reckoned among the latter a piece called ‘Venez,’ which was first
produced, a few years ago, at Liége. A chief incident in the piece is
where a pretty actress, seeking an engagement, is required by the young
manager, as a test of her competency, to give to the above word as many
varied intonations as might be possible. One of these proves to be so
exquisitely seductive that the manager offers a permanent engagement
for life, which is duly accepted. From Liége to Compiègne is a long
step, but it brings us to another eccentricity. Nine years ago, at one
of the Imperial revels there, certain of the courtiers and visitors
acted in an apropos piece, named ‘Les Commentaires de César.’ The
Prince Imperial represented the Future, without having the slightest
idea of it. Prosper Mérimée, Academician, poet, and historian, acted
the Past, of which he had often written so picturesquely. In the more
farcical part which followed the prologue, the most prominent personage
was the Princesse de Metternich (wife of the Austrian ambassador), who
played the part of a French cabman out on strike. She tipped forth the
Paris slang, and sang a character song, with an audacity which could
not be surpassed by the boldest of singing actresses at any of the
popular minor theatres. The august audience were convulsed at this
manifestation of high dramatic art--in its way! These fêtes led to much
extravagance in dress, and to much contention thereon between actresses
and managers.
The directors of the Palais Royal Theatre have frequently been at
law with their first ladies. Mdlle. Louisa Ferraris, in 1864, signed
an engagement to play there for three years at a salary beginning at
2,400 francs, and advancing to 3,000 and 3,600 francs, with a forfeit
clause of 12,000 francs. The salary would hardly have sufficed to pay
the lady’s shoemaker. In the course of the engagement the ‘Foire aux
Grotesques’ was put in rehearsal. In the course of this piece Mdlle.
Ferraris had to say to another actress, ‘I was quite right in not
inviting you to my ball, for you could not have come in a new dress,
as you owe your dressmaker 24,000 francs!’ As this actress was really
deeply indebted to that important personage, she begged that this
speech, which seemed a deliberate insult to her, might be altered.
Mdlle. Ferraris, in spite of the authors, who readily changed the
objectionable phrase, continued, however, to repeat the original words.
As she was peremptorily ordered to omit them she flung up her part,
whereupon the directors applied to the law to cancel her engagement
for breach of contract, and to award them 12,000 francs damages.
Mademoiselle repented and offered to resume the part. On this being
declined she entered a cross action to gain the 12,000 francs for
breach of contract on the directors’ side. The Tribunal de Commerce,
after consideration, cancelled the engagement, but condemned Mdlle.
Ferraris to pay 2,000 francs damages and the costs of suit. It is to
the stage, and not to the empress, that inordinate luxury in dress
is to be attributed. Sardou, in ‘La Famille Bénoiton,’ has been
stigmatised as the forerunner of such an exaggerated luxury that no
private purse was sufficient to pay for the toilette of a woman whose
maxim was, _La mode à tout prix_.
Two or three years ago there was an actress at the Palais Royal Theatre
known as Antonia de Savy. Her real name was Antoinette Jathiot. Her
salary was 1,200 francs for the first year, 1,800 francs for the
second: not three-and-sixpence a night in English money. But out of the
three-and-sixpences Mdlle. Antonia was bound to provide herself with
‘linen, shoes, stockings, head-dresses, and all theatrical costumes
requisite for her parts, except foreign costumes totally different
from anything habitually worn in France.’ For any infringement of
these terms Mademoiselle was to pay a fine of 10,000 francs--about
her salary for half-a-dozen years. Circumstances led Antonia to be
wayward, and the management entered on a suit for the cancelling of
the engagement on the ground of her refusing to play a particular
part, and her unpunctuality. Her counsel, M. G. Chaix d’Est Ange,
pleaded that the lady was a minor, that her father had not given his
consent to such an engagement, and that it was an imposition on her
youth and inexperience. The other side replied that Mdlle. Jathiot
had ceased to be a minor since the engagement was signed; that as
to her inexperience, she was a very experienced young lady in the
ways of Parisian life; that the engagement was concluded with her
because she dressed in the most magnificent style, and that it would
be profitable to the theatre as well as to herself to exhibit those
magnificent dresses on the stage; and that as to her respected sire,
he was a humble clerk, living in a garret in the Rue Saint-Lazare,
and had no control whatever over a daughter who lived in the style of
a princess, spent fabulous sums in maintaining it, and had the most
perfect ‘turn-out’ in the way of carriage, horses, and servants in the
French capital. The plaintiffs asked to be relieved from this modest
young lady, and to be awarded damages for her insubordination and
unpunctuality. The Tribunal de Commerce ordered the engagement to be
cancelled, and the defendant to pay 1500 francs damages and the costs
of suit. But the Imperial Court of Appeal took another view of the
case. They refused in any way to sanction such an immoral notion as
that the terms of the contract were not disadvantageous for the minor
because it was known that she got her living in a way that could not
be avowed. They quashed the judgment of the Tribunal de Commerce, and
ordered the managers of the Palais Royal to pay all the costs.
