he declares that the sun cannot rise until he has sung his song. It is perhaps the noblest, the most exquisite passage in the play.

Here is the last verse:

Je pense à la lumière, et non pas à la gloire,
Chanter, c’est ma façon de me battre et de croire.
Et si de tous les chants mon chant est le plus fier,
C’est que je chante clair afin qu’il fasse clair.

“But if,” asks the Hen Pheasant, “the skies are clouded and grey?”

_Chantecler._

Si le ciel est gris, c’est que j’ai mal chanté.

_La Faisane._

Il est tellement beau, qu’il semble avoir raison.

Majestically, Chantecler struts to and fro beneath the branches of the trees. Humbly, admiringly, the Hen Pheasant watches his perambulations. Night has passed, daybreak is near; the skies above the hillock on which Chantecler is standing turn from black to purple, and next from purple to dark grey. “Look and listen,” says Chantecler. He digs his claws firmly into the turf; he throws his chest out; he raises his head heavenwards: “Cocorico... Cocorico... Cocorico.” And gradually, delicately, the skies light up; birds twitter, cottages stand out in the distance, the tramp of the peasant on his way to the fields tells that the day’s work has begun—shafts of golden light fall upon the majestic Chantecler and illuminate the plumage of the graceful, beautiful Hen Pheasant.

And now, in a kitchen garden, the Guinea-Fowl’s “five o’clock”—a worldly, fashionable reception—at five o’clock in the morning! It is a satire on elegant Paris _salons_; what tittle-tattle, what scandalmongering, what epigrams, paradoxes and puns! At a weather-stained old gate stands the Magpie. One of the first guests he ceremoniously announces is the Peacock—the _grande dame_, to whom her hostess, the snobbish Guinea-Fowl, makes a profound curtsy. (The Peacock’s tail is a miracle of ingenuity; the actress can spread it out fanwise, raise it, let it drop, at will.) Then, one after another, arrives an endless procession of cocks. “The Golden Cock; the Silver Cock; the Cock from Bagdad; the Cock from Cochin China; the Scotch Grey Cock; the Bantam Cock; the Cock without Claws; M. le Doyen of All the Cocks,” announces the Magpie. Bows from these multitudinous Cocks to the Guinea-Fowl, to the Peacock and to the Blackbird. In all, forty-three amazing Cocks, each of whom is jealous of Chantecler; who eventually appears at the gateway with the Hen Pheasant. “Announce me, simply, as _the_ Cock,” proudly says Chantecler. “_Le_ Coq,” cries the Magpie. And the trouble begins.

Coldness from the Guinea-Fowl, scorn from the Peacock, mockery from the Blackbird, and insults from the Prize Fighting Cock, who has been commissioned by the uncanny, unwholesome Night Birds to slay idealistic, sun-loving Chantecler. Then, the duel, which ends in the victory of THE Cock, and the pain and humiliation of the prize-fighter. All the Cocks, from M. le Doyen down to the Cock without Claws, are dismayed. The Peacock is disgusted; the Guinea-Fowl is dejected at the wretched failure of her “five o’clock”—only the smart, irrepressible Blackbird keeps things going. But not for long. Contemptuously, Chantecler turns upon him; taunts him with his vain, miserable endeavour to imitate the true, delightful wit, gaiety and genius of the Sparrow—the _gavroche_—of Paris. The Parisian Sparrow is flippant, but warm-hearted. He laughs, he scoffs, he whistles, he swaggers, but he is faithful and brave. But you, wretched Blackbird, are a coward. You, shallow creature, are a sneak. And then the line that would have rejoiced the heart of Victor Hugo: “Il faut savoir mourir pour s’appeler Gavroche.”

A month passes. The last Act represents the Hen Pheasant’s forest, where she and Chantecler are spending their honeymoon. For the bird has enticed the Cock away from the farm-yard; and thus, distress of his old foster-mother, and much indignation amongst the white, grey, brown and black hens.

Night in the forest, and how beautifully depicted! Up in a tree sits a solemn woodpecker; below him, around a huge mushroom, a number of toads with glistening eyes are assembled. Then, a gigantic cobweb, and in the middle of it, a spider. Here and there, rabbits peep out of their holes. Everywhere, birds. “It is time,” says the solemn woodpecker to them, “for you to say your prayers.”

_Une Voix [dans les arbres]._

Dieu des oiseaux!...

_Une Autre Voix._

Ou plutôt—car il sied avant tout de s’entendre
Et le vautour n’a pas le Dieu de la calandre!
Dieu des petits oiseaux!...

_Mille Voix [dans les feuilles]._

Dieu des petits oiseaux!...

_Une Autre Voix._

Et vous, François, grand saint, bénisseur de nos ailes....

_Toutes les Voix._

Priez pour nous!

_Une Voix._

Obtenez-nous, François d’Assise,
Le grain d’orge...

_La Seconde Voix._

Le grain de blé...

_D’autres Voix._

Le grain de mil...

_La Première Voix._

Ainsi soit-il!

_Toutes les Voix._

Ainsi soit-il!

At length, when Chantecler appears, we perceive that there is something wrong with the Cock. “Does not my forest please you?” asks the Hen Pheasant tenderly. “Oh yes,” replies Chantecler half-heartedly. The fact is, he pines after the farm-yard. Every night in the forest he telephones to the Blackbird, through the flower of the bindweed, for news of his old foster-mother, the hens, the chicks, the dog Patou. Then the Hen Pheasant is jealous of his love for the sun. Cruelly, she has insisted that he is to crow only once every day.

But it is the Hen Pheasant’s design to make Chantecler forget the dawn. He, of the farm-yard, has never heard the song of the nightingale. So glorious are her notes that Chantecler, the poet, the idealist, will be enraptured by them—and lose count of time.

And the nightingale sings; and Chantecler, enthralled, listens attentively—and as he stands there, spellbound, beneath the nightingale’s tree,—_the sun rises and lights up the forest_.

A peal of mocking laughter betrays the presence of the Blackbird. So it is not the imperious “Cocorico” who summons the sun! So the day breaks without Chantecler’s shrill crow! At first the Cock refuses to admit it: “That is the sun I summoned yesterday.” But when his illusions are gone he returns, humbled but not despairing, to the farm-yard. If he has not the supreme power to create the day, at least he can herald it.

When Chantecler has vanished, the Hen Pheasant, out of love for the Cock, deliberately flies into a trap set by the owner of the poultry yard. She remembers Chantecler having described the farmer as an admirable man:

Car le propriétaire est un végétarien.
C’est un homme étonnant. Il adore les bêtes.
Il leur donne des noms qu’il prend dans les poètes.

So the farmer, after releasing the Hen Pheasant from the trap, will restore her to Chantecler.

More and more golden becomes the forest. A strident “Cocorico” from the distance announces Chantecler’s return to the yard. When footsteps are heard, the birds stop singing. And the curtain falls.

It falls on a _chef-d’œuvre_.

X

AFTER _CHANTECLER_

More than a fortnight has passed since I witnessed the dress rehearsal of _Chantecler_: and what an odd, what an exhausting fortnight it has been! First of all dreams—or rather nightmares. Strangely, preposterously, I am majestic, cock-crowing “Chantecler” himself. A few minutes later, with wild, delirious rapidity, I turn into the Blackbird. M. Rostand’s Blackbird can hop in and out of his cage, and mingle with the hens, the ducks, the fluffy little chicks, and the other feathered creatures in the farm-yard; but I—am a prisoner in my cage—no one heeds my cries, no one releases me, and to add to my panic huge owls with shining eyes gather around my cage and hoot lugubriously at me.

Nor is this all. I get hopelessly entangled in the gigantic cobweb, which is one of the most wonderful scenic effects of the Fourth Act (the “Hen Pheasant’s Forest”) of _Chantecler_. Also I stumble over the great toadstools, fall heavily to the ground; and the gorgeous Hen Pheasant herself appearing, I feel humiliated and ashamed that so elegant and beautiful a creature should find me sprawling thus awkwardly on the turf. “What a nuisance these toadstools are,” I observe. “What are you doing in my forest? Leave it immediately,” commands the Hen Pheasant. But I have sprained my ankle; impossible to rise, even to move. And I burst into tears, and I implore the beautiful Pheasant to pardon me, and then a great bat gets caught in my hair, and——

Enough. Although my sufferings in these nightmares have been acute, I have one thing to be thankful for. Up to now I have not been attacked, as “Chantecler” is in the Third Act, by a fierce, bloodthirsty Prize Fighting Cock.

