With a glacial patience Fanjard played the scene over. But this time his articulation was hardly any more impassioned, and his gestures, barely sketched out, seemed to die away, as if succumbing to some invisible obstacle.
Five o’clock sounded and the players left the stage. The author rejoined Fanjard in the wings. After having gesticulated, shouted, and fumed for three hours, he had a moist skin, a dry tongue, and a hoarse voice. Fanjard, as he made his way toward his dressing room, listened to the other composedly. He was an old actor, reckoned as one of the glories of the stage, and all its noblest traditions survived in him. The author had thrown an arm across his shoulders and talked to him as they walked along.
“It is the capital scene, my dear sir. If it doesn’t go the whole piece will fail. What it needs is emotion, grandeur, despair. Don’t hesitate to let yourself go. You can make, and you ought to make, something sensational out of it. It is just the scene for you.”
“I see—I see very well what you wish. But at rehearsal I can’t let myself go. I need costume, light, atmosphere. But don’t worry.”
Still the author insisted, timid and firm at the same time:
“Certainly I won’t worry. Certainly. But I should like to have you, once before the first night, only once, show me your real quality. Only once; just once. Think of it. We are only three days from the première.”
“Don’t worry,” repeated Fanjard.
Then he went away.
At this moment the director passed by. He asked with a pleasant smile:
“Well, how does it go? Are you satisfied?”
“Satisfied? My dear man, my piece is ruined—you understand, ruined. Mlle. Ravignan is passable. The light effects are a fizzle; Fanjard is bad, bad, bad!”
The director tried to calm him. He had heard many others talk that way, and he knew that in the theatre, better than anywhere else, everything somehow works out. Fanjard was an artist, sure, conscientious, incapable of slighting his roles, let him play them two hundred times. Obstinate? Yes. Unequal at rehearsals? Possibly. But exceeding all expectations when the curtain went up.
The author, still skeptical, shook his head.
“Let’s wait and see, my dear master,” the director protested. (And when a director thus addresses an author who has only a vague claim to such a title, he is using his ultimate argument.) Let’s wait and see. Have more confidence. I am as much interested in the success of your piece as you are. Don’t get worried yourself—and don’t worry him. He is so-so now, perhaps; only so-so. But he will be superb. That I guarantee you.”
***
The first night arrived.
In the back of a box, alongside the director, the author listened to his play. The first part of it was a torture. With each spectator who entered late, with each seat slammed down, he had the feeling that humanity in general was in a conspiracy to ruin him. Yet the director kept whispering to him:
“It’s a go. It’s a go.”
After the first curtain he wanted to go up to the dressing rooms and give some last suggestions to the actors. But the director dissuaded him.
“Let them alone. Don’t bother them. Believe me, it will be a success.”
The second act had a succès d’estime, and the curtain rose for the third act. Fanjard finally appeared, descending the staircase with an air of nobility. Mlle. Ravignan stretched out her arms toward him. He stopped her with a gesture and said, “What is it?” And then, in a low tone, “Your brother? My son?” She bowed her head, and he, just as at the rehearsals, without a cry, without a sob, began his set speech.
Clinging to the arms of his velvet-covered seat, arching his shoulders, the author growled out, as if he thought he could communicate his own fire to the actor:
“Let go! Let go! Let go!”
But Fanjard continued to the end in a colorless voice. While the curtain descended amid merely courteous applause, the author ran to the wings. The fury which he had held back for eight days nearly strangled him. Fanjard was returning to his dressing room.
“Well, are you satisfied?” the author shouted at him. “You have wrecked my play. Yes, you were going to reserve yourself for the first performance! You should have talent, my dear sir, before you have genius. Effects are not improvised. They are produced by hard work. And, besides, what a role you had! What a scene! A scene to raise the house. A father, a father, who has only one love, one joy in the world—his son. They tell him of his son’s death, and you stand there tranquil, half stupefied! I declaimed the scene, even in writing it. I shouted it.”
Then the old actor answered softly, without anger, without indignation, without any show of wounded pride:
“You are wrong, monsieur; and that is because, fortunately for you, you don’t know. I learned only four hours ago of the death of my son, killed at Craonne; and I did not cry aloud then any more than I do now.”
After the War
ALTHOUGH HE was a colonel, a Prussian baron, a veteran officer of the Guard and the possessor of a castle on the banks of the Rhine, at which His Majesty the Kaiser had once stopped for a few hours, in other respects this Boche had a spirit rather generous for a Boche.
Having served two years at Paris as an embassy attaché, he recalled that sojourn with infinite graciousness, and never advertised more than was necessary the fact that he had spent two other years in the same city as an employee in a little restaurant near the Champ-de-Mars, frequented by orderlies of the officers of the École de Guerre. In this capacity he had acquired a real respect for the French soldier—for his discretion and the affectionate attachment which he bears his chiefs.
Certainly, war seemed to him a legitimate thing. But he practiced it, to use his own expression, “in a chivalrous manner.”
In the house that he occupied he would have felt himself at fault if he had not left his card once a month on his involuntary hostesses, if he had not sent them invitations, with a program, for the military musicals, and, on Sedan Day, a card for the review. At that, he was astonished that these ladies were not more appreciative of such delicate attentions.
In the line of service he showed himself strict (as was proper), but not brutal. He went so far as to speak to the under-officers as if they were almost human beings, and, in the evening, on the Mall, to converse with lieutenants who were neither noble nor long connected with the army (the war had so decimated the ranks of the others!). He even struck up a friendship, so to speak, with one of these, an attractive fellow, obsequious, correct, well educated, too, for an ordinary plebeian. With him the colonel talked freely and confidentially.
“When we shall have won the war I should like to live in Paris again. It is a very agreeable city. The Bois de Boulogne is exquisite at all seasons of the year; the theatres show excellent taste, and the women are charming.”
“I was highly delighted with the visit I made there in July, 1914,” answered the lieutenant. “One can do business easily, the people are hospitable, and, if one wishes to live the sort of life there that he lives at home, our compatriots are so numerous that, in the evenings, we can gather together just like a family. I speak of conditions before the war, of course.”
“Before the war! Before the war!” repeated the colonel a little abstractedly. “I feel that after the war all that will be considerably changed. Sometimes I read the Paris newspapers, and I am pained to see what a hostile feeling there is against us. The devil! War is war. We did not wish to make war, did we? We were forced to make it.
“Our superiority in all branches of human activity is such that no people can resist us. That is a fact. Why don’t the French admit it? Since we are the most cultured nation on earth—the chosen people, you might say—why don’t they let themselves be guided by us? We should realize great things together. But there the old Latin obstinacy comes in. How regrettable it is on their part! For—I tell you this between ourselves—I am very fond of the French.”
“So am I, Colonel.”
Thus exchanging ideas the
y regained the town, where in the twilight the demolished houses stood out jagged against the sky, since the horizon was lighted everywhere with conflagrations. The colonel sighed:
“Look at that. Don’t you believe that it cuts a sensitive German to the heart to see such a spectacle? There is the farm with the big mill on it—a fine farm, a perfect milling establishment, a magnificent investment. But it will all be in ashes tomorrow. Whose fault will that be?”
“It is war,” the lieutenant suggested, urbanely.
“Indispensable destructions, which the superior interest of our armies amply justifies. That is another thing which the French fail to understand.”
“Yet it is all very simple.”
The colonel threw away his cigar, which had gone out, stopped and lifted his finger.
“Under all circumstances, Lieutenant, remember this,” he said. “It may be that for strategic reasons we shall abandon this country. Let us root up the roads, destroy the bridges, turn the streams out of their courses, fell the trees and throw them across the highways—let us do everything, in a word, which the security of our armies requires. But let us commit no depredations on the inhabitants. For myself, I intend to set an example. In the house in which I live I shall see to it that nobody touches anything. In proportion as you have found me paternal and considerate, you will find me, if my orders are not scrupulously obeyed, a man of iron.”
The event which the colonel foresaw arrived. His regiment retreated. In conformity with instructions, not a tree was left standing, nor a bridge on its arches, nor a stream in its bed. The work was accomplished methodically; explosions succeeded one another at regular intervals. The house which the colonel lived in alone remained intact, with its old balconies of wrought iron, its garden of flowers, its windows hung with curtains.
The colonel departed with regret, carrying with him a few souvenirs—two silver candlesticks, a clock, a silver gilded water glass—mere trifles. But he left the furniture shining, the table linen carefully folded, the floors waxed like glass.
He had already reached the open country when he recalled that he had forgotten to leave a P. P. C. card. Desirous of being impeccable to the last extreme, he retraced his steps. But on entering his apartments he stopped, stupefied at first, then bursting with fury.
With blows from a pick four soldiers were demolishing the bathroom and the water pipes. Seeing him, the men redoubled their ardor. He shouted to them:
“Swine! I shall have you shot!”
A fifth man appeared, his sleeves rolled up, a hammer in his hand. It was the lieutenant who had been so amiable and correct.
“You? Is it you I find here?” bellowed the colonel. “You, who know my ideas? I shall send you before a court-martial!”
“At your orders,” answered the officer, clicking his heels. “But excuse me, Colonel. All this installation comes from the firm of Schwein, Boelleri & Co., of Mannheim, of which I am the representative for Northern France. Our house alone possesses these replacement parts. And after the war, I thought, how simple it would be for these people to apply to us for the plumbing fittings. It would be a very natural way of resuming business relations. As trifling as the thing seems, it concerns our industry in the highest degree.”
“Well, that is different,” said the colonel gravely. “Deutschland über alles! Consider that I have said nothing at all.”
Reassured by these words, the lieutenant finished demolishing, with a well-directed blow of his hammer, a syphon which had hitherto resisted his attack.
The Appalling Gift
M.ANDMME. Jutelier recoiled in horror as they unpacked Aunt Sophie’s gift. M. Jutelier was the first to recover his powers of speech, but it was only to enunciate in accents of despair, “And to think that now we have to put that thing somewhere where she can see it!” Whereupon Mme. Jutelier, whose temperament led her to dare extreme measures, cried out, “Never! I’d rather have her cut us out of her will and be done with it.” But her husband shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
Once again they stood in despairing silence while on the table in front of them the vase spread out its enormous lacquered paunch, decorated with flowers, with fruit, and with seashells. In the middle of these decorations, a coiled serpent darted out a long red tongue, and here and there the leaves of waterplants hung in festoons that were intended to be decorative. The base was blue and the inside was salmon pink. “There is no doubt about it,” murmured M. Jutelier, “that thing has no equal for ugliness.”
“It simply means,” said Mme. Jutelier, “that our apartment is ruined.”
“Oh, la, la la!” groaned M. Jutelier, “and it was all so nice and cosy.”
Giving free rein to his despair he cast his eyes about the room for some place to put the terrifying gift with results that would not be too disastrous. The mantelpiece—impossible. The table—less possible still. The buffet—the thought brought tears to his eyes. He suggested the salon, but Mme. Jutelier announced firmly, “If that thing goes through the door of the salon, I go through the street door.”
“In the bedroom,” he ventured.
Mme. Jutelier turned pale with anger.
“Not in my room! Why not in your office?”
M. Jutelier explained that was the very last place one could think of. As an architect he was called upon to receive clients, who would flee from the mere presence of such an object. They passed all their rooms in review, and at the mention of each one Mme. Jutelier set up stubborn opposition. She had not been collecting the loveliest bibelots and weeding out everything that was not in perfect taste, for all these years, in order to have this monstrosity thrust in among her treasures. And then suddenly M. Jutelier smote his forehead.
“How many times a year does Aunt Sophie come to visit us? Twice, or say three times. In the winter she does not go out because of her rheumatism, and from July to October she is in the country. Being a personage above the common station, and expecting to be received with the ceremonies due her, she always announces her visits in advance. All we have to do is to put this horror in the attic and bring it down when we hear she is coming. That way we can arrange everything, and later on, at the very last, when the poor old lady is dead, why then, if we have a country house, it will do to put it in the guest chamber.”
“To give our guests the nightmare? No, sir, when that time comes we’ll smash it.”
“All right then; smash it if you want to”—and having made mutual concessions they embraced each other.
Next Sunday Aunt Sophie arrived. They had carefully put chairs on each landing so that the dear lady could rest on her way up, and they had set the vase on the table so that her eye would fall on it the very first thing. But being a discreet old soul, she pretended not to see it at once, and her niece had to remark, with an ecstatic smile, “Do you think your vase is in the right place?”
“Yes,” murmured Aunt Sophie, “but I think I should have preferred the mantelpiece. Then you can see it a second time in the mirror.”
“Your aunt is right,” said Mme. Jutelier to her husband, “and if we put a green plant in it—”
“Well, do as you want to,” said Aunt Sophie, “but for my part I’d rather see a little moss with artificial roses stuck in it. They look so pretty if you use all the colors. I’ll send you some. I have a lot.”
The household burst into a chorus of thanks, and Aunt Sophie departed, charmed.
“Well,” said M. Jutelier when they were alone again, “everything went off very well, and we are all right for the moment. You will see; everything will arrange itself.”
They put the vase out of sight, and life went on as usual. About Easter time Aunt Sophie came back. This time she brought the promised flowers, and this was the occasion of an affectionate and delightful discussion. Ought the artificial roses to be arranged according to color or according to size? Aunt Sophie’s opinion prevailed, and with her own hands she erected a hanging garden of the most ravishing description.
&
nbsp; Summer came and brought vacation. Autumn came and brought rheumatism. As New Year’s Day approached the household trembled before a new fear. Suppose Aunt Sophie took it into her head to make them another New Year’s gift! She did not have this idea, however, but another one, a hundred times more dreadful. One day she called without sending word ahead; but fortunately Mme. Jutelier had seen her getting out of the taxi, and had just time to climb to the sixth story and bring down the object of art.
This alarm served its purpose. Since such an incident might occur again, they practiced the maneuver until it was all carefully worked out. As soon as a new maid was engaged, before they showed her in which closet Monsieur kept his coats, or where Madame kept her hats, they showed her, the very first thing, where the vase belonged, and told her how if by any chance a fat lady—dressed in black, wearing a capote, and carrying an umbrella no matter what the weather—should arrive when they were away, she must first of all lock the door of the dining-room and not open it on any pretext whatever until she had put the vase on the mantelpiece.
And yet this did not keep Madame Jutelier from saying to Aunt Sophie every time she called, “Come and see us oftener, my dear aunt; you are neglecting us.”
On the third Monday in February, after her usual custom, Aunt Sophie wrote a letter to announce her coming. As soon as they received it, everybody got ready to greet her. Madame Jutelier said to her maid after lunch, “Josephine, go to the sixth story, get the vase, dust it, and bring it down here.”
She was just getting its place ready on the mantelpiece when a terrible crash made her leap up and rush out to the landing, with her heart in her mouth and a terrible foreboding in her soul.
The misfortune exceeded the worst that she could imagine. Hanging over the banister, with round eyes, Josephine was staring down upon the shattered fragments of the vase. It had been smashed so small that the whole stairway was powdered with it. At his wife’s shriek of dismay, M. Jutelier came running. For a moment he was too stupefied to speak, and then he had the most absurd ideas.
Thirty Hours with a Corpse Page 18