jeune homme s'est présenté armé de ses droits, nous ne lui avons pas restitué loyalement son héritage! .... Au lieu de nous retirer tête haute . . . . nous avons obtenu qu'il consentît à nous garder chez lui! De votre fille qui ne savait rien. ... (Se retournant vers Bernard avec fierté.) Qu'avez-vous dû penser de moi, monsieur? BERNARD. Ah! mademoiselle, le ciel m'est témoin HÉLÈNE. Quand je vous ai tendu la main, vous croyant pauvre et déshérité. . . . et plus tard. . . . et tout à l'heure encore (Avec égarement.) Oh! mon père, est-ce assez de honte? LE MARQUIS. Ma fille, mon enfant, calme-toi, je ne voulais que ton bonheur. HÉLÈNE (relevant la tête). Mon bonheur!.... et vous ne vous aperceviez pas que j'étais le prix d'un marché! BERNARD. Non, mademoiselle, non. HÉLÈNE. Et si monsieur de Vaubert ne fût venu à temps Bien, monsieur de Vaubert, voici ma main. (Raoul s'approche d'elle.) BERNARD. O ciel! RAOUL. Merci, mademoiselle. HÉLÈNE. Allons, mon père, relevez-vous, la pauvreté n'a pas droit de mésalliance. Marquis de la Seiglière, reprenez la fierté de votre race. Partons, sortons d'ici. Mon père, appuyez-vous sur moi. Baron de Vaubert, emmenez votre femme. (La baronne et Destournelles paraissent au fond.) SCÈNE IX. DESTOURNELles. Sa femme! LA BARONNE (avec joie). J'en étais sûre! RAOUL. Oui, ma mère, oui, embrassez votre fille. BERNARD (à part). Ah! tout est perdu. LA BARONNE. Chère Hélène.... (Triomphante, bas au marquis.) Eh bien, mon vieil ami, était-il si facile de briser des liens aussi sacrés? LE MARQUIS. Madame! . (A part.) Que la peste l'étouffe, elle et son fils! HÉLÈNE. Par pitié, monsieur de Vaubert, ne restons pas ici. LA BARONNE. Venez, nobles enfants. (Ils font un pas pour sortir.) DESTOURNELLES (s'avançant). Eh! non, madame; demeurez. Vous vous retiriez devant sa fortune, il n'a plus rien que son épée. HELENE. Que veut dire? RAOUL. Je ne comprends pas LE MARQUIS. Oui, qu'est-ce que cela signifie? DESTOURNELLES. Ce que cela signifie? monsieur le marquis .... DESTOURNELLES. Oh! soyez tranquille, ce ne sera pas long, et je pars avec vous. Cela signifie que ce matin, quand j'allais chez maître Durousseau pour vous rendre à tous la vue ou la raison, ce brave garçon allait chez un notaire légaliser sa ruine et signer l'abandon de ses droits. Tous. Ô ciel! HÉLÈNE. Refusez, mon père, refusez. DESTOURNELLES. Refuser!.... Est-ce que vous le pouvez maintenant? Vous avez accepté la donation du père. Personne au monde ne peut empêcher Bernard de ratifier ce que son père a fait. LE MARQUIS. Cependant, monsieur . . . DESTOURNELLES. Après cela, monsieur le marquis, si la possession de ce château embarrasse votre délicatesse, le domaine public s'en arrangera volontiers. Quant à moi, je sors d'ici pour n'y rentrer jamais; mais je ne partirai pas sans avoir soulagé mon cœur, sans vous avoir dit, madame la baronne, que si vous l'emportez, c'est en faisant votre malheur à tous: celui de monsieur le marquis, séparé pour jamais d'un compagnon qu'il aimait déjà comme son fils LE MARQUIS. C'est vrai. DESTOURNELLES. Celui de vos enfants, que vous condamnez à des regrets éternels .... RAOUL (regardant Hélène, qui tressaille). Des regrets! . . . DESTOURNELLES. Le vôtre, enfin; oui, madame, le vôtre, car, sachez-le bien, vous n'aurez pas impunément désuni deux cœurs qui s'aiment pour river l'un à l'autre deux cœurs qui ne s'aiment pas. Et maintenant que j'ai tout dit, partons, monsieur Bernard. HELENE (à part). Grand Dieu! RAOUL. Que voulez-vous dire? (L'arrêtant du geste). Non pas, monsieur, expliquez-vous. DESTOURNELLES. Monsieur observez ces deux jeunes gens: leur silence vous apprendra peut-être ce que vous ne devinez pas. On looking at his fiancée, the young baron at once reads the truth in her face, and though she repeatedly declares that she is ready to keep her word, M. de Vaubert generously refuses to accept so great a sacrifice. He places the hand she is prepared to give him in Bernard's, and only asks them to look on him henceforth as their brother. Thus ends the play, to the general contentment of everybody, excepting the baroness de Vaubert, whose selfish intrigues are disappointed at last. We may add that the success which this charming comedy has repeatedly found on the Théâtre - Français at Paris, is due not only to its clever plot, in which the interest is well-sustained throughout, or to the sparkling dialogue, or even the excellent acting of the first artists of the capital, but, more than all these, to its social importance and truth. Mile de la Seiglière contains within the limits of a four-act comedy a whole chapter of contemporary history. The union of the high-born damsel, the daughter of one of the most thorough-going representatives of the old nobility, with a man who has risen from the people, truthfully depicts the fusion of classes, which followed upon the revolution of 1789, and is still constantly progressing in France. PONSARD. SKETCH OF HIS LIFE AND WORKS.1 FRANCIS PONSARD, born in 1814 at Vienne in the Dauphiné, was the son of a solicitor. At an early age he displayed a taste for literature and poetry, and, when on leaving school he went to Paris to read for the bar, he managed by dint of hard work to carry on his studies side by side with his literary pursuits. Just before being called, he translated Lord Byron's Manfred into French verse, but his translation, though not without merit, did not meet with much attention. Under the influence of the Classical reaction, which had begun at the Théâtre-Français under the auspices of Rachel, the celebrated actress, Ponsard wrote his tragedy Lucrèce, which was acted in 1843 at the Odéon. The play met with an enthusiastic reception and won a prize from the French Academy, a success which it owed, in part at least, to the support of the adversaries of romanticism. These were delighted at having at last a fresh production to oppose to the extravagances of the hugolâtres, and they looked on the antique subject of the play, its simplicity and severe and polished style as marking a return to the manner of the Old Masters. In spite of these fine qualities, the critics are now pretty generally agreed that Ponsard's first play is but a moderate production. In 1846 Ponsard gave to the Odéon a tragedy called Agnès de Méranie, the subject of which is taken from medieval history. We reprint below one of its most striking scenes. The reception met with by this play was not such as had been anticipated from the success of Lucrèce, nor was Ponsard more fortunate with his next piece, the noble drama of Charlotte Corday, which was acted in 1850 at the Théâtre-Français. And yet, as regards accuracy of historical research, elevation of ideas and perfection of style, it is one of the very best of the author's works. Horace et Lydie, a short comedy, which followed soon after, is a graceful and exquisite imitation of Ponsard's favourite poet: but it only served to show that the theatrical public of our day are utterly incapable of taking any interest in a picture of ancient manners, however perfectly delineated on the stage. The poet was equally unfortunate with his next two productions, both of them studies from the antique: his poem Homère found no readers, and the tragedy Ulysse was unable to achieve popularity, though supported by the charming music of M. Gounod. But success at last rewarded Ponsard's efforts in 1853, when he produced at the Odéon L'Honneur et l'Argent, a comedy in verse, We have partly followed Vapereau, Dictionnaire des contemporains. 2 Élisa-Rachel Félix, best known under the name of Rachel, v. p. 632. This actress, who achieved fame at the early age of eighteen, revived at the Théâtre-Français the old classical tragedy, by her lifelike impersonations of Corneille's and Racine's heroines. 3 I. e. the fanatical admirers of Victor Hugo v. p 592. We reprint this and the following extracts from Ponsard's works by permission of the publisher M. Calman-Lévy. from which we reprint several scenes. This play, distinguished alike by the purity of its style and the elevation of its moral tone, was rapturously applauded by the public, who had become disgusted with the shamelessness of the leading speculators of the day. In consequence of this undoubted success the author was, in 1855, elected a member of the French Academy. In 1866 Ponsard once more put on the stage an episode of contemporary history. The Lion Amoureux is a comedy in verse, which, in spite of its somewhat sensational title, is the best of the poet's productions, and was acted on the first theatre in Paris for 100 consecutive nights. The hero of the play, the time of which is the Revolution period (1794), is a member of the Convention by name Humbert, and a friend of the Republican general Hoche. After giving one more piece to the Théâtre-Français (Galilée, a drama in verse) the poet, who had for years been a prey to a cruel disease, died in July 1867. Ponsard's detractors, who affect to see in his verses only metrical prose, have contemptuously termed him Le chef de l'école du bon sens, while his admirers look on him as the successor of Corneille and Racine. We shall probably come nearer the truth, if we avoid both these extremes and acknowledge that Ponsard was a poet and a man of talent, who by dint of hard work has succeeded in winning an honourable place between the Old and the New Masters of Dramatic Literature. I. AGNÈS DE MÉRANIE. (1846.) In A. D. 1193 Philip-Augustus, king of France (1180-1223) married the fair Ingeborg (whom the poet calls Ingelberge), sister to Canute II of Denmark. Immediately after the marriage he repudiated her and caused the bishop of Reims to pronounce the divorce. Ingeborg refused to return to Denmark, and entering a nunnery, complained of her treatment at Rome. The commissioners of pope Cœlestinus III convoked a council of French bishops; but as none of them dared to oppose the will of the king, the latter considered that he was at liberty to marry again. Accordingly in 1196 he married Marie, a daughter of the count of Méran, whom one or two chroniclers call Agnès; she is the heroïne of our tragedy. Renewed complaints from queen Ingeborg and her brother the king of Denmark caused the successor of Coelestinus, pope Innocent III, to send the cardinal Peter of Capua to France as his legate (1199). The latter called together a fresh council at Dijon, and as Philip II refused to leave the count of Méran's daughter and restore Ingeborg to her former rank, the legate placed the whole kingdom under an interdict. Thereupon the services ceased in all the churches and the people were left without any of the consolations of religion; there were not even marriage or funeral rites. It was in vain that the king expelled from their sees those bishops who observed the interdict; he was at last compelled to yield to the general discontent of the nation, which threatened his crown and his life. In September 1200 Philip declared that he would submit to the pope's decision. He did actually take back Ingeborg to be his wife, but for many years he treated her rather as a prisoner than a queen, though Marie or Agnès de Méranie had died as early as 1201. At length (in 1213) the king became reconciled with Ingeborg, to the great and universal joy of his people. The two children of the countess of Méran were, at Philip's request, declared legitimate by the pope. In choosing this episode from the reign of Philip-Augustus for the subject of his tragedy, the author has shown remarkable discernment; for nothing can surpass in dramatic interest the continued conflict of the spiritual and the temporal power which runs all through mediæval history, or the strife of human passion against that mysterious and superior influence, which in the end compels a mighty king to sacrifice his love to his duty. Ponsard has treated the facts with the freedom allowed to a poet; for in the play Agnès de Méranie poisons herself, so as to free the people from the interdict. We reprint the scene in which the interdict is laid on the kingdom by the pope's legate, whom the poet introduces on the stage in the garb of a simple monk. ACTE I, SCÈNE IV. LE MOINE, PHILIPPE-AUGUSTE, AGNÈS, GUILLAUME-DES-BARRES, BARONS. PHILIPPE. Eh bien, quel sujet vous amène, Sire moine? LE MOINE. Je viens au sujet de la reine. LE MOINE. Je ne vois pas la reine; Comment? elle n'est pas ici. LE MOINE. Souvenez-vous, ô roi Philippe-Auguste, De celle qui languit dans un exil injuste. La reine, votre épouse, à qui Dieu vous a joint, C'est madame Ingelberge; ailleurs il n'en est point. PHILIPPE. Ah! tu viens de sa part! - Eh quoi? Que me veut-elle? Tout est dit. Je suis las de sa plainte éternelle. Qu'elle parte! qu'elle aille, en ses glaciers du nord, Retrouver, loin de moi, l'hiver dont elle sort! Qu'elle parte! et je mets, sur la nef1 qui l'emmène, Il faut, par la douceur, Tempérer des refus qui lui percent le cœur. (Philippe fait signe au moine de sortir.) LE MOINE. Seigneur, vous ignorez mon sacré caractère. Vous voyez devant vous un légat du saint-père. PHILIPPE. Un légat du saint-père! AGNES. Un légat! LE MOINE (s'avançant vers Philippe). Un légat! 1 La nef (navis) i. e. le navire. In prose this word is only used of the nave of a church. |