FRENCH PLAYS
Monsieur Perlet is certainly a pearl of an actor. He does every part well, and every part varied from another. He is, however, a jewel set in lead: the rest of the company to which he belongs are but indifferent. He is exactly what a Londonstar, engaged for a few nights to gratify the ‘upturned eyes of wondering audiences,’ is in a tattered troop of country-actors. Those who fancy that they see here a thorough sample of French acting, theeliteof the capital of civilised society, are mistaken; and we perhaps should not undeceive them, but that we can assure them that they have a pleasure to come, something to look forward to, and something to look back upon, and which (we believe) can be found only at Paris. Oh! Paris, thou hast the Louvre, the garden of the Thuilleries, and theThêatre Français; Madame Pasta we share by turns with you, as the sun sheds its light on either world—the rest is barbarous and common. A friend of ours once received a letter from a friend of his, datedRome, with three marks of admiration after it, which he answered by writingLondon, with four marks of admiration after it: ‘and why shouldn’t he, since we had St. Paul’s, the Cartoons, the Elgin Marbles, and the Bridges?’ As to the three first, they were not ours; and as to the fourth, the reasoning puts me a little in mind of Sir William Curtis’s, who remarked that ‘it was very good of God, that wherever there was a great city, he had made a river by the side of it!’ There was another proud distinction, which our patriotic friend did not enumerate, though it was a thumping make-weight in the scale, and might have claimed a fifth mark of admiration, which was, that he himself was there. This is the triumphant argument in every Englishman’s imagination,—wherever he is, is the centre of gravity; whatever he calls his own, is the standard of excellence. It is our desire to shake off this feeling as much as possible thatmakes us frequent the theatre at the English Opera-house, and try (all we can) to ‘leave our country and ourselves’ at the door. Why in truth should an English Nobleman be convinced in himself and speak upon that conviction in his place in Parliament, that because he keeps a French cook, the French have no genius for anything but cookery? Or why, my dear Madam, should you have taken it in your head, that because you wear a French bonnet, there is nothing in Paris but milliners’ girls who are no better than they should be? Nay, that is what you really imagine, however you may deny it—but be assured, good, gentle, honest, reflecting reader of either sex, who feel your own existence so solid that every thing else is a fable to it, or your own virtue so clear that everything else is a spot to it, that there are things out of England besides what are imported into it—that French women not only make caps and bonnets, but wear them with a peculiar grace; that they have eyes glancing from under them full of fire and discretion; that they do not make a false step at every turn, though they do not walk like Englishwomen, that is, as if their limbs were an incumbrance to them; that the Chamber of Deputies think your Lordship’s speeches dry and tasteless, for want of a little French seasoning; that there are cities not built of bricks, faces not made of dough, a language that has a meaning though it is not ours, and virtue that is neither a statue nor a mask! For instance, we think good-manners is one part of ethics, and we do wishen passantthat our fine gentlemen at the play would not loll on their seats, whistle, and thrust their sticks nearly in your face to show their superiority to the vulgar; and that those of the other sex, who are admitted on their good behaviour could be prevailed on not to talk and laugh so loud, not to nod or wink, not to slap their acquaintance on the back, or shut the doors with such violence after them, to attract admirers and shew an independent spirit. Strange that the English notion of independence consists in giving offence to and displaying your contempt for others! They order these things better in France, where they consult decency of appearance at least, and Venus is a prude in public—not a hoyden or a bully!
‘Our Cupid is a blackguard boy,That thrusts his link in every face.’
‘Our Cupid is a blackguard boy,That thrusts his link in every face.’
‘Our Cupid is a blackguard boy,That thrusts his link in every face.’
‘Our Cupid is a blackguard boy,
That thrusts his link in every face.’
This brings us back to the French Theatre. As we do not approve every thing foreign or French, we are more bound to acknowledge and do justice to what we do like.Imprimis, we abhor French pictures. In the second place, we tolerate French tragedy. Thirdly, we adore French comedy. The characteristic of this in its best state, and as compared with our utmost efforts in the same line,is, that it is equally perfect throughout; and as that great philosopher of idleness (Mr. Coleridge) once wisely and wittily observed, ‘there is something in the idea of perfection exceedingly satisfactory to the mind of man.’ It is not as with us at present (it was not always so—or is it the haze of time, the tints of youth that made the difference?) where the most we can expect is one or two actors of disproportioned excellence, and all the others merely to fill the stage; but there all are in their place, and all are first-rate. Oh! it is a fine thing to see one of Moliere’s comedies acted (as they should be) at theThêatre Français, with the sense of every pregnant line fully understood and developed, with the passion and character delineated to the life, every situation painted, and every shade and difference of absurdity hit off and realised; and not only this, but the whole so managed, with such studious attention to the public and respect to the art, that not the least bit of costume is out of place, and (what is more important) that every part is filled by an actor or actress not only who comprehends and enters into the spirit of it, but who seems made for it in person, gesture and features, as if they had been cast in a dramatic mould, or kept in a glass-case for that purpose from the first representation to the present day. Thus the long, nasal speeches are delivered by an actor with the prominent, pasteboard nose and arched eyebrows of the Oratory, and whose unusual height and shambling figure serve him as it were for a rostrum; the poetical dedicator in theMisanthropehas sparkling eyes and teeth, smiling delighted on his patron and himself; the confidante ofCelimene, in the same piece, is slender, fragile, timid in appearance, a contrast to the firm precision and maturerenbon-pointof Mademoiselle Mars; Orgon has a little, round, dimpled, credulous face, and easy contented corpulence; theTartuffehas the sneaking sanctity of a monk and the grin of a monkey. Thus you have not only the poet’s verse exactly expressed and recited; but you have, in addition, the natural history of the part, the drapery, the grouping. The age of Louis XIV. revives again in all its masqued splendour; the folding-doors are thrown open, and you see men and women playing the fool deliciously, ‘new manners and the pomp of elder days,’ court-airs, court-dresses, the strut, the shrug, the bow, the curtsey, the paint, the powder, the patches, the perfume, the laced ruffles, the diamond buckle, the hoop-petticoat. Happy time! Enviable time to think of! When vanity and folly expanded in full bloom, and were spread out ostentatiously like the figures in a gaudy tapestry, instead of being folded up and thrust into a corner by the hand of a cynic and austere philosophy; when personal appearance and amorous intrigue were all in all; when a marquis stalked the God of his own idolatry, andMadame la Marquisewas held for something divine byMonsieur Jourdain; when the whole creation was supposed to be concentred in the fantastic circle of lords and ladies, and the universal, the abstract, and the critical were held in the utter contempt which they deserve—and which they receive at the hands both of the ignorant and the adept! Nothing that we know of is a specific for conjuring up this shadow of the past, and making you (if you are in the mood) feel like a great booby school-boy, with a largebouquetat your breast, or an antiquated fop with a bag-wig and sword—but sitting at theThêatre Françaiswith Mademoiselle Mars and the wholecorps dramatiquedrawn up on the stage. Then you have the very thing before you: it glitters in your eyes; it tingles in your ears, it sinks into the heart, and makes warm tears roll down the cheek of those, who have ever felt either what the present or the past is! It is said to be an ill wind that blows nobody good; and probably we owe it to the very exclusion of French players from general society, and their being compelled in self-defence to devote themselves wholly to their profession, that they keep up this sort of traditional copy of the manners, peculiarities, and tone of another age, ‘unmixed with baser matter.’ We could wish that a certain happy-spirited writer (who first gave the truepine-appleflavour to theatrical criticism, making it a pleasant mixture of sharp and sweet) would resume the subject of the age of CharlesII.(our nearest approach to that of LouisXIV.) and as he has shocked the upstart petulance ofSome of his Contemporaries, restore in his inimitable careless manner the wit and graces of a former period.
We expected to have seen Monsieur Perlet on Thursday evening in theBourgeois Gentilhomme; and to make sure of the ground, had read three acts in the morning with great care and an anticipated relish of the acting. We were therefore disappointed; and the reader must accept of a rhapsody in lieu of a criticism. We think it bad policy to have many new pieces; for the English part of the audience in general require to peruse the text beforehand in order to follow the performance. We like to know exactly what we are about; and it is both a pride and a pleasure to have an excuse for rubbing up our acquaintance with an old and esteemed author. The universality of the French language is not an unalloyed advantage to them: it saves the trouble of learning any other, but the necessity of acquiring a new language is like the necessity of acquiring a new sense. It is an increase of knowledge and liberality. We are proud of understanding their authors. Why do they despise ours? Because they are ignorant of them. If they had known what ‘stuff’ we are made of, very likely we should not have beaten them. M. Perletplayed the part of a strolling comedian in the new piece of theLandau, and eats and drinks in an admirablebravurastyle at a gentleman’s house on the road, where he passes himself off as a great man, and with that lively absorption in the present enjoyment and disregard of the consequences of his imposture, which are, we suspect, national traits. In theLandeswhich followed, he was equally happy in a poor, frightened servant, and expressed the surprises of fear and the tricks and disjointed pantomime antics, to which it resorted to screen itself, with admirable quaintness and drollery. The swagger and self-possession of the one character was totally opposed to the imbecility and helplessness of the other. Madame Falcoz made her first appearance in theTyran DomestiqueasMadame Valmont. She is an elegant woman and an interesting actress, though with too much appearance ofstill-life. This is not the case with Madame Daudel. She has all the vivacity and bustle of a chambermaid. She ought always to come in with a broom in her hand; or rather, it is quite unnecessary.