Le Grand OpÉra.—Its enormous Expense.—Its Fashion.—Its acknowledged Dulness.—'La Juive'.—Its heavy Music.—Its exceeding Splendour.—Beautiful management of the Scenery.—National Music.

Can I better keep the promise I gave you yesterday than by writing you a letter of and concerning le grand opÉra? Is there anything in the world so perfectly French as this? Something like their pretty opÉra comique may exist elsewhere; we have our comic opera, and Italy has her buffa; the opÉra Italien, too, may be rather more than rivalled at the Haymarket: but where out of Paris are we to look for anything like the AcadÉmie Royale de Musique? ... le grand opÉra? ... l'opÉra par excellence?—I may safely answer, nowhere.

It is an institution of which the expenses are so enormous, that though it is more constantly and fully attended perhaps than any other theatre in the world, it could not be sustained without the aid of funds supplied by the government. The extraordinary partiality for this theatre seems to have existed among the higher classes, without any intermission from change of fashion, occasional inferiority of the performances, or any other cause, from the time of Louis Quatorze to the present. That immortal monarch, whose whim was power, and whose word was law, granted a patent privilege to this establishment in favour of the musical AbbÉ Perrin, but speedily revoked it, to bestow one more ample still on Lulli. In this latter act, it is ordained that "tous gentilshommes et demoiselles puissent chanter aux dites piÈces et reprÉsentations de notre dite AcadÉmie Royale sans que pour Ça ils soient censÉs dÉroger au dit titre de noblesse et À leurs privilÉges."

This was a droll device to exalt this pet plaything of the fashionable world above all others. Voltaire fell into the mode like the rest of the fine folks, and thus expressed his sensibility to its attractions:—

But the most incomprehensible part of the business is, that with all this enthusiasm, which certainly rather goes on increasing than diminishing, every one declares that he is ennuyÉ À la mort at le grand opÉra.

I do not mean that their being ennuyÉs is incomprehensible—Heaven knows that I understand that perfectly: but why, when this is avowed, they should continue to persecute themselves by going there two or three times in every week, I cannot comprehend.

If attendance at the opera were here, as it is with us, a sort of criterion of the love of music and other fine arts, it would be much less difficult to understand: but this is far from being the case, as both the Italian and the comic operas have more perfect orchestras. The style and manner of singing, too, are what no genuine lover of music could ever be brought to tolerate. When the remembrance of a German or Italian opera comes across one while listening to the dry, heavy recitative of the Academy, it produces a feeling of impatience difficult to conceive by those who have never experienced it.

If, however, instead of being taken in by the name of opera, and expecting the musical treat which that name seems to promise, we go to this magnificent theatre for the purpose of seeing the most superb and the best-fancied decorations in the world, we shall at least not be disappointed, though before the end of the entertainment we may probably become heartily weary of gazing at and admiring the dazzling pageant. I told you just now what Voltaire said of the opera, either when he was particularly enchanted by some reigning star—the adorable Sophie Arnould perhaps—or else when he chose to be particularly À-la-mode: but he seems more soberly in earnest, I think, when he says afterwards, "L'opÉra n'est qu'un rendezvous publique, oÙ l'on s'assemble À certains jours, sans trop savoir pourquoi: c'est une maison oÙ tout le monde va, quoiqu'on pense mal du maÎtre, et qu'il soit assez ennuyeux."

That little phrase, "oÙ tout le monde va," contains, I suspect after all, the only true solution of the mystery. "Man is a gregarious animal," say the philosophers; and it is therefore only in conformity to this well-known law of his nature that hes and shes flock by thousands to be pent up together, in defiance of most triste musique and a stifling atmosphere, within the walls of this beautiful puppet-show.

That it is beautiful, I am at this moment particularly willing to avouch, as we have just been regaling ourselves, or rather our eyes, with as gorgeous a spectacle there as it ever entered into the heart of a carpenter to Étaler on the stage of a theatre. This splendid show is known by the name of "La Juive;" but it should rather have been called "Le Cardinal," for a personage of no less dignity is decidedly its hero. M. HalÉvy is the composer, and M. Scribe the author of the "paroles."

M. Scribe stands so high as a dramatic composer, that I suppose he may sport a little with his fame without running much risk of doing it an injury: but as the AcadÉmie Royale has the right of drawing upon the Treasury for its necessities, it is to be hoped that the author of "Bertrand et Raton" is well paid for lending his name to the pegs on which ermine and velvet, feathers and flowers, cardinals' hats and emperors' mantles, are hung up to view for the amusement of all who may be curious in such matters. I suspect, however, that the composition of this piece did not cost the poet many sleepless nights: perhaps he remembered that excellent axiom of the Barbier de Seville,—"Ce qui ne vaut pas la peine d'Être dit, on le chante;" and under this sentence I think such verses as the following, which strongly remind one of the famous Lilliputian ode in the Bath Guide, may fairly enough be condemned to music.

Unhappily, however, the music is at least as worthless as the rhymes. There is one passage, nevertheless, that is singularly impressive and beautiful. This is the chorus at the opening of the second act, where a party of Jews assembled to eat the passover chant a grace in these words:—

This is very fine, but perhaps it approaches rather too closely to the "Dieu d'IsraËl" in MÉhul's opera of "Joseph" to be greatly vaunted on the score of originality.

Yet, with all these "points of 'vantage" at which it may be hostilely attacked, "La Juive" draws thousands to gaze at its splendour every time it is performed. Twice we attempted to get in without having secured places, and were told on both occasions that there was not even standing-room for gentlemen.

Among its attractions are two which are alike new to me as belonging to an opera: one is the performance of the "Te Deum laudamus," and the other the entrance of Franconi's troop of horse.

But, after all, it was clear enough that, whatever may have been the original object of this institution, with its nursery academies of music and dancing, its royal patronage and legalised extravagance, its present glory rests almost wholly on the talents of the Taglioni family, and with the sundry MM. dÉcorateurs who have imagined and arranged the getting up this extraordinary specimen of scenic magnificence, as well as the many others of the same kind which have preceded it.

I have seen many very fine shows of the kind in London, but certainly never anything that could at all be compared with this. Individual scenes—as, for instance, that of the masqued ball in "Gustavus"—may equal, by the effect of the first coup-d'oeil, any scene in "La Juive"; but it is the extraordinary propriety and perfection of all the accessaries which make this part of the performance worthy of a critical study from the beginning to the end of it. I remember reading in some history of Paris, that it was the fashion to be so prÉcieuse as to the correctness of the costumes of the French opera, that the manager could not venture to bring out "Les Trois Sultanes" without sending to Constantinople to obtain the dresses. A very considerable portion of the same spirit has evidently been at work to render the appearance of a large detachment of the court of Rome and the whole court of the Emperor Sigismund comme il faut upon the scene.

But, with all a woman's weakness at my heart in favour of velvet, satin, gold tissue, and ermine, I cannot but confess that these things, important as they are, appear but secondary aids in the magical scenic effects of "La Juive." The arrangement and management of the scenery were to me perfectly new. The coulisses have vanished, side scenes are no more,—and, what is more important still, these admirable mechanists have found the way of throwing across the stage those accidental masses of shadow by aid of which Nature produces her most brilliant effects; so that, instead of the aching eyes having to gaze upon a blaze of reflected light, relieved only by an occasional dip of the foot-lights and a sudden paling of gas in order to enact night, they are now enchanted and beguiled by exactly such a mixture of light and shade as an able painter would give to a picture.

How this is effected, Heaven knows! There are, I am very sure, more things at present above, about, and underneath the opera stage, than are dreamed of in any philosophy, excepting that of a Parisian carpenter. In the first scene of the "Juive," a very noble-looking church rears its sombre front exactly in the centre of the stage, throwing as fine, rich, deep a shadow on one side of it as Notre Dame herself could do. In another scene, half the stage appears to be sunk below the level of the eye, and is totally lost sight of, a low parapet wall marking the boundary of the seeming river.

Our box was excellently situated, and by no means distant from the stage; yet we often found it impossible to determine at what point, in different directions, the boards ended and the scenery began. The arrangement of the groups too, not merely in combinations of grace and beauty, but in such bold, easy, and picturesque variety, that one might fancy Murillo had made the sketches for them, was another source of wonder and admiration; and had all these pretty sights been shown us in the course of two acts instead of five, I am sure we should have gone home quite delighted and in the highest possible good-humour. But five acts of raree-show is too much; and accordingly we yawned, and talked of GrÉtry, MÉhul, Nicolo, and I know not whom beside;—in short, became as splenetic and pedantic as possible.

We indulged ourselves occasionally in this unamiable mood by communicating our feelings to each other, in a whisper however which could not go beyond our own box, and with the less restraint because we felt sure that the one stranger gentleman who shared it with us could not understand our language. But herein we egregiously deceived ourselves: though in appearance he was FranÇais jusqu'aux ongles, we soon found out that he could speak English as well as any of us; and, with much real politeness, he had the good-nature to let us know this before we had uttered anything too profoundly John Bullish to be forgiven.

Fortunately, too, it appeared that our judgments accorded as well as if we had all been born in the same parish. He lamented the decadence of music in this, which ought to be its especial theatre; but spoke with enthusiasm of the ThÉÂtre Italien, and its great superiority in science over every other in Paris. This theatre, to my great vexation, is now closed; but I well remember that such too was my judgment of it some seven years ago.

The English and the French are generally classed together as having neither one nor the other any really national music of their own. We have both of us, however, some sweet and perfectly original airs, which will endure as long as the modulations of sound are permitted to enchant our mortal ears. Nevertheless, I am not going to appeal against a sentence too often repeated not to be universally received as truth. But, notwithstanding this absence of any distinct school of national music, it is impossible to doubt that the people of both countries are fondly attached to the science. More sacrifices are made by both to obtain good music than the happy German and Italian people would ever dream of making. Nor would it, I think, be fair to argue, from the present style of the performances at the AcadÉmie, that the love of music is on the decline here. The unbounded expense bestowed upon decorations, and the pomp and splendour of effect which results from it, are quite enough to attract and dazzle the eyes of a more "thinking people" than the Parisians; and the unprecedented perfection to which the mechanists have brought the delusion of still-life seems to permit a relaxation in the efforts of the manager to obtain attraction from other sources.

But this will not last. The French people really love music, and will have it. It is more than probable that the musical branch of this academic establishment will soon revive; and if in doing so it preserve its present superiority of decoration, it will again become an amusement of unrivalled attraction.

I believe the French themselves generally consider us as having less claim to the reputation of musical amateurship than themselves; but, with much respect for their judgment on such subjects, I differ from them wholly in this. When has France ever shown, either in her capital or out of it, such a glorious burst of musical enthusiasm as produced the festivals of Westminster Abbey and of York?

It was not for the sake of encouraging an English school of music, certainly, that these extraordinary efforts were made. They were not native strains which rang along the vaulted roofs; but it was English taste, and English feeling, which recently, as well as in days of yore, conceived and executed a scheme of harmony more perfect and sublime than I can remember to have heard of elsewhere.

I doubt, too, if in any country a musical institution can be pointed out in purer taste than that of our ancient music concert. The style and manner of this are wholly national, though the compositions performed there are but partially so; and I think no one who truly and deeply loves the science but must feel that there is a character in it which, considering the estimation in which it has for so many years been held, may fairly redeem the whole nation from any deficiency in musical taste.

There is one branch of the "gay science," if I may so call it, which I always expect to find in France, but respecting which I have hitherto been always disappointed: this is in the humble class of itinerant musicians. In Germany they abound; and it not seldom happens that their strains arrest the feet and enchant the ear of the most fastidious. But whenever, in France, I have encountered an ambulant troubadour, I confess I have felt no inclination to linger on my way to listen to him. I do not, however, mean to claim much honour for ourselves on the score of our travelling minstrels. If we fail to pause in listening to those of France, we seldom fail to run whenever our ears are overtaken by our own. Yet still we give strong proof of our love of music, in the more than ordinary strains which may be occasionally heard before every coffee-house in London, when the noise and racket of the morning has given place to the hours of enjoyment. I have heard that the bands of wind instruments which nightly parade through the streets of London receive donations which, taken on an average throughout the year, would be sufficient to support a theatre. This can only proceed from a genuine propensity to being "moved by concord of sweet sounds;" for no fashion, as is the case at our costly operas, leads to it. On the contrary, it is most decidedly mauvais ton to be caught listening to this unexclusive harmony; yet it is encouraged in a degree that clearly indicates the popular feeling.

Have I then proved to your satisfaction, as completely as I undoubtedly have to my own, that if without a national music, at least we are not without a national taste for it?