sight of the supper provided by the chéri—a brace of partridges aux truffes and a magnificent mayonnaise.
Let me try to draw a comparison between the English and French stages. We are supposed to have the best of it in the language, for, though French is very telling in light conversation, and capable of great point and precision, yet it fails in melodramatic power independent of the situation. The tones are nasal, and the chant (or sing-song, as it may be called,) of a person declaiming, though musical, is monotonous and tiresome to a degree. When sitting with closed eyes, a little beyond the distance of hearing distinctly, it would not be easy to say whether the sing-song is from Regnier the actor, Monsieur Dupin the senator, or Monsieur Coquerel (père) the distinguished preacher in the Rue Marbœuf. To overcome this monotony, an expressive manner is required. A Frenchman does not assume it, for he has it naturally, and in the ordinary conversation of daily life he has as much manner as an Englishman assumes on the stage. Without this assumed manner English acting would look bald and cold. Hence it is that the French do not appear to be acting in light or genteel comedy, for nothing more is required of them but their natural manner, whereas our actors always seem to be acting a part.
The French come on the stage in a quiet manner, as if nobody was watching; they join in the conversation, as if nobody was listening but the actors, and they move about as if they were in a room. They have much saluting and kissing of foreheads and both cheeks, which they do gracefully, and naturally too, for it is the daily custom among relations, and sometimes among friends when they meet even in the streets.
In a play which I saw in Paris, called Cendrillon, and founded on our Cinderella, the favourite daughter, a grown-up woman, fairly lived in her mother’s arms, and they kissed each other every two minutes. The table-cloth is generally laid in one of the scenes of a French play—not that a meal has anything to do with the plot, but it is made a vehicle for dialogue. All this manner and these petty occupations tend to employ the hands and to fill up scenes which, on the English stage, look bald and bare, as if an artist had painted a picture without a background.
French Tragedy is a very painful lady. Her breast is ever heaving with passion, and her hands trembling with emotion above her head. She has no dignity, for she cannot keep her hands quiet for a moment. To me there is no greater punishment than a French five act tragedy—“Iphegenie en Aulide,” for instance. It has very little action on the stage, and it is played from beginning to end without a change of scene or even fall of the curtain; and the ladies wear no crinoline. It is written in couplets, which always have a jingling effect which Rachel may have overcome, but I never saw her act.
The forte of the French players is genteel comedy, and in this line they can give us many lessons in grace, manners, and imitation of real life. They certainly have no actors equal to ours of the first class, but they have a much higher average. I never saw a “regular stick” on the Paris stage. Most of them—particularly the women—have an easy manner, are perfectly self-possessed, and look the part without any great exaggeration in the make-up.
When they have to act gentlemen (a difficult part for them, as they have no very clear idea of what we call gentlemen, the word gentilhomme only extending to birth and dress,) they look and play the part as well as Frenchmen can, and it is only now and then that we see a Frenchwoman on the stage that does not look like a lady. Whereas our actresses have left an impression on my mind that they are lady’s-maids promoted.
The French are great play-goers. Being good judges of acting they go to see the play, and to be amused, and therefore make a most attentive audience. No conversation is allowed during the acts. Parties not satisfied with the performance, and showing signs of disapprobation are walked out, but whether their money is returned at the door or not I cannot say.
It is said that the French are excitable, but they gave me more the idea of being frivolous—easily pleased and patient in their amusements. They will make queue on a wet night, half-an-hour before the doors are opened, and they will wait another half-hour before the curtain rises to one long piece of perhaps seven acts, and an indefinite number of tableaux. They delight in small jokes, and there are a few of not a very delicate description, which no amount of repetition can deprive of their point, and without which a French farce would no more be complete than an English pantomime without a hot poker.
On the subject of propriety on the stage, their ideas and ours differ not a little, and a great deal takes place, and is applauded with them, that would damn a piece at once with us.
In a farce called Une chambre à deux lits, which is the foundation of our Box and Cox, two of the actors take off their clothes, except shirt and drawers and get into the two beds. In Les Parents the audience attached no indelicate idea to the part where Marie, on her wedding night, appeared in her night-dress and went into the bedroom, followed at once by a man that was not her husband.
If this play was translated into English, and had its French sentiment turned into corresponding English pathos,—if it had the advantage of the best cast and mise en scêne, it would not live beyond the first act on any boards in London.
CHAPTER IV. TOO HOT IN THE KITCHEN.
About this time I offended my landlady and blundered into genteel society,—two great mistakes.
A Parisian never travels, and speaks no language but his own. If he is driven from home by business, or by the heat of Paris, to London or to the German baths, he is in exile till he is again inside the barrier. Like all untravelled people he thinks that his country is the most beautiful and the most glorious in all the world; that the natives are the most enlightened and civilised; and that