Gracious goodness, this _Chantecler_! Rising unrefreshed from my troubled, restless sleep, I find, on the breakfast-table, letters from London, Birmingham, Manchester, which show that M. Edmond Rostand’s masterpiece has interested those cities as much as it has agitated and excited Paris.

“MY DEAR BOY” (writes a frail, silver-haired and very charming
old lady who gave me half-crowns in my schooldays),—“I live
very much out of the world, as old people should do; but I
confess to my curiosity having been aroused by a very peculiar
play now being acted in Paris. I mean _Chantecler_, by a M.
Edmond Rostand. It seems that the characters in it—if one can
call them characters?—are animals. How very remarkable! I
wonder how it can be done! Such things are seen, of course,
in pantomimes (do you remember my taking you to Drury Lane
Theatre many, many years ago to see _Puss-in-Boots_?). But
the newspapers here say that this play is wonderfully natural,
and full of true poetry and feeling. When you can spare
half-an-hour, pray satisfy an old lady’s curiosity by giving
her an account of the piece.”

Then, with innumerable dashes, exclamation marks, and words underlined, the following appeal from fascinating, lovely, irresistible Miss Ethel Tempest:—

“Of course, lucky man, you have seen _Chantecler_, and if you
don’t tell me all about it by return of post I shall never
write to you, and never look at you, and never speak to you
again. I don’t want to know anything about the plot of the
play, as I have read all about that in the papers. You have
got to be a dear, and tell me about the hat that Madame Simone
wears as the Hen Pheasant. It’s made of straw and feathers,
and it’s going to be the rage in London. Sybil Osborne tells
me chic Parisiennes are wearing it already. No; on second
thoughts, send me all the fashionable illustrated papers that
give sketches of the hat. As you’re a man, you won’t understand
it. Mind, _all_ the papers: you can’t send enough. If you could
get a special sketch done by one of your artist friends in the
Latin Quarter, it would be lovely.”

Well, of course I write to the gentle, kindly silver-haired lady who once took me to a Drury Lane pantomime; and of course, too, I send illustrated papers—thirteen of them—to exquisite Miss Tempest, and ask Raoul Fauchois, a gay, sympathetic art student, to “do” me a sketch of the Hen Pheasant’s straw hat. He consents, and I fancy he will keep his promise. “Naturally, the sketch is not for you,” he says, at once wisely and poetically. “It is for one of those blonde English misses whose _chevelure_, so radiant, so golden, lights up the sombre streets of old London. You may rely upon me, _mon pauvre ami_. I understand; I know exactly how you feel—for I myself have had affairs of the heart.”

Again, always from London and the provinces, requests for picture post cards of the principal scenes in _Chantecler_; for gilt brooches (3 f. 50 c. in the tawdry shops of the rue de Rivoli) representing “Chantecler” crowing and crowing with his chest thrown outwards and his beak raised heavenwards; for the Porte St-Martin theatre programme of _Chantecler_; and for—“if you possibly can manage it”—the autograph of M. Edmond Rostand.

And then a telegram:

“Wife and self arrive Gare du Nord Wednesday 5.45. Please meet
us. Not understanding French wish you accompany us see and
interpret _Chantecler_.”

What worry, what exhaustion!

“Monsieur would be kind to explain this extraordinary ‘Chantecler’ to me. I am from the country, and have had much to do with poultry; but I have never seen a cock like Chantecler,” says my servant, a simple, naïve soul from Normandy.

Then my concierge, a practical lady: “But it’s ridiculous, but it’s mad! Cocks and hens cannot even speak, and yet this M. Rostand makes them recite poetry. What is France coming to? What will be the end of us all? Think, just think, what has been happening since the New Year. That sinister comet, the terrible floods, and now _Chantecler_.”

Very unwisely, I explain to my servant and to my concierge that M. Rostand’s glorious _chef-d’œuvre_ is symbolical.

_Chantecler_ is a symbolic play in verse.

The feathered creatures in the farm-yard represent human beings. “Chantecler” himself is the artist, the idealist. The Hen Pheasant is the coquettish, seductive, brilliant woman of the world. The Blackbird——

But here I stop, silenced by the startled expression of the concierge and the servant. It is plain they think I have become irresponsible, light-headed. “Monsieur is tired. Monsieur should lie down and rest. Monsieur is not quite himself,” says my servant.

