The Press. — London, England, 1856-11-29 00:00:00

NOVEMBER 29, 1856. fittratart. Retribution. A Domestic Drama in Four Acts. By Tom Taylor, Esq. London : Lacy. Is the art of dramatic composition entirely " lost in England ? Are we for ever to be at " the mercy of French playwrights, and are " we never again to have a native school of writers for our English stage ?" Such are the questions repeatedly asked in literary circles ; and there is no concealing the fact that the answers are generally in a desponding tone. For our part, we heartily wish that we could encourage the hope that there may yet be a regeneration of the English drama. Its present state is painfully discreditable. The pieces acted on our boards are only adapta tions from French plays, for in the drama, as in dress, we take our fashions from Paris. It is in " constructive form " that the French plavwiights certainly excel, and that our English writers for the stage fail. We doubt even whether au English general public appre ciates " form." A series of pictures, loosely connected together, with spirited acting and good scenery, satisfies our uncritical audiences. The Parisians, on the other hand, demand, what they prize so highly, " neatness of con struction. They like to behold the rapid action of a passage of life which in itself has been the result of long antecedents. Their writers have adopted a method of meeting the Pari sian tastes ; and, assuming that the French fashion (originally borrowed from the ancient drama) of compressing the action into a day and a half of time is the best for the stage, it certainly shows great poverty of invention in our English dramatic writers not to meet the French on their own field. " Form " in the drama is, after all, little more than a mere knack. First of all, exhibit a scene or two which may even run into a first act; then explain, through the lips of some soliloquising person, or in a confidential tete a-tete, how the foregoing opposition of parties was brought about into that exact status quo; next advance the action by a strong incident, and conclude. In a novel the events are spread over months and years ; hut in a drama intended solely to exhibit action before the eye (by the interlocutory explanation of a previous chain of circumstances) the " form " can, with a little skill, be made to suit thirty-six hours of time. And yet it is this want of " form " which runs through most of our English living play wrights. The play before us of Retribution is a signal instance of how easy it is to exhibit " form " in a drama, even when not taken from the French stage. Mr. Taylor has dramatised the novellette of La Peine du Talion (not "La Loi du Talion," as stated in this edition), and in doing so the clever dramatist has given a prac tical example of the whole art of exhibiting "form." Given the substance and subject of the plot, it would puzzle an ordinary English playwright of the Fitzball genus to compress the action of the piece into a day and a half. The story involves the case of an injured husband, brooding over his vengeance for ten months ; the art with which he sought out the assailer of his happiness, and the series of circumstances which brought the wife of the latter into the power of the former—all these, with divers romantic incidents, are passed before the audience, and the action of the piece is kept within thirty-six hours. How? Mr. Tom Taylor shall answer that question. He is, beyond question, the most artistic play wright or "dramatist" of the day. If he does not invent character of a strikingly original type, ho can group together with much spirit, and his dialogue always sparkles with brilliancy. His play of Retribution, only recently avowed by him, exhibits much skill in construction, and it exemplifies most strongly the knack of producing " form " in dramatic composition. It is not a bor rowed piece, though the story is to be found in Charles de Bernard's tale. The action turns upon the situations produced by a naval officer whose wife was seduced in his absence at sea, coming to Paris, finding out the person who had outraged him, and then, in revenge, endeavouring to seduce his enemy's l 1 _ THE PRESS. wife ! The piece is of too dark a nature to be acceptable to our English feelings ; and such black chapters in human nature can never be adequately treated in prose upon the stage. In order to make them endurable, the medium of poetry is absolutely requisite, with its as pirations and elevated language. But it is not to the literary merits or failings of this piece that we desire to draw attention. Its histrionic presentation, and the admirable acting of Miss Herbert and Mr. Alfred Wigan, have been previously noticed in our columns. Let us rather see how this wonderful and much vaunted secret of "form" is attained. The piece opens with a salon in Paris, and a crowded evening party. Mine. de Beaupre is interrogated by one of her female friends about a certain Count Priuli, a dark Venetian Count, who had bowed to Mme. de Beaupre in her morning drive. The general conversation then turns on Priuli and his extraordinary appearance, and M. de Beaupre says that Priuli is to be at the party, and that he shall be introduced to the company. In comes Priuli soon afterwards, an insinuating and brilliant personage, with an air of mysterious ness. He is introduced, and converses care lessly with some of the parties, when suddenly a young gentleman, M. Victor de Mornac, goes up to Priuli, and, recognising him, says, " Rodolphe! You in Paris? " Upon which the mysterious stranger replies with asperity, " My name is not Rodolphe de Mornac ; we " are not brothers—we are strangers here." The younger man than asks, " What mystery "is this ? " and the other replies, " A mystery "of life and death. Here is my card. At five to-morrow. Not a word now—go." Then the dialogue is taken up by M. Oscar de Beaupre, who reveals to his friend, Count Priuli, that he (De Beaupre) has an intrigue with the wife of M. Morisset, one of the company now in the room, and that Mine. Morisset is now at the Opera, and that he (Do Beaupre) wants to go there, and therefore he begs that Priuli will be good enough to see Mine. de Beaupre to her carriage. Accordingly, Priuli approaches, and a dia. logue ensues, in which he not only makes love to Mme. de Beaupre, but in which it is dis closed that some passages of flirting had been previously exchanged between them. She implores of him not to pursue her, and con• fesses that she had been much to blame. Priuli alarms her by whispering that her husband, Oscar de Beaupre, is at that moment at the Opera paying his attentions to Mme. Morisset. This statement will not be believed by Mine. de Beaupre until she asks her young friend, Victor de Mornac, to go and see whether M. de Beaupre is at the Opera, under the pretext of her wishing to take him up in her carriage 07 - 1 her return home. Some by play and conversational effects are skilfully introduced, and Victor de Mornac returns with the news that M. de Beaupre is at the Opera, and is absorbed in the conversation of Mine. Morisset. The jealous wife is tortured, and tells Priuli that she 'll write to him, and the first act closes with Priuli's exclaiming, " She's mine at last ! His heart is in my " gripe." Thus the first act, with its double intrigues, and its Exhibited antagonism be tween De Beaupre and Priuli, is essentially one of strong situations and powerful emo tions. On the hard, stern, and repulsive features of its subject, on its double immorali ties, and the vicious atmosphere in which the dramatis persona move and breathe, we need say nothing. It is in the second act that the skill in dramatic " form "is seen. The scene opens on the next day with the appointed meeting be tween Priuli and Victor de Mornac, at the apartments of the former, who has to explain to his 3 ounger brother the reason for his dis guise as a Venetian Count. He thus relates his tale : COUlli.—Ten months ago, after two years' cruise in the Pacific, I landed at Toulon. You can conceive my eager- ness to see my home, my wife, once more after such an absence. It was a stormy night when we cast anchor. was the first man on shore. The cold rain swept along the streets as I hurried through them to the home where I had been so happy. I ',,leased every household fire that glowed ruddy through the window panes. I, too, was returning to my own hearth-stone—to my wife—whom every night of these two long years I had prayed for, and whose sweet image had been my beacon in storm, and darkness, and danger. I reached the house—my breath 1143 came so thick and fast, I was forced to pause on the threshold. I looked up—there were lights in the window, and shadows moved behind them? Could Ibe expected? Was she looking fur me ? I sprang up stairs. There were women in the anteroom, so busy, none saw or ques tioned me. I passed on to my own room : through the open door I saw a strange disorder—lights, a crucifix, a priest by the bedside. They knew me then : they stood between me and the room. I forced my way in. She was there, Victor—the wife of my heart, of my prayers, of my two years' longing love—a white figure on that white bed —so pale, so still— The brother interrupts him with some ques tions, put in to break the length of the speech, and Priuli continues thus : Count.-1 called her by her name—l implored her to look up—to speak to me—only one word. I lifted the thin and clammy hind that lay upon her heart. A minia ture fell from the relaxing fingers. Victor de Blomac, it was not my picture ! Viclos.—Brother ! Count.—l sprang up, blind with agony, and staggered to the door: the priest drew me back to the bedside, and implored me, as I hoped for forgivenesss myself, to forgive a dying sinner. I relented—l bent over her for one last kiss of pardon, when, on my very lip, she breathed another name. " Oscar " was the name. Scared back to life by my cry of rage and despair, she opened her eyes : she knew me, Victor—l saw that in the terror-stricken look that watched me from the threshold of the torah. " His name !" I cried. She heard me ; her eyes turned to the priest; slowly she put her finger on her lip, and so, with a smile of dreadful meaning, she died Priuli, having resolved to discover his injurer, thus concludes his story, which occupies about fourteen minutes in delivery : Victor.—You discovered the seducer ? Count.—No—the guilty secret was well kept. The priest would not betray his penitent. To question others might have divulged her shame ; and I loved her still, Victor—l love her now. But his life was mine. His portrait furnished the only clue. The painter's name was on the back. I stabbed the ivory with a knife, and took it to him for repair of the damage. He looked at it, recog nised it, and pronounced the name. Need I tell you that name? Have you not guessed it already? (He takes a miniature case from table, opens it and presents it to Victor.) Look ! Victor.—De Beaupre ! Count.—Ay, De Beaupre ! this was ten months ago, and De Beanpre still lives. You pass for his friend. How is this? Count.—Boy, you do not know the alphabet of vengeance. Rage is sudden; revenge, that deserves the name, is slow as it is sure. I found her destroyer the husband of a young and beautiful wife. My plan was soon formed. On the plea of ill health, I got leave of absence for a year, and took up my quarters at Nice. There I borrowed the passport of an Italian friend, and came to Paris under his name. I had been all my life at sea ; no one knew me. I easily procured an introduction to De Beaupre ; we became intimates—what the world calls friends. For these eight months I have been tracking him silently, stealthily as an Indian follows his game. At length my quarry stands fair in view. I may rear my head from behind my screen of lies, and strike him down. Here in this skilfully placed narrative is exhi bited the main secret of the art of compressing the events and plot of a novel into the day and half necessary fur dramatic form, accord ing to the Parisian canons. A novice in writing for the stage would commence such a piece by the foregoing speech of Priuli, and then endeavour to follow up the action taken consecutively according to time. He would have an interval between the incidents, and you would read in the playbills " Twelve " months are supposed to elapse between the " acts." Far differently does Mr. Tom Taylor, or a French playwright, proceed. They take up the action when it is at full swing, just when the events are on the point of being pre cipitated, and right in the middle of the play a scene is interposed in which a retrospective narrative or a dialogue is poured forth, for the benefit of some one of the dramatis pei sone in particular, and greatly to the advantage of the audience in general. It is much the same way, of course, in the standard tragedies of the French stage ; but in them the form is not so obvious, because a reader in the closet, or a playgoer at the theatre, may suppose that the long narratives were put in with the double purpose of exhibiting the poet's power of sonorous versification, or of giving roles for some brilliant elocutionists of the order of Le Kain, Talma, or Rachel. In conclusion, we could desire that the literary amateurs among our English gentry would cease writing novels, and unimportant tours to places that everybody has seen, and endeavour to write pieces for the stage which might exhibit freshness and originality. Should any amongst them be desirous of seeing the method in which a tale is reduced into dra matic form, they need not example' than in La Pei*: -- look for a better du Talion turned - .