Читать книгу Later Queens of the French Stage - H. Noel Williams - Страница 5

She had not far to look. So soon as it was known that the adorable Mlle. Arnould was no longer inaccessible, all the admirers whom the jealous transports of Lauraguais had kept at a respectful distance flocked around her, and Sophie, having broken with the man who had possessed her heart, threw scruples to the winds, and bestowed her favours upon several gallants, varying in social position—or, at least, so M. de Sartines’s inspectors reported—from the Prince de Conti to a handsome young friseur, who called daily to dress the lady’s hair.

But, in spite of these “passades” and the lavish generosity wherewith her titular protector sought to gain her affections, love for Lauraguais still smouldered in Sophie’s breast, and, at the beginning of the following year, only a few days after the enamoured M. Bertin had bestowed upon her the sum of 12,000 livres, by way of a New Year’s gift, all Paris was astonished to hear that she had thrown over the financier and returned to the count.

At first, the public was inclined to applaud what it was pleased to consider the rare disinterestedness of the lady in preferring a comparatively poor admirer to an exceptionally wealthy one. But when it became known that poor Bertin’s brief reign had cost him over 100,000 livres, exclusive of the New Year’s gift mentioned above, it veered round, and Bachaumont reports that the general impression was that the financier had been very hardly treated. He himself expresses the opinion that the favoured lover was in honour bound to indemnify the abandoned one for the very large sums he had expended on the capricious Sophie, and that, as this had not been done, Mlle. Arnould must be held to have gained the affection of tender and susceptible hearts on false pretences, and must therefore—morally at least—“be relegated to the crowd of women from whom she had been drawn.”[26]

It is only fair to Lauraguais to say that, very soon after this was written, he gave the lie to the rumour that Sophie’s liaison with Bertin had been nothing but an ingenious speculation on the part of that lady, by refunding to his discomfited rival all that he had disbursed on her behalf, so that, in the end, the financier “lost nothing except the most charming woman in Paris.”

The second stage of the liaison between Sophie and Lauraguais was not less stormy than the first; in fact, it might quite as appropriately be called a renewal of hostilities as a renewal of love. A week or two of bliss, and then their quarrels recommenced, more frequent and more violent than before. After what had passed, the count felt that he had the right to be suspicious, and he took the fullest advantage of it. Almost every day there were angry accusations, indignant denials, bitter reproaches, and floods of tears, followed by apologies, vows of amendment, and reconciliation. Never was there a more singular pair of lovers. They seem to have been perpetually separating and coming together again, for, though life with one another was intolerable, they were even more unhappy apart; while if any misfortune happened to befall either of them, however strained their relations at the time might be, all grievances were straightway forgotten. An instance of this occurred towards the end of the following year.

The practice of inoculation for the small-pox, which had been introduced into England by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu early in the eighteenth century, had hitherto made but little progress in France, notwithstanding the fact that it had had several distinguished advocates, including Voltaire and Jean Jacques Rousseau. Towards the year 1763, however, a strong movement in its favour took place, in consequence of which the Parliament of Paris, on the requisition of the Advocate-General, Joly de Fleury, passed a decree prohibiting inoculation until the Faculties of Medicine and Theology should have pronounced a definite opinion on the subject.

The decree roused the indignation of Lauraguais, who was one of the warmest supporters of the innovation, and his indignation vented itself in a Mémoire sur l’inoculation, wherein M. Joly de Fleury was very roughly handled. This memoir he read before the Académie des Sciences, of which he was a member, and demanded permission to print it. The Academy at first demurred, but ultimately gave its consent, on the understanding that the references to the Advocate-General should be expunged. Apparently this condition was not observed, for the publication of the memoir was followed by an acrimonious correspondence, ending with a lettre de cachet, which directed that M. le Comte de Lauraguais should be conveyed to Metz and imprisoned in the citadel during his Majesty’s pleasure.[27]

On learning of the arrest of her lover, Sophie was in despair. She closed her salon and put on mourning. The few friends who were permitted to intrude upon her sorrow found her dissolved in tears, and went about declaring that nothing so pathetic had ever been seen before. The Abbé de Voisenon wrote to the imprisoned count, describing in touching language the actress’s grief, and felicitating him on having found a faithful mistress at the Opera; a piece of good fortune, said the abbé, so remarkable that it ought to go far to console him for his captivity:

“Ne te plains pas de ton malheur,

Du cœur de La Vallière il te fournit la preuve,

On assure qu’Arnould se souvient d’être veuve

Et que de sa constance elle fait son bonheur.”

Lauraguais’s family and friends did everything in their power to procure his release; but both Louis XV. and Choiseul had come to regard that nobleman as a public nuisance, and turned a deaf ear to their appeals. And so the count remained for some four months at Metz, and might have remained a good deal longer, had not a fortunate chance enabled Sophie to intervene on his behalf.

On November 2, the opera of Dardanus was played before the Court, at Fontainebleau, Sophie taking the part of the heroine Iphise, one of her most successful impersonations. On this occasion she appears to have surpassed herself, and even the bored King was moved to something like admiration. Profiting by the impression she had created, without waiting to doff the robes of Iphise, she begged for a few minutes’ conversation with the Duc de Choiseul, and, throwing herself at his feet, besought him to release her lover. “The heart of the gallant and all-powerful Minister was touched, and he had not the courage to refuse to this beautiful and tearful Iphise the return of her Dardanus.”[28]

Lauraguais returned more infatuated than ever. Gratitude had redoubled his love for his mistress; never had she appeared to him more adorable. Declaring that it was his intention to consecrate to her alone the liberty which he owed to her, he installed himself at Sophie’s house, as in the early days of their liaison, and refused even to see his unfortunate wife, whom he unjustly suspected of having been a trifle lukewarm in her efforts to obtain his release. This was a little too much for the endurance even of that long-suffering lady, and, soon afterwards, she sought and obtained a judicial separation.