The most singular of all law cases between French actresses and
managers was one the names of the parties to which have slipped
out of my memory. It arose out of the refusal of a young actress,
who had not lost her womanly modesty, to ‘go on’ in the dress
provided for her, which would hardly have afforded her more covering
than a postage-stamp. In the lawsuit which followed this act of
insubordination, the modest young lady was defeated, and was rebuked
by the magistrate for infringing the laws of the stage, of which
the manager was the irresponsible legislator! The actress preferred
the cancelling of her engagement to the degradation of such nightly
exposure as was demanded by the manager and was sanctioned by the
magistrate.
I have said above that the eccentric extravagance of dress--the other
extreme from next to none at all--was not a consequence of an example
set by the empress. But there is something to be said on both sides.
Only two years ago Mdlles. Fargueil, Bernhardt, and Desclées made
public protest against the _pièces aux robes_, in which they were
required to dress like empresses (of fashion) at their own expense.
They traced the ruinous custom to the period when the Imperial Court
was at Compiègne, and when the actresses engaged or ‘invited’ to play
to the august company there were required by the inexorable rule of the
Court to obey the sumptuary laws which regulated costume. Every lady
was invited for three days; each day she was to wear three different
dresses, and no dress was to be worn a second time. Count Bacciochi,
the grand chamberlain, kept a sharp eye on the ladies of the drama.
Histrionic queens and countesses were bound to be attired as genuinely
as the historical dignitaries themselves. The story might be romance,
the outward and visible signs were to be all reality. The awful Grand
Chamberlain once banished an actress from the Court stage at Compiègne
for the crime of wearing mock pearls when she was playing the part of a
duchess!
This evil fashion, insisted on by dreadful Grand Chamberlains, was
adopted by Paris managers, who hoped to attract by dresses--the very
skirt of any one of which would swallow more than a _vicaire’s_ yearly
income--and by a river of diamonds on a fair neck, whatever might
be in the head above it. A young actress who hoped to live by such
salary as her brains alone could bring her, and who would presume to
wear sham jewellery or machine-made lace, was looked upon as a poor
creature who would never have a reputation--that is, such a reputation
as her gorgeously attired sisters, who did not particularly care to
have _any_ but that for which the most of them dressed themselves.
When the empire fell the above-named actresses thought that a certain
republican simplicity might properly take the place of an imperial
magnificence. Or they maintained that if stage-ladies were required to
find stage-dresses that cost twenty times their salary, the cost of
providing such dresses should fall on the stage-proprietors, and not
on the stage-ladies. It is said that the bills Mdlle. Fargueil had to
pay for her dresses in ‘La Famille Bénoiton’ and ‘Patrie’ represented
a sum total which, carefully invested, would have brought her in a
comfortable annuity! This may be a little exaggerated, but the value
of the dresses may be judged of from one fact, namely, that the Ghent
lace which Mdlle. Fargueil wore on her famous blue dress in ‘La Famille
Bénoiton’ was worth very nearly 500_l._
How the attempt to introduce ‘moderation’ into the stage laws of
costume has succeeded, the most of us have seen. It has not succeeded
at all. Certain actresses are proud to occupy that bad preeminence from
which they are able to set the fashion. ‘_Mon chancelier vous dira le
reste!_’
One of the eccentricities of the modern French stage is the way in
which it deals with the most delicate, or, rather, the most indelicate
subjects and people. The indelicate people and subject may indeed be
coarsely represented and outspoken, but they must observe certain
recognised, though undefined rules. There must be an innocent young
lady among the wicked people, and the lady (the _ingénue_) and her
ingenuousness must be respected. One fly may taint a score of carcases
and make a whole pot of ointment stink, but one _ingénue_ keeps a
French piece of nastiness comparatively pure, and the public taste
for the impure is satisfied with this little bit of sentimentality.
The subjects which many French authors have brought on the stage do
not, it is to be hoped, hold a true mirror up to French nature. If
so, concubinage, adultery, and murder reign supreme. The changes have
been rung so often on this triple theme that an anonymous writer
has proposed that the theme should be represented, once for all, in
something of the following form, and that dramatic authors should
then turn to fresh woods and pastures new: ‘Scene.--A Drawing-room;
a married lady is seated, her lover at her feet; the folding-door at
back opens, and discovers husband with a double-barrelled revolver.
He fires and kills married lady and her lover. Husband then advances
and contemplates his victims. After a pause, he exclaims: “A thousand
pardons! I have come to a room on the wrong flat!” Curtain slowly
descends.’ This represents quite as faithfully the iniquities which,
according to the modern French drama, prevail universally in society,
as the dramas of Florian achieve the mission which was assigned to him
of illustrating _les petites vertus de tous les jours_--the little
virtues of everyday life.
The name of Mademoiselle Aimée Desclées reminds me of our Lord
Chamberlain. Extremes meet, in the mind as well as elsewhere! That
actress, who, after many years of hard struggle, floated triumphantly
as La Dame aux Camélias, and after a few years’ progress over sunny
seas slowly sank in sight of port, was discovered and brought out by M.
Dumas _fils_. A year or two ago she came to London with his plays, the
above ‘Dame,’ the ‘Princesse Georges,’ the ‘Visite de Noces,’ and some
others. But they stank in the nostrils of our Lord Chamberlain, and he
would no more allow them to be produced than the Lord Mayor would allow
corrupt meat to be exposed for sale in a City market. Great was the
outcry that arose thereupon, from the French inhabitants, and some of
the ignorant natives of London. The Chamberlain’s prudery and English
delicacy generally were made laughing-stocks. But, gently! Is it known
that the French themselves have raised fiercer outcry against plays
which our Lord Chamberlain has refused to license than ever Jeremy
Collier raised against that disgusting school of English comedy which
Dryden founded, and the filth of which was not compensated for by the
wit, such as it is, of Congreve, or the humour, if it may be so called,
of Wycherly? The _Gaulois_ and the _Figaro_, papers which cannot be
charged with over straitlacedness, have blushed at the adulterous
comedy of France as deeply as the two harlequins at Southwark Fair
blushed at the blasphemy of Lord Sandwich. A French critic, M.
Fournier, referring to the ‘Visite de Noces’ of the younger Dumas,
remarks that ‘the theatre ought not to be a surgical operating theatre,
or a dissecting-room. There are operations,’ he adds, ‘which should
not be performed on the stage, unless, indeed, a placard be posted at
the doors, “Women not admitted!”’ With respect to this suggestion, M.
Hostein, another critic, says: ‘People ask if the “Visite de Noces” be
proper for ladies to see. Men generally reply with an air of modesty,
that no woman who respects herself would go to see it. Capital puff!’
exclaims M. Hostein, ‘they flock to it in crowds!’ Not _all_, however.
Not even all men. Men with a regard for ‘becomingness’ are warned by
indignant French critics. The dramatic critic of the ‘France’ thus
vigorously speaks to the point: ‘We say it with regret, with sadness,
in no other country, no other civilised city, in no other theatre of
Europe, would the new piece of M. Dumas _fils_ be possible, and we
doubt whether there could be found elsewhere than in Paris a public who
would applaud it even by mistake. The “Visite de Noces” has obtained
a striking and decided success; so much the worse for the author and
for us. If our tastes, if our sentiments, if our conscience be so
perjured and perverted that we accept without repugnance and encourage
with our cheers such pictures, we are truly _en décadence_.’ Such is
the judgment of the leading critics. One of them, indeed, tersely
said, ‘the piece will have a success of indignation and money.’ The
public provided both, and the author accepted the latter. The women
who were of his audience and were _not_ indignant were of the same
nature as those who listen to cases in our divorce courts. But the Lord
Chamberlain is fully justified in refusing a licence to play French
pieces which French critics have denounced as degrading to the moral
and the national character. The only fault to be found is in the manner
of the doing it; which in the Chamberlain’s servants takes a rude and
boorish expression. Meanwhile, let us remark that the attention of
the Lord Chamberlain might well be directed to other matters under
his control. If a fire, some night, break out in a crowded theatre
(where, every night, there is imminent peril) he will be asked if he
had officially done all in his power to prevent such a calamity. And
if he were to put restraint on the performances of certain licenced
places of amusement, husseydom might deplore it, but there would be
one danger the less for young men for whose especial degradation these
entertainments seem at present to be permitted. While this matter is
being thought of, a study of that old-fashioned book ‘The Elegant
Letter-Writer,’ would perhaps improve the style of the Chamberlain’s
_subs_, and would not be lost on certain young gentlemen of Oxford.
If not among the eccentricities--at least among the marvels of
modern French-actress life--may be considered the highly dramatic
entertainments given by some of the ladies in their own homes.
Like the historical tallow-chandler, who, after retiring from business,
went down to the old manufactory on melting days, the actor, generally
speaking, never gets altogether out of his profession. Some who retire
give ‘readings,’ or return periodically to the stage, after no end of
‘final farewells’ for positively the last time, and nothing is more
common than to see concert singers (on holiday) at concerts. French
actresses have been especially addicted to keeping to their vocation,
even in their amusements. If they are not at the theatre they have
private theatricals at home; and, if not private theatricals, at least
what comes next to them, or most nearly resembles them.
In the grand old days of the uninterrupted line of French actresses
there was a Mdlle. Duthé, who was first in the second line of
accomplished players. She was of the time of, and often a substitute
for, Mdlle. Clairon. The latter was never off the stage. She was always
acting. When she was released from Fort l’Évêque, where she had been
imprisoned for refusing to act with Dubois, whom she considered as
a disgrace to the profession, Clairon said to a bevy of actresses
in her heroic way, ‘The King may take my life, or my property, but
not my honour!’ ‘No, dear,’ responded the audacious Sophie Arnould,
‘certainly not. Where there is nothing, the King loses his rights!’
Mdlle. Duthé belonged to these always-acting actresses. She is the
first on record who gave a _bal costumé_--a ball to which every guest
was to come in a theatrical or fancy dress. This was bringing amateur
acting into the ball-room. The invitation included the entire company
of the Théâtre Français, every one of whom came in a tragedy suit.
The non-professionals, authors, artists, _abbés_, _noblesse_, and
_gentils-hommes_ also donned character dresses; and ball and supper
constituted a wonderful success. An entertainment similar to the
above was given when Louis Philippe was king, by Mdlle. Georges, the
great _tragédienne_. All who were illustrious in literature, fine
arts, diplomacy, and so forth, elbowed one another in the actress’s
suite of splendid rooms. Théophile Gautier, we are told, figured as
an incroyable, Jules Janin as a Natchez Indian, and Victor Hugo, who
now takes the ‘Radical’ parts, was present _en Palicare_. But the most
striking of what may be called these amateur theatrical balls was
given last April by M. and Mdme. Judic, or rather by the latter, in
the name of both. According to the ‘Paris Journal,’ such things are
easily done--if you are able to do them. If you have an exquisitely
arranged house, though small, you may get three hundred dancers into it
with facility. You have only, if your house is in France, to send for
Belloir, who will clap a glass cover to your court-yard, lay carpets
here, hang tapestry there, place mirrors right and left from floor
to ceiling, and scatter flowers and chandeliers everywhere, and the
thing is done--particularly if you have an account at your bankers’.
Something like this was done on the night of Saturday, April 19, 1873,
when ‘La Rosière d’ici’ invited her guests to come in theatrical
array to her ball, which was to begin at midnight. According to the
descriptions of this spring festival, which were circulated by oral
or printed report, not every one was invited who would fain have been
there. The select company numbered the choicest of the celebrities of
the stage, art, and literature (with few exceptions), and _therefore_
the ‘go’ and the gaiety of the _fête_ never paused for a single instant.
As for the costumes, says Jehan Valter, they who did not see the
picturesque, strange, and fantastic composition, have never seen
anything. Never was coachman so perfect a coachman as Grénier.
