Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

good, bad, or indifferent-now, the ice is broken, scandal's tongue rattles faster than ever, and Thalia and Melpomene, like two still yawning dormice, waken up from their long lethargy to

Fresh fields (battle-fields ?) and pieces new.

No notes did I say? why here are dozens, scores, hundreds, thousands, millions, plenty as blackberries in September, and all crying, "Come, take me! come, take me !" no notes indeed!

And among them a marriage; nay, two marriages. Rien que cà! M. Lafont, of the Variétés, to Mademoiselle Pauline Leroux, ex-danseuse of the Opera, and M. d'Henneville, formerly attached to the Menus Plaisirs, to that black-eyed sorceress, that most arch and eloquent of mimes, Mademoiselle Maria. Both, if report speaks true, are old attachments, and therefore better calculated to stand the wear and tear of matrimony. Ainsi soit-il !

the

But, report further adds—and this time the tidings fall less sweetly on our ear-that one necessary consequence of Mademoiselle Maria's marriage is to be her speedy retirement from the stage. If this be indeed case, if we are really soon to lose the cleverest pantomimic artiste, the most intelligent and intelligible Fenella that the Opera has possessed for many a long day-if Mademoiselle Maria can say, and without a sigh,

Celui que j'aime aujourd'hui me l'impose,

Sa volonté doit être mon désir,

Ce sacrifice est pour moi douce chose,

Car son bonheur vaut mieux que mon plaisir !

Why, then-we have only to wish M. and Madame d'Henneville, in the words of Gil Blas's archbishop, " toutes sortes de prospérités !"

Wo Alles liebt, kann Karl allein nicht hassen!

People may talk as they will about the effect of revolutions, and endeavour to prove that since February last "Paris is no longer Paris," I maintain that they are wrong-unquestionably, undeniably wrong. Politically speaking, the city may have been and has been shaken to its foundation; half its inhabitants are ruined or on the point of being so, trade is at a stand still, and money introuvable. All this I allow, but there are peculiar and distinctive features in the French metropolis which neither revolutions nor any other commotion, civil or uncivil, can affect. As long as one stone stands on another, Paris will still be the city par excellence of pleasure and enjoyment, the head-quarters of all that can embellish or add a charm to life. Its boulevards will be, as long as a vestige of them remains, the gayest and most delightful promenade in the world; its works of art, although unpatronised and unbought, will, nevertheless, still bear away the palm for good taste and ingenuity; its fetes, its cafes, its petits soupers-whether under a republican or monarchical form of government-will ever possess, as they ever have possessed, that irresistible attraction which tempts the sober Englishman across the Channel, aye, even though he may have in addition to clamber over a barricade in order to get to them. Happen what may, Frenchwomen will always be the liveliest, most piquantes, and most gentilles

creatures in the universe; and, what is more, Englishmen will always think them so, whatever they may say.

And yet, it must be owned that recent events do not quite bear me out in this assertion. How comes it that, during the late visit to London of the Montansier (or Palais Royal) troupe, while Messrs. Ravel, Grassot, and Co., were nightly gathering laurels enough to cover a jack-in-the-green with, their fair companions were received from first to last with the most utter, the most stoical indifference! A friend of mine, a great frequenter of the coulisses, assures me that he more than once saw ces belles délaissées sitting, like so many Ariadnes, with no earthly being to speak to except old Cloup, the régisseur.

What in the name of gallantry has become of those gay and privileged loungers, who used formerly to vanish from the stalls on each successive fall of the curtain, and disappear through that dear little mysterious narrow door which the uninitiated regard as the gate of Paradise? Are Mesdemoiselles Brassine, Juliette, and Aline Duval so very Medusa-like that they are reduced to set their caps (and very becoming caps they are, Mademoiselle Juliette's especially) in vain? or can some timid dissecting etymologist have been startled at the first syllable of Mademoiselle Brassine's name, or at any fancied and pocket-threatening affinity between Aline and Claud Duval? Allons donc !

Joking apart, the neglected syrens consider their pilgrimage to the shrine of St. James's a voyage manqué; not that I (notez-le bien) should have said a syllable about the matter, if somebody else had not done so before me in the Siècle; that somebody being, if I mistake not, neither gras nor sot. Nor was their return home more propitious; I have it from an eye-witness of the arrival of the last detachment at Boulogne, that they disembarked, to quote the graphic but slightly familiar language of my informant, "in woful plight, particularly little Scriwa

neck."

C'est égal, I persist, notwithstanding, in my belief that Englishmen, taken en masse, are not so ungallant as they appear to be, and I think I could find more than one fair exotic who would willingly say as much. But hush-all this is, and must be entre nous. Tell it not, reader, I beseech you, in Belgravia! whisper it not, an ye love me, in Brompton !

An exceedingly coarse and rhapsodical production, called "Tragaldabas," has been for some time disgracing the boards of the Porte St. Martin. Its author, M. Auguste Vacquerie, formerly one of the leading feuilletonistes of the defunct journal l'Epoque, and then, as now, an enthusiastic worshipper of Victor Hugo and his école romantique, has sufficient talent to render the more utterly inexcusable such an exhibition of bad taste and inconvenance as he has recently sanctioned with his name. Were the censure still in existence, Tragaldabas" would assuredly never have been licensed without considerable abridgment; and even now the nightly protests of the respectable portion of the audience ought long ago to have caused it to be withdrawn. Written with an apparent view of turning into ridicule the école classique, it abounds in the most trivial allusions, as offensive to good taste as they are to common sense; its wit is buffoonery, and its humour positive indecency. Jules Janin, Rolle, and indeed every critic qui se respecte, have agreed in stigmatising "Tragaldabas" as a disgrace to its author

and to Messrs. Cogniard's theatre, and their unanimous verdict has been fully borne out by the public.*

*

In it Frédéric Lemaître enacts the principal part, which is the more unfortunate, inasmuch as no small share of the reprobation due to the writer recoils in these cases necessarily on the actor, who is thus unjustly made the scapegoat for the delinquencies of another. Frédéric, however, is one of the few living comedians whom nothing, not even a "Monte Cristo" row, can ever discourage; no matter how bad the piece in which he acts (and nothing can be worse than "Tragaldabas"), cà lui est bien égal, he will obtain it a hearing, if not for the sake of its author, at all events for his own. Nay, at the close, he will risk all on the chance of turning the scale in its favour; and it was with this intent that, while the concluding sentences of M. Vacquerie's ignoble parade were being received with a storm of hisses, Frédéric advanced to the front of the stage, and thus apostrophised the public; "Messieurs, combien, intéressés et désintéressés, ne devons-nous pas nous réunir pour crier Vive la République!" The audience first stared in astonishment, then burst into a loud fit of laughter, under cover of which down came the curtain. This in theatrical argot is called faire de la banque, which term is generally applied to any attempt at producing effect by out-of-the-way means. Pierson, a clever performer at the Porte St. Martin some fifteen years ago, was a notorious banquiste, and used to walk about accompanied by a dog, on whose collar was engraved in large letters, "I belong to M. Pierson, first comic actor of the Théâtre de la Porte St. Martin, and officer in the National Guard." Another worthy, whenever he accepted a provincial engagement, always had two contracts drawn out, the one stating the sum he was actually to receive as a remuneration for his services, and the other the same amount multiplied by two. This last, not being signed by the manager, was of course valueless, but afforded the actor an opportunity of boasting among his comrades (who of course were not allowed to look too closely into the matter) that he was paid at a far higher rate than they were.

Messrs. Duponchel and Nestor Roqueplan are unquestionably most indefatigable in proving their adherence to the existing order (or rather disorder) of things in France. Since their accession to power, they have never ceased revolutionising and remodelling the opera troupe; and the result of their labours is that at the present moment almost the entire répertoire is put hors de combat. This opera can't be sung because Bettini is gone, Barroilhet going, and Duprez en congé; that ballet can't be danced because Carlotta has been exiled to Geneva, Flora Fabbri to Turin, and Adèle Dumilâtre the Lord knows whither. Roger and Madame Viardot are coming, certainly, but so is Christmas, and it is a toss-up which will be the first to arrive: in short, the hope of the once flourishing Académie de Musique rests, and is likely to rest for some time, with Alizard and Mademoiselle Grimm for opera, and Adeline Plunkett for ballet. Take away Alizard and Adeline, hosts in themselves, and what remains? A grim prospect, truly!

* Since the above was written, "Tragaldabas" has been consigned to the tomb of the Capulets, a new drama, called "Les Libertins de Genève," reigning in its stead.

Like all Eugène Sue's other dramatised novels, the "Morne au Diable,” recently produced at the Ambigu, is a complete failure. The same unconnected incidents, the same lack of sustained interest, the same incongruities of plot and dialogue are here visible as in the "Mystères de Paris,' ," "Mathilde," and "Martin et Bamboche." A few striking effects and some really beautiful scenery, aided by the talent of Montdidier and a very general feeling of sympathy on the part of the audience with the actors, who are themselves carrying on the management of the theatre, have secured for "le Morne au Diable" a lingering existence, the insurance of which the most enterprising office would indubitably decline. As for Mademoiselle Lobry, who made her debut in this piece, all that can be said of her is that she was

At the Gymnase-passable,
At the Variétés-endurable,
and is

At the Ambigu-insufferable.

One of the new recruits of the Odéon company is a young actress, possessing the very Shaksperian name of Ariel; her gentillesse suggests the hope that, during her dramatic noviciate, she may experience neither storm nor tempest, unless in the pleasing shape of a hurricane of bravos.

It seems as if all Alfred de Musset's proverbes, one after the other, were to be transferred in turn from the volume which first introduced them to public notice to the stage. Already, since December last, has the Théâtre de la République brought out three, "Un Caprice," "Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte on fermée," and "Il ne faut jurer de rien ;" and now a fourth, "Le Chandelier," has just been added to the répertoire of the Théâtre Historique. This last piece, besides being extremely amusing, is written with such peculiar ease and grace, that its very questionable morality is in a measure gazée as well by the charm and wit of the dialogue as by the consummate tact and skill with which each of the three acts is charpenté. It is to be hoped, however, that the success of these little chefs d'œuvre will not induce other authors to favour us with specimens of their "proverbial philosophy," and thus convert the new and original path so happily struck out by Alfred de Musset, into a common and beaten track. Unless treated with the most exquisite taste and nicety, these light and airy nothings, the plot of which is invariably made subservient to the details, degenerate into the flimsiest and tamest of vaudevilles, minus the couplets.

Alfred de Musset's style is sparkling and fanciful, his characters, even when mere sketches, are lifelike and natural, and however slight may be the foundation of his pieces, that foundation is never once lost sight of from the first to the concluding scene. "Un Caprice" is a gem that deserves to rank with Scribe's "Geneviève" and "Michel et Christine;" I can award it no higher praise. There are, indeed, many points of resemblance between the two writers; nor, with due deference be it spoken, is the superiority always on one side. If Scribe's works show greater satirical power, and a more profound knowledge of the human heart than those of his less experienced confrère, the compositions of the

latter are more deeply imbued with imagination and poetry. It may be a question whether Alfred de Musset could ever have written "La Camaraderie" or "Bertrand et Raton ;" but it is equally doubtful whether Scribe, or indeed any other author of the present day, could have enriched French literature with so delightful and original a production as "Les Confessions d'un Enfant du Siècle."

If the worthy creator of the "Gamin de Paris," "Michel Perrin," and a hundred other marvellous types, ever reads the London newspapers, he must have been rarely amused by a paragraph which has recently gone the round of half of them, announcing his intention of undertaking the management of the Vaudeville. Now it is true enough that negotiations have for some time been on the tapis (though as yet without any decisive result) between the proprietor of the salle and a M. Bouffé, once co-director with M. Ancelot of this identical theatre; but from him to the Bouffé par excellence-il y a loin. It would, indeed, be difficult to imagine two mortals more unlike each other than the namesakes in question; Bouffé, the actor, being thin, pale, delicate-looking, and of a remarkably nervous temperament, whereas Bouffé, the manager (familiarly styled le gros Bouffe), is stout and rosy, with a face like a full moon and a body to match. If the latter has a weakness, it is an amiable one, which we should term-were we allowed to coin a word champagneomania. During his partnership with M. Ancelot, he was accustomed to celebrate every succès d'argent by repeated libations, so that if an author wished to ascertain whether his piece was really drawing money to the treasury or not, he had only to ask in the course of the evening, "where is M. Bouffé ?" If the answer was "Il est au café," the author might go on his way rejoicing; his piece was safe to run a month, at least.

Bouffé (I mean the manager), was very popular with his troupe, as the following anecdote will testify. About a year ago he was imprisoned for debt at Brussels, and had little hope of effecting his liberation, when he heard of the arrival in the Belgian capital of one of his former ladypensionnaires, to whom he had always shown great kindness.

"Madame est ici !" said he, "donc je suis sauvé !”

Nor was he mistaken; the fair actress in question, on learning his situation, immediately volunteered her services for two nights at the theatre, expressly stipulating that the receipts (after payment of the expenses) should be handed over without any deduction to Bouffé, whose liabilities were in consequence wholly discharged, and who, like the lion in the fable, had thus an opportunity of acknowledging the truth of La Fontaine's maxim,

On a souvent besoin d'un plus petit que soi.

August 22, 1848.

Sept.-VOL. LXXXIV. NO. CCCXXXIII.

K

« ForrigeFortsæt »