His few months’ imprisonment at Metz would appear to have exercised a chastening effect upon the volatile count, as, for the next three or four years, though quarrels were still of frequent occurrence, there was no open rupture between the lovers. During this period, two more children were born to them: a son, Antoine Constant, who subsequently entered the army, rose to be colonel of a regiment of cuirassiers, and was killed at the battle of Wagram; and a daughter, Alexandrine Sophie, of whom we shall have something to say later on.

Perhaps the comparative harmony which now reigned between this singular pair was the result of a tacit understanding that they should forgive and forget. At any rate, they were very far from being all in all to one another during these years. Some doubt seems to have existed as to whether Alexandrine Sophie, born March 7, 1767, had not the right to claim an even more illustrious descent than that of the Brancas; for, though M. de Lauraguais recognised the child as his, the assiduous attentions paid by the Prince de Conti to her mother rendered it quite possible that she had royal blood in her veins. On his side, the count indulged in several “passades,” one of which, with a certain Mlle. Robbi, a colleague of Sophie, threatened to develop into a more permanent connection. Finally, in the spring of 1768, the union was again dissolved, Lauraguais being, on this occasion, the one to sever the knot.

On February 26 of that year, a young German danseuse, Mlle. Heinel by name, who had already achieved a reputation in Vienna, made her appearance at the Opera, and created a great sensation. “Mlle. Heinel,” says Grimm, “afflicted with seventeen or eighteen years, two large, expressive eyes, and two well-shaped legs, which support a very pretty face and figure, has arrived from Vienna and made her début at the Opera in the danse noble. She displays a precision, a sureness, an aplomb, and a dignity of bearing comparable to the great Vestris. The connoisseurs of dancing pretend that, in two or three years, Mlle. Heinel will be the first danseuse in Europe, and the connoisseurs of charms are disputing the glory of ruining themselves for her.”[29]

In a letter written some months later, Grimm becomes quite ecstatic over the beauty and talent of his young compatriot:

“Her grace and dignity make of her a celestial creature. To see her, I do not say dance, but merely walk across the stage, is alone worth the money that one pays at the door of the Opera.”[30]

The charms of this “celestial creature” proved more than the susceptible heart of M. de Lauraguais could withstand, and we read in the Mémoires secrets, under date March 28, 1768:

“Her (Mlle. Heinel’s) attractions have so captivated M. le Comte de Lauraguais as to cause him to forget those of Mlle. Arnoux (sic). He has given her, as a wedding-present à l’Allemand, 30,000 livres, 20,000 livres to a brother, to whom she is much attached, an exquisite set of furniture, a coach, and so forth. It is computed that the première cost this magnificent nobleman 100,000 livres.”

Sophie appears to have been anything but heart-broken at the desertion of her eccentric lover—probably she was as anxious to be rid of him, for a season, as he was to leave her—and, less than a year later, we find her corresponding with him in the friendliest manner. By that time the count had had more than enough of the society of Mlle. Heinel, concerning whom Sophie has many spiteful things to say. She herself, she informs him—perhaps with a view of exciting his jealousy—is receiving great attention from the Prince de Conti, who often invites her, together with other past, present, and potential members of his seraglio,[31] to his box at the Opera, where he invariably greets her with a kiss upon the chin.[32]

Sophie’s life at this period affords us very little that is edifying to contemplate, and much that is the reverse. Her apartment in the Rue du Dauphin was the rendezvous of many wits and men of letters: Marmontel, Crébillon fils, Dorat, Voisenon, and the Abbé Arnaud; but it was also frequented by nearly all the fashionable libertines of the day, and “her table was an altar of free life and free love.” “Foreign Ambassadors covered her with diamonds, Serene Highnesses threw themselves at her feet, dukes and peers sent her carriages, and Princes of the Blood deigned to have children by her.”[33] Unlike the majority of her colleagues, who clung tenaciously to the few poor shreds of reputation that were left them, Sophie appears to have been perfectly indifferent to public opinion, and jested cynically with comparative strangers on the depraved life she was leading.

In the spring of 1770, we find her accepting a new amant en titre, in the person of Charles Alexander Marc Marcellin d’Alsace, Prince d’Hénin et du Saint-Empire. The Prince d’Hénin was a dull, pompous man, nicknamed, by a play on his title, “le prince des nains,” who seems to have taken the actress under his protection merely because it was the mode in those days to keep a mistress, and the more notorious the lady, the greater the distinction she conferred upon her lover. His chief recommendations, so far as Sophie was concerned, were that he was very rich and disposed to allow her to do pretty much as she pleased, so long as the admirers whom he chanced to encounter on his visits to her house behaved towards him with the deference which he considered due to his exalted rank.

Her apartment in the Rue du Dauphin not being large enough to accommodate all the distinguished persons who desired to pay homage to her, Sophie, about this time, removed to a more commodious one in the Rue des Petits-Champs. This, in its turn, becoming too small for her requirements, she made up her mind to have an hôtel built, and selected a site in the Chaussée-d’Antin, immediately adjoining the hôtel of Mlle. Guimard—the “Temple of Terpsichore,” as it was called—the erection of which had half-ruined more than one of the adorers of “la squelette des Grâces.”

In the Bibliothèque Nationale may be seen a drawing of the façade of the proposed house, and plans of the rez-de-chaussée and the first and second floors. The drawing of the façade bears the following inscription:

“Façade of a projected house for Mlle. Arnould in the Chaussée-d’Antin. The house to be constructed side by side with that of Mlle. Guimard, and to be of the same dimensions.—Bélanger.”

