limited, since no sooner did her rare talents begin to be suspected,
than a cabal was organised to obstruct her progress. To begin with, her
jealous rivals pitted against her Mlle. Vadé, the daughter of the poet
who had bestowed upon Louis XV. the title of “_le Bien-Aimé_,” a young
lady who had made her first appearance on the same evening as Mlle.
Contat herself. Mlle. Vadé, however, had few pretensions to beauty, and
still fewer to histrionic fame, and Mlle. Contat showed marked
superiority to her opponent, even in the _jeunes princesses_; a
circumstance which Préville took advantage of to secure for his pupil
admission as a regular member of the company.
Nevertheless, the cabal, far from being discouraged by this rebuff,
continued their machinations, and availed themselves of their seniority
to exclude the young actress from every part which might afford her a
chance of distinction. But, though the poor girl frequently quitted the
stage in floods of tears, after the chilly reception which had been
accorded her impersonation of some rôle utterly unsuited to her talents,
in the end the malignity of her enemies defeated its own purpose. “It
stimulated her,” says Fleury, “to prove how much she had been wronged.
She exerted herself to give importance to the insignificant parts
allotted to her, and this kind of feeling is a never-failing spur to the
young artiste.”
And the time was now at hand when the administration of the
Comédie-Française could no longer afford to ignore the claims of the
younger members at the bidding of a group of jealous women, several of
whom might be regarded as lights of other days. The Comédie-Italienne
was now no longer Italian in anything but name; it had become the rival
of the national theatre. This rivalry, which had begun in a very humble
spirit--the “Italians” gave out that they wished merely to glean in the
vast field wherein their brothers of the Comédie-Française reaped so
abundantly--gradually developed into one of a very serious character.
The “Italians” issued an address, announcing that Thalia, who heretofore
had not dared to present herself on the boards of their theatre, except
under the auspices of the goddess of harmony, had decided to assert her
rights, reinforced their company by some excellent performers, amongst
whom was Madame Verteuil, a lady who had earned a high reputation in the
provinces, and produced some excellent comedies, whose success excited
the gravest apprehension in the green-room of the Comédie-Française.
To present a bold front to this formidable attack, the administration of
that theatre found themselves compelled to bring into the field all
their forces and to give every encouragement to new talent. But the
opposition to Mlle. Contat was so strong, that it was not until July
1782 that she was afforded an opportunity of exercising her abilities to
the full and realising the promise which Préville had seen in her as a
child.
So far back as the spring of 1775, Palissot had submitted to the
Comédie-Française a play called _Les Courtisanes_. The actors rejected
it, ostensibly on the ground that it was indelicate, but really, the
author suspected, because he was the enemy of their friends, the
philosophers. In reply to the ostensible reason, he applied for and
obtained the approbation of the censor, Crébillon _fils_, not perhaps
the person best fitted to discriminate between delicacy and indelicacy,
since he was the author of some of the most licentious romances of the
time, one of which, called _Le Sopha_, had so outraged Madame de
Pompadour’s sense of propriety that she had caused the writer to be
exiled from Paris. Nevertheless, the company held to their previous
decision, at the same time addressing to the dramatist an impertinent
letter. Out of consideration, for his feelings, they said, their first
refusal had been based on the indelicacy of the piece. But the
_Courtisanes_ possessed faults of another kind. It might, however, be
performed, if M. Palissot could contrive to invest it with: (1) action;
(2) interest; (3) taste; (4) a plot. In spite of this rebuff, the author
had the play printed and, seven years later, through the mediation of
the Archbishop of Paris, whom he had succeeded in persuading that his
work would promote the cause of morality, Louis XVI. gave orders that it
should be put into rehearsal, after suggesting some alterations in the
dialogue.
The play was a success, a result largely due to Mlle. Contat’s admirable
impersonation of the heroine, the courtesan Rosalie, for more than one
of the situations was decidedly “risky,” while the fact that Sophanès,
the villain of the piece--and a particularly odious villain--was a
philosopher and man of letters by no means commended itself to many of
the habitués of the pit.[147]
“Mlle. Contat,” wrote Grimm, “secured in the part of Rosalie a success
which she had never yet obtained. The situation in the second act
appeared to be carried a little further than stage decorum seems to
permit of. But the situation is material to the plot, and, thanks to the
charming figure of the heroine, it would have been difficult not to
accord indulgence to the tableau. Moreover, it was tolerated, though not
without some murmuring.”
