Other more important problems were already troubling the managers, foremost among them the 'right of the poor*, which from 1800 to 1807 was to deprive them of an average of 400,000 francs a year, and above all, in the big theatres, the number of free tickets they were obliged to grant. It was useless for Bonaparte to insist that all seats must be paid for, that 'nobody had the right to gratuitous enjoyment of an entertainment that the contractor sold to all and sundry"; useless for him to practise what he preached and pay 20,000 francs yearly for his box at the Opera, 12,000 francs for that at the Opera-Comique, and the same for one at the Italiens; the majority of civil servants set so much store by their precious entree that they pretended not to understand. And when one evening a scrutiny was made at the Opera, it was found that out of 150 orchestra stalls only twenty were paid for, twenty-six out of 150 in the amphitheatres, and of the 200 occupants of the fourth row at the sides not one had a paid a red cent. How could they make ends meet under such conditions?
Taking a look behind the scenes, we shall find the poor managers having difficulties, too, with the members, male and female, of their companies. Elleviou's annual salary, towards the end of his career, amounted to 84,000 francs, and he was demanding 120,000. The Emperor had at last to put his foot down, deciding that the king of singers had begun to practise blackmail.
Even more frequent were the dramatic interludes, such as the refusal to play a certain part, diplomatic attacks of influenza and departures at a moment's notice that upset the whole show. When Mile George started out in haste for Amiens, under the pretext that her father was at death's door, it was really because a series of lucrative engagements were awaiting her there. Talma and Mile Duchesnois too were for ever asking for leave, and the papers deplored 'the scandalous disappearance of most of our leading actors and actresses who, never satisfied with their share, run off to the country to seek a supplement of fame and money'. As for Mile
Contains tours, someone was heard to say that 'the Theatre-FranQais will soon be no more than a pied a-terre for our wandering Thalia, where she can take a rest now and again/
Criticisms that might have been uttered yesterday, since they apply to behaviour which, unfortunately, belongs to all time.
However, as the Empire prided itself on being a forceful regime, it sometimes had recourse to strong measures for the suppression of too flagrant abuses. A comedian refusing to act, a singer masking his ill humour under a pretended attack of laryngitis, a danseuse leaving everybody in. the lurch, all such unruly creatures ran the risk of penalties far more severe than being fined and held up to shame. They were made to spend a few days at the Fort FEv£que, like political prisoners.
Such was the fate of Brunet for having perpetrated a bad pun on the Tribunate, of Roland the actor and his colleague Julien, for refusing to act, and of Martin, the famous baritone, as a cure for an imaginary cold.
Pretty women themselves were not safe from this military discipline. In a police report of June 23, 1810 we read that 'Yesterday, Friday, Mile Chevigny did not appear at the Opera, where she was to have played an important part in the ballet Andromaque. It was ascertained that Mile Chevigny was at her country house with a young man aged twenty-four, a little-known individual/
If it had been a Councillor of State, or even some brilliant member of the audience ... But a young man of twenty-four, and little known at that! What were the danseuses thinking of?
But the most capricious element, the most difficult to control, was actually the audience. In the days of the Empire, as we have said, the public was passionately fond of the theatre, and proved it by its regular attendance. A young writer who complained bitterly of his lack of money - 'the fault of an inhuman father-' and whose name was Henri Beyle, contrived to go to the theatre almost every evening. It was a great sacrifice for him, for a seat in the pit at the Fran§ais cost forty-four sous. Having treated himself to the upper circle for a performance of Nicomede on the 1st Germinal, year XIII, he reflected bitterly that for another four francs eight sous he could have had a seat in the orchestra, "near the woman he loved*. And he tells us at the same time that a seat in the dress circle at the Comedie cost about seven francs. No wonder the pit proved more attractive to young people.
The pit had always been the province of a sympathetic, but often noisy, audience. They no longer came, as at the time of the Revolution, pipe in mouth and wearing fox-skin caps. On the contrary, they were great sticklers for the proprieties, and when any of the audience transgressed them, by neglecting, for instance, to leave the front seats in the boxes to the women, or by appearing in shirt-sleeves, as two Englishmen who had dined too well did one evening, they treated them to a volley of whistling, to force the former to change their places and the latter to change their rig.
But the din in the pit usually had some other cause; the malcontents were nearly always demonstrating against the play or against some member of the company.
One of their pet aversions was the claque. They detested these 'market porters', as they called them, who applauded at every turn, by order of the management or because some actress had given them copious bribes. In many houses, especially at the Comedie, their regular gang was reinforced by some dozens of choirboys armed with sticks. To leave themselves freedom of action, 'they lay their hats beside them, put their cudgels between their knees, and go at it with hands and feet till the exasperated audience forces them to stop/
Any number of other incidents might set the house in an uproar: a maladroit announcement, a change in casting, a well-known artist understudied by a duffer, all these aroused indignant protest, only moderated in the case of force majeure. When Dazaincourt got a friend to say that he 'had a violent fit of colic", or when a young actress made her hopes of maternity her excuse for non-appearance, the pill, so to speak, was swallowed without too much difficulty, but in most other cases less consideration was shown. Once past the box-office, the audience demanded that the performance should keep the promise of the bill. If in the absence of Mile Mezerai the management tried to substitute L'Ecole des Maris for Le Seducteur amoureux, or for some other reason, Tancrede for Mithridate-woxse still, if the part of Amenaide was played neither by Mile George nor Mile Duchesnois, but by their understudy. Mile Gros-a storm would at once break out.
The rivalry between the two great tragic actresses who had disappointed them that evening gave the 'brawlers' many occasions to renew their exploits. The battle of the ladies was carried on in all seriousness, with the ovations and whistlings of their respective partisans, fainting fits during the performance, irruption of armed forces in the house and, following the imprecations of Clytemnestre, that of a half-crazy police superintendent, shouting from the balcony as though he were in the encampment at Boulogne, 'Arrest the brigands! Down with the English!'
A foolish theatrical quarrel, pitting against each other two women of talent who had each her enthusiastic admirers. Would these not have done better to adopt the opportunist advice given them by a manufacturer of doggerel verse:
Between two new actressess
The wits are divided;
But those that have ranged themselves
Under neither of their flags
Will prefer, incontestably,
With all respect to Melpomene,
To hear one on the stage
And keep the other in bed.
A game that was not without cruelty was much in favour, a few years ago, on the popular stages of the Third Republic. Modest amateurs of both sexes were invited to come and try their voices, the audience to play the part of jury. Tempted by a few prizes, the grand tenors of the house-painting trade and the nightingales among the dressmakers ventured to sing the Chanson des bles dor, or the Priere de la Tosca. But at the first false note a growl went round the audience, a gong was sounded, and the next victim was called upon. This was called the Crochet.