On the portico, which is supported by two Doric columns, may be seen the figure of the Muse Euterpe, with the features of Sophie Arnould. The plan of the second floor is inscribed: “Plan of the second floor of Mlle. Arnould’s projected house, in which there are to be four small rooms for the accommodation of the children.”

This palace never got beyond the paper stage, for Sophie fell in love with the architect and the architect with her, in consequence of which, we may presume, the Prince d’Hénin, or whatever wealthy admirer was to have defrayed the expenses, declined to have anything further to do with the scheme.

François Joseph Bélanger, the architect in question, was a charming man. He was then about thirty years of age, handsome, good-tempered, witty, and one of the most rising members of his profession.[34] Sophie loved him dearly—for a time at least—though this did not prevent her indulging in various passing fancies. Once, when he was temporarily out of favour, she sent him his congé, and, at the same time, wrote to an actor named Florence, inviting him to take the vacant place in her affections. Bélanger, however, happening to call at her house at a time when she was not at home, found the two letters on her desk, read them, and promptly changed the envelopes. The result was that Florence received the congé, instead of the avowal of love, and naturally became very cold in his manner towards Sophie, who, deeply mortified, turned for consolation to her faithful architect.

At one time a rumour was current that Sophie was about to become Madame Bélanger, and, when questioned on the matter, the lady replied: “What would you have? So many people are endeavouring to destroy my reputation that I need some one who can restore it. I could not make a better choice, since I have selected an architect!” The marriage, however, did not take place, though that would not appear to have been the fault of Bélanger. Notwithstanding the fact that a lady with so romantic a past, and three fine children to prevent people forgetting it, was hardly the kind of wife for a rising professional man, the architect would have been only too willing to regularise their connection. But Sophie had no mind to marry any one who was unable to satisfy all her caprices; and it is probable that the rumour referred to was started and circulated by her with the object of giving the lie to another, which was occasioning her intense annoyance.[35]

Sophie’s insolence and pride in this the heyday of her prosperity knew no bounds. She insulted the Lieutenant of Police and was, in consequence, placed under arrest for twenty-four hours; she made biting epigrams about Ministers and other distinguished persons, which, no doubt, duly reached her victims’ ears; she behaved with such “unexampled audacity” and “essential want of respect” towards Madame du Barry, on the occasion of a performance before the Court, at Fontainebleau, that, but for the intervention of the injured lady—the most sweet-tempered left-hand queen who ever degraded a throne—she would have spent the next six months as a prisoner in the Hôpital,[36] and she drove the unfortunate directors of the Opera to the verge of distraction with her whims and caprices.

The race of prime donne is proverbially a capricious one; the profession of an impresario one of the most trying which can fall to the lot of man. Yet, it may be doubted whether any queen of song since opera was invented can have occasioned her managers anything approaching the anxiety and annoyance caused by Mlle. Sophie Arnould. She knew she was necessary, well-nigh indispensable, and she abused her position. Dearly did the administration pay for the increased receipts which her popularity brought them. Every day she had some new grievance, some unexpected whim. She wished to sing and she did not wish to sing, she retired and she reappeared. Sometimes she would create a part in an opera, sing divinely to crowded houses for three or four nights, then suddenly discover that it was unsuited to her or made too great demands upon her strength, and insist upon another singer taking her place for the remainder of the run of the piece. A few evenings later, jealous perhaps of the applause which her successor was receiving, she would come down to the theatre and announce her intention of resuming her part, only to throw it up again so soon as she considered that she had asserted her superiority.

To revive an opera in which she had scored a success was often as risky a venture as to produce a new one, since it might, and very often did, happen, that Mlle. Arnould—who, it should be mentioned, unlike the majority of public performers, cared very little for applause—would be indisposed, that is to say, indisposed to exert her full powers, with the result that the once popular piece would be received in comparative silence. In February 1769, Dardanus was revived. Iphise, the heroine, was one of Sophie’s greatest rôles, but on the first night she either could not or would not sing, and the opera became, in consequence, “almost a burlesque.”

It is only, however, fair to say that she made ample atonement on the following evening. Thinking perhaps, as one of her biographers suggests, that any one was good enough to sing with a voiceless prima donna, the management entrusted the part of Dardanus to a new tenor named Muguet, “who had neither voice, figure, nor expression.” The audience not unnaturally resented the experiment, and M. Muguet and the opera with him were in a fair way to be hissed off the stage, when Sophie came to the rescue and, by superb singing and impassioned acting, restored the house to good humour and converted a complete failure into something approaching a success.

Seeing that the ladies of the Opera were the King’s servants in the literal sense of the phrase, and that misbehaviour on their part was wont to be construed as disobedience to his Majesty’s commands and punished accordingly, why, it may well be asked, was such conduct tolerated? Why did not the chief of the King’s Household intervene with one of those lettres de cachet which were generally so efficacious in bringing contumacious artistes to their senses? The answer is that Sophie had so many noble admirers always ready to espouse her cause that to punish her as she deserved could not have failed to create a great deal of unpleasantness; for which reason, though the directors appealed again and again to the Comte de Saint-Florentin to exercise his authority, their representations were without effect. Here is an instance:

On March 24, 1772, Sophie, who was announced to take the part of Thélaïre, in Rameau’s Castor et Pollux, had not arrived when the time came for the opera to begin, and her place was, therefore, taken by her understudy, Mlle. Beaumesnil. As no intimation of her inability to appear that evening had reached them, the directors naturally concluded that she had been suddenly taken ill, and their astonishment and indignation may be imagined when they presently espied the lady in a box, laughing and talking with several of her admirers, and, seemingly, in the best of health and spirits. A message demanding an explanation of what she meant by appearing in the front of the house when she was “billed” to play a part produced the impertinent reply that she had come to take a lesson from Mlle. Beaumesnil! The angry directors thereupon appealed to the chief of the King’s Household and begged him to send the recalcitrant actress to For l’Évêque. But the Prince d’Hénin, or some other influential adorer, interceded on her behalf, and the only punishment she received was “a severe reprimand.”

