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THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES
MEMOIRS
OF
HYPPOLITE CLAIRONi
THE CELEBRATED FRENCH ACTRESS :
WITH
REFLECTIONS
UPON-
THE DRAMATIC ART:
WRITTEN BY HERSELF.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH,; IN TV/0 VOLUMES.
\ OL. L
I-^IVlf D rOR O. C. AVD T- ROBINSON, P ATERNOSTER«R,0 Wf
Ejr S. Himilion, Fileon-Cnurt, Ftctt-Sctecb
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PREFACE. -^^P ^-^^ f\2.t:
^ / 9-0 0
1 HE memoirs of celebrated artists, as well as those of eminent poets and il- lustrious philpsophers, are equally in- teresting to those who admife their genius, as to those who design to ^read their footsteps. One feels ^ curiosity to learn by what incidents they were guided in their choice of profession, and by what studies and means tjiey reached that high degree of perfecti^^ which procures for them the suffrages of their own age, and the remembrance of pos- terity. Their reflections on the art pr ' the sciences which they profess are precepts which their followers Cplkct, a ^
(*%,- 4^ \^ 4^ ^ J fs^ Ai^
IV PREFACE."
and by which they are frequently en- abled to shorten the thorny path which' leads to celebrity.
The work of HyppoliteClairon com- bines in itself all those advanta2:es. This celebrated actress is -yet alive j she re- sides at Paris ; and it is at nearly her eightieth year that she appears to have recovered, for the purpose of writing her memoirs, that strength of colouring, and justness of expression, which di- stinguished her style when in the bloom of youth,
Hyppolite Clairon was born in ob- scurity. Her early education was, therefore, neglected, and at ten years old she scarcely could read. Her ta-
PREFACE. , y
knt for the stage, however, was al- ready manifest. From, her windows she was accustomed to see mademoi- selle Dangeville receive her lessons in dancing, and she learned to imitate. The applauses which were lavished on these, her first attempts at imitations, heated her youthful imagination ; and for the future she dreamt of nothing but of securing the praise she had gained. Shortly afterwards she was brought to the theatre, where the en- tertainments of the evening were Le Compte D' Essex and Lcs Folies Amour - euses. Next day she was able to re- peat above a hundred lines of the tra- gedy, and two-thirds of the after-piece ; she could even imitate the tones an4 gestures of the performers. Her mo- a 3
VI PREFACE.
ther designed • her for a working bu- siness 'y but the sprightly daughter could not endure the labour of the hands. One day, when the mother was inflicting on her the punishment of her idleness, she cried out, ** Well, you had better kill me at once ; for if not, nothing shall prevent me from being a player !"
It soon became necessary to deter- mine ; and Hyppolite appeared at the Italian theatre before she was quite twelve years old. Some time after- wards she ViTas engaged in the Rouen company -, she was applauded by the audience, and astonished her employers. It was here she acquired the habits of the theatre. After having appeared
PREFACE. ViU
successively at different theatres, she at last presented herself at the Comedie Francais. She insisted on playing first- rate characters, and tp make her first appearance in that of Fhedre, — The managers laughed at her presumption 5 but she was resolved, and succeeded. After having performed for twenty years at this theatre, with great sue-' cess, she went into Germany, and took up her residence in the neighbourhood of the Margrave of Anspach, who ap^ peared to entertain for her, if not love, at least a very lively friendship. But to use her own expression, — " there is no court so little as not to have its Nar- cissus:" she was persecuted here, and returned to her country, a 4
Vm - PREFACE.
Hyppolite Clairon terminates this re- cital by a critique on the theatre, in its present state, which appears to carry severity to a degree that borders on in- , justice. It is interesting, nevertheless, to relate the judgment of a performer so celebrated -, for, notwithstanding the spirit of prejudice by which it appears to have been dictated, it yet seems to inculcate truths which it is for the interest of the art should be kept in mind, as well by the public as by the performers.
• Thous^h mademoiselle Clairon has her memory impressed with the pror ductions of the best French poets, she yet resorts to the theatre, to feel that
PREFACE.' ix
additional interest which the beauties of action never fail to add to the. beau- ties of composition. " But, alas !" says she, " what do I meet in these re- presentations but the vulgarity of the lowest classes of life ;
————*' No principle of art —
No idea of the dignity of the character j
" every one plays after his own fashion, and forgets that the performer should accommodate himself to those with whom he plays ; that it is his duty to exert some effort, to make some sacri- fice to the ensemble of tiie piece, and to secure effect, I observe no unity of tones, no dignity of action. I have seen heroes throw themselves flat on their belly, and sometimes walk on their
X PREFACE.
knees. I have seen indecency of dress carried jso far, that the actress appeared under the single covering of a flesh-co- loured taffety, and exactly fitted to the skin from head to foot. I have been stunned with ranting, and disgusted with buffoonery ; and, to complete all, the pit has cried out Bravo I
'* It is not for me to decide, whether the public and the performers of the present day are wrong, or whether the public and the performers of my day are right ; but I may be permitted to say, that there is not the least trait of resemblance between the two."
It is a proverb, * that old people boast
PREFACE. Xi
of tne past, at the expense of the pre- sent ; perhaps madame Clairon, spite of the strength of mind which she pos- sesses, has yielded to this weakness. It is certain, that the French tragic stage . has alvyays wanted that effect, resulting from the coincidence of efforts in the performers, with the want of which she reproaches the present stage j but had she seen her e/e've Rancourt play Agrippine or Cleopatre, Clitemnestre or Medea j if she had seen the affecting Degarcius shed tears in Zaire ; if she had* been present when Talma, not merely represented, but became Nero or Charles IX. Egistheus or Macbeth, it were impossible that she could have said the French performers displayed
Xli PREFACE.
no principle of the art, no idea of tiie dignity of character. It may be grant- ed, indeed, that in France, as well as elsewhere, the tragic scene is occupied by persons, the great majority of whom are of moderate talents j and that the men of ability, occupied in political pursuits, are not enough attentive to the arts ; but is it to be believed, that in former days the theatrical perform- ers of France were perfect? The critics of those times assure us that they were not. At all times, and every where, mediocrity is the character of the mul- titude ; and great talents are among the most rare productions of nature.
A candid man will be equally distant
PREFACE. Xiii
.from a blind respect for what is ancient, and from an unjust prejudice against what is modern. Nothing, no doubt, is more useful to the arts than an imita- tion of great models ; but there must always be reserved to genius the privi- lege of quitting the point at which others have stopped, and advancing still nearer to the goal. Madame Clairon herself has given an example of this J she tells us that she herself was the inventor of a new style of play- ing ; and that, after having tried it at Bourdeaux with success, she came to Paris, determined to introduce and establish it there, or to quit the stage. She succeeded : she dared to play Ro- dogune in a manner different from mademoiselle Gaussin. That charm-
XIV PREFACE,
ing actress, so celebrated by Voltaire, gave to this part a grace and simplicity . which were quite inconsistent with the character of the princess. Madame Clairon had the courage to represent the character in its natural colours, and to open a new path. She accomplish- ed her purpose. Nevertheless, after the play, she overheard the celebrated Duclos say, in a high and authoritative tone, ** that she ought not to play ten- der characters after madame Gaussin." " Surprised," says madame Clairon, ** at a decision so crude, fearing the impression which it might make on those who heard him, and overcome by a feeling of anger, I immediately approached him, and said, * What ! Rodogune a tender character, Mon-
PREFACE. XV
sleur ! — a Parthian, a fury, who de- mands from her lovers the heads of their mother and queen — this a tender character! A pretty judgment, truly!' Terrified myself at what I had done, tears overcame me, and I fled, amidst unbounded plaudits."
Madame Clairon proves, by these anecdotes, that it is sometimes right to reject received opinions, if one would improve on an art.
The Memoirs of this celebrated ac- tress are filled with interesting anec- dotes, in which sometimes characters very celebrated in the reign of Lewis^ XV. make their appearance ; particu- larly marshal Richlieu, who does not play here a very honourable part. We
Xvi PREFACE.
here see her, indignant at the excom-^ munication of the players, employ all her influence to have this ridiculous ^ anathema removed ; and that, if she failed in the enterprise, it was only by the folly of a courtier, who, before his master, became almost an ideot, and trembled like an infant.
Is it possible to avoid laughter, when we are told, that by one of those singularities which seem to be presages, she was baptised on one of the days of the carnival, by a cu- rate disguised as an harlequin ? But one reads with more surprise the follow- ing story : A young man, who was passionately fond of her, but could not procure a return of his passion, died, threatening to haunt her during the
PREFACE. XVll
remainder of her life ; and, in fact, she is frequently purfued by plaintive cries, which every body hears -, by flashes like those of a musket-shot, which, however, are harmless, but which every by-stander can see ; by noises like the clapping of hands ; and, in fine, by aerial mufic. A great num- ber of persons have been w^itnesses of these singular phenomena ; but the cause or author of them has never been discovered.
One would be tempted to believe that madame Clairon had been deceived by an illusion in her advanced age, but that the recital of these strange facts is contained in a letter written by her
VOL. I. b
XViil PREFACE.
long before she arrived at an age when we are apt to be thus imposed on. Besides, she cites facts and persons, and appears to be in no degree supef-^ stitious. Were these appearances then produced by some tricks of natural philosophy, performed by the friends of the deceased, to torment her ? Of this we are left in doubt.
In this collection we perceive the same pen which traced these anecdotes with so much lightness and grace ex- press strongly the most profound sen- timents. We here find madame Clairon giving to a female friend counsels which every young woman should have conti- nually before her eyes. We find also a letter written with a great degree of
PREFACE. XIX
do^uencfe to the Margrive of Anspach, fo dissuade him from abdicating his power; and she has interspersed her work with precepts of practical morali- ty, which would do honour to our greatest philosophers.
Tn conclusion, she offers some reflec- tions on theatrical declamation. We have poetics, essays on music, on paint- ing, and on all the arts. On the co- mic art, as it may be called, which is certainly the most difficult, we have only tradition. Like those historic facts, which, in their descent from age to age, at length assume a tinge of fable, the traditions of the theatre, confided to the unfaithful memory of individuals, have become unnatural and untrue as they b2
XX PREFACE.
]>ecame old. The character which in the days qf Moliere was a living cha- racter known in society, is at this day only a burlesque caricature, because, in each generation through which it has descended, it has received an addi- tion. We ought then to preserve with gratitude the observations offered by those who have been distinguished on the stage. It is necessary to fix this great art by written tradition and fixed precepts.— Baron was the first actor of his time. Fifty years after him Le Kain appeared; and some contemporaries pre- tend that he has not yet had a successor. Whence comes this ? Because there are no fixed principles 5 because the dis- coveries and observations made by great performers perish with them; and their
PREFACE. XXI
successors, obliged to commence the study of their art by their own obser- vations, throw it back to its origin.
Who better qualified than madame Clairon to fix these principles ? After twenty years of brilliant success, one has a right to give advice as a les- son. She was one of the most illus- trious actresses of her time : and I shall conclude by citing an anecdote inserted in the Encyclopedia by one of her con- tem.poraries, and which proves to what a high degree of perfection she had carried her art :
*' Madame ClairoH, who plays the *' character of Ariane with so much ** spirit and truth, received one even- b :)
XXll PREFACE.
*' ing those warm plaudits which she *' so well merited. In that scene where *' Ariane inquires, with her confidante, " who can be her rival, at this verse —
** Is it Megiste, Egle, who renders him faithless ?
** the actress saw a man who, with ** te^rs in his eyes, leaned towards " her, and cried out in a smothered
*< voice — ' No ! No ! it is Phedre ! ' -
" This w^as the voice of nature ap^ *^ plauding the perfection of art."
TO THE
EDITOR OF THE PUBLICISTE'',
Issy, near Paris, 25tli Thermidor. CITIZEN,
1 READ in your journal of the 25th instant, an article which announces an edition of my Memoirs, published in Germany, and in the German language. I did entrust the manuscript of my Reflections upon the Dramatic Art, and my own Memoirs, to a foreigner, and a man of letters, whom I greatly love and esteem. The intimate know- ledge I possess of his principles and
* This letter was printed in this journal on the 28th Thermidor, 6th year.
b 4.
xxlv
morality induces me to reject the idea of his having deceived me by such a publication. If I wsls to name my friend, all who are acquainted with him would do him the same justice. The edition cannot but, be a surrepti- tious one.
My intention was, that this work should not have appeared till ten years after my death ; but this accident, and the fear of being thought deficient in gratitude to the public and my coun- try, have determined me to publish it. I declare then, that the only edition I can avow is, the one printed in French, under my own inspection, and which shall be published as soon as possible.
XXV
I conjure you, citizen, to rest assured I shall ever retain a grateful remem- brance of the very handsome manner in which your correspondent has been pleased to speak of me.
(Signed)
CLAIRON,
TO THE
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
PAGE
Memoies of Hj-ppolite Clairofi' • .......... 1
Reflections upon the Dramatic Art- • * ,• • 3^
Enunciation ; or, the Management of the Voice 3lf
Strength 40
On the Necessity of referring every thing to Art 4f ■
Memory 5^
Exterior Ql
Tyrants 6Q
Kings Gj
Principal Male Characters- > ib.
On Young Men performing Principal Characters 6^
Confidants 71
Division of Women's Characters ^4:
Mothers 70
Vehement and impassioned Characters 7^
Tender Characters Si
Confidantes 82
Dress 83
On the Danger of Traditions 86
On the Use of White Paint 88
xxvlil INDEX.
PACJE
Talents necessary to be acquired for the Stage :
Dancing and Drawing P7
Music gg
Languages, Geography, and Belles Lettres 100
General Reflections ..- 113
Portrait of Mademoiselle Dumesnil 133
Character of Monime 147
Hermione • • 152
Theatrical Schools 158
Orosmane '• 1 72
Study of Pauline in Polieucte 173
Observations on the Character of Roxane in
Bajazet 1 80
On the Tragedies of Manlius and Venice Sauvee 1 87
On Cornelie, in the Death of Pompey 18<)
Phedre 19O
Blanche, in Blanche and Guiscard igS
On M. de la Touche, and his Tragedy of Iphi-
genie in Tauris 207
The Two Electras 221
MEMOIRS
OF
HYPPOLITE CLAIRON.
Jn the year 1743, my youth, and the success with which I had appeared at the opera and the French theatre, procured me a considerable number of admirers, among whom were several worthy and sensible characters. M. de S., son of a merchant of Brittany, about thirty years of age, and possessing an handsome figure, with a cultivated un- derstanding, was one of those who had made the deepest impression on me. His manners evinced the education of a gendeman, and of one ufed to the
VOL. I. B
2 best company. His reserve and ti- midity, which scarce allowed him to explain himself, even by his looks, made me distinguish him from among all my lovers. After I had been some time the object of his attentions, ^ permitted his visits at my house, and left him no room to doubt of the friendship with which he had in- spired me. Perceiving I ^\^s of an easy and tender disposition, he was patient, trusting time would produce in my breast a stronger sentiment than that of friendship.— * Who can tell?' * Who can say what may happen ?' Such were his frequent remarks -, but by an- swering with candour to all the ques- tions which my reason or my curiosity dictated, he entirely ruined his cause.
3
Ashamed of being the son of a citi- zen, he had disposed of his effeds, in order to expend the produce at Pa- ris, under a more elevated title. That displeased me. To blush for himself seemed to me to justify the disdain of others. His humour was glooiiiy and melancholy. * He was too well ac- quainted with men,' he would say, ' not to despise and shun them.' His plan was to live only for me, and that I should live for hitti alone ;• — that displeased me still more, as you may well imagine. I might have been content to have been restrained by a flowery wreath, but I could not brook being confined by a chain. I from that moment saw the necessity of destroying the flatter- ing hope which nourished his attach-
4.
ment, and of disallowing his frequent \U sits. This determination, which I per- sisted in, produced a serious indispo- sition, during which I rendered him every possible care: but my constant refusal to indulge the passion he en- tertained for me made the wound still deeper ; and, unfortunately, his brother- in-law, to whom he had given a power of attorney to receive the property he was entitled to from the sale of his effedts, left him in such extreme want of money that he was compelled to accept such loans as I could accom- modate him with. This circumstance was a deep mortification to him. — You will perceive, my dear Henry, the im- portance of keeping this secret in your bosom. I respect his memory, and
would riot abandon it to the insulting pity of mankind. Preserve the same religious silence which I have now for the first time violated, but have only done out of my profound esteem for you.
At length he recovered his property, but never his health. I considered his absence from me would be to his ad- vantage, and therefore constantly re- fused both his letters and his visits.
Two years and a half passed between our first acquaintance and his death. He entreated me to assuage by my pre- sence the last moments of his life. My engagements prevented me complying with his request. He died in the pre-
B3
(5
senoe of his domestics, and an old lady^ whom he had alone for some titne suf- fered to attend him. He then lodged' upon the Rampart, near la Chausse© d'Antin, which had just begun to be built. I resided in la Rue de Bussy,), near la Rue de Seine, and Abbey of St. Germain. My mother, and several of my friends, generally supped with me. My visitors wrere, an intendant of the Privy Purfe, whose friendship was of infinite service tome; the good Pi- pelet, whom you formerly knew and admired; and Roseley, one of my com- panions at the theatre, a young man of respectable birth and talents. The suppers of this period, though the company was small, were much more entertaining than the most expenfive
i
f^tes have been for these forty years past. It was at one of those suppers, and when I had been singing an air with which my friends expressed them- selves extremely delighted, that, just as the clock struck eleven, our ears were struck with the most piercing cry I had ever heard ; its long continuance and piteous sound astonished every one. I fainted away, and was near a quarter of an hour insensible.
