Dr. Louis Veron -- The real man as distinguished from that of his
own "Memoirs" -- He takes the management of the Paris Opera --
How it was governed before his advent -- Meyerbeer's "Robert le
Diable" _underlined_ -- Meyerbeer and his doubts upon the merits
of his work -- Meyerbeer's generosity -- Meyerbeer and the
beggars of the Rue Le Peletier -- Dr. Veron, the inventor of the
modern newspaper puff -- Some specimens of advertisements in
their infancy -- Dr. Veron takes a leaf from the book of Moliere
-- Dr. Veron's love of money -- His superstitions -- His
objections to travelling in railways -- He quotes the Queen of
England as an example -- When Queen Victoria overcomes her
objection, Veron holds out -- "Queen Victoria has got a
successor: the Veron dynasty begins and ends with me" -- Thirteen
at table -- I make the acquaintance of Taglioni -- The woman and
the ballerina -- Her adventure at Perth -- An improvised
performance of "Nathalie, la Laitiere Suisse" -- Another
adventure in Russia -- A modern Claude Du-Val -- My last meeting
with Taglioni -- A dinner-party at De Morny's -- A comedy scene
between husband and wife -- Flotow, the composer of "Martha" --
His family -- His father's objection to the composer's profession
-- The latter's interview with M. de Saint-Georges, the author of
the libretto of Balfe's "Bohemian Girl" -- M. de Saint-Georges
prevails upon the father to let his son study in Paris for five
years, and to provide for him during that time -- The supplies
are stopped on the last day of the fifth year -- Flotow, at the
advice of M. de Saint-Georges, stays on and lives by giving
piano-lessons -- His earthly possessions at his first success --
"Rob Roy" at the Hotel Castellane -- Lord Granville's opinion of
the music -- The Hotel Castellane and some Paris salons during
Louis-Philippe's reign -- The Princesse de Lieven's, M. Thiers',
etc. -- What Madame de Girardin's was like -- Victor Hugo's --
Perpetual adoration; very artistic, but nothing to eat or to
drink -- The salon of the ambassador of the Two Sicilies -- Lord
and Lady Granville at the English Embassy -- The salon of Count
Apponyi -- A story connected with it -- Furniture and
entertainments -- Cakes, ices, and tea; no champagne as during
the Second Empire -- The Hotel Castellane and its amateur
theatricals -- Rival companies -- No under-studies -- Lord
Brougham at the Hotel Castellane -- His bad French and his
would-be Don Juanism -- A French rendering of Shakespeare's
"There is but one step between the sublime and the ridiculous,"
as applied to Lord Brougham -- He nearly accepts a part in a
farce where his bad French is likely to produce a comic effect --
His successor as a murderer of the language -- M. de
Saint-Georges -- Like Moliere, he reads his plays to his
housekeeper -- When the latter is not satisfied, the dinner is
spoilt, however great the success of the play in public
estimation -- Great men and their housekeepers -- Turner, Jean
Jacques Rousseau, Eugene Delacroix.
Next to Dumas, the man who is uppermost in my recollections of that
period is Dr. Louis Veron, the founder of the _Revue de Paris_, which
was the precursor of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_; Dr Veron, under whose
management the Paris Opera rose to a degree of perfection it has never
attained since; Dr. Veron, who, as some one said, was as much part and
parcel of the history of Paris during the first half of the nineteenth
century as was Napoleon I. of the history of France; Dr. Veron, than
whom there has been no more original figure in any civilized community
before or since, with the exception, perhaps, of Phineas Barnum, to
whom, however, he was infinitely superior in education, tact, and
manners.
Dr. Veron has written his own "Memoirs" in six bulky volumes, to which
he added a seventh a few years later. They are full of interesting facts
from beginning to end, especially to those who did not know intimately
the author or the times of which he treats. Those who did are tempted to
repeat the mot of Diderot when they gave him the portrait of his father.
"This is my Sunday father; I want my everyday father." The painter, in
fact, had represented the worthy cutler of Langres in his best coat and
wig, etc.; not as his son had been in the habit of seeing him. The Dr.
Veron of the "Memoirs" is not the Dr. Veron of the Cafe de Paris, nor
the Dr. Veron of the _avant-scene_ in his own theatre, snoring a duet
with Auber, and "keeping better time than the great composer himself;"
he is not the Dr. Veron full of fads and superstitions and uniformly
kind, "because kindness is as a rule a capital investment;" he is not
the cheerful pessimist we knew; he is a grumbling optimist, as the
journalists of his time have painted him; in short, in his book he is a
quasi-philanthropic illusion, while in reality he was a hard-hearted,
shrewd business man who did good by stealth now and then, but never
blushed to find it fame.
The event which proved the starting-point of Dr. Veron's celebrity was
neither of his own making nor of his own seeking. Though it happened
when I was a mere lad, I have heard it discussed in after-years
sufficiently often and by very good authorities to be confident of my
facts. In June, 1831, Dr. Veron took the management of the Paris Opera,
which up till then had been governed on the style of the old regime,
namely, by three gentlemen of the king's household with a working
director under them. The royal privy purse was virtually responsible for
its liabilities. Louis-Philippe shifted the burden of that
responsibility on the State, and limited its extent. The three gentlemen
of the king's household were replaced by a royal commissioner, and the
yearly subsidy fixed at L32,500; still a pretty round sum, which has
been reduced since by L500 only.
At Dr. Veron's advent, Meyerbeer's "Robert le Diable" was, what they
call in theatrical parlance, "underlined," or, if not underlined, at
least definitely accepted. Only one work of his had at that time been
heard in Paris, "Il Crociato in Egitto."
It is difficult to determine, after so many years, whether Dr. Veron,
notwithstanding his artistic instincts, was greatly smitten with the
German composer's masterpiece. It has often been argued that he was not,
because he insisted upon an indemnity of forty thousand francs from the
Government towards the cost of its production. In the case of a man like
Veron, this proves nothing at all. He may have been thoroughly convinced
of the merits of "Robert le Diable," and as thoroughly confident of its
success with the public, though no manager, not even the most
experienced, can be; it would not have prevented him from squeezing the
forty thousand francs from the minister on the plea that the performance
of the work was imposed upon him by a treaty of his predecessor. To Dr.
Veron's credit be it said that he might have saved himself the hard
tussle he had with the minister by simply applying for the money to
Meyerbeer himself, who would have given it without a moment's
hesitation, rather than see the success of "Robert le Diable"
jeopardized by inefficient mounting, although up to the last Meyerbeer
could never make up his mind whether magnificent scenery and gorgeous
dresses were an implied compliment or the reverse to the musical value
of his compositions. _A propos_ of this there is a very characteristic
story. At one of the final dress-rehearsals of "Robert le Diable,"
Meyerbeer felt much upset. At the sight of that beautiful set of the
cloister of Sainte-Rosalie, where the nuns rise from their tombs, at the
effect produced by the weird procession, Meyerbeer came up to Veron.
"My dear director," he said, "I perceive well enough that you do not
depend upon the opera itself; you are, in fact, running after a
spectacular success."
"Wait till the fourth act," replied Veron, who was above all logical.
The curtain rose upon the fourth act, and what did Meyerbeer behold?
Instead of the vast, grandiose apartment he had conceived for Isabella,
Princess of Sicily, he found a mean, shabby set, which would have been
deemed scarcely good enough for a minor theatre.
"Decidedly, my dear director," said Meyerbeer, with a bitter twinge in
his features and voice, "I perceive well enough that you have no faith
in my score; you did not even dare go to the expense of a new set. I
would willingly have paid for it myself."
And he would willingly have paid for it, because Meyerbeer was not only
very rich, but very generous.
"It is a very funny thing," said Lord ----, as he came into the Cafe de
Paris one morning, many years afterwards; "there are certain days in the
week when the Rue Le Peletier seems to be swarming with beggars, and,
what is funnier still, they don't take any notice of me. I pass
absolutely scot-free."
"I'll bet," remarked Roger de Beauvoir, "that they are playing 'Robert
le Diable' or 'Les Huguenots' to-night, and I can assure you that I have
not seen the bills."
"Now that you speak of it, they are playing 'Les Huguenots' to-night,"
replied Lord ----; "but what has that to do with it? I am not aware that
the Paris beggars manifest a particular predilection for Meyerbeer's
operas, and that they are booking their places on the days they are
performed."
"It's simply this," explained De Beauvoir: "both Rossini and Meyerbeer
never fail to come of a morning to look at the bills, and when the
latter finds his name on them, he is so overjoyed that he absolutely
empties his pockets of all the cash they contain. Notwithstanding his
many years of success, he is still afraid that the public's liking for
his music is merely a passing fancy, and as every additional performance
decreases this apprehension, he thinks he cannot be sufficiently
thankful to Providence. His gratitude shows itself in almsgiving."
I made it my business subsequently to verify what I considered De
Beauvoir's fantastical statement, and I found it substantially correct.
To return to Dr. Veron, who, there is no doubt, did the best he could
for "Robert le Diable," to which and to the talent of Taglioni he owed
his fortune. At the same time, it would be robbing him of part of his
glory did we not state that the success of that great work might have
been less signal but for him; both his predecessors and successors had
and have still equally good chances without having availed themselves
of them, either in the interest of lyrical art or in that of the public.
I compared Dr. Veron just now to Phineas Barnum, and the comparison was
not made at random. Dr. Veron was really the inventor of the newspaper
puff direct and indirect--of that personal journalism which records the
slightest deed or gesture of the popular theatrical manager, and which
at the present day is carried to excess. And all his subordinates and
co-workers were made to share the advantages of the system, because
their slightest doings also reflected glory upon him. An artist filling
at a moment's notice the part of a fellow-artist who had become suddenly
ill, a carpenter saving by his presence of mind the situation at a
critical juncture, had not only his paragraph in next morning's papers,
but a whole column, containing the salient facts of his life and career.
It was the system of Frederick the Great and of the first Napoleon,
acknowledging the daring deeds of their smallest as well as of their
foremost aids--with this difference, that the French captain found it
convenient to suppress them now and then, and that Dr. Veron never
attempted to do so. When the idea of putting down these notes first
entered my mind, I looked over some files of newspapers of that
particular period, and there was scarcely one between 1831 and 1835 that
did not contain a lengthy reference to the Grand Opera and its director.
I was irresistibly reminded of the bulletins the great Napoleon dictated
on the battle-field. I have also seen a collection of posters relating
to the same brilliant reign at the Opera. Of course, compared to the
eloquent effusions and ingenious attempts of the contemporary theatrical
manager to bait the public, Veron's are mere child's play; still we must
remember that the art of puffing was in its infancy, and, as such, some
of them are worth copying. The public was not so _blase_ and it
swallowed the bait eagerly. Here they are.
"To-morrow tenth performance of ..., which henceforth will only be
played at rare intervals.
"To-morrow twentieth performance of ...; positively the last before the
departure of M....
"To-morrow seventeenth performance of ...; reappearance of Madame ...
"To-morrow fifteenth performance of ... by all the principal artists who
'created' the parts.
"To-morrow thirtieth performance of ... The third scene of the second
act will be played as on the first night.
"To-morrow twentieth performance of ..., which can only be played for a
limited number of nights.
"To-morrow sixteenth performance of .... In the Ball-Room Scene a new
pas de Chales will be introduced.
"To-morrow thirtieth performance of .... This successful work must be
momentarily suspended owing to previous arrangements."
Childish as these lines may look to the present generation, they
produced a fortune of L2000 a year to Dr. Veron in four years, and, but
for the outbreak of the cholera in '32, when "Robert le Diable" was in
the flush of its success, would have produced another L1000 per annum.
At that time Dr. Veron had already been able to put aside L24,000, and
he might have easily closed his theatre during those terrible months;
but, like Moliere, he asked himself what would become of all those who
were dependent upon him, and had not put aside anything; so he made his
savings into ten parcels, intending to hold out as many months without
asking help of any one. Five of the parcels went. At the beginning of
the sixth month the cholera abated; by the end it had almost
disappeared.
Those who would infer from this that Dr. Veron was indifferent to money,
would make a great mistake. But he would not allow his love of it to get
the upper hand, to come between him and his conscience, to make him
commit either a dishonest or a foolish act. By a foolish act he meant
headlong speculation. When the shares of the Northern Railway were
allotted, Dr. Veron owned the _Constitutionnel_; 150 shares were
allotted to him, which at that moment represented a clear profit of
60,000 francs, they being 400 francs above par. Dr. Veron made up his
mind to realize there and then. But it was already late; the Bourse was
closed, the stockbrokers had finished business for the day. He, however,
met one on the Boulevards, who gave him a cheque for 55,000 francs on
the Bank of France, which could only be cashed next day. The shares were
left meanwhile in Dr. Veron's possession. Three minutes after the
bargain was concluded Dr. Veron went back to his office. "I must have
ready money for this, or decline the transaction," he said. The
stockbroker, by applying to two of his colleagues, managed to scrape
together 50,000 francs. Dr. Veron gave him a receipt in full, returned
home, singing as he went the French version of "A bird in the hand,"
etc.
Veron was exceedingly superstitious, and had fads. He could never be
induced to take a railway journey. It was generally known in France at
that time that, in the early days of locomotion by steam, Queen Victoria
had held a similar objection. Veron, when twitted with his objection,
invariably replied, "I have yet to learn that the Queen of England is
less enlightened than any of you, and she will not enter a railway
carriage." But one day the report spread that the queen had made a
journey from Windsor to London by the "iron horse," and then Veron was
sorely pressed. He had his answer ready. "The Queen of England has got a
successor: the Veron dynasty begins and ends with me. I must take care
to make it last as long as possible." He stuck to his text till the end
of his life.
On no consideration would Veron have sat down "thirteen at table." Once
or twice when the guests and host made up that number, his coachman's
son was sent for, dressed, and made presentable, and joined the party;
at others he politely requested two or three of us to go and dine at the
Cafe de Paris, and to have the bill sent to him. We drew lots as to who
was to go.
It was through Dr. Veron that I became acquainted with most of the
operatic celebrities--Meyerbeer, Halevy, Auber, Duprez, etc.; for though
he had abdicated his directorship seven or eight years before we met, he
was perhaps a greater power then in the lyrical world than at the date
of his reign.
It was at Dr. Veron's that I saw Mdlle. Taglioni for the first time--off
the stage. It must have been in 1844, for she had not been in Paris
since 1840, when I had seen her dance at the Opera. I had only seen her
dance once before that, in '36 or '37, but I was altogether too young to
judge then. I own that in 1840 I was somewhat disappointed, and my
disappointment was shared by many, because some of my friends, to whom I
communicated my impressions, told me that her three years' absence had
made a vast difference in her art. In '44 it was still worse; her
performances gave rise to many a spiteful epigram, for she herself
invited comparison between her former glory and her decline, by dancing
in one of her most successful creations, "L'Ombre." Those most leniently
disposed towards her thought what Alfred de Musset so gracefully
expressed when requested to write some verses in her album.
"Si vous ne voulez plus danser,
Si vous ne faites que passer
Sur ce grand theatre si sombre,
Ne courez pas apres votre ombre
Et tachez de nous la laisser."
My disappointment with the ballerina was as nothing, however, to my
disappointment with the woman. I had been able to determine for myself
before then that Marie Taglioni was by no means a good-looking woman,
but I did not expect her to be so plain as she was. That, after all, was
not her fault; but she might have tried to make amends for her lack of
personal charms by her amiability. She rarely attempted to do so, and
never with Frenchmen. Her reception of them was freezing to a degree,
and on the occasions--few and far between--when she thawed, it was with
Russians, Englishmen, or Viennese. Any male of the Latin races she held
metaphorically as well as literally at arm's length. Of the
gracefulness, so apparent on the stage, even in her decline, there was
not a trace to be found in private life. One of her shoulders was higher
than the other; she limped slightly, and, moreover, waddled like a duck.
The pinched mouth was firmly set; there was no smile on the colourless
lips, and she replied to one's remarks in monosyllables.
Truly she had suffered a cruel wrong at the hands of men--of one man,
bien entendu; nevertheless, the wonder to most people who knew her was
not that Comte Gilbert de Voisins should have left her so soon after
their marriage, but that he should have married her at all. "The fact
was," said some one with whom I discussed the marriage one day, "that De
Voisins considered himself in honour bound to make that reparation, but
I cannot conceive what possessed him to commit the error that made the
reparation necessary." And I am bound to say that it was not the utter
lack of personal attractions that made every one, men and women alike,
indifferent to Taglioni. She was what the French call "une
_pimbeche_."[10] "Am I not a good-natured woman?" said Mdlle. Mars one
day to Hoffman, the blood-curdling novelist. "Mademoiselle, you are the
most amiable creature I know between the footlights and the cloth," he
replied. No one could have paid Taglioni even such a left-handed
compliment, for, if all I heard was true, she was not good-tempered
either on or off the stage. Dr. Veron, who was really a very loyal
friend, was very reticent about her character, and would never be drawn
into revelations. "You know the French proverb," he said once, when I
pressed him very closely. "'On ne herite pas de ceux que l'on tue;' and,
after all, she helped me to make my fortune."
[Footnote 10: The word "shrew" is the nearest
equivalent.--EDITOR.]
That evening I was seated next to Mdlle. Taglioni at dinner, and when
she discovered my nationality she unbent a little, so that towards the
dessert we were on comparatively friendly terms. She had evidently very
grateful recollections of her engagements in London, for it was the only
topic on which I could get her to talk on that occasion. Here is a
little story I had from her own lips, and which shows the Scotch of the
early thirties in quite a new light. It may have been known once, but
has been probably forgotten by now, except by the "oldest inhabitant" of
Perth. In 1832 or 1833--I will not vouch for the exact year, seeing that
it is two score of years since the story was told to me--the season in
London had been a fatiguing one for Taglioni. A ballet her father had
composed for her, "Nathalie, ou la Laitiere Suisse," a very inane thing
by all accounts, had met with great success in London. The scene,
however, had, as far as I could make out, been changed from Switzerland
to Scotland, but of this I will not be certain. At the termination of
her engagement Taglioni wanted rest, and she bethought herself to
recruit in the Highlands. After travelling hither and thither for a
little while, she arrived at Perth, and, as a matter of course, put down
her name in the visitors' book of the hotel, then went out to explore
the sights of the town. Meanwhile the report of her arrival had spread
like wildfire, and on her return to the hotel she found awaiting her a
deputation from the principal inhabitants, with the request to honour
them with a performance. "The request was so graciously conveyed," said
Taglioni, "that I could not but accept, though I took care to point out
the difficulties of performing a ballet all by myself, seeing that there
was neither a corps de ballet, a male dancer, nor any one else to
support me. All these objections were overruled by their promise to
provide all these in the best way they could, and before I had time to
consider the matter fully, I was taken off in a cab to inspect the
theatre, etc. Great heavens, what a stage and scenery! Still, I had
given my promise, and, seeing their anxiety, would not go back from it.
I cannot tell where they got their _personnel_ from. There was a
director and a stage-manager, but as he did not understand French, and
as my English at that time was even worse than it is now, we were
obliged to communicate through an interpreter. His English must have
been bewildering, to judge from the manager's blank looks when he spoke
to him, and his French was even more wonderful than my English. He was a
German waiter from the hotel.
"Nevertheless, thanks to him, I managed to convey the main incidents of
the plot of 'Nathalie' to the manager, and during the first act, the
most complicated one, all went well. But at the beginning of the second
everything threatened to come to a standstill. I must tell you that my
father hit upon the novel idea of introducing a kind of dummy, or lay
figure, on which this idiotic Nathalie lavishes all her caresses. The
young fellow, who is in love with Nathalie, contrives to take the
dummy's place; consequently, in order to preserve some semblance of
truth, and not to make Nathalie appear more idiotic than she is already,
there ought to be a kind of likeness between the dummy and the lover. I
know not whether the interpreter had been at fault, or whether in the
hurry-scurry I had forgotten all about the dummy, but a few minutes
before the rise of the curtain I discovered that there was no dummy.
'You must do the dummy,' I said to Pierre, my servant, 'and I'll pretend
to carry you on.' Pierre nodded a silent assent, and immediately began
to don the costume, seeing which I had the curtain rung up, and went on
to the stage. I was not very comfortable, though, for I heard a violent
altercation going on behind the scenes, the cause of which I failed to
guess. I kept dancing and dancing, getting near to the wings every now
and then, to ask whether Pierre was ready. He seemed to me inordinately
long in changing his dress, but the delay was owing to something far
more serious than his careful preparation for the part. Pierre had a
pair of magnificent whiskers, and the young fellow who enacted the lover
had not a hair on his face. Pierre was ready to go on, when the manager
noticed the difference. 'Stop!' he shouted; 'that won't do. You must
have your whiskers taken off.' Pierre indignantly refused. The manager
endeavoured to persuade him to make the sacrifice, but in vain, until at
last he had him held down on a chair by two stalwart Scotchmen while
the barber did his work.
"All this had taken time, but the public did not grow impatient. They
would have been very difficult to please indeed had they behaved
otherwise, for I never danced to any audience as I did to them. One of
the few pleasant recollections in my life is that evening at Perth; and,
curiously enough, Pierre, who is still with me, refers to it with great
enthusiasm, notwithstanding the cavalier treatment inflicted upon him.
It was his first and last appearance on any stage."
Here is another story Taglioni told me on a subsequent occasion. I have
often wondered since whether Macaulay would not have been pleased with
it even more than I was.
"The St. Petersburg theatrical season of '24-'25 had been particularly
brilliant, and nowhere more so than at the Italian Opera. I came away
laden with presents, among others one from the Czar--a magnificent
necklet of very fine pearls. When the theatre closed at Lent, I was very
anxious to get away, in spite of the inclement season, and
notwithstanding the frequent warnings that the roads were not safe.
Whenever the conversation turned on that topic, the name of Trischka was
sure to crop up; he, in fact, was the leader of a formidable band of
highwaymen, compared with whose exploits those of all the others seemed
to sink into insignificance. Trischka had been steward to Prince
Paskiwiecz, and was spoken of as a very intelligent fellow. Nearly every
one with whom I came in contact had seen him while he was still at St.
Petersburg, and had a good word to say for him. His manners were
reported to be perfect; he spoke French and German very fairly; and,
most curious of all, he was an excellent dancer. Some went even as far
as to say that if he had adopted that profession, instead of scouring
the highways, he would have made a fortune. By all accounts he never
molested poor people, and the rich, whom he laid under contribution, had
never to complain of violent treatment either in words or deeds--nay,
more, he never took all they possessed from his victims, he was content
to share and share alike. But papa n'ecoutait pas de cet' oreille la;
papa etait tres peu partageur; and, truth to tell, I was taking away a
great deal of money from St. Petersburg--which was perhaps another
reason why papa did not see the necessity of paying tithes to Trischka.
If we had followed papa's advice, we should have either applied to the
Czar for an armed escort, or else delayed our departure till the middle
of the summer, though he failed to see that the loss of my engagements
elsewhere would have amounted to a serious item also. But papa had got
it into his head not to part with any of the splendid presents I had
received; they were mostly jewels, and people who do not know papa can
form no idea what they meant to him. However, as we were plainly told
that Trischka conducted his operations all the year round, that we were
as likely to be attacked by him in summer as in winter, papa reluctantly
made up his mind to go in the beginning of April. Papa provided himself
with a pair of large pistols that would not have hurt a cat, and were
the laughing-stock of all those who accompanied us for the first dozen
miles on our journey; for I had made many friends, and they insisted on
doing this. We had two very roomy carriages. My father, my maid, two
German violinists, and myself were in the first; the second contained
our luggage.
"At the first change of horses after Pskoff, the postmaster told us that
Trischka and his band had been seen a few days previously on the road to
Dunabourg, at the same time, he seemed to think very lightly of the
matter, and, addressing himself particularly to me, opined that, with a
little diplomacy on my part and a good deal of _sang-froid_, I might be
let off very cheaply. All went well until the middle of the next night,
when all of a sudden, in the thick of a dense forest, our road was
barred by a couple of horsemen, while a third opened the door of our
carriage. It was Trischka himself. 'Mademoiselle Taglioni?' he said in
very good German, lifting his hat. 'I am Mademoiselle Taglioni,' I
replied in French. 'I know,' he answered, with a deeper bow than before.
'I was told you were coming this way. I am sorry, mademoiselle, that I
could not come to St. Petersburg to see you dance, but as chance has
befriended me, I hope you will do me the honour to dance before me
here.' 'How can I dance here, in this road, monsieur?' I said
beseechingly. 'Alas, mademoiselle, I have no drawing-room to offer you,'
he replied, still as polite as ever. 'Nevertheless,' he continued, 'if
you think it cannot be done, I shall be under the painful necessity of
confiscating your carriages and luggage, and of sending you back on foot
to the nearest post-town.' 'But, monsieur,' I protested, 'the road is
ankle-deep in mud.' 'Truly,' he laughed, showing a beautiful set of
teeth, 'but your weight won't make any difference; besides, I dare say
you have some rugs and cloths with you in the other carriage, and my men
will only be too pleased to spread them on the ground.'
"Seeing that all my remonstrance would be in vain, I jumped out of the
carriage. While the rugs were being laid down, my two companions, the
violinists, tuned their instruments, and even papa was prevailed upon to
come out, though he was sulky and never spoke a word.
"I danced for about a quarter of an hour, and I honestly believe that I
never had such an appreciative audience either before or afterwards.
Then Trischka led me back to the carriage, and, simply lifting his hat,
bade me adieu. 'I keep the rugs, mademoiselle. I will never part with
them,' he said. The last I saw of him, when our carriages were turning a
bend in the road, was a truly picturesque figure on horseback, waving
his hand."
More than eight years elapsed before I met Taglioni again, and then she
looked absolutely like an old woman, though she was under fifty. It was
at the Comte (afterwards Duc) de Morny's, in '52, and, if I remember
rightly, almost immediately after his resignation as Minister of the
Interior. Taglioni and Mdlle. Rachel were the only women present. Just
as we were sitting down to dinner, Count Gilbert de Voisins came in, and
took the next seat but one on my left which had been reserved for him.
We were on friendly, though not on very intimate terms. He was evidently
not aware of the presence of his wife, for after a few minutes he asked
his neighbour, pointing to her, "Who is this governess-looking old
maid?" He told him. He showed neither surprise nor emotion; but, if an
artist could have been found to sketch his face there, its perfect blank
would have been more amusing than either. He seemed, as it were, to
consult his recollections; then he said, "Is it? It may be, after all;"
and went on eating his dinner. His wife acted less diplomatically. She
recognized him at once, and made a remark to her host in a sufficiently
loud voice to be overheard, which was not in good taste, the more that
De Morny, notwithstanding his many faults, was not the man to have
invited both for the mere pleasure of playing a practical joke. In fact,
I have always credited De Morny with the good intention of bringing
about a reconciliation between the two; but the affair was hopeless from
the very beginning, after Taglioni's exhibition of temper. I am far
from saying that Count Gilbert would have been more tractable if it had
not occurred, but his spouse shut the door at once upon every further
attempt in that direction. Nevertheless, whether out of sheer devilry or
from a wish to be polite, he went up to her after dinner, accompanied by
a friend, who introduced him as formally as if he and she had never seen
one another. It was at a moment when the Comte de Morny was out of the
room, because I feel certain that he was already sorry then for what he
had endeavoured to do, and had washed his hands of the whole affair.
Taglioni made a stately bow. "I am under the impression," she said,
"that I have had the honour of meeting you before, about the year 1832."
With this she turned away. Let any playwright reproduce that scene in a
farcical or comedy form, and I am sure that three-fourths of his
audience would scout it as too exaggerated, and yet every incident of it
is absolutely true.
Among my most pleasant recollections of those days is that connected
with Von Flotow, the future composer of "Martha." In appearance he was
altogether unlike the traditional musician; he looked more like a
stalwart officer of dragoons. Though of noble origin, and with a very
wealthy father, there was a time when he had a hard struggle for
existence. Count von Flotow, his father, and an old officer of Blucher,
was nearly as much opposed to his son becoming a musician as Frederick
the Great's. Nevertheless, at the instance of Flotow's mother, he was
sent to Paris at the age of sixteen, and entered the Conservatoire, then
under the direction of Reicha. His term of apprenticeship was not to
extend beyond two years, "for," said the count, "it does not take longer
for the rawest recruit to become a good soldier." "That will give you a
fair idea," remarked Von Flotow to me afterwards, "how much he
understood about it. He had an ill-disguised contempt for any music
which did not come up to his ideal. His ideal was that performed by the
drum, the fife, and the bugle. And the very fact of Germany ringing a
few years later with the names of Meyerbeer and Halevy made matters
worse instead of mending them. His feudal pride would not allow of his
son's entering a profession the foremost ranks of which were occupied by
Jews. 'Music,' he said, 'was good enough for bankers' sons and the
like,' and he considered that Weber had cast a slur upon his family by
adopting it."
The two years grudgingly allowed by Count von Flotow for his son's
musical education were interrupted by the revolution of 1830, and the
young fellow had to return home before he was eighteen, because, in his
father's opinion, "he had not given a sign of becoming a great
musician;" in other words, he had not written an opera or anything else
which had attracted public notice. However, towards the beginning of
1831, the count took his son to Paris once more; "and though Meyerbeer
nor Halevy were not so famous then as they were destined to become
within the next three years, their names were already sufficiently well
known to have made an introduction valuable. It would not have been
difficult to obtain such." My father would not hear of it. 'I will not
have my son indebted for anything to a Jew,' he said; and I am only
quoting this instance of prejudice to you because it was not an
individual but a typical one among my father's social equals. The remark
about 'his son's entering a profession in which two Jews had carried off
the highest prizes' is of a much later date. Consequently we landed in
Paris, provided with letters of introduction to M. de Saint-Georges.[11]
Clever, accomplished, refined as was M. de Saint-Georges, he was
scarcely the authority a father with serious intentions about his son's
musical career would have consulted; he was a charming, skilful
librettist and dramatist, a thorough man of the world in the best sense
of the word, but absolutely incapable of judging the higher qualities of
the composer. Nevertheless, I owe him much; but for him I should have
been dragged back to Germany there and then; but for him I should have
been compelled to go back to Germany five years later, or starved in the
streets of Paris.
[Footnote 11: Jules-Henri de Saint-Georges, one of the most
fertile librettists of the time, the principal collaborateur of
Scribe, and best known in England as the author of the book of
Balfe's "Bohemian Girl."--EDITOR.]
"My father's interview with M. de Saint-Georges, and my first
introduction to him," said Flotow on another occasion, "were perhaps the
most comical scenes ever enacted off the stage. You know my old friend,
and have been to his rooms, so I need not describe him nor his
surroundings to you. You have never seen my father; but, to give you an
idea of what he was like, I may tell you that he was an enlarged edition
of myself. A bold rider, a soldier and a sportsman, fairly well
educated, but upon the whole a very rough diamond, and, I am afraid,
with a corresponding contempt for the elegant and artistic side of Paris
life. You may, therefore, picture to yourself the difference between the
two men--M. de Saint-Georges in a beautiful silk dressing-gown and red
morocco slippers, sipping chocolate from a dainty porcelain cup; my
father, who, contrary to German custom, had always refused to don that
comfortable garment, and who, to my knowledge, had never in his life
tasted chocolate. For the moment I thought that everything was lost. I
was mistaken.
"'Monsieur,' said my father in French, which absolutely creaked with the
rust of age, 'I have come to ask your advice and a favour besides. My
son desires to become a musician. Is it possible?'
"'There is no reason why he should not be,' replied M. de Saint-Georges,
'provided he has a vocation.'
"'Vocation may mean obstinacy,' remarked my father. 'But let us suppose
the reverse--that obstinacy means vocation: how long would it take him
to prove that he has talent?'
"'It is difficult to say--five years at least.'
"'And two he has already spent at the Conservatoire will make seven. I
hope he will not be like Jacob, who, after that period of waiting, found
that they had given him the wrong goddess!' growled my father, who could
be grimly humorous when he liked. 'Five years more be it, then, but not
a single day longer. If by that time he has not made his mark, I
withdraw his allowance. I thank you for your advice; and now I will ask
a favour. Will you kindly supply my place--that is, keep an eye upon
him, and do the best you can for him? Remember, he is but twenty. It is
hard enough that I cannot make a soldier of him; from what I have heard
and from what I can see, you will prevent him from becoming less than a
gentleman.'
"M. de Saint-Georges was visibly moved. 'Let me hear what he can do,' he
said, 'and then I will tell you.'
"I sat down to the piano for more than an hour.
"'I will see that your son becomes a good musician, M. le Comte,' said
M. de Saint-Georges.
"Next morning my father went back to Germany. Nothing would induce him
to stay a single day. He said the atmosphere of Paris was vitiated.
"I need not tell you that M. de Saint-Georges kept his word as far as he
was able; he kept it even more rigorously than my father had bargained
for, because when, exactly on the last day of the stipulated five years,
I received a letter demanding my immediate return, and informing me that
my father's banker had instructions to stop all further supplies, M. de
Saint-Georges bade me stay.
"'I promised to make a musician of you, and I have kept my word. But
between a musician and an acknowledged musician there is a difference. I
say stay!' he exclaimed.
"'How am I to stay without money?'
"'You'll earn some.'
"'How?'
"'By giving piano-lessons, like many a poor artist has done before you.'
"I followed his advice, and am none the worse for the few years of
hardships. The contrast between my own poverty and my wealthy
surroundings was sufficiently curious during that time, and never more
so than on the night when my name really became known to the general
public. I am alluding to the first performance of 'Le Duc de Guise,'
which, as you may remember, was given in aid of the distressed Poles,
and sung throughout by amateurs. The receipts amounted to thirty
thousand francs, and the ladies of the chorus had something between ten
and twelve millions of francs of diamonds in their hair and round their
throats. All my earthly possessions in money consisted of six francs
thirty-five centimes."
I was not at the Theatre de la Renaissance that night, but two or three
years previously I had heard the first opera Flotow ever wrote, at the
Hotel Castellane. I never heard "Rob Roy" since; and, curiously enough,
many years afterwards I inquired of Lord Granville, who sat next to me
on that evening in 1838, whether he had. He shook his head negatively.
"It is a great pity," he said, "for the music is very beautiful." And I
believe that Lord Granville is a very good judge.
The Hotel Castellane, or "La Maison du Mouleur," as it was called by the
general public on account of the great number of scantily attired
mythological deities with which its facade was decorated, was one of the
few houses where, during the reign of Louis-Philippe, the discussion of
political and dynastic differences was absolutely left in abeyance. The
scent of party strife--I had almost said miasma--hung over all the other
salons, notably those of the Princesse de Lieven, Madame Thiers, and
Madame de Girardin, and even those of Madame Le Hon and Victor Hugo were
not free from it. Men like myself, and especially young men, who
instinctively guessed the hollowness of all this--who, moreover, had not
the genius to become political leaders and not sufficient enthusiasm to
become followers--avoided them; consequently their description will find
little or no place in these notes. The little I saw of Princesse de
Lieven at the Tuileries and elsewhere produced no wish to see more.
Thiers was more interesting from a social and artistic point of view,
but it was only on very rare occasions that he consented to doff his
political armour, albeit that he did not wear the latter with unchanging
dignity. Madame Thiers was an uninteresting woman, and only the "feeder"
to her husband, to use a theatrical phrase. Madame Le Hon was
exceedingly beautiful, exceedingly selfish, and, if anything, too
amiable. The absence of all serious mental qualities was cleverly
disguised by the mask of a grande dame; but I doubt whether it was
anything else but a mask. Madame Delphine de Girardin, on the other
hand, was endowed with uncommon literary, poetical, and intellectual
gifts; but I have always considered it doubtful whether even the Nine
Muses, rolled into one, would be bearable for any length of time. As for
Victor Hugo, no man not blessed with an extraordinary bump of veneration
would have gone more than once to his soirees. The permanent
entertainment there consisted of a modern version of the "perpetual
adoration," and of nothing else, because, to judge by my few
experiences, his guests were never offered anything to eat or to drink.
As a set-off, the furniture and appointments of his apartments were more
artistic than those of most of his contemporaries; but Becky Sharp has
left it on record that "mouton aux navets," dished up in priceless china
and crested silver, is after all but "mouton aux navets," and at Hugo's
even that homely fare was wanting.
Among the few really good salons were those of the ambassadors of the
Two Sicilies, of England, and of Austria. The former two were in the
Faubourg Saint-Honore, the latter in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The
soirees of the Duc de Serra-Cabriola were very animated; there was a
great deal of dancing. I cannot say the same of those of Lord and Lady
Granville, albeit that both the host and hostess did the honours with
charming and truly patrician grace and hospitality. But the English
guests would not throw off their habitual reserve, and the French in the
end imitated the manner of the latter, in deference, probably, to Lord
and Lady Granville, who were not at all pleased at this sincerest form
of French flattery of their countrymen.
There was no such restraint at Count Apponyi's, in the Faubourg
Saint-Germain, the only house where the old French noblesse mustered in
force. The latter virtually felt themselves on their own ground, for the
host was known to have not much sympathy with parvenus, even titled
ones, though the titles had been gained on the battle-field. Had he not
during the preceding reign ruthlessly stripped Soult and Marmont, and
half a dozen other dukes of the first empire, by giving instructions to
his servants to announce them by their family names? Consequently,
flirtation a la Marivaux, courtly _galanterie_ a la Louis XV., sprightly
and witty conversation, "minuetting" a la Watteau, was the order of the
day as well as of the night there, for the dejeuner dansant was a
frequent feature of the entertainment. No one was afraid of being
mistaken for a financier anobli; the only one admitted on a footing of
intimacy bore the simple name of Hope.
Nevertheless, it must not be thought that the entertainments, even at
the three embassies, partook of anything like the splendour so
noticeable during the second empire. The refreshments elsewhere partook
of a simple character; ices and cake, and lukewarm but by no means
strong tea, formed the staple of them. Of course there were exceptions,
such as, for instance, at the above-named houses, and at Mrs. Tudor's,
Mrs. Locke's, and at Countess Lamoyloff's; but the era of flowing rivers
of champagne, snacks that were like banquets, and banquets that were not
unlike orgies, had not as yet dawned. And, worse than all, in a great
many salons the era of mahogany and Utrecht velvet was in full swing,
while the era of white-and-gold walls, which were frequently neither
white nor gold, was dying a very lingering death.
The Hotel Castellane was a welcome exception to this, and politics were
rigorously tabooed, the reading of long-winded poems was interdicted.
Politicians were simply reminded that the adjacent Elysee-Bourbon, or
even the Hotel Pontalba, might still contain sufficiently lively ghosts
to discuss such all-important matters with them;[12] poets who fancied
they had something to say worth hearing, were invited to have it said
for them from behind the footlights by rival companies of amateurs, each
of which in many respects need not have feared comparison with the
professional one of the Comedie-Francaise. Amateur theatricals were,
therefore, the principal feature of the entertainments at the Hotel
Castellane; but there were "off nights" to the full as brilliant as the
others. There was neither acting nor dancing on such occasions, the
latter amusement being rarely indulged in, except at the grand balls
which often followed one another in rapid succession.
[Footnote 12: The Elysee-Bourbon, which was the official
residence of Louis-Napoleon during his presidency of the second
republic, was almost untenanted during the reign of
Louis-Philippe.
The Hotel Pontalba was partly built on the site of the former
mansion of M. de Morfontaine, a staunch royalist, who,
curiously enough, had married the daughter of Le Peletier de
Saint-Fargeau, the member of the Convention who had voted the
death of Louis XVI., and who himself fell by the hand of an
assassin. Mdlle. le Peletier Saint-Fargeau was called "La Fille
de la Nation."--EDITOR.]
I have said rival companies, but only the two permanent ones came under
that denomination; the others were what we should term "scratch
companies," got together for one or two performances of a special work,
generally a musical one, as in the case of Flotow's "Rob Roy" and
"Alice." They vied in talent with the regular troupes presided over
respectively by Madame Sophie Gay, the mother of Madame Emile de
Girardin, and the Duchesse d'Abrantes. Each confined itself to the
interpretation of the works of its manageress, who on such evening did
the honours, or of those whom the manageress favoured with her
protection. The heavens might fall rather than that an actor or actress
of Madame Gay's company should act with Madame d'Abrantes, and _vice
versa_. Seeing that neither manageress had introduced the system of
"under-studies," disappointments were frequent, for unless a member of
the Comedie-Francaise could be found to take up the part at a moment's
notice, the performance had necessarily to be postponed, the amateurs
refusing to act with any but the best. Such pretensions may at the first
blush seem exaggerated; they were justified in this instance, the
amateurs being acknowledged to be the equals of the professionals by
every unbiassed critic. In fact, several ladies among the amateurs
"took eventually to the stage," notably Mdlles. Davenay and Mdlle. de
Lagrange. The latter became a very bright star in the operatic
firmament, though she was hidden in the musical world at large by her
permanent stay in Russia. St. Petersburg has ever been a formidable
competitor of Paris for securing the best histrionic and lyrical talent.
Madame Arnould-Plessy, Bressant, Dupuis, and later on M. Worms, deserted
their native scenes for the more remunerative, though perhaps really
less artistic, triumphs of the theatre Saint-Michel; and when they
returned, the delicate bloom that had made their art so delightful was
virtually gone. "C'etait de l'art Francais a la sauce Tartare," said
some one who was no mean judge.
The Comte Jules de Castellane, though fully equal, and in many respects
superior, in birth to those who professed to sneer at the younger branch
of the Bourbons, declined to be guided by these opponents of the new
dynasty in their social crusade against the adherents to the latter;
consequently the company was perhaps not always so select as it might
have been, and many amusing incidents and _piquantes_ adventures were
the result. He put a stop to these, however, when he discovered that his
hospitality was being abused, and that invitations given to strangers,
at the request of some of his familiars, had been paid for in kind, if
not in coin.
As a rule, though, the company was far less addicted to
scandal-mongering and causing scandal than similarly composed "sets"
during the subsequent reign. They were not averse to playing practical
jokes, especially upon those who made themselves somewhat too
conspicuous by their eccentricities. Lord Brougham, who was an assiduous
guest at the Hotel Castellane during his frequent visits to Paris, was
often selected as their victim. He, as it were, provoked the tricks
played upon him by his would-be Don-Juanesque behaviour, and by the many
opportunities he lost of holding his tongue--in French. He absolutely
murdered the language of Moliere. His worthy successor in that respect
was Lady Normanby, who, as some one said, "not only murdered the tongue,
but tortured it besides." The latter, however, never lost her dignity
amidst the most mirth-compelling blunders on her part, while the English
statesman was often very near enacting the buffoon, and was once almost
induced to accept a role in a vaudeville, in which his execrable French
would no doubt have been highly diverting to the audience, but would
scarcely have been in keeping with the position he occupied on the other
side of the Channel. "Quant a Lord Brougham," said a very witty
Frenchman, quoting Shakespeare in French, "il n'y a pour lui qu'un pas
entre le sublime et le ridicule. C'est le pas de Calais, et il le
traverse trop souvent."
In 1842, when the Comte Jules de Castellane married Mdlle. de
Villontroys, whose mother had married General Rapp and been divorced
from him, a certain change came over the spirit of the house; the
entertainments were as brilliant as ever, but the two rival manageresses
had to abdicate their sway, and the social status of the guests was
subjected to a severer test. The new dispensation did not ostracize the
purely artistic element, but, as the comtesse tersely put it,
"dorenavant, je ne recevrai que ceux qui ont de l'art ou des armoiries."
She strictly kept her word, even during the first years of the Second
Empire, when pedigrees were a ticklish thing to inquire into.
I have unwittingly drifted away from M. de Saint-Georges, who, to say
the least, was a curious figure in artistic and literary Paris during
the reigns of Louis-Philippe and his successor. He was quite as fertile
as Scribe, and many of his plots are as ingeniously conceived and worked
out as the latter's, but he suffered both in reputation and purse from
the restless activity and pushing character of the librettist of "Robert
le Diable." Like those of Rivarol,[13] M. Saint-Georges' claims to be of
noble descent were somewhat contested, albeit that, unlike the
eighteenth-century pamphleteer, he never obtruded them; but there could
be no doubt about his being a gentleman. He was utterly different in
every respect from his rival. Scribe was not only eaten up with vanity,
but grasping to a degree; he had dramatic instinct, but not the least
vestige of literary refinement. M. de Saint-Georges, on the contrary,
was exceedingly modest, very indifferent to money matters, charitable
and obliging in a quiet way, and though perhaps not inferior in
stagecraft, very elegant in his diction. When he liked, he could write
verses and dialogue which often reminded one of Moliere. It was not the
only trait he had in common with the great playwright. Moliere is said
to have consulted his housekeeper, Laforet, with regard to his
productions; M. de Saint-Georges was known to do the same--with this
difference, however, that he did not always attend to Marguerite's
suggestions, in which case Marguerite grew wroth, especially if the
piece turned out to be a success, in spite of her predictions of
failure. On such occasions the popular approval scarcely compensated M.
de Saint-Georges for his discomforts at home; for though Marguerite was
an admirable manager at all times--when she liked, though there was no
bachelor more carefully looked after than the author of "La Fille du
Regiment," he had now and then to bear the brunt of Marguerite's temper
when the public's verdict did not agree with hers.
[Footnote 13: One of the great wits of the
Revolution.--EDITOR.]
If under such circumstances M. de Saint-Georges ventured to give a
dinner, the viands were sure to be cold, the Bordeaux iced, and the
champagne lukewarm. M. de Saint-Georges, who, notwithstanding his
courtly manners, was candour itself, never failed to state the reasons
of his discomfiture as a host to his guests. "Que voulez vous, mes amis,
la piece n'a pas plu a Marguerite et le diner s'en ressent. Si je lui
faisais une observation, elle me repondrait comme elle m'a repondu deja
maintes fois. Le diner etait mauvais, vous dites? C'est possible, il
etait assez bien pour ceux qui ont eu le bon gout d'applaudir votre
piece hier-au-soir." Because Mdlle. Marguerite had a seat in the upper
boxes reserved for her at all the first representations of her master's
pieces. She did not always avail herself of the privilege at the Opera,
but she never missed a first night at the Opera-Comique. I have quoted
textually the words of M. de Saint-Georges on the morrow of the
_premiere_ of "Giselle," a ballet in two acts, written in collaboration
with Theophile Gautier. "'Giselle' had been a great success; Marguerite
had predicted a failure; hence we had a remarkably bad dinner."
I had had many opportunities of seeing Marguerite, and often wondered at
the secret of the tyranny she exercised. She was not handsome--scarcely
comely; she was not even as smart in her appearance as dozens of
servants I have seen, and her mental attainments, as far as I could
judge, were not above those of her own class. One can understand a
Turner, a Jean Jacques Rousseau, submitting to the influence of such a
low-born companion, because, after all, they, though men of genius,
sprang from the people, and may have felt awkward, ill at ease, in the
society of well-bred men and women, especially of women. Beranger
sometimes gave me that idea. But, as I have already said, no one could
mistake M. de Saint-Georges for anything but a well-bred man.
Notwithstanding his little affectations, his inordinate love of scents,
his somewhat effeminate surroundings, good breeding was patent at every
sentence, at every movement. He was not a genius, certainly not, but the
above remarks hold good of a man who _was_ a genius, and who sprang,
moreover, from the higher bourgeoisie of the eighteenth century--I am
alluding to Eugene Delacroix.