THE FIRST NIGHT OF "REVOLT"
"Take your places for the first act!"
The cry of the stage-manager, standing with his hand raised to hismouth to form a trumpet, at the foot of the staircase behind the scenes,echoes under the roof, rises and rolls along, to be lost in the depthsof corridors full of the noise of doors banging, of hasty steps, ofdesperate calls to the _coiffeur_ and the dressers; while there appearone by one on the landings of the various floors, slow and majestic,without moving their heads for fear of disturbing the least detailof their make-up, all the personages of the first act of _Revolt_, inelegant modern ball costumes, with the creaking of new shoes, the silkenrustle of the trains, the jingling of rich bracelets pushed up the armwhile gloves are being buttoned. All these people seem excited, nervous,pale beneath their paint, and under the skilfully prepared satin-likesurface of the shoulders, tremors flutter like shadows. Dry-mouthed,they speak little. The least nervous, while affecting to smile, havein their eyes and voice the hesitation that marks an absent mind--thatapprehension of the battle behind the foot-lights which is ever one ofthe most powerful attractions of the comedian's art, its piquancy, itsfreshness.
The stage is encumbered by the passage to and fro of machinists andscene-builders hastening about, running into one another in the dim,pallid light falling from above, which will give place directly, as soonas the curtain rises, to the dazzling of the foot-lights. Cardailhac isthere in his dress-coat and white tie, his opera hat on one side, givinga final glance to the arrangement of the scenery, hurrying the workmen,complimenting the _ingenue_ who is waiting dressed and ready, beaming,humming an air, looking superb. To see him no one would ever guess theterrible worries which distract him. He is compromised by the fall ofthe Nabob--which entails the loss of his directorate--and is risking hisall on the piece of this evening, obliged, if it be not a success, toleave the cost of this marvellous scenery, these stuffs at a hundredfrancs the yard, unpaid. It is a fourth bankruptcy that stares him inthe face. But, bah! our manager is confident. Success, like all themonsters that feed on men, loves youth; and this unknown author, whosename is appearing for the first time on a theatre bill, flatters thegambler's superstitions.
Andre Maranne feels less confident. As the hour for the production ofthe piece approaches he loses faith in his work, terrified by the sightof the house, at which he looks through the hole in the curtain asthrough the narrow lens of a stereoscope.
A splendid house, crammed to the roof, notwithstanding the late periodof the spring and the fashionable taste for early departure to thecountry; a house that Cardailhac, a declared enemy of nature and thecountry, endeavouring always to keep Parisians in Paris till the latestpossible date, has succeeded in crowding and making as brilliant as inmidwinter. Fifteen hundred heads are swarming beneath the great centralchandelier, erect--bent forward--turning round--questioning amid a greatplay of shadows and reflections; some massed in the obscure corners ofthe floor, others in a bright light reflected through the open doors ofthe boxes from the white walls of the corridor; the first-night publicwhich is always the same, that brigand-like _tout Paris_ which goeseverywhere, carrying those envied places by storm when a favour or aclaim by right of some official position fails to secure them.
In the stalls are low-cut waistcoats, clubmen, shining bald heads, widepartings in scanty hair, light-coloured gloves, big opera-glasses raisedand directed towards various points. In the galleries a mixture ofdifferent social sets and all kinds of dress, all the people well knownas figuring at this kind of solemnity, and the embarrassing promiscuitywhich places the modest smile of the virtuous woman along-side of theblack-ringed eyes, the vermilion-painted lips of her who belongs toanother category. White hats, pink hats, diamonds and paint. Above, theboxes present the same confusion; actresses and women of the demi-monde,ministers, ambassadors, famous authors, critics--these last wearing agrave air and frowning brow, sitting crosswise in their _fauteuils_ withthe impassive haughtiness of judges whom nothing can corrupt. The boxesnear the stage especially stand out in the general picture brilliantlylighted, occupied by celebrities of the financial world, the women_decollete_ and with bare arms, glittering with jewels like the Queen ofSheba on her visit to the King of Judea. But on the left, one of theselarge boxes, entirely empty, attracts attention by reason of its curiousdecoration, lighted from the back by a Moorish lantern. Over the wholeassembly is an impalpable and floating dust, the flickering of the gas,that odour that mingles with all the pleasures of Paris, its littlesputterings, sharp and quick like the breaths drawn by a consumptive,accompanying the movement of opened fans. And then, too, _ennui_, agloomy _ennui_, the _ennui_ of seeing the same faces always in thesame places, with their defects or their poses, that uniformity offashionable gatherings which ends by establishing in Paris each wintera spiteful and gossiping provincialism more petty than that of theprovinces themselves.
Maranne observed this ill-humour, this lassitude of the public, andthinking of all the changes which the success of his play might bringabout in his simple life, he asked himself, full of a great anxiety,what he could do to bring his ideas home to those thousands of people,to pluck them away from their preoccupation, and to send throughthis crowd a single current which should draw to himself those absentglances, those minds of every different calibre, so difficult to move tounison. Instinctively his eyes sought friendly faces, a box facing thestage occupied by the Joyeuse family; Elise and the younger girls seatedin the front, Aline and the father in the row behind--a charming familygroup, like a bouquet wet with dew amid a display of artificial flowers.And while all Paris was disdainfully asking, "Who are those peoplethere?" the poet instrusted his fate to those little fairy hands, newgloved for the occasion, which very soon would boldly give the signalfor applause.
The curtain is going up! Maranne has barely time to spring into thewings; and suddenly he hears as from far, very far away, the first wordsof his play, which rise, like a flight of timid birds, into the silenceand immensity of the theatre. A terrible moment. Where should he go?What should he do? Remain there leaning against a wing, with strainingear and beating heart? Encourage the actors when he himself stood in somuch need of encouragement? He prefers rather to look the peril in theface; and by the little door communicating with the corridor behind theboxes he slips out to a corner box, which he orders to be opened for himsoftly. "Sh! It is I." Some one is seated in the shadow--a woman, shewhom all Paris knows and who is hiding herself from the public gaze.Andre sits down by her side, and so, close to one another, mother andson tremblingly watch the progress of the play.
It astonished the audience at first. This Theatre des Nouveautes,situated in the very heart of the boulevard, where its portico glittersall illuminated among the great restaurants of the smart clubs; thistheatre, to which people were accustomed to come in parties after aluxurious dinner to listen until supper-time to an act or two of somesuggestive piece, had become in the hands of its clever manager the mostfashionable of all Parisian entertainments, without any very precisecharacter of its own, and partaking something of all, from thefairy-operetta which exhibits undressed women, to the serious moderndrama. Cardailhac was especially anxious to justify his title of"Manager of the Nouveautes," and, since the Nabob's millions had beenat the back of the undertaking, had made a point of preparing forthe boulevardiers the most dazzling surprises. That of this eveningsurpassed them all; the piece was in verse--and moral.
A moral play!
The old rogue had realized that the moment had arrived to try thateffect, and he was trying it. After the astonishment of the firstminutes, a few disappointed exclamations here and there in the boxes,"Why, it is in verse!" the house began to feel the charm of thisinvigorating and healthy piece, as if there had been sprinkled on it,in its rarefied atmosphere, some fresh and pungent essence, an elixir oflife perfumed with thyme from the hillside.
"Ah! this is nice--it is restful."
Such was the general sense, a thrill of ease, a spasm of pleasureaccompany
ing each line. That fat old Hemerlingue found it restful,puffing in his stage-box on the ground floor as in a trough of cerisesatin. It was restful also to that tall Suzanne Bloch, her hair dressedin the antique way, ringlets flowing over a diadem of gold; andnear her, Amy Ferat, all in white like a bride and with sprigs oforange-blossom in her fluffy hair, it was restful to her also, you maybe sure.
A crowd of demi-mondaines were present, some very fat, with a dirtygreasiness acquired in a hundred seraglios, three chins, and an air ofstupidity; others absolutely green in spite of their paint, as if theyhad been dipped in a bath of that arsenate of copper which is calledin the shops "Paris green." These were wrinkled, faded to such a degreethat they hid in the back of their boxes, only allowing a portion ofa white arm to be seen, a rounded shoulder protruding. Then there wereyoung men about town, flabby and without backbone, those who atthat time used to be called _petits creves_, creatures worn out bydissipation, with stooping necks and drooping lids, incapable ofstanding erect or of articulating a single word perfectly. And all thesepeople exclaimed with one accord: "This is nice--it is restful." Thehandsome Moessard murmured it like a refrain beneath his little fairmustache, while his queen in the stage-box translated it into thebarbarism of her foreign tongue. Positively they found it restful. Theydid not say after what--after what heart-breaking labour, after whatforced, idle and useless task.
All these friendly murmurs, united and mingled, began to give to thehouse an eventful appearance. Success was felt in the air, facesbecame serene again, the women seemed the more beautiful for reflectingenthusiasm, for being moved to glances that were as exciting asapplause. Andre, at his mother's side, thrilled with such an unknownpleasure, with that proud delight which a man feels when he stirs themultitude, be he only a singer in a suburban back-yard, with a patrioticrefrain and two pathetic notes in his voice. Suddenly the whisperingsredoubled, were transformed into a tumult. People were chuckling andfidgeting with excitement. What had happened? Some accident on thestage? Andre, leaning terrified towards the actors as astonished ashimself, saw every opera-glass turned towards the big stage-box whichhad remained empty until then, and which some one had just entered, whosat down immediately with both his elbows on the velvet ledge, andwith his opera-glass drawn from its case, taking his place in gloomysolitude.
In ten days the Nabob had aged twenty years. Violent southern natureslike his, if they are rich in enthusiasms, become also more utterlyprostrate than others. Since his unseating the unfortunate man had shuthimself up in his bedroom, with drawn curtains, no longer wishing evento see the light of day nor to cross over the threshold beyond whichlife was waiting for him, with the engagements he had undertaken,the promises he had made, a mass of protested bills and writs. TheLevantine, gone off to some spa accompanied by her _masseur_ and hernegress, was totally indifferent to the ruin of the establishment;Bompain--the man in the fez--in frightened bewilderment amid the demandsfor money, not knowing how to approach his ill-starred master, whopersistently kept his bed and turned his face to the wall as soon asbusiness matters were mentioned. His old mother alone remained behind toface the disaster, with the knowledge born of her narrow and straitenedexperience as a village woman, who knows what a stamped document--asignature--is, and thinks honour is the greatest and best thing inthe world. Her peasant's cap made its appearance on every floor ofthe mansion, examining bills, reforming the domestic arrangements, andfearing neither outcries or humiliation. At all hours the good womanmight be seen striding about the Place Vendome, gesticulating, talkingto herself, and saying aloud: "_Te_, I will go and see the bailiff."And never did she consult her son about anything save when it wasindispensable, and then only in a few discreet words, while avoidingeven a glance at him. To rouse Jansoulet from his torpor it had requiredde Gery's telegram, dated from Marseilles, announcing that he was on hisway back, bringing ten million francs. Ten millions!--that is to say,bankruptcy averted, the possibility of recovering his position--ofstarting life afresh. And behold our southerner rebounding from thedepth of his fall, intoxicated with joy, and full of hope. He orderedthe windows to be opened and newspapers to be brought to him. What amagnificent opportunity was this first night of _Revolt_ to show himselfto the Parisians, who were believing him to have gone under, to enterthe great whirlpool once more through the swing door of his box at theNouveautes! His mother, warned by some instinct, did indeed try to holdhim back. Paris now terrified her. She would have liked to carry off herchild to some unknown corner of the Midi, to nurse him along with hiselder brother--stricken down both of them by the great city. But he wasthe master. Resistance was impossible to that will of a man spoiled bywealth. She helped him to dress for the occasion, "made him look nice,"as she said laughing, and watched him not without a certain pride ashe departed, dignified, full of new life, having almost got over theprostration of the preceding days.
After his arrival at the theatre, Jansoulet quickly perceived thecommotion which his presence caused in the house. Accustomed to similarcurious ovations, he acknowledged them ordinarily without the leastembarrassment, with a frank display of his wide and good-natured smile;but this time the manifestation was hostile, almost indignant.
"What! It is he?"
"There he is."
"What impudence!"
Such exclamations from the stalls confusedly rose among many others. Theretirement in which he had taken refuge for some days past had left himin ignorance of the public exasperation, of the homilies, the statementsbroadcast in the newspapers, with the corrupting influence of his wealthas their text--articles written for effect, hypocritical phraseologyby the aid of which opinion avenges itself from time to time on theinnocent for all its own concessions to the guilty. It was a terriblyembarrassing exhibition, which gave him at first more sorrow than anger.Deeply moved, he hid his emotion behind his opera-glass, fixing hisattention on the least details of the stage arrangements, giving athree-quarters view of his back to the house, but unable to escape thescandalous observation of which he was the victim and which made hisears buzz, his temples beat, the dulled lenses of his opera-glassbecome full of those whirling multi-coloured circles which are the firstsymptom of brain disorder.
When the curtain fell at the end of the first act he remainedmotionless, in the same attitude of embarrassment; the whisperings, nowmore distinct when they were no longer held in check by the dialogue onthe stage, the pertinacity of certain inquisitive people changing theirplaces in order to get a better view of him, obliged him to leave hisbox and to beat a hurried retreat into the corridors, like a wild beastescaping across a circus from the arena. Beneath the low ceiling inthe narrow circular passage of the theatre corridors, he foundhimself suddenly in the midst of a dense crowd of emasculate youths,journalists, tightly laced women wearing their hats, laughing as partof their trade, their backs against the wall. From box-doors opened forair, mixed and disjointed fragments of conversation were escaping:
"A delightful piece. It is fresh; it is good."
"That Nabob! What impudence!"
"Yes, indeed, it is restful. One feels better for it."
"How is it that he has not yet been arrested?"
"Quite a young man, it seems. It is his first play."
"Bois l'Hery at Mazas! It is impossible. Why, there is the marquiseopposite, in the balcony, with a new hat."
"What does that prove? She is at her business as a stager of newfashions. It is very pretty, that hat. In Desgrange's racing colours."
"And Jenkins? What is Jenkins doing?"
"At Tunis, with Felicia. Old Brahim has seen them both. It seems thatthe Bey has begun to take the pearls."
"The deuce he has!"
Farther along, soft voices were murmuring:
"Yes, father, do, do go speak to him. See how lonely he looks, poorman!"
"But, children, I do not know him."
"Never mind. Just a bow. Something to show him that he is not utterlydeserted."
Thereupon the little old gentleman, very red in the face
and wearinga white tie, stepped quickly in front of the Nabob, and ceremoniouslyraised his hat to him with great respect. With what gratitude, whata smile of eager good-will was that solitary greeting returned, thatgreeting from a man whom Jansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen,and who had yet exerted a weighty influence upon his destiny; for, butfor the _pere_ Joyeuse, the chairman of the board of the Territorialwould probably have shared the fate of the Marquis de Bois l'Hery. Thusit is that in the tangle of modern society, that great web of interests,ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all the various worlds areconnected, united beneath the surface, from the highest existencesto the most humble; this it is that explains the variegation, thecomplexity of this study of manners, the collection of the scatteredthreads of which the writer who is careful of truth is bound to make thebackground of his story.
In ten minutes the Nabob had been subjected to every manifestationof the terrible ostracism of that Paris world to which he had neitherrelationship nor serious ties, and whose contempt isolated him moresurely than a visiting monarch is isolated by respect--the averted look,the apparently aimless step aside, the hat suddenly put on and pulleddown over the eyes. Overcome by embarrassment and shame, he stumbled.Some one said quite loudly, "He is drunk," and all that the poor mancould manage to do was to return and shut himself up in the salon at theback of his box. Ordinarily, this little retreat was crowded duringthe intervals between the acts by stock-brokers and journalists. Theylaughed and smoked and made a great noise; the manager would come togreet his sleeping partner. But on this evening there was nobody. Andthe absence of Cardailhac, with his keen nose for success, signifiedfully to Jansoulet the measure of his disgrace.
"What have I done? Why will Paris have no more of me?"
Thus he questioned himself amid a solitude that was accentuated by thenoises around, the abrupt turning of keys in the doors of the boxes, thethousand exclamations of an amused crowd. Then suddenly, the freshnessof his luxurious surroundings, the Moorish lantern casting strangeshadows on the brilliant silks of the divan and walls, reminded him ofthe date of his arrival. Six months! Only six months since he came toParis! Completely done for and ruined in six months! He sank into akind of torpor, from which he was roused by the sound of applauseand enthusiastic bravos. It was decidedly a great success--this play_Revolt_. There were some passages of strength and satire, and theviolent tirades, a trifle over-emphatic but written with youth andsincerity, excited the audience after the idyllic calm of the opening.Jansoulet in his turn wished to hear and see. This theatre belonged tohim after all. His place in that stage-box had cost him over a millionfrancs; the very least he could do was to occupy it.
So he seated himself in the front of his box. In the theatre the heatwas suffocating in spite of the fans which were vigorously at work,throwing reflections from their bright spangles through the impalpableatmosphere of silence. The house was listening religiously to anindignant and lofty denunciation of the scamps who occupied exaltedpositions, after having robbed their fellows in those depths from whichthey were sprung. Certainly, Maranne when he wrote these fine lineshad been far from having the Nabob in his mind. But the public sawan allusion in them; and while a triple salvo of applause greeted theconclusion of the speech, all heads were turned towards the stage-box onthe left with an indignant, openly offensive movement. The poor wretch,pilloried in his own theatre! A pillory which had cost him so dear!This time he made no attempt to escape the insult, but settled himselfresolutely in his seat, with arms folded, and braved the crowd that wasstaring at him--those hundreds of faces raised in mockery, that virtuous_tout Paris_ which had seized upon him as a scapegoat and was drivinghim into the wilderness, after having laden him with the burden of allits own crimes.
A pretty gang, truly, for a manifestation of that kind! Opposite, thebox of a bankrupt banker, the wife and her lover sitting next eachother in the front row, the husband behind in the shadow, voluntarilyinconspicuous and solemn. Near them the frequent trio of a mother whohas married her daughter in accordance with the personal inclinationof her own heart, in order to make a son-in-law of her lover. Thenirregular households, courtesans exhibiting the price of shame, diamondslike circlets of fire riveted around arms and neck. And those groups ofemasculate youths, with their open collars and painted eyebrows, whoseshirts of embroidered cambric and white satin corsets people used toadmire in the guest-chambers at Compiegne; those _mignons_, of the timeof Agrippa, calling each other among themselves: "My heart--Mydear girl." An assemblage of all the scandals, all the turpitudes,consciences sold or for sale, the vice of an epoch devoid of greatnessand without originality, intent on making trial of the caprices of everyother age.
And these were the people who were insulting him and crying: "Away withthee, thou art unworthy!"
"Unworthy--I! But my worth is a hundred times greater than that of anyamong you, wretches that you are! You make my millions a reproach tome, but who has helped me to spend them? Thou, cowardly and treacherouscomrade, who hidest thy sick pasha-like obesity in the corner of thystage-box! I made thy fortune along with my own in the days when weshared all things in brotherly community. Thou, pale marquis--I paid ahundred thousand francs at the club in order to save thee from shamefulexpulsion!
"Thee I covered with jewels, hussy, letting thee pass for my mistress,because that kind of thing makes a good impression in our world--butwithout ever asking thee anything in return. And thou, brazen-facedjournalist, who for brain hast all the dirty sediment of thy inkstand,and on thy conscience as many spots as thy queen has on her skin, thouthinkest that I have not paid thee thy price and that is why thy insultsare heaped on me. Yes, yes; stare at me, you vermin! I am proud. Myworth is above yours."
All that he was thus saying to himself mentally, in an ungovernablerage, visible in the quivering of his pale, thick lips. The unfortunateman, who was nearly mad, was about perhaps to shout it aloud in thesilence, to denounce that insulting crowd--who knows?--to spring intothe midst of it, kill one of them--ah! kill _one_ of them--when hefelt a light tap on his shoulder, and a fair head came before his eyes,serious and frank, two hands held out, which he grasped convulsively,like a drowning man.
"Ah! dear friend, dear--" the poor man stammered. But he had not thestrength to say more. This emotion of joy coming suddenly in the midstof his fury melted him into a sobbing torrent of tears, and stifledwords. His face became purple. He motioned "Take me away." And,stumbling in his walk, leaning on de Gery's arm, he only managed tocross the threshold of his box before he fell prostrate in the corridor.
"Bravo! Bravo!" cried the house in reply to the speech which the actorhad just finished; and there was a noise like a hailstorm, and stampingof enthusiastic feet while the great lifeless body, raised withdifficulty by the scene-shifters, was carried through the brightlylighted wings, crowded with people pressing in their curiosity round thestage, excited by the atmosphere of success and who hardly noticed thepassage of the inert and vanquished man, borne on men's arms likesome victim of a riot. They laid him on a couch in the room where theproperties were stored, Paul de Gery at his side, with a doctor and twoporters who eagerly lent all the assistance in their power. Cardailhac,extremely busy over his play, had sent word that he should come to hearthe news "directly, after the fifth act."
Bleeding after bleeding, cuppings, mustard leaves--nothing brought evena quiver to the skin of the patient, insensible apparently to all theremedies usually employed in cases of apoplexy. The whole being seemedto be surrendering to death, to be preparing the way for the rigidityof the corpse; and this in the most sinister place in the world, thischaos, lighted by a lantern merely, amid which there lie about pell-mellin the dust all the remains of former plays--gilt furniture, curtainswith gay fringes, coaches, boxes, card-tables, dismantled staircasesand balusters, among ropes and pulleys, a confusion of out-of-datetheatrical properties, thrown down, broken, and damaged. BernardJansoulet, as he lay among this wreckage, his shirt opened over hischest, pale and covered with blood, wa
s indeed a man come to theshipwreck of his life, bruised and tossed aside along with the pitifulruins of his artificial luxury dispersed and broken up, in the whirlpoolof Paris. Paul, with aching heart, contemplated the scene sadly, thatface with its short nose, preserving in its inertia the savage yetkindly expression of an inoffensive creature that tried to defend itselfbefore it died and had not time to bite. He reproached himself bitterlywith his inability to be of any service to him. Where was that fineproject of leading Jansoulet across the bogs, of guarding him againstambushes? All that he had been able to do had been to save a fewmillions for him, and even these had come too late.
The windows had just been thrown open upon the curved balcony overthe boulevard, now at the height of its noisy and brilliant stir. Thetheatre was surrounded by, as it were, a plinth of gas-jets, a zone offire which brought the gloomiest recesses into light, pricked out withrevolving lanterns, like stars journeying through a dark sky. The playwas over. People were coming out. The black and dense crowd on the stepswas dispersing over the white pavements, on its way to spread throughthe town the news of a great success and the name of an unknown authorwho to-morrow would be triumphant and famous. A splendid evening, sothat the windows of the restaurants were lighted up in gaiety and filesof carriages passed through the streets at a late hour. This tumult offestivity which the poor Nabob had loved so keenly, which seemed to goso well with the dizzy whirl of his existence, roused him to life fora moment. His lips moved, and into his dilated eyes, turned towardsde Gery, there came before he died a pained expression, beseeching andprotesting, as though to call upon him as witness of one of the greatestand most cruel acts of injustice that Paris has ever committed.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends