When Sophie Arnould retired from the stage, she took a house near the
Palais Royal, and extended as brilliant a hospitality as ever. She was
as celebrated for her practical jokes as for her witticisms, of which
the following freak is a good example: One evening in 1780 she gave a
grand supper, to which, among others, she invited M. Barthe, author of
"Les Fausses Infidélités," and many similar pieces. He was inflated
with vanity, though he was totally ignorant of everything away from the
theatre, and was, in fact, one of those individuals who actually seem
to court mystification and practical jokes. Mlle. Arnould instructed her
servant Jeannot, and had him announced pompously under the title of the
Chevalier de Médicis, giving M. Barthe to understand that the young man
was an illegitimate son of the house of Medici. The pretended nobleman
appeared to be treated with respect and distinction by the company, and
he spoke to the poet with much affability, professing great admiration
for his works. M. Barthe was enchanted. He was in a flutter of gratified
vanity, and, to show his delight at the condescension of the chevalier,
he proposed to write an epic poem in honor of his house. This farce
lasted during the evening. The assembled company were in convulsions of
suppressed laughter, which broke out when, at the moment of M. Barthe's
most ecstatic admiration and respect for his new patron, Sophie Arnould
lifted her glass, and, looking at the chevalier, said, in a clear voice,
"Your health, Jeannot!" The sensations of poor M. Barthe may readily be
imagined. The incident became the story of the day in all circles, and
the unlucky poet could not go anywhere for fear of being tormented about
"Jeannot."
At length she withdrew completely from the follies, passions, and
cares of the world, and bought an ancient monastic building, formerly
belonging to the monks of St. Francis, near Luzarches, eighteen or
twenty miles from Paris. This grim residence she decorated luxuriously
in its interior, and over the door inscribed the ecclesiastical motto,
"Ite missa est." Here she remained during the earlier storms of the
Revolution, though she occasionally went to Paris at the risk of her
head to gratify her curiosity about the republican management of opera,
which presented some very unique features. The reader will be interested
in some brief pictures of the revolutionary opera.
It was directed by four distinguished _sans culottes_--Henriot,
Chaumette, Le Rouxand, and Hébert. The nominal director, however, was
Francoeur, the same who first brought out Sophie Arnould in Louis XV.'s
time. Henriot, Danton, Hébert, and other chiefs of the Revolution would
hardly take a turn in the _coulisses_ or _foyer_ before they would say
to some actor or actress: "We are going to your room; see that we are
received properly." This of course meant a superb collation; and, after
emptying many bottles of the costliest wines, the virtuous republicans
would retire without troubling themselves on the score of expense. As
this was a nightly occurrence, and the poor actors had no money, the
expense fell on the restaurateur, who was compelled to console himself
by the reflection that it was in the cause of liberty. Oftentimes the
executioner, the dreaded Sanson, who as public official had the right of
entree, would stroll in and in a jocular tone emphasize his abilities as
a critic by saying to the singers that his opinion on the _execution_ of
the music ought to be respected.*
* So, too, the London hangman one night went into the pit of
her Majesty's Theatre to hear Jenny Lind sing, and remarked
with a sigh of professional longing, "Ah, what a throat to
scrag!"
Operatic kings and queens were suppressed, and the titles of royalty
were prohibited both on the stage and in the greenroom. It was
necessary, indeed, to use the old monarchical répertoire; but kings
were transformed into chiefs; princes and dukes became members of the
Convention or representatives of the people; seigneurs became mayors,
and substitutes were found for words like "crown," "scepter," "throne,"
etc. There was one great difficulty to overcome. This was met by placing
the scenes of the new operas in Italy, Portugal, etc.--anywhere but in
France, where it was indispensable from a political point of view, but
impossible from the poetic and musical, to make lovers address each
other as _citoyen, citoyenne_.
Hébert would frequently display proscriptive lists in the green-room,
including the names of many of the actors and other operatic employees,
and say, "I shall have to send you all to the guillotine some day, but
I have been prevented hitherto by the fact that you have conduced to
my amusement." The stratagem which saved them was to get the ferocious
Hébert drunk, for he loved wine as well as blood, and steal the fatal
document. However, this operatic _dilettante_ always appeared with
a fresh one next day. One bloodthirsty republican, Lefebvre, who was
ambitious for musical fame, insisted on singing first characters. He
appeared as _primo tenore_, and was hissed; he then tried his luck as
first bass, and was again hissed by his friends the _sans culottes_.
Enraged by the _fiasco_, he attributed it to the machinations of a
counter-revolution, and nearly persuaded Robespierre to give him a
platoon of musketeers to fire on the infamous emissaries of "Pitt and
Coburg." Yet, though the Reign of Terror was a fearful time for art
and artists, there were sixty-three theatres open, and they were always
crowded in spite of war, famine, and the guillotine.
It was fortunate for Sophie Arnould that her connection with the opera
had closed prior to this dreadful period. As stated previously, she
remained undisturbed during the early years of the Revolution. Only
once a band of _sans culottes_ invaded her retreat. To their suspicious
questions she answered by assurances of loving the republic devotedly.
Her unconsciously satirical smile aroused distrust, and they were about
hurrying her off to prison, when she pointed out a bust of Gluck, and
inquired if she would keep a bust of Marat if she were not loyal to
the republic. This satisfied her intelligent inquisitors, and they
retreated, saying, "She is a good _citoyenne_, after all," as they
saluted the marble. During this time she was still rich, having thirty
thousand livres a year. But misfortunes thickened, and in two years she
had lost nearly every franc. Obliged to go to Paris to try to save the
wreck of her estate, she found her hosts of friends dissipated like the
dew, all guillotined, shot, exiled, or imprisoned.
A gleam of sunshine came, however, in the kindness of Fouché, the
Minister of Police, an old lover. One morning the Minister received
the message of an unknown lady visitor. On receiving her he instantly
recognized the still beautiful and sparkling lineaments of the woman he
had once adored. Fouché, touched, heard her story, and by his powerful
intercession secured for her a pension of twenty-four hundred livres and
handsome apartments in the Hôtel D'Angevil-liers. Here she speedily drew
around her again the philosophers and fashionables, the poets and the
artists of the age; and the Sophie Arnould of the golden days of old
seemed resurrected in the vivacity and brilliancy of the talk from which
time and misfortune had taken nothing of its pungent salt. In 1803 she
died obscurely; and the same year there also passed out of the world
two other celebrated women, the great actress Clairon and the singer De
Beaumesnil, once Sophie's rival.
Lord Mount Edgcumbe, in his "Musical Reminiscences," speaks of Sophie
Arnould, whom he heard in ante-revolutionary days, as a woman of
entrancing beauty and very great dramatic genius. This connoisseur tells
us too that her voice, though limited in range and not very flexible,
was singularly rich, strong, and sweet, fitting her exceptionally for
the performance of the simple and noble arias of Gluck, which were
rather characterized by elevation and dramatic warmth than florid
ornamentation. Her place in art is, therefore, as the finest
contemporary interpreter of Wagner's greater predecessor.