The visitor to Paris may witness a kind of theatrical performance which
is strikingly different from any that can be seen in Great Britain.
We refer to the Théâtre des Menus Plaisirs, in the Boulevard de
Strasbourg. Part of the entertainment here consists in certain of the
actors and actresses criticising the performances which are proceeding
upon the stage, from seats in various parts of the house—pit,
circle, and gallery—which they have quietly got into unobserved by
the audience. They assume the _rôle_ of ordinary spectators who
find themselves compelled in the interests of literature and art to
remonstrate in a rather extraordinary manner against what they see and
hear upon the stage; and the surprise of the uninitiated when the ball
is set rolling is considerable.
The manager comes upon the stage and begins a modest speech upon past
successes and future prospects; but he has not far advanced in his
speech when a gentleman rises in the stalls, with hat in hand, and in
the most respectful manner corrects him with regard to a word which he
declares to be ill chosen and misleading, at the same time obliging
the manager with the correct word. Here another gentleman introduces
himself into the dispute, and complicates matters by a new suggestion,
which involves the subject in inextricable confusion and absurdity.
Both gentlemen are extremely polite, but firm in denying the right of
the manager to that word; and the latter is driven frantic, and retires
from the stage glaring at his antagonists.
Silence for a few seconds succeeds this scene, when suddenly a man
in the front seat of the gallery starts up from his seat with a wild
cry, throws one leg over the gallery, hangs forward suspended from the
railing, and gazes towards the pit entrance of the theatre. He sees
something of absorbing interest, and with another cry he is about to
throw himself over the gallery. The people scream; and then he finds
he has been mistaken; he resumes a normal position, and looking round
upon the audience with a kindly smile, which strangely contrasts with
his late look of anxiety, he asks pardon for unnecessarily disturbing
their composure, and resumes his seat. A tenor singer now comes upon
the stage and commences a song; but the two critics in the stalls are
particular, and take exception to his style; they do so with manifest
regret, but the principles of art must be attended to. With profuse
apologies, and an expressed hope that he will proceed with his song
in the corrected form, the critics resume their seats. The tenor, at
first exasperated, becomes mollified by the courteous manners of the
gentlemen, and begins his song again; but almost immediately a lady
sitting in the front seat of the circle tells him that he is in danger
of dropping his moustache. This last is the final ‘straw’ on the back
of the vocalist, and he retires in high dudgeon.
By the side of the lady in the circle there sits a meek-looking old
gentleman, who being naturally shocked at the conduct of his wife,
puts on his hat as if to leave the theatre; but the better-half is
equal to the occasion, and knocks his hat over the meek old gentleman’s
eyes, and the meek old gentleman himself back into his seat. Presently
several actresses appear upon the stage, and one of them commences
to sing, with probably a pleasing sympathetic voice; but such is not
the opinion of the lady, who holds the singer up to ridicule. The
vocalist then stops, and engages in a verbal and violent encounter
with her persecutor, who from her place in the ‘circle’ returns the
badinage with interest, so that soon the other retires from the stage
vanquished. The victor is now asked herself to sing, a request with
which she readily complies, singing with abundant action and in good
voice an exceedingly catching song, and at the chorus, giving a royal
wave of the hands towards the gallery to join with her at that point.
The stranger will be surprised to learn that this disturbing element
in the audience, in reality comes from behind the scenes; the lady who
has just sung is the leading member of the company, and the gentlemen
critics are well-known and highly appreciated comedians. And though
the stranger may think that all this is an impromptu disturbance, it
is quite certain that all is rehearsed as carefully as any play that
is put upon the stage. How long such a performance would secure the
favour of a London audience, is doubtful; here, however, it is an
abiding success, is received with immense applause—the _claqueurs_ or
professional applauders being apparently altogether dispensed with—and
the audience is kept in continual hilarity by the humorous attack and
by the instant and witty reply.
Within the Parisian theatres the visitor may derive some amusement from
observing the operations of the _claqueurs_, who are employed at the
principal establishments to augment the enthusiasm of the audience.
The men who compose this body of professional applauders appear to
belong to the artisan class; they number from forty to fifty, that is
they are about a hundred hands all told. They occupy the front row of
seats in the second or third gallery, so that to observe them and their
movements it is necessary to occupy a place in one of the galleries.
Their leader sits in their midst, ever ready at the points marked for
him by author or manager to give the signal which ‘brings down the
house.’ As the moment arrives when _the_ bon-mot shall be uttered, the
_chef_ breathes upon his hands, then stretches them slightly upwards,
while he at the same time looks right and left along his ranks. This
is equivalent to ‘Attention’ or ‘Prepare to fire a volley.’ Each man
is now at the ‘ready,’ and waits anxiously upon the _chef_. When the
_mot_ is uttered, he brings his hands together with a frantic wave,
and the others simultaneously with him make a very respectable, even
enthusiastic show of applause. At the end of a song the leader starts
the cry _Ploo, ploo_ (plus, signifying more), in which all join; this,
which is equivalent to our ‘Encore,’ sounds in the stranger’s ears more
like hooting than aught else; but it is no doubt as welcome to the
French actor as a good British cheer is to an English one.
This little army, like all others, has its awkward squad. One evening
at the ‘Renaissance’ we observed the _chef_ to become very uneasy on
account of one who was exceedingly remiss in his duty; not only was the
amount of applause when given small in volume, but once when the signal
was given he entirely neglected to comply with it. This was gall and
wormwood to the leader, who really seemed a very earnest hard-working
man in his profession; so after finishing the round of applause, he
‘went for’ that awkward man, remonstrated with him, and even gave him
on the spur of the moment, a lesson on the correct method of clapping
hands. After this the pupil shewed marked improvement, and by the
end of the play performed his duty in such a satisfactory manner as
promised well for his future advancement in this handy profession. The
effect of this pernicious system upon the audience is very different,
we should think, from what was anticipated when it was first organised;
for finding that the applause is supplied by the establishment, just as
it supplies programmes or turns on the gas, the audience feel that they
are relieved from all obligations in the matter, and unless stirred by
an irresistible influence, seldom dream of applauding at all.