La Grève, trois actes
We have not announced many books since the beginning of the third series. We have had no room. And nothing was being published. Today we are obliged to announce several books in brief. Our subscribers will take the opportunity to place collective orders.
CHARLES SEIGNOBOS. — La méthode historique appliquée aux sciences sociales [The Historical Method Applied to the Social Sciences], a volume in the Bibliothèque générale des sciences sociales, published by Alcan. The volumes in this collection are cloth-bound in the English style and priced at 6 francs.
ÉMILE DUCLAUX. — L’hygiène sociale [Social Hygiene], a volume in the same collection.
We shall publish at least the preface and the table of contents of this book.
GUSTAVE LANSON. — L’Université et la Société moderne [The University and Modern Society], Armand Colin, 122 pages, 1 franc.
We shall publish at least the preface and the table of contents.
PIERRE KROPOTKINE. — Autour d’une Vie, mémoires [Around a Life, Memoirs], translated by MM. A. Martin and F. Leray, a volume of 536 pages, Stock, 3 francs 50.
As of the first of January 1902, the Mouvement Socialiste will be located at 10, rue Monsieur-le-Prince; it will appear every Saturday, on 48 pages; the single issue will cost 40 centimes, subscription 10 francs for France and Belgium, 12 francs for other countries.
Some of our subscribers may have been put off by the first issue of Jean-Pierre. I myself regret that there were in that issue at least five killings: a military convict, two piglets, a wolf, and a goose. But we shall repeat for Jean-Pierre what we have so often said for the Mouvement Socialiste, for Pages libres, for the Bibliothèque Socialiste, for the cahiers. To men of goodwill who set out to do honest work, the public owes a generous allowance. I read in the second issue of Jean-Pierre an excellent tale by Andersen.
At the moment we go to press, we are told that M. Lapicque has been suspended for six months. M. Leygues continues to press his advantage over the university men — the advantage that the politicians conferred upon him. We gave the order to print after corrections for two thousand six hundred copies of this fifth cahier on Thursday the 19th of December 1901.
Jean-Pierre has chosen the following gift books from this year’s catalogue. These books are on sale at the cahiers bookshop.
Contes de Perrault [Tales of Perrault], an illustrated volume. paperback 3 francs bound 4 francs
STEINLEN. — Des chats [Cats], pictures without words. album 6 francs
STEINLEN. — Contes enfantins [Children’s Tales], drawings. album 3 francs 50
CHRISTOPHE. — La Famille Fenouillard. — L’idée fixe du savant Cosinus [The Obsession of Professor Cosinus], humorous albums, in colour. each album bound 10 francs
HENRI HAUSER. — L’Or [Gold], illustrated. paperback 10 francs
E. AVENARD (French translation of). — Les Contes d’Andersen [The Tales of Andersen], illustrations by HANS TEGNER. cloth-bound 15 francs
JEAN GRAVE. — Les Aventures de Nono [The Adventures of Nono], illustrated. paperback 3 francs
E. RECLUS. — Histoire d’une montagne [The Story of a Mountain], illustrated. paperback 4 francs cloth-bound 6 francs
E. RECLUS. — Histoire d’un ruisseau [The Story of a Brook], illustrated. paperback 4 francs cloth-bound 6 francs
VIOLLET-LE-DUC. — Histoire d’une maison [The Story of a House], illustrated. paperback 4 francs 50 cloth-bound 6 francs
VIOLLET-LE-DUC. — Histoire d’un dessinateur [The Story of a Draughtsman], illustrated. paperback 4 francs cloth-bound 6 francs
LÉON TOLSTOÏ. — À la recherche du bonheur [In Search of Happiness]. paperback 3 francs
CHARLES DICKENS. — Contes de Noël [Christmas Stories]. paperback 1 franc
CHARLES DICKENS. — David Copperfield, 2 volumes. each volume 1 franc
CHARLES DICKENS. — Nicolas Nickleby, 2 volumes. each volume 1 franc
CHARLES NODIER. — Trésors de fèves et fleur des pois [Treasures of Beans and Pea Blossoms]. paperback 1 franc cloth-bound 2 francs 25
P. DE MUSSET. — Monsieur le Vent et Madame la Pluie [Mister Wind and Madam Rain]. paperback 1 franc
TOM TIT. — Pour amuser les petits ou Les joujoux que l’on peut faire soi-même [To Amuse the Little Ones, or Toys You Can Make Yourself], text and colour drawings. album 3 francs
TOM TIT. — La science amusante [Amusing Science], three volumes. each 3 francs
JEAN HUGUES
To the worker Jean Allemane
The Strike
CAHIERS DE LA QUINZAINE appearing twenty times a year PARIS 8, rue de la Sorbonne, ground floor
On sale at the cahiers bookshop
ROMAIN ROLLAND. — Aërt, a drama in three acts, performed at the Théâtre de l’Œuvre on 3 May 1898, éditions de la Revue d’Art dramatique, 3 francs.
ROMAIN ROLLAND. — Les Loups [The Wolves]. — Morituri, a drama in three acts, performed at the Théâtre de l’Œuvre on 18 May 1898, éditions de Georges Bellais, 3 francs.
ROMAIN ROLLAND. — Le Triomphe de la Raison [The Triumph of Reason], a drama in three acts, performed at the Théâtre de l’Œuvre on 21 June 1899, éditions de la Revue d’Art dramatique, 3 francs.
ROMAIN ROLLAND. — Danton, a drama in three acts, out of print in the editions of the Revue d’Art dramatique, performed at the Nouveau-Théâtre on 29 December 1900 by the Cercle des Escholiers, and on 30 December 1900 by the Théâtre Civique, sixth cahier of the second series, éditions des cahiers, 3 francs.
The cahiers will publish in their third series ROMAIN ROLLAND. — Le Quatorze Juillet [The Fourteenth of July], a drama in three acts.
The cahiers have published in their second series ANTONIN LAVERGNE. — Jean Coste ou l’Instituteur de village [Jean Coste, or the Village Schoolmaster], a novel, 3 francs 50.
It was through a youthful error that Le Coltineur débile [The Feeble Porter], by Jérôme and Jean Tharaud, was initially priced at one franc, and that Les Loups, by Romain Rolland, a drama in three acts, was priced at two francs. We remain still below their commercial value in repricing Le Coltineur débile at two francs and Les Loups at three francs fifty.
THE STRIKE
The play about to be read could pleasantly have been called The Blacksmiths’ Strike. That would have rehabilitated a title that M. François Coppée has seriously compromised. The author, who is a serious man, denied himself this fancy. He kept the simple and general title. He kept the classical title.
At a time when people would have us believe that the romantic is more advanced than the classical, we must indeed note that this particularly contemporary play is exactly classical. By that I mean the author has done nothing to shock the bourgeois. The characters come when they have reason to come, not when they have an effect of entrance to produce; they speak to say something, act to do something, appear as they are; they neither parade nor declaim nor pose; they do not beg for applause; everything takes place, in a sense, as if the spectator were not there.
I do not wish to enter incidentally into the great debate between the classical and the romantic, the humanly classical and the bourgeoisly romantic. But within the limits in which they will pose the question for us, if they wish to crush Racine under Hugo for political purposes, Andromaque under Hernani, and Phèdre under Ruy Blas, keeping then to the French classical tragedies and the romantic dramas in French, we must observe that the classical is known by its sincerity, the romantic by its laborious insincerity. At least in this sense, The Strike is properly classical. What makes the classical is not the subject treated, it is not genius or talent, it is the form of art. Jean Hugues has treated a subject that Racine or Molière were not accustomed to treating. But his dramatic form is the form of Racine and the form of Molière. Like them he is simple, like them he is general, like them he is sincere, like them he avoids confusions, like them he confines himself to a few characters, because as soon as there are more one no longer knows what one is saying.
The author of The Strike is a schoolmaster in Paris. In truth one defines him poorly when one says he is a schoolmaster. He has all the character, all the talent of an excellent Paris street urchin. The Strike benefits very happily from this. But precisely because he might have been tempted to abandon his task, it is worth noting that he is a schoolmaster and does his job. I hope he is not a candidate for dismissal. Continuing his trade and publishing serious works, he works more usefully for justice, for truth, for liberty, than by making scandals, agitation, politics. He has just written a one-act play. I asked him for this new manuscript.
The proof that The Strike is well made, classical, sincere, is that all the problems posed today by the real strike are posed just as well by the strike thus represented. The three acts about to be read do not constitute a thesis play. They present only the perpetual theme of reality.
The text was difficult to establish. It is obvious that for performance the characters must speak in the manner of workers and peasants. We have altered the standard French of the printed page only to the extent that this was indispensable. There would be a kind of affectation in transcribing typographically all the nuances of popular speech when it is not a matter of dialect proper. Typographical alterations are much more disagreeable to the eye than spoken alterations or alienations are to the ear. The actors will do what is necessary. They will achieve a popular speech not by vulgarising literary speech, but by imitating popular speech itself.
JEAN HUGUES
To the worker Jean Allemane
ÉDITIONS DES CAHIERS PARIS 8, rue de la Sorbonne, ground floor
This play was first performed on Saturday the 3rd of November 1900, on the stage of L’ÉMANCIPATION, Université Populaire of the fifteenth arrondissement. All the roles were played by workers.
Mmes LATOUR, wife of Latour: Mlle Château, student. BAJOIE, worker’s wife: Giry, student. MM. LATOUR, worker: MM. Grisier, clerk. GUÉRIN, worker: Repiquet, worker at the Tobacco works. LANTIER, striker: Martin, electrician. MAUTARD, blacksmith: Paul Aubriot, clerk. LE PARISIEN, worker: Daunay, jewellery worker. L’ORATEUR, mechanical worker: de Pinto, clerk. ROLLET, tavern keeper: Martin, electrician. LE PAYSAN: Ducocq, tortoiseshell worker. BONTEMPS, turner: Engrand, broker. GROS-JEAN, worker: Francfort, clerk. GODEFROY, worker: Franckel, locksmith.
Women workers: Mmes Château, Giry. Workers: MM. Huchet, electrician; Launay, mechanic; Moutard, clerk.
Sets built by the same comrades.
The theatrical troupe of L’ÉMANCIPATION not providing a sufficient number of players, the comrades named above courageously doubled up. The author is happy to have found such collaborators.
CHARACTERS OF THE FIRST ACT
LATOUR, worker. GUÉRIN, worker. LANTIER, striker. OLD MAUTARD, blacksmith. LE PARISIEN, worker. MADAME LATOUR, Latour’s wife. MADAME BAJOIE, woman worker. FOUR WORKERS SPEAKING. FOUR WOMEN WORKERS SPEAKING. A CHILD. A TOWN CRIER. Workers, men and women, non-speaking parts.
The play takes place in an industrial town in the provinces.
Set. From left to right: at the back, small bed, wardrobe, bed, rug in front; downstage left, the fireplace; downstage right, the window; slightly left, an ironing table; chairs.
ACT ONE
AT LATOUR’S
A worker’s room, decorated with a few pictures and silvered glass ornaments. A tall country fireplace with a stove. At the rise of the curtain, the wives Bajoie and Latour are chatting near the window, at right. Madame Bajoie is seated, a basket at her feet. Madame Latour sets the table for her husband and herself.
MADAME BAJOIE. — I have never seen him so drunk; he was full to bursting; full as a gourd, and the look in his eyes! When he got home, I said to myself: “My dear little Bajoie, watch out, storm ahead; he’s not sleeping in my bed when he gets in that state.” He tried to play the swaggerer… I pushed him a bit roughly and he fell flat on the floor… And upon my word, he fell asleep right there, like a great calf.
MADAME LATOUR. — It’s nothing but trouble when a man takes to drink.
MADAME BAJOIE, interrupting. — That’s for sure; yours is so proper, he only drinks water, and so polite — you’re blessed in that.
MADAME LATOUR. — Maybe so, but one has one’s troubles all the same. Take my little one, for instance —
MADAME BAJOIE, same business. — To finish my story, wouldn’t you know, come morning, no way to wake Arthur… a dead weight, Madame Latour, a real dead weight… So what do I do? I grab a big basin of cold water and I splash it right in his face. Well, that didn’t take long! He swore every oath he knew, but time was pressing, and I was soon rid of him. Looking out the window. There they come… I’m off to put some soup on for him. Good evening, Madame Latour.
MADAME LATOUR. — Good evening. Madame Bajoie moves to leave; the door opens and Latour enters.
LATOUR. — Evening, Madame Bajoie.
MADAME BAJOIE. — Evening and good night, Latour; I’m off, my fellow’s waiting.
LATOUR. — If he’s waiting for you! He’s like me — this morning’s soup has gone clear down to his heels.
Exit Madame Bajoie.
MADAME LATOUR, laughing. — Come to the table, chatterbox. I’ve a soup the likes of which you’ve never had.
LATOUR, abruptly, handing her money. — Here, missus, this week’s pay. It’s thin — twenty-eight francs eighty.
MADAME LATOUR, making the money disappear. — Twenty-eight francs eighty!
LATOUR. — Well, you know it yourself… Last week it was the same.
MADAME LATOUR. — That’s true! Twenty-eight eighty!
LATOUR. — Yes… Think of it! Working twelve hours in the smoke… the misery of it, in silence, to earn four francs and change. If that isn’t making a fool of poor people. And the boss threatens to cut us further still.
MADAME LATOUR. — Further still! But that’s destitution!
LATOUR. — Seems it suits us fine. To think that two weeks ago I was earning fifty centimes an hour — now it’s down to eight sous… for the same work. Total: twenty-eight francs instead of thirty-six.
MADAME LATOUR. — And bread… and potatoes going up again…
LATOUR. — And our four sous of savings gone to the doctor for the little one… I tell you, I feel like crossing my arms and not doing another thing. To have sweated blood and water, never had any fun, only to end up here.
MADAME LATOUR. — Come now, my lad, don’t let yourself get worked up, you who are always so sensible. What good will it do?
LATOUR. — The bosses always want to earn more, and more, and always more. My late father used to tell me that the journeymen of the old days had enough to eat until they died. But the way things are now… one has to believe we’re making progress. With a pained laugh. It goes from bad to worse.
MADAME LATOUR, affecting cheerfulness. — There’s gloom for you! And what for? We won’t die yet this time. Be serious for once, my good fellow; come eat my nice soup while it’s hot.
LATOUR. — Well, I’m lucky to have found a solid woman and —
MADAME LATOUR, setting the pot on the table. — That’s enough; eat… you can court me afterwards. Laughing. If you still remember. They eat. — Silence.
MADAME LATOUR. — Well then! How was it today?
LATOUR. — Not great. That blasted knee keeps giving me shooting pains… And the little one? He hasn’t come back?
MADAME LATOUR. — No, not yet. I prefer he stay with his grandmother in the country. Since his illness, he’s so pale I’m afraid he’ll take to bed again. Besides, Monsieur Caillet, the doctor, advised it.
LATOUR. — Seems to me he’s right… You know what I keep saying — the boy is too serious, he daydreams too much, he needs exercise.
MADAME LATOUR. — But where do you want him to play?
LATOUR. — That’s true, there’s no room here. Well. Silence.
LATOUR. — Ah, yes! Speaking of news, they’ve sacked a fellow from the factory.
MADAME LATOUR. — Who then?
LATOUR. — I don’t know him… Seems he tried to go for the foreman…
MADAME LATOUR. — Old Bizot! And why on earth?
LATOUR. — On account of old Bizot’s brutality… That’s what they were saying… You know, sometimes people make a lot of fuss about nothing… but people are talking. A knock.
MADAME LATOUR. — Come in. Enter Guérin.
GUÉRIN. — Good evening. Excuse me if I’m disturbing you.
LATOUR. — Well, Guérin! No need for excuses, among friends… Pointing to a chair. Sit yourself down there. Gesture from Madame Latour to offer him a chair.
GUÉRIN, taking the chair. — Don’t trouble yourself on my account… I’m not worth the bother. He laughs.
Pause.
GUÉRIN. — I came to talk to you about the to-do this afternoon.
LATOUR. — About the fellow who was sacked?
GUÉRIN. — Yes, seems it’s serious. People have been talking.
LATOUR. — You’ll have a glass?
GUÉRIN. — I won’t say no.
LATOUR. — Come on, wife, go fetch us some wine; it’ll put colour in your cheeks. He smiles.
MADAME LATOUR. — I’m going, drunkard. She smiles and exits.
LATOUR, to Guérin. — So then… He eats.
GUÉRIN, near the window. — Here’s how it was. It’s a striker fellow who was going to the stores. There, he runs into… Look, you must know him — there he is in the street.
LATOUR, looking out into the street. — Well, well! It’s big Lantier, a brother. He won’t refuse to clink glasses with us. Opening the window. Hey, Lantier! Come up for a drink, I’m inviting you.
LANTIER, from the street. — Hello, Latour; I’ll be right up.
LATOUR. — A fellow I used to go picking blackberries with when he was no taller than a peen hammer.
GUÉRIN. — Very good. — He’ll tell you his story better than me. I’m no talker.
LANTIER, entering. — Hello, all. They shake hands.
LATOUR. — Well then? What a blow! Here you are out of work, on account of —
LANTIER, in a concentrated voice. — On account of old Bizot being a swine!
GUÉRIN. — That’s the honest truth. Just yesterday, he docked me five sous for spending too long in the privy. Laughter. Oh yes, it’s just as I’m telling you!
LANTIER, a little calmer. — He’s a swine, there’s no two ways about it; anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
GUÉRIN. — Yes, yes, that’s the truth, as sure as I spit. He spits.
LATOUR. — All right, let him talk.
LANTIER. — Here’s the story. — You know my mate? Old Mautard, one of the old guard, rock-solid, always speaks his mind, a finished blacksmith through and through. Signs of assent. He sends me to exchange his big German file at the stores, on account of some pieces he had to trim.
Well, calm as you please, off I go. You don’t always expect trouble, do you?
LATOUR. — That’s for sure.
LANTIER. — So off I go, naturally enough. I’m joking a bit with the artillery man, when that great idler Bizot comes at me nearly from behind and shouts: “What the devil are you doing here? Haven’t you finished wasting time, you filthy chatterbox — get back to your bolting, and…”
MADAME LATOUR, entering. — Don’t stop, I beg you. I was listening to what was being said about you, Monsieur Lantier… Everyone’s up in arms — you wouldn’t believe it.
LATOUR. — All right, all right; pour the drinks and let him finish.
MADAME LATOUR pours drinks and continues. — Besides, I told them you were here talking, and some of them are coming over.
LATOUR, with impatient gestures. — All right, all right!
LANTIER, a little thrown. — I don’t know what to say. Well, I told him: “Excuse me, I’m here to get a file…” But before I could finish, the other brute starts shouting: “Your file!… your file!… But you change it every other day! It’s just to skive off… and on and on and on…” He wouldn’t stop.
GUÉRIN. — He was grumbling, the fellow.
LANTIER. — When he shut up, I said to him plain: “All that’s hot air; I changed my file a week ago. If you don’t believe me, ask old Mautard, my mate…”
GUÉRIN. — Well answered.
LATOUR. — Let him talk, will you.
LANTIER. — Then I don’t know what comes over him. He turns white, he turns red, green, what do I know! He loses his head and tries to put his hand in my face: “If you hit me,” I said, “I’ll hit back.” And since I’m the stronger, he stopped.
MADAME LATOUR, laughing. — Ha! ha! ha!
GUÉRIN, shouting. — They’re all cowards and Jesuits in that shop!
LATOUR. — Come now, come now, we don’t know the whole story yet, so we can’t judge.
LANTIER. — Well, to make a long story short, he cried out: “Come along, you ruffian, I’ll settle your account.” I follow him to the office. He writes up a damning report. He was saying I was this, I was that — a good-for-nothing, a thief, a drunkard, a chaser of women.
MADAME LATOUR. — Fit to be hanged, is that it?
LATOUR. — But that’s all lies! You should have answered him.
LANTIER, banging the table. — Oh right! You might as well try to reason with this table.
MADAME LATOUR. — That’s dishonest!… It’s not right, what he did there.
LANTIER. — Sure, it’s wrong. But look, you know me, don’t you? Have you often seen me drunk? Come on, Latour, old friend from childhood?
LATOUR. — Certainly not. The truth is the truth.
LANTIER. — Maybe once, at the wedding of… of big Jeanne, but doesn’t that happen to anyone — getting caught off guard?
MADAME LATOUR. — Lord, yes! Men aren’t perfect, far from it.
LATOUR. — Once doesn’t make a habit.
GUÉRIN. — Go on, old boy, it’s him who drinks, and when he’s had a few, he sees you drunk! They laugh.
LANTIER. — As for chasing women, he lied about that. I’m with little Marie Verd, the seamstress.
MADAME LATOUR. — I know her — a fine young woman, very decent.
LANTIER. — I’ve been with her going on two years now. I met her at my old employer’s. I liked her, she liked me. We told each other so one moonlit evening, and since then we haven’t parted. Is that anyone else’s business? No, is it? Enter Madame Bajoie.
MADAME BAJOIE. — Good evening. May I come in?
MADAME LATOUR. — Of course, Madame Bajoie — only bring two chairs, because I’m rather afraid we’ll be short.
MADAME BAJOIE. — At your service. She goes to fetch them and brings them back.
LANTIER. — When I went to pack up my things at the forge, I told the turners and the mechanics about it.
They took the thing the right way. The blacksmiths took it from the same end, and they gathered at quitting time and sent a delegation to the boss.
MADAME LATOUR. — A delegation to Monsieur Parisol! But that’s never been done!
GUÉRIN. — Now that takes nerve!
LATOUR. — We don’t know how this will end, but it looks bad. I’m very much afraid that your delegation, that your delegation… well, never mind, I know what I mean! At this moment several workers enter, one after another.
The stage business being rather difficult, those playing the workers should take care not to come in as a herd, nor one by one, but naturally in groups. They enter silently, shake a few hands, and settle in without affectation. They leave some intervals between the entrances. And throughout the act, their attention must be given to showing through gestures the interest they take in the various accounts that follow.
If there is a female contingent, the scene will have more grandeur and picturesqueness. The women will be seated, the men grouped, nearly all standing, the others leaning, propped on elbows, or seated on the ironing table. The stage manager should aim to form masses with bold lines on the stage, whose arrangement in combined planes must bring the principal actors into relief. But in no case should the work of composition be felt. A clumsy and awkward ensemble is preferable, for this work, to a succession of scenes arranged as for a ballet.
To the first workers who enter, MADAME LATOUR receives them saying: Ah, here they are!
LANTIER, continuing as if nothing had happened. — It’s my mate, old Mautard, who’s going to speak. We had respect, one for the other. I wanted him to stay, for fear of trouble, you see. But the old man held firm: “Just a minute, my boy,” says he, “you’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot. I’m going there directly and no mistake, and as sure as I’m a journeyman, I’ll speak, I won’t keep my tongue in a nosebag. I’ll give them what for.”
A WORKER (1). — Oh, when it comes to speaking up, old Mautard has no equal.
A WORKER (2). — He doesn’t lose his temper. He pours out his thoughts gently, but he hits the mark.
A WORKER (3). — And since it’s done, it’s done. Might as well go all the way.
A WOMAN (1). — How will it all end?
The door opens; enter old Mautard.
OLD MAUTARD. — Good evening, all.
ALL. — Good evening, old Mautard.
OLD MAUTARD. — I’ve got something to tell my mate, and I knew he was among you. So excuse me if I interrupt. He shakes a few hands and goes to stand beside Lantier. Evening, my boy. Things are going — or rather, they’re not going.
LANTIER. — Well then! Tell us about it.
OLD MAUTARD. — Now, now, don’t get upset… The boss won’t hear of it. Here’s what happened. So then, the turners, the fitters, the machine men, as it were, and the blacksmiths send some men to see Parisol to explain the whole business. I was there, as you can imagine. Off we go, one with another, not feeling very proud. Nobody said a word. Well, you have to be fair, haven’t you — it’s only the first time that’s hard, as they say. We weren’t exactly swaggering, but we were determined; that was the main thing. We ring the bell. A footman opens. We ask to speak to the boss. He goes to inform him. There we were like whipped dogs, with a fright, an almighty fright, a fright to make you grab your trousers and run.
A WORKER (1). — Come on! You’re men, same as him.
OLD MAUTARD. — I should have liked to see you there. — Well, the footman comes back. He informs us that his master — ours, that is — sides with the foreman, that he knows about the affair, that Lantier is a ruffian, that we were rebels full of prejudices, and that therefore he would not hear us, having no reason to treat with us as equals.
A WORKER (2). — He had all that said, the coward; he didn’t come and say it himself.
OLD MAUTARD. — He didn’t dare, and a good thing too! My friends, true as true, we didn’t recognise ourselves. — Good God, we were ready to smash the whole place up; to make a revolution, as they say. Some were clenching their fists, others had eyes wide as saucers and blazing like embers. Little Vertillet shouted in the entrance hall: “The foreman is a swine!”
A WOMAN (1). — Oh my God! Vertillet said that!
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes! yes!
A WOMAN (2). — At the boss’s house?
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes, indeed.
A WOMAN (1). — What is the world coming to?
THE MEN. — Hush, ma’am; go on, old Mautard.
OLD MAUTARD. — Vertillet keeps on bawling. He was saying the foreman was a murderer, proof being that he’d got little Louise Duflos with child…
A WOMAN (2). — Yes, the poor dear…
OLD MAUTARD. — And that she’d killed herself for fear of being the laughing-stock of everyone. Then up pipes young Antoine shouting in his turn: “We’re treated like dogs — the dogs will know how to bite.” So we left, we gathered. Well now, you were there, the Parisien — you go on.
LE PARISIEN. — So then, right, we gather, we look each other in the eye without quite knowing what to do. So then, right, old man Violet proposes to hold a public meeting.
SEVERAL VOICES. — A public meeting!
LATOUR. — That’s never been seen! It’s never been done!
LE PARISIEN. — That’s what we told him. Old Violet — a touchy sort — flies into a rage, gets on his high horse. “So much the better,” says he, “that’s all the more reason. You’ll see one. You’re clods, cowards!” So then, right, there he is in a fury: “You’re treated like dogs,” he shouts at us, “and it’s not enough. You’re brutes who should be kicked — begging the ladies’ pardon.” Oh, what a ruckus then! People jump up, people protest, people shout — a terrific uproar! Old Mautard here gets up and says calmly: “Be quiet, you pack of fools, you all agree and you’re squabbling like parliamentarians.” Laughter. “We will hold a meeting because it’s in our interest to hold a meeting, and at that meeting we will discuss the strike.”
NEARLY ALL. — A strike!
OTHER VOICES. — Like in Paris!
LE PARISIEN. — Why not? You’re as good as the Parisians.
A WORKER. — Yes, for sure, but we don’t know how, us.
A WOMAN (1). — And money — what about that… we’ve got to eat.
ANOTHER WOMAN (3). — And the children.
OLD MAUTARD. — All right, all right; enough talk; you’ll see tomorrow what’s to be done. To the men. We’ve paid the town drummer to announce the meeting. Bontemps, the turner, wrote up the notice.
A WORKER (3). — I know Bontemps, a fellow who’s always got his nose in books, as learned as they come, and a talker — you’ve got to hear him to believe it.
A WOMAN (4). — Oh, Lord! Who would have thought it?
ANOTHER WOMAN (2). — And Lantier, what does he think of all this fuss?
LE PARISIEN, continuing. — We sent a telegram to Paris, to the mechanics’ union, to send us a fellow with some fight in him who knows how to manage things.
A WORKER (4). — Fact is, you need men like that too.
A WOMAN (2). — Well I never, what an affair! For an affair, that’s an affair! And all for one man!
A WORKER (2). — One man! Exactly one man! Aren’t we all friends? Me, I’m a turner, I earn five to six francs a day, which isn’t bad for around here. The striker fellow only earns three francs. I say to myself: that’s no reason. The fellow has arms, legs, a mouth, same as me. He works and eats like me. So then, well, I don’t know, I don’t like people being unfair to him.
ANOTHER WORKER (3). — Let the scholars explain it if they can, but the fellow speaks true. Proof being that I’m in too.
A WOMAN (2). — I don’t say you’re wrong, but still —
LE PARISIEN. — There’s no “but still”… Suppose it was your husband — you’d be glad enough that people rallied round, wouldn’t you? Well, it’s not yours, it’s another man; that’s all. Sound of a drum approaching.
VOICES. — Ah! Well said.
A CHILD. — The drum! The drum!
A WORKER (1). — He’s on the Place Parisol.
A WORKER (2). — He’s coming closer.
A WORKER (3). — Here he is; let’s be quiet.
Commotion. Be quiet! Shh! Quiet! In the street, a drum; a man’s voice saying:
From the Committee, to all workers of the Parisol Works:
Comrades,
One of us has been insulted, threatened, dismissed by a foreman. He has suffered an injustice that degrades us all. Unless we are animals, we must unite. This affront — we all suffer it as though each of us had received it. We must demand reparation. Drum. Tomorrow, public meeting, hall of the Sapin Blanc, at eight o’clock sharp in the evening.
Agenda: The strike. Drum.
Curtain
CHARACTERS OF THE SECOND ACT
First Part
L’ORATEUR [THE SPEAKER]. — Delegate from the Paris Union. THE CHAIRMAN. — An old worker. OLD MAUTARD, blacksmith. FOUR MEN’S VOICES. Fairly large groups of workers. Women, children. Non-speaking parts.
Second Part
LANTIER, striker. LATOUR, worker. GUÉRIN, worker. MAUTARD, blacksmith. L’ORATEUR [THE SPEAKER]. LE PARISIEN. LE CORNEC. Groups of workers.
Third Part
THE SAME, minus the five workers and the groups who were in the hall.
A BALLROOM
FIRST PART — The Meeting
At the back, a platform with a table. — On the platform, a chairman, an assessor. — At the table, the secretary. — On the wall, a few advertising posters, a few written or printed notices. — In the hall, many workers; some are in their Sunday best; others are in work clothes. — On the platform, the speaker from Paris is supposed to be finishing his speech. He begins speaking before the rise of the curtain.
THE SPEAKER. — … And so, comrades, the strike will happen. You owe it to yourselves and to your friends in the other factories. The strike is the only weapon in your hands; make use of it; do not be afraid to use it. But for it to serve you, ah, comrades! stand as one; let there be no flinching, for your victory — all of you, you hear me — all of you — depends on it.
A VOICE (1). — Easy to say… Murmurs.
THE SPEAKER. — I know very well they will say to me: a strike! a strike! But we’ve never had a strike; we’ll never know how. To those, comrades, I shall answer: You always know how when you want to; you can always do it when you want to! Applause. Haven’t your friends at Gillard’s in the Auvergne never gone on strike before? Didn’t they make up their minds? Weren’t they rewarded for their small sacrifice by a glorious and profitable victory? They were! You too, comrades, will succeed…
A VOICE (2). — That’d be the last straw if we didn’t. Laughter.
THE SPEAKER. — Know this, comrades: your bosses formed a union before you, against you — you who don’t even dare to unionise. United, your masters are banking on your hides; but let us hope they will have sold the bear’s skin before killing the bear, and that you will wake up! Applause. Know this as well: alone you are nothing; united, you are strength and numbers, a force that nothing can conquer. Nothing, do you hear? What do you fear, then? What can you fear?
A VOICE. — No one.
THE SPEAKER. — You have said it, comrades: no one. Forward, then! Raising his voice and gesturing broadly. Set the good example, so that, deep in the provinces, the France of 1789 may prepare for the proletariat of the entire world the triumph of labour over capital, of the worker over the idler, of the exploited over the exploiter! Applause, cries: Yes! The strike! The strike! — That’s it! — Death to the bosses! We don’t need bosses any more! Gradually the noise subsides, and, in the half-silence, a voice rises and says:
— It’s easier said than done.
SEVERAL VOICES. — For sure.
ANOTHER VOICE (1). — Of course — with fancy words.
ANOTHER VOICE (3). — Hey, over there! Cowards!
OTHER VOICES. — Hush! Hush! Listen! Silence!
THE CHAIRMAN, unsteady. — The floor goes to… Monsieur… citizen… old Mautard, that is! Laughter.
OLD MAUTARD, on the platform. — My good friends, you have heard the speakers who spoke before my turn… Some wanted us to stop work; others didn’t. I listened with all my wits and I no longer know whether we need the strike or whether we don’t: it’s for you to decide. Stirring. I don’t know how to speak. I am no orator. I never went to school. I’m a worker, that’s all! You know me well enough, perhaps? But still, ignorant as I am, I have my understanding the same as those from Paris, and in my view you won’t waste your time hearing my thoughts. Is that agreeable to you?
VOICES. — Yes! Yes! Speak!
ANOTHER VOICE (1). — Go on, old man, have at it.
OLD MAUTARD. — So then, here’s what I think, plain and simple. My mate — you know the story, you’ve heard it enough by now — was sacked because of a foreman’s brutality. — One can say that, can’t one?
VOICES. — Yes! Yes!
OLD MAUTARD. — Good, I see you understand me. Laughter. The boss won’t hear us; as far as that gentleman is concerned, workers are all liars, and there’s nothing between him and us. Well then! it’s my view that he’s a layabout, and we are the ones who work! Applause.
A VOICE (4). — We’ll see about that.
VOICES. — Be quiet… — Ask for the floor! — Listen! — Out with him!…
OLD MAUTARD. — So then, he wouldn’t receive us; I reckon that’s treating us like dogs… Pause. With force. Well! I don’t like it, being treated like a dog! Stirring. We are, every one of us here, his equal… we are his equals. He was born and he’ll die the same as us. And so, when I see a… comrade, as they say in Paris, insulted, I say to myself: “Old friend, you’ve been insulted along with him.” We all have.
VOICES. — Yes! Yes!
OLD MAUTARD. — Who knows if tomorrow the same thing won’t happen to you, old Jean — he points them out in the hall — to you, Chevet; to you, Massard…
VOICES. — That’s true.
OLD MAUTARD. — If we let this injustice pass without having our say, we’d be cowards… Pause. With force. But we’d also be idiots! Stirring. Yes, idiots! For if the boss wants us to live like brute beasts, separated from one another, we know, we do, that we are human persons and that the wrong done to Paul falls back on Pierre. One shouldn’t always think about one’s pennies; one must think of other things… of loving one another, of standing together… well, I don’t know, but you understand… Murmurs of assent. As for me, you see, when Lantier told me how he’d been sacked, I was like a lion. Ah, the foreman did well not to show his face. Showing his fists. He wouldn’t have come out alive from these fists! Applause. — Calmer. Well now, my friends, that’s not all; we mustn’t get carried away. You’re old enough to conduct yourselves. You’ve heard speeches for and against the strike. You’re going to choose.
VOICES. — The strike! The strike!
OLD MAUTARD. — Listen now! You’re going to choose. — If you choose the strike, it means no work, no more pay, it means the fight today, tomorrow. Think carefully before you decide, because once the strike is declared, you’d be liars and traitors if you didn’t hold firm. Remember, my friends, that you are taking a pledge of honour. On one side: go back to the workshop, and eat your soup as before. On the other: you’ll tighten your belts for a while, but you’ll have done your duty, and that counts for something. That’s what I had to say. Applause; the Chairman rises. — Silence.
THE CHAIRMAN, speaking awkwardly. — Before putting the strike to your… your consideration… the fellow from Paris tells me, so that I can tell you… that his organisation in Paris —
THE SPEAKER. — Yes, the union.
THE CHAIRMAN. — Excuse me… the union in Paris will send fifty francs if there’s a strike, and that a… that a…
THE SPEAKER. — Subscription.
THE CHAIRMAN. — That a subscription will be taken up by the Paris papers.
VOICES. — Bravo, the Parisians!
THE CHAIRMAN. — The union members here —
A VOICE. — There aren’t many of them!
THE CHAIRMAN. — … will pay their strike dues into the committee’s fund.
VOICES. — Long live the union men!
THE CHAIRMAN. — … Now, do you want the strike, yes or no?
NEARLY ALL. — The strike!
THE CHAIRMAN. — Those opposed?
A VOICE (2). — Me!
THE SPEAKER, taking over from the Chairman. — Unanimously minus one vote, the strike is carried.
THE CHAIRMAN, looking around. — The meeting is adjourned. Everyone rises; commotion, noise of chairs, cries: Long live the strike! — Disorderly exit. — Collection at the door.
SECOND PART — Strikers
LANTIER, LATOUR, GUÉRIN, several workers gather at the front of the stage. One or two women. The speaker, old Mautard join them there. A few small groups of workers, scattered about the hall, talk among themselves and drift away during the whole of the second part.
OLD MAUTARD, arriving. — Well then! That’s that; it’s well and truly that.
LANTIER. — Having regrets?
OLD MAUTARD. — I’ve no cause for regret, my boy. — The wine is drawn, as they say; we must drink it.
A WORKER (1), running in. — Bad news! Bad news!
THE GROUP. — Well, what? What is it?
A WORKER (1). — The troops are here!
A WORKER (2). — Already!
A WORKER (1). — Yes! Yes! I saw them plain as I see you.
GUÉRIN, laughing. — Ha! ha! That’s not what I was expecting. I’d have preferred something else…
A WORKER (3). — Me too! Laughter.
THE SPEAKER, to the worker (1). — You mustn’t worry over so little.
A WORKER (3). — Are there many of them?
A WORKER (1). — Yes, quite a few — near a hundred and fifty.
A WORKER (2). — Dragoons?
A WORKER (1). — No, infantry.
A WORKER (3). — Where are they billeted?
A WORKER (1). — Where are they billeted? At the boss’s, of course.
A WORKER (3), laughing. — There’s a man who can’t be feeling too comfortable!
A WORKER (4). — Well, there’s nothing to feel easy about. The foreman, old Bizot, took a bad knock. His head’s bleeding, so they say. You can imagine they’re not having a fine time!
A WORKER (2). — Who did the hitting?
A WORKER (4). — Nobody knows. Whoever did it isn’t saying. And as for me, I don’t know any more than the rest.
A WORKER (1). — In any case, good riddance. They’ve given us enough trouble. Turn and turn about.
A WORKER (3). — Serious business, then!… During this conversation, Lantier, Guérin, the speaker, Mautard, and several others talk together, in a separate group.
A WORKER (5), approaching the first group. — So then, we’re striking?
ANOTHER WORKER (1). — Looks like it.
A WORKER (5). — It’s silly, but I can’t get used to it!
A WORKER (1). — What do you expect — that’s how it is. And besides, it was the best thing to do.
A WORKER (2), with conviction. — Probably.
A WORKER (5). — Well, yes, it’s true; but I’m all churned up thinking that tomorrow I won’t be scraping away at the vice.
A WORKER (2), mockingly. — You’ll be a man of leisure, lucky fellow. They laugh.
A WORKER (5). — Lucky yourself!
OLD MAUTARD, having heard the last words. — A man of leisure without any income. They laugh. It’s all well and good to laugh, but we’ve got to think about practical things too. Fun in its time… We’ve got in the kitty, with the collection, what we’ll get from Paris, the union men’s money… we’ve got in the kitty — how much was it, Le Cornec?
LE CORNEC, searching through papers. — 200… 200… 265 francs 25. So no need to swagger; no going to the bar to wet your whistle too often. And if you see anyone getting into the drink —
A WORKER (1). — Yes, there are some who haven’t a serious bone in their body…
LE CORNEC. — You tell them straight: “You’re drinking the bread of your wife and your little ones. Watch out — you’ve no right to do that.”
SEVERAL VOICES. — Understood, count on us.
OLD MAUTARD. — Good, you’re fine lads. You mustn’t flinch. You look like a crew that’s up to the task — that’ll do; we’re counting on you. If you happen to see some going pale, who aren’t true colours, you give them a good shake to put some colour back. In a battle — and this is a battle we’re fighting, isn’t it? — a few good lads with some fire are enough to carry the rest. I saw the same thing during the war.
A WORKER. — I saw it too, same as you; but that was over there, in Tonkin.
OLD MAUTARD. — So then, boys, we’re counting on you: keep your eyes peeled — and the right one at that.
SEVERAL VOICES. — Right! Right! We’re here.
A WORKER (3), yawning. — Time to go see our beds.
A WORKER (4). — And our wives.
A WORKER (5). — What are they going to say to us? And the rent? And the bread? Well, anyway —
A WORKER (3). — We’ll give them an extra kiss. Laughter.
A GROUP, leaving. — Good night, lads.
THE GROUP. — Wait! We’re coming with you.
WORKERS, leaving. — Good night, see you tomorrow.
THE GROUPS, leaving. — Good night. Sleep well.
THOSE WHO REMAIN. — Good night, and no bad dreams, above all.
THIRD PART — The Friends
MAUTARD, THE SPEAKER, LATOUR, LANTIER, LE PARISIEN, LE CORNEC, alone.
OLD MAUTARD, looking around him. — Now that we’re just among men, we can talk without fear of going too far. Them — pointing to the door — you have to lead them like children, until the day they understand…
LATOUR. — Perhaps they’ll never understand.
THE SPEAKER. — Oh yes they will, but you don’t build a house in a day; give them time — they’ll soon be more fired up than the rest.
OLD MAUTARD. — That’s not hard. Today it’s strange: the best men are the coldest. Come now, you, Parisien, what do you say? You’re mute as a post, begging your pardon — you who are more of a chatterbox than a windmill.
LE PARISIEN. — Me? I’ve no need to say anything, so I say nothing. Pause. All appear to reflect deeply.
LE PARISIEN, to the speaker. — What do you think of our people?
THE SPEAKER. — Why, they’re with us!
LATOUR. — Do you think we’ll succeed?
THE SPEAKER, smiling. — My friend, I’ll answer you in a few days.
LE PARISIEN. — There’s a Norman’s answer for you! They laugh.
OLD MAUTARD. — That’s fair all the same. They laugh. I know what I mean… I know them, the ones around here. They’ll follow for two days, then after that — nothing doing… They’ll come trooping back to the slaughterhouse like sheep.
THE SPEAKER. — We’ll see. I know workers too, and despite that, it’s always difficult for me to predict the outcome of a strike. It’s such a complicated business — a question of money, a question of women… a question of education…
LATOUR. — All that’s fair enough; but here, what do you think?
THE SPEAKER, hesitant. — You want my honest opinion?
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes, speak; between us, there’s nothing to fear.
THE SPEAKER, same business. — Your strike has no chance of succeeding.
GUÉRIN. — Good God, it won’t succeed? And why not?
THE SPEAKER. — Why? It’s very simple: your comrades don’t understand.
LATOUR. — But then, Monsieur…
THE SPEAKER. — Call me comrade, or fellow — I work the same as you. Yesterday I was still at the vice.
LATOUR, aggressive. — If you have no confidence, how is it that you preach a strike — a strike that’s supposed to be for nothing? They surround the speaker.
OLD MAUTARD, same business. — Well said, lad. If it comes to nothing, it’ll just be money thrown in the gutter.
THE SPEAKER, very calm, very gently. — No, no. When you want to make an omelette, you break eggs. This one won’t succeed. That’s a supposition…
LATOUR. — But it’s you who says so!
THE SPEAKER, more forcefully. — Yes, it’s I who say so, and I say it again — which doesn’t mean it isn’t a supposition, because it can succeed…
LE PARISIEN. — As you say, it can succeed — it will succeed.
THE SPEAKER, with force, emphasising the first syllables. — I don’t know! You may fail, but next time you will succeed. A strike will stir your friends more in a week than a speaker in eight years. During the shutdown, the men have time to be bored and to think. They suffer, they understand, and when they’ve understood, they talk to each other, they discuss subjects that had been foreign to them; they unite — and then victory is always ours. You see, nothing is useless, but you must see further than your belly.
OLD MAUTARD. — We’re brutes, begging your pardon. There’s no denying it — you Parisians can hold an argument like no one around here.
LATOUR. — I’m not saying… I’m not saying… That’s well spoken… yes, yes…
GUÉRIN. — Well! What?
LATOUR. — It’s well spoken… I’m not saying, but if I’d known —
THE SPEAKER, suddenly angry. — Damn it! You’re getting on my nerves! It’s still time; if you’ve got cold feet, clear off… Latour falls silent and steps back a little.
LE PARISIEN, to change the subject. — Come now, come now! He’s a good fellow at heart, don’t be cross. Will you come and have a drink?
THE SPEAKER. — Yes, a glass of water… I only drink water… or milk.
GUÉRIN, to Latour. — Ha! ha! You see, old man?
THE SPEAKER, smiling. — I beg your pardon for —
SEVERAL VOICES. — No, no, don’t mention it.
THE SPEAKER. — I see where our irritation comes from; we’re too impatient. Let’s go to bed — that’ll be better. We need all our strength for the days ahead. Smiling. For the great war, you need good soldiers. Moved, despite himself. But before we go, let us salute this hall that has seen your first revolt and will see others.
OLD MAUTARD. — Let us hope so…
THE SPEAKER, in his ordinary voice, but deeply moved. — Long live the brave workers!
OLD MAUTARD, very loudly, sharing the same emotion. — Long live the strike! This word rekindles their gaiety; the same thrill moves them; their faces are transfigured.
Curtain
CHARACTERS OF THE THIRD ACT
ROLLET, innkeeper. A PEASANT. MAUTARD, blacksmith. BONTEMPS, turner. GROS-JEAN, worker. SEVEN WORKERS SPEAKING, including GODEFROY. FIVE WOMEN SPEAKING. Workers, women, townspeople.
Set. At left, counter and billiard tables; tables.
ACT THREE
The barroom of a wine merchant in a small town. — At the back, a window and a door. — Throughout the act, peasants or workers, women, etc., should be seen passing by.
When the curtain rises, the innkeeper ROLLET wipes his tables, talking to himself. — Thursday, Marthe Gray’s wedding; Saturday, dance; Sunday, market… Hmm! I’ll go to the market tomorrow for provisions. Putting away a newspaper. Another law on establishments that serve drinks. A tax on alcohol. Our deputy is going to catch it. He’d made plenty of promises, though… But there you go… once in Paris, they think only of a pile of filth that ruins their health and swallows up our money… Melancholy, with a sigh. Ah, they couldn’t care less about us. Enter a peasant in a blue smock, a bowler hat on his head.
THE PEASANT. — Good day to you, Monsieur Rollet.
ROLLET. — Good day, father Jacques, how’s the health?
THE PEASANT. — Ah, you know, sometimes well, sometimes not. Pause. I took advantage of Louise’s cart to come, on account of some business or other (that’s nobody’s concern but mine, to my way of thinking)…
ROLLET. — Quite right.
THE PEASANT. — And since it’s a good way from our parts — near three leagues — I made the trip by cart.
ROLLET. — What’ll you have?
THE PEASANT. — A little white wine. Won’t you have one with me?
ROLLET. — Well…
THE PEASANT. — It’s on me.
ROLLET. — Yes! yes! Always glad to clink glasses with you.
THE PEASANT, slyly. — Just what I thought. Rollet goes to get a bottle of wine, pours two glasses, puts the bottle back. — The peasant, while he is still busy: Well now? What are they up to in that Paris of theirs? Seems the Parisians are stirring again? I do believe they’ve got the devil in their bellies, they have.
ROLLET. — Yes, things are heating up. The building workers… the joiners, the carpenters, the masons — they’ve gone on strike. The government wants to send them en masse to the provinces; they want to stay in Paris. So we wait…
THE PEASANT. — Fancy that. They play the masters, yes, yes, just like the masters. He extends his glass. Your health!
ROLLET. — Your health! They clink.
THE PEASANT. — So then, things aren’t going well?
ROLLET. — Going badly? Hmm… hmm… Me, you know, I don’t know anything about it…
THE PEASANT. — If I may ask, what’s your view? Who’s in the right?
ROLLET. — Lord knows. The government is wrong. The workers aren’t right either, to be fair… And then, in this part of the world, you don’t know everything, so you can’t say whether Pierre…
THE PEASANT. — And your newspaper, what does it think?
ROLLET. — It lays into the workers.
THE PEASANT. — Ah, fancy that.
ROLLET. — That means nothing; it’s paid by the government to say only what the government wants.
THE PEASANT. — So that —
ROLLET. — We know nothing. Nothing at all.
THE PEASANT. — That’s a fact… And anyway, all that’s wheeling and dealing that’s no concern of ours… So long as we sell our wheat, us country folk don’t ask for more. Oh, they can kill each other in Paris… that’s for sure. Two workers cross the square, talking, in front of the door. And their strike, is it over?
ROLLET. — It’s been two days now.
THE PEASANT. — That was bound to happen. What can you do against the rich — nothing, Monsieur Rollet, nothing at all. There’ve got to be rich and poor.
ROLLET. — There always have been.
THE PEASANT. — There always will be. As you say. You can’t change that. And what profit did they get from their fine move, if I may ask?
ROLLET. — Nothing. M. Parisol sacked Lantier, the one they were striking for. He kept the others because he needed them. But… He stops.
THE PEASANT. — But?
ROLLET. — But nothing… nothing.
THE PEASANT. — They’re in a fine fix… They’ve lost money and they’re back where they started… Enter Bontemps and old Mautard; they sit down near the footlights.
BONTEMPS, banging on the table. — A bottle of red, over here.
ROLLET. — Right away, gentlemen. He serves them, leaves his customer, wipes the tables to give himself something to do; the peasant listens.
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes, they never stop.
BONTEMPS. — But look, old friend, they don’t want to stop, they can’t stop… They’re exploiting this Rhodanian Flights business. — At bottom, the same comedy goes on under other names. It’s the struggle of the cunning against the gullible, of those who know against the ignorant… So then —
OLD MAUTARD, looking around. — Shh!
BONTEMPS. — All right. I’ll be careful… But, to come back to these goings-on, it’s still not easy to tell our friends from our enemies.
OLD MAUTARD. — That’s a fact.
BONTEMPS. — Those who are honest and intelligent are with us; the rest —
OLD MAUTARD. — The rest come down on us — understood. Enter several workers and some women. A group that laughs, talks loudly, sits down at the next table with a racket.
BONTEMPS. — And those who come down on us are all bible-thumpers… bible-thumpers and the sharks who follow them, for the money… But the blockheads won’t see it.
GROS-JEAN, nearby, rather loudly. — Won’t see it! Won’t see it! Of course they won’t see it — they’re no bigger fools than you… Stirring in the room; the circle tightens around the group.
BONTEMPS, very calm. — What’s it to you? I leave you in peace; leave me in peace, my good man.
OLD MAUTARD. — Let him be.
GROS-JEAN. — “My good man! My good man!” — Not such a good man as all that, to start with! I know what I’m saying. And you won’t shut me up. Oh no, not even with your big eyes… They laugh.
OLD MAUTARD. — What’s all that supposed to mean?
BONTEMPS, very calm. To Mautard: Let me handle this. To Gros-Jean: Is that all?
GROS-JEAN. — No, that’s not all. And the proof is that I’m taking the opportunity to get what’s on my chest off it.
A WORKER (1). — That’s right, don’t hold back, give them what for.
GROS-JEAN. — Never mind them. They made us go on strike, didn’t they? On account of some Parisian nobody we didn’t know from Adam — and the result? Zilch. They laugh.
A WORKER (2). — For sure… Go on, spit it out.
GROS-JEAN. — What did it get anyone? Not me, that’s certain.
A WORKER (3). — Nor me.
GROS-JEAN. — Look here, Bontemps, you play the big man because you’ve got some education, but all the same it’s because of you I lost four days’ pay — twenty francs, that is!
BONTEMPS, quieting old Mautard. — Because of me? And how’s that?
GROS-JEAN. — How’s that? Well, that’s a good one! Because I didn’t get them — that’s how.
A WORKER (1). — Clear as day.
BONTEMPS, quieting the worker. — Patience — did you vote for the strike?
GROS-JEAN. — The strike? Me… I —
BONTEMPS. — Did you vote for the strike?
GROS-JEAN. — But… I —
BONTEMPS. — Did you — ?
GROS-JEAN. — Yes, so there — and then what?
BONTEMPS. — And then what? Nothing. I just find it funny that you complain, that’s all.
LATOUR, arriving. — What, Gros-Jean isn’t happy!… He who seemed the most fired up!
OLD MAUTARD, shrugging his shoulders. — They’re all the same!
LATOUR. — I voted for it same as you, this strike, but I voted for it against my will; my friends here can testify.
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes! yes! Latour voted against his will.
LATOUR. — Who says otherwise? Well, now I think we did right.
BONTEMPS. — I don’t recognise the cautious Latour.
GROS-JEAN, mocking. — That we did right — now that it’s over, that’s easy to say…
LATOUR. — I wish it would go on… Gros-Jean protests. Yes, absolutely.
GROS-JEAN. — Oh! Come off it! Twenty francs lost, stricter regulations — what a lark! Right, mates? What a joy!
No response.
LATOUR. — It’s not about joy — I know that well enough… I’ve suffered as much as you. My little boy is ill — that gives me no end of worry… and the wife too… It’s no laughing matter. Still, in my view, we behaved badly. A child has more courage than we did… so does a dog…
A WORKER (4). — That’s the truth. A dog — when you beat it, it growls, it barks, it bites, or it clears out.
LATOUR. — That’s right… we ought to fight — we must fight.
OLD MAUTARD, in an undertone to Latour, shaking his hand. — Watch out for spies. Aloud. You talk well, but see here, old friend, the fellows around these parts have no more backbone than this glass.
BONTEMPS. — That’s true; they were afraid to hold out.
GROS-JEAN. — Hold out! Hold out! That’s not it. They’re hilarious, these fellows. Hold out so the English, the Germans, the Italians come and pinch our jobs… Oh sure… aren’t you clever. And don’t tell me the boss wouldn’t have found a way to use them, and at a discount too! Besides, they’re all Jews, those Prussians! Signs of assent.
OLD MAUTARD. — Think about it!… Look, that’s idiotic, what you’re coming out with!
GROS-JEAN. — Idiotic! Idiotic!… You’re the idiot, you know, old man!
OLD MAUTARD, rising, very loud, with a crash. — Oh! Good God almighty! I — They restrain them.
GROS-JEAN. — Fine answer… When you’ve nothing left to say. They laugh. — Silence is restored.
BONTEMPS. — You talked just now about Germans, English? Do you think they’re men just like yourself?
GROS-JEAN. — More or less.
BONTEMPS. — Then haven’t they the right to eat bread?
GROS-JEAN. — Eat bread, I don’t say no; but ours? Hands off! Applause.
OLD MAUTARD, between his teeth. — Go on, clap your hands! He who laughs last laughs best.
BONTEMPS, to Gros-Jean. — Well answered, lad. You’ve a nimble tongue.
GROS-JEAN. — That’s how it is… At your service. Nobody fools me, you know, old boy.
BONTEMPS. — One can see that. Well then, let’s talk straight, like brothers. They form a circle. Do you think that, knowing we were fighting Parisol, the workers from other countries would have scrambled to take our jobs?… Now, in all conscience, do you believe that? To the workers. Do you believe that? Signs of ignorance. No, you don’t believe it! And anyway, what I’m telling you isn’t new — they suffer over there as much as here. Our lots aren’t so different, or so good, that we should be proud towards one another.
A WOMAN (1). — Lord no. Instead of fighting —
BONTEMPS. — We could get along… Well thought, missus. Our interests are theirs. They fight for their wages; you fight for yours. They fight for their dignity; you’ve tried to do the same. Those Prussians aren’t all Jews!
OLD MAUTARD. — And even if they were Jews!
BONTEMPS. — Yes, and even if they were Jews? Don’t hunger and exhaustion kill them just as fast as anyone else?
A WOMAN (2). — Yes, but Jews are thieves; they’re all rich — that’s a fact.
BONTEMPS. — Come now, my good Irma, look around you. Hermann, who is a labourer, is a Jew: is he rich? Parisol, who is rich — is he a Jew?
A WORKER. — One man is worth as much as another.
BONTEMPS, getting somewhat carried away. — Well then! Never insult people because they’re of another religion or another country… Did they ask to be Jews, or Prussians, or Chinese? Did they choose?… They laugh.
A WOMAN (1). — Indeed, they’re all the same; we all come from the same father.
A WOMAN (2). — Since we all die, it’s foolish to fret over nothing.
A WORKER (2). — Hush, you magpies! Button your beaks so we can go on.
A WOMAN (1). — Hey there, you! Look at this parrot!
A WOMAN (2). — Big green monkey!
THE MEN. — Come now, that’s enough… Pause.
A WORKER. — All that’s perfectly well said, but about the strike — you haven’t mentioned it. What do you think of it, then?
BONTEMPS. — I’m coming to it. We should only bear a grudge against those who do us harm. Whether it’s a Jew, a savage, a king, a pope — what have you. Let us detest him if he’s a Jew; let us detest him if he’s been through the sacristy.
A WORKER (4). — Of course.
BONTEMPS. — Now then: a boss profits from our work; he lives off it — you know it as well as I do; he gains at our expense.
SEVERAL WORKERS. — Yes! Yes! That’s true!
ANOTHER WORKER (3). — As sure as there’s a sun.
BONTEMPS. — What does it matter to us if he’s a prince or a general? He’ll swindle us just the same.
A WORKER. — More.
GROS-JEAN. — That’s hard to do though. They laugh.
BONTEMPS. — In a word, to conclude: Parisol is a boss. Well then, he is our enemy. As for this strike, it didn’t succeed — that’s settled — but you know very well it’s your own fault.
GROS-JEAN. — Our fault?… Not so sure.
BONTEMPS. — Yes. Everyone’s fault — the women’s as much as the men’s.
A WOMAN (1). — The women’s?
A WORKER (4). — Of course; with your whimpering: “There’s no more bread, no more shoes… the butcher’s giving me funny looks.”
ANOTHER WORKER (5). — Or else: “Go on, you great fool, you’re getting all worked up for nothing and then…” The men laugh.
OLD MAUTARD. — The women will come round to reason in the end; but the most at fault, to my mind, are those who went back first.
A WORKER (3). — It wasn’t me — I was threshing wheat with Pierre Viard, my brother-in-law.
ANOTHER WORKER (4). — It’s Godefroy.
GODEFROY (5). — Me? You’ve got a nerve! Tuesday morning I was right here drinking a glass of white wine — isn’t that so, Rollet? Come on, say it.
ROLLET. — Oh me, you know, so many people pass through… But I think you were around here, yes, yes, I believe so.
ANOTHER WORKER (2). — In any case, it wasn’t me.
ANOTHER WORKER (6). — Nor me — I was mending my bed because the frame had collapsed…
A WOMAN (4). — Well, you certainly lead a merry life with your wife! Loud laughter.
A WORKER, somewhat timid (7). — Well, what’s sure and certain is that some went back in without asking anyone’s leave — begging your pardon.
A WORKER (4). — There was Chauvel, big Gigol.
ANOTHER WORKER (3). — Persot.
ANOTHER WORKER (1). — And the big fellow from assembly.
ANOTHER WORKER (3). — Maignan…
THE WORKER (1). — Yes: Chauvel, Gigol, Persot, Maignan — I’ll remember them!
GROS-JEAN. — It’s enough to make you weep… In the morning, they try to go back; by evening, more than half had already followed. Next day, no one was missing at roll call, except Lantier.
OLD MAUTARD. — And for good reason, poor lad.
GROS-JEAN. — And when Bizot bellows, everyone scratches away, scratches away — you should see it. It’s enough to make you laugh. That’s Bizot strutting about…
A WORKER (4), in a muffled voice. — Not for long.
VOICES. — Shh…
BONTEMPS. — The result hasn’t been good; good it isn’t.
GROS-JEAN. — See! You’re coming to your senses.
BONTEMPS. — And yet this disaster has done us some good.
GROS-JEAN, looking comically around him. — What good? I don’t see any. Laughter.
BONTEMPS, shrugging his shoulders. — What a child you are! Laughter. You know as well as I do the few scraps of advantage we’ve gained. We’ve learned to take care of our own affairs and to take them on ourselves.
OLD MAUTARD, fatherly. — Well said, my boy.
BONTEMPS, encouraged, in a warmer voice. — You, Godefroy — can anyone claim to know your interests better than you yourself?
GODEFROY. — No.
BONTEMPS. — Well then, you were all forced, every one of you, to concern yourselves with a case that concerned you all. You were told often enough… A fellow, a brother, was dismissed.
A WORKER (1). — Yes, Lantier was a good fellow, always willing to lend a hand.
ANOTHER WORKER (2). — Not a bit stuck-up.
ANOTHER WORKER (3). — And hard-working and honest.
OLD MAUTARD. — I can vouch for him.
BONTEMPS. — Well then! This fellow — they throw him on the road like he’s no good. Why? Can you tell me, Gros-Jean — you’re the clever one.
GROS-JEAN. — That, I know — it was rotten.
A WORKER (4). — That’s a fact.
BONTEMPS. — And you would have hesitated to show that we didn’t like it? But what would you have inside you if you never kicked up a fuss? Are you nothing but meat for working?
A WORKER (1). — Yes, yes, just as you say.
GROS-JEAN, in a pitiful but comical tone. — Well, old Bontemps, I see you’re right… I’m a bit of a brute. My father made me this way — don’t hold it against me. Laughter. — You who know everything.
A WOMAN (3). — Indeed, near enough everything.
BONTEMPS. — Well, more or less. But I’ve also suffered more. I studied at school, and hard.
LATOUR. — To pass exams, that is.
BONTEMPS. — At that point, my father died. I had to earn my bread: my uncle was a turner; he showed me the ropes… Being in an office — that never appealed to me… I became a journeyman, and my studies, which I’d thought useless, have served me well since… more than I’d imagined…
A WORKER (5). — How old were you when you left the —
BONTEMPS. — School?
THE WORKER (5). — Yes.
BONTEMPS. — Fifteen. I was going on sixteen.
THE WORKER (5). — You could say you were lucky… compared with us. At twelve you leave the elementary school, and off! Into the shop — you’ve got to start earning…
BONTEMPS. — Yes. With melancholy. I was lucky.
A WORKER. — Go on, go on — you’ll make foreman.
BONTEMPS. — Foreman? In this day and age? And with my character? I’d be very surprised, first of all. And anyway, what? I earn a decent enough living — compared to others, I mean. — I have a solid wife who’s not a worrier, who understands what I do and acts as I see fit; I have good little children whom I love and who love me well… I don’t ask for more for now.
A WOMAN (2). — That would be hard to top.
BONTEMPS. — And yet…
OLD MAUTARD. — What? A private income?
BONTEMPS. — That we should all be more or less happy.
A YOUNG WOMAN (5), laughing. — Well now, he has a good heart… he thinks of others. I like you, Bontemps! They laugh.
ANOTHER WOMAN (4). — Pity he’s married, eh, dear? They laugh.
BONTEMPS. — Yes, I should very much like to teach you what I know, because when you know —
A WORKER (4). — But we ask nothing better.
BONTEMPS. — You see — the strike has been good for something, since you’re taking an interest in questions that had seemed pointless to you. Good — these questions will be explained to you, so that at the next strike —
THE WORKERS, with astonishment. — The next strike!
OLD MAUTARD. — Why yes — this one was only the first act.
BONTEMPS. — At the next strike, no one will make you act — you will act… like men. They laugh.
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes, and you won’t do what you did.
THE WORKERS. — And what was that?
OLD MAUTARD. — They’re astounding, these fellows; when I tell you they’re astounding… What? They ask what? You have rather short memories. What about Saturday evening, on the Place Parisol?
A WORKER (3). — With the troops?
OLD MAUTARD. — Yes.
A WORKER (3). — Nothing to be proud of, that’s for sure.
OLD MAUTARD. — That’s more like it! I can still see it… There we were on the square, shouting ourselves hoarse… The officer orders us to clear off… Oh! Ladies and gentlemen! Before he’d even finished, there’s Pierre taking to his heels, and Jean following, and François, and then all of them, and everyone bawling like a child: “Long live the boss! Long live Monsieur Parisol!” That didn’t take long!
Ah, well…
A WORKER (4). — I should think so — they’d drawn their sabres!
ANOTHER WORKER (5). — You value your skin… we were afraid of a nasty quarter of an hour.
A WOMAN (2). — And you only die once.
OLD MAUTARD. — I know perfectly well you were afraid; I know it damn well; I’m qualified to know it. Well then! Next time you won’t be afraid any more — that’s all!
GROS-JEAN. — It’s them who’ll be scared stiff. Laughter.
BONTEMPS. — And instead of letting the men who are afraid to fight go back in —
A WORKER (3). — Yes, yes — Maignan…
BONTEMPS, interrupting. — Next time, those four won’t go back in, or we’ll stop them from getting to their vices — which comes to the same thing.
LATOUR. — But if they want to work, they’ve every right to —
BONTEMPS. — They’ve no right to stop us defending ourselves either. You have to choose. There’s no mistake about it. They side with the boss; they become our enemies. And when you’re fighting, you have to fight.
GROS-JEAN. — Absolutely right. How about some supper? It’s getting late and we’ve talked enough. Laughter.
THE WOMEN. — Yes, yes — to the soup!
GROS-JEAN. — I lost twenty francs, and I was a bit of a fool to complain… I see that now… Seriously. Because maybe it’s a good thing for everyone that I lost them. And then what? With a gesture of taking it lightly. I’ll drink less. They laugh.
BONTEMPS. — Right, let’s stop there, but we’ll need to get together from time to time. It does good. You talk, you get to know each other.
VOICES. — Yes, yes, that’s it, he’s right — it’s useful.
BONTEMPS, more gravely. — Let us stand shoulder to shoulder. Before long, heavy cuts will be made in our ranks. That will be the moment. The boss will give the signal; we’ll have to march.
GROS-JEAN. — And hard.
A WORKER (4). — That’s it.
BONTEMPS. — And in that strike, we will be able to succeed — we will succeed.
THE WORKERS. — Yes! Yes!
THE WOMEN. — To the soup, in the meantime!
BONTEMPS, smiling. — They’re right too, they are.
He rises; all rise. Raising his glass: — To the next one!
ALL, gaily and without affectation. — To the next one!
Curtain
Jean Hugues Paris, August 1900
RACINE
In this theatrical cahier, we protest with all our might against the barbarous hatchet job published in the Petite République dated Tuesday the 24th of December, for the anniversary of Racine, under the signature of M. Camille de Sainte-Croix:
But how much talent these artists must have to keep acceptable the dreadfully flat, spineless, and frigid poetry of the illustrious Racine! It is not on the morrow of a production of Peer Gynt and during rehearsals of Siegfried that one feels ready for the least indulgence towards this great overrated figure. In the tragic repertoire, there are a hundred authors who are his equal: Crébillon, Rotrou, Pradon, Lafosse, Raynouard, M.-J. Chénier. That is no reason to exhume them. But it is entirely sufficient reason to think of finally putting away for good this cumbersome and superfluous puppet who overshadows the monument of the great Corneille.
M. Camille de Sainte-Croix had accustomed us to some standards. He is most obliging towards all his contemporaries. He neglects, he mistreats no vaudeville. One might have hoped that he did not unreservedly endorse the few cold absurdities uttered last year by M. Bjornstjerne Bjornson. It is today a failure of standards to oppose so crudely Peer Gynt and Siegfried to French works. It is a failure of standards to oppose so crudely Corneille to Racine. It is a failure of standards to reproach Racine for the anniversary performance of Athalie, organised last Sunday by the Odéon.
M. Camille de Sainte-Croix belongs to a newspaper where young upstarts, who push themselves towards greatness through an exploitation of art, celebrate their own anniversaries, after one year of their existence, at resounding banquets, under the chairmanship and with the assistance of political men.
These young men would do well to feast a little less and produce something. They talk well, but they talk too much. They eat and drink well, and they propose fine toasts. That is not enough for their most generally respected elder to treat Racine so crudely for the edification of the people. It is demagoguery to mock, for the amusement of the mob, the snobs, and the social climbers, a great poet who is dead.
These young men profess to go down to the people. ^(1) They would do better to stay home. These journalists would do well to stay in their newsrooms. To teach the people that Jean Racine was a little brat, it is better to leave the people in peace.
In a few months, the lovers of lunches, dinners, suppers, and banquets, the lovers of parades, reviews, drums, and military marches, the lovers of decorations, will hurl their platitudes at the feet of official radicalism, political heir of Victor Hugo. May we then be permitted to say today that we love, that we respect a great dead poet who cannot be turned into currency.
^(1) I-go-down-to-the-people; you-go-down-to-the-people; he-goes-down-to-the-people.
Several of our subscribers asked us what short play to perform at a popular entertainment. We referred them to Maurice Bouchor. He was kind enough to send us this response, which was no doubt not intended for publication. Accordingly, it should be read not as a consultation, not as a contribution, but as a private reply to many subscribers:
For what you asked me, I am unable, to my great regret, to send it: I really know nothing short, simple, not silly, not unwholesome, that I could suggest. My advice is that one should perform and read as much Molière as possible; also Regnard, Beaumarchais, and other classics, from the Farce de Patelin to the scene of the Babblers, by Boursault (Mercure Galant); recite passages from Hernani, Ruy Blas, Les Burgraves; Shakespeare; and, for comedy, The Taming of the Shrew by P. Delair is a very good adaptation. Among the moderns, I have seen Claudie, by George Sand; one might read La Quenouille de Barberine, by Musset; Grégoire, by Banville; Le Flibustier, by Richepin. It is very difficult to stage An Enemy of the People and The Weavers; yet these are fine works. You see that all this is well known, and amounts to very little. In the farces adapted from the Middle Ages (Le Cuvier, Le Pâté), there is still something to draw upon.
Maurice Bouchor
We shall publish by Romain Rolland a cahier on popular theatre.
THE TÉRY AFFAIR
Several of our subscribers, in order to form a well-informed and fair judgment, asked us to publish the article Wagram, which attracted attention during the Hervé affair. I immediately forwarded their request to Hervé. This article appeared after the opening of the proceedings, at the beginning of the affair. I hope we shall receive the text in time to publish it in the seventh cahier. It should be noted that, in keeping with the method we have always followed, Hervé conducted his own affair in the cahiers with full independence, full liberty, under his own responsibility. I too intervened only under my own responsibility. I shall continue to do so.
Events have advanced too far for silence to be maintained any longer. I shall bring my testimony in the next cahier. Not that I have sensational revelations to make. I have not discovered an unheard-of crime. On the contrary, I reproach M. Gustave Téry for having committed the usual mistakes in an affair where they were bound to have the most deplorable consequences.
Until our subscribers thus have the information they need in order to act, I take the liberty of recommending to those among them who are university men an exact wisdom. I know that in recommending prudence and attention I cut an ungrateful figure. The good people of this country have always preferred the leaders who get them beaten to the honest folk who warn them.
All the same, I recommend to university men a perfect wisdom. It is not advice that I give them. I have no authority to do so. Since I finished my apprenticeship, I have given up giving advice. But I enter before them a suspensive appeal. Let them wait for the seventh cahier. After that they will be free to do foolish things. If, on the other hand, they begin by doing foolish things, they will no longer be free not to have done them.
LETTER TO M. GUSTAVE TÉRY
I begin by publishing a reply I addressed to M. Gustave Téry at the time of the Deherme affair. He had called the cahiers into question in the Petite République. He then appealed to my feelings as a good comrade not to publish my reply in the newspaper. I had the weakness to yield. I was wrong to forget that one must almost always be a bad comrade in order to be a good citizen.
Our subscribers will place this letter at its proper date in the second series.
Cahiers de la Quinzaine, 16, rue de la Sorbonne, second floor, Sunday, 24 March 1901
My dear comrade,
I read in this morning’s Petite République, at the beginning of your article: Chronique de l’enseignement. — Leur libéralisme. — A propos de l’incident Denis-Deherme: “Count Albert de Mun, Charles Péguy, and the Croix accuse me of intolerance.” This is still about the Denis-Deherme incident.
It is very witty to place me between Count Albert de Mun and the Croix. But the wit is both unjust and cruel.
It is a great lord’s joke. You belong to a major newspaper. You are published by a business manager who has conducted his affairs very well. Without having any inside information, I imagine you appear in nearly a hundred thousand copies. More than two hundred thousand people, socialists and bourgeois, learn from you about university men and events, events of thought, results of intellectual work. These two hundred thousand people will have of me this idea: that I am some sort of intermediary between Count de Mun and the editors of the Croix. This is unjust.
How do you expect me to defend myself? I print sixteen hundred copies. I have an admirable business manager who does no business. Supposing the cahiers circulate widely, three thousand and some hundred readers will know the truth of this debate.
You daily journalists have a formidable power, an authority. You sometimes use it lightly. The seventh cahier of the second series publishes a 48-page article entitled Casse-cou [Watch Out]. Without even giving the reference, you turn it into a quip. Justice, my dear comrade, is worth more than wit.
An inexact quip: I did not accuse you of intolerance in so many words. I noted your article as a disturbing symptom of growing intolerance. I am not by nature an accuser, nor a condemner, nor a stigmatiser. Not everyone is a congress.
You did in fact contribute to drowning out an opponent’s speech under clamour. I said and I maintain that, in our present circumstances, every time articulate speech is drowned out by noise, by inarticulate clamour — even when the speech is that of our worst enemies, and even when the clamour is from our friends — for anyone who can see to the bottom, it is we who are defeated.
I shall not examine here whether liberty is merely an empty word or an empty form. But I believe profoundly that we must safeguard as much and as well as we can the habits of intellectual liberty, of intellectual patience, of intellectual deliberation.
The subscribers to the cahiers had in my article your entire article, in keeping with the method that, at the cahiers, seems to us alone just. They therefore had the sentence omitted by Count de Mun. There is a logical and moral contradiction between your two positions. If you truly wished to engage the abbé Denis in a courteous discussion, you ought to have protested against the clamour that had already crushed that discussion in advance.
I shall not treat the question in substance here. I am not ready. I shall treat it in the cahiers as soon as I can. I am not a daily publication. I am not obliged to treat questions I have not studied. I maintain only that the question of freedom of teaching within independent education is morally the gravest and most important one of this year.
I shall not treat even historically the Deherme question. It is bound up with the general question. I wished to protest — and I stand by my protest — against the zeal with which people hastened to break Deherme’s back. If you break the back of Deherme, who is an honest man, from all I have been told, what will you do to Edwards, who is a dishonest man, as everyone knows? Measure your punishments. Fit your sanctions. Do not forget that you pronounce for two hundred thousand consciences. And where what is needed is reasons, exhortations, distinctions, reservations, deliberations, blame at most — in your view — let us avoid the breaking of backs.
I take the liberty of recommending to all revolutionary socialists — I use “recommend” here in the therapeutic sense — the reading of the book very recently published by M. Aulard: Histoire politique de la Révolution française [Political History of the French Revolution]. There one may read what becomes of a revolution that practises too much mutual back-breaking. The first part is entitled: The Origins of Democracy and the Republic; the second: The Democratic Republic; the third: The Bourgeois Republic; the fourth: The Plebiscitary Republic. The following parts would be called: the Empire; the Restoration; Louis-Philippe; the Second Empire; the Bourgeois Republic.
Charles Péguy
At this time of year when most subscriptions and renewals are taken out for all the reviews, we remind our subscribers that we have a considerable commercial interest in having these subscriptions and renewals placed through the cahiers bookshop.