56. _Cabinet de démonstration de Physiologie et de Pathologie, au
Palais du Tribunat, No. 38, au premier._
Although, previously to the revolution, the taste for dramatic
amusements had imperceptibly spread, Paris could then boast of no
more than three principal theatres, exclusively of _l'Opéra Buffa_
introduced in 1788. These were _l'Opéra les Français_, and _les
Italiens_, which, with six inferior ones, called _petits spectacles_,
brought the whole of the theatres to ten in number. The subaltern
houses were incessantly checked in their career by the privileges
granted to the _Comédie Française_, which company alone enjoyed the
right to play first-rate productions: it also possessed that of
censorship, and sometimes exercised it in the most despotic manner.
Authors, ever in dispute with the comedians, who dictated the law to
them, solicited, but in vain, the opening of a second French theatre.
The revolution took place, and the unlimited number of theatres was
presently decreed. A great many new ones were opened; but the
attraction of novelty dispersing the amateurs, the number of
spectators did not always equal the expectation of the managers; and
the profits, divided among so many competitors, ceased to be
sufficiently productive for the support of every establishment of
this description. The consequence was, that several of them were soon
reduced to a state of bankruptcy.
Three theatres of the first and second rank have been destroyed by
fire within these two years, yet upwards of twenty are at present
open, almost every night, exclusively of several associations of
self-denominated _artistes-amateurs._
Amidst this false glare of dramatic wealth, theatres of the first
rank have imperceptibly declined, and at last fallen. It comes not
within my province or intention to seek the causes of this in the
defects of their management; but the fact is notorious. The _Théâtres
Favart_ and _Feydeau_, at each of which French comic operas were
chiefly represented, have at length been obliged to unite the
strength of their talents, and the disgrace which they have
experienced, has not affected any of those inferior playhouses where
subaltern performers establish their success on an assemblage of
scenes more coarse, and language more unpolished.
At the present moment, the government appear to have taken this
decline of the principal theatres into serious consideration. It is,
I understand, alike to be apprehended, that they may concern
themselves too little or too much in their welfare. Hitherto the
persons charged with the difficult task of upholding the falling
theatres of the first rank, have had the good sense to confine their
measures to conciliation; but, of late, it has been rumoured that the
stage is to be subjected to its former restrictions. The benefit
resulting to the art itself and to the public, from a rivalship of
theatres, is once more called in question: and some people even go so
far as to assert that, with the exception of a few abuses, the
direction of the _Gentils-hommes de la chambre_ was extremely good:
thence it should seem that the only difficulty is to find these lords
of the bed-chamber, if there be any still in being, in order to
restore to them their dramatic sceptre.[1]
Doubtless, the liberty introduced by the revolution has been, in many
respects, abused, and in too many, perhaps, relative to places of
public amusement. But must it, on that account, be entirely lost to
the stage, and falling into a contrary excess, must recourse be had
to arbitrary measures, which might also be abused by those to whose
execution they were intrusted? The unlimited number of theatres may
be a proper subject for the interference of the government: but as to
the liberty of the theatres, included in the number that may be fixed
on to represent pieces of every description, such only excepted as
may be hurtful to morals, seems to be a salutary and incontestable
principle. This it is that, by disengaging the French comic opera
from the narrow sphere to which it was confined, has, in a great
measure, effected a musical revolution, at which all persons of taste
must rejoice, by introducing on that stage the harmonic riches of
Italy. This too it is that has produced, on theatres of the second
and third rank, pieces which are neither deficient in regularity,
connexion, representation, nor decoration. The effect of such a
principle was long wanted here before the revolution, when the
independent spirit of dramatic authors was fettered by the
procrastinations of a set of privileged comedians, who discouraged
them by ungracious refusals, or disgusted them by unjust preferences.
Hence, the old adage in France that, when an author had composed a
good piece, he had performed but half his task; this was true, as the
more difficult half, namely, the getting it read and represented,
still remained to be accomplished.
As for the multiplicity of playhouses, it certainly belongs to the
government to limit their number, not by privileges which might be
granted through favour, or obtained, perhaps, for money. The taste of
the public for theatrical diversions being known, the population
should first be considered, as it is that which furnishes both money
and spectators. It would be easy to ascertain the proportion between
the population of the capital and the number of theatres which it
ought to comprise. Public places should be free as to the species of
amusement, but limited in their number, so as not to exceed the
proportion which the population can bear. The houses would then be
constantly well attended, and the proprietors, actors, authors, and
all those concerned in their success, secure against the consequences
of failure, and the true interest of the art be likewise promoted. In
a word, neither absolute independence, nor exclusive privilege should
prevail; but a middle course be adopted, in order to fix the fate of
those great scenic establishments, which, by forming so essential a
part of public diversion, have a proportionate influence on the
morals of the nation.
I have been led, by degrees, into these observations, not only from a
review of the decline of some of the principal playhouses here, but
also from a conviction that their general principle is applicable to
every other capital in Europe. What, for example, can be more absurd
than, in the dog-days, when room and air are particularly requisite,
that the lovers of dramatic amusement in the British metropolis are
to be crammed into a little theatre in the Haymarket, and stewed year
after year, as in a sweating-room at a bagnio, because half a century
ago an exclusive privilege was inconsiderately granted?
The playhouses here, in general, have been well attended this winter,
particularly the principal ones; but, in Paris, every rank has not
exactly its theatre as at a ball. From the _spectacles_ on the
_Boulevards_ to those of the first and second rank, there is a
mixture of company. Formerly, the lower classes confined themselves
solely to the former; at present, they visit the latter. An increase
of wages has enabled the workman to gratify his inclination for the
indulgence of a species of luxury; and, by a sort of instinct, he now
and then takes a peep at those scenes of which he before entertained,
from hearsay, but an imperfect idea.
If you wish to see a new or favourite piece, you must not neglect to
secure a seat in proper time; for, on such occasions, the house is
full long before the rising of the curtain. As to taking places in
the manner we do in England, there is no such arrangement to be made,
except, indeed, you choose to take a whole box, which is expensive.
In that case you pay for it at the time you engage it, and it is kept
locked the whole evening, or till you and your party, make your
appearance.[2]
At all the _spectacles_ in Paris, you are literally kept on the
outside of the house till you have received a ticket, in exchange for
your money, through an aperture in the exterior wall. Within a few
paces of the door of the principal theatres are two receiver's
offices, which are no sooner open, than candidates for admission
begin to form long ranks, extending from the portico into the very
street, and advance to them two abreast in regular succession. A
steady sentinel, posted at the aperture, repeats your wishes to the
receiver, and in a mild, conciliating manner, facilitates their
accomplishment. Other sentinels are stationed for the preservation of
order, under the immediate eye of the officer, who sees that every
one takes his turn to obtain tickets: however, it is not uncommon,
for forestallers to procure a certain number of them, especially at
the representation of a new or favourite piece, and offer them
privately at a usurious price which many persons are glad to pay
rather than fall into the rear of the ranks.
The method I always take to avoid this unpleasant necessity, I will
recommend to you as a very simple one, which may, perhaps, prevent
you from many a theatrical disappointment. Having previously informed
myself what _spectacle_ is best worth seeing, while I am at dinner I
send my _valet de place_, or if I cannot conveniently spare him, I
desire him to dispatch a _commissionnaire_ for the number of tickets
wanted, so that when I arrive at the theatre, I have only to walk in,
and place myself to the best advantage.
It is very wisely imagined not to establish the receiver's offices in
the inside of the house, as in our theatres. By this plan, however
great may be the crowd, the entrance is always unobstructed, and
those violent struggles and pressures, which among us have cost the
lives of many, are effectually prevented. You will observe that no
half-price is taken at any theatre in Paris; but in different parts
of the house, there are offices, called _bureaux de supplément_,
where, if you want to pass from one part of it to another, you
exchange your counter-mark on paying the difference.
Nothing can be better regulated than the present police, both
interior and exterior, of the theatres in Paris. The eye is not
shocked, as was formerly the case, by the presence of black-whiskered
grenadiers, occupying different parts of the house, and, by the
inflexible sternness of their countenance, awing the spectators into
a suppression of their feelings. No fusileer, with a fixed bayonet
and piece loaded with ball, now dictates to the auditors of the pit
that such a seat must hold so many persons, though several among them
might, probably, be as broad-bottomed as Dutchmen. If you find
yourself incommoded by heat or pressure, you are at liberty to
declare it without fear of giving offence. The criticism of a man of
taste is no longer silenced by the arbitrary control of a military
despot, who, for an exclamation or gesture, not exactly coinciding
with his own prepossessions, pointed him out to his myrmidons, and
transferred him at once to prison. You may now laugh with Molèire, or
weep with Racine, without having your mirth or sensibility thus
unseasonably checked in its expansion.
The existence of this despotism has been denied; but facts are
stubborn things, and I will relate to you an instance in which I saw
it most wantonly exercised. Some years ago I was present at the
_Théâtre Français_, when, in one of Corneille's pieces, Mademoiselle
Raucourt, the tragic actress, was particularly negligent in the
delivery of a passage, which, to do justice to the author, required
the nicest discrimination. An amateur in the _parterre_ reproved her,
in a very gentle manner, for a wrong emphasis. Being at this time a
favourite of the queen, she was, it seems, superior to admonition,
and persisted in her misplaced shrieks, till it became evident that
she set the audience at defiance: other persons then joined the
former in expressing their disapprobation. Instantly the _major_
singled out the leading critic: two grenadiers forced their way to
the place where he was seated, and conveyed him to prison for having
had the audacity to reprove an actress in favour at court. From such
improper exercise of authority, the following verse had become a
proverb:
_"II est bien des sifflets, mais nous avons la garde."_
Many there are, I know, who approved of this manner of bridling the
fickle Parisians, on the ground that they were so used to the curb
that they could no longer dispense with it. A guard on the outside of
a theatre is unquestionably necessary, and proper for the
preservation of order; but that the public should not be at liberty
to approve or condemn such a passage, or such an actor, is at once to
stifle the expression of that general opinion which alone can produce
good performers. The interior police of the theatre being at present
almost entirely in the hands of the public themselves, it is, on that
account, more justly observed and duly respected.
Considering the natural impetuosity of their character, one is
surprised at the patient tranquillity with which the French range
themselves in their places. Seldom do they interrupt the performance
by loud conversation, but exchange their thoughts in a whisper. When
one sees them applaud with rapture a tender scene, which breathes
sentiments of humanity or compassion, speaks home to every feeling
heart, and inspires the most agreeable sensations, one is tempted to
question whether the Parisians of the present day belong to the
identical race that could, at one time, display the ferocity of
tigers, and, at another, the tameness of lambs, while their nearest
relations and best friends were daily bleeding on the scaffold?
By the existing regulations, many of which are worthy of being
adopted in London, no theatre can be opened in Paris without the
permission of the police, who depute proper persons to ascertain that
the house is solidly built, the passages and outlets unincumbered and
commodious, and that it is provided with reservoirs of water, and an
adequate number of fire-engines.
Every public place that may be open, is to be shut up immediately,
if, for one single day, the proprietors neglect to keep the
reservoirs full of water, the engines in proper order, and the
firemen ready.
No persons can be admitted behind the scenes, except those employed
in the service of the theatre. Nor is the number of tickets
distributed to exceed that of the persons the house can conveniently
hold.
No coachman, under any pretext whatever, can quit the reins of his
horses, while the persons he has driven, are getting out of or into
their carriage. Indeed, the necessity of his doing so is obviated by
porters stationed at the door of the theatres, and appointed by the
police. They are distinguished by a brass plate, on which their
permission and the name of the theatre are engraved.
At all the theatres in Paris, there is an exterior guard, which is at
the disposal of the _civil_ officer, stationed there for the
preservation of order. This guard cannot enter the inside of the
theatre but in case of the safety of the public being exposed, and at
the express requisition of the said officer, who can never introduce
the armed force into the house, till after he has, in a loud voice,
apprized the audience of his intention.
Every citizen is bound to obey, _provisionally_, the officer of
police. In consequence, every person invited by the officer of
police, or summoned by him, to quit the house, is immediately to
repair to the police-office of the theatre, in order to give such
explanations as may be required of him. The said officer may either
transfer him to the competent tribunal, or set him at liberty,
according to circumstances.
Proper places are appointed for carriages to wait at. When the play
is ended, no carriage in waiting can move till the first crowd coming
out of the house has disappeared. The commanding officer of the guard
on duty decides the moment when carriages may be called.
No carriage can move quicker than a foot-pace, and but on a single
rank, till it has got clear of the streets in the vicinity of the
theatre. Nor can it arrive thither but by the streets appointed for
that purpose.
Two hours before the rising of the curtain, sentinels are placed in
sufficient number to facilitate the execution of these orders, and to
prevent any obstruction in the different avenues of the theatre.
Indeed, obstruction is now seldom seen; I have more than once had the
curiosity to count, and cause to be counted, all the _private_
carriages in waiting at the grand French opera, on a night when the
boxes were filled with the most fashionable company. Neither I nor my
_valet de place_ could ever reckon more than from forty to fifty;
whereas, formerly, it was not uncommon to see here between two and
three hundred; and the noise of so many equipages rattling through
the streets, from each of the principal theatres, sufficiently
indicated that the performance was ended.
By the number of advertisements in the _petites affiches_ or daily
advertiser of Paris, offering a reward for articles lost, no doubt
can exist of there being a vast number of pickpockets in this gay
capital; and a stranger must naturally draw such an inference from
observing where the pockets are placed in men's clothes: in the coat,
it is in the inside of the facing, parallel to the breast: in the
waistcoat, it is also in the inside, but lower down, so that when a
Frenchman wants to take out his money, he must go through the
ceremony of unbuttoning first his surtout, if he wears one in winter,
then his coat, and lastly his waistcoat. In this respect, the ladies
have the advantage; for, as I have already mentioned, they wear no
pockets.
[Footnote 1: During the old _régime_, the theatres were under the
control of the _Gentils-hommes de la chambre_, but at the
establishment of the directorial government, they were placed in the
power of the Minister of the Interior, in whose department they have
since continued. Of late, however, it is asserted, that they are each
to be under the direction of a Prefect of the Palace.]
[Footnote 2: Independently of the boxes reserved for the officers of
the staff of the city of Paris, and those at the head of the police,
who have individually free admission to all the _spectacles_ on
producing their ivory ticket, there is also a box at each theatre
appropriated to the Minister of Public Instruction.]