From the performance of this comedy we may date the opening of Louise
Contat’s theatrical career. In the following December, she secured
another triumph as the heroine of Dubuisson’s _Vieux Garçon_, and Grimm
wrote: “Mlle. Contat who makes every day fresh progress, appeared
charming in the part of Sophie. At Easter 1783, on the retirement of
the accomplished and virtuous Mlle. d’Oligny, the object of the eulogy
of Fréron which excited Mlle. Clairon to so much indignation,[148] she
succeeded to her _emploi_,” and secured daily fresh successes.[149]
But it was in the part of Suzanne in Beaumarchais’s immortal comedy, _Le
Mariage de Figaro_, that Louise Contat was to attain celebrity. This
play had been completed in 1781; but to write it was one thing, to get
it produced was quite another. Louis XVI. read the manuscript himself
and, though his political insight was none of the keenest, could not
fail to recognise its dangerous tendencies. He pronounced it
“detestable” and “unactable,” and, for more than two years, no argument
could induce him to permit its being performed. It was in vain that
Beaumarchais stimulated public curiosity to fever heat by frequent
readings of his play, at his own house or in various fashionable salons.
It was in vain that his friends at Court, headed by the Comte de
Vaudreuil, one of the most prominent members of the Queen’s social
circle,[150] allowed no opportunity to slip of extolling the merits of
the work. The King remained adamant. Once indeed it seemed to the
dramatist that the battle had all but been won. Thanks to the efforts of
Vaudreuil, who had succeeded in gaining over Marie Antoinette to his
side, the players suddenly received orders from Versailles to rehearse
the play in secret for a private performance. Beaumarchais, after
reading his piece to the assembled company, determined to consult Mlle.
Contat as to the cast, the result being that Dazincourt was set down for
Figaro, Molé for Almaviva, the same character which he had so
successfully represented in the _Barbier de Seville_, Mlle. Sainval for
the Countess, and pretty Mlle. Olivier for the Page; while Préville,
who, conscious of failing memory and sprightliness, had refused the part
of the Barber, contented himself with the comparatively unimportant rôle
of Brid’oison. Finally, Mlle. Contat was entrusted with the
all-important part of Suzanne, a choice which caused considerable
astonishment, as, admirable though the young actress was as an
_amoureuse_, she had never yet attempted anything of this kind. Mlle.
Fanier, the senior soubrette, protested warmly against the nomination
and claimed Suzanne for herself. But Beaumarchais, who had early
recognised the high qualities of Mlle. Contat and had every confidence
in her versatility, had from the first intended the part of the heroine
for her, and would listen to no remonstrance. Nor had he any reason to
regret his decision.
Everything being in readiness, it was decided that the performance
should be given at the Théâtre des Menus-Plaisirs, where the Comte de
Vaudreuil’s influence was paramount, on June 13, 1783. The interest it
excited was intense. As the appointed hour drew near, the approaches to
the theatre were blocked by hundreds of coaches; all the fashionable
world seemed determined to be present. The consternation, therefore, may
be imagined when a rumour began to spread that there would be no play
that evening; that the King had forbidden the performance. At first, the
gaily-dressed crowd was inclined to be incredulous. But a notice posted
on the doors of the theatre confirmed the rumour, and sent them away,
complaining bitterly of the “oppression” and “tyranny” of the King, who
at the eleventh hour had sent orders, through his Minister of the
Household, the Baron de Breteuil, prohibiting the representation of _Le
Mariage de Figaro_ under pain of disobedience, and, the next day, caused
the players to be summoned before the Lieutenant of Police, when the
prohibition was repeated in a form employed by the royal authority only
on the gravest occasions.
But Beaumarchais was not the man to despair. He withdrew to London,
ostensibly on commercial business, but really, no doubt, to be out of
the way the while Vaudreuil solicited and obtained the King’s consent to
the _Mariage de Figaro_ being performed in the course of a fête which
the count intended to give at his country-house at Gennevilliers. “The
Comte d’Artois,” wrote the Duc de Fronsac to Beaumarchais from that
place, “is coming to hunt here about the 18th (September), and the Duc
de Polignac with his party to sup. Vaudreuil has consulted me as to
giving them a play, as we have a capital room. I told him that he could
not find a more charming one than the _Mariage de Figaro_. The King has
given his consent, have we yours?”
Beaumarchais, on his return to Paris, duly gave his “consent,” but only
on condition that the play should be re-examined. The royal veto, said
he, had exposed his work to the charge of immorality, and until that
stigma had been removed from it by a formal approbation, on no
consideration would he allow it to be played. It was a masterly move,
for while no censor would be likely to forbid an entertainment
sanctioned by the King, the desired approbation, besides stimulating the
curiosity of the public, would have the effect of covering his Majesty’s
opposition to the piece with ridicule. One would have supposed that the
authorities would have been sufficiently alert to detect the trap laid
for them, but they walked into it without hesitation, and sent the
manuscript to the historian Gaillard,[151] who reported to the
Lieutenant of Police as follows:
“Allow me, Monsieur, to inform you of my opinion with regard to the
comedy entitled _La Folle Journée, ou le Mariage de Figaro_. I have
heard it read and read it myself with all the attention of which I am
capable, and I confess that I see no danger in allowing it to be
performed, when corrected in two places, and when some _mots_ have been
suppressed, of which a malicious abuse or a dangerous and wicked
application might be made. The piece is a very gay one; but when the
gaieties, although approaching what are called ‘_gaudrioles_,’ are not
indecent, they amuse without doing harm. Gay people are not dangerous,
and State troubles, conspiracies, assassinations, and all the horrors we
read of in history of all ages show us that they have been conceived,
ripened, and executed by reserved, sad, and sullen people. The piece is
besides called _La Folle Journée_, and Figaro, the hero of that piece,
is known in the comedy of the _Barbier de Seville_, of which this is a
continuation, as one of those intriguers of the lower class, whose
examples are not dangerous for any man of the world. Besides, I think
that by raising objections to things of little importance, as if they
were dangerous, a value is imparted to them which they themselves do not
possess, and foolish or ill-natured people are inspired with a fear or
suspicion of danger, which has no reality.”
Then, after having proposed two suppressions, one of the word
“minister,” the other of a passage alluding to the judgment of Solomon,
Gaillard concludes thus:
“This piece appears to be well written. The personages speak as they
ought, according to their station, and I think it very likely to attract
more spectators to the Comédie and, consequently, what it most
requires--large receipts.”[152]
* * * * *
Gaillard’s suggestions, which left untouched practically the whole of
the sarcasms levelled at the Government, were readily agreed to by
Beaumarchais, who lost no opportunity of exaggerating their importance
in the eyes of the world, and succeeded in extracting from the
Lieutenant of Police a promise that henceforward the comedy should be
“deemed the property of his Majesty’s players,” _i.e._, put in the way
of being represented at the theatre.
The _Mariage de Figaro_ was then played in the large room at
Gennevilliers, apparently, as a favour somewhat reluctantly conceded by
the author, and was received with enthusiastic applause by the
distinguished company, though, if Madame Vigée Lebrun is to be believed,
every one was surprised that the Comte de Vaudreuil should have
permitted a play which contained so many sarcastic allusions to the
Court to be performed before an audience which consisted almost entirely
of courtiers, with “our excellent prince,” the Comte d’Artois, at their
head. According to the same authority, the favourable reception accorded
his comedy quite turned Beaumarchais’s head. “He rushed about like a
madman, and, on some one complaining of the heat, he would not allow
time for the windows to be opened, but broke all the panes with his
cane.”[153] “_Il a doublement cassé les vitres_,” it was remarked.