“The comet—the floods—_Chantecler_, have been too much for Monsieur,” sighs the concierge.

XI

AU COURS D’ASSISES. PARIS AND MADAME STEINHEIL

It was not by reason of baccarat losses, duels, matrimonial disputes, nor because of the aches of indigestion nor of the indefinable miseries of neurasthenia, worries and ailments common enough in French Vanity Fair—it was not, I say, for any of these reasons that fashionable and financial Paris, sporting and theatrical Paris, certain worldly lights of literary and artistic Paris, and the extravagant, feverish _demi-monde_ of Paris, woke up on the morning of the 3rd November[5] in an exceedingly bad temper. Nor yet was their displeasure occasioned by the weather—London weather—all fog, damp and gloom. The fact was, at noon was to begin the first sitting of the great Steinheil trial, to which the above-mentioned ornaments of _le Tout Paris_ had been excitedly looking forward for many a month. All that time they had been worrying, agitating, intriguing to obtain the official yellow ticket that would entitle them to behold with their own eyes—O, dramatic, thrilling spectacle—the “Tragic Widow’s” entrance into the dock, and to hear with their own ears—O palpitating, overwhelming experience—the secret history of an essentially Parisian _cause célèbre_. The trial would be the event of the autumn season, a function no self-respecting _mondain_, _mondaine_ or _demi-mondaine_ could afford to miss. And so, as the accommodation in the Court of Assizes is limited, the campaign to secure cards of admission became ardent, fierce, and then (as the sensational day of the 3rd November approached) delirious. Off, by footmen, chauffeurs, special messengers, went scented little notes to judges and famous lawyers, and to deputies, senators and ministers, imploring those distinguished personages to “remember” the writer when the hour arrived for the precious yellow tickets to be distributed. “_Mon cher ami_,” wrote Madame la Comtesse de la Tour, “if you forget me I shall never, never forgive you.” Then, with a blot or two, and in a primitive, scrawling handwriting, Mademoiselle Giselle de Perle of the half-world: “_Mon vieux gros_, I count upon you for the trial. If you fail me, your little blonde Pauline will show her claws. And the claws of this blonde child can be terrible.” (It is shocking to think that blonde Giselle de Perle should be on such familiar terms with gentlemen in high places; but as a matter of fact she and her sisters play a very important rôle in the life of the Amazing City.) As for stout, diamond-covered Baronne Goldstein (wife of old bald-headed Goldstein of the Bourse), she invited judges and deputies to rich, elaborate dinners, at which the oldest, the mellowest, the most comforting wines from her cellars were produced; and when M. le Juge and M. le Député had been rendered genial and benevolent by those rare, warming vintages, she led them into a corner of Goldstein’s vast gilded _salon_, and there besought them, while breathing heavily under her breastplate of diamonds, to procure for her “just one little yellow ticket.” Naturally, all these State officials replied with a bow: “I will do my best. Need I say that it is my dearest desire to oblige you?” And our ornaments of _le Tout Paris_ were satisfied; already regarded that ticket of tickets as being safe and sound in their possession. When October dawned, Madame la Comtesse, lively Pauline Boum and stout Baronne Goldstein ordered striking dresses and huge, complicated hats for the Steinheil _cause célèbre_. In their respective _salons_, over their “five o’clock’s” of pale tea, sugared cakes, and crystal glasses of port, malaga and madeira, they excitedly described how they had driven to the tranquil, ivy-covered villa in the Impasse Ronsin where Madame Steinheil’s husband and mother had been assassinated on the night of the 30th-31st May eighteen months ago. And how, after that expedition, they had proceeded to beautiful Bellevue, seven miles out of Paris, to stare at that other villa, the “Vert Logis,” where the “Tragic Widow” received her lovers. How they gossiped, too, over the intrigue between the accused woman and the late President Félix Faure; and what fun they made of certain high State dignitaries who were said to be in a state of “panic” because they had been habitués of the Steinheil villas! “I would not miss the trial for the largest and finest diamond in the world,” declared these ladies. “It will be extraordinary, overwhelming, supreme,” exclaimed the male guests at these tea-and-madeira afternoon parties. “We shall still be discussing it this time next year.”