Gustave Roger, the celebrated French tenor, who so long reigned a king at the Grand Opéra of Paris, was a born Parisian. He was of gentle blood, his uncle being Baron Roger, who was a member of the Chamber of Deputies in the days of Louis Philippe. He was born in 1815, and was originally destined for the legal profession. But the boy's destiny was the stage. It is on record that, being sent to a provincial town where there was no theatre to complete his studies, he got up a representation on his own account, playing the principal rôles in three comedies. The notary in whose office he had been placed was present on the occasion, and warmly applauded the young actor, but the next day sent his refractory pupil back to Paris. Finally, Roger's relatives decided that his vocation for the stage was stronger than their powers of combating it, and they placed him at the Conservatoire. He remained there for one year only, at the end of which time he carried off two first prizes—one for singing and the other for declamation.
And here a curious fact must be remarked. Side by side with the great lyric or dramatic celebrities that have won their first renown at the concours of the Conservatoire there is always some other pupil of immense promise, who does as well as, if not better than, the future star at the moment of the competition, but who afterward disappears into the mists of mediocrity or of oblivion. Thus, in the year in which the elder Coquelin obtained his prize the public loudly protested against the award of the jury, declaring that the most gifted pupil of the class was a certain M. Malard, who now holds a third-rate position on the boards of the Gymnase. When Delaunay, the accomplished leading actor of the Comédie Française, left the Conservatoire, it was with a second prize only: the first was carried off by M. Blaisot, who now plays the "second old men" at the Gymnase. So with Roger as first prize was associated one Flavio Ping, a tall, handsome young man with a superb voice. So far as physical advantages were concerned, he was better fitted for a theatrical career than was the future creator of John of Leyden, as Roger was not tall and had a tendency to embonpoint. M. Ping, however, went to Italy, accepted engagements at the opera-houses of Rome, Naples and Milan, sang there with success for a few years, lost his voice, and finally disappeared.
In 1838, Roger made his début at the Opéra Comique in L'Éclair, by Auber. His success was immediate and complete. He remained at that theatre for some years, his favorite character being George Brown in La Dame Blanche. But his greatest triumphs at this period were those which awaited him in the great opera-houses of London, where he sang the leading tenor rôles in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti. In his recently-published diary he gives some interesting details respecting Jenny Lind, then at the height of her fame and the very zenith of her powers. His first impression, after hearing her in Norma, was one of disappointment. It was in June, 1847. The great tenor thus records his impressions of the great prima donna: "She is well enough in Casta Diva—that invocation to the moon suits her dreamy Teutonic nature—but the fury of the loving woman, the deserted mother—No, no! a thousand times no!" But the next season he goes to hear her in Lucia, and at once the verdict is reversed. "She is one of the greatest artists it has ever been my lot to hear," he writes. "Her voice, though charming in the upper notes, is unfortunately a little weak in the middle register; but what intelligence and invention! She imitates no one, she studies unceasingly, both the dramatic situation and the musical phrase, and her ornamentation is of a novelty and elegance that reconcile me to that style of execution. I do not love roulades, I must confess, though I may learn to do so later. Jenny Lind does one thing admirably: during the malediction, instead of clinging to her lover as all the other Lucias never fail to do till the act is ended, as soon as Edgar throws her from him she remains motionless: she is a statue. A livid smile contracts her features, her haggard eyes are fixed on the table where she signed the fatal contract, and when the curtain falls one sees that madness has already seized upon her."
During this season in London, Roger, while singing at the Ancient Concerts, saw in the audience one evening the duke of Wellington, and thus writes of the event: "I had Wellington before me. I heard the voice that commanded the troops at Waterloo. I looked into the eyes that saw the back of the emperor. I cannot express the rage that seized upon me at beholding him. To sing to and give pleasure to that man whom I would fain annihilate!—him, and his past, and his country! As a Frenchman I hate him, but I am forced also to admire him."
The next year Roger, while fulfilling an engagement in London, was requested to sing at a garden-fête given, under the patronage of the queen, at Fulham, for the benefit of the poor. After the concert Roger, leaning against an acacia, was watching the departure of the royal carriages. "Lavandy came to me," he writes, "and said in a whisper, 'Do you know who is at the other side of this tree?'
"'No.'
"I turned round, and saw a man with an aquiline nose and blue eyes, whose deep yet gloomy gaze was fixed upon the splendors of royalty. 'Who is it?' I asked of Lavandy.
"'Louis Bonaparte.'
"He had just been elected member of the Chamber of Deputies. As his name appeared to be dangerous, he had been requested to take a vacation, and he had returned to London, where he had formerly lived. I am glad that I saw him: he may be somebody some day."
It was in April of the previous year (1847) that Roger went to a concert, where he records how he heard a comic opera called The Alcove, by Offenbach and Déforges: "A little inexperience, but some charming things. Offenbach is a fellow who will go far if the doors of the Opéra Comique are not closed against him: he has the gift of melody and the perseverance of a demon." It is rather curious to note, in connection with this prophecy, that the doors of the Opéra Comique, which were closed against Offenbach after the failure of his Vert-Vert some years before the war, are to be reopened to him next season, his Contes de Hoffman having proved the "Open, sesame!" to those long-barred portals.