Part 9 (1/2)

MAREUIL-SUR-OURCQ, April 20th, 1899.

I could scarcely believe I was in our quiet little town of La Ferte-Milon to-day. Such a transformation--flags flying, draperies at all the windows, garlands of greens and flowers across the streets, and a fine triumphal arch--all greens and flowers arranged about the centre of the Grande Rue. Many people standing about, looking on, and making suggestions; altogether, an air de fete which is most unusual in these sleepy little streets where nothing ever pa.s.ses, except at four o'clock, when the three schools come out, and clatter down the street. The ecole Maternelle comes first, the good Mere Cecile bringing up the rear of the procession, holding the smallest children, babies three and four years old, by the hand, three or four more clinging to her skirts, and guiding them across the perilous pa.s.sage of the bridge over the ca.n.a.l. It is a pretty view from the bridge. The ca.n.a.l (really the river Ourcq, ca.n.a.lisee), which has preserved its current and hasn't the dead, sluggish look of most ca.n.a.ls, runs alongside of the Mail, a large green place with gra.s.s, big trees, a broad walk down the centre, and benches under the trees. It is a sort of promenade for the inhabitants and also serves as a village green, where all the fairs, shows and markets are held. The opposite bank is bordered by quaint old houses, with round towers and gardens, full of bright flowers, running down to the water's edge. There is one curious old colombier which has been there for centuries; near the bridge there is a lavoir, where there are always women was.h.i.+ng. They are all there to-day, but much distracted, wildly interested in all that is going on--and the unwonted stir in the streets; chattering hard, and giving their opinions as to the decoration of the arch, which is evidently a source of great pride to the town.

On a bright sunny day, when the red roofs and flowers are reflected in the water, and it is not too cold, their work doesn't seem very hard; but on a winter afternoon, when they have to break the ice sometimes, and a biting wind is blowing down the ca.n.a.l, it is pitiable to see the poor things thinly clad, s.h.i.+vering and damp; their hands and arms red and chapped with cold. On the other side of the bridge, the ca.n.a.l wanders peacefully along through endless green meadows, bordered with poplars, to Marolles, a little village where there is the first ecluse on the way to Paris.

We had been talking vaguely all winter of doing something at La Ferte-Milon to feter the bicentenaire of Racine. They were making preparations at Paris, also at Port Royal, and it seemed hard to do nothing in his native place. His statue in the Grande Rue is one of the glories of La Ferte.

Jean Racine was born in La Ferte in 1639. He lost both father and mother young, and was brought up by his grandparents. He was sent first to school at Beauvais, later, while still quite a youth, to Port Royal. His stay there influenced considerably his character and his writings; and though he separated himself entirely from the ”Solitaires” during the years of his brilliant career as poet and courtier, there remained always in his heart a latent tenderness for the quiet green valley of the Chevreuse, where he had pa.s.sed all his years of adolescence, listening to the good Fathers, and imbibing their doctrines of the necessity of divine grace to complete the character. His masters were horrified and distressed when his talent developed into plays, which brought him into contact with actors and actresses, and made him an habitue of a frivolous Court.

There is a pretty letter from one of his aunts, a religieuse de Port Royal, begging him to keep away from ”des frequentations abominables,”

and to return to a Christian life.

His career was rapid and brilliant. He was named to the Academie Francaise in 1673, and when he retired from the theatre was a welcome and honoured guest at the most brilliant court of the world. He was made private historian to the King and accompanied him on various campaigns.

There are amusing mentions of the poets-historians (Boileau was also royal historian) in the writings of their contemporaries, ”les messieurs du sublime,” much embarra.s.sed with their military accoutrements and much fatigued by the unwonted exercise and long days on horseback. The King showed Racine every favour. He was lodged at Versailles and at Marly and was called upon to amuse and distract the monarch when the cares of state and increasing years made all diversions pall upon him. He saw the decline and disgrace of Madame de Montespan, the marvellous good fortune of Madame de Maintenon. His famous tragedies of Esther and Athalie were written at Madame de Maintenon's request for her special inst.i.tution of St. Cyr, and the performances were honoured by the presence of the King.

Racine himself directed the rehearsals and the music was composed by Jean Baptiste Moreau, organist of St. Cyr. The youthful actresses showed wonderful apt.i.tude in interpreting the pa.s.sionate, tender verses of the poet. Young imaginations worked and jealousies and rivalries ran high.

After a certain number of representations Mme. de Maintenon was obliged to suspend the performances in public, with costumes and music. The plays were only given in private at the Maison de St. Cyr; the young scholars playing in the dress of the establishment. He made his peace with Port Royal before he died. He submitted Phedre to his former masters and had the satisfaction of being received again by the ”Grand Arnauld,”[10] who had been deeply offended by his ingrat.i.tude and his criticisms and ridicule of many of his early friends and protectors. He asked to be buried there, and his body remained until the destruction and devastation of Port Royal, when it was removed to Paris and placed in the Church of St. Etienne des Monts.

[10] ”Le Grand Arnauld” (Antoine), one of the first and most influential of the celebrated ”Solitaires” who established themselves at Port Royal, and one of the founders of the famous sect of Jansenists whose controversies with the Jesuits convulsed the whole religious world in France during the years 1662-1668. He was followed in his retreat by his mother (after the husband's death), his brother and four sisters, one of whom became the ”Mere Angelique,” Abbesse of Port Royal.

He returned many times to La Ferte-Milon, and the great poet and private historian of the Roi Soleil must often have climbed the steep little street that leads to the ruins, and thought of the changes, since the little boy lay on the gra.s.s at the foot of the great walls, dreaming golden dreams of the future, which for him were so brilliantly realised.

In a small country town one is slow to adopt new ideas, slower still to carry them out, but the Mayor and cure were both most anxious to do something in the birthplace of the poet, and that was the general feeling in the Department. After many discussions we finally arrived at a solution, or at least we decided what we wanted: a special service in the fine old church of Notre Dame, which stands beautifully on the hill, close to the ruins; a representation of the Comedie Francaise, and of course a banquet at the Sauvage, with all the official world, senators, Prefet, Academiciens--a band of music, a torch-light procession, and as many distinguished visitors as we could get hold of. _Funds_ of course were a necessary item, but all the countryside contributed largely, and we knew that the artists would give their services gratis.

We arranged a breakfast at my house in Paris with Mons. Casimir-Perier, late President of the Republic, who was always ready to lend his influence for anything that interests the people, and teaches them something of their great men, and Mons. Claretie, Directeur of the Comedie Francaise, a most cultivated, charming man. He is generally rather chary of letting his pensionnaires play en province, but this really was an occasion to break through his rules, and he was quite ready to help us in every way. We had also M. Sebline, Senator of the Aisne, and l'Abbe Marechal, cure of La Ferte-Milon. We had wanted one of the Administrateurs of the Chemin de Fer du Nord to arrange about a free transport for the actors, but there seemed some trouble about getting hold of the right man, and Sebline promised to see about that.

The Abbe Marechal and I were very ambitious for the theatrical part of the entertainment and had views of Esther with the costumes, and choruses of Moreau, but M. Claretie said that would be impossible. It was difficult enough to arrange in Paris with all the singers, instruments, and costumes at hand--and would be impossible in the country with our modest resources. I think the idea of a tent on a village green rather frightened him; and he didn't quite see the elite of his company playing in such a cadre--no decor--and probably very bad acoustics. However, Sebline rea.s.sured him. He knew the tent and its capabilities, having seen it figure on various occasions, comices agricoles, banquets de pompiers, at village fetes generally, and said it could be arranged quite well.

We discussed many programmes, but finally accepted whatever M. Claretie would give--an act of ”Les Plaideurs,” and two or three of ”Berenice,”

with Mme. Bartet, who is charming in that role. The Abbe Marechal undertook the music in his church, and I was sure he would succeed in having some of the choruses of Esther. His heart was quite set on it.

Once he had settled our programme, the conversation drifted away from the purely local talk, and was brilliant enough. All the men were clever and good talkers, and all well up in Racine, his career, and the various phases of his work.

From the cla.s.sics we got into modern plays and poets, and there of course the differences of opinion were wide; but I think the general public (people in the upper galleries) like better when they go to the Francaise to see a cla.s.sic piece--Roman emperors and soldiers, and vestal virgins and barbarians in chains--and to listen to their long tirades. The modern light comedy, even when it treats of the vital subjects of the day, seems less in its place in those old walls. I quite understand one couldn't see Britannicus,[11] Mithridate, nor the Cid every evening.

[11] I remember so well our cousin Arthur's description of his holidays spent at his grandmother's chateau. Every evening they read aloud some cla.s.sical piece. When he had read Britannicus twice (the second time to appreciate more fully the beauties which were lightly pa.s.sed over at first), he rebelled, had a migraine, or a sore throat, something which prevented his appearing in the drawing-room after dinner; and he and his cousins attired themselves in sheets, and stood on the corner of the wall where the diligence made a sharp turn, frightening the driver and his horses out of their wits.

We came down here several times to see how things were getting on, and always found the little town quite feverishly animated. We had succeeded in getting the band of the regiment stationed at Soissons. I wrote to the Colonel, who said he would send it with pleasure, but that he couldn't on his own authority. An application must be made to the Ministere de la Guerre. There is always so much red tape in France. One writes and receives so many letters about anything one wants to do--a Christmas Tree in the school-house--a distribution of soup for the poor and old--a turn in a road to be rounded, etc. However, the permission was graciously accorded for the band. The Mayor's idea was to station it on the Mail, where quant.i.ties of people would congregate who couldn't get into the church or the tent.

We went one day to have tea with the Abbe Marechal in his nice old presbytere; the salon opening out on a large, old-fas.h.i.+oned garden with fine trees, and a view of the church towers in the distance. He was quite pleased with all that he had arranged for his church service. One of his friends, Abbe Vignon, a most interesting man and eloquent preacher, promised to deliver a lecture on Racine from the pulpit; and M. Vincent d'Indy, the distinguished composer and leader of the modern school of music, undertook the music with Mme. Jeanne Maunay as singer; he himself presiding at the organ.

I tried to persuade the proprietors of all the chateaux in the neighbourhood to come, but I can't say I had much success. Some had gout--some had mourning. I don't remember if any one ”had married a wife and therefore couldn't come.”

However, we shall fill our own house, and give breakfast and dinner to any one who will come. To-day we have been wandering about on the green near the ruins, trying to find some place where we can give our friends tea. The service in the church will certainly be long, and before the theatrical performance begins we should like to arrange a little gouter--but where? It is too far to go back to our house, and the Sauvage, our usual resort, will be packed on that day, and quite off its head, as they have two banquets morning and evening. The ”Cafe des Ruines,” a dirty little place just under the great walls of the chateau, didn't look inviting; but there was literally nothing else, so we interviewed the proprietor, went in to the big room down stairs, which was perfectly impossible, reeking with smoke, and smelling of cheap liquor; but he told us he had a ”tres belle salle” up stairs, where we should be quite alone. We climbed up a dark, rickety little turning staircase, and found ourselves in quite a good room, with three large windows on the green; the walls covered with pictures from the cheap ill.u.s.trated papers, and on the whole not too dirty. We have taken it for the afternoon, told the patron we would come to-morrow, put up tables, and make as many preparations as we could for the great day. He was very anxious to furnish something--some ”vin du pays;” but we told him all we wanted was fire, plenty of hot water, and a good scrubbing of floor and windows.

It is enchanting this afternoon. We are taking advantage of the fine weather to drive about the country, and show our friends some of our big farms and quaint little villages. They look exactly as they did a hundred years ago, ”when the Cossacks were here,” as they say in the country. Some of the inns have still kept their old-fas.h.i.+oned signs and names. Near May, on the road to Meaux, Bossuet's fine old cathedral town, there is a nice old square red-brick house, ”L'Auberge du Veau qui Tete” (The Inn of the Sucking Calf), which certainly indicates that this is great farming country. There are quant.i.ties of big white oxen, cows, and horses in the fields, but the roads are solitary. One never meets anything except on market day. The Florians who live in Seine et Marne, which is thickly populated--villages and chateaux close together--were much struck with the loneliness and great stretches of wood and plain.

We are praying for fine weather, as rain would be disastrous. The main street looks really charming. The green arch is nearly finished, and at night, when everything is illuminated, will be most effective.

22nd. It rained yesterday afternoon and all night--not light April showers, but a good, steady downpour. Francis and Ctesse. de Gontaut arrived from Paris in his little open automobile. Such a limp, draggled female as emerged from the little carriage I never saw. They had had some sharp showers; pannes (breakdowns), too, and she _says_ she pushed the carriage up all the hills. She didn't seem either tired or cross, and looked quite bright and rested when she reappeared at dinner.