The People's Theater/Part I, Chapter VII

by Romain Rolland

 

CHAPTER VII

THE TRENTE ANS DE THÉÂTRE AND POPULAR GALAS

The Œuvre des Trente ans de Théâtre claim to have erected such a cathedral, overnight, out of the chaotic ruins of the past.

In this movement we must distinguish the charitable from the purely artistic aims. "It was originally founded to supply emergency funds not only to needy authors and actors, both of whom have their own societies, but to anyone connected with the theater: authors, actors, critics, mechanics, scene-painters, and the like, any one of whom, after thirty years' work and struggle, might apply for assistance. Likewise those incapacitated for work by a death in the family, or illness."^[1] Nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it is only surprising that the Parisians were so slow in offering assistance to those who had amused them for a lifetime. M. Adrien Bernheim deserves great credit for having instituted such a movement and devoted all his energies to make it a success. The man who does things, even though he be mistaken, is always better than he who only talks, no matter how well he does it.

I am not considering the charitable aspect, however, but the artistic, for the promoters of the Œuvre pretend to have founded a true People's Theater.

L’Œuvre des Trente ans de Théâtre, the organizers of which first met on December 30, 1901, made its bow in May, 1902, with five performances: at the Théâtre de Montparnasse, the Théâtre de Grenelle, the Théâtre des Gobelins, the Théâtre de Saint-Denis, and the Concert Européen in the Rue Riot. These performances consisted of selections from miscellaneous works, classic and romantic plays, operettas, vocal music, and dancing. Among the performers were Mlles. Moreno, Fugère, the Mante Sisters, Paulette, Darty, and Polin, not to mention the lecturers, without whom no fashionable function is complete! Then, in October, 1902, began the series of classic performances, with actors from the State theaters, the Comédie-Française in particular. During the first season, from October to June, there were twenty-five Popular Galas. Horace was given in the Salle Wagram, Andromaque and Tartuffe at Ba-ta-clan, Le Misanthrope in Bellevile at the Bouffes-du-Nord, the Théâtre Marguéra, and the Théâtre Trianon; Le Malade imaginaire at the Salle Huyghens; L'Arlésienne at the Salle Humbert de Romans, etc., etc. Dancing, fragments from operas, and the inevitable addresses, were likewise a part of all these programs.^[2] And the names of all living composers and authors were systematically omitted in making up programs. M. Larroumet, the self-made godfather of the movement, says: "The great repertory went to the people, into their own neighborhoods, and in their own theaters."

But let us see how this worked out. We have already considered the "popular" performances of Andromaque and Tartuffe. Let me take the twentieth Popular Gala as a typical example. This took place Thursday, April 2, 1903.

The following prices were asked for seats:

Orchestra ....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Fr. 3.00

Balcony ....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

2.50

First gallery ....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

2.00

Remaining seats ....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

1.00

This tariff is not excessive, but I must call your attention to the fact that at that time the cheapest seats at the Théâtre-Français (usual rates) were one franc, and at the Odéon fifty centimes. This is the ordinary tariff. If, however, we turn to the reduced tariff at the Odéon, we shall find it lower than that at the Trente ans, orchestra seats costing only Fr. 2.50, the second and third rows of the balcony Fr. 2.00, the gallery and the remaining seats from Fr. 1.50 down to fifty centimes.

According to the diagram of the Théâtre Trianon, there are about 350 seats at Fr. 3.00, 180 at Fr. 2.50, 190 at Fr. 2.00, and 100 at Fr. 1.00. Altogether about 530 seats averaging over Fr. 2.00 each, and 100 averaging less. I do not think these very popular prices. And think of the difference in the seats! This inequality invariably arouses ill-feeling in an audience of workingmen, for they demand that all seats be equally good.

And to this tariff we must add from ten to twenty-five centimes per person for check-room fees, which might well amount to more than a franc for a family of three. There is also the ouvreuse—the woman-usher—who must needs extract her small profit. If all this is popular, I am indeed delighted, for it proves that the people are well-off.

But, as a matter of fact, the audience at the Théâtre Trianon was not composed of the people, but of the Bourgeoisie, whose fashionable clothes might well arouse envy in the breasts of an Odéon audience. It may be urged, however, that it is hard to distinguish a Parisian workingman from a bourgeois simply by his clothes. That may be true, but I can scarcely believe that any workingman would, after his day's labor, put on a frock coat and silk hat to go to the theater. It was the Bourgeoisie, in its well-known uniform, which filled the theater from orchestra to gallery. By the way, it was significant that the Fr. 2.50 and Fr. 3.00 seats were filled and the Fr. 1.00 seats practically empty.

Ladies and gentlemen were seen gazing at one another through their opera-glasses while waiting for the curtain to rise. Of course, it rose late. The eternal address began at nine, and the play at half-past. There were two long waits, and the curtain finally fell at a quarter to twelve. Nothing could be better calculated to fit in with the workingman's hours!

After the address by the gentleman in black and the usual compliments to Cardinal Richelieu and the Company—I mean M. Adrien Bernheim and the Œuvre—actors from the Comédie-Française performed Le Misanthrope. The announcement of this play had a particular attraction for me. Le Misanthrope is, so to speak, Molière's Wild Duck, the poet's pessimistic and ironic work, in which the great man, after satirizing others, turns his shafts against himself. I was curious to observe the effect on the people—and lo, there were no people! Instead, the local aristocracy. They were very attentive and appeared intelligent and interested, but they evinced precious little pleasure. I felt that the audience was watching itself and not demonstrating its true feelings: they seemed to me like well-bred but humble hosts entertaining guests far above them in rank and name. They were appreciative and felt flattered, taking good care not to show their boredom, applauding where applause seemed called for—after their guests had spoken. But we need proceed no further with our inquiry. M. Larochelle junior, a director of one of the outlying theaters, once said to M. Bernheim: "Molière and Racine will never succeed in these neighborhoods unless they are played by the Comédie-Française—and even then, not too frequently. Take my word for it. Be careful not to give them too many classics. One performance a season, or at most one every three months, will be quite enough."^[3] I ask you, do two productions a year constitute a People's Theater? And these performances being as I have described them, are they really for the people?

The production of Bérénice at this same Théâtre Trianon (the twenty-fifth Popular Gala, June 17, 1903) is still more characteristic. Almost all the seats—all the orchestra and boxes—were reserved several days in advance. The audience included even fewer of the people than the one I saw at Le Misanthrope. Many were in evening dress, but there was not a single workingman anywhere. That made no difference to the lecturer, M. Auguste Dorchain, who addressed the fashionable audience as if they had been rough laborers; and it made no difference to the audience, who thought it a great compliment to be so treated, and wildly applauded him.—Who is wrong?

Such being the case, it is evident that the promoters of the Œuvre des Trente ans could well afford to risk giving at a Popular Gala the most aristocratic of all Racine's plays, one that appears to have been written for the education of princes, one indeed which the present crowned heads of Europe—in Saxony and Serbia, for instance!—would do well to put into the hands of their sons ("For my sons when they reach the age of twenty"), and even contemplate themselves; but which has nothing to do with the people.^[4] I wish to add that the pill was sugar-coated, for the tradegy was sandwiched in between two generous doses of stupid or light songs, and the hero of the occasion was—with Mme. Bartet—M. Polin!

Of course, not all the performances were like that at the Trianon. The only given on February 18, 1903, at the Salle Huyghens, for instance, where the Comédie-Française played Le Malade imaginaire, was a popular-priced production. And the audience was far different. In the cheap seats were to be found true representatives of the working classes—and in goodly numbers. Still, the majority of seats were occupied by the lower Bourgeoisie. I admit that they are no less interesting than the people, as M. Nozière^[5] affirms. But unless this so-called popular public is different from the public which frequents the Théâtre-Français and the Odéon, how can we progress? I listened carefully to the conversations carried on about me at these Popular Galas. At the Salle Huyghens, after Le Malade imaginaire, I heard two people comparing Coquelin's interpretation of the rôle there, and his usual performance at the Théâtre-Français. At the Théâtre Trianon my neighbors were still better informed: they had seen Silvain in his various rôles and knew how many years Dehelly had been with the Comédie-Française. Surely there is no need to erect people's theaters if the audiences are to be composed of such individuals. And remember, I am not speaking of the public in the best seats.

Or even admit that this venture—performers and public alike—are of the people. What does the experiment prove? You will recall the Universités populaires, and the victory they claimed; now they are practically extinct. You do not know how to observe the people. So long as they applaud you, you ask nothing more: you do not trouble to find out what they think. The people are respectful, and they believe in you, but neither their respect nor their faith is eternal. They spy on you, and they judge you. Three years ago, at one of the lectures given under the auspices of the Universités populaires where I was studying the public, I said to the promoters of that scheme: "Take care. They are bored." And they replied: "But they applaud." They might almost have answered: "Let them be bored, provided they applaud!" And now they cease to come at all. I repeat again: "Take care. They applaud, but they are bored. They have come to see, but when they have come two, three, five, ten times, when they have seen what your classics are, your miserable handful of classics, they will cease to come." So would I. So do I. Yes, I admire the great classics, with the best of my intelligence. I fed upon them during ten years of my youth, and I often turn to them now when I am tired of life. But how far they are from this life, from my worries, my dreams, and my daily struggle for existence! As M. Faguet recently said, "What is admirable and what is interesting are two very different things." The sincere disciples of the classic writers do not deny that this difference exists, but they bravely maintain that interest is not an essential element in art. "I should say," declares M. Maurice Pottecher, "that one might even feel a little bored with a work of art, without ceasing to admire it and sensing its perfection. The sensation aroused by Æschylus, Aristophanes, Dante, Shakespeare, is far from the sentimental pleasure derived from a work capable of moving us to tears. But is a successful farce or a good melodrama better than The Wasps or Hamlet?"^[6] Alas, it would at least enjoy the stupendous advantage over these masterpieces of being alive. No beauty, no grandeur can take the place of youth and life. Instead of disdaining life and allowing it to fall a prey to unworthy artisans, let us try to go to life; only you must not hope to be able to get it from those distant summits where rise, far from the turmoil of our present existence, the beautiful temples of the past. Let us not be afraid to confess it: your disinterested art is an art for old men. It is good, it is natural that we should look forward, after the accomplishment of our tasks, to the serenity of Goethe, to beauty, pure and simple. That is all very well for our declining years, but I pity the man or the people reaching that stage prematurely, without having deserved it. That man or that people will not experience the supreme beauty, and the serenity will turn to apathy, which is the herald of death. Life means constant making over, and it means struggle. Better the struggle, with all the suffering it entails, than a calm and beautiful death.

My People's Theater is of no party; it is limitless, eternal, universal. A noble dream, yes, but future generations will realize it, if they can, at the end of time. Meanwhile, let us endeavor to put a little of eternity into the fleeting moments of today; and live with our time. Art cannot draw apart from the aspirations of the epoch. The People's Theater must share the people's struggles, their worries, their hopes, and their battles. Frankly, the People's Theater must be of the people, or it will never thrive. You protest that the drama should have nothing to do with politics, and yet you are the first—as I proved in connection with your performance of Tartuffe—to insinuate a political significance into your productions of the classics in order to attract the people. Do you deny that the politics you are fighting against is the politics which is directed against yourselves? You have felt that the People's Theater was about to come, and you hasten to take time by the forelock and establish a theater for yourselves in order to force your bourgeois theater down the people's throats. Keep it, we do not want it: "The new has come, and the old has passed away."

1. Adrien Bernheim, in Trente ans de Théâtre (1903).
2. This idea had already occurred to M. Camille de Sainte-Croix. In his articles contributed to La Petite République in 1887, he suggested that companies of actors from the subsidized theaters should play in the outlying houses, but after studying the question he came to the conclusion that it was not worth while, and sought to realize a plan more truly popular. The same year, 1887, M. Ritt, director of the Opéra, submitted to Minister Fallières a scheme for a people's theater, for which the companies of the four State theaters would be called upon two days a week, and for two large symphony concerts. But he demanded a permanent theater, a personnel of singers, dancers, and musicians. This idea was further developed in 1902, before the Chamber, by M. Couyba, of the Department of Fine Arts.
3. In Le Temps, Feb. 12, 1903.
4. The program consisted of songs by Mme. Anna Thibaud and M. Cooper; Bérénice of Racine by the Comédie-Française and songs by M. Polin.
   I do not here refer to literary performances, and there is too much to say about the musical programs. At least, the Comédie-Française and the Odéon have masterpieces in their repertories. But the repertories of our State theaters are littered with pretentions and stupid music: Meyerbeer operas, Adam opéra-comiques, etc., vapid things, without sincerity or style. Enough to kill all taste, for music in the people.
   
5. In Le Temps, Feb. 23, 1903.
6. In the Revue d'art dramatique, March 15. 1903.