Such misplaced leniency, Bachaumont tells us, was highly displeasing to a certain section of the Opera’s patrons, and when, an evening or two later, Mademoiselle did condescend to appear, a number of people came to the theatre “with the intention of humiliating her by hissing.” Sophie, however, perhaps desirous of making atonement to the public for its previous disappointment, put forth all her powers and sang and acted so admirably that the malcontents’ courage failed them, and, finally, forgetting the object which had brought them thither, they joined heartily in the general applause.[37]

Owing to the cares of maternity and other causes, chief of which would seem to have been a pronounced antipathy to hard work, Sophie’s appearances at the Opera were very irregular, and sometimes her name did not find a place in the bills for several months together. Thus, she was absent from October 1761 to the following February; again from November 1766 to August 1767; while in 1770 she does not appear to have sung at all. A less popular actress, or one whose life outside the theatre was less notorious, might have incurred some risk of finding herself forgotten. But Sophie’s admirers were numerous and faithful, and when she had a part which suited her, and was in the humour to do herself justice, her singing and, more especially, her acting were so superior to her rivals that the house was invariably crowded. Among her triumphs may be mentioned: Thisbé, in Pyrame et Thisbé; Oriane, in Amadis de Gaule;[38] Aline, in Aline, Reine de Golconde,[39] “which,” says Bachaumont, “she endowed with all the delicate graces of sentiment, beauty, and talent”; Psyché, in L’Amour et Psyché; Iphise, in Dardanus, and Thélaïre, in Castor et Pollux, when the critic of the Mercure declared that she was “not a character of the piece, but Thélaïre herself, and that the feelings she depicted passed involuntarily into the souls of the spectators.”[40]

Although Bélanger was Mlle. Arnould’s amant de cœur, the Prince d’Hénin remained her titular protector. The prince was an exceedingly dull and fatuous person, with the most absurdly exaggerated idea of his own importance, and bored the lady insufferably, although financial considerations compelled her to tolerate him. At the same time, she was at no pains to conceal from her friends the ennui which his visits occasioned her, and when, at the beginning of the year 1774, the Comte de Lauraguais, with whom she still maintained friendly relations, returned from a lengthy visit to England, she hastened to pour her troubles into his sympathetic ear. Perhaps Lauraguais would have been not unwilling to resume his connection with Sophie, had there been no Prince d’Hénin in the way, and cherished a grudge against that nobleman for taking the place which had so long been his own. Perhaps he had some other grievance against him, for the prince was by no means universally beloved. Any way, he determined to have a little diversion at his expense. We read in the Mémoires secrets:

“February 19, 1774.—The Comte de Lauraguais, that amiable nobleman, whose inextinguishable gaiety is so marvellously seconded by his lively imagination, after having amused London, has come to enliven this capital with his sallies and ingenious pleasantries, of which one relates a charming instance: Some days ago, he summoned four doctors of the Faculty of Medicine to a consultation, in order to know whether it were possible for any one to die of ennui. They replied in the affirmative and, after a long preamble, setting forth the reasons for their decision, signed a paper to that effect, in all good faith. The family of Brancas is so generally composed of lunatics, hypochondriacs, hysterical and melancholy persons, and so forth, that they imagined that the question put to them concerned some relative of the consultant, and agreed that the only means of effecting a cure was to remove out of the patient’s sight the object which occasioned this condition of inertia and stagnation.

“Armed with this document duly signed and witnessed, the facetious nobleman proceeded to lay it before a Commissary of Police and, at the same time, to lodge a complaint against the Prince d’Hénin, who, by his continual obsession of Mlle. Arnoux (sic), would infallibly cause that actress to perish of ennui, and the public to lose one whom it valued highly, and whom he especially desired to preserve.”

Needless to say, the commissary did not issue the warrant demanded; but, equally needless to say, he related the jest to every one he happened to meet that morning, with the result that, in a very few hours, this “charming instance of the inextinguishable humour of the Comte de Lauraguais” was the talk of Paris, and was voted the best comedy that had been played for many a long day. The Prince d’Hénin naturally did not look at the matter in quite the same light, and talked about sending the count a challenge. According to one account, he actually did so, and a bloodless duel followed. But since, as we shall presently see, he was a nobleman by no means remarkable for his courage, it is more probable that he ultimately decided to pocket the affront.

In the course of that same month, Sophie Arnould determined to withdraw altogether from the Opera and, accordingly, sent in her resignation, giving as her reason the unsatisfactory state of her health. The Duc de la Vrillière, however, declined to accept it, at the same time assuring her, in a courteous letter, that, “under no circumstances would more be required of her than her strength would permit of her undertaking.” Although it would appear that Sophie was really somewhat out of health at that time—so that Lauraguais’s charge against the poor Prince d’Hénin was not without a basis of truth—her resolution to quit the scene of her many triumphs was dictated by a very different reason. The fact of the matter was that the Sophie Arnould of 1774 was not the Sophie Arnould of 1758—not the singer who had charmed all Paris in Les Amours des Dieux and Énée et Lavinie. Her voice, always more expressive than powerful, was becoming perceptibly weaker. Her beauty, though she was still very attractive, had lost its freshness. Her frequent absences, her endless caprices, her arrogance and insolence, so long tolerated, had begun to weary not only the long-suffering directors of the Opera, but the public and the critics who influenced it. Where there had been applause, there was now silence. Where there had been praise, there was now criticism, and criticism sometimes of a peculiarly galling kind. In a word, Sophie’s long reign was drawing to a close. And Paris was eagerly awaiting the arrival of a new composer. Gluck, who was to revolutionise opera in France, was coming, at the invitation of Marie Antoinette, to give a series of “musical dramas”—as he himself called them—reconstructed from those which had delighted Vienna and Italy. Supported as he would be by the young Dauphiness and the Court, his success was a foregone conclusion. What unthinkable humiliation for her if, when the principal parts came to be allotted, she should be passed over in favour of one of her youthful competitors: Mlle. Laguerre or, worse still, Rosalie Levasseur, the mistress of Mercy-Argenteau, the Austrian Ambassador, between whom and herself the bitterest rivalry existed! Rather than incur such a risk, she would retire of her own accord, while her laurels were still untarnished, while her sovereignty was still acknowledged.

GLUCK After the painting by N. F. Duplessis

But, as we have just seen, her resignation was not accepted, and when Gluck arrived in Paris, he appears to have had little difficulty in deciding to entrust the title-part in his Iphigénie en Aulide to her, though his choice was probably influenced more by Sophie’s histrionic than her vocal capabilities, for while her voice was neither so powerful nor so fresh as those of the two ladies mentioned above, her acting was immeasurably superior to theirs.

We are inclined to think, however, that even if Sophie had been much less fitted than she was to undertake the difficult rôle of Iphigénie, Gluck would still have hesitated before passing her over, since to have done so would have been certain to arouse a storm of hostile criticism, a singularly inauspicious opening to his Paris campaign. As matters stood, his position was, at first, far from an easy one. The musical world of Paris was the most critical and contentious of any capital in Europe, and the advent of a foreign operatic troupe or a new composer was invariably the sign for the amateurs of music to range themselves into hostile camps and to discuss the merits and demerits of the innovation with as much warmth as, in the present day, rival schools of politicians might debate a question of international importance. Just as in 1752, when an Italian troupe came to perform the Serva Padrona of Pergolese and other works of the Italian buffo order, all musical Paris was divided into Buffonists and anti-Buffonists; so now, immediately on Gluck’s arrival, two parties were formed, one prepared to laud to the skies everything the master might compose, the other resolved to uphold the traditions of the old French opera at all costs and to drive the daring reformer from the field.[41]

Gluck found the task of producing Iphigénie the most difficult of any which he had yet undertaken. What he saw and heard at the Palais-Royal disgusted as much as it astonished him; orchestra, singers, chorus, ballet—all were lamentably inefficient, and it was obvious that a course of the most rigorous training would be required ere they would be competent to do his work anything like justice. The state of the Paris Opera at this time was indeed almost incredible. “Disorder, abuse, caprice, routine, inertia,” says Desnoiresterres, “were despotically enthroned there, without a protest from any one. If reform were urgent, so many persons were interested in the statu quo that there was scarcely any hope of obtaining from the administration, from this ignorant and prejudiced crowd, any improvement that was at all practical. In the midst of all the pomp and expenditure was a carelessness, an anarchy, a disorder past all belief. Actors and actresses pushed indecency to such a point as to appear outside the coulisses, the latter in white camisoles with a culotte d’argent and a band across the forehead; the former in a simple peignoir. It was not an infrequent sight, while the foreground was occupied by Jupiter or Theseus, to see, through the scenes, the dancers moving and fluttering about, they having actually chosen the background of the stage to practise their steps and make their jetés-battus.”[42] The choruses drew themselves up in a semi-circle, impassive, without a gesture, like grenadiers on guard, and evinced not the slightest interest either in the words they had to sing or in the action of the principal performers. The latter went to the opposite extreme. “One sees the actresses, almost in convulsions, violently tear the yelps out of their lungs, their fists clenched against their chest, the head thrown back, the face inflamed, the veins swollen, the stomach heaving; one does not know which is the more disagreeably affected, the eye or the ear; their exertion gives as much pain to those who see them as their singing does to those who hear them.”[43]

The orchestra, which in winter was in the habit of performing in gloves, is compared by Mercier, the author of Le Tableau de Paris, to “an old coach drawn by consumptive horses and led by one deaf from his birth,” and besides being careless and indifferent, was continually at variance with the singers on the question whether the latter should follow the musicians or the musicians follow them. Grétry relates the following conversation, which took place between Sophie Arnould and Francœur, the conductor of the orchestra, during a rehearsal of his own opera of Céphale et Procris, in 1773:

“What is the meaning of this, Monsieur? The orchestra seems in a state of rebellion?”

“What do you mean by rebellion, Mademoiselle? We are all here for the service of the King, and we serve him zealously.”

“I should like to serve him also, but your orchestra puts me out and spoils my singing.”

“Nevertheless, Mademoiselle, we play in time.”

“In time! Quelle bête est-ce là? Follow me, Monsieur, and understand that your accompaniment is the very humble servant of the actress who is reciting!”

As the Goncourts point out, under the apparent insolence of her claim, Sophie was here asserting the rights of the dramatic vocalist before the musical revolution, of which Gluck was the pioneer, when opera-singers were regarded merely as men and women reciting musical tragedy with intonations indicated by a musician. Until then they had enjoyed the most complete independence as to the manner of presenting their phrases. Until then they had been at liberty to hurry or slacken the time, to pause on or shorten any particular note, according to the inspiration of the moment, or even as they felt more or less fatigued, the orchestra following as best it could. “ ‘Quelle bête est-ce là?’ Sophie had but little doubt when she uttered these words that cette bête was on the eve of reducing her talent and reputation to nothing.”[44]

The pretension, however, was one which a composer, like Gluck, “who took the trouble to note not only the inflections of the voice, but also the long notes and the short ones, the accent and the time,” could not for one moment tolerate; and his insistence on its abandonment was the cause of endless wrangling at rehearsals, where the principal vocalists roundly declared that, if he refused them the liberty which had so long been theirs, their talent would become superfluous and they would be reduced to the level of mere chorus-singers.

These disputes were chiefly with the lady members of the troupe, though the male singers did not fail to occasion the composer an infinity of trouble. Legros, who had been cast for the part of Achilles, had an admirable voice, but his singing was totally lacking in expression, while his movements on the stage were stiff and awkward; and though Gluck laboured unceasingly to remedy these faults, it was some months ere he succeeded. Larrivée, to whom had been entrusted the rôle of Agamemnon, was even more difficult to deal with, being so obstinate and self-opinionated that to remonstrate with him seemed almost waste of breath. Once the composer was forced to tell him that he seemed to have no comprehension of his part, and to be unable to enter into the spirit of it. “Wait till I put on my costume,” answered the singer complacently; “you won’t recognise me then.” At the general rehearsal Gluck took his seat in a box. Larrivée reappeared, in the costume of Agamemnon, but his interpretation remained the same. “Ah, my friend!” cried the composer, “I recognise you perfectly!”[45] Finally, Gluck had to contend with the ballet, and, in particular, with its chief, the celebrated Gaetano Vestris—“le dieu de la danse”—who once observed that there were only three great men in Europe: Frederick II., Voltaire, and himself! Vestris naturally considered the dancing by far the most important feature of an opera, and, although there were already several ballets in Iphigénie, wanted yet another. Gluck angrily refused.

“Quoi!” stammered Vestris; “moi! le dieu de la danse!”

“If you are the God of Dancing, Monsieur,” replied the composer, “dance in heaven, not in my opera!”[46]

When, some months later, Orphée was being rehearsed, the ballet-master asked Gluck to write him the music of a chaconne. The latter, who had strongly objected to the introduction of any dancing whatever into Orphée, being of opinion that it would interfere with the seriousness and pathos of the general action, was horrified.

“A chaconne!” he cried. “Do you suppose, Monsieur, that the Greeks, whose manners I am endeavouring to depict, knew what a chaconne was?”

“Did they not?” rejoined the God of Dancing. “Then they are much to be pitied!”

In those days it was the custom to attend the rehearsals of a piece which happened to be arousing an unusual amount of interest, and the demand for admission to those of Iphigénie was so great that La Vrillière wrote to the directors of the Opera, ordering them to take special precautions to avoid any disturbance and to allow no one to enter without a ticket signed by themselves. The desire to be present is not difficult to understand, since to see Gluck at a rehearsal must have been a sight not easily forgotten. Throwing off his coat and replacing his wig by an old cotton night-cap, he would dart about the stage, imploring Mlle. Arnould to follow his music, M. Larrivée not to sing through his nose, M. Legros to endeavour to express something at least of the dignity and nobility which one was accustomed to associate with the great champion of the Greeks, and the chorus to endeavour to look and move a little less like automata. “Look you, Mademoiselle!” he would cry, purple with passion, when Sophie or some other actress proved more than usually contumacious, “I am here to make you perform Iphigénie. If you are willing to sing, nothing can be better. If you are not willing to do so, do not trouble. I will go and see Madame la Dauphine and tell her what you say. If it is impossible for me to get my opera produced, I shall order my travelling-carriage and take the road to Vienna.”

This indeed was no idle threat, and had it not been for the support accorded him by Marie Antoinette, there can be very little doubt that he would have shaken the dust of Paris off his feet. But, with the Dauphiness behind him, the malcontents, grumble as they might, had no option but to obey this terrible man, whom they devoutly wished at the bottom of the Seine.

The first performance was fixed for April 13, 1774, but almost at the last moment Legros announced that he was too ill to appear. Gluck immediately demanded the postponement of the opera. The management pointed out that the Royal Family were to be present, and that all arrangements had been made for their reception, and begged him to allow another singer to take the place of the absent tenor. The composer rejoined that, rather than see his work mutilated by an inferior rendering of so important a part, he would throw it into the fire; and the directors were compelled to give way.

The opera was eventually produced on April 19, amidst the most intense excitement. From eleven o’clock in the morning the box-offices were besieged by an immense concourse of people, and it was found necessary to double and treble the ordinary guard, to prevent disorder. The public interest was no doubt stimulated by rumours that the Anti-Gluckists were planning a hostile demonstration; and Marie Antoinette, in great alarm for the success of her protégé, sent orders to the Lieutenant of Police to take measures to nip any such attempt in the bud. The Dauphiness herself, accompanied by her obedient husband, the Comte and Comtesse de Provence, the Duchesses de Chartres and de Bourbon, and the Princesse de Lamballe, entered the theatre before the public was admitted, and was followed by most of the Ministers and practically the whole Court; indeed, but for the absence of Louis XV.—who scarcely ever visited Paris during the later years of his reign—and Madame du Barry, the spectators might have imagined themselves at Versailles or Fontainebleau.

The opera was very cordially received,[47] though, according to Grimm, parts pleased more than the ensemble. Both he and the Mémoires secrets are very severe upon the ballets, “the airs of which had been absolutely neglected”; while the latter declare that “the decorations were pitiable.” The second representation did not take place until three days later, when the crowd was even greater than on the first night, and a brisk and remunerative business was done by certain speculators, who had bought up the two-franc parterre tickets and retailed them at from three to seven times their value.[48] During the interval, certain improvements appear to have been made in the ballets, scenery, and accessories, for the opera was now “applauded to the skies, and, when the curtain fell, the calls for the author lasted for half an hour.”[49] The author, however, did not appear, being ill in bed, a fact which, considering all the worry and anxiety he had suffered during the past few weeks, will hardly occasion much surprise.

All the leading performers distinguished themselves, and Sophie covered herself with glory. “Mlle. Arnould,” says the Mercure, “charms as much as she astonishes us in the rôle of Iphigénie, by her dignified and sympathetic acting, by the animation and correctness of her singing, by an expression always true and delicate; by her voice itself, which seems in this opera to possess more variety, power, and extent.” Grimm, a far less partial observer, where Sophie is concerned, than the musical critic of the Mercure, is equally enthusiastic: “She renders the part of Iphigénie as it has perhaps never been rendered at the Comédie-Française, and she sings not only with all the charm that we have found in her for a long time past, but with an infinite precision, which is less common with her. It seems that the Chevalier Gluck has exactly divined the character and range of her voice and has assigned to it all the notes of her part.”[50]

Iphigénie grew in favour with each repetition and soon became quite the rage, as a proof of which may be mentioned the fact that the ladies began to wear a “headdress in the form of a coronet surmounted by the crescent of Diana, whence escaped a kind of veil that covered the back of the head; it was called à l’Iphigénie.”

Encouraged by the success which had attended Iphigénie, Gluck at once set to work to adapt Orfeo, the most successful of the operas he had produced in Italy, for the Paris stage. A good many alterations were necessary, as the title-part had originally been written for a contralto, the celebrated Guadagni, and it had now to be cast for Legros. That gentleman, whose head would appear to have been slightly turned by the applause he had received as Achilles, when handed his part, informed the composer that he should decline to sing it, unless he had an opportunity of making a brilliant exit in the first act; and this necessitated further alterations. However, the rest of the troupe were by this time far more amenable to reason than they had been during the rehearsals of Iphigénie, and by the end of July the opera was ready for production.

It was while Orphée was in preparation that an incident occurred which was not without its effect upon Sophie Arnould’s connection with the operas of Gluck. After her triumph in the part of Iphigénie, Sophie had, of course, been entrusted with that of Eurydice, and had persuaded the composer to hold some informal rehearsals in her apartment in the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs. Now, for some reason, the prima donna’s titular protector, the Prince d’Hénin, had conceived a strong antipathy to Gluck (Mr. Douglas supposes that he was displeased at the frequency of the composer’s visits to his mistress’s house, though, as jealousy was certainly not one of his failings, this seems to us hardly probable), and had on several occasions let fall very disparaging remarks about the German musician, which had in due course reached the latter’s ears. One day, in the midst of a rehearsal, the Prince d’Hénin was announced. All rose from their seats and bowed—all, that is to say, save Gluck, who settled himself more firmly in his chair and took not the slightest notice of the distinguished visitor.

“I was under the impression,” remarked the Prince, when he had recovered from his first astonishment, “that it is the custom in France to rise when any one enters the room, especially if it be a person of consideration.”

Gluck sprang from his seat, walked up to the speaker, and, looking him full in the face, replied: “It is the custom in Germany, Monsieur, to rise only for those whom one esteems.” Then, turning to Sophie, he added: “Since I perceive, Mademoiselle, that you are not mistress in your own house, I leave you and shall return no more.” With which he picked up his hat and stalked out.

Gluck wanted to challenge the prince to a duel, but, being assured that such a step would be useless, as the latter would certainly shelter himself behind his rank and refuse to fight with a musician, took counsel with his friend and admirer the Duc de Nivernais. That nobleman, whom Lord Chesterfield had once held up to his son as a model for him to form himself upon, was now in his sixty-eighth year, notwithstanding which he at once constituted himself the composer’s champion, and informed M. d’Hénin that he must either apologise to Gluck or fight him (the duke). In the meanwhile, the story had reached Marie Antoinette—now Queen—who sent a peremptory order to the prince to make reparation to her injured protégé, under pain of her displeasure. The latter, reflecting that even if he escaped the sword of the duke, who handled one as neatly as he composed verses, he would undoubtedly be exiled, had no choice but to obey, and, with a very bad grace, called upon Gluck and made the amende honorable.

Orphée et Eurydice was produced on August 2 and met with a success surpassing even that of Iphigénie. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said of Sophie. The friendly critic of the Mercure declares that “she acted and sang with much soul, intelligence, and correctness”; but the general opinion seems to have been that her display was decidedly inferior to that which she had given in the previous opera. This impression is, no doubt, partly to be accounted for by the fact that she was on this occasion somewhat overshadowed by Legros, who, Grimm tell us, “sang the principal rôle with so much fire, taste, and sentiment, that it was difficult to recognise him.” At the same time, it is evident that her voice was no longer equal to the strain of any very exacting part, especially if, as was now very frequently the case, she happened to be in indifferent health.

In the early days of January 1775, Iphigénie, in which Gluck had made several alterations, was revived and received with even more enthusiasm than on its first production. All the artistes resumed their old parts, and Sophie’s rendering of the heroine was again loudly applauded. She did not, however, enjoy her success for long, as, after a few performances, she resigned her part to Mlle. Laguerre, who in March fell ill and was, in her turn, replaced by Rosalie Levasseur.

Sophie’s health, at this time, would appear to have been far from satisfactory. Any way, she did not sing again for more than ten months, and thus took no part in Cythère assiégée, a light opera first produced in 1759, and now reconstructed by Gluck, at the request of Marie Antoinette. The libretto was by Favart, and the incongruity between his light and playful style and the solemn and pathetic music of the composer caused the piece to be very coldly received.

At the beginning of December, Sophie reappeared in the rôle of Adèle in Adèle de Ponthieu, a part which she had successfully created three years before, and might have repeated the triumph she had then secured, but for an unfortunate incident which occurred on the first night.

Louis XVI.’s younger brother, the Comte d’Artois (afterwards Charles X.)—a very different person in those days from the gloomy and Jesuit-ridden old monarch of 1830—attended the performance, and, from the shelter of his private box, proceeded, as was his wont, to ogle and make signs to the actresses upon the stage. Presently he cast “a benevolent glance” upon Mlle. Arnould, when that lady so far forgot the respect due to the visitor’s exalted rank as to smile familiarly in his direction, “exactly as she might have done to a comrade or a lover.” The audience, the chronicler tell us, was inexpressibly shocked at the lady’s behaviour, and “testified its indignation in a manner that was humiliating to her.”[51]

Meanwhile, Gluck was at work upon his Alceste, and Sophie had every reason to believe that, after her brilliant triumph in Iphigénie and her very successful rendering of the part of Eurydice, she would again be cast for the principal rôle. But alas! a bitter disappointment was in store for her.

We have mentioned that Rosalie Levasseur was the mistress of Mercy-Argenteau, the Austrian Ambassador at the French Court. Shrewd and capable though Mercy was in everything relating to his professional duties—the manner in which he had succeeded in keeping the peace, and all that it involved, between Marie Antoinette and Madame du Barry, during the last years of the late King’s reign was a perfect masterpiece of diplomacy—in love, he appears to have been as foolish as any of the gilded youths who haunted the coulisses of the Opera and the Comédie-Française. The fair Rosalie exercised the most absolute ascendency over him—a fact which was the more astonishing, as all Paris knew that she had an amant de cœur, in the person of Nicolet, the clown. Mercy, in fact, could deny her nothing, and even carried his infatuation so far as to purchase for her a barony of the Holy Roman Empire, with a considerable revenue; while, on another occasion, he condescended to bribe Larrivée, whose singing in a certain opera the young lady found was quite eclipsing her own, not to put forth his full powers.[52]

Now, Rosalie had set her heart upon supplanting Sophie and filling the principal part in the forthcoming opera, and called upon her lover to assist her to realise her ambition. First, she suggested—or persuaded Mercy to suggest—that Gluck should take up his quarters in her house, in the Rue des Fossoyeurs-Saint-Germain, and give her singing-lessons; a proposal to which the composer, who, besides being an Austrian subject, was under considerable obligations to the Ambassador, who, with Marie Antoinette, had been mainly instrumental in bringing him to Paris, readily consented. Next, she induced him to teach her the music of Alceste and took care to show herself a docile as well as an industrious pupil. Finally, she hinted pretty plainly that he ought to entrust her with the title-part when the opera was produced, pointing out that, though she might lack the histrionic ability of Mlle. Arnould, her voice was fresher and more powerful, to say nothing of the advantage which the composer would derive from having the part rendered exactly as he desired, whereas the elder actress would very probably insist on rendering it in conformity with her own ideas.

These arguments were, it is needless to say, warmly seconded by Mercy; and Gluck, who was anxious to please the amorous diplomatist, and in whose mind the insult he had received from Sophie’s titular protector perhaps still rankled, after some hesitation, yielded to their wishes.

“Gluck,” says the composer’s French biographer, Desnoiresterres, “was wanting in gratitude towards Mlle. Arnould, so charming, so passionate in Iphigénie, so pathetic still, though somewhat eclipsed by Legros, in Orphée.” At the same time, he points out that Gluck would never have superseded Sophie had he thought that the change would prejudice his work, and that the event proved that he had not over-estimated the talents of Rosalie Levasseur, who, in the part of Alceste, “displayed much art and sensibility.”[53]

Poor Sophie seems to have borne her disappointment, notwithstanding that she could hardly have failed to see in it the end of her own dramatic career, with praiseworthy equanimity, merely observing when she heard the news: “Rosalie ought certainly to have the part; she has the voice of the people.” This remark was duly repeated to her triumphant rival, who retaliated by a disgusting lampoon, composed by one of her admirers named Guichard, copies of which were printed and circulated in the theatre, while others were sent to Sophie’s friends. The injured lady, however, was equal to the occasion; she sent certain copies which had fallen into her hands to the journals, and turned the tables very adroitly on Mlle. Levasseur and her ally, all decent-minded persons combining to condemn such methods of warfare.

Although the dethroned prima donna wisely refrained from giving public expression to her feelings, others were not prepared to imitate her discretion. The Prince d’Hénin, who could be very bold indeed when there was no likelihood of his being called upon to fight a duel, having heard that there was some talk of giving Sophie’s dressing-room at the Opera to Rosalie Levasseur, went down to the theatre and threatened to flog the unfortunate directors within an inch of their lives, if they dared to inflict such a slight upon a lady whom he honoured with his protection; the few critics who still remained faithful to the waning star condemned in unmeasured terms the selection of Mlle. Levasseur for so important a rôle in place of an actress “who had so long been, and still was, the delight of the Opera”; while the Anti-Gluckists, only too delighted to find so stout a stick wherewith to belabour the composer, raised a perfect howl of indignation.

SOPHIE ARNOULD From an engraving by Prud’hon after the drawing by Cœuré in the Collection of M. Godfrey Meyer

The result of all this was most unfortunate for Sophie. The contest between the Gluckists and their opponents had now reached a very acute stage, and it was the general belief of the composer’s admirers that the partisans of the old school were prepared to employ the most questionable methods in order to counteract the ever-increasing popularity of the German. A rumour spread that a cabal had been formed to ensure the failure of Alceste, and that Sophie and her friends had joined it. There seems to have been little truth in this report, the best refutation of it being the fact that, although Alceste was somewhat coldly received at first, its success grew with each performance, and none at all, so far as it concerned Sophie, who, in a letter to a theatrical journal, Le Nouveau Spectateur, in acknowledgment of some sympathetic references to herself which had appeared in a previous issue, expressly disclaimed all hostility to Gluck or Rosalie Levasseur: