Madame Dugazon now found herself at the apogee of her talent, and it appeared hardly possible that she could soar any higher, when, in May 1786, her creation of the part of Nina, in Nina, ou la Folle par amour, a drama in one act, by Marsollier de Vivetières, music by Dalayrac, exhibited her in a new light and excited among the Parisians an enthusiasm almost unprecedented.
The genesis of this piece is interesting. It was suggested to Marsollier by a touching anecdote of a young girl who had lived in the neighbourhood of Sedan. On her wedding morning, the maiden had preceded her lover to the church where the ceremony was to be performed. On nearing it, she was met by a friend, who informed her that the young man had been seized with a sudden attack of illness and was dead. The grief of the unhappy girl was such that she lost her reason. Thenceforth, until her own death, ten years later, she walked daily more than two leagues to the spot where she had arranged to meet her lover, and, on arriving there, would sit down and wait for him the entire day. At length, when the shades of evening were falling, she would rise and retrace her steps, exclaiming: “Let us go. He has not yet arrived; I will return to-morrow.”
When he had completed the libretto, Marsollier sent it to Dalayrac, who, quick to recognise the splendid possibilities it offered for musical effect, gladly promised his co-operation. The score was soon written, but, for some little time, the authors hesitated to submit it to the Comédie-Italienne, fearing that their attempt to depict madness on the stage was too hazardous, and might expose them to the risk of a disastrous failure.
While they were still in doubt, Mlle. Guimard offered them the use of her private theatre, in the Chaussée-d’Antin, for an experimental performance. They gratefully accepted, and it was on the erotic stage of the Temple of Terpsichore, “on those boards whereon the coryphées of the fricassée had so many times bounded,” that Madame Dugazon created the part of Nina, before the usual mixed audience of noblemen, grandes dames, and courtesans. The result was a prodigious, an astonishing success, and, on May 15, 1786, the curtain of the Comédie-Italienne rose on Nina, ou la Folle par amour.
The creation of Nina dominates Madame Dugazon’s whole career and eclipses all her earlier triumphs. Never within the memory of man, says M. Campardon, had there been a like success. The actress threw into the part her whole soul, and it was very often remarked that on the days on which she had been playing Nina, she retained throughout the remainder of the evening the haggard eyes and singular gestures of the unhappy mad woman whom she had just been impersonating. “She played the part,” writes Bouilly, “with a perfection impossible to describe; one must have seen and heard her to form a correct idea of that penetrating voice, of that frenzy, heartrending and yet full of charm, of that energy of expression which thrilled every heart.”[135] Grimm pronounces her in this piece superior to herself and to all the actresses that are the most applauded at the other theatres. “Never,” says he, “was there displayed a sensibility more exquisite and more profound. Never did any one know how to assume more happily the most diverse tones. Never did any one vary them with more correctness. It is the sensibility of her acting that decided essentially the success of the work, for the tears which she has caused to flow do not prevent one from perceiving that it leaves much to desire.”[136]
But whatever the shortcomings of Nina may have been, the public seemed resolved to ignore them, and the enthusiasm with which the work and its “inspired interpreter” were received passed all bounds. “When one beheld her, her hair unbound, her eyes staring, a bouquet in her hand, advance towards the grassy bank near which she awaits her ‘bien-aimé,’ when the plaints of the poor distracted girl were translated by the naïve and tender music of Dalayrac, it seemed as if emotion had reached its limits. One wept for Nina, as one wept for Garat, Miss Billington, Todi, Maillard, or Saint-Huberty.”[137]
The tears, the applause, baffled all description. Six times at the conclusion of the play was the “sublime lunatic” recalled. The public could not applaud enough, and at each performance the enthusiasm increased; it seemed inexhaustible. Every evening the doors of the theatre were besieged by an enormous crowd. “Men went thither to be moved by the sorrows which were able to cause such abandon, women to seek emotions and the secret of tears.” Not an evening passed without some lady in the audience swooning with emotion.
Madness became on a sudden the fashionable disease. In the salons a host of young women found occupation in playing the part of Nina, and some of them appeared to have worked themselves into a condition bordering on lunacy. The critics essayed in vain to combat this ridiculous infatuation. They pronounced the subject monstrous, the libretto insipid, the music detestable, and loudly bewailed the decay of art upon the stage. They might have saved their paper and ink. The public continued to applaud and to weep, and the receipts of the Comédie-Italienne to increase. “It seemed,” remarks one of the lady’s biographers, “that each spectator was of the opinion of an enthusiast who, on the evening of the first representation, improvised the following verses in honour of Nina-Dugazon:
The provinces, in their turn, desired to witness this wonderful work and to applaud the idolised actress; and Madame Dugazon, accordingly, paid a visit to Lyons, where a magnificent reception awaited her. Such was the enthusiasm she evoked that her admirers would have liked to raise a triumphal arch in her honour, but, as the city authorities did not quite see their way to gratify this desire, they were fain to content themselves with composing verses in her praise, which were read upon the stage, crowning her with flowers, and applauding until the rafters rang.
On her return to Paris, Madame Dugazon found herself, if it were possible, more the rage than ever, and so completely did her popularity eclipse that of her rivals, that, on the evenings on which she did not appear, the directors of the Comédie-Italienne—that nursery of pretty women—had the mortification to see the boxes empty and their theatre a desert. Their consternation, therefore, may be imagined when, towards the end of that year, the lady, without a moment’s warning, set out for London.
It was at first believed that she had been enticed away by magnificent offers from London managers, but it subsequently transpired that love and not money had drawn her to England; that she had gone thither in the company of a young man with whom she had fallen desperately in love, whether an Englishman or one of her own countrymen contemporary chroniclers do not tell us.
The directors were in despair and wrote letter upon letter, commanding—for she had departed without obtaining the necessary congé—requesting, finally imploring her to return. But the actress replied that she was very content where she was and that they might dispose of her rôles. In vain they attempted to replace her. In vain the beautiful Madame Pitrot, the pretty Lescot, and the charming Colombe tried their fascinations upon the audience. The public would have none of them; scarcely could they obtain a single plaudit. And night after night the curtain rose upon empty benches.
At length, Madame Dugazon, wearying of London or of love—or of both—condescended to return, and, with her, came Fortune once more to the Comédie-Italienne. The empty boxes, the deserted parterre, filled as if by magic, the theatre once more rang with applause, and the directors, who had lately seen ruin staring them in the face, were all smiles and good-humour as they complacently regarded their swelling coffers.
Advancing years brought no decline in the popularity of Madame Dugazon. Unlike the great majority of actresses, who persist in clinging to the very last to the genre in which they first attained celebrity, she was quick to realise the incongruity of a woman whose youth was long past, and whose figure had begun to show a decided tendency to embonpoint, continuing to impersonate juvenile heroines, and, accordingly, resolved to devote herself to the representation of young matrons. Anxious to retain the services of an actress who assured the success of every work in which she appeared, the directors of the Comédie-Italienne readily entered into her views, and provided her with the parts she desired. Her success in the matronly style was phenomenal, and her triumph in Camille, ou le souterrain almost equalled that which she had obtained in Nina.
Notwithstanding the laxity of her morals, Madame Dugazon, in private life, possessed many amiable qualities. Gay, light-hearted, and witty, though without a spark of malice, she was as popular off the stage as upon it; while, if she were faithful neither to husband nor lover, she was, nevertheless, a staunch friend, who endeared herself to a very large circle of acquaintances. All the authors and composers who worked for her seemed to have held her in the highest esteem: Grétry, Sedaine, Étienne, Marsollier, Dalayrac, Laujon, and many others remained to the last sincerely attached to her. Always sympathetic and ready to oblige, her advice was never sought in vain, and more than one young writer was indebted for his first success to the hints which he had received from the experienced actress. Bouilly, who cherished for her the most lively gratitude and affection, declared that he owed everything to her.[139]
Although never wealthy, for not even the most talented actress or singer of those days could hope for more than a modest competence, while none of her numerous love-affairs, if we except the very brief one with M. Boudreau, seem to have been prompted by any mercenary consideration, she was charitable to the utmost limit of her means, and was ever ready to relieve those in distress. It was at her instigation that, during the severe winter of 1784, special performances were organised for the benefit of the suffering poor and a very large sum realised, which was duly handed over to the Church for distribution. The Church, we are told, was very grateful for this timely assistance. But, with her usual intolerance where the theatrical profession was concerned, she decided that the curés must not be permitted to touch money which came direct from the hands of persons without her pale and, therefore, gave instructions that the alms should be purified by being made to pass through the exchequer of the Lieutenant of Police. This pretty piece of casuistry inspired a wit to the following epistle, supposed to be addressed by St. Augustine to Madame Dugazon and her colleagues:
A Royalist to the core, Madame Dugazon, when the Revolution came, viewed with feelings of indignation and regret the downfall of the King and Queen, the latter of whom had treated her with marked kindness.[140] Nor did she lack the courage of her opinions, as an unsigned letter once in the possession of Mrs. Elliot, the lady who inspired the “First Gentleman in Europe” with so lively a passion, will testify:
“After the 20th of June, 1792, those who wished well to the Royal Family urged the Queen to show herself occasionally in public with the Dauphin, an interesting and beautiful child, and her charming daughter, Madame Royale.
“She went therefore to the Comédie-Italienne, with her children, Madame Élisabeth, the King’s sister, and Madame de Tourzel, gouvernante of the ‘children of France.’ This was the last time that the Queen appeared in public. I was in my box, exactly facing that of the Queen; and, as she was much more interesting than the play, I kept my eyes fixed upon her and her family.
“The piece represented was the Événements imprévus, and Madame Dugazon played the soubrette.
“Her Majesty, from the moment she entered the theatre, seemed very sad. She was much affected by the applause of the public, and I saw her several times wipe the tears from her eyes. The little Dauphin, who sat the whole evening upon her knees, appeared anxious to know the cause of his unhappy mother’s tears. She was seen to caress him, and the audience seemed moved by the cruel situation of this unhappy Queen.
“There is a duet in this opera sung by the soubrette and the valet, and Madame Dugazon had to say:
“As, in singing these verses, she placed her hand on her heart and looked at the Queen, every one perfectly understood the allusion.
“Immediately, a number of Jacobins who were among the audience sprang upon the stage, and, if the actors had not concealed Madame Dugazon, they would certainly have killed her. They then drove the poor Queen and her suite from the theatre, and it was all that the guard could do to place them safe and sound in their carriages.
“In the meanwhile, the Queen’s party had joined battle with the Jacobins; but the soldiers intervened and the broil had no serious consequences.”
Shortly after this incident, Madame Dugazon temporarily retired from the Comédie-Italienne, on the plea of ill-health; but really, according to Madame Lebrun, because the public, in a spirit of revenge, had endeavoured to make her sing a revolutionary song upon the stage.[141] In 1795 she reappeared and was received with all the old enthusiasm. At the time of her return, she was merely a pensioner; but, in 1801, when the two Opéra-Comiques were united in a single troupe at the Théâtre-Feydeau, she was admitted a sociétaire and given a seat on the administrative council.
No one was more rejoiced at the Restoration than this most ardent Royalist. “I feel,” she observed to one of her friends, “that now I shall die more happy.” She started at once for Saint-Ouen, and was one of the first to whom Louis XVIII. granted an audience. On being admitted to the royal presence, her emotion overcame her, and she threw herself at the King’s feet, bathed in tears.
The monarch, himself much moved, raised her up. “You have not forgotten me,” said he, kindly, “and I shall always remember the pleasure you gave me at Versailles. I am very grieved that the state of your health has compelled you to retire from the stage. I should be enchanted to see you again.”
After her interview with Louis XVIII., we hear little of Madame Dugazon. She lived a very retired life in the midst of a little circle of intimate friends. All her affection was centred in her son Gustave, a young composer, who, at an early age, showed remarkable promise, which, however, does not seem to have been quite fulfilled.[142] Such was her anxiety for his success that when he had an opera in rehearsal, she is said to have invariably fallen ill and not to have recovered until after the first performance.[143]
She died on September 21, 1821, after a long and painful illness, and was buried in Père-Lachaise. The cortège was followed by a large crowd, and Bouilly, her devoted friend of twenty years, pronounced a funeral oration.
ABOUT the year 1770, a bright-eyed and lively little girl might frequently have been seen to steal behind the scenes of the Comédie-Française, and then, placing herself in some obscure corner, gaze with mingled awe and admiration at the great players as they made their entrances and exits. The father of little Louise Contat—for that was the child’s name—seems to have had some employment at the theatre,[144] and she had already gained some distinction in amateur performances. At the age of eleven, it was intended to send her out on tour with a wandering theatrical troupe, but, fortunately, she had already attracted the notice of the Prévilles, who adopted her, and the famous actor himself undertook to train her for the stage.[145] “Never,” says Fleury, “did pupil prove more worthy of such a master. The young actress did not master intuitively the secrets of an art which cannot be taught; but the great comedian, charmed with her precocious talent, facilitated her acquirement of those elements of diction, the solfêggi of speech, so indispensable to a career on the stage.”[146]
On February 3, 1776, at the age of fifteen and a half, Louise Contat appeared at the Comédie-Française, as Atalide, in Bajazet. Her face and figure pleased the critics, but her talent made but little impression. “Mlle. Contat, has just made her début,” writes La Harpe, “with a pretty face, but no voice and little talent.” Nor was Grimm more favourable. “She is mediocre in tragedy,” writes he, “and her gestures are affected; but she has an agreeable face and intelligent eyes.” Subsequently, she played Zaïre and Junie, in Britannicus, but with hardly more success. In truth, she had no talent for tragedy, and it was only in compliance with the regulations of the theatre that she undertook such parts. When, however, she came to play comedy, particularly comedy of the light, vivacious kind, there was a different tale to tell. Then the careful lessons she had received from Préville, the greatest comedian of his time, bore fruit in several delightfully clever impersonations, which drew upon her the favourable attention of all lovers of really fine acting, and showed that nothing but experience was needed to make her a worthy successor to Mlle. Dangeville.
But, for some years, the girl’s opportunities for distinction were very limited, since no sooner did her rare talents begin to be suspected, than a cabal was organised to obstruct her progress. To begin with, her jealous rivals pitted against her Mlle. Vadé, the daughter of the poet who had bestowed upon Louis XV. the title of “le Bien-Aimé,” a young lady who had made her first appearance on the same evening as Mlle. Contat herself. Mlle. Vadé, however, had few pretensions to beauty, and still fewer to histrionic fame, and Mlle. Contat showed marked superiority to her opponent, even in the jeunes princesses; a circumstance which Préville took advantage of to secure for his pupil admission as a regular member of the company.
Nevertheless, the cabal, far from being discouraged by this rebuff, continued their machinations, and availed themselves of their seniority to exclude the young actress from every part which might afford her a chance of distinction. But, though the poor girl frequently quitted the stage in floods of tears, after the chilly reception which had been accorded her impersonation of some rôle utterly unsuited to her talents, in the end the malignity of her enemies defeated its own purpose. “It stimulated her,” says Fleury, “to prove how much she had been wronged. She exerted herself to give importance to the insignificant parts allotted to her, and this kind of feeling is a never-failing spur to the young artiste.”
And the time was now at hand when the administration of the Comédie-Française could no longer afford to ignore the claims of the younger members at the bidding of a group of jealous women, several of whom might be regarded as lights of other days. The Comédie-Italienne was now no longer Italian in anything but name; it had become the rival of the national theatre. This rivalry, which had begun in a very humble spirit—the “Italians” gave out that they wished merely to glean in the vast field wherein their brothers of the Comédie-Française reaped so abundantly—gradually developed into one of a very serious character. The “Italians” issued an address, announcing that Thalia, who heretofore had not dared to present herself on the boards of their theatre, except under the auspices of the goddess of harmony, had decided to assert her rights, reinforced their company by some excellent performers, amongst whom was Madame Verteuil, a lady who had earned a high reputation in the provinces, and produced some excellent comedies, whose success excited the gravest apprehension in the green-room of the Comédie-Française.
To present a bold front to this formidable attack, the administration of that theatre found themselves compelled to bring into the field all their forces and to give every encouragement to new talent. But the opposition to Mlle. Contat was so strong, that it was not until July 1782 that she was afforded an opportunity of exercising her abilities to the full and realising the promise which Préville had seen in her as a child.
So far back as the spring of 1775, Palissot had submitted to the Comédie-Française a play called Les Courtisanes. The actors rejected it, ostensibly on the ground that it was indelicate, but really, the author suspected, because he was the enemy of their friends, the philosophers. In reply to the ostensible reason, he applied for and obtained the approbation of the censor, Crébillon fils, not perhaps the person best fitted to discriminate between delicacy and indelicacy, since he was the author of some of the most licentious romances of the time, one of which, called Le Sopha, had so outraged Madame de Pompadour’s sense of propriety that she had caused the writer to be exiled from Paris. Nevertheless, the company held to their previous decision, at the same time addressing to the dramatist an impertinent letter. Out of consideration, for his feelings, they said, their first refusal had been based on the indelicacy of the piece. But the Courtisanes possessed faults of another kind. It might, however, be performed, if M. Palissot could contrive to invest it with: (1) action; (2) interest; (3) taste; (4) a plot. In spite of this rebuff, the author had the play printed and, seven years later, through the mediation of the Archbishop of Paris, whom he had succeeded in persuading that his work would promote the cause of morality, Louis XVI. gave orders that it should be put into rehearsal, after suggesting some alterations in the dialogue.
The play was a success, a result largely due to Mlle. Contat’s admirable impersonation of the heroine, the courtesan Rosalie, for more than one of the situations was decidedly “risky,” while the fact that Sophanès, the villain of the piece—and a particularly odious villain—was a philosopher and man of letters by no means commended itself to many of the habitués of the pit.[147]
“Mlle. Contat,” wrote Grimm, “secured in the part of Rosalie a success which she had never yet obtained. The situation in the second act appeared to be carried a little further than stage decorum seems to permit of. But the situation is material to the plot, and, thanks to the charming figure of the heroine, it would have been difficult not to accord indulgence to the tableau. Moreover, it was tolerated, though not without some murmuring.”
From the performance of this comedy we may date the opening of Louise Contat’s theatrical career. In the following December, she secured another triumph as the heroine of Dubuisson’s Vieux Garçon, and Grimm wrote: “Mlle. Contat who makes every day fresh progress, appeared charming in the part of Sophie. At Easter 1783, on the retirement of the accomplished and virtuous Mlle. d’Oligny, the object of the eulogy of Fréron which excited Mlle. Clairon to so much indignation,[148] she succeeded to her emploi,” and secured daily fresh successes.[149]
But it was in the part of Suzanne in Beaumarchais’s immortal comedy, Le Mariage de Figaro, that Louise Contat was to attain celebrity. This play had been completed in 1781; but to write it was one thing, to get it produced was quite another. Louis XVI. read the manuscript himself and, though his political insight was none of the keenest, could not fail to recognise its dangerous tendencies. He pronounced it “detestable” and “unactable,” and, for more than two years, no argument could induce him to permit its being performed. It was in vain that Beaumarchais stimulated public curiosity to fever heat by frequent readings of his play, at his own house or in various fashionable salons. It was in vain that his friends at Court, headed by the Comte de Vaudreuil, one of the most prominent members of the Queen’s social circle,[150] allowed no opportunity to slip of extolling the merits of the work. The King remained adamant. Once indeed it seemed to the dramatist that the battle had all but been won. Thanks to the efforts of Vaudreuil, who had succeeded in gaining over Marie Antoinette to his side, the players suddenly received orders from Versailles to rehearse the play in secret for a private performance. Beaumarchais, after reading his piece to the assembled company, determined to consult Mlle. Contat as to the cast, the result being that Dazincourt was set down for Figaro, Molé for Almaviva, the same character which he had so successfully represented in the Barbier de Seville, Mlle. Sainval for the Countess, and pretty Mlle. Olivier for the Page; while Préville, who, conscious of failing memory and sprightliness, had refused the part of the Barber, contented himself with the comparatively unimportant rôle of Brid’oison. Finally, Mlle. Contat was entrusted with the all-important part of Suzanne, a choice which caused considerable astonishment, as, admirable though the young actress was as an amoureuse, she had never yet attempted anything of this kind. Mlle. Fanier, the senior soubrette, protested warmly against the nomination and claimed Suzanne for herself. But Beaumarchais, who had early recognised the high qualities of Mlle. Contat and had every confidence in her versatility, had from the first intended the part of the heroine for her, and would listen to no remonstrance. Nor had he any reason to regret his decision.
Everything being in readiness, it was decided that the performance should be given at the Théâtre des Menus-Plaisirs, where the Comte de Vaudreuil’s influence was paramount, on June 13, 1783. The interest it excited was intense. As the appointed hour drew near, the approaches to the theatre were blocked by hundreds of coaches; all the fashionable world seemed determined to be present. The consternation, therefore, may be imagined when a rumour began to spread that there would be no play that evening; that the King had forbidden the performance. At first, the gaily-dressed crowd was inclined to be incredulous. But a notice posted on the doors of the theatre confirmed the rumour, and sent them away, complaining bitterly of the “oppression” and “tyranny” of the King, who at the eleventh hour had sent orders, through his Minister of the Household, the Baron de Breteuil, prohibiting the representation of Le Mariage de Figaro under pain of disobedience, and, the next day, caused the players to be summoned before the Lieutenant of Police, when the prohibition was repeated in a form employed by the royal authority only on the gravest occasions.
But Beaumarchais was not the man to despair. He withdrew to London, ostensibly on commercial business, but really, no doubt, to be out of the way the while Vaudreuil solicited and obtained the King’s consent to the Mariage de Figaro being performed in the course of a fête which the count intended to give at his country-house at Gennevilliers. “The Comte d’Artois,” wrote the Duc de Fronsac to Beaumarchais from that place, “is coming to hunt here about the 18th (September), and the Duc de Polignac with his party to sup. Vaudreuil has consulted me as to giving them a play, as we have a capital room. I told him that he could not find a more charming one than the Mariage de Figaro. The King has given his consent, have we yours?”
Beaumarchais, on his return to Paris, duly gave his “consent,” but only on condition that the play should be re-examined. The royal veto, said he, had exposed his work to the charge of immorality, and until that stigma had been removed from it by a formal approbation, on no consideration would he allow it to be played. It was a masterly move, for while no censor would be likely to forbid an entertainment sanctioned by the King, the desired approbation, besides stimulating the curiosity of the public, would have the effect of covering his Majesty’s opposition to the piece with ridicule. One would have supposed that the authorities would have been sufficiently alert to detect the trap laid for them, but they walked into it without hesitation, and sent the manuscript to the historian Gaillard,[151] who reported to the Lieutenant of Police as follows:
“Allow me, Monsieur, to inform you of my opinion with regard to the comedy entitled La Folle Journée, ou le Mariage de Figaro. I have heard it read and read it myself with all the attention of which I am capable, and I confess that I see no danger in allowing it to be performed, when corrected in two places, and when some mots have been suppressed, of which a malicious abuse or a dangerous and wicked application might be made. The piece is a very gay one; but when the gaieties, although approaching what are called ‘gaudrioles,’ are not indecent, they amuse without doing harm. Gay people are not dangerous, and State troubles, conspiracies, assassinations, and all the horrors we read of in history of all ages show us that they have been conceived, ripened, and executed by reserved, sad, and sullen people. The piece is besides called La Folle Journée, and Figaro, the hero of that piece, is known in the comedy of the Barbier de Seville, of which this is a continuation, as one of those intriguers of the lower class, whose examples are not dangerous for any man of the world. Besides, I think that by raising objections to things of little importance, as if they were dangerous, a value is imparted to them which they themselves do not possess, and foolish or ill-natured people are inspired with a fear or suspicion of danger, which has no reality.”
Then, after having proposed two suppressions, one of the word “minister,” the other of a passage alluding to the judgment of Solomon, Gaillard concludes thus:
“This piece appears to be well written. The personages speak as they ought, according to their station, and I think it very likely to attract more spectators to the Comédie and, consequently, what it most requires—large receipts.”[152]
Gaillard’s suggestions, which left untouched practically the whole of the sarcasms levelled at the Government, were readily agreed to by Beaumarchais, who lost no opportunity of exaggerating their importance in the eyes of the world, and succeeded in extracting from the Lieutenant of Police a promise that henceforward the comedy should be “deemed the property of his Majesty’s players,” i.e., put in the way of being represented at the theatre.
The Mariage de Figaro was then played in the large room at Gennevilliers, apparently, as a favour somewhat reluctantly conceded by the author, and was received with enthusiastic applause by the distinguished company, though, if Madame Vigée Lebrun is to be believed, every one was surprised that the Comte de Vaudreuil should have permitted a play which contained so many sarcastic allusions to the Court to be performed before an audience which consisted almost entirely of courtiers, with “our excellent prince,” the Comte d’Artois, at their head. According to the same authority, the favourable reception accorded his comedy quite turned Beaumarchais’s head. “He rushed about like a madman, and, on some one complaining of the heat, he would not allow time for the windows to be opened, but broke all the panes with his cane.”[153] “Il a doublement cassé les vitres,” it was remarked.
The very day after the performance at Gennevilliers, Beaumarchais, sensible of the advantage he had gained, formally applied to the Lieutenant of Police for permission to have his play brought out. But that official replied that the King’s prohibition, given the day of the performance at the Menus-Plaisirs, was still in force, and that he must refer the matter to his Majesty. The latter, though alarmed by the ferment he had raised, for all Paris and Versailles were now loudly clamouring for the production of the Mariage, could not make up his mind to allow the production of a piece which he considered both dangerous and immoral, and resolved to postpone the evil day so long as he possibly could. In this decision, it appeared, he was influenced largely by the Baron de Breteuil, who was exceedingly prejudiced against the play, and to conciliate that nobleman all Beaumarchais’s efforts were henceforth directed. The baron was devoted to the Queen and the Comte d’Artois, and was himself by no means insensible to courtly seduction; and the dramatist, aware of this, succeeded not only in obtaining the influence of the Comte d’Artois, but even on prevailing on Marie Antoinette to say a word on his behalf. Both the Queen and the prince assured the Minister that, in addition to the corrections required in the Mariage de Figaro by Gaillard, the author was prepared to make still further alterations, if such were considered necessary. Breteuil thereupon assumed a more friendly attitude, but declared that before he could interest himself in the fate of the piece, he must hear it carefully read, in the presence of some literary men of his own selection.
“On the day appointed,” says Fleury, “Beaumarchais proceeded with his manuscript to the baron’s residence, where he found assembled, besides the master of the house, MM. Gaillard, Champfort, Rulhière, Madame de Matignon, the Minister’s daughter, and several other ladies, her friends. Beaumarchais began by declaring that he would submit without reserve to all corrections and omissions which the ladies and gentlemen present might deem requisite. He began reading, he was stopped; some remarks were made, and a little discussion arose. At every interruption, Beaumarchais yielded the point in dispute. But when the reading was ended, he went over the whole ground again, defending the smallest details with so much address, such forcible reasoning, and such captivating pleasantry, that he completely silenced his censors. They laughed and applauded, and, at length, all declared that the play was ‘a most original and unique production.’ Instead of omissions, additions were proposed. Every one of the party was eager to interpolate a word or two. M. de Breteuil suggested a bon mot, which Beaumarchais thankfully accepted. ‘This will save the fourth act,’ said he. Madame de Matignon chose the colour for the Page’s ribbon. The colour was approved; it would become quite the rage. ‘Who would not be proud to wear Madame de Matignon’s colours?’ said Beaumarchais. ‘But M. de Breteuil’s bon mot would not be heard, the elegant ribbon would not be seen, if the second Figaro were not permitted to appear on the stage.’ That he must appear was eventually the unanimous opinion.”[154]
The astute dramatist completely succeeded in throwing dust in the eyes of the Baron de Breteuil, and, though Louis XVI. contrived to defer his inevitable surrender for some months longer, by declaring that the play must be re-examined and causing six censors to be appointed for that purpose, on April 27, 1784, the bills of the Comédie-Française, posted up in every quarter of Paris, triumphantly announced the production that evening of
“Le Mariage de Figaro
ou
La Folle Journée.”
The description of the first performance of Beaumarchais’s masterpiece is to be found in every history of the period. It is one of the best-known souvenirs of the eighteenth century. Let us, however, borrow the account given in the Mémoires of Mlle. Contat’s colleague and friend, the actor Fleury:
“Many hours before the opening of the ticket-office I verily believe that half the population of Paris was at the doors. Here was a triumph for Beaumarchais! If he sighed for popularity, he had gained it. Persons of the highest rank, even Princes of the Blood, besieged him with letters imploring to be favoured with the author’s tickets. At eleven o’clock in the forenoon, the Duchesse de Bourbon sent her valet to the office to wait until the distribution of the tickets, which was to take place at four o’clock. At two o’clock, the Duchesse d’Ossun laid aside her accustomed dignity and hauteur and herself solicited the crowd to allow her to pass; Madame de Talleyrand, doing violence to her parsimonious disposition, paid triple price for a box. Cordons bleus were seen elbowing their way through the crowd, jostled by Savoyards; the guards were dispersed, the doors forced open, the iron bars broken down, and an inconceivable scene of confusion and danger ensued. One half of the people had been unable to procure tickets, and threw their admission money to the doorkeepers as they passed, or rather, as they were carried along. But, whilst all this was happening outside, the disorder which prevailed within the theatre was, if possible, still greater. No less than three hundred persons who had procured tickets at an early period dined in the boxes. Our theatre seemed transformed into a tavern; nothing was heard but the clattering of plates and the drawing of corks. Then, when the audience were assembled, what a brilliant picture presented itself! The élite of the rank and talent of Paris was congregated there. What a radiant line of beauty was exhibited by the first tier of boxes.”[155]
The success of the piece was immense, incredible, surpassing even the fondest hopes of the author and actors. From the opening scene the comedy carried the audience along with it, and each of the pointed allusions to State abuses was greeted with vociferous and prolonged applause, which was by no means confined to the parterre. All the principal performers distinguished themselves. Dazincourt played Figaro with all his characteristic humour and sprightliness, at the same time relieving the character from any appearance of vulgarity; Molé was an elegant and dignified Almaviva; Mlle. Sainval, whose efforts had hitherto been mainly confined to tragedy, displayed in the part of the Countess an aptitude for high comedy which surprised as much as it delighted the audience; Mlle. Olivier threw the most enchanting archness and espièglerie into the rôle of the Page; while old Préville rendered Brid’oison a masterly character.
But the gem of the whole performance was undoubtedly Mlle. Contat’s impersonation of Suzanne, wherein she more than justified Beaumarchais’s confidence in her versatility, and astonished even her most devout admirers by the gaiety and entrain with which she sustained the part. As soon as the curtain fell, Préville ran up to her, and, embracing her, warmly exclaimed: “This is my first infidelity to Mlle. Dangeville!”
The verdict of the public was confirmed by the critics. “Mlle. Contat, in the rôle of Suzanne,” says the Mercure, “has established fresh claims to the applause of connoisseurs, by a performance frank, intelligent, and humorous.” “The demoiselle Contat,” says the Journal de Paris, “rendered Suzanne with the most piquant grace.” And—highest tribute of all—that most captious of critics, La Harpe, declared that she “rendered the part of Suzanne to perfection.”
From that evening Louise Contat stood forth as one of the brightest stars of the Comédie-Française and as a truly great actress.
At the time when she created the part of Suzanne in the Mariage de Figaro, Louise Contat was twenty-four years of age and in the zenith of her beauty. Without being tall, her figure was admirably proportioned, and “her whole person breathed an air of supreme distinction.” Her face, a charming oval, was illumined by a pair of beautiful eyes, “by turns languishing or flashing with mischief.” An exquisite mouth, perfect teeth, and a ravishing smile completed the picture, and enslaved all with whom she came in contact.
Yet her beauty was not perfect. “She is an admirable Venus,” says a pamphlet of the time, “cut by some great sculptor from a block of the purest marble. Only he had not time to finish his work, and entrusted the hands and feet to one of his workmen.”[156] Fortunately, she knew how to conceal these imperfections, and on the stage they passed unnoticed.
It is hardly necessary to remark that so fascinating and talented a young woman did not lack for both noble and wealthy adorers. But Mlle. Contat, in the early stages of her career, was of a romantic disposition, and her first lover possessed neither qualification. This much-envied individual was a certain Chevalier de Lubsac, an officer of the Royal Household, whose handsome face and ready wit more than atoned, in the lady’s eyes, for his empty purse and the brevity of his pedigree.
LOUISE CONTAT After the painting by Dutertre
LOUISE CONTAT
After the painting by Dutertre
Soon, however, the actress had cause to regret her choice. M. de Lubsac not only, on occasion, drank a great deal more wine than was good for him, but he was a confirmed and most reckless gambler, who would cheerfully stake everything he possessed on the turn of a card. One evening, when on the point of starting for a fête, Mlle. Contat went to her jewel-case. To her consternation, it was empty; rings, brooches, pendants, earrings, necklaces—all had disappeared! Supposing that thieves had been at work, the distracted lady gave orders that the police should be summoned, when Lubsac, who was present, intervened and, falling on his knees, confessed that he was the culprit and entreated her pardon. Yielding to a sudden temptation, he had carried off and pledged the whole of the missing property, in order to obtain the sinews of war. But alas! his luck had been execrable; he had lost every sou.
The indignation of the actress and the despair of the unhappy lover may be imagined.
“Ah!” cried he, wringing his hands, “had I but a few louis, I could speedily repair the injury I have done you.”
“How so?” inquired Mlle. Contat, who perceived a ray of hope.
“Yes,” resumed the contrite Lubsac, “I feel that I am in the vein this evening. But I have nothing to stake, nothing whatever.”
The repentance of the criminal touched the actress’s heart. Smiling through her tears, she produced two louis—the last she had in the world—and handed them to the chevalier, who hurried off to the gaming-table. In less than an hour he returned, transported with joy. Fortune had smiled upon him; he brought with him all the jewellery he had pledged, and had still a few louis in his pocket.
The affaire with M. de Lubsac lasted but a few months, at the end of which Mlle. Contat had had enough of him and his vagaries and gave him his congé. A wealthy financier aspired to the vacant place in the lady’s affections, became an assiduous frequenter of the Comédie, and professed his readiness to lay his heart and his money-bags at her feet. But the actress would have nothing to say to him, and intimated in unmistakable terms that neither his heart nor his money-bags had any attraction for her. Nevertheless, Plutus continued to prosecute his suit, and one evening, while Mlle. Contat, was standing in the wings, talking with the Duc de Laval, he approached and, “after having reminded her that he had already adored her for a long while, inquired if his turn to be loved had not arrived.” The actress indignant at such presumption, angrily retorted that “if he were ten times richer than he was, she would not recognise his right to behave with such impertinence”; and, with that, turned her back upon him.
It must not be supposed, however, that Mlle. Contat was indifferent to riches, when the person who possessed them had other claims to her regard; and, some months after the above episode, we find her squandering right merrily the patrimony of the Marquis de Maupeou.
The Marquis de Maupeou was very rich and very much in love; never could actress have desired a more generous admirer. He furnished a house for her, loaded her with presents, and decked her with magnificent diamonds. Moreover, he was as submissive as a slave, and obeyed without a murmur her slightest caprice. But Mlle. Contat must have been even more difficult to please than the generality of her sex, since even this paragon of lovers did not long satisfy her. Perhaps his very devotion and readiness to submit to her will constituted a fault in her eyes. Any way, she dismissed him, and, though the lovelorn marquis “became so distracted through grief, that he proposed to Mlle. Contat to marry her and take her away from France,” she declined the offer.
For the lady had higher views. She had just made a conquest of the second gentleman in the land after the King, Madame Lebrun’s “excellent prince,” the Comte d’Artois, to wit. What woman could resist a Prince of the Blood? Certainly not an actress of the Comédie-Française. To have done so would have been to render herself guilty of lèse-majesté.
Mlle. Contat was a proud woman indeed. Nevertheless, there were days when she regretted the time when the bottomless purse of the Marquis de Maupeou had been at her disposal. For the liberality of her royal lover was very far from being in accordance with what one might have expected from so great a personage. If his revenues were large, he told her, his expenses were enormous—it is probable that Mlle. Contat only possessed a fraction of the august heart—and often he was hard put for even a handful of louis.
The actress received these excuses in good part; but, being privately of opinion that it was the will and not the means which the prince lacked, had recourse to a little ruse, in order to stimulate his generosity.
On a piece of stamped paper she forged a judgment-summons, requiring her to pay a sum of 10,000 livres, and left it, as if by accident, on her chimney-piece. Soon afterwards, his Royal Highness, happening to call upon his inamorata, caught sight of the paper and wished to read it. Mlle. Contat begged him not to do so, and pretended to snatch it from him; but, at length, with much apparent reluctance, permitted him to satisfy his curiosity.
The prince read the document, said that the actress was very wrong not to have taken him into her confidence in regard to her embarrassments, and, having promised to take the debt upon himself, carried the summons away with him. Next day, he sent her a letter, which she eagerly opened, only to find, instead of the expected 10,000 livres, another legal document, which provided that the warrant which she had been at such pains to fabricate should not be put in force for twelve months.
Great was the lady’s disgust at the failure of her little scheme. For a moment, she was almost resolved to forsake the parsimonious prince for a less distinguished but more open-handed adorer. However, her indignation did not last very long, as the following morning the Comte d’Artois, who had only intended to indulge in a little joke at his mistress’s expense, sent her, by way of compensation for her disappointment, a magnificent present.
It was easy for a Prince of the Blood to be generous, in those days, without untieing his purse-strings. Thus the count obtained for his charming mistress an authorisation to play the prohibited game of biribi at her house, a privilege which the actress ceded to the keeper of a tennis-court for the sum of one hundred louis a month. This agreeable addition to her income, however, was not of long duration, since, at the end of a few months, the Parliament of Paris made one of its periodical onslaughts upon gambling-houses, and that of Mlle. Contat was closed by orders of the Lieutenant of Police.
Misfortunes seldom come singly. Soon after the closing of the gambling-house, Mlle. Contat presented the Comte d’Artois with a pledge of her gratitude and affection in the shape of a little daughter. But, by this time, the relations between the actress and the prince had become somewhat strained. Perhaps, the latter had grown tired of the lady’s extravagance and caprices; perhaps he had his doubts as to whether he was the sole tenant of her heart, or possibly he was troubled by retrospective scruples. However that may be, he forgot his promises and declined to recognise the child, about whom we shall have something to say hereafter.
After this, it is hardly surprising to learn that Mlle. Contat’s connection with her august admirer came to a close, M. Desentelles, the Intendant des Menus-Plaisirs, becoming the official successor of the prince. We say official successor, as it was rumoured in the foyer of the Comédie-Française that the actor Fleury was by no means indifferent to the charms of his fair colleague, and that he did not sigh in vain.
Mlle. Contat’s rupture with the Comte d’Artois plunged the actress into a sea of financial troubles. During their connection, she had, of course, maintained an establishment befitting the mistress of the King’s brother, and had contracted debts on a proportionate scale. So long as there seemed a reasonable prospect of the prince taking these liabilities on himself, her creditors had been complacent enough. But, the moment they learned that the liaison was at an end, they became clamorous for payment and threatened executions and other unpleasant methods of recovering their due. M. Desentelles and Fleury did their best to pacify them, but that was little enough; and, in her despair, Mlle. Contat was compelled to humiliate herself so far as to apply for assistance to her former adorers: to the Marquis de Maupeou, whom she had discarded, to the Comte d’Artois, who had discarded her. The marquis and the prince responded nobly to the appeal, the latter sending her no less than three thousand louis; and the most troublesome claims were satisfied.
The favour of M. Desentelles lasted but a short while, and, after his dismissal, Mlle. Contat seems to have had enough of gallantry, or, at least, of official lovers. Fleury, however, remained always her faithful and devoted friend, and speaks of her in his Mémoires as a “good and excellent sister.” He had done much to encourage her in the days when jealous intrigues had relegated her to the background, and, in return, he was indebted to her for the part which made his reputation as an actor. With the piece which provided him with this opportunity Mlle. Contat had become acquainted in rather a romantic way.
One afternoon, in the winter of 1788-1789, the actress was driving in a whisky, a kind of vehicle then much affected by ladies of fashion. Unfortunately for the safety of pedestrians, she held the reins with considerably more grace than skill, and about the middle of the Pont-Neuf narrowly escaped knocking down a middle-aged gentleman, who was crossing the road. “Monsieur,” she exclaimed, pulling up sharply, “pray what do you mean by running against my horse in that fashion?” “Madame,” was the reply, “I really think that the horse ran against me.” “Impossible, Monsieur. My horse is quite under control. Besides, I called out ‘gare!.’ You never looked up.” “Madame,” said the gentleman, with a profound congé, “you have more reason to cry ‘gare’ now that I do look up.”
Convinced, from his courtly manners and distinguished air, that the stranger must be a personage of high rank, Mlle. Contat made several attempts to ascertain his identity, but without success, and had well-nigh forgotten the adventure, when one night, at the theatre, about a month later, a note was brought to her. It was to the effect that the gentleman who had had the privilege of a few moments’ conversation with her on the Pont-Neuf wished to know whether, as a great favour, the “modern Thalia” would devote a leisure hour to a rehearsal, at the Comédie-Italienne, of a two-act piece in which he was greatly interested. “Henri” was the signature.
Mlle. Contat at once repaired to the theatre mentioned; but found that the author of the only play in preparation there was a comparatively young man, a certain Baron Ernest von Manteufel, a relative of the last Grand Duke of Courland. “Ma foi!” exclaimed she, to the composer Dezède, who presented him to her, “I must explain my error in coming hither.” And the letter was produced. The baron, on reading it, seemed much moved. “Henri,” he cried, “ever noble, generous, and true!” “And to me unknown,” remarked the actress, smiling. “Unknown, Mademoiselle? Why all the world knows him!” “Nay, Monsieur, there is at least one person in the world who is not in the secret, and that person is myself.” “Can you possibly be unaware, Mademoiselle, that he is Prince Henry of Prussia [brother of Frederick the Great].” “I breathe again,” said Mademoiselle Contat. “Brother of a king and a hero into the bargain! I pardon him for the sake of his coup de théâtre.” “And for the sake of his recommendation,” the author continued, “I hope you will befriend me.”
He then explained that he was in a serious difficulty. The success of his first act depended upon the impersonation of a tavern-hostess. This part he had, of course, intended for Madame Dugazon; but that lady had declined it, on the ground that it was unworthy of her talents; and the actress who was now studying it was plainly unequal to the task. Would Mlle. Contat use her good offices to induce Madame Dugazon to reconsider her decision.
Mlle. Contat declared such a negotiation impossible; to take a part from an actress in possession of it, and force it upon one who had rejected it would be a breach of the etiquette of her profession. But she sat out the rehearsal, and saw at once that the piece, which was a comédie à ariettes—music by Dezède—written round a pleasing little incident in the life of Frederick the Great, which had very probably been related to the author by Prince Henry of Prussia, might prove an immense success at the Comédie-Française, and, moreover, provide her friend Fleury with one of those “creations” which, when they succeed, establish the reputation of an actor.
She accordingly talked the matter over with the author and Dezède, the result being that the piece, which was entitled Auguste et Théodore, ou les Deux Pages—it is known to fame by its sub-title—was transferred from the “Italians” to the Comédie-Française, where it was produced on March 6, 1789, Fleury playing the principal part, with Mlle. Contat as the hostess of the tavern.
The anticipations of the actress were fully verified. Les Deux Pages was received with the most unbounded enthusiasm; Fleury made of the warrior king a masterpiece which placed him in the very front rank of his profession;[157] while she herself, we are assured, was “irresistible, her beauty and frank gaiety carrying all before them.”
But we are anticipating. Between the Mariage de Figaro and the production of Les Deux Pages four years had elapsed—years in which Louise Contat had confirmed the great reputation which her creation of Suzanne had secured for her by a series of masterly impersonations. In high comedy, indeed, she was supreme and without a rival. “In her hands the fan became a sceptre. No one comprehended Molière better; no one knew how to interpret more naturally the spirit of Marivaux. She was reproached with a certain amount of affectation; but she knew how to combine the haughty disposition of Célimène with the intelligent vivacity of Dorine. Seductive voice, eloquent eye, charming smile, infinite tact, amiable dignity, perfect knowledge of situations—everything in her combined to enchant an audience. None of the characteristics which distinguished the society of the old régime had escaped her, and ‘from head to foot she was grande dame.’ ”[158]
Her triumphs were not confined to the capital. She made provincial tours—tours which were one long series of ovations, in which crowns of laurels were showered upon her, and thousands of complimentary verses composed in her honour. Once, when playing with Molé, at Marseilles, the following madrigal was addressed to them: