This answer is made to me every day. One would imagine I spoke to them in Chinese.
Being deprived of these “feux de joie,” which delight us at Pekin, each evening I go to spend a few hours at the Opera, which is a theatre where they pay public screamers salaries of fifty thousand francs per annum. When a young man frightens his family by his cries, they shut him up in a place they call “the Conservatory,” where a professor of screaming gives him lessons for twenty-four moons. The pupil then enters the Opera, and acts a part before fifty copper instruments, which make a thousand times more noise than he does himself. You can well comprehend that a good Chinaman, habituated from infancy to the soft melody of the “Hymn to Aurora,” does not feel inclined to have his ears bored twice by these public screamers at the Opera; so I was about to make my adieu to the theatre the first evening, but having learned that, with a contradiction peculiarly French, they performed other pieces, in which not a word was said, I continued my visits. I was delighted with this spectacle, which they call the “ballet.” Nothing is so admirable at Paris as this performance; so that when seeing it one does not even regret Pekin. Figure to yourself fifty women, with Chinese feet, dancing “à ravir” without uttering a word. I have taken a box for all the “ballets.”
There is a danseuse among them called Alexandrine, and surnamed Figuranté. I suppose on account of her fine figure. She has splendid black hair, which flows down in torrents to her feet; and those feet so small that, in her perpetual whirlpool of pirouettes and entrechats, they disappear from the sight. For ten nights, would you believe it, I have watched this “danseuse” with particular attention, forgetting the high mission with which I was entrusted, and the forty revolutions of twelve moons which rest upon my head.
One evening the door of my box opened and a man entered, bowing profoundly, and with much respect, said, “Light of the Celestial Empire, Star of Tien, I have a favor to ask.”
I made him the universal sign which means, “Speak.” He did speak.
“I am a decorator of the Opera,” said he, “and am at this moment putting the finishing touches to a Chinese Kiosque for the new ballet of “China Opened, or the Loves of Mademoiselle Flambeau, of Pekin;” may I request you to come, during the interval of the acts, and give a glance at my work, and suggest any improvement that may strike you?”
“Sir,” replied I, “your request is not disagreeable. Show me the way—I will follow you.”
We walked for some time along subterranean damp galleries until we arrived in the “coulisses” of the Opera. The decorator showed me his work, and I had nothing but praise to offer him; it was in the most exquisite Chinese taste.
There was a soft whispering near us of sweet and girlish voices, which caused me to turn suddenly. It was a group of young danseuses, who profited by the interval to gossip a little to relieve themselves, like mutes delivered from a régime forcé. A blaze of light made me close my eyes—Mademoiselle Alexandrine was there.
I looked for my friend the decorator to keep me in countenance, but he had disappeared.