The Sun.
London, England, 1863-06-20 00:00:00

I4IADAME RISTORI AS QUEEN ELIZABETH

If the Medea may be said to embody the passion
and grace of Madame Ristori—not less distinctive is
the Elizabeth of her extraordinary art and variety.
These two characters which contrast so strongly in
almost every point of view—which one might call the
respective types of ancient and modern civilisation
—of the free vehement child of nature—who re-
strains and conceals nothing, but loves or hates,
guards or destroys, as her passions chance to impeli
her—and of the refined woman, the child of society,
who masks and plays with her emotions—who desires
with doubt and sophistry, and indulges to endure
remorse—are not more striking in the varying
aspects which they present of a common nature,
than in the fact of their adaptation to the gifts and
genius of Made. Ristori. Whilst a type, however,
the renowned Queen is evsn more an indivi-
dual—that history presents to us as distinguishs d
by her own variety of traits, and to an extent that
seems to exhaust the most opposite qualities of her
sex. Brave, cultured, thoughtful, generous, vain,
capricious, and revengeful—a lioness in respect to
her country—too often a serpent in respect to her-
self, she seems to epitomise all the power and the
weakness of a- woman. Obvioasly, therefore, she is
a subject that only an artist of the greatest range
as well as depth could hope to embody ; and if
Signor Giacometti, in his desire to identify that
artist with his illustrious compatriot, somewhat
exaggerates the original in order to give more scope
to the transcriber, we must not be blind to the
merits which he offers as an offset. To the oppos-
ing traits of Elizabeth he gives a unity and sequence
by means of her passion for Essex, which prompts
or colours her whole conduct—whilst he imparts an
interest to her story, that is both dramatic and
historical in her gradual transition from strength to
infirmity, and from her playful to her tragic aspects.
Thus every act is made to present a distinct phase
of her career, whilst each deepens as it advances
both in its lesson and its attraction. There is
something more than this, however. Whilst giving
the needed prominence to all her lower qualities,
her vanity, personal and mental—her jealousy and
ambition—the author tempers them as faithfully
with her courage and decision, and in deepening
her sensibilities, both as respects love and remorse,
he makes their larger trial serve to purify and re-
deem her, and thus subjects the known realities of
her character and history to an ideal aim and in-
fluence, that are essentially artistic. Thus she un-
folds before us gradually her gayer features first—
her heroic and tragic ultimately, and this by no
means mechanically—an aspect to an act, but certain
qualities being assumed as the cohering principle
of her nature—such as her love, will, and ambi-
tion ; and these being kept in view—the woman pro-
gresses with the action, and is completed at its
close.

Accordingly the play opens about 1587, when
Elizabeth was past fifty, and terminates with her
death, which was some sixteen years ensuing ; and
the first act presents her in a literary and diploma-
tic light, surrounded by a bevy of learned doctors
and grave damsels, with whom she discusses the
claims of authors, and shows her acquaintance with
the classics. Here a letter arrives from Leicester,
then her envoy to the Netherlands, which stating
that he has been ffered the crown, rouses her
regal jealousy—which is as great as her personal or
mental—and she resolves to crush her aspir-
ing favourite—whilst Sir Francis Bacon pre-
sents a petition from Shakespear, who is
represented as very poor, praying that
his Henry the VIII. may be played be-
fore the Court at Windsor. The read-
ing of its concluding lines which are a pro-
phecy of her own fortunes—restores her ruffled
composure, and leads to her dictating a letter,
alternately to th© Chief Justice, ordering him to pay
the poet's debts, and another to the unlucky Leices-
ter bidding him resign his command to Raleigh.
The news arriving of the Commons being engaged
upon what she considers a question of prerogativ e
the spirit of the Queen is aroused again, and, aban-
doning her gaieties, she rushes off to crush their
insolence. With the second act commences the
central interest of the play—her love for her new
favourite Essex, and its daring but doubtful recipro-
cation. He has displaced his rival Leicester,
but hardly dares congratulate himself on a
triumph so full of risk, for he reads the
Queen's caprice and jealousy of power. A scene
ensues between them, in which,
straggling between
pride and passion, she at last reveals her feeling,
and gives him the ring (according to tradition)
which he was to send her when in danger, as an
No sooner is she alone than she
unfailing means of deliverance, even from herself.
shows that her love
for him is not so much as for her prized authority,
which she never can consent to share, and then, as
if in punishment,
her ambition tempts her into
crime. There comes the death warrant of Mary,
which she hesitates to sign till handed a letter from
the latter, in which she is so unfortunate as to say
ehe bestows her crown on Philip the Second,

-amow

beth's great rival. This defiance. rouses her fury and

serves to justify her vengeance. She signs the
warrant and :leaves the room, bending a look on
her secretary, who fully comprehends it, and de-
parts to fulfil her wishes. Here a litae liberty
is taken with history in the introduction

of James the Sixth, on a secret visit to the Queen to

implore compassion for his mother, and obtain, if
possible, her release. At the height of his entrea-

ties arrives the news of Mary's death, and the young
King giving vent to a burst of horror and indigna-
tion, lays his malediction on the murderess, and

rushes from her presence. From this critical posi-
tion, in which the Queen's dissimulation cnly in-
tensifies her guilt, she is rescued by fresh news--
only permissible by stage license, the approach of
the Armada, and then ad personal feeling vanishing
in her undoubted love of country, her heroism re-
stores her to her true dignity and altitude. She
gives orders to call out her troops, vows she
lead them to the field in person, and grasping the
sword of her father, calls on her assembled nobles to
pledge their lives upon its blade. On this exciting
picture closes the second act. The third, which
opens at Greenwich, in the midst of the festivities
caused by the defeat of the Armada, is the weakest
in the play, and yet fulfils an important end in pre-
paring for its climax. Its action scarcely extends
beyonds the disgrace of Essex, who, having ex-
ceeded his instructions by his foray upon Cadiz,
has provoked the Queer's displeasure—her ambi-
tious jealousy imagining that she detects in her
new favourite a certain symptom of the old one.
Essex's indignation at his treatment, and irreverent
expressions, inflaming the Queen in turn, she deals
him a hearty cuff—his hand flies to his sword ; he
is instantly arrested, and quits her presence for the
Tower, pouring out a flood of invectives which leave
her amazed and choked with fury. With the fourth
act unfolds the tragic aspects of the story. Essex has
been condemned to death, not only for the present
treason but for his complicity with another, and
his danger having aroused the full measure of her
love for him she awaits the arrival of the ring by
which his danger is to be escaped. Her pride will
not allow her to pardon him without it, for its

sending would imply submission as well as prove
affection; but the ring comes not and she begins to

fear that his pride is equal to her own. He may
die even in defying her and thus involve her in a
murder even blacker than that of Mary—the murder
of the man she loves. Her struggles are at their
height when the warrant is brought her to sign,
and she—shrinking from it
_and turning
to it as love and pride alternately

sway her—at length believing that at the
approach of death, his courage must give way,
and he will send the needed mission, signs the
warrant with terrible fears, and again watches and
asks eagerly if any message has come from the Tower.
At length Lady Howard flies into her presence. She
has been entrusted with the ring but deprived of it
by her husband, who is the enemy of Essex, and
no sooner is this told, and the Queen with a shriek
of terror has ordered the execution to be
stayed than a distant gun proclaims its
work Essex has fallen, and she aghast
at the measure of her guilt, waves every-
one away from her, and falls to the ground
with a never-dying remorse. When the curtain.
rises again, Elizabeth, worn with years and suffer-
ing, for she is now on the verge of seventy, is seen
to be trembling on the brink of the grave. All
that sustains her is a will that has defeated every
enemy, and seems strong enough at last to wrestle
even with death. She had been prostrate for
several days when she had heard that the Ccm•
mons were discussing the question of her successor,
and as this was an invasion of her prerogative,
her strength had rallied for a last victory,
and she had ordered herself to be carried in a litter
to the house where she had once more subdued its
haughty patriots to silence. She enters, leaning
on the arm of Burleigh, elate with this achieve-
ment; and, deceived by its excitement into the
belief that it has endowed her with a new life,
she orders a festivity at WindLor, and laughingly
tells Burleigh he shall have the honour of her
band. She even goes so far as to com-
passionate her old Minister—to remind him
of his infirmities, and beg him to be pru-
dent, When at length the dream dis-
solves—a pang seizes her, and she is warned that
in a few hours she must be dust. She commands
her court to leave her; and, stretched upon her
couch, is forced to contemplate her fate. The
thought of Essex has come back to wring from her

a wail of mingled penitence and passion, and enforce
her dying estimate of all her delusions and posses-
sions. She has outlived everything—youth,
beauty, and personal homage—and now sbe
.
finds herself alone with the spectres of
Essex and Mary. In her terrors she becomes
senseless, but is restored to a last consciousness by
the entrance of the young king. She bids hint
kue.ol,. and erowns him. His dignity is proclaimed
to the people beneath her window, and their happy
shouts assail her ears just as her senses are depart-
iuz. Love and vanity are gone, but pride is still
unconquered. She rises with a wild effirt—plucks
the crown from the king's brow, and planting it on
her own, falls back a monarch, even in death.

. Such, in as few words as we can describe it, is
the stirring action of this play ; and, if it possesses
no other merit, it will be seen it is no narrow plat-
form for the powers of a great actresss. Here are
character and incident worthy even of a Ristori,
whatever may be the limitations imposed by the
meagre writing. How she grasps them is a
matter which it is not so easy to describe. That
her Elizabeth, on the whole, must be regarded as
her greatest triumph, we are entirely convinced ;
but we are aware this assertion conveys but a very
vague idea of what this triumph really involves.
The Medea revealed to us her grace and passion,
but we required the Elizabeth to show us the
singular plasticity as well as vigour, which
could pass in such quick succession to emotions the
most opposite, and by certain abiding qualities,
forming the media of the transit, make teem as
truthful as they are vivid—gay one moment with the
lightest vanity—flaming the next with the fiercest
rage—trembling now with the tenderest feeling--
maddened anon with the deepest hate. There was
no excess in there transitions, her great art or sense
of truth enabling her to grasp the central ideas of
Queen and Lover, availed her easily to modify
and harmonise their expressions. As a Pic-
ture of the agonies cif a proud but Pas-
sionate heart, her struggles in the fourth act,
whilst awaiting the ring from Essex, and yet
compelled to sign the warrant, we have never seen
excelled. And yet her fifth act was unquestionably
the triumph of the night. The bent and withered
being that then tottered in before us, fo fearfully
contrasting with the regal bloom of her frst