The very day after the performance at Gennevilliers, Beaumarchais,
sensible of the advantage he had gained, formally applied to the
Lieutenant of Police for permission to have his play brought out. But
that official replied that the King’s prohibition, given the day of the
performance at the Menus-Plaisirs, was still in force, and that he must
refer the matter to his Majesty. The latter, though alarmed by the
ferment he had raised, for all Paris and Versailles were now loudly
clamouring for the production of the _Mariage_, could not make up his
mind to allow the production of a piece which he considered both
dangerous and immoral, and resolved to postpone the evil day so long as
he possibly could. In this decision, it appeared, he was influenced
largely by the Baron de Breteuil, who was exceedingly prejudiced
against the play, and to conciliate that nobleman all Beaumarchais’s
efforts were henceforth directed. The baron was devoted to the Queen and
the Comte d’Artois, and was himself by no means insensible to courtly
seduction; and the dramatist, aware of this, succeeded not only in
obtaining the influence of the Comte d’Artois, but even on prevailing on
Marie Antoinette to say a word on his behalf. Both the Queen and the
prince assured the Minister that, in addition to the corrections
required in the _Mariage de Figaro_ by Gaillard, the author was prepared
to make still further alterations, if such were considered necessary.
Breteuil thereupon assumed a more friendly attitude, but declared that
before he could interest himself in the fate of the piece, he must hear
it carefully read, in the presence of some literary men of his own
selection.
“On the day appointed,” says Fleury, “Beaumarchais proceeded with his
manuscript to the baron’s residence, where he found assembled, besides
the master of the house, MM. Gaillard, Champfort, Rulhière, Madame de
Matignon, the Minister’s daughter, and several other ladies, her
friends. Beaumarchais began by declaring that he would submit without
reserve to all corrections and omissions which the ladies and gentlemen
present might deem requisite. He began reading, he was stopped; some
remarks were made, and a little discussion arose. At every interruption,
Beaumarchais yielded the point in dispute. But when the reading was
ended, he went over the whole ground again, defending the smallest
details with so much address, such forcible reasoning, and such
captivating pleasantry, that he completely silenced his censors. They
laughed and applauded, and, at length, all declared that the play was
‘a most original and unique production.’ Instead of omissions, additions
were proposed. Every one of the party was eager to interpolate a word or
two. M. de Breteuil suggested a _bon mot_, which Beaumarchais thankfully
accepted. ‘This will save the fourth act,’ said he. Madame de Matignon
chose the colour for the Page’s ribbon. The colour was approved; it
would become quite the rage. ‘Who would not be proud to wear Madame de
Matignon’s colours?’ said Beaumarchais. ‘But M. de Breteuil’s _bon mot_
would not be heard, the elegant ribbon would not be seen, if the second
Figaro were not permitted to appear on the stage.’ That _he_ must appear
was eventually the unanimous opinion.”[154]
The astute dramatist completely succeeded in throwing dust in the eyes
of the Baron de Breteuil, and, though Louis XVI. contrived to defer his
inevitable surrender for some months longer, by declaring that the play
must be re-examined and causing six censors to be appointed for that
purpose, on April 27, 1784, the bills of the Comédie-Française, posted
up in every quarter of Paris, triumphantly announced the production that
evening of
“Le Mariage de Figaro
ou
La Folle Journée.”
The description of the first performance of Beaumarchais’s masterpiece
is to be found in every history of the period. It is one of the
best-known souvenirs of the eighteenth century. Let us, however, borrow
the account given in the _Mémoires_ of Mlle. Contat’s colleague and
friend, the actor Fleury:
“Many hours before the opening of the ticket-office I verily believe
that half the population of Paris was at the doors. Here was a triumph
for Beaumarchais! If he sighed for popularity, he had gained it. Persons
of the highest rank, even Princes of the Blood, besieged him with
letters imploring to be favoured with the author’s tickets. At eleven
o’clock in the forenoon, the Duchesse de Bourbon sent her valet to the
office to wait until the distribution of the tickets, which was to take
place at four o’clock. At two o’clock, the Duchesse d’Ossun laid aside
her accustomed dignity and hauteur and herself solicited the crowd to
allow her to pass; Madame de Talleyrand, doing violence to her
parsimonious disposition, paid triple price for a box. _Cordons bleus_
were seen elbowing their way through the crowd, jostled by Savoyards;
the guards were dispersed, the doors forced open, the iron bars broken
down, and an inconceivable scene of confusion and danger ensued. One
half of the people had been unable to procure tickets, and threw their
admission money to the doorkeepers as they passed, or rather, as they
were carried along. But, whilst all this was happening outside, the
disorder which prevailed within the theatre was, if possible, still
greater. No less than three hundred persons who had procured tickets at
an early period dined in the boxes. Our theatre seemed transformed into
a tavern; nothing was heard but the clattering of plates and the drawing
of corks. Then, when the audience were assembled, what a brilliant
picture presented itself! The _élite_ of the rank and talent of Paris
was congregated there. What a radiant line of beauty was exhibited by
the first tier of boxes.”[155]
The success of the piece was immense, incredible, surpassing even the
fondest hopes of the author and actors. From the opening scene the
comedy carried the audience along with it, and each of the pointed
allusions to State abuses was greeted with vociferous and prolonged
applause, which was by no means confined to the _parterre_. All the
principal performers distinguished themselves. Dazincourt played Figaro
with all his characteristic humour and sprightliness, at the same time
relieving the character from any appearance of vulgarity; Molé was an
elegant and dignified Almaviva; Mlle. Sainval, whose efforts had
hitherto been mainly confined to tragedy, displayed in the part of the
Countess an aptitude for high comedy which surprised as much as it
delighted the audience; Mlle. Olivier threw the most enchanting archness
and _espièglerie_ into the rôle of the Page; while old Préville rendered
Brid’oison a masterly character.
But the gem of the whole performance was undoubtedly Mlle. Contat’s
impersonation of Suzanne, wherein she more than justified Beaumarchais’s
confidence in her versatility, and astonished even her most devout
admirers by the gaiety and _entrain_ with which she sustained the part.
As soon as the curtain fell, Préville ran up to her, and, embracing her,
warmly exclaimed: “This is my first infidelity to Mlle. Dangeville!”
The verdict of the public was confirmed by the critics. “Mlle. Contat,
in the rôle of Suzanne,” says the _Mercure_, “has established fresh
claims to the applause of connoisseurs, by a performance frank,
intelligent, and humorous.” “The demoiselle Contat,” says the _Journal
de Paris_, “rendered Suzanne with the most piquant grace.” And--highest
tribute of all--that most captious of critics, La Harpe, declared that
she “rendered the part of Suzanne to perfection.”
From that evening Louise Contat stood forth as one of the brightest
stars of the Comédie-Française and as a truly great actress.
* * * * *
At the time when she created the part of Suzanne in the _Mariage de
Figaro_, Louise Contat was twenty-four years of age and in the zenith of
her beauty. Without being tall, her figure was admirably proportioned,
and “her whole person breathed an air of supreme distinction.” Her face,
a charming oval, was illumined by a pair of beautiful eyes, “by turns
languishing or flashing with mischief.” An exquisite mouth, perfect
teeth, and a ravishing smile completed the picture, and enslaved all
with whom she came in contact.
Yet her beauty was not perfect. “She is an admirable Venus,” says a
pamphlet of the time, “cut by some great sculptor from a block of the
purest marble. Only he had not time to finish his work, and entrusted
the hands and feet to one of his workmen.”[156] Fortunately, she knew
how to conceal these imperfections, and on the stage they passed
unnoticed.
It is hardly necessary to remark that so fascinating and talented a
young woman did not lack for both noble and wealthy adorers. But Mlle.
Contat, in the early stages of her career, was of a romantic
disposition, and her first lover possessed neither qualification. This
much-envied individual was a certain Chevalier de Lubsac, an officer of
the Royal Household, whose handsome face and ready wit more than atoned,
in the lady’s eyes, for his empty purse and the brevity of his
pedigree.
[Illustration: LOUISE CONTAT
After the painting by DUTERTRE]
Soon, however, the actress had cause to regret her choice. M. de Lubsac
not only, on occasion, drank a great deal more wine than was good for
him, but he was a confirmed and most reckless gambler, who would
cheerfully stake everything he possessed on the turn of a card. One
evening, when on the point of starting for a fête, Mlle. Contat went to
her jewel-case. To her consternation, it was empty; rings, brooches,
pendants, earrings, necklaces--all had disappeared! Supposing that
thieves had been at work, the distracted lady gave orders that the
police should be summoned, when Lubsac, who was present, intervened and,
falling on his knees, confessed that he was the culprit and entreated
her pardon. Yielding to a sudden temptation, he had carried off and
pledged the whole of the missing property, in order to obtain the sinews
of war. But alas! his luck had been execrable; he had lost every sou.
The indignation of the actress and the despair of the unhappy lover may
be imagined.