Part 10
The sterling old plays of Corneille and Crebillon, which recommended dignity and energy of character, are played no more--even upon their native scene, the Théâtre Français. It is not even _bon ton_ to speak much of them, it is provincial and almost vulgar; if played at all, it is only to revive, a little, the dying embers of Miss George.--I have seen played other tragedies, and one notably called “Hamlet.” I was lured by the name. It is so pleasant to meet an old friend in a foreign country! But, alas! it was not “Hamlet the Dane,” but Monsieur Hamlet, of the Théâtre Français---- When the French get hold of a foreign author, as Shakspeare or Göethe, they civilise him a little--frenchify him. It is not to be expected that he should have all the polish and all the graces, as if he was brought up in Paris. They chasten the music, too, in the same manner; and M. Hertz, Musard, and Co. spend whole lives in adapting (as they call it) Rossini, Mozart, and other foreigners, to French ears.
But in these light productions, the vaudevilles which are played at the “Gaieté” and “Variètés,” and such theatres, and which are the fashion of the day, the acting and composition are both perfect. Ligier, Bouffé, Armand, and Pontier, and the ladies Anais, Vertprès, and Fay, are no common-rate mimics. And there are many others of nearly the same merit, seemingly all made expressly for their several parts, in this great farce of human littleness. Who was that new comer (a Yankee) who said, “They wanted to make me believe the actors on the stage were living people, but I wasn’t such a novice as they took me for?” It has not been a Parisian theatre that this incredulous man visited.
I ought to conduct you, but have not time, to some of the other theatres--to the Porte St. Martin, where Mademoiselle George looks “_Lucrece Borgia_;” to the “Gymnase,” which smells of the counting-house, and Scribe’s plays, and where Bouffé plays, as no one else can play, his “_Gamin de Paris_;” and especially to the “Vaudeville,” to see the elegant _Brohan_, the lovely _Targueil_, the sprightly _Mayer_, and tender _Thenard_, the scape-grace _Madame Taigny_, and the inimitable old woman _Guillemin_, and _Lafont_ and _Arnal_--or to the “Opera Comique,” where you would hear those two mocking-birds Mesdame _Damoreau_ and _Lavasseur_; and finally to Franconi’s, where you would see Madame Something else, on her head on horseback, and _Auriol_ on his slack rope--the rest is stupid. I have seen them all; even the Funambules and the Marionettes; I have seen Madame Saqui’s little show, for six pence; and I have cried over a melo-drama, at the “Petit Lazari,” for four sous.
If one comes to Paris, one ought to see Paris. This you cannot do in the domestic circle--the stranger is not admitted there. And certainly not in public places, for the world no more goes thither, in its natural expression and opinions, than the fashionable lady in her natural shapes. You must look at it in its looking glass. A stage, patronised by twenty-five thousand spectators, every night, cannot be a very unfaithful representation.
The dignity of human greatness; the highborn, hereditary authority, and lowly reverence, which produced strong contrasts of passion with refined and elegant manners, have withered away under the Republican spirit of the age. Kings and lords, and heroes are no more held in veneration than Pagan Gods; not so much; for these at least are poetical. And from our universal reading and the easy intercourse which follows, a great man can scarce be got up any more in the world; we are all as intimate, with the imperfections of a hero as his valet de chambre. And the mock majesty of the stage has lost its respect at the same time. _Dufresne_ used to say, “Sirrah, the hour”--to his hair dresser; who replied, “My lord, I know not.” Mademoiselle Clairon kept her train, and equipage, and her _femme de chambre_ addressed her as a queen. The patronage of a splendid court then excited a spirit of emulation among the actors, and gave them a sense of their dignity, which was sustained by the public feeling.
To-day the tragic hero lives with the common herd undistinguished; he is not even refused Christian burial when he dies. The world has been used, too, these fifty years to gross sensuality and crime beyond the example of all former times, and human sympathy has been staled by custom; matrimonial jealousy, which held the wolf’s bane and dagger, is now either comic or insipid; a Phædra excites no disgust, an Œdipus inspires no horror. The passions, which sustained the deep tragic interest, are quenched; or they have become prurient and emasculate, and require to be tickled by a vaudeville. Farce has usurped the stage, and the dwarfish imp limps, where tragedy dragged her flowing robes upon the scene.
The French, who, before their Revolution, declaimed against the murders of the English drama, now out-kill all ages and countries. Rapes and massacres have been the staple of their lower plays for many years, and are not uncommon in the best. This taste is on the decline.--The intrigues and amours of young girls in Parisian society--are almost impossible. Danaë was not so guarded in her tower, as the unwedded females in Paris. The loves of married women are therefore the common plots of the French plays, as well as of French novels, and they are publicly applauded, as in the ordinary and natural course of society.--In our cities, the stage, ill attended, and not sustained by original compositions, must be a faithless mirror; but I have no doubt that in Paris it represents the general features correctly.
Each of the French theatres has its range of pieces assigned, and cannot compete with, or injure another. Four of the principal ones, the Italian and French Opera, Théâtre Français, and Opera Comique, pay neither rent nor license, but have two hundred and sixty thousand dollars annually from government. This sum is contributed from the five and a half millions derived from the gambling houses.
They make the devil pay his own debts. The Opera alone has two hundred thousand francs. And we expect in America to support two or three, and bring all our performers and fiddlers from Europe, on the taste of the community! A single singer may make her fortune in our cities, but a company must perish. The annual receipts from all the Parisian Theatres are about one and a half million of dollars. The author retains the control of his pieces, and receives from the theatres of the capital and provinces, a share of every night’s performance during life, with a _post obit_ of ten years. Scribe’s revenue from this source is above twenty-five thousand dollars. A five-act piece pays the author at the “Théâtre Français” one twelfth.
There is a great deal of machinery about the French drama, which is but little known in countries less advanced in the art. For example, each theatre has attached to it a regular _troupe_ of applauders. These were originally got up for occasions, but in course of time they have become as an integral part of the corps dramatique;--they are called _Clacqueurs_, (Anglice _Clappers_.) Their art requires a regular apprenticeship, as the other branches of a histrionic education, though not a branch at the “Repertoire.” A person of good capacity may make himself master of it in two or three months.
They who have taken lessons in _Clacking_ under the professors, can clap louder than ordinary people, and they know where to clap, which is something. They can shew also a great deal more enthusiasm than if they were really delighted;--as they who cry at funerals can cry better than persons who are really grieved. On my first visits here, I could not help remarking how much more feeling was a French than an American audience. The Théâtre Français went off in a crash every now and then, which one could hear to the Boulevards; and I could see no great reason for the explosion. On nights of deep tragedy they bring out also the female _Clacqueurs_. These are taught, one to sob, another to feign to wipe away a tear, and another to scream when a pistol goes off, and they are distributed in different parts of the house. If you see any lady fainting on these occasions, don’t pick her up, she is getting her living by it.
No piece succeeds, or actor either, unless these salaried critics are employed. If neglected, they turn out among the hisses. Even Talma had to pay to this High Chancery his regular tribute. In some of the houses there are two rival companies, and the player is obliged to bribe both, or the rival pack will rise up and bark against him. The actor has his regular interviews with the chief officer, and they agree beforehand upon what parts are to be applauded, with the quality and quantity of the applause. “At this passage,” says Mars, “you must applaud gently, at this a little louder, and at this moderately”--_Cependant Madame_, a _beau sentiment_ like this----“_Quoi! Cependent Monsieur._--It is forty years, sir, since I have been playing in this house, and no one has dared to say to me, ‘_Cependant!_’ I tell you, you are to keep your ardour to the end of the scene. I have no notion of being blown up to heaven in the middle of a passion, and left dangling two feet in the air at the end of it. Here is the place you are to applaud; here you may give a clap and a _brava_; and here, (mark well this point,) at this finale I must have the whole strength of your company.”
“Give me your hand, M. Gigolard; here are fifty francs, and a little present for your wife. And, recollect, I must have this evening my _Grand Entrée_; I have been absent these three months, and my return requires that attention.” A _Grand Entrée_ is where the actress has a burst of acclamation just at her entrance, which is kept up afterwards louder and louder; she bows, and they applaud, and there must be a great conflict between joy and gratitude until she has exhausted a clap worth about ten francs.--These _Clacqueurs_ are, on all ordinary occasions, arbiters of the fate of a play or the actor; it is only at a new piece, and a very full house, that they are obliged to consult a little the impressions of the audience.
The Parisians require to be fed continually upon new pieces, and are seldom contented with less than three of an evening, as the epicure prefers several courses, and does not throw away a good appetite upon a single dish. This has given vogue to their short and piquante pieces, the vaudevilles, and produces them several hundred new ones each season, and the manufacture of these pieces has become a regular business on a large scale. A prime vaudevillist does not pretend to furnish his pieces single handed; he has his partners, his clerks, and his understrappers.
These last are a kind of circumforaneous wits, who frequent public places, and run all over town in search of plots and ideas, or some domestic scandal of dramatic interest, and they have their regular cafés or places of rendezvous, where they work to each other’s hands. If you have come just green from the country, and entering a café, see a number of grave and lean persons seated about at tables, seeming entire strangers to one another, and saying not a word about Louis Philipe, or the “Procès Monstre,” this is a café of the vaudevillists. They hunt particularly after persons who arrive with some originality from the Provinces. In cities men are nearly all cast in the same mould; mixing continually together, there is little departure from the fashionable opinions and expressions.--You will see each one with a newspaper, a pencil, and a bit of paper, reading and commenting.
You will see a smile sometimes crossing the serious features of the divine man, and now and then he will start--he has harpooned an idea. Soon after you enter, one will make your acquaintance, especially if you have a comic face. He will treat you to rum and coffee, he will offer you the journal, point out to you the amusing subjects, and set you talking. And you will be delighted, and you will say, not without reason, the Parisians are called the politest people upon the earth. They will not let you go until they have sucked the last drop of your blood, noted down your clownish looks, and airs, copied your features, and robbed you of your very name. At last they will make you mad; for they must see you under the influence of different passions; and if you are impudent they will kick you out of doors.
When you are gone, they will very likely quarrel over your spoils--about the right of ownership; and when the dispute is compromised, the most needy will traffic you away for a consideration. One will sell one of your _bon mots_ for a lemonade; and another one of your sheepish looks for a _riz-au-lait_ or some more expensive dish according to its dramatic interest and novelty. Some of these men keep regular offices, and sell out plots and counter-plots and _bon-mots_, as brokers do mortgages and bills of exchange. Others bring their rough materials to the great manufactory under which they are employed, and receive from Monsieur Scribe or some other master workman, their pay or an interest in the piece proportionate to the value of the contribution. I know of one who has been living upon the eighth of a vaudeville for several years; and another, who is getting along tolerably on a piece of a joke; being a partner with three or four others.
But you must not be running always to the theatre, there are other amusements which claim a share of your attention. At the _Tivoli_ you will find concerts, balls, and fire-works; and you may take an airing every fine evening in a balloon. You have only to ride up to the _Barrière de Clichy_, or it will stop for you at your garret-window. Besides, you have to see the Panoramas, Cosmoramas, Neoramas, Georamas, and the Dioramas.
The Diorama is amongst the prettiest things in Paris. But how to describe it?--You find yourself seated in an immense church, into which you have passed through a dark entry; and whilst you are contemplating its august architecture, twilight comes on imperceptibly, and you see suddenly around you a full congregation, seated, or standing and kneeling, and very intent on their prayers; all which with a little brighter light were invisible. You are then regaled with solemn church music, and assist at the vespers. It is all enchantment. You forget it is day. The voices of men and virgins die away in the distant space, like the voices of unearthly beings. The light returns gradually, the worshippers fade away into air, and you are seated as at first in the silent and lonely cathedral.
You now enter another room, and a vast prospect of beautiful Swiss scenery is opened upon your view, bounded only by the horizon. Before you is a lake, and flocks and herds feeding, and all the glowing images of a country life. How still the atmosphere, and a little hazy and melancholy, as in our Indian summer; you can almost fancy the wood-pigeon’s moan. In the mean time a storm is brewing beyond the distant mountains; you see the gleams of the lightning, and hear the muttering of the thunder. At length the storm gathers thick around you; the end of a mountain is detached from its base, and the avalanche covers the lake, the flocks, inhabitants, and huts, and you are seated amidst the desolation. You are not conscious of the presence of any painting; all is nature and reality.
A few words of the musical entertainment will fill up the measure of this sinful letter. There is a rotunda in the Champs Elysées devoted to concerts every evening from six till nine, throughout the summer season. Here are played the fashionable airs and concertos, and all the chef-d’oeuvres of Italian and German masters. The little quavers play sometimes softly among the leaves of the trees, and now and then pour down like a deluge crash upon your ears. There are sixty musicians; and for all this ravishment a gentleman pays twenty sous, and a lady half-price.
In the winter season the whole of this music and more takes refuge at Musard’s, a central part of the city. Here is a large room fitted up brilliantly with lustres and mirrors, with a gallery over-head, and a room adjoining for refreshments. The orchestra is in the centre surrounded by seats for the audience. There are seats also around the extremities, and between is a wide promenade filled up every evening with visitors all the way from Peru and Pegu; and with any quantity of Parisian fashionables, who come hither to squeeze and quizz one another, and see the music.
Only think of all this refreshment of the ears, and eyes, this gratification and improvement of the taste at twenty sous a night! There is a similar establishment in another section of the city; and these with the concerts of the Conservatory, private concerts, and operas, make up the musical entertainments of Paris.
The French are not, naturally, a very musical people. After all their fuss about a royal “_Académie de Musique_,” and their twenty or thirty pupils at the expense of government, and sent for the improvement of their voices to Rome, they have produced little music. Their Boieldieu and Auber are the only composers who can take seats (and this at some distance) with the Rossinis, Mozarts, and Webers. Their great pianists, Hertz and Kalkbrenner, are Germans; Beriot, the greatest violin, is a Belgian; Lafont only is French. Their natural music, the Troubadour and the rest, has been so wailed in the nursery, and so screamed in the theatre, that the world is sick of it. A man advertised for a servant lately, who could not sing “_Robin du Bois_.”
LETTER XVIII.
Parisian habits.--The Chaussée d’Antin.--Season of Bon-bons.--Jour de l’An.--Commencement of the Season.--The Carnival.--Reception at the Tuileries.--Lady Granville.--The Royal Family.--Court Ceremonies.--Ball at the Hotel de Ville.--French Beauty.--A Bal de Charité.--Lord Canterbury.--Bulwer.--Sir Sydney Smith.--The Court Balls.--Splendid Scene.--The Princess Amelia.--Comparison between Country and City Life.
PARIS, January 25th, 1836.
As your husband has gallantly allowed me the exclusive pleasure of writing to you this week, I am going to use the privilege in giving you his biography for the year 1836. For a wife to judge of her husband’s conduct from her husband’s letters, is absolute folly.--He rises at day-break, which occurs in this country, at this season, about nine; he makes his toilet with Parisian nicety, breakfasts at eleven, and then attends his consultations, till three. After this hour he runs upon errands. Paris covers eight thousand five hundred square acres, and he has business at both ends of it; I have to run after him, just as a man’s shadow would, if people in this country had shadows, a league to the east, and then a league to the west, only because he don’t know a Frenchman calls his mother a _mare_, and a horse a _shovel_. As he and his partner do not comprehend each other, and he cannot communicate with the world out of doors, you may imagine I have got myself into a business.
And here are all nations of the earth to be interpreted, and all sexes; French, Spaniards, Italians, Poles, and modern Greeks. “God’s life, my lords, I have had to rub up my Latin.” One might as well have been interpreter at Babel. We dine at six, and have all the rest of the day to ourselves.--Then comes smoking of Turkish tobacco in a long pipe, then a cup of good coffee and the little glass of quirsh; and then conversations--conversations, not about burning Moscara, and the Bedouin brothers; or whether beet sugar should be taxed; but that which it imports more our happiness to know, what vintage is the wine, and whether we are to pass the evening at the Italien, or Grand Opera. Our host, who is a French gentleman, a man of the world, and refined in learning, adds the perfume of his wit to the little minutes as they go fluttering by.
_A propos_ of good coffee, I will tell you how to make it. Make it very strong, and then pour out with your right hand half a cup, and with your left the milk, foaming and smoking like Vesuvius upon it; it is reduced thus to a proper consistency and complexion, retaining its heat. Strange! that so simple a process should not have superseded the premeditated dishwater of our American cities. This is the _café au lait_ of the breakfast; the coffee of the dinner is without milk.
At length conversation flags, and we sit each in a “_Fauteuil_,” recumbent, and looking silently upon the Turkish vapour as it ascends to the upper region of the room, till it has obscured the atmosphere in clouds as dark as science metaphysic; and then we sweeten ourselves with open air and evening recreations--
“Vive Henri Quatre! vive ce roi vaillant!”
And so we stroll, arm in arm, through the Boulevards to the “Rue Favart,” and there drink down Grisi until the unwelcome midnight sends us to our pillows. This repairs us from the cares of the day, and raises us up fresh and vegetated to the duties of to-morrow. I must not forget to tell you, we live now in the _Rue Neuve des Maturins_, a little east of the Boulevards. I was quite disdainful of this unclassic ground after so long an abode among the Muses; but this street is more than classic, it runs right-angled into the aristocratic _Chaussée d’Antin_; is full of honour and high fare, and ennobled by some of the best Parisian blood.
Your husband--I suppose by living here, has got into the _bel air_ of the French. (I forgot to put a _dash_ under his name.) He has his share of Favoris, and mustachios, and a coat from Barde’s that would win the ear of a countess. Barde makes coats for “crowned heads,” and takes measures at Moscow;--and he never ties his cravat--(I mean your husband)--just in front, but always a quarter of an inch or so to the left; nor sends a lady a red rose, when white roses are in the fashion; and though he speaks nothing yet of the French jargon, he makes Paris agreeable to every one. Folks, to be liked in this country, are obliged to be amiable--a violent effort sometimes for me. In this respect we have an advantage at home, where poor people only are required to have wit, and twenty thousand a-year may be as big a fool as it pleases.
This is the season of _bon-bons_. I think I see you, and little Jack and Sall, parading your littleness upon the Boulevards--which I presume you will do this time next year. Here is the whole animal creation in paste, and all the fine arts in _sucre d’orge_. You can buy an epigram in dough, and a pun in soda-biscuit; a “Constitutional Charter” all in jumbles; and a “Revolution of July” just out of the frying-pan. Or, if you love American history, here is a United States’ frigate, two inches long, and a belly-gut commodore bombarding Paris--(with “shin-plasters”)--and the French women and children stretching out their little arms, three quarters of an inch long, towards heaven, and supplicating the mercy of the victors, in molasses candy.