Never was waggoner more waggoner than Grévin. Moreover, there were
peasants from every quarter of the world, of every colour, and of
every age. There were stout market porters, incroyables, jockeys,
brigands, waltzing, schottisching, and mazourkaing; for the dance
went fast and furious on that memorable evening (or rather,
Sunday morning). And no wonder, for among the ladies were Madame
Judic, in the costume of a village bride; with Mesdames Moissier,
Gabrielle Gautier, Massart, and Gérandon, as the bridesmaids.
Alice Regnault was a châtelaine of the mediæval period, Hielbron
and Damain (the latter, the younger of the sister actresses
of that name, who played so charmingly little conversational
pieces in English drawing-rooms during the Franco-German war),
were country lasses; and, among others, were Blanche D’Antigny,
Debreux, Léontine Spelier, Esther David, Gournay, &c., &c.--in
short, all the young and pretty actresses of the capital were
present. At four o’clock in the morning a splendid supper brought
all the guests together, after which dancing was resumed till
seven. The festival terminated by the serving of a _soupe à
l’oignon à la paysanne_; this stirrup-cup of rustic onion soup was
presented in little bowls, with a wooden spoon in each! The sun
had been up a very long time before the last of the dancers, loth
to depart, had entered their carriages on their way home.
Such is the newest form in which theatrical celebrities get up and
enjoy costume-balls after their fashion.
One eccentric matter little understood in this country is co-operation,
or collaboration, in the production of French pieces. There is an old
story of an ambitious gentleman offering M. Scribe many thousand francs
to be permitted to have his name associated with that of M. Scribe
as joint authors of a piece by the former, of which the ambitious
gentleman was to be allowed to write a line, to save his honour. Scribe
wrote in reply that it was against Scripture to yoke together a horse
and an ass. ‘I should like to know,’ asked the gentleman, ‘what right
you have to call me a horse?’ This showed that the gentleman had wit
enough to become a partner in a dramatic manufactory. Indeed, much less
than wit--a mere idea, is sufficient to qualify a junior partner. The
historian of ‘La Collaboration au Théâtre,’ M. Goizot, states that a
young provincial once called on Scribe with a letter of introduction
and a little comedy, in manuscript. Scribe talked with him, promised
to read the piece, and civilly dismissed him. The provincial youth
returned _au pays_, hoped, waited, and despaired; finally, at the
end of a year, he went up to Paris, and again called on M. Scribe.
With difficulty the dramatist recognised him; with more difficulty
could he recollect the manuscript to which his visitor referred, but
after consulting a note-book, he took out a manuscript vaudeville of
his own and proposed to read it to the visitor. It was that of his
popular piece ‘La Chanoinesse.’ The visitor submitted, but he became
delighted as he listened. The reading over, he ventured to refer to his
own manuscript. ‘I have just read it to you,’ said Scribe, ‘with my
additions. Your copy had an idea in it; ideas are to me everything. I
have made use of yours, and you and I are authors of “La Chanoinesse.”’
Collaboration rarely enables us to see the share of each author in the
work. The bouquet we fling to the successful pair is smelt by both. The
lately deceased Mr. P. Lébrun made the reception speech when M. Émile
Angier was admitted to one of the forty seats of the French Academy.
There was a spice of sarcasm in the following words addressed to one
of the two authors of ‘Le Gendre de M. Poirier:’ ‘What is your portion
therein? and are we not welcoming, not only yourself, to the Academy,
but also your _collaborateur_ and friend?’ The fact is that in the
highest class of co-operative work the work itself is founded on a
single thought. The thought is discussed through all its consequences,
till the moment for giving it dramatic action arrives, and then the
pens pursue their allotted work. There is, however, another method. MM.
Legouvé and Prosper Dinaux wrote their drama of ‘Louise de Lignerolles’
in this way. The two authors sat face to face at the same table, and
wrote the first act. The two results were read, compared, and finally,
out of what was considered the best work in the two, a new act was
selected with some new writing in addition. Thus three acts were really
constructed to build up one. This ponderous method is not followed
by many writers. Indeed, how some co-operative dramatists work is
beyond conjecture. A vaudeville in one act sometimes has four authors;
indeed, several of these single-act pieces have been advertised as the
work of a dozen; in one case, according to M. Goizot, of _sixteen_
authors, who probably chatted, laughed, drank, and smoked the piece
into existence at a café; and the piece becoming a reality, the whole
company of revellers were named as the many fathers of that minute
bantling.