Old and New Paris: Its History, Its People, and Its Places, v. 1

by H. Sutherland Edwards

The early history of the Opéra Comique, from the middle of the eighteenth until the first days of the nineteenth century, is sufficiently represented by the lives of two of its most distinguished ornaments: Mme. Favart and her successor in parts of the same kind, Mme. Dugazon. Mme. Favart—Duronceray by her maiden name—was the wife of Charles Simon Favart, the well-known dramatist, who for many years supplied the Opéra Comique with all its good pieces. The marriage took place in 1745, and immediately afterwards the Opéra Comique, as an establishment recognised and subventioned by the State, was suppressed. Favart had some time before made the acquaintance of Marshal Saxe, who may be said to have played almost as great a part in connection with the stage as with the camp; and he was now invited by the famous commander to organise a company for giving performances at the head-quarters, and for the entertainment of the army in Flanders generally. Favart hurried to Brussels, where Marshal Saxe was about to arrive; and on reaching the head-quarters, the commander-in-chief gave an entertainment to the ladies whose husbands were serving on his staff, and to the wives generally of the officers. The performance consisted of national dances by the Highland contingent, whose scanty costumes are said to have at once amused and scandalised the ladies. Then a piece of Favart’s was played; and with so much success, that it became the fashion to attend Favart representations as often as they were given. Marshal Saxe told Favart that it was part of his policy to give theatrical entertainments, and the manager soon saw that his musical comedies interested the officers sufficiently to take them away from cards and dice, to which previously they had given themselves up with only too much devotion. The marshal pointed out to Favart, moreover, that a lively couplet, a few happy lines, would have more effect on French soldiers than the most eloquent harangues. Besides amusing his own people and keeping them out of mischief, Marshal Saxe found Favart’s Comic Opera Company useful in promoting his negotiations with the enemy. Having heard of the Favart performances, the enemy desired much to see them; and the representations given in the enemy’s camp had no slight effect in facilitating peace arrangements. Mme. Favart—Mlle. Chantilly, to describe her by her stage name—was a member of the operatic company engaged by the marshal to follow the army of Flanders; and the commander-in-chief—as, with a man of his well-known temperament, was sure to happen—fell in love with the charming prima donna. Mme. Favart was at last obliged to make her escape, and, forsaking the camp, returned to the capital. Here she appeared at the so-called Italian Theatre, which was really the Opéra Comique under another name.

That Mme. Favart was greater as an actress than as a vocalist (which may be said of so many singers who have distinguished themselves at the Opéra Comique of Paris) is beyond doubt. “She is not a singer,” said Grétry, the composer; “she is an actress who speaks song with the truest and most passionate accent.” “What a wonderful woman!” exclaimed Boieldieu, after a representation of his Caliph of Bagdad. “They say she does not know music; yet I never heard anyone sing with such taste and expression, such nature and fidelity.”

Boieldieu, through Auber, his successor, brings us to modern times. With Ambroise Thomas, the composer of Mignon, and Bizet, the composer of Carmen, the Opéra Comique has always been the most French of all the French musical theatres. At the Grand Opéra, or Académie, nearly all the successful works have been composed by foreigners: by Lulli, Gluck, Piccinni, Spontini, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Donizetti, and Verdi. The most popular works at the Opéra Comique have, on the other hand, been composed by Frenchmen. La Dame Blanche, for instance, of Boieldieu; the Fra Diavolo, The Black Domino, The Crown Diamonds of Auber; the Mignon of Ambroise Thomas, and the Carmen of Bizet, have all been due to the genius of Frenchmen.

The Opéra Comique, since its formal separation from all connection with Italy, has itself had strange and tragic adventures. The last of these was its destruction by a terrible fire, in which more than one hundred lives were lost. Since this catastrophe, which took place on the 22nd of May, 1887, the Opéra Comique has been provisionally established in the Place du Châtelet.

To make an inevitable excursion which here presents itself, the Rue Monsigny, deriving its name from one of the most famous composers connected with the Opéra Comique, will always be remembered as the head-quarters of the Saint-Simonians during the first meeting of that {119} strange association, founded by Saint-Simon, lineal descendant of the duke who wrote the famous Memoirs. The aims of the Saint-Simonians, visionary as they may have been, were at least noble; and the society numbered among its members some of the most able and high-minded young men of the day. The truth of this latter assertion is proved by the distinguished part played by many of the Saint-Simonians in very different spheres after the society had come to an end. Michel Chevalier, the political economist, Duveyrier, the dramatist, and Félicien David, the composer, may be mentioned among those Saint-Simonians whose names will be familiar to many Englishmen.

Saint-Simon, founder of the sect named after him, began his self-imposed career with a sufficiently large fortune to enable him to test various modes of existence. His purpose was, after studying society, to reform it. He had resolved to study it thoroughly in all its phases: all those, at least, which offered any special intellectual or physical character. Without apparently having conceived any system beforehand, he was constantly working towards one, making observations and writing down notes. That he might waste no time from sluggishness or sloth, he ordered his servant to wake him every morning with these significant words: “Rise, Count; you have great things to do.” (Levez-vous, Monsieur le Comte, vous avez de grandes choses à faire.) The great political principle that he ultimately adopted was that “all legislation should be for the benefit of the poorest and most numerous class,” which was little more than a variation of Jeremy Bentham’s “greatest good of the greatest number.”

He lived in aristocratic society a life of pleasure, studied science among scientific men, and finally, occupying himself with books and newspapers, made himself the centre of all kinds of literary gatherings. When, however, he had, according to his own previously formed conception, completed his knowledge of life, he had exhausted his means of living, and was quite unable to turn to account his accumulated experience. The descendant of the proud duke could only keep himself alive by copying manuscripts and by doing clerk’s work in the Government Pawn Office, or Mont-de-Piété. At last his misfortunes were too great for him, and he endeavoured to commit suicide. But the bullet with which he had intended to blow his brains out glanced along the frontal bone and destroyed one of his eyes, without inflicting any mortal wound. The unhappy experimentalist had now had a bitter experience of poverty, which may or may not have been in his general programme. His enthusiasm ended in any case by inspiring a few rich men who possessed the money necessary for carrying out his ideas.

Saint-Simon’s mantle fell upon Le Père Enfantin, who presided over the Saint-Simonian family in the Rue Monsigny, until pecuniary embarrassments caused the learned and venerable father to give up the publication of the admirably written Saint-Simonian journal, The Globe, and to retire from a house for which, unhappily, rent had to be paid, to a house and garden of his own at Ménilmontant. Here he collected around him forty disciples, determined to work together under Le Père Enfantin’s direction. “Poets, musicians, artists, engineers, civil and military,” says a writer, fully in sympathy with the Saint-Simonians, even if he was not himself a member of their body, “applied themselves by turns to the hardest and rudest labours.

“They repaired the house, regularly swept and kept in order the rooms, offices, and courtyard, cultivated the grounds, covered the walks with gravel, which they procured from a pit they had themselves with much toil opened, and so on. To prove that their ideas upon the nature of marriage and the emancipation of women were not founded upon the calculations of a voluptuous selfishness, they imposed upon themselves the law of strict celibacy. Every morning and evening they refreshed their minds with the discourses of Le Père Enfantin, or sought in the life of one of the Christian saints, read aloud by one of them to the rest, examples, precepts, encouragement. Hymns, the music to which had been composed by one of their number, M. Félicien David, served to exalt their souls, while soothing their labour. At five o’clock the horn announced dinner. The workmen then piled their tools, ranged the wheelbarrows round the garden, and took their places, after having chanted in chorus the prayer before meat. All this the public were admitted to see: a spectacle in which a sneering, jesting nation only marked the singular features, by turns simple and sublime, but which was assuredly deficient in neither broad aim nor in abstract grandeur. For in this practice of theirs the apostles of Ménilmontant went far beyond their own theories, and were sowing around them unconsciously the seeds of doctrine which were destined one day to throw their own into oblivion.”

It was on the 6th of June, amidst the roar of the cannon in the Rue {120} Saint-Méry, and not far from the bloody theatre whence arose the cries of the combatants—it was on this very 6th of June that for the first time since they had entered it, the Saint-Simonian family threw open the doors of their retreat. “At half-past one,” writes M. Louis Blanc, “they were assembled, standing in a circle in front of the house, while outside a second circle, formed of those whom the inmates of Ménilmontant termed the exterior family, was a small group of spectators, attracted by the curiosity of the thing.”