LETTER XVII.

Paris.

Considering the natural gaiety and volatility of the French nation, I have often been surprised at their fondness for tragedy, especially as their tragedies are barren of incident, full of long dialogues, and declamatory speeches;—and modelled according to the strictest code of critical legislation.

The most sprightly and fashionable people of both sexes flock to these entertainments in preference to all others, and listen with unrelaxed gravity and attention. One would imagine that such a serious, correct and uniform amusement, would be more congenial with the phlegm, and saturnine dispositions of the English, than with the gay, volatile temper of the French.

An English audience loves show, bustle and incident, in their tragedies; and have a mortal aversion to long dialogues and speeches, however fine the sentiments, and however beautiful the language may be.

In this it would seem, that the two nations had changed characters. Perhaps it would be difficult to account for it in a satisfactory manner. I shall not attempt it. A Frenchman would cut the matter short, by saying, that the Paris audience has a more correct and just taste than that of London; that the one could be amused and delighted with poetry and sentiment, while the other could not be kept awake without bustle, guards, processions, trumpets, fighting, and murder.

For my own part, I admire the French Melpomene more in the closet than on the stage. I cannot be reconciled to the French actors of tragedy. Their pompous manner of declaiming seems to me very unnatural. The strut, and superb gestures, and what they call la manière noble, of their boasted Le Kain, appear, in my eyes, a little outrè.

The justness, the dignified simplicity, the energy of Garrick’s action, have destroyed my relish for any manner different from his. That exquisite, but concealed art, that magic power, by which he could melt, freeze, terrify the soul, and command the obedient passions as he pleased, we look for in vain, upon our own, or any other stage.

What Horace said of Nature, may be applied with equal justice to that unrivalled actor:

——Juvat, aut impellit ad iram,

Aut ad humum mœrore gravi deducit, et angit.

One of the most difficult things in acting is the player’s concealing himself behind the character he assumes: The instant the spectator gets a peep of him, the whole illusion vanishes, and the pleasure is succeeded by disgust. In Oedipus, Mahomet, and Orosmane, I have always detected Le Kain; but I have seen the English Roscius represent Hamlet, Lear, Richard, without recollecting that there was such a person as David Garrick in the world.

The French tragedians are apt in my opinion to overstep the modesty of nature. Nature is not the criterion by which their merit is to be tried.—The audience measures them by a more sublime standard, and if they come not up to that, they cannot pass muster.

Natural action, and a natural elocution, they seem to think incompatible with dignity, and imagine that the hero must announce the greatness of his soul by supercilious looks, haughty gestures, and a hollow sounding voice. Such easy familiar dialogue as Hamlet holds with his old school-fellow Horatio, appears to them low, vulgar, and inconsistent with the dignity of tragedy.

But if simplicity of manners be not inconsistent in real life, with genius, and the most exalted greatness of mind, I do not see why the actor who represents a hero, should assume gestures which we have no reason to think were ever in use in any age, or among any rank of men.

Simplicity of manners, however, is so far from being inconsistent with magnanimity, that the one for the most part accompanies the other. The French have some reason to lean to this opinion; for two of the greatest men their nation ever produced were remarkable for the simplicity of their manners. Henry IV. and Maréchal Turenne were distinguished by that, as well as by their magnanimity and other heroic virtues.

How infinitely superior in real greatness and intrinsic merit, were those men to the strutting ostentatious Lewis, who was always affecting a greatness he never possessed,—till misfortune humbled his mind to the standard of humanity? Then indeed, throwing away his pageantry and bluster, he assumed true dignity, and for the first time obtained the admiration of the judicious. In the correspondence with de Torcy, Lewis’s letters, which it is now certain were written and composed by himself, prove this, and display a soundness of judgement and real greatness of mind which seldom appeared in the meridian of what they call his glory.

What Lewis was (in the height of his prosperity) to Henry in the essential qualities of a King and Hero, such is Le Kain to Garrick as an actor.

The French stage can boast at present of more than one actress who may dispute the laurel of tragedy with Mrs. Yates, or Mrs. Barry.

In comedy, the French actors excel, and can produce at all times a greater number far above mediocrity, than are to be found on the English stage.

The national character and manners of the French give them perhaps advantages in this line; and besides, they have more numerous resources to supply them with actors of every kind. In all the large trading and manufacturing towns, of which there are a great number in France, there are playhouses established. The same thing takes place in most of the frontier towns, and wherever there is a garrison of two or three regiments.

There are companies of French comedians also at the northern courts, in all the large towns of Germany, and at some of the courts of Italy. All of these are academies which educate actors for the Paris stage.

In genteel comedy particularly, I imagine the French actors excel ours. They have in general more the appearance of people of fashion.

There is not such a difference between the manners and behaviour of the people of the first rank, and those of the middle and lower ranks, in France as in England. Players therefore, who wish to catch the manners of people of high rank and fashion, do not undertake so great a task in the one country as in the other.

You very seldom meet with an English servant who could pass for a man of quality or fashion; and accordingly very few people who have been in that situation ever appear on the English stage: But there are many valets de place in Paris so very polite, so completely possessed of all the little etiquettes, fashionable phrases, and usual airs of the beau monde, that if they were set off by the ornaments of dress and equipage, they would pass in many of the courts of Europe for men of fashion, très polis,—bien aimables,—tout-à-fait comme il faut, et avec infiniment d’esprit; and could be detected only at the court of France, or by such foreigners as have had opportunities of observing, and penetration to distinguish, the genuine ease, and natural politeness, which prevail among the people of rank in this country.

In the character of a lively, petulant, genteel petit-maître of fashion, Mollé excels any actor in London.

The superiority of the French in genteel comedy is still more evident with regard to the actresses. Very few English actresses have appeared equal to the parts of Lady Betty Modish, in The Careless Husband, or of Millamant, in The Way of the World. Gross absurdity, extravagant folly and affectation are easily imitated; but the elegant coquetry, the lively, playful, agreeable affectation of these two finely imagined characters, require greater powers. I imagine, however, from the execution I have observed in similar parts, that there are several actresses on the French stage at present who could do them ample justice. Except Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Abington, I know no actress in England who could give an adequate idea of all that Congreve meant in Millamant.

It is remarkable, that the latter also excels in a character the most perfectly opposite to this, that of an ill taught, aukward, country girl. Perhaps there is no such young lady in France as Congreve’s Miss Prue: but if there were many such originals, no actress in that kingdom could give a copy more exquisite than Mrs. Abington’s.

In low comedy the French are delightful. I can form no notion of any thing superior to Preville in many of his parts.

The little French operas which are given at the Comedie Italienne are executed in a much more agreeable manner than any thing of the same kind at London. Their ballettes also are more beautiful:—There is a gentillesse and legèreté in their manner of representing these little fanciful pieces, which make our singers and dancers appear somewhat aukward and clumsy in the companion.

As for the Italian pieces, they are now performed only thrice a week, and the French seem to have lost in a great measure their relish for them. Carlin, the celebrated Harlequin, is the only support of these pieces. You are acquainted with the wonderful naïveté and comic powers of this man, which make us forget the extravagance of the Italian drama, and which can create objects of unbounded mirth, from a chaos of the most incoherent and absurd materials.

An advantageous figure, a graceful manner, a good voice, a strong memory, an accurate judgment, are all required in a player: Sensibility, and the power of expressing the emotions of the heart by the voice and features, are indispensable. It seems therefore unreasonable, not to consider that profession as creditable, in which we expect so many qualities united; while many others are thought respectable, in which we daily see people arrive at eminence without common sense.

This prejudice is still stronger in France than in England. In a company where Mons. le Kain was, mention happened to be made, that the King of France had just granted a pension to a certain superannuated actor. An officer present, fixing his eyes on Le Kain, expressed his indignation at so much being bestowed on a rascally player, while he himself had got nothing. Eh, Monsieur! retorted the actor, comptez-vous pour rien la liberté de me parler ainsi?