The intendant was amorous and jea- lous. When I revived, he faid to me with some degree of spleep, " that the signals of my rendezvous were some- what too noisy," I answered, ** that I was mistrefs of myself, and at liberty to receive at all hours whoever I thought B 4-
8
proper, therefore signals were altoge- ther useless; and" added I, " that which you call one is of tod dreadful a nature to announce the soft moments dedi- cated to love." My paleness, the tre- mor which still remained upon me, the tears which flowed in spite of my efforts, and my intreaties that my com- pany would remain with me a part of the night, convinced them I was igno- rant of the cause which had produced the noise. We reasoned as to what it could have been the effect of, and de- termined to set people to watch in the street, in order to afcertain it, in case it fhould be repeated.
Every one in the house, my friends, my neighbours, the police even, have
9 heard the same sort of cry repeated under my windows at the same hour, and appearing to proceed from the air. There was no doubt of its being in- tended for my hearing in particular; for though I rarely supped in town, yet when I did, the cry was never heard ; but often, when I was conversing with my mother and my servants upon the subjedt, it would burst forth in the midst of us. Upon one evening, the president de B., at whose house I had supped, condu<fted me to my own house. As he was wishing me good night, at my door, the cry alarmed us. He, as well as nearly all Paris, can vouch for the truth of this history. The president was so terrified, that he
10
was conduced to his carriage more dead than ahve.
Another time I asked my friend Roseley to accompany me to la Rue St. Honore, to biiy some articles of dress, and pay a visit to mademoiselle de St. P., who lodged near St. Den- nis's gate. The only subjedt of our conversation v^as the spirit, as he called it. This young man, though he ridiculed my adventure, was struck with the singularity of it. He pressed me to invoke the phantom, and pro- mised to give full belief to it if it answered me. Whether it was owing to my weakness or daring boldness, I know not, but T did as he had re-
11
quired of me. The same cry was uttered three different times, with a degree of rapidity and fhrillness ter- rible beyond expression. When we arrived at our friend's house, we were obHged to have assistance to get out of the coach, where we were found sitting in a state of terror and insensi- bihty.
After this scene I remained some months without hearing any thing of it : I thought I was quit of it for ever, but I deceived myself.
All the theatrical exhibitions had been ordered to Versailles, on account of the marriage of the dauphin. We were to repair there in three days; and
12
tlaere were some of the ad:resses for whom lodgings had not been secured. Among others, madame Granvalle had none. She remained with me, ex- pecting in vain that one would be pro- cured for her. At three in the morn- ing I offered to share my chamber with her 3 it had two beds, one for my- self, and another for my servant.: she accepted my offer, and I gave her the least of the two, and got into my own. While my servant was undressing her- self to lay by the side of me, I said to her, " We are now almost at the end of the world, and, besides, the wea- ther is unusually tempestuous — the cry would be rather embarrassed to find us out here." It was at that instant ut- tered. Madame Granvalle thought all
1.1
the demons of hell were in the room. She ran in her chemise from the top to the bottom of the house, and suffered no one to sleep during the remainder of the night. This however was the last time I was troubled with the noife.
Seven or eight days after, while I was enjoying myself in my ufual fo- ciety, the clock struck eleven, and im- mediately the firing of a gun was heard against one of my windows. We were all sensible of it, we saw the fire, and heard the shot ; but upon examining, the window had received no kind of damage. We concluded that some person had a design upon my life ; and that having failed, it was necessary to guard againfb a similar attempt in fu-
u
tare. The intendant went directly to the house of M. de Marville, the lieu- tenant of police, who was his friend. He came, attended by proper officers, and examined the house opposite mine, but without discovering any ground for suspicion. The following day the street was narrowly watched — the offi- cers of police had their eyes upon every house, but, notwithstanding all their attention, at the same hour for three whole months, the same discharge was always heard against the same frame of glass, though no one could ever dis- cover from whence it proceeded.— This fad: is attested by all the registers of police.
I became so accustomed to this new
trick of the spirit, as I supposed, that had before haunted me, that I no longer attended to it : and one evening, at the hour of eleven, when it vi^as extremely warm, I opened the window, and tlie intendant and myself leant over the balcony. The instant the clock struck eleven the gun was discharged as usual, and we both fell upon the floor appa- rently lifeless. When we came to our- selves, and found we were not hurt, and acknowledged to each other that at the moment the gun was fired we had each of us received a violent slap on the face, we could scarce refrain laughing at the circumstance. The next day nothing particular happened ; but the day after! was invited by mademoiselle Dumesnil to an entertainment she gave.
16
1 entered a coach at eleven o'clock with my waiting- woman. ^ The moon flione bright, and we proceeded along the Boulevards or Suburbs, which were then just beginning to be built upon. We were examining those houses which had been lately erected, when my waiting-maid said, " Is it not here M. de S. died ?" — " From the in- formation he gave me, that should be the place," said I, pointing with my finger to a house which was before us. The explosion of a gun was imme- diately heard — the coachman urged his horses, conceiving himself attacked by robbers, and arrived at the place of rendezvous scarce sensible. For my part, I was impressed with a degree of terror which it was long before I got
the better of. This was the last time I was terrified by the firing of the gun.
It was however succeeded by a noise like the clapping of hands. — The par- tiality of the public had so long ac- customed me to this interruption, that I for some time paid no attention to it. My friends remarked it, and told me they constantly heard it at eleven o'clock, close to my door : they could distinguish no one, and were convinced what they heard must have been the result of some supernatural cause.
As the noise had nothing terrible in it, I did not observe what length of time it continued. It was followed by
VOL. I, c
melodious sounds, which I paid as little attention to. It seemed that a celestial voice sung the most tender and pa- thetic airs : the music commenced at the corner of the street, and concluded at the door of my house. Like all the preceding sounds which had been heard, it baffled all discovery as to the cause. — 'About the end of two years I was ceased to be disturbed altogether.
The house I inhabited was ex- tremely noisy, on account of its prox- imity to the market, and the number of people who lived in that quarter. J required retirem.ent for my studies, as well as on account of my health, which was much impaired. I was rather in easy circumstances, and wished for a
19 - tetter situation. I was told of a small house in la Rue des Marais, which let for 200 livres, where Racine was said to have lived forty years with his fa- mily. I was informed it was there he had comoosed his immortal works, and that there he had died ; that after- wards it had been occupied by the ten- der Lecouvreur, who had ornamented and ended his days in it. The walls of the house, said I, will be alone sufficient to make me feel the sublimity of the author, and acquire the talents necessary for an actress \ it is in this sanctuary I will live and die. I took it, and put a bill upon the apartments I had before occupied. Among the number who applied for them were several persons attracted solely by cu-
c 21
^0 , riosity. The public had never seen me out of the theatre : they wished to behold me divested of a crown, and i^ y.^^ supported by the characters of Cor- neille, Racine, and Voltaire, reduced to the simple rank of a Bourgeoise.— I ilattered myself the alteration would not appear to my prejudice, as I still , retained the same sentiments and ha- bits ; but you know I am rather fhort, and that I was supposed by those \Vho had never seen me off the stage to be six feet high. At home I appeared in my natural form : I never had recourse to art except at the theatre. I was fearful that when surveyed off the stage the public would diminiih twice as much from my stature as it had been accustomed to add to it. I was sea-
21 sible that those who avoided Imposing on the world had nothing to fear • from its censure. Happily my nation was not much given to reflection -, and \ had the satisfaction of finding that the public still continued to preserve the same opinion with regard to my figure.
What a digression ! you will say : Your history Is already too long; abridge it if you please, but do not add to it.— I agree you are right, but you have re- quired this history from me ; therefore, as I am ignorant what you wish to be informed of, I have thought it my duty flot to omit any circumstance. I can- not trace a single word of it without recalling you to my imagination. Is C3
22
it my fault, if, notwithstanding the years I have passed, and the misfor- tunes I have suffered, I still preserve the illusions of a soul characterised by sensibility ? It is for you I write ; I imagine I am fpeaking to you, that you are listening to my history, filled as it is with tiresome repetitions, with that sweetcomplacency which renders you so dear to your friends and valuable to society. Alas! it is with the deepest regret I tear myself from the agreeable chimera.
But to resume my subject :
I was informed that an elderly lady wished to see my apartments, and that she was waiting there for me. It has ever been my principle to express the
23
greatest deference to age. I attended her. An emotion which I was not mistress of made me survey her from head to foot. This emotion increased when I perceived she experienced the same feelings. I was only able to re- quest her to take a seat : fhe accepted my offer. We continued some time silent 3 but our eyes left no room to doubt the extreme desire we had to address each other. She knew who I was, but I knew her not : fhe felt that the task was imposed on her to break silence. The following was the con- versation that took place between us :
** It is, madam, a long time since I have been impressed with the most anxious desire to become acquainted c 4
24 ' with you. As I never frequent the the* atre, and am unknown to those whom you honour with your friendship, I was apprehensive, if 1 addressed you by letter, I might subject myself to a denial in consequence of my motives being misunderstood. The bill placed upon your apartments has procured me the happiness I wished for : pardon me when I confess it is not that which has brought rtne here, I am not rich enough to take them ; nevertheless, I entreat you to let me see them. The place you have inhabited cannot but excite an interest. Your talents have a de- gree of celebrity which leaves no room to doubt the superior endowments of your mind. I perceive that 1 have not been deceived as to your figure 5 I
25
desire to know if the description I have received of your dweUing is as faithful : and I trust you will allow me to pursue my unhappy friend through all the scenes of his hope and despair."
" It appears to me, madam, that the agitation in which you behold me, and which every word you utter augments, makes it a duty I owe myself to in- quire who you are, of whom you are speaking, and what your business is with me ? My character will hot allow me to be made the sport or the victim of any one !— Speak, orlfliallleaveyou."
** I was, madam, the best friend of M. de S., and the only person he suffered to be with him during the
26 last moments of his life. We have both reckoned the days and hours while speaking of you : sometimes making you an angel, sometimes a devil; — I, continually persuading him to forget you, — he, constantly profess- ing he should adore you to the grave. • Your eyes bathed in tears, allow me to ask you. Why you have rendered him so miserable ? and how, possessing a ten- der and sympathising soul, you could refuse him the consolation of seeing you, and of speaking to you for once only before he died ?"
" We cannot command our hearts. M. de S. was possessed of merit, and many estimable qualities; but bis gloomy, thoughtful, and despotic
27 disposition, made me equally dread his society, his friendship, and his love. To have made him happy, I must have renounced the pleasures of society, and even the exercise of my profession. I was poor and proud : I vv^ished (and I hope I shall always possess the same disposition) not to depend upon any one but myself. The friendship with which he inspired me made me at- tempt every means to induce him to adopt sentiments more tranquil and equitable. As I could not eifect this, and was persuaded that his de- rangement was less to be attributed to the excess of his passion than to the violence of his character, I formed and kept the firm resolution of sepa- rating myself entirely from him. I
^8 refused to see him in his last moments, because the sight of him would have rent my heart ; and I should have ap- peared too cruel had I refused him what he asked, and must have been ■wretched had I granted it him. — These, madam, are the motives of my con- duct : I dare flatter myself no one will blame me."
" To condemn you would be unjust. It is only to our God, our parents, and our benefactors, we are bound to sa- crifice ourselves. On this last point, I am sensible, it was not from you gratitude was due ; but his situation and his passion overcame him, and your last refusal hastened his latter mo- ments. He counted every minute till
half past ten, when his servant in- formed him you positively w^ould not come to him. After a moment's silence, he took my hand in a paroxysm of de- spair, which terrified me, and ex- claimed— * Cruel woman ! but she shall gain nothing, I will pursue her as much after my death as I have done during my life /' — I endeavoured to calm him, but he was no more."
I think, my friend, I need not tell you the effect these last words had upon me. I thought all the powers of hea- ven and earth had united to torment my wretched life : but, at length, time and mature reason have restored calm- ■^ness to my mind. *' If," said I, " there is no Superior Being who directs this^
30
world, it is impossible that one who is dead can be brought back to life. If there is a God — and all nature attests there is one-^the attribute of his divi- nity is justice and goodness : he will never send into this abode of misery and sorrow those whom he has deign- ed to release from it. — What am I, that I should suppose he concerns himself with so humble an indivi- dual ? How can I suppose that, gn my account, he would derange the order of nature to manifest his anger or his goodness, or to point out to me the means of avoiding misery or guilt? Such cares may be worthy the Sove- reign of the World, when the whole human race are the objects of them r but an individual is, perhaps, less in his
eyes than a grain of sand is in our^. Let us adore him, let us merit his mercies ; but attempt not to scrutinise his ways !
By this mode of reasoning, and by various reflections which occurred to my mind, I attributed the extraordi- nary circumstances which had hap- pened to me entirely to chance. I know not but they w^ere the effect of chance ; but I cannot deny that what is so called, has the greatest influence on what passes in the world.
Now rest awhile : — my history and reflections are finished ; make what you can of them. If it is your intention that what I have written should pass
36
out - of your own hands, I entreat ydU to suppress the initial letter of the name, and the entire name of the pro- vince.
I send you my original, that you may judge, by a labour so far above my strength, how inviolable and tender is the attachment I retain for you.
Adieu I
S3
REFLECTIONS THE DRAMATIC ART
XT is the wish of many that I should write my sentiments relative to an art which I have long professed. It is supposed that the reflections I have made, in order to render myself sup- portable in the eyes of the public, may be of some use to those who are destined to pursue the same career. Perhaps the public, or, at least, the ad- mirers of theatrical representations, will contemplate with some degree of pleasure the road I have followed, in order to acquire their favour. But re-
VOL. I. D
54-
ilection and writing are two such dif- ferent things ; it appears so extraor- dinary to me to comprehend any thing without the aid of physiognomy, ges- ture, and speech -, I am so diffident of myself; that I tremble as much in taking up the pen as I once did in ap- pearing before the public. — Friendship imposes the task upon me, and my compliant disposition cannot resist. Without any regular plan, perhaps without any system, but certainly with- out vanity, I am about to trace what I deem necessary to the attainment of this art, — an art much more difficult than it is generally supposed to be.
S3
ENUNCIATION;
OR,
THE MANAGEMENT OF THE VOICE.
As it must be the chief object of the actress to be heard distinctly in all parts of the theatre, it is therefore an indispen- sable requisite that she should be pos- sessed of a strong and sonorous voice.
In order that she may be enabled to give the necessary shade to the picture she means to represent, her voice must be clear, harmonious, flexible, and sus- ceptible of every possible intonation.
A voice which is deficient in point of compass or expression can never be adequate to characters where the D 2
36
stronger passions are displayed, fuch as Phedre, Orosn^ane, &c.
A lisping, or inarticulate mode of pronunciation, false tones, harsh sounds, or a provincial accent, are obstacles which are insurmountable iii an actress who attempts vehemence, grandeur, justness, or sensibility of expression^
The verses of Racine and Voltaire are the most truly poetical and har- monious our language can boast : yet, let the same verses be recited by one who has an easy and clear delivery, and another who has a defective pronuncia- tion, and you will perceive that she who possesses the clear delivery will divest them of no pait of their beauty.-— Mis-
S7
tress of the faculty of managing her iii^ tonations, of extending or repressing her sounds as the sense may require, sus- ceptible of every species of modulation, she expresses each verse in all its native charms and dignity; whilie the other, whose organs are defective, is obliged to speak slow, in order to be under- stood; or if she speaks fast, to give utterance to inarticulate sounds. The precision, the harmony, theelegance, the strength, the force, of the language and sentiment, — all are destroyed.
If we call to our mind all the actors and actresses who have appeared upon the stage, we shall find that the defect of which I am speaking is incompatible with great talents. A fine figure, or D 3
38 *he charms of youth and beauty, will sometimes induce the public to over- look defects in those who possess such attractions: but beauty and youth pass away. The hopes which may have been formed of those who have natural de- fects, which always increase with age, are seldom realised. I will mention madame Granvalle ; this charming co- median, distinguished for her grace- fulness, spirit, and vivacity, aided by what is called theatrical decency^ has quitted the stage, where she will never be equalled in the .character of genteel comedy, to which her talents were confined. Though not yet fifty years of age, she has been compelled to re- tire, in consequence of that disgust with which her lisping manner of speech
39 inspired the public, whose idol she had before been. Youth and beauty are charms highly esteemed in the world j but something more is required on the stage.
I agree, however, that there may be exceptions. A single imperfection may, in no respect, destroy that union of gaiety, spirit, talent, and ease, with which some are gifted, particularly in comedy : — the habit of stammering, which Poisson had, perhaps, added to his comic abilities, even in his youth. But, in general, to be perfectly understood is the first obligation of a comedian ; and those v^ho have impediments in their pronunciation should neither have the ambition, nor be suffered to tread the boards of a theatre. D 4
40
STRENGTH.
A GOOD constitution is a material point: — there is no profession more fatiguing. Irritable nerves, weak lungs, or delicate constitutions, cannot long sustain the weight of tragic charac- ters.
I have found, in the course of my time, a number of young authors and fine ladies who have thought that no- thing was more easy than to perform Mahomet, Merope, &c. ; that the au- thor had done all that was necessary; ; that to learn the parts, and to leave the rest to Nature, was all the adtor had to do. Nature! — how many use this word
41
without knowing its meaning.^ — The difference of sex, of age, of situation, of time, of countries, of manners, and of customs, demand different modes of expression. What infinite pains and study must it not require to make an actor forget his own character ; to iden- tify himself with every personage he represents; to acquire the faculty of representing love, hatred, ambition, and every passion of which human nature is susceptible, — every shade, every gra- dation by which those sentiments are depictured with their full extent of co- louring and expression.
There are no arts or professions but have certain defined principles. — Are there then none required to direct the
42 tragedian? Is it only in the history of mankind he must obtain his informa- tion ? Reading of itself would be no- thing J he must meditate upon, and ren- der himself familiar with, what he reads, even to its minutest details ; he must adapt to every character the genius of the nation to which it belongs ; he must reflect without intermission ; repeat an hundred and an hundred times the same thing, in order to surmount the difficulties he meets with at every step. It is not enough to study the character: he must study the history of it, in or- der to develop the intention of the au- thor, feel the beauties of his composi- tion, and adapt his character to the ge- neral scope of the work : he must scru- tinise the hearts of all connected with
43
the scene, attend to the relations they bear towards each other; and, finally, he must be able to comprehend why what he hears, and what he sees, is so represented or expressed. — Such are the private labours which an actor has to liilfil.
I am fur from thinking that others may not infinitely exceed me. Those who possess a greater degree of energy, or enjoy a more perfect state of health, than falls to my lot, may discover sources of improvement which have escaped me : but for the little abilities I possess, I am indebted to the adoption of that course of study which I have traced. I was by nature strong and persevering: labour was a pleasure to
44 Bie ; and it is only by having braved misery and death that I have com- pleted the twenty years requisite to constitute an actor.— In addition to what I have said, the most arduous task is to be enumerated -, it is, the in- dispensable necessity of having one's mind continually impressed with events the most dreadful and ter>tfele^ and with images of the most horrid nature. The actor who does not identify himself with the character he represents is like a scholar who repeats his lesson -, but he who does so identify himself with the personage, he is pourtraying — whose tears seem the effect of Nature, who ab- sorbs the idea of his own existence in the miseries of an assumed character ; — such a person must be wretched : and
45
I maintain that it requires a degree of strength, almost beyond what human- nature is endowed with, to perform the characters of tragedy well for more than ten years.
To these labours must be added the study of different talents, and of different acquirements, of which I ihall speak hereafter. To this must be added the fatigue of traversing the country at stated seasons, the trouble of rehearsals, ' the necessity of a general course of read- ing, the attention required with regard to dress, the care due to domestic affairs, and, lastly, the fatigue of representations. After this enumeration, it is unnecessary to infer how indispensable it is to possess a healthy and strong constitution.
46
In recalling to mind my plan of study^ I hope I shall be pardoned for observing, that I have often smiled at the folly of those who have upbraided me for having recourse to art. Alas ! v^^hat should I have been without it ? Could I have per- sonated Roxane, Amenaide, or Viriate ? Should I be consistent if I was to apply my own feelings and habits to such cha- racters? Doubtless not. — How am I en- abled to substitute the ideas, sentiments, and feelings, which should distinguish those characters, in lieu of my own ? It is by art alone it can be done : for if ever I have seemed to personate them in a manner purely natural, it is because my studies, joined to some happy gifts which I may have derived from nature, have conducted me to the perfection of art.
47
EXAMPLE,
ON THE NECESSITY Oif REFERRING EVEKY THING TO ART.
The same actress commonly under- takes the very opposite characters of Ariane and Dido. These two perso- nages have to manifest the same love, the same fear, and the same despair. If the actress, who is to represent them, should take Nature merely for her guide, is it to be supposed that the same expression of the different passions which is required in one of those characters would be proper in the other? Dido is a widow and abso- lute queen -, her experience, and habits of commanding, allow her to assume an haughty look, an imperious tone of
48 voice, and a degree of dignity in her reproaches. Ariane, on the contrary, is a fugitive and suppliant princess ; she ought to assume a downcast look v^hen she is assuring her lover of her affec- tion^ hef^ reproaches should be made in mild and timid accents -, the mo- 'desty of her character should restrain the violence of her despair; and it is only when she is convinced of the per- fidy of her sister she should entirely abandon herself to the emotions of grief. To personate these different characters, the actress must arrange her physiognomy and her deportment ; she must assume gestures, mild or violent, disdainful or timid, as the different characters may require them. — Let me ask, can all this be done without the assistance of art ?
49 It is more difficult to find good actors than good actresses. Those who are destined to the stage are, for the most part, born of obscure and indigent pa- rents. The impossibility of receiving a liberal education, or of obtaining the advantage of masters and books, the so- ciety in w^hich those in indifferent cir- cumstances are forced to live, prevent the exertion of those talents which, in a different situation, would have mani- fested themselves.
Women have greater advantages. — • There is very little difference in the education of females, except with re- gard to those of the highest rank. A reasonable portion of ability, a good figure, and a fair reputation, generally
VOL. I. E
50
are sufficient to procure them the pro- tection of their own sex, and. are sure to command the homage of the other. Men of liberality and gallantry encou- rage them ; they are more readily ad- mitted into the society of men of letters, and what is called good company ; they have better opportunities of hearing, seeing, and comparing ; their ideas are enlarged, their reason is improved, their understanding increased; and when sense and beauty unite in them, their address, their sensibility, their vivacity, and an innate sentiment which makes them think they may pretend to any thing, give them the power of appearing wherever their inclinations lead them.
Observe the diiFerence between those
51
women who are originally destined to the seraglio of the Grand Seignor, com- pared with what they are when the pre- ference of their master withdraws them from the rank of slaves. Racine has described them in the character of Roxane : and every woman, who is conscious of her genius as an actress, ought to make herself perfect in that character.
Since the theatre has existed, we can only reckon three actors capable of per- forming the very frrst-rate characters.
These are Baron, Dufrene, and Le Kain.— Baron had the advantage of be- ing the pupil of Moliere. He was a man of great ability, had a command- E 2
52
ing figure, and passed his life amidst persons of the first rank in France.
Like other actors, he declaimed, and recited verses in his youth j but, in or- der to exalt himself to a level with, and to emulate those persons of superior rank with whom he was • admitted as a companion, he familiarised himself to the simple and true grandeur; he dis- played their manners in the characters he represented 3 and it is to him we are indebted for the first lessons of that art which is always so difficult to attain.
• . Dufrene was more dazzling than pro- found.— He was noble, but never vehe- ment; full of warmth, but without or- der, without principles, without any of
53 those great features which characterise genius. He was indebted for his suc- cess to the superior beauty of his person, and the excellence of his delivery.-— He is, however, a proof that the pub- lic in his time did not require from an actor so much as they do at present.
. Le Kain was bred an artisan. His figure was displeasing and aukward, his stature was low, his voice discordant, and his constitution weak j yet, with all these disadvantages, he launched from the workshop to the theatre ; and, with- out any other guide than genius, with- out any assistance but art, he attained the reputation of the greatest actor, and the most interesting and dignified of men, — I am not speaking either of his E 3
■54
first essays, or his latter exertions : in the former he doubted, attempted, and was often disappointed ; a circumstance that could not fail to happen. In the latter his strength did not second his in- tentions. For want of physical faculties he was often tedious and declamatory ;. but in, the meridian of his faculties he approached nearest of any to perfection,
I must, however, acknowledge, with- out partiality, that he did not give the sentiments of every author with equal force.
He could not do justice to Corneille. The characters of Racine were too sim- ple for him. He pourtrayed the cliarac- ters of neither of them well, except ia
55
some scenes which allowed his genius ; those striking bursts of passions, without which he never appeared to advantage.
His perfection was only complete in the tragedies of Voltaire. — Like the author, he constantly appeared noble, true, sensible, profound, vehement, or sublime. The talents of Le Kain were of that class, that you overlooked the disadvantages of his person.
His studies had been directed to
their proper object ; he was acquainted
with a variety of languages, he read
much, and formed an accurate judg.-
ment of what he read ; but without
recourse to art he could never have
made an actor.
E 4
S6
Allow me now to revert to tliose principles from which I have in some measure digressed. All men arc not endowed with a creative genius. I will endeavour to direct those who are in- adequate to the pursuit of an original system of their own, and for that purr pose will resume my examination.
MEMORY.
It is only by constantly varying dramatic representations, that the the- atre can have attractions for the public ; it is therefore necessary to have a change of performances ready ', conse-r quently, the memory of the performers is a circumstance of the chiefest im- portance.
57 He would be aii impolitic manager who should engage an a6tor who had not convinced him he was possessed of what is indispensably necessary to the profession, — a ready and correct me- mory.
The actor who has a tardy and sluggish memory cannot but be inade- quate to the study of verse -, his atten^ tion is so much engaged in retaining the words, that he has no time for re- ilection :— it is impossible for him to study the meaning of his author; his ideas are restrained ; he can adopt no principle on which to comprehend the character he studies; he is unable to form comparisons, he cannot do jus-
5S tice to his author; but, on the con- trary, is sure to derogate from the dig- nity of the personage he represents.
One may, without study, possess a na- tural abihty, and by that alone some- times be enabled to give a just effect to an author's sentiments. There are many characters where such natural ability is all that is requisite.
Brittanicus, Iphigenie, Hyppolite, Pal- myre, are of this description, provided the person who represents them joins to such a natural talent the advantages of youth, an harmonious voice, and a graceful person. These kind of cha- racters are within the reach of medio-
S9 crity of talents j those of Agrlppinc, Achille, Phcdre, and Maliomet, re- quire higher abilities.
The persons appointed to perform these characters have as much to study, to play them well, as the authors had to describe them.
Without a quick, sure, and retentive memory, it is impossible for an actor to unite such profound studies with his daily labours. Genius alone would be insuiiicient : indeed, I doubt much, whe- ther a person can possess much genius or ability without a great memory ?
Without genius or ability one may yet learn any thing with facility : but if
60 to those qualities are joined good sense, docility, a flexible voice, and a noble and elegant figure, we may rely with confidence upon them.
In order to maintain the illusion of 'the scene, every personage of the dra- ma ought to take as much care to keep within the limtts of the character he performs as the public are anxious to exceed it in their imaginations.— When an actor has considered his powers with respect to the three points I have enumerated ; namely, pronunciation, strength, and memory ; he may then be able to form some judgment as to what he can undertake with hopes of suc- cess.
\
61
EXTERIOR.
The English manners admit on the stage what in this country would be considered as highly disgusting. Ri- chard the Third is represented with all the defects he derived from nature. As it is easier to deform than improve, it therefore requires less efforts to assume a vulgar than a dignified air ; but as he, who in the same character avails him- self of both, has more resources than he who confines himself to one, I am apt to think the dramatic art is less dif- ficult at London than at Paris. — The French critics only admit of elegant and noble figures in tragedy; they would laugh to see the personage, who was to excite their terror or pity, appear with
^2
an humped back, or distorted limbs. Every one is sensible, that the greatest monarch may be as ill made, as auk- ward, and have as vulgar an air as the lowest peasant in his kingdom ; that bodily infirmities, physical defects, and low habits, seem to equalise him with the rest of mankind; but, neverthe- less, the respect which his rank im- presses, the sentiment of fear or love v/hich he inspires, and the pageantiy with which he is surrounded, ahvays impart to him a commanding aspect.
Tragedy presents the most faithful picture of the policy, the crimes, the virtues, and the miseries of the masters of the world. All the personages who represent it are noble, ail their actions
63
important, all their consequences seri- ous ; but, after all, it is but a represen- tation } we are all sensible of it ; and, without the concurrence of every possi- ble illusion, the public would only see and hear the actor, and would lose the pleasure of being deceived.
Achilles is announced, or any other hero who has just vanquished singly an host of formidable foes ; or a prince pos- sessed of such charms and attractions, that the greatest princess would, with- out regret, sacrifice her throne, and even her life, to him. His representative ap- pears on the stage, and turns out to be a diminutive puny man, of a disgusting figure, without strength, without voice. What then becomes of the illusion r 1
6^
do not conceive there can be any : yet I have seen the caricature I have just described assume any part that was of- • fered him, and receive the most un- bounded applause*.
0 1 you, w^o are destined to this thorny career, avoid such an example. The error of the public is momentary ; in general its judgment is severe, en- lightened, and capable of discerning ta- lents. The censure of the pit can pre- vent any actor's outstepping the modesty of Nature. — However some may be mean or impudent enough to cabal for the purpose of obtaining partial ap- plause, they are certain the public will, in the end, form a proper estimate of * Le Sieur U .
65
them ; and men of taste and discrimi- nation must detect their feults. — Actors, when left to rise or fall by their own merits, will more seriously attend to their duties: they will feel the neces- sity of meriting those plaudits which they cannot purchase, and-^^hich form the only consolation 'of their profession. Endeavour to possess what is necessary to please tlie public taste ; never appear upon the theatre without having re- ceived from nature those gifts which such a profession demands, or, at least, without having the means and the in- clination of attaining, by art and study, an equivalent in lieu of what nature has denied you.
This is my advice to ajl who wish
VOL. I. F
66 to perform, the characters of tragedy with credit to themselves.
TYRANTS. In casting the character of a tyrant, I would recommend him to be person- ated by a man who is tall, thin, and hollow-eyed, dark thick eye-brows, and a^gloomy countenance, one who never speaks' or makes the slightest motion without an air of mystery, and who, al- together, has the appearance of a man absorbed in thought and devoured by remorse.
It appears to me, that an actor of this description will have little more to do
JL
tlian Co learn his part i three fourths of his studies will have been finished be- forehand.
67
KINGS.
1 would recommend, for the""charac- ter of a king, a man of a majestic de- portment and venerable appearance, with a commanding tone of voice, ex- pressive of severity and mildness, and a
noble and stately gate ; — in short, an
»
appearance at once manifesting the dig- nity of a sovereign, the experience of a sage, and the serenity of a philo- sopher.
PRINCIPAL iMALE CHARACTERS.
Those who perform the principal, male
charaders should be above the middle
size, and neither corpulent nor lean : a
corpulent man appears vulgar on the
stage, and a lean one insignificant. He F 2
68
should be well made, and have no apparent defect ; he should combine an appearance of strength with ele- gance.
If he is handsome, so much the bet- ter, provided his beauty is masculine : delicate features would be a defect.
These characters demand the greatest expression, and the utmost command of countenance. The actor must be able, by his features, to express every mo- tion of the soul. The countenance which remains immoveable proves that the actor has no feeling : if his fea- tures are too much in motion, it shows ignorance : Nature must be the guide in this respect. The countenance is only
69 expressive on the stage, when the fea- tures are large, the eyes full, the eye- brows marked, the mouth rather pro- jecting, and the hair brown. Small features lose all their effect at a very little distance ; a small eye may be arch and lively, but never can be com- manding j a mouth that falls inwards can never express grief ; and fair hair is unbecoming on the stage.
ON YOUNG MEN
PERFORMING PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS.
Young men may be allowed to at- tempt principal characters, merely to try their strength, without having pre- pared themselves by that previous study I have recommended ; yet there are some characters, such as the Cid,
70 Don Pedro in Ines, and Seyde in Ma- homet, which cannot be performed but by persons of great talents. The pubUc, however, excuses faults in young men who are commencing the pro- fession of actors. It is sensible the difficulties they have to encounter are only to be conquered by long and la- borious study. By this indulgence it encourages them; but, unfortunately, if they meet with a little success, they flatter themselves they are equal to every character, and thus their vanity ruins them. The fable of the frog is the history of many young actors whom I have known. I would advise that no one should offer himself a can- didate for public favour, till he has ac- quired the means necessary to enable
71 him to attempt any character what- ever within the scope of his genius.
CONFIDANTS.
The managers of theatres, and even the actors themselves, imagine, that any person is competent to perform the characters of confidants. I am far from being of that opinion : these charac- ters require an attentive and accurate judgment. They are often the repre- sentatives of governors, princes, mi- nisters, generals, embassadors, captains, or favourites ; they are the depositories of all secrets of state ; they are en- trusted with the most important com- mands. Is it possible that young ac- tors, or those without dignity, conse- quence, or, as is often the case, pro- F 4
72
foundly ignorant, can support such cha- racters ?
These characters, often too much neglected by authors, demand actors whose talents are cultivated, and whose judgments are matured, otherwise they excite the laughter of the au- dience by their manner of reciting the verses of those poets, whose style is peculiar or obsolete. To give verse its due effect, requires a voice suscep- tible of every intonation, and a coun- tenance of the most expressive nature : there should, therefore, be a scrupulous attention paid to those who are destined to perform the particular characters I am speaking of. Ignorance and folly should be equally banished from the theatre.
73
I remember, at one time, when I was extremely ill, and was engaged to perform Ariane, I was apprehensive the fatigue of the character would be too much for me to support, — I there- fore bad a chair placed upon the stage, in case I should find it necessary. In effect, my strength failed me in the middle of the fifth act, while I was expressing my despair at the flight of Phedre and Theseus. I fell backwards in the chair, almost in a state of insen- sibility. The judgment and sagacity of mademoiselle Brilland, who per- formed my confidante, suggested to her mind how to fill up the scene by a stage artifice of the most interesting nature. She fell at my feet, took hold
74
of one of my hands, which she bathed with tears ; her words, scarce articu- late, were interrupted by sighs, and she thus gave me time to recover my- self. Her looks, her motions, pene- trated my very soul ; I fell in her arms ; and the public, deeply affected, re- warded her presence of mind by the loudest applause.
A common rate actress would have thrown the wiiole stage into confusion, and the piece would not have 6een finished.
■ DIVISION OF WOMEN'S CHARACTERS.
All female characters in tragedy re- quire, without exception, actresses of
75
a noble and dignified deportment. They consist of queens, princesses, or ladies of the highest rank. — I shall divide them into four classes.
Such as represent mothers, — -such as represent vehement and impassioned characters, — such as represent tender characters, — and such as represent con- fidantes.
It is rare that the same actress possesses powder and talent sufficient to personate all these different characters : besides, we sometimes find three of them united in the same piece. It is therefore in- dispensable that there should be three actresses equally eminent in each of them.
76
MOTHERS I would recommend that those who perform the characters of mothers, who have children grown up, such as Cleo- patre, Agrippine, or Semiramis, should not be too young.
It appears impossible that women under twenty years of age should be actuated by any other sentiments than those of the duties of their sex, the impressions of nature, and the emotions of love.
The study of the human heart, and the different passions connected with it, demand a mature reason, a judgment formed upon experience, reflection, and example.
77 These can only be acquired by time ; but the public require no more from young beginners, than that they should justify hopes of their future celebrity. Persons who have arrived at years of experience would scarce be induced to offer themselves candidates for public favour on the stage. Prejudice and des- potism render the situation of an actor almost insupportable. It is youth and inexperience alone that justifies such a choice. But still I would have no ac- tress personate the character of a mother before five and twenty. It would be better to defer it till their beauty was rather on the decline. It is necessary also they should be above the middle size. Women of low stature have sel- dom a dignified appcsrance. Those
78 who are, too tall are generally deficient in grace; besides, the customs of the theatre do not allow of too great a con- trast in the figures of male and female characters,
VEHEMENT AND IMPASSIONED CHARACTERS.
Those which I distinguish under this title are the characters of Emilie, Elec- tre, and Hermione. To give them their due effect requires a grandeur and haughtiness of deportment, an expres- sive countenance, and a commanding voice. Every motion should announce courage and boldness ; but care must be taken not to confound an air of bold- ness with that of assurance and auda- city. The former arises from an elevation of the soul J the latter is generally the
eftect of Its degradation. The noble- ness of mind, the purity of manners, and the modesty of the sex, should never be lost sight of. They should be al- ways discernible, however disguised by love, despair, or vengeance.
It is said that Nature has but one voice. I admit it, provided due atten- tion is paid to the rank, the manners, and the situation of the character by which our feelings are attempted to be excited.
Every situation in life has Its different modifications ; the tradesman possesses not the consequence of the merchant who employs him ; the merchant has not the same degree of confidence when
80 addressing a nobleman; the nobleman approaches those who command him with an air of subordination ; and all, without exception, bow respectfully before their general superior.
The theatre is only a representation of what passes in real life. The pu- rity of language employed in tragedy, the importance of the events, the dig- nity of the personages, sufficiently prove that nothing is left to the arbitrary judgment of the actor ; that an air cf vulgarity or triteness of expression can never be allowed; that popular and li- centious manners are never to be re- sorted to as models ; and that it is im- possible to unite, on the same canvas, a Raphael and a Calot.
81 TENDER CHARACTERS. Tender characters require a coun- tenance characteristic of mildness, a soft and expressive tone of voice, a* great degree of sensibility, a timid and delicate demeanour, a modesty of man- ners, a dignified deportment, and an elegant figure; but not tall, at least not above the middle size. Women vv^hose figures are small and delicate appear younger on the stage than others : and for these characters, those w^ho possess the appearance of youth are more likely to move and excite our interest.
The principal part of these charac- ters represent young girls without ex- perience, timid and fearful of avowing that love they feel themselves, or have
VOL. I. G
82 inspired in others. I advise the actress who performs auch characters never to lose sight of that air of purity and can- dour v^^hich her age and situation re- quire. In describing the tender im- pressions of love, she must carefully avoid whatever may give rise to ideas of voluptuousness. The voice, the manners, or the looks of a coquette, or woman of intrigue, can never be re- conciled with innocence. Tragedy ought to be tlie school of pure man- ners, as it is of great actions.
CONFIDANTES.
I recommend for the character of a confidante, a woman of an age calcu- lated to inspire confidence, of a coun- tenance expressive of wisdom and ex- perience, a person attentive to the scene
83
that IS going forward, and apparently interested in it. She should have no pretensions to obtrude herself in a con- spicuous point of view, except on such an occasion as I have just before cited.
DRESS.
It is my advice to actresses in ge- neral, to pay the most scrupulous at- tention to dress. Dress adds consi- derably to the illusion of the spec- tators; and, when it is appropriate, it gives a degree of confidence to the actor. — ^That it should be exactly so is scarce practicable : -*- to adopt the dress of past ages, in every respect, would be indecent and ridiculous. The dresses of antiquity display too much of the figure : they are properly appli- G 2
84
cable only to statues and paintings 5; but in supplying this defect, we ought to preserve^ in some measure, the style of them, and show our desire to imi- tate, as far as possible, the luxury or simplicit}' of the times we are describ- ing. Fillets, fiowers, pearls, veils, and stones of diiFerent colours^ were the only ornaments with which women were acquainted before the establish- ment of the commerce of the Indies,, and the conquest of the New World.
I particularly advise tragic actresses to avoid the fashions of the day. The head-dress worn by the French at the moment I am writing, the extravagant mode of wearing the hair, imparts an appearance of disproportion to the h'^
85
gure, spoils the countenance, conceals the motions of the neck, and presents an air of stiffhess and formality incon- sistent with that ease and freedom re- quired upon the 5tage. The best and only mode proper to be followed, is to adopt, ^s near as you, can, that of the .costume of the character you are performing.
An actress, in arranging her di-ess, should particularly attend to the situa- tion of the person she represents. Age, austerity, and grief, ill accord with the decorations of youth, gaiety, and happiness. Hermione adorned with flowerets would appear ridiculous : the violence of her character, and the sor- row that consumes her, reject the idea pf her devoting much time to the toir< G 3'
86
lette. She may have a magnificent habit ; but it ought to have an appear- ance of negligence, and show that her mind is not occupied about dress. The first appearance of an actresa ought to prepare the public for the character she is about to pourtray.
ON THE DANGER OF TRADITIONS. Ignorance and fancy produce so many contradictions on the stage, that it is impossible I should be able to refer to all of them : but there is one which I cannot pass over in silence, — it is that of seeing Cornelie appear clad in black.
The sailing of the ship, in which she escaped but a few moments before the assassination of her spouse, and her ar-*
87 Tival at Alexandria, could not possibly have allowed her sufficient time to pro- vide herself with widaw's weeds; and, most assuredly, the Roman ladies had not the precaution to carry them among the rest of their wardrobe. The ce- lebrated Lecouvreur, when he painted Cornelie in such a dress, proved that he took the idea from the theatre. Such an authority as he is ouglit to be certainly paid some deference to ; but, notwithstanding the great reputation he has acquired, I dare flatter myself that, when he committed this striking error, he must have been actuated by some rea^ son which I am ignorant of, and that he was sensible of the impropriety of it.— • I have seen Electre played in a rose- co- loured dress, elegantly set off with black
0 4
83
and white. I have, therefore, concluded, that tradition is not a proper criterion to follow; and that, before we adopt it, we ought strictly to examine into its pro- priety.
UPON THE USE OF WHITE PAINT. The use of white paint is now almost general upon the stage. This borrowed charm, of which no one is the dupe, and which all agree in condemning, spoils and discolours the complexion, weakens and dims the eye-sight, absorbs the whole countenance, conceals the expressive motion of the muscles, and produces a kind of contradiction be- tween what we hear and what we see.
I had rather we should have recourse to the custom of using masks, like those
89
of the ancients. There would be at least this advantage, that the time thrown away in painting the face might be em- ployed in improving the delivery.
Is it possible that an actress, whose countenance is enamelled with paint, and, consequently, incapable of any mo- tion, can give expression to the passions of rage, terror, despair, love, or anger ?
Every motion of the soul is expressed through the medium of the countenance: the extension. of the muscles, the swel- ling of the veins, the blush upon the face, all evince those inward emotions, without which great talents cannot dis- play themselves. There is no character in which the expression of the counte-
90
nance is not of the utmost importance. To feel a character, and to show by the motion of the countenance that the soul is agitated by what it feels, is a talent of equal consequence in an actress with any she can possess.
It is by the countenance alone you can distinguish between irony and jest.
A voice, more or less raised or de- pressed, or more or less tremulous, is insufficient to express such or such a sentiment of terror, or such or such a sentiment of fear. The countenance alone is enabled to mark its degrees.
As it is my own plan of study which I am endeavouring to inculcate, I think
9t it necessary in this place to state what happened to myself in the character of Monimie.
In studying this character, I found, in the fourth act,
Les dieux qui m' inspiraient, et qui j'ai mal suivis, M'ont fait taire trots fois par de fecrets avis.
That is.
The gods ivho inspired me, hut ivhose admonitions I neglected.) thrice secretly warned me to he silent.
In the preceding act, however, where Mithridate makes her acknowledge her secret, I could only discover two m- stances in which she hesitated to be- tray it.
I consulted all the editions of Racine — they all had it trois foh — the actresses,
who performed the character, all said trohfois ; — from every inquiry I could make, I assured myself that mademoir selle Lecouvreur said trols. Although deux would not have been so harmoni- ous, yet the measure of the verse would still have been perfect. » I, however, presumed that Racine had his reasons for preferring the one to the other. I could discover po tradition to direct me ; it did not become me to alter the text of so great a man; and I could not submit to say what appeared to me to have been an error. I therefore endeavoured, by the expression of my countenance, to supply the want of the third hesitation j and when Mithridate says.
• Servez avec son frere,
Et vendez aux Romains le sang de votre pere,
93
1 advanced, and, by the motion of my features, appeared as if I was just going
to tell what I knew At that instant
I seemed to be overcome by an impres- sion of terror, which prevented my giv- ing utterance to my thoughts.
The public, who had never seen any one attempt this before, gave me full credit for it; and, by their applause, sanctioned its propriety.
But if my countenance had been en- amelled with white paint, I could not have sufficiently commanded my fea- tures,— I should have lost the pleasure of being applauded, and the glory of having discovered the meaning of Ra- cine.
94
1 am not against giving every assistance to Nature: I have often myself bor- rowed assistance. Generally labouring under an ill state of health, yet, unre- mitting in my labours, the paleness of death was often upon my countenance ^ I had remarked in others, that nothing was so injurious to the expression of the features as having pale lips or pale ears. ' A little art gave them the ap- pearance of florid health : I darkened the colour of my eyebrows, as the cha- racter I was to perform required ; I did the same thing to my hair, with different coloured powders ; but far from concealing, in thedeast degree, those features which give animation and expression to the whole counte- nance.— I have ever made the ana-
r
tomy of the head my particular study, in order that I might thereby be ena^ bled to dispose it in positions most calculated to display it to advantage*.
A white skin is doubtless agreeable : it communicates a charm to the whole figure ; it imparts an air of greater sprightliness and animation — the blue veins it discovers are always considered as beauties.
But that whiteness which is acquired by paint covers the countenance with a thick enamel, which conceals and de- stroys every feature. The pores are
* Those who have an inclination for such a stu- dy would do well to read the description of the hu- man figure, in BufFon's Natural History, vol, iv, p. 278. oft. edition.
filled with the pernicious ingredient of which the paint is composed ', and the fear the person who wears it is constantly under, of deranging it by too much action, compels her to keep her face always in one posture : — be- sides, I know no kind of coquetry- more troublesome, humiliating, or use* less. Whoever has recourse to it is always afraid of being surprised before her face is made up : she caonot refer to herself any compliment that may be paid her : and I again repeat, that it is a custom of which no one is the dupd.
97
TALENTS'
Kecessary to be acquired for the stage.
DANCING AND DRAWING.
I N order to be able to tread the stage with ease and grace, to give facility to the motions of the body, dignity to the whole appearance, and to prevent the acquirement of habits repugnant to na- ture, it is indispensably necessary that those who dedicate themselves to a the- atrical profession should pay the utmost attention to the art of dancinp- : they must carefully avoid contracting the air and manners of a dancing-master ; but, in every other respect, a know- ledge of the art is requisite.
VOL. I. II
5*
It were to be wished that every actor should be more or less initiated in the art of drawing: they would thereby become more susceptible of the good effect of preserving proper distances ;. they would more easily discover the point of perspective, which is so im- portant on the stage, both with respect to their figure and their dress. In pan- tomimic representations,, or pieces cal* Gulated for show, the performers who are to set off the pjincipal personages are placed more advantageously, and are better adapted to fill up the picture- with its proper shade or effect.— -Such, actors as are unacquainted with this art, I advise to study the works of the most eminent painters and sculptors.
G9
MUSIC. Without pretending to acquire a fundamental knowledge of the science of music, it is, nevertheless, necessary for an actor to study its elements, in order to be enabled to form a proper judgment as to the extent of his voice, to render every intonation easy and fa- miliar, to avoid discordance, to regu- late his sounds, to preserve and vary them at pleasure, and to impart to every accent, w^hether vehement or plaintive, that degree of modulation which is ne- cessary.
Without this study, it is almost im- possible to play Corneille to advantage. — He is either so sublime, or so fami- liar, that, unless the actor is perfectly
H 2
100
sure of his intonations, he runs the risk of appearing bombastical or trivial.
LANGUAGE, GEOGRAPHY, and BELLES LETTRES.
The study of language is of more importance to an actor than any other. The theatre ought to be the school for foreigners, and of that part of the pub- lic who have neither time, nor the means of procuring proper masters, to learn the language of the country iu its most perfect purity.
It is almost incredible, that persons who are selected to represent the chef d'ceuvres of the most eminent writers of the nation should be unacquainted with thediiference between a long and
101
a short syllable, or the distinction be- tween the singular number and the plural ; that they should confound the genders of nouns ; that they should scarce know the masculine from the feminine ; and that provincial accents should destroy the grandeur and purity of our language. Such, however, is the case with reference to the greater part of our actors. He who is unac- quainted with the extent and value of words can never comprehend the mean- ing of things : if he should stumble upon it, it is only by chance; and I am at a loss to conceive how the public can tolerate those who appear before them with such defects, or who betray such unpardonable ignorance. H 3
102
It is impossible to read history, with any advantage or improvement, with- out a knowledge of geography. The right of judging of the merits of such authors as write for the theatre im- poses upon an actor the necessity of acquiring every species of knowledge which may enable him to judge with accuracy, and to determine, by a single perusal, the merits of a work which the author has been a year composing. An intimate acquaintance with stage- effect and the rules of the theatre, an accurate ear, a good taste, a sound, discriminating, and attentive judgment, are not all that is required : it is ne- cessary to be acquainted with mytho- logy, history, geography, and language ; he must be acquainted with every de-
-scTiption of poetry, and the writings <of every dramatic author, ancient and modern- He will then be enabled to judge whether an author has made the most of his subject; he will per- ceive how much has been drawn from the times, places, and charac- ters of which he has written ; in short, whether the author has shown a creative fancy, is a servile imitator, or a plagiarist. The approbation of the critic is no ways flattering, nor Jiis censure any disgrace, unless he is known to possess those qualities ne- cessary to enable him to form his judg- ment with accuracy. It is not enough to approve or reject a work ; the man who does either, ought to show him- self capable of judging.— About two H -1
104
years before my retirement from the theatre, there was a league among cer- tain authors to pay no attention what- ever to the judgment of actors. This attempt to invaUdate the opinions of a class of men, without whom the au- thors could be of no use, was as un- just as the pretence for it was false and groundless.
Unless a superior power destroys the right of the actors, it is impossible that any of them should ever consent to such an injustice and degradation. Corneille, Voltaire, and Racine, demanded no other tribunal : their works, however, un- like those of the present day, did not require the illusions of the theatre, or the talents of the actors. It has been
lOJ
said by authors, that the actors robbed them of the reward due to their exer- tions : — the trifling recompence they re- ceived was, they said, a proof of it. I can state, in reply to this observation, without the least fear of contradiction, that, with respect to the two and twenty years I have been upon the theatre, it is unfounded in truth.
The accounts prove, by the receipts and payments, that not only have the actors refrained from appropriating to them- selves vv^hat was due to authors; but that, on the contrary, where they have them- selves been unsuccessful, they have di- minished their own salaries to augment the author's gains, and have not, unfre- qucntly; bestowed their gratuitous assist-
ancc in favour of several of them. The same accounts prove that Cinne, Iphige- nie, and Mahomet, never produced their authors, so much as Venice Preserved, Zelmire, the Earl of Warw^ick,. the Widow^ of Malabar, or even Varro. — It is unfortunately the case, in every state, that, where ignorance is most to be found, there also is the greatest por- tion of self-conceit.
I shall not intersperse, with the crude remarks I have attempted upon the dra- matic art, any serious discussion relative to the Gallic church, or the arbitrary power under which more than ten thou- sand French actors and actresses at pre- sent labour. I undertook the profession at an age when one scarce is acquainted
107 with oneself. I have fulfilled the task allotted to me as well as I was able, without ever blushing at a profession which certainly has nothing in it de- grading. The moment of my liberty appeared the sweetest I ever enjoyed in the course of my life. Restored to my rights as a citizen, I am content to de- plore the lot of those who are still slaves. I keep myself quiet; and, while I turn the pages of Epictetus, console myself for all the misfortunes of nature and fate. But I cannot conceive how au- thors, who are obliged to court the fa- vours of actors, who live among them, share their labours and their salaries, should join the popular cry, in order to insult those by whom they cxi^t.
108 whom they know, and whom they ought to esteem.
Such a mode of conduct is the more extraordinary and reprehensible, as we daily perceive the light of reason sur- mounting prejudice. The profession of an actor is not attended with so many obstacles as it formerly was.
Moliere, to whom all Europe raised altars, w^as not deemed worthy to be- long to the academy ; yet, in our time, we read in its annals the simple name of Dubelley. The equality in point of situation, and the incalculable difference with respect to the merits of these two nien, are the strongest proofs that can
be adduced of the revolution which has* taken place in the public mind.
I admit that those authors who write for the theatre have often good reason to be dissatisfied with their judges. It is no less unjust to refuse actors of every description the right of judging, than it is to admit of their judgment indis- criminately. There are many whose abilities reach no higher than just to say, " I have feen the fun,'' without having the least idea of the system by which that glorious luminary is guided.
Without regard to ancient custom, the privilege of sex or situation, or the protection of power, which allow the most ignorant to have a voice as pre.-
110
ponderating a^ the most enlightened, I would advise that a council of ten or twelve actors should be appointed, whose taste, judgment, and experience, should be universally known and ad- mitted,— to whom I would have the power devolve of determining the me- rits or demerits of every theatrical work. The production of every author should be read in their presence; and they should have the power of giving their advice, making such corrections as they might think proper, or give their rea- sons for rejecting it altogether.
Anonymous criticisms, with regard to theatrical works, ought to be banished from the public eye. — He who has any £iir^ just, and candid remarks to make>
Ill
ought to make them openly. What- ever may be an author's vanity, he ought not to expect that the public should sa- crifice its judgment and opinion to please or ^tter it. It is not the author who is to judge vi^hether his work deserves to interest the public, and increase the funds of the theatre ; yet no author has any reason to complain of severity. The best part of the pieces which have been, brought out within these fifteen: years past sufficiently prove the scarcit}^ of good authors, and the extreme indul- gence of the public.
The simple and unqualified rejection or acceptation of an author's production leave no room for the exercise of his vanity : the former disgusts his feelings,.
112!
and he is seldom sensible of the latter. When the public at large are to pro- nounce, the possibility of discussion is precluded ; but, in the limited council I have recommended, discussion will be an indispensable duty. By stating their reasons, they will impart hope and con- solation to the author whose work they shall reject, and double the pleasure of him whose work they shall approve.
Such a theatrical council cannot be better described than by these verses of madame Pernelle :
On n'y rcspecte rien ; chacun y parle haut, Et e'e«t justement la oour du roi Petaut.
lis
GENERAL REFLECTIONS.
W iTH a very few exceptions, I have performed every tragedy which has been produced during the period I have been upon the stage.
As far as my abilities would allow, I have endeavoured to make myself per- fectly acquainted with every character. I flatter myself I have acquired a per- fect knowledge of the nature and spirit of them, and have enabled myself to pourtray them with their due effect. I may certainly be allowed to believe, after the encouragement I have experienced
VOL. I. I
from the public, that it will not dissap- prove of any actress who adopts the same line of study I have done, or pur- sues the instructions I lay down for her improvement. I cannot, however, pre- scribe rules for every particular character. The weakness which age has brought upon mc, and the long continuation of my infirmities, do not allow me the means or leisure to attempt so arduous an undertaking. Besides, we often feel what we cannot express. An elevated and noble soul is inspired by sentiments of grandeur, refinement, delicacy, and sensibility, which are not to be de- scribed by language ; they can only be delineated by a look, a gesture, the mo- dulation of the countenance : these in- expressible movements of the soul may
115
be painted to the imagination, but can- OOt be expressed by words. I am, therefore, fearful of entering into mi- nute details, which would be fatiguing to the reader, useless to those who pos- sess genius, and dangerous to those with- out it. General observations, with a few particular remarks upon those charactecs which require peculiar study, shall be the only objects o£ my reflections.
I have already mentioned the four gifts of nature which are indispensable in an actor or actress — enunciatioiv strength, memory, and exterior or fi-- gure. From what I have said, the ne- cessity of a regular system of study, aa accurate judgment, and, if possible, a good natural genius, must be evident.— I 2
116
The two former are adequate to the acquirement of the beaten track of characters ; thelatter is requisite to enable the actor to undertake new ones.
' I have spoken of the talents of ^dancing and music j have stated that it is necessary to add to them a knowledge of history, mythology, belles lettres, language, and geography : but without pretending that those who have not ^one through a regular course of study 'should be acquainted with all I have enumerated, — alas ! I but too well am convinced of the impossibility of it, — I wi41 only remark what it is absolutely necessary to become, and what particu- lar studies cannot be dispensed with.
H7
j^j^JA^ithout a guide, or the advice of any. one to point out to me how to direct my studies to advantage, I have often lavished my time and constitution - in useless and unprofitable pursuits. It should, however, never be forgotten, that whoever wishes to attain celebrity in the dramatic art has not a single day to lose. I have numbered all mine by my labours, from twelve years of age to forty- two j and I am sensible, that even when I quitted the theatre, I had a multitude .of faults to correct. What study does it not require, in order to be able to distinguish the difference between irony and disdain, between disdain and contempt, between warmth and pas- sion, between impatience and rage, be- tween, timidity and fear, and between I 3
IIS
flif ^«iif terror? What Impei-eeptfble diades 6ff expression are to be resorted t6, to distin^ish between love, nature, dnd humanity? What efforts are re- (Juisite to paint the various gradations of rage, of terror, and of pity ? What justness of feeling and expression of voice arc necessary to reason in a man- gier at once simple and natural, without being cold and familiar ? — This last is the most difficult of all : — to be natu- ral, jn^, and noble, is the greatest pos^ gible proof of talent. My studies were calculated to enable me to arrive at the greatest possible perfection of the dramatic art 5 but the obstacles I have met with in my Way, and the injustice which I experienced, forced me to abandon my career. I have only been
119 able to gather a few flowers ', but thfe palm remains for whoever is bold enough to seize it. The only consola^- tion that remains to me is, that I am enabled to point out the path by which it may be acquired.
The tragic actor should habituate himself off the stage to the tone and manner required at the theatre. No- thing is of so much importance as habit.
If I were to assume the manners of a Bourgeoise, during twenty hours of the day, I should still appear the same even when performing Agrippine, not- withstanding all my efforts to the con- trary. The tones and gestures of low i4
120 life would continually escape me. My -soul, bowed down by habits of submis- sion and subordination, would be un- equal to the expression of those senti- .ments of grandeur which distinguish the characters I represent. — Without losing sight of the station 1 fill in pri- vate life, I have ever made it my duty Xo maintain a degree of dignity and consequence consistent with the cha- racters I filled in public. 1 am aware that this conduct on my part has ex- posed me to ridicule among my col- leagues of the theatre, and among those who are too apt to form opinions with- out consideration. They allege that I have constantly the air of the Queen of Carthage. They think they distress me by such an observation : on the con-
121
trary, they do me' the highest honour; they prove that I have succeeded in my endeavours. I have acquired thereby a greater degree of confidence ; and am sensible that the labour which I have imposed upon myself, in public and in private, has enabled me to dispense with that continual agitation of mind • by which I was, formerly, so extremely harrassed on the stage.
When any character is made the sub- ject of criticism, and the person who cri- ticises it, states the reasons upon which his judgment is founded, he is entitled to our acknowledgments and attention. Happy the actress who has merit suffi- cient to deserve such notice, and who possesses not the foolish pride and va-
nity to neglect it ! — But it may be said, an actor is no-ways amenable to the public, except during the course of the representation; and, when it is over, that he then becomes himself part of the public.
Shall those who pursue a profession which requires education, a knowledge of the world, profound acquirements, elevation of soul, genius, and every gift of nature, be the objects of conti- nual humiliation ? Shall they in no re- spect be on an equality with the rest of the public? Shall they be compelled to make an humble sacrifice of supe- riority to every one ?— The demand is unreasonable.
123
The disgrace which is attefnpted to
be attached to the profession of the
st^gc i$ a reflection upon the whole nation that suffers it.
What ! shall the monarch who com- mands me to appear before him, the public who come to hear and applaud me, the author who submits his pro- duction to me, all have their rights and privileges, and yet I possess none?— -I am obedient to the authority which is placed above me ; I add new beauties to the characters entrusted to me ; I en- able the public to pass their hours agreeably; and I anl rewarded by its contempt. — It is difficult to find a name f©r such inconsistency.
124
Are theatrical representations dan- gerous in their tendency ? — If they are, suppress them — suffer them not to be so generally resorted to. If they are advantageous, let those who are em- ployed in them enjoy that esteem which their talents and their conduct merit.
Wherein does the dishonour of such a profession consist ? — The declaration of Lewis XIII. proves that a gentle- man may assume it without degrada- tion. The pieces we represent are sub- ject to previous examination -, we re- ceive them from the hands of the per- son appointed to inspect them, and he is responsible for them. The statutes relating to the profession of the stage,
125
whicK have been promulgated by bur Icings, and confirmed by parliament, may be held out as a terror to us. They annul the parental authority, they elude the rights of matrimony, and declare children out of their minority at an age when restraint is most necessary. Revoke them! — they are no less repug- nant to nature than to custom and rea- son ; and he who would resort to them would be unworthy of consideration or pity. I have never heard of, or knew, any one, who appealed to such disgrace- ful statutes.
It is pretended that the manners are more dissolute on the stage than else- where It may be true that the stage
allows of too great a freedom of man-
19,6
ners ; but it is true also, that slander has exaggerated the evil.-^ Whatever -may be the manners of the stage, let those who complain of them look to themselves, examine around them, and observe what is passing among their neighbours, and in their own houses ; and, by observing the unrestrained dis- orders in their own families, learn to speak with less severity of others. — First destroy the barriers which deny actors to approach the altars — compel them not to a life of celibacy — suffer them to form alliances, without the risk of the object of their choice being dis- inherited ; and then, if they give room for scandal, punish them, despise them: — I give my consent to it.
127
It is said that the money paid at the door for admittance is dishonourable to those who receive it. People say, " Ibefe aBors are paid for what they ** do — / pay them — 1 am entitled to be ** entertained for my money »" Such are- the phrases which have often excited my pity at the insolent brutes who ut- tered'them. But is there a person so ignorant as not to know that no one wiU do any thing without being paid ? Is there a profession or employment without a salary, fees, or profit? — I can- not support myself, obtain cloaths for my person, or a house to reside in, without giving my money in exchange. If I want any thing, I must pay for it : if I have a law-suit, I must fee the advocate and attorney : if I want
I2S
a physician, I must pay him. I have taken children to be baptised, and have paid the minister for performing the ceremony. I have lost my nearest relations, and have paid for the spi- ritual assistance they received, as well as for their interment. If I wish to hear mass, I pay ten, fifteen, or twenty sous, according to the church I go to. j[n short, every one knows the answer which Rousseau made to an Ambas- sador, who observed to him, that, ** What displeased him, 'with regard to ** bocks, was, that they were compofed " for the sake of maknig money b; them.'* • — " Why,"' he replied, " does your " Excellency deal in cyphers ?
Money is the idol of all who breathe ;
129
— no one can deny this truth. Danger, falsehood, baseness, prostitution, guilt, all are resorted to in order to obtain it -, and yet lam blamed for receiving, by a voluntary retribution, an equivalent for my expenses, and a fair remunera- tion for those labours, which are no less innocent than they are painful. — What is the consequence of such in- justice? To intimidate persons of ta- lent, and deprive the stage of their assistance.
A free agent, arrived at the age of reflection, would justly dread the al- m^ t insupportable fatigue of such a piofsssion, the insufficiency of the sa- lary, the continual dependence on the
VOL. I, K
ISO
arbitrary p'ower of superiors, and th& disgrace of national prejudice: but when deceived by youth and inexperience, any one has been induced to make choice of it, I know, by myself, to what a degree that disgust, which it may afterwards inspire, is detrimental to study, and to what a state of despair it has often reduced me. I have reck- oned with horror the ten last years of my slavery : and, to the latest hour of my life, I fhall bless even the injustice, the madness, and folly of that public, which has at length furnished me with the means of retiring.
The times of ignorance and hypo- crisy are passed r— If talents are re-
131 quired on the stage, they must ht ob- tained by recompensing them with a liberal remuneration.
An engagement at the theatre should not be the price of seduction or de- bauchery. Mere children, protected by persons in power, should not be ad- mitted ; the public alone ought to be the judge of talents, and the performers ought to be the judges of the pieces to be represented. Every thing would then go right ; and, without it, all must be destroyed. But whether the situa- tion of actors is ameliorated, or whe- ther it is left as it is, still, if they de- sire to arrive at the perfection of their talent, they must attend to the system of study I have prescribed. Those
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who deem it absurd in an actor to be necessarily and constantly occupied with those studies which the dignity and majesty of tragedy require, will be sure to appear,, in common life, with an air. of submiffion and inferiority.
It is by departing from the principles 1 have laid down, that mademoiselle;. Dusmenil lost herself in the public esti- mation. The cause of the degrada- tion of her talent was never generally known : I shall, therefore, I trust, be pardoned for describing the conversa- tion I have had with that actress re- specting the remarkable change in her manners, and for stating my own senti- ments upon the subject.
t33
PORTRAIT
or MADEMOISELLE DUMESNIL.
Mademoiselle Dumesnil was neither handsome, nor possessed of a good fi- gure. Her physiognomy, her size, her appearance altogether, though without any natural defect, seemed character- istic of the manner of a Bourgeoise, without grace or elegance, and often on a level with those of the very lowest classes of the people. However, her neck was finely formed, and her eyes were expressive and commanding ; and, when she pleased, were capable of inspiring sentiments of awe and respect.
Her voice, deficient in flexibility, was incapable of aflfecting the feelings ; but
134.
it was strong, sonorous, and, in every respect, adequate to the most violent bursts of passion.
Her pronunciation was pure : she had no impediment as to the volubiUty of her utterance.
Her action W2is often too violent for a w^oman ; it had neither ease nor deli- cacy; but she was extremely sparing in its use.
Distinguished for her style of playing tender and pathetic characters, nothing could be more gratifying than her per- sonification of the distress and despair of a mother. That expression of na- ture, which she displayed in such a cha-
135
Tacter, rendered her acting as near the sublime as can be conceived. The pas- sions of love, ambition, or pride, vv^ere but faintly represented by her ; but, as she was young, jealous of fivalship, and desirous of the reputation of a ii-rst-rate actress, great hopes were entertained of her emulation and future experience in her profession. — Such was mademoi- selle Dumesnil when I first appeared upon the stage^
The system of study to which I had devoted myself, from the first moment of my appearance as an actress, by mak^ ing me sensible of my own defects in a few years, taught me to discern those of others. I perceived that the object of jTiademoiselle Dumesnil was rather to K 4
136
captivate a multitude, than please con- noisseurs.' A ranting manner, singular t^'ansitions, a mode of utterance ,mor$ suited to comedy than tragedy, and a" vulgar action, superseded those grand ^nd impressive beauties of which she had before given such eminent proofs.
The ignorant exclaimed Bravo! Na-- iurel — I, who admired great talents, even in a rival, could not avoid regret- ting the change I perceived ; and I took the liberty of inquiring the cause.
" You was pursuing with such cer- tainty the road of celebrity," said I, " that I cannot conceive how you have deviated from it. Sure of the esteem of the ^public, as well as of your own ap-
137
probation, what can you propose to yourself, by such excentricities ? Does the laugh you now excite appear more flattering to you than the admiration you formerly. experienced?, does it be- come you to confound Semiramis with the wife of Sganarelle ? What can you mean by those forced tones at the end of every couplet ? To what object are you sacrificing your understanding, your reason, and your talents ? . — Whatever may be the advantages you expect to derive from your new system, I assure you it afflicts me ; and my frankness, upon the occasion, is a p^pof of it."
" I have listened to you," said she, ** and I return you my thanks -, your anxiety on my account appears disinter-
138
csted, and I shall answer you without reserve.
'** You are aiming at a degree of per- fection, at which you will never arrive j and which, if you should attain, no one would be sensible of. The number of persons, of real sound judgment, in a mixed assembly (should there even be any), may be about one or two^ the re- mainder judge without examination, de- pending upon the opinions of others, or the reputation of the actress. Volubi- lity, bursts of passion, and whatever is singular and uncommon, strike them 5 they are hurried away, and applaud with rapture j — let one person exclaim Bravo! and the rest repeat it imme- iliately.
139 '* Your deep and learned researches escape the multitude ; the public are unaffected by them ; and men of judg- ment, whose passions are, in general, repressed by age, wisdom, and expe- rience, conceal their satisfaction with- out daring to manifest it. An audience, pn leaving the theatre, mixes with the rest of the public, and imparts its en- thusiasm.—Whence come you ? What was the play ? Who were the per- formers ? — Mesdemoiselles Dumesnil and Clairon — the former was applauded to the ikies, the latter appeared cold and formal. — It is thus our reputa- tions, as actresses, are formed : and, depend upon it, if you continue the same course you have hitherto pursued,
14^0
I shall be exalted to heaven, and you will be left grovelling on earth."
** I am far," answered I, ** from having attained the object I propose, but I already begin to perceive it : — the path is long and arduous, but I do not venture a step without the aid of study and reason. Who constantly searches after truth, must sooner or later arrive at it ; while those who pursue a daz- zling illusion are sure to be misled. The public is not so ignorant as you would have it believed : you seem to forget how often it forms an accurate judgment upon the works submitted to its decision. The finest thoughts, and most delicate sentiments, imme-
141
dialely make an impression upon its feelings : even the galleries, which one would naturally suppose were composed of that part of the public least difficult to be pleased, will admit of no fault in violation, either in point of histor}% language, or the manners and consist- ency of the personages of the drama. The more I study these points, the more sanguine are my hopes that my studies will not be thrown away. Yoa see that the public always attends ta me, and often encourages me ; and if you continue to have no other guide dian folly, I flatter myself, that, when we are both weighed together, the balance will be the reverse of that which you have predicted,"
142 From that moment I redoubled my researches, and mademoiselle Dumes-» nil pursued, unrestrained, the same line of conduct she had adopted. This actress, who might have been one of the first of her time .... My pen falls from my hand.
Without having recourse to any very minute observation, it is easy to per- ceive that each of the provinces that compose France are materially differ- ent from one another : though they have all the same national interest, and belong to the same empire, yet their prejudices and peculiar characters seem to make each of them a distinct nation.
143
If we observe the strangers who are to be met with in Paris, it is easy to perceive, in each of them, a charac- teristic feature, a national pecuHarity, which distinguishes them. We may thence form a judgment as to the va- rious shades of difference among the repubUcs which composed the whole Grecian empire, and all of which were jealous of each other But there are only two in which the diiterence ha^ any relation to tragedy — these are A- thens and Sparta.
As I am far from being inclined to transcribe those authors who treat of the subject, I shall content myself with pointing out the oppositions which chiefly characterised those two nation^,-
144
— a subject which is e^itremely important to those who perform the female cha- racters of tragedy.
Athens was the centre of the fine arts — of taste, magnificence, learning, eloquence, philosophy, and urbanity.
The young girls of distinguished fa- milies never appeared in public, except at festivals or religious ceremonies ; a veil concealed their countenances -, their nearest relations were the only men who dared approach and coriverse with them. — Such a system of education naturally produced artless and timid characters. An habit of circumspec- tion and decency ought to be pain red in their looks, tl^eir manners, the yi.dd--
145
ncss of their voice, the simplicity of their expressions, the modesty of their appearance, and in the native dignity of their actions.
At Sparta, riches were useless — the expenses were in common i the child- ren belonged to the state j the repasts were made in public, without distinc- tion of rank, age, or sex ; luxury was a crime ; and the utmost austerity of manners prevailed*.
Young girls were habituated to vio- lent exercises ; they entered the lists
* I know this mode of education commenced ^v'rh the laws of Lycurgus, but it is only at the pe- riod I am speaking of that a distinct character can be affixed to this part of Greece. L
with the men, and contended with them for the prize of activity/ Their dress was calculated to display their naked arms, legs> and even their thighs.
It must be evident such an educa- tion as this rendered the women robust and courageous, gave them a masculine voice, a bold look, an haughty appear- ance, and a confident assurance. Mo- desty,— that interesting and invaluable pledge of our sex, was equally esteemed in the two republics ; but the mode of manifesting it could not be the same. I may be mistaken, but it certainly is from these two sources that I have de- rived the faculty of imparting to the characters of Monime and Hermione those distinguishing features which the
147
opposite nature of them necessarily de- mand. • V---,
CHARACTER OF MONIME. The part of Monime, from the be- ginning to the end, is a prototype of an Athenian girl, such as I have de- scribed.
The actress, who, after the senti- ments she expresses in the fourth act, thinks herself at liberty to give way to the least passion, either with respect to her voice, her countenance, or her ac- tion, certainly commits a most egre- gious error.
To reject the man chosen by her fa- L 2
•148
th*^i:,.iji|Sh:ii€r.bu8bahd, and-in his pre- sence too, — to dare to tell him, ••'"•-
Ma main ijii mon amour,
Ne seront point le prix d'un si cruel detour :
to brave that deaths she expects to receive J are pro:Ofs she is sensible of having outstepped the limits prescribed by modesty.
My first endeavour, in studying a part, is to give it that distinguishing feature which it requires, and to select some passage which is most striking, and places the character in the most pro- minent point of view. My chief plea- sure is to propose to myself the greatest difficulties. — In the present character I discover them in these verses :
Ug
Noh Seigneur vainemfnt vbus voulez m'etoniier ' i n Je vous connaiSf je fais tout ce que je m'apprete, ^ -. Et je vois quels malbeurs yaiTemhle fur ma tete, M^ais le dessein est pris. Ricn ne peut m'ebranler Jugez en puisqu' ainsi je vous ose parler : Et-m'jemporte au dela de cette modeftie, ; if' V Dent jusqu'a ce moment je n'etais pas-^prtie, &c. >.
The softness of my voice, and the extreme modesty of my ' appearance, formed a contrast of the most striking nature with the emphatic manner in which I pronounced the words I have underUned, and the firmness depictured on my countenance.
The resolution of a woman who is acting under the impulse of passion may be doubted j but I think also there are very little expectations to be formed of an actress, who, while she is ma L 3
150
nifesting a determined resistance, has no appearance of her feelings being in- terested.
This is one of the most noble, yet tender character?, on the stage j but, I have too well experienced that it is one of the most difficult.
Without exclamation, passion, the power of voice to fill the whole the- atre, a commanding manner, and a countenance capable of variety of ex- pression, it is impossible to divest this character of that monotonous sameness which it presents at the first blush: by the aid of these, the actress derives the highest advantages; but they should be resorted to, and applied, with due
151
regard to the consistency of the cha- racter.
It is only after fifteen years study, as to the means of repressing my voice, my action, and my countenance, that I have been bold enough to assume a character so difficult ; and I acknow- ledge, that to pourtray, from scene to scene, the grief and noble simplicity which distinguish it, required all the exertions of which I was capable, and all the desire to excel by which I was actuated. I, nevertheless, am far from flattering myself that I have arrived at that height of perfection in this cha- racter which is attainable. I have not played it often enough to correct my faults.
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May some other actress do better than I have done ! But I invite all those who undertake it, to weigh ma- turely- , what they may be allowed to attempt, and to act upon the impres- sion, that Monime is absolutely out of the ordinary routine of characters.
HERMIONE.
The character of Hermione is among the number of those we must except from the general rule.
All the difficulties it presents would be removed, if this personage could be supposed to be thirty years of age. It would be then easy to describe, in all their various turns and gradations, the intrigue, the coquetry, the love, and the
153
vengeance, of which the character is susceptible : but Hermione is only sup- posed to be about twenty years old. At this age an actress may give a pro- mise of what she will one day become; but I doubt whether it is possible for her to have acquired sufficient powers for such a character as this is.
The complicated, yet connected ideas, the profound reflections, the judgment which experience alone can give, rarely correspond with the grace, the timidity, the prejudices of educa- tion, the inexperience, the air, and the voice, of a girl of twenty years of age.
This character is so peculiar in its
154
nature, that the actress is in danger of either not attaining the perfection slie airtis at, or of exceeding it. It is an impassioned one, yet, in no respect, tender ; it is furious, yet not wicked ; it is noble and haughty, yet conde- scends to employ the arts of seduction and dissimulation with regard to Ores- tes, and the violence of atrocity with respect to Pyrrhus. Her pride and her passion go hand in hand, except in the passage, beginning
Mais Seigneur s'il le faut si le ciel en colere,
at the end of the soliloquy in the fifth act, where she only gives vent to the passion of love -, and, from the force of her feelings, her eyes are suffused in
tears, -
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v^Evdry resource which I was enabled to derive from my own talents and my reflections, in order to attain a perfect idea of the beauties of the character, and support its consistency, but the more convinced me how arduous it was. Happy should I be, could I abridge the study of others, by giving an exact, clear, and methodical ac- count of my own ! — but I have already said, that there are things which can- not be written ? Without the aid of my intonations and countenance, it is out of my power to give an idea of the shades by which the character and age of Hermione are distinguished. It is the province of genius, study, and judgment, to profit by the weak and
166 ■inadequate instructions I shall lay
iVJIn the parts where the actress is to describe the love of Hermione, she must carefully avoid that expression of voice, and siraplicity of countenance, which characterise tender souls ; and, in pourtraying the impassioned scene, she must equally avoid that confident and assuming disdain of an experienced woman ; such, for example, as Roxane in Bajazet. In this last character, any thing is allowable within due bounds. The actress must seek within herself whatever may exalt the heroine in a woman of twenty, as well as irnpart that de2:ree of mildness which even a
157 heroine of that age ought not to be supposed divested of. .ni£idi. oi '.icjuiiii tmLoiBz i^nid Horn srh 1j c; rf{. That couplet in the fourth act> which the public, men of letters, and actors, call the couplet of irony , ought not, in my. opinion, to have that appel- lation. Irony demands a lightness of mind, a tranquillity of soul, which, cer- tainly, Hermione does not possess : her pride and her love, equally wounded, aiford only access to a sentiment of rage, which the haughtiness of her cha- racter In vain endeavours to repress,
A countenance, in which indignity and nobleness of soul are equally painted; a voice stifled in its first attempt at Expression by rage and fury j and pas-
I5S
sidna which overcome hef , and she li unable to retain, can only produce an image of the most bitter sarcasm. The horror which she herself experiences, in reminding Pyrrhus of the cruelties of which he has been guilty, can never have the semblance of irony*
Hermione may infuse into her re- proaches all that disdain and contempt which is calculated to render them more insulting; but she neither can, nor ought, to descend to irony.
THEATRICAL SCHOOLS. '
Since my retreat from the theatre, I have continually been hearing of the necessity of having dramatic schools.— The public think them practicable, and
likely to be advantageous ; and consi-» derable sums have been raised for their establishment. Nothing more clearly proves that the managers of theatrical representations have not the least idea of vi^hat constitutes a great actress. We learn to dance and sing as per- fectly as possible, because these two talents have regular rules and princi- ples, which the most ignorant may un- derstand and practise; but I know of no rules, of no principles, which can teach people every species of know- ledge, every species of acquirement, necessary to produce a great actress ; I know of no rules which can teach us to think and to feel : nature alone can bestow those faculties, which experi- ence, study, and opportunities, after-
166
yi&ffd^ de^elope. The only schodli^ fi-om which there is a reasonable and probable expectation of advantage, are the provincial theatres* The neces- sity, of obtaining an engagement, the emulation of excelling each other, the dread of public disapprobation, the practice which the memory obtains by a continuance of labour/ the ease and familiarity acquired by a daily appear- ance upon the stage, the facility of thereby acquiring a good ear, and of enlarging one's ideas by seeing entire pieces performed, and' by observing their effect upon the public, will a- chieve more in six months towards the formation of a good actress, than two years instruction in private, whatever may be the talents and ability of the
161
master. I do not think I am actuated by any very great degree of vanity in comparing myself with the actresses of the present day : they vrill, I trust, pardon me for asserting, that I do not believe them better instructed, superior in ability, or more serviceable on the stage than I was. I have spared no pains in forming the talents of mesde- moiselles Dubois and Rancourt. I ap- peal to all who have seen them — my charming scholars have evinced the greatest abilities : but, alas ! notwith- standing all my cares, added to what they received from nature, I have never been able to make any thing more of them than mere imitators of myself. The utmost hopes were formed from their first appearance j but it was bc-
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cause I was behind the curtain, and the public was captivated by youth and beauty. When I ceased my lessons, their talents vanished.
It is nature alone that can form splen- did characters in any walk of life. Ob- serve the state of mankind with respect to the arts, siences, and learned acquire- ments ; and from the small number of those who may be said to excel, you will be able to determine how impos- sible it is to command genius, or to im- part it by instruction.
When a young actress discovers spi- rit, an accurate judgment, sensibility, force, a good voice, memory, and a countenance happily formed for the
163
characters she is to represent, let her not want the means .to improve them ; provide her with such masters as may be necessary to enable her to develope her ideas j let her not languish in a state which may repress the energy of her mind, and retard her progress ; let her not feel the necessity of resorting to vice to obtain the situation she is emulous of; recommend to her to listen with at- tention to the advice which the public, or others of the same profession with herself, may give, as to her evincing too much or too little warmth of feeling, dignity of action, or grace of deport- ment : let her second the efforts of her friends to forward her improvement. Such, according to my opinion, are the only possible means by which an actress
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164
can derive advantage from instructioft* Is it to be supposed that Preville can instruct others to perform Orosmane and Semiramis ? that Mole can create actors fit for all characters ? It is an ab- surdity, at which they themselves must laugh in/ their sleeves. To give them- selves airs of importance, form a se- raglio among the female candidates for theatrical fame, amass money, and be- come the terror of the whole stage, are all these gentlemen pretend to, or can perform.
I shall be answered, perhaps, that the provincial theatres do not furnish good subjects. I agree that comic opera and the ballet absorb every thing else ; and tiiat, at present, performers in that line
3 65
are the most essential part of the thea* trical company. The talents required for such situations are in the reach of every one, whatever may be their edu- cations ; and those who have acquired jhem may, at any time, make sure of gaining a Hvehhood j their dresses are furnished by the managers, and their sa- laries are, generally, liberal.
But the talents for the French thea- tre demand an education of a peculiar nature, and comprehending a variety of branches ; they also imply the posses- sion of many gifts of nature, and that the actress should be of an age compe- tent to understand, feel, and compare what she studies -, the dresses are ex- tremely expensive, and arc entirely pro- M 3
166
vided by the actress herself; the salary is small at first, and is never increased to what m^y be termed a sufficiency, until after a lapse qf several years, and then, perhaps, not writhout that protec- tion which, in many instances, is not to be obtained without concessions, far from being congenial to the feelings and dispositions of every one.
Those who make the stage their pro- fession are for the most part in necessi- tous circumstances, and of indigent fa- milies. It is a natural choice for per- sons so situated, inasmuch as it is one which, of all others, presents itself as affording the fairest encouragement for talent, and the surest prospect of imme- diate emolument:.
167
It was not till after twenty years la- bour that the pension of the king, a- mounting to an hundred pistoles, was granted me ; and I have seen mesdemoi- selles AUard and Guimard, from the first moment of their appearance at the opera, receive pensions of 1200 livres from the king. After twenty-two year^ services, the only recompense I have had, to enable me to retire, is 1000 livres ; and mademoiselle Heinel, at the end of fourteen years, retired with a pension of 8000 francs. These ladies had great talents I admit ; but, I dare trust, that many of my comrades on the stage, as well as myself, may justly pretend to an equality with them. These examples are a sufficient reason why there are more good dancers than actresses. M 4
16S
The theatres des Boulevards have also greatly accelerated the degradation of talents. The number of young girls who are brought forward at this theatre, and at the most tender years, are ruined in their constitutions by exertions be- yond their strength j and (if I may be- lieve what is said), by a degree of misconduct which exhausts them, and brings on a premature old age. The low and obscene pieces represented on theatres of this kind necessarily banish that noble dignity and decency of de- {)ortment which is required at the
French theatre They merely repre-
sent*farces -, and the public require from them a different mode of expression, and a different style altogether, to what they expect on the French stage : a
169 proof has lately been furnished which is unanswerable. There is a performer belonging to these bastard-kind of dra- matic representations, of the nameof Vo- lange,— I am not acquainted with him ; but all Paris agree he possesses the per- fection of talent at the vanVies amu~ s^Jites, He made his debut at the Ita-> lian theatre, where neither the works which are represented, nor the talents of the performers, bear the least com- parison with those of the French the- atre) yet, even there, this VoIangCy who had been deemed so famous in his line, was infinitely below the very worst of the actors. These spectacles not only fail in improving a performer, but, on the contrary, they vitiate their taste, corrupt their manners, and spoil
170
those who, perhaps, by the study of the cbef d'cewvres of our theatre would have arrived at celebrity.
The number of those destined to appear in public is circumscribed, as in every other situation of life ; and the fa^- cility of procuring an engagement at these minor theatres is a resource to those who are deterred by the difficulty of appearing upon a superior stage, and whose talents deserve public support, if only from a principal of national va-. nity.
It does not become me to condemn the taste of the public for these specta- cles, or to blame the magistrates who tolerate and are daily increasing them.
171 in violation of their own duty and the rights of the regular theatres; but I may be allowed to assert, that, as long as they are suffered to remain, no dra- matic school will ever be able to pro- duce that proud and eminent display of talent which was formerly so much admired on the national stage. The French theatre has but four performers worthy of being mentioned*, the Ita- lian has but two-f-. The opera may be said to consist wholly of dancers. How is it so great a falling off" has not sug- gested the means of remedying the evil ? How is it that Molnre, CorJieH'e, Racine, and Voltaire^ have been aban-
* Pr^ville, Mole, Brisard, Larive. f Clerval, anil Madame Diigarzon. Caillot has lately retired,
172
doned for the family of Pointusf The surest means of annihilating merit is to protect mediocrity,
OROSMANE.
^ I have always been astonished that Le Kain, who is ^o superior in the cha- racter of Orosmane, should give cause to expect something more from him in the first couplet of the first act. — He expresses himself well ; yet 1 do not find any thing of that amenity and tenderness of passion, so eloquently de- pictured by Zaire. Orosmane, sur- rounded by the different orders of the slaves of his seraglio, and who, in his interview with his mistress, has pre- pared himself with a studied speech, appears to me in the light of an im-
173
perious master rather than of that ten- der lover one would be led to expect. i have read this couplet over and over again, with the most scrupulous atten-* tion ; I have endeavoured to discover in the verses that sentiment and pas- sion which is supposed to be concealed beneath the declamation of the first thirty-two verses i but I have found only an inconsistency and contradiction between the language and the meaning of the character. It is with a degree of impatience I hear Orosmane talk- ing of business, when, in my opinion, he ought to have been speaking of love. In the course of my researches I discovered a kind of mute scene, which it may not be uninteresting to notice.
Orosmane enters surrounded with all that grandeur and theatrical pageantry which the character requires. I wished to observe in him that departure from his dignity which his youth and sensi- biUty would have justified j that his eyes should have sought those of Zaire, and that he should have recognifed her by the lovely suffusion of her countenance, and the tumultous heavings of her bo- som; that he should immediately have observed the object of whom he is ena- moured; that by the exertion of a no- ble, yet tender sentiment, he should se- lect her from among the train ; that he should approach his mistress, seize her hand, and, with looks of love and an emotion of tenderness, he should press it within his, and, at the same time, in-
175
Struct her as to the means of rendering him completely happy. This scene, performed with dignity and expression, would give additional effect to the ideas of the author, importance to the cha- racters, and impart a degree of pleasure and satisfaction to every spectator, whose soul was inspired by tenderness and sen- sibility.
STUDY OF PAULINE in POLIEUCTE.
Pauline is one of those characters of which there are no models to be found in nature : at least, I have in vain en- deavoured to discover one similar to it in the world, and in history.
The violent passion of love, and that disgust which often succeeds it, are to
175
be 4ail7 met with in the common oc- currences of life j but an unfeigned love for two distinct objects existing at the same time, avowed to each of the two men who inspire it, and justified by- respect, esteem, and confidence of both, is a thing unheard of in nature, and ex- tremely difficult to pourtray with just- ness and accuracy to the eyes of the multitude.
After having profoundly studied this character, and convinced myself that the spectators, aided by the first im- pression of the scene, would readily, and with facility, prepare themselves for that catastrophe which' every line intro- duces, I determined within myself, as ^ as lay. in my power, to unite to such
177 advantages as I derived from my own person, the nobleness, the rriilcjness, the firmness, and the freedom of the cha- racter I was to represent.
I exerted myself to the utmost of my ability, to give to the inflexions of my voice, and the movements of my coun- tenance, that touching and expressive simplicity which characterises a pure and sensible soul.
Mistress of my physiognomy and ac- cents, this study was no ways difficult ; but by what means was I to avoid a sameness and monotony in expressing these two co-existing passions ?— how was I to pourtray their different shades, without altering the simphcity of the
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characters ? — how avoid an appearance of infidelity with regard to one of the ob- jects of my love, and of indelicacy with regard to the other ? — It seemed to me impossible to seize the true criterion .-
The first passion, arising solely from the impressions of the soul, increased by the charm of a real inclination, nou- rished by esteem, fear, and regret, ne- cessarily requires a tint of delicacy and sensibility different from the other. The order of a father, the most absolute re- signation to every virtuous action, even the illusion of the senses, cannot keep pace with her profound sense of what is just, and suitable to her dignity : on the contrary, they oblige her to sacrifice her rights to her duty. The character.
179 however, as far as it goes, is certainly one of the most tender, as well as one of the most energetic, ever drawn. I imagined that a different manner of giv- ing vent to my t^ars might produce that nice shade of colouring whicji I sought. Those which I shed for Se- vere seemed to derive their source from the bottom of my soul, and flowed a- bundantly down my face ; while those which I shed for Polieucte appeared to escape from my eyes, sometimes urged by humanity, sometimes by im- patience. ,
The e.Tect which tears flowing from two such different sources must in- dispensably have upon the voice, the motions of the body, and the expres-
N 2
i80
siofl of the countenance, may be easily imagined : but/ in order to attain the proper point of perfection, and not to exceed it, an actress must have these four verses continually in her remem- brance :
Je donnai par devoir a son affection, Tout ce qne I'autre avait par iaclination ; Et quoique le dehors foit/ans Amotion, Le dedans n'est que trouble et que sedition.
OBSERVATIONS
OK THE
CHARACTER OF ROXANE IN BAJAZET.
Roxane is one of those w^retched beauties, condemned, by the misery and the humiliating state in which she is placed, to wish for slavery, as the only means of arriving at happiness.
ISl
Those slaves who are destined to the pleasure of a master, not the choice qf their heart, ai^^d whom their inclina- tions revolt at — who are either igno- rant Of regardless of what is due to the feelings of modesty and decency — who are watched and confined in the seraglio, by beings whom they cannot contem- plate without horror — constantly trem- bling under the most arbitrary despot- ism— humbled by remaining too long among the crowd of slaves, or dread- ing the disgust of their master, by which they may be again placed there ; — is it possible that, so situated, they can be susceptible of a tender^ free, and unfeigned passion ? can they form an idea of real love ? — I think it impossible. N 3
182
The vanity of triumphing over their rivals ; the ambition of arriving at the supreme height of power ; the neces- sity of intriguing, in order to maintain it ; and of amassing treasure, in order to command support, are the principles by which they are actuated ; the gra- tification of the senses are the only sentiments which influence them, the only passions of v/hich they have the least idea. The woman who is con- strained to live under an eternal des- potism is compelled to contract ha- bits of fear, dissimulation, and even of falsehood ; and whatever depresses and bows down the soul, naturally tends to prepare it for the impressions of fero- ciousness, rather than of tenderness.
183 The character of Roxane is precisely upon this model ; she is continually ungrateful, haughty, cruel, and am- bitious.
When the passion of love has pre- ceded vicious habits, though it is, inca- pable of inspiring sentiments of re- morse or humanity, yet it may, never- theless, exist for some time ; but I do not think love can possibly take root in a heart already vitiated. The in- trigues of the Visier, and the hopes of arriving at that rank which Amurath had refused her, are the only motives which determine her to see Bajazet.
The sight of a man who is younger, more handsome, and who interests her N 4
184 more than her master and benefactor, excites a degree of ferment in her soul which she mistakes for love 3 but all that she does, and all that she says, only prove her actuated by a voluptu- ous and momentary illusion.
Her vanity wounded, her ambition disappointed, are the only sotwces of her tears. The idea of her grandeur employs all the faculties of her soul.
- Menace is constantly in her mouth;-^ it is with premeditation she prepares the death of Bajazet ; — she proposes to be the actor and witness of the assassi- nation of Atalide, as if it was a just deed ; — without the least struggle with herself, without the least remorse, she
185
abandons her Jpver to the mutes who are at her devotion; — it is with the most revolting arrogance she heaves at her feet the niece of the emperor, and dares to say to her.
Loin de vous separer je pretends aiijourd'hui Par desncEiids 6ternels vous unir avec lui, Vous jouirez bientot de son aimable vue, &c.
W£igh well these words; consider that Bajazet is at the time no more ; and then judge whether the heart that is atrocious enough to utter them with tranquillity can be susceptible of love. I think she.^prefers Bajazet to Amu- rath ; but an impulse of desire is not a sentiment of love — the irritating al- lurements of the senses, and the ten- der inclinations of the soul, are dia- metrically opposite to each other.
186
Let the actress who performs this cha- racter avoid all expression of' tenderness and delicacy. An air of desire, repress- ed by the most rigorous attention to de- corum, is the only mark of sensibility her eyes ought to express. In those parts where she commands or menaces, her voice should seem lofty and des- potic, as if she was consious she was only surrounded by vile and trembling slaves. — In preserving throughout her whole deportment that noble air which the stage requires, and which every one, whatever may be her general ta- lents, may possess, introduce, at times, that kind of masculine dignity of which the world furnishes so many examples. In short, while the actress, during three- fourths of the character, depictures the
187 manners of a cruel sovereign, and one born to the throne, let her in the other part be recognised as the insolent slave, abusing that momentary power for which she is only indebted to her beauty.
UPON THE TRAGEDIES OF >L\XLIUS,
AND
VENISE SAUVEE.
There is no character on the stage in which profound study can be dispensed with. The more resemblance there is between ^uch and such characters, or such and such actions, the greater is the necessity of describing those shades by which they are distinguished. We have for example the same siubject in Manlius and Venise Sauvce ; the names,' the language, the action, the person-
188 ages, and the interests of the charac- ters, are the same. Bat in Manlius the scene lies at Rome, in the 371st year from its foundation; and in the other at Venice, in the 161 Sth year of our aera. — Discover, by the assistance of history, the manners of the two differ- ent places, and the spirit of the times ; reflect upon the personages, and what more or less dignity of character they possessed -, conform all your ideas to the general opinion of the people of the times :— you will then feel that it is impossible to have' the same tone of voJLce, the same deportment, or the same spirit and style of acting, in the one as in the other.
l$9
UPON CORNELIE, iN THE DEATH OF POMPEY.
The public opinion has ev€r deemed the character of Cornelie one of the finest on the stage. — Having to perform this character, I studied it with all the attention of which I was capable. No one has ever succeeded me in it. The modulation which I wished to establish, with reference to the historical charac- ter, was not altogether congenial to the theatrical one; in as much as the for- mer appeared to me noble, simple, and expressive ; the latter, masculine, de- clamatory, and cold. I guarded against the idea that the public and Corneille were both wrong. My vanity did not extend to that point ; but, in order to compromise the matter, I determined
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to be silent, and never to perform Cornelie. Since my retreat, the Com- mentarks upon Corneille, and the word esprit, in Les Rations Encyclopediques, by Voltaire, have been published. Read them : — if I am deceived, the example of so great a man w'A\ console me I
PHEDRE.
The character of Phedre is one of the finest on the stage. There is no one that is better written, and, conse- quently, no one more easy to learn and retain.
It requires no study of a local na- ture, no research into the manners of a particular tifne or place. Phedre is
191 a woman who is the slave cf her unre- strained passions ; and such a character is the same in every country. She has betrayed her sister : she is a wife, a mother, and a queen. It is easy to impart to her age and experience that tone of voice and deportment which are just, natural, and requisite. Every one endowed with sensibility, every im- petuous character, may easily find with- in her own breast, or by an attention to what passes daily before her eyes, the means of describing a violent pas- sion. Racine has marked, from act to act, the gradations to be observed in that of Phedre. Follow the author exactly -, endeavour to attain his mean- ing i but avoid pretending to suppress Jt. All that is required of you, when
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you have arrived at a perfect know- ledge of your autlior, is a countenance capable of variety, of expression, a com- manding voice, but at the same time calculated to excite emotions of tender- ness.
Phedre is torn by remorse ; — it is a remorse, real and uninterrupted, throughout the whole play. The ac- knowledgment of her passion in the first act, the reasons by which she j us- tiiies it, and her death in the fifth, are proofs of what I assert. Her virtue v/ould, doubtless, have surmounted her passion, if that passion had produced only" the usual errors of the senses, and of the imagination : but the unhappy phedre yields to the power of Venus -,
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a superior force hurries her continually on to act and to say what her virtue condemns. Throughout the whole of her character, this struggle should be present to the eyes and imagination of the spectator. I would advise, for the expression of- remorse, a simple dic- tion, noble yet tender accents, a pro-' fusion of tears, a countenance deeply affected; and, for the expression of love, a sort of delirium and insensibility, si- milar to that of a somnambulist, who preserves, in the arms of sleep, the re- membrance of the fire which consumed him when waking. — I took this idea from the following verses,
Dieux ! que ne suis-je assise a I'ombre dcs forcts I Quand pourrai-je 4 travers d'une noble poussi^re Suivre de I'oeil un char fuyant dans la carrit-re ? VOL. I, O
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..... lasensee ! Ou suis-je, et qu*ai-jc dit ? Ou laissai-je egarer mes voeux et rnon esprit ? Je I'ai perdu — les dieux m'ont ravi I'usage, &c.
In the scene, in the second act, with Hyppolite, I would recite the first couplet in a low and trembling voice, and without daring to raise my eyes. At the moment the sound of his voice struck my ear, my whole person should evince that pleasing trepidation, which souls of real sensibility experience, by reflecting on the past.
The second couplet should be ex- pressed by a different emotion. My words should appear to be interrupted by the violent palpitation of my heart, and not by fear.
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In the third, myeyes,enflamed by love, and, at the same time, repressed by virtue, should manifest the conflict in my soul.
' In the fourth, this conflict is more violent ; but love triumphs.
In the fifth it reigns predominant; and I then assume a deportment ex- pressive of dignity and propriety.
The delirium of the second act is produced by the conflict of contending passions ; that of the fourth act by de- spair and terror. In the first be atten- tive that the whole countenance, the voice, and the action, may be engaging, tender, and caressing. Preserve the ve- hemence of passion for the other, o 2
196
The couplet which terminates this scene has always embarrassed me : none of my attempts have satisfied mc. Whe- ther it is, that sixty cmpassioned verses, which scarce allow time to take breath, are beyond the powers of human nature; whether it is, that, admirable as these verses are, the conflict they describe is, in fact, too long j whether it is beyond my capacity to pourtray such a picture of love and remorse, with that just shade and colouring: which should dis- play those passions in a prominent point of view at the same time ; yet, so the fact is, I have always found insur- mountable difficulties in this passage; and I am obliged to confess that, in speaking and acting it to the very ut- most of my power, I have always been
197 far Inferior to the author's ideas, as well as my own. But to 'form conceptions while reading a work, and to express those conceptions by action, are two very different things.
' There are various other remarks which might be made upon this cliaracter. I have confused ideas of many important things that might be pointed out ; but I dare not trust to my memory, which has not distinctly preserved the first im- pressions it received. I am no longer adequate to the fatigue of any very pro- found researches, and I am apprehen- sive of betraying myself into errors by entering into details of which I have but an imperfect recollection.
o 3
193
BLANCHE, IN BLANCHE AND GUISCARD.
I know no character which is more agreeable to perform than that of Blanche. It requires no great deal of previous study, either as to time, place, or its appropriate dignity. A passion which has taken its birth in the security of infancy, increased by simplicity of soul, and habitual confidence ; a senti- ment of respect and obedience due to the author of her days ; a mind formed to the purest dictates of nature, render this character so simple and easy, that it is impossible for any actress, who pos- sesses the principles of her profession, and has a tolerable capacity, to fail play- ing it well.
199 All the great personages of antiquity impose upon us the duty of forgetting ourselves. It is only by the greatest efforts, by the most profound studies, that we can attain the faculty of depic- turing those different passions, which, all proceeding from the same point, are continually reverting to it, and there- fore require a constant variety in the inflexions of the voice, the expression of the countenance, and the deport- ment of the person. At the same time that it is an indispensable duty to pre- serve, unaltered, the consistency of the character, — such, for example, as is re- quired to express the passion, the vir- tue, the jealousy, and the remorse of Phcdre, — there are, in particular, four expressions of shame, all of which de- o 4
200
mand different shades. In the first act, when she entrusts the secret of her love to (Enone : in the second, when she has been too explicit with Hyppo- lite : in the third, when she appears be- fore her husband, and in the presence of the youth who is insensible to.her love, and who disdains her : in the fourth, when she reflects upon the nature of her crime, and expresses the dread she is under, that when her soul leaves this world she v/ill be forced to acknow- ledge it. All these require different tints or shades to express them : the countenance, the speech, must be dif- ferent. The first must describe a virtu- ous woman, who would die rather than fail in her duty, and who yields not, but through the last extremity : the
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second should paint her under the do- minion of her passion, and anxious how the object of her love will encourage it : the third needs no other expression than that of embarrassment and re- morse. Though she has said to CEnone, ** Fais ce qui tu voudras^" — ** Acl with me as you think proper -j" yet we must not suppose she was sensible of the importance of this consent ; she would no longer be the same character. It must never be lost sight of, that she is virtuous from principle, and only- criminal by the will of the gods. Her shame, in the fourth act, proves it; and that shame ought to express, in the most vehement and empassioned man- ner, her terror, her ^-emorse, and her virtue. — Vv'hat a task for an actress !
202
I dare affirm that it is beyond human powers to surmount the difficulties this character presents in every verse. What- ever have been my effi^rts, my medita- tions, my researches, all I can flatter myself v^ith is, that, perhaps , I have a few less faults than others. In playing Blanche, I always thought myself in my own chamber. My physiognomy, my inflexions, united, without art or study, to the sensibility of my soul. By nature tender and generous, I was susceptible of all the fears, the suspi- cions, and disappointments of love. When I played Blanche, I was always myself. It is the only character which never cost me any toilsome study. But if she who performs it does not adhere to the purity of nature, — if love is not
203
the only sentiment of her heart, she will have many difficulties to over- come. Talents which are not beyond mediocrity seek resource in sudden ex- clamations, violence of gesture, and un- usual modes of expression : this must be avoided in giving effect to the softer passions. By recurring to art, we may be able to attain the faculty of pour- traying the more violent passions and sentiments ; but art can never teach an actress how to simplify a character. It is nature alone to whom we must re- sort, in order to paint the delicate shades which distinguish candour and artless innocence, the light tints which pourtray the early sensations of pure and uncorrupted youth, and the strik- ing and noble simplicity which emanate
204.
from a soiil undebased by the, ruder passions. Art can only depicture what is grand. If you repress the bold ef- forts of its pencil, — if you weaken its colouring, you leave merely a repre- sentation of simple and unsophisticated nature.
M. Saurin, the author of Blanche, Spartacus, Les Mcsurs de Beierley, and many other interesting works, was a man eminent by the wisdom and judg- ment displayed in his writings. His manners were pure, his style pleasing, lively and correct ; and his conduct and probity rendered him dear to his friends, and the admiration of the public. It is with a remembrance, no less delight- ful to ray soul than flattering to my
eo5
vanity, that I recall the charms of his society, and the friendship with which he honoured me.
The four principal characters in Blanche were reprCvSented by Le Kain, Mole, Brisard, and myself. The ha- bitual kindness of the public, our ef- forts to merit it, and the interest of the piece itself, left us no room to doubt of success. We particularly depended on the applause and admiration of the female part of the audience. Those pure and tender passions, the result of an education proportioned to female delicacy, strengthened by the duties they owed as wives and mothers, ap- peared to us reasons which rendered our success certain. Our expectations were
206
deceived — the women abandoned us— ,the youthful part of the audience fol- lowed their example ; we had only the support of a few men, divested of pre- judice, and wearied of the tumult of tlie world. Notwithstanding the merit of the author, and our own talents, the success of the piece was but in- different. The desire of discovering new lights, which might improve my talents, and my habit of endeavour- ing to find a reason for every thing, induced me to explore the causes of a failure which I was at a loss to account for. The result of my inquiry was,. that real love, affection, and genuine purity of manners, were antiquated chimeras, whose very names were a satire upon our modern manners.
207
OBSERVATIONS
UPON M. DE LA TOUCHE, and his Tragedy
OK IPHIGENIE IN TAURIS.
M. Guymond de la Touche, author of Iphlgenie in Tauris, was my intimate friend. Never can I think of his loss without the most painful regret : but whatever violence I may do my own feelings, I am impelled to make some .observations upon his tragedy; and, by ^ giving some account of the author, interest those who admire him, and inform those who have criticised his work.
Born of parents who were distin- guished for their piety, M. de la Touche
208
entered into the society of the Jesuit* at the age of fourteen. Penetrated with the desire of practising his religion, and of instructing himself in whatever was connected with it, and might enable him to support its doctrines, he deter- mined within himself never to leave the convent, but to lead a solitary life, and devote all his hours to the study of theology and history. After fourteen years application, he confessed that his doubts daily increased. He became disgusted with his situation, and quit- ted it.
Absorbed by the importance of his reflections, removed far from every ob- ject of temptation, his senses enjoyed the most happy tranquillity. He had
soy
no idea of the world into which he had entered. — • Our manners and customs equally astonished and intimidated him; and the embarrassment of his deport- ment in his new situation, his reserve, fe^r, and modesty, to which he had ha- bituated himself, induced those who did not know him to believe that he was a man of moderate talents ^ but his scrupulous probity, his frankness and artless manner?, the simplicity of his expressions, and the profundity of his knowledge, distinguished him in the eyes of those who were acquainted with him, and had obtained his confidence, as one of the most interesting characters. The first moments of his liberty were devoted to the public spectacles ; in praise of which he was continually
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hearing every one speak, without an-» nexing any determinate idea as to the eiFect of them. He was passionately fond of tragedy. My acting pleased him. He composed his Iphigenie with incredible rapidity. The marchioness de Graffigny, at whose house he lived, brought me first acquainted with the author and his work. The modesty of M. de la Touche, his aversion to enco- mium, and the docility with which he adopted the corrections of others, form- ed a contrast to authors in general, which was perfectly new to me.
I o£fered his play to the performers, who, surprised at finding so many beau- ties in a first composition, received it without making the slightest correction.
211
However, on the day when we were to represent it for the first time, we disco- vered, in the course of the previous re- hearsal, so many defects in the fifth act, that we desired the author to alter the catastrophe, as well as one or two hun- dred verses, assuring him that we would not separate till we had learnt the whole of the alterations he should make. He was near an hour ; the act was entirely altered by the author, and studied by the performers. The curtain rose at half after five, and the piece was received with the most unbounded applause. — Such an effort certainly demanded all the zeal, memory, and capacity of the performers -, but what must have been the merit of that man who could ar- range a plot, and compose two hundred p 2
21g
Tf!kwWt'r§&^ fh die c<>WFse of two li ours, surrounded, at the same time, by twenty persons to whom he was dictating, and possessing no knowledge of the theatre> or of the public who was to judge of his production? My reason instructed me to distrust my own weak judgment, and Sie enthusiasm with which friendship inspired me j but, without determ^ining on what M. dc la Touche would one day pFove, I thought 'myself justified in %^lieving that the study of Corneille, Rabinej and Voltaire, had classed his ideas, formed his style, developed that genius he had derived from nature, and thit he merited to be reckoned the next in order after those three great men.
* His death, as sudden as it was extra-
218
ordinary, has deprived us of die 8e6on4 tragedy on whi,ch he was employedk He entrusted the sub]ect of it to me j! but, diffident of himself, and desiroua of knowing the extent of his talerltjr ht determined not to communicate his work to any of his friends till it should be entirely finished, and then to submit it to their approbation and criticism j- and, according as they should deter- mine, either to pursue or quit the career he had entered upon. This work, it is supposed, he destroyed > at least, it has never been discovered. Iphigenie is all that remains of his genius. It is a task I have imposed upon myself to guide my companions on the stage, to a tho- rough knowledge of those characters which I have performed. The on© I P 3
214 am now speaking of presents subjects worthy of remark, from the first to the last verse. To understand the author, and perfectly comprehend the character, it is necessary to read and study the work with attention, from beginning to end. I must observe, that the unity of the play gives it an appearance of mono- tonous insipidity, unless the actress, by the varied expression of her counte- nance, and the appropriate flexibility of her voice, renders it gradually animated and interesting.— Form a just estimate of your powers and resources ; manage them with address ; evince capacity in the proper distribution of them, and, without remitting your ardour, make them conduct you to the attainment of that perfection which is your object.
215
Above all things, vary the tw^o different degrees of sorrow w^hich you have to express. Those vs^hich flow from the long continuance of your misfortunes ought to be expressed in all the vehe- mence and bitterness of woe : those which are a tribute to humanity, ought to be tranquil and unempassioned.
When the captives are released from their chains, in the second act, advance from the bottom of the theatre till you come even with Pylades, who is nearest you ; then stop and survey him with a noble and compassionate air; but in such a manner as not to seem to reproach his misfortune -, then proceed onward, and observe Orestes. I may be allowed to assert, that you will not be able to con - p 4
template him without being sensi- ble of a certain degree of trouble and surprise. Take time to survey liim ; dp not let your eyes quit him ; but, with a low and agitated voice, pronounce, ^e/s traits et quel mairi' iien I ^k^MWA-.
In the same scene, when you are in- terrogating Orestes, and Pylades is eager Xq answer for him, observe the latter with an air of superiority, mingled with mildness, and, by a sign at once digni- fied and graceful, desire him to be silent and to retire.
Let all your questions respecting your family be made with the greatest simplicity.
£17
Let only so much of your joy and grief be observable, as the force of na- ture betrays in spite of your efforts to the contrary. The greater your exer- tions are to conceal your tears, the more impressive should be their effect when they do flow. Those seeming trifles are of the utmost importance. I never allowed myself to neglect a sin- gle action or word that could possibly be serviceable to the scene. An ac- tress cannot, by every word she utters, produce a striking and sensible effect ; hut she ought not to use one word without conveying some sort of im- pression. In the course of the piece, Iphigenie appears as a mild, sensible, and humane character : notwithstand- ing the excess of her misfortunes, she
21S
does not give way to vehement and empassioned complaints, — only in the fifth act, when she says,
Mais de quel-droit ici me commande ta rage ?
and in the rest of the scene she must xmite all the haughtiness of high birth, all the authoritative dignity she de- riv£s from the knowledge of a sacred mystery, and all that confidence and courage which are ever inspired by virtue.
I requested that no other than my- self should be allowed to act this cha- racter while I remained at the theatre. The sentiments of friendship, by which I was actuated,, made me apprehensive of the indispensable errors of inexpe- rience. I never played it myself with-
219
out having recourse to new researches. The desire of being deemed to possess great talents made me more uneasy with regard to this character than any other. Since my retreat, 1 have wit- nessed its performance by two dijfferent actresses. The one was dignified, no- ble, and beautiful, but was far from possessing that degree of sensibility which I required : the other was hand- some, but without any distinguishing characteristic ; she displeased me by the distortions of her features, and still more by the indecency of her action and the low familiarity of her utter- ance ', yet did this actress derive from nature a voice capable of conveying the tenderest impression, and of command- ing the tear of sensibihty.
220
I was persuaded that none went to a tragedy, but for the purpose of raising their imaginations beyond the ordinary pitch of human nature, and, from the, personages of antiquity, to receive les- . sons of nobleness, decency, courage, and grandeur of soul. How inadequate must be the impression, when an actresis^ riepresents the manners of a simple Grisette before those who expect to be- hold a queen \ If you would prove that you possess talent, elevate yourself to the personage you are representing. By placing the character on a level with yourself, you only show your oWn ig- norance.
2QI
THETWOELECTRES. I think I shall offend none of those who pursue the same career as my^ self, by supposing that they possess as much ignorance, as many defects, and as great a portion of self-love as I did in my youth.
The applause I received^ the hopes I gave of future celebrity, the compli- ments addressed to me from ail part?, the adulations of those admirers with which I was surrounded, the exaggera- tion of fools, and the jealousy of mV companions, made me think myself the greatest actress that had ever been seei> on the stage. When I heard the names of mesdemoiselles Lecouvreur and Dc Seine, I expressed the same degree of
222
disdain which those who have succeeded me have expressed when my name has been mentioned. — It will always be so : but sooner or latter an actress must learn to know herself, and to correct her errors : the longer we conceal them, the further we are from truth : and it is only by seeking Truth, by dis- covering her, and by following her footsteps, an actress can acquire ta- lents. As the sole object I have in view is that of showing the principles by which I have, been guided in my theatrical pursuits, I trust I shall be excused for citing myself as an exam- ple of too much vanity.
Mademoiselle Lecouvreur no longer exists : I, therefore, will not call her
merits in question. Mademoiselle dc Seine, who has retired from the stage these ten years, exactly followed the path in which I had trod j and the ap- plauses she bestowed upon me, in the character of Electre, in which she had been pre-eminent, nearly turned my brain, so much did I feel myself gra- tified by them.
I moved heaven and earth to gain her acquaintance, and induce her to recite part of the verses to me. A common friend to each of us procured me the satisfaction I desired.
When she entered my room, I ob-. served a woman evidently in the de- cline of life, and f^r from possessing.
3124
that dignified and commandingappcar-* ance which I expected. Her dress was slovenly and carelessly put on. The sound of her voice, and the manner in which she spoke, would have made me believe, if I had not seen her, that an inexperienced girl was addressing me. My triumph was complete : her re- fusal to recite before me I construed into an avowal of her own inability, and my superiority. At length, she consented to repeat part of the third act of Electre, and I had arranged in my mind a well-turned compliment, which, however unmerited I supposed it would be on her part, I conceived I could not in good manners dispense with. But the air tof dignity she as- sumed when she rose, and ranged the
225 chairs, in order to form a sort of the- atre and scenes, the change I observed in her appearance, the moment she pre- pared to speak, produced a total de- rangement of all my ideas. My va- nity v^'as silent ; I felt tears already in my eyes : but v^hen she did speak, the accents of her despair, the deep ex- pression of grief on her countenance, the noble, and, at the same time, natu- ral appearance of her whole deport- ment, penetrated my soul, enlightened it, and made me sensible how very far I was inferior to her. To punish my impertinent presumption, and to cor- rect it in future, I have made a candid avowal of it.
Emulation is absolutely necessary to
VOL. I. Q^
226
an actress: we should never make any progress without it ; but we should stu- diously guard against the errors of va* nity.
Let us now speak of the two Electrcs who are at present upon the theatre.
They are both characters of the same description, their relative situations are the same, and the want of proper instruc- tion can alone account for their being per- formed exactly like each other. When I first learnt that of Crebillon, I scarce had read of Agamemnon, his family, or his misfortunes. History — Sophocles — were equally unknown to me. I mere- ly discovered a princess afflicted by the death cf her father, and desirous of
227 the destruction of his assassins. It ap- peared to me easy to pourtray these sen- timents; they are engraved on every honest heart. She was in love; that was easy to describe. Her choice, in- deed, appeared rather beneath her cha- racter ; however, nothing deterred me, .nothing restrained me, and the public thought I played the character pre- cisely as it had been drawn. But when, after a few years' labour and re- flection, I endeavoured to give the part that national characteristic, and distin- guishing feature, which belonged to it, I found myself wholly at a loss ; I could not reconcile to the character those sen- timents of love and vengeance which were painted by the author. — To love the son .of her oppressor, the son of
22S the assassin of Agamemnon -, to aban- don herself to a passion which no he- roism, no hope of vengeance could jus- tify, was irreconcileable to my feel- ings ; and Electre appeared to me a de- based and degraded character, a mixture of gold and dross, which it was be- yond my powers to describe. I re- . nounced it, and for ever quitted it from the moment that the Electre of Voltaire appeared; Wh^t a fine cha- racter is this latter !-— If I had been com- pelled never to have performed but one upon the stage, this should have been my choice ; not that I do not render to others that tribute of admiration they deserve,* not that I do not derive infi- nite gratification in performing them ; but my partiality and taste for antiqui-
229
ty, my desire to incorporate into all my characters the manners of the times and countries, when, and in which they ex- isted, have frequently been a source of extreme difficulty to me; and, not- withstanding all my efforts, there are many characters which I must still leave to my cotemporaries, and to France. I have nothing to dissemble, nothing further to add; the only labour required is, that the actress shall ele- vate her soul and her genius to the cha- racter she is to represent.
Whoever ye may be, who m^ay un- dertake this character, study it, observe it, comprehend its minutest shades and distinctions. Common -rate abilities
230
are incapable of attempting it. Sacri- fice your habits and your personal af- fections to it ; forget that ye are hand- some; avoid endeavouring to appear so. Employ at your toilets no more of art than will induce the public to be- lieve what they behold is nature with- out art. Let no elegant drapery or fa- shionable adornment destroy that no- ble and affecting picture of distress and sorrow which ye are to represent.
Electre is supposed to be more than thirty years old. There are some cha- racters, who, at the age of fifteen, are weighed down by misery and grief. I would have depictured on the coun- tenance of her who performs Electre
23 1
the traces of long-continued sorrow i "her face should be an indication of the tears that have flowed for a long series of years.
Do not forget that time drains the sources of grief: — tears flowing in abundance imply recent misfortunes. It is therefore necessary to discriminate with respect to the cause of them. Electre ought not to shed tears in the two first acts : all that is to be inferred from her cxpressions.is, that she wishes to shed them ; but the consolation they aflbrd to a mind distressed would calm the impetuosity of her character, and, consequently, would weaken it. In or- der that I might seem as if a tear was
23i2
ready to start from my eye, I have had recourse to that peculiar tone of voice which is expressive of distress, and, at the same time, that kind of contrac- tion of the stomach vv'hich produced a tremulousness of the nerves and dif- ficulty of respiration, which indicated the agitation of my soul. These me- thods are .as destructive to our health S.5 they are useful to the acquirement of talent. I know, and feel the truth of what I assert; but in whatever situa- tion I may be placed, and however I may value existence, I would sacrifice every thing to glory.
The scene where the urn is intro- duced requires abundance of tears ; it is a new misfortune, and forms the
235 completion of those which preceded it ; it forces every barrier. But let those tears you shed seem as if they came from the bottom of your soulj and, without employing exclamations or ve- hemence, let them appear as much the effect of real grief as possible. In the fourth act, where it is said,
Mon sort, a vos destins, n'est il pas asservi ? &c.
appear to be gradually penetrated with that mild and consolotary affliction which a pure and undisguised passion frequently imparts.
Remember, in particular, that true grandeur has simplicity for its basis; that great characters, great misfor- tunes, and difHcult situations, require a commanding countenance, an expressive
VOL, I. R
234 voice, and a dignified deportment. Act as I have done ; and if you cannot attain perfection, endeavour, as far as lays in your povsrer, to advance towards itj an4 prove to the public, if you should fail, that it is not for want of study, atten? tion, and perseverance.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
Frinied by S. Hamilton,
Falcon-Courty Fleet-Street^ Ltinden,
University of California
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