Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

“ANGELO.

  “La haine c’est dans notre sang. Il faut toujours qu’un Malipieri haïsse quelqu’un. Moi, c’est cette femme que je hais. Je ne vaux pas mieux qu’elle, c’est possible — mais il faut qu’elle meure. C’est une nécessité — une résolution prise.”

  This necessity for hating does not, however, prevent the Podesta from falling very violently in love with a strolling actress called La Tisbe (personated by Mademoiselle Mars). The Tisbe also is a very remarkably virtuous, amiable, and high-minded woman, who listens to the addresses of the Tyrant pas doux, but hates him as cordially as he hates his lady-wife, bestowing all her tenderness and private caresses upon a travelling gentleman, who is a prince in disguise, but whom she passes off upon the Tyrant for her brother. La Tisbe, too, shall give you her own account of herself.

  “LA TISBE (addressing Angelo).

  “Vous savez qui je suis? ... rien, une fille du peuple, une comédienne.... Eh bien! si peu que je suis, j’ai eu une mère. Savez-vous ce que c’est que d’avoir une mère? En avez-vous eu une, vous?... Eh bien! j’avais une mère, moi.”

  This appears to be a species of refinement upon the old saying, “It is a wise child that knows its own father.” The charming Tisbe evidently piques herself upon her sagacity in being quite certain that she had a mother; — but she has not yet finished her story.

  “C’était une pauvre femme sans mari qui chantait des chansons dans les places publiques.” (The “delicate” Esmeralda again.) “Un jour, un sénateur passa. Il regarde, il entendit,” (she must have been singing the Ça ira of 1549,) “et dit au capitaine qui le suivait — A la potence cette femme! Ma mère fut saisie sur-le-champ — elle ne dit rien ... a quoi bon? ... m’embrassa avec une grosse larme, prit son crucifix et se laissa garrotter. Je le vois encore ce crucifix en cuivre poli, mon nom Tisbe écrit en bas.... Mais il y avait avec le sénateur une jeune fille.... Elle se jeta aux pieds du sénateur et obtint la grace de ma mère.... Quand ma mère fut déliée, elle prit son crucifix, ma mère, et le donna à la belle enfant, en lui disant, Madame, gardez ce crucifix — il vous portera bonheur.”

  Imagine Mademoiselle Mars uttering this trash!... Oh, it was grievous! And if I do not greatly mistake, she admired her part quite as little as I did, though she exerted all her power to make it endurable, — and there were passages, certainly, in which she succeeded in making one forget everything but herself, her voice, and her action.

  But to proceed. On this crucifix de cuivre poli, inscribed with the name of Tisbe, hangs all the little plot. Catarina Bragadini, the wife of the Tyrant, and the most ill-used and meritorious of ladies, is introduced to us in the third scene of the second day (new style — acts are out of fashion,) lamenting to her confidential femme de chambre the intolerable long absence of her lover. The maid listens, as in duty bound, with the most respectful sympathy, and then tells her that another of her waiting-maids for whom she had inquired was at prayers. Whereupon we have a morsel of naïveté that is impayable.

  “CATARINA.

  “Laisse-la prier. — Hélas! ... moi, cela ne me fait rien de prier!”

  This, I suspect, is what is called “the natural vein,” in which consists the peculiar merit of this new style of writing. After this charming burst of natural feeling, the Podesta’s virtuous lady goes on with her lament.

  “CATARINA.

  “Il y a cinq semaines — cinq semaines éternelles que je ne l’ai vu!... Je suis enfermée, gardée, en prison. Je le voyais une heure de tems en tems: cette heure si étroite, et si vite fermée, c’était le seul soupirail par où entrait un peu d’air et de soleil dans ma vie. Maintenant tout est muré.... Oh Rodolpho!... Dafné, nous avons passé, lui et moi, de bien douces heures!... Est-ce que c’est coupable tout ce que je dis là de lui? Non, n’est-ce pas?”

  * * * * *

  Now you must know, that this Signor Rodolpho plays the part of gallant to both these ladies, and, though intended by the author for another of his estimable personages, is certainly, by his own showing, as great a rascal as can well be imagined. He loves only the wife, and not the mistress of Angelo; and though he permits her par complaisance to be his mistress too, he addresses her upon one occasion, when she is giving way to a fit of immoderate fondness, with great sincerity.

  “RODOLPHO.

  “Prenez garde, Tisbe, ma famille est une famille fatale. Il y a sur nous une prédiction, une destinée qui s’accomplit presque inévitablement de père en fils. Nous tuons qui nous aime.”

  From this passage, and one before quoted, it should seem, I think, that notwithstanding all the innovations of M. Hugo, he has still a lingering reverence for the immutable power of destiny which overhangs the classic drama. How otherwise can he explain these two mystic sentences?— “Ma famille est une famille fatale. Il y a sur nous une destinée qui s’accomplit de père en fils.” And this other: “La haine c’est dans notre sang: il faut toujours qu’un Malipieri haïsse quelqu’un.”

  The only other character of importance is a very mysterious one called Homodei; and I think I may best describe him in the words of the excellent burlesque which has already been brought out upon this “Angelo” at the Vaudeville. There they make one of the dramatis personæ, when describing this very incomprehensible Homodei, say of him, —

  “C’est le plus grand dormeur de France et de Navarre.”

  In effect, he far out-sleeps the dozing sentinels in the “Critic;” for he goes on scene after scene sleeping apparently as sound as a top, till all on a sudden he starts up wide awake, and gives us to understand that he too is exceedingly in love with Madame la Podesta, but that he has been rejected. He therefore determines to do her as much mischief as possible, observing that “Un Sbire (for such is his humble rank) qui aime est bien petit — un Sbire qui se venge est bien grand.”

  This great but rejected Sbire, however, is not contented with avenging himself on Catarina for her scorn, but is pushed, by his destiny, I presume, to set the whole company together by the ears.

  He first brings Rodolpho into the bed-room of Catarina, then brings the jealous Tisbe there to look at them, and finally contrives that the Tyrant himself should find out his wife’s little innocent love affair — for innocent she declares it is.

  Fortunately, during this unaccountable reunion in the chamber of Madame, la Tisbe discovers that her mother the ballad-singer’s crucifix is in the possession of her rival Catarina; whereupon she not only decides upon resigning her claim upon the heart of Signor Rodolpho in her favour, but determines upon saving her life from the fury of her jealous husband, who has communicated to the Tisbe, as we have seen above, his intention of killing his wife, because “il faut toujours qu’un Malipieri haïsse quelqu’un.”

  Fortunately, again, it happens that the Tisbe has communicated to her lover the Tyrant, in a former conversation, the remarkable fact that another lover still had once upon a time made her a present of two phials — one black, the other white — one containing poison, the other a narcotic. After he has discovered Catarina’s innocent weakness for Rodolpho, he informs the Tisbe that the time is come for him to kill his lady, and that he intends to do it by cutting her head off privately. The Tisbe tells him that this is a bad plan, and that poison would do much better.

  “ANGELO.

  “Oui! Le poison vaudrait mieux. Mais il faudrait un poison rapide, et, vous ne me croirez pas, je n’en ai pas ici.

  “LA TISBE.

  “J’en ai, moi.

  “ANGELO.

  “Où?

  “LA TISBE.

  “Chez moi.

  “ANGELO.

  “Quel poison?

  “LA TISBE.

  “Le poison Malispine, vous savez: cette boîte que m’a envoyée le primicier de Saint Marc.”

  * * * * *

  After this satisfactory explanation, Angelo accepts her offer, and she trots away home and brings him the phial containing the narcotic.

  The absurdity of the scene that takes place when Angelo and the Tisbe are e
ndeavouring to persuade Catarina to consent to be killed is such, that nothing but transcribing the whole can give you an idea of it: but it is too long for this. Believe me, we were not the only part of the audience that laughed at this scene à gorge déployée.

  Angelo begins by asking if she is ready.

  “CATARINA.

  “Prête à quoi?

  “ANGELO.

  “A mourir.

  “CATARINA.

  “... Mourir! Non, je ne suis pas prête. Je ne suis pas prête. Je ne suis pas prête du tout, monsieur!

  “ANGELO.

  “Combien de temps vous faut-il pour vous préparer?

  “CATARINA.

  “Oh! je ne sais pas — beaucoup de temps!”

  Angelo tells her she shall have an hour, and then leaves her alone: upon which she draws aside a curtain and discovers a block and an axe. She is naturally exceedingly shocked at this spectacle; her soliloquy is sublime!

  “CATARINA (replacing the curtain).

  “Derrière moi! c’est derrière moi. Ah! vous voyez bien que ce n’est pas un rêve, et que c’est bien réel ce qui passe ici, puisque voilà des choses là derrière le rideau!”

  * * * * *

  Corneille! Racine! Voltaire! — This is tragedy, — tragedy played on the stage of the Théâtre Français — tragedy which it has been declared in the face of day shall “lift the ground from under you!” Such is the march of mind!

  After this glorious soliloquy, her lover Rodolpho pays Catarina a visit — again in her bed-room, in her guarded palace, surrounded by spies and sentinels. How he gets there, it is impossible to guess: but in the burlesque at the Vaudeville they make this matter much clearer; — for there these unaccountable entrées are managed at one time by the falling down of a wall; at another, by the lover’s rising through the floor like a ghost; and at another, by his coming flying down on a wire from an opening in the ceiling like a Cupid.

  The lovers have a long talk; but she does not tell him a word about the killing, for fear it should bring him into mischief, — though where he got in, it might be easy enough for her to get out. However, she says nothing about “les choses” behind the curtain, but gives him a kiss, and sends him away in high glee.

  No sooner does he disappear, than Angelo and the Tisbe enter, and a conversation ensues between the three on the manner of the doomed lady’s death that none but M. Victor Hugo could have written. He would represent nature, and he makes a high-born princess, pleading for her life to a sovereign who is her husband, speak thus: “Parlons simplement. Tenez ... vous êtes infâme ... et puis, comme vous mentez toujours, vous ne me croirez pas. Tenez, vraiment je vous méprise: vous m’avez épousée pour mon argent....”

  Then she makes a speech to the Tisbe in the same exquisite tone of nature; with now and then a phrase or expression which is quite beyond even the fun of the Vaudeville to travestie; as for instance— “Je suis toujours restée honnête — vous me comprenez, vous — mais je ne puis dire cela à mon mari. Les hommes ne veulent jamais nous croire, vous savez; cependant nous leur disons quelquefois des choses bien vraies....”

  At last the Tyrant gets out of patience.

  “ANGELO.

  “C’en est trop! Catarina Bragadina, le crime fait, veut un châtiment; la fosse ouverte, veut un cercueil; le mari outragé, veut une femme morte. Tu perds toutes les paroles qui sortent de ta bouche (montrant le poison).

  “Voulez vous, madame?

  “CATARINA.

  “Non!

  “ANGELO.

  “Non?... J’en reviens à ma première idée alors. Les épées! les épées! Troilo! qu’on aille me chercher.... J’y vais!”

  * * * * *

  Now we all know that his première idée was not to stab her with one or more swords, but to cut her head off on a block — and that les choses are all hid ready for it behind the curtain. But this “J’y vais” is part of the machinery of the fable; for if the Tyrant did not go away, the Tisbe could have found no opportunity of giving her rival a hint that the poison was not so dangerous as she believed. So when Angelo returns, the Tisbe tells him that “elle se résigne au poison.”

  Catarina drinks the potion, falls into a trance, and is buried. (Victor Hugo is always original, they say.) The Tisbe digs her up again, and lays her upon a bed in her own house, carefully drawing the curtains round her. Then comes the great catastrophe. The lover of the two ladies uses his privilege, and enters the Tisbe’s apartment, determined to fulfil his destiny and murder her, because she loves him — as written in the book of fate — and also because she has poisoned his other and his favourite love Catarina. The Signor Rodolpho knows that she brought the phial, because one of the maids told him so: this is another instance of the ingenious and skilful machinery of the fable. Rodolpho tells the poor woman what he is come for; adding, “Vous avez un quart d’heure pour vous préparer à la mort, madame!”

  There is something in this which shows that M. Hugo, notwithstanding he has some odd décousu notions, is aware of the respect which ought to be paid to married ladies, beyond what is due to those who are not so. When the Podesta announced the same intention to his wife, he says— “Vous avez devant vous une heure, madame.” At the Vaudeville, however, they give another turn to this variation in the time allowed under circumstances so similar: they say —

  “Catarina eut une heure au moins de son mari:

  Le tems depuis tantôt est donc bien renchéri.”

  The unfortunate Tisbe, on receiving this communication from her dear Rodolpho, exclaims— “Ah! vous me tuez! Ah! c’est la première idée qui vous vient?”

  Some farther conversation takes place between them. On one occasion he says — like a prince as he is— “Mentez un peu, voyons!” — and then he assures her that he never cared a farthing for her, repeating very often, because, as he says, it is her supplice to hear it, that he never loved anybody but Catarina. During the whole scene she ceases not, however, to reiterate her passionate protestations of love to him, and at last the dialogue ends by Rodolpho’s stabbing her to the heart.

  I never beheld anything on the stage so utterly disgusting as this scene. That Mademoiselle Mars felt weighed down by the part, I am quite certain; — it was like watching the painful efforts of a beautiful racer pushed beyond its power — distressed, yet showing its noble nature to the last. But even her exquisite acting made the matter worse: to hear the voice of Mars uttering expressions of love, while the ruffian she addresses grows more murderous as she grows more tender, produced an effect at once so hateful and so absurd, that one knows not whether to laugh or storm at it. But, what was the most terrible of all, was to see Mars exerting her matchless powers to draw forth tears, and then to look round the house and see that she was rewarded by — a smile!

  After Tisbe is stabbed, Catarina of course comes to life; and the whole farce concludes by the dying Tisbe’s telling the lovers that she had ordered horses for them; adding tenderly, “Elle est déliée — (how?) — morte pour le podesta, vivante pour toi. Trouves-tu cela bien arrangé ainsi?” Then Rodolpho says to Catarina, “Par qui as-tu été sauvée?”

  “LA TISBE (in reply).

  “Par moi, pour toi!”

  M. Hugo, in a note at the end of the piece, apologises for not concluding with these words— “Par moi, pour toi,” which he seems to think particularly effective: nevertheless, for some reason which he does not very clearly explain, he concludes thus; —

  “LA TISBE.

  “Madame, permettez-moi de lui dire encore une fois, Mon Rodolpho. Adieu, mon Rodolpho! partez vite à présent. Je meurs. Vivez. Je te bénis!”

  * * * * *

  It is impossible in thus running through the piece to give you any adequate idea of the loose, weak, trumpery style in which it is written. It really seems as if the author were determined to try how low he might go before the boys and grisettes who form the chorus of his admirers shall find out that he is quizzing them. One peculiarity in the plot of “this fine tra
gedy” is, that the hero Angelo never appears, nor is even alluded to, after the scene in which he commissions la Tisbe to administer the poison to Madame. His sudden disappearance is thus commented upon at the Vaudeville. The Tyrant there makes his appearance after it is all over, exclaiming —

  “Je veux en être, moi ... l’on osera peut-être

  Finir un mélodrame en absence du traître?

  Suis-je un hors-d’oeuvre, un inutile article,

  Une cinquième roue ajoutée au tricycle?”

  In the preface to this immortal performance there is this passage: —

  “Dans l’état où sont aujourd’hui toutes ces questions profondes qui touchent aux racines même de la société, il semblait depuis long-tems à l’auteur de ce drame qu’il pourrait y avoir utilité et grandeur” (utilité et grandeur!) “à développer sur le théâtre quelque chose de pareil à l’idée que voici....”

  And then follows what he calls his idea: but this preface must be read from beginning to end, if you wish to see what sort of stuff it is that humbug and impudence can induce the noisiest part of a population to pronounce “fine!” But you must hear one sentence more of this precious preface, for fear “the work” may not fall into your hands.

  “Le drame, comme l’auteur de cet ouvrage le voudrait faire, doit donner à la foule une philosophie; aux idées, une formule; à la poésie, des muscles, du sang, et de la vie; à ceux qui pense, une explication désintéressée; aux âmes altérées un breuvage, aux plaies secrètes un baume — à chacun un conseil, à tous une loi.” (!!!!)

  He concludes thus: —

  “Au siècle où nous vivons, l’horizon de l’art est bien élargi. Autrefois le poète disait, le public; aujourd’hui le poète dit, le peuple.”

  Is it possible to conceive affected sublimity and genuine nonsense carried farther than this? Let us not, however, sit down with the belief that the capital of France is quite in the condition he describes; — let us not receive it quite as gospel that the raptures, the sympathy of this “foule sympathique et éclairée,” that he talks of, in his preface to “Angelo,” as coming nightly to the theatre to do him honour, exists — or at least that it exists beyond the very narrow limits of his own clique. The men of France do not sympathise with Victor Hugo, whatever the boys may do. He has made himself a name, it is true, — but it is not a good one; and in forming an estimate of the present state of literature in France, we shall greatly err if we assume as a fact that Hugo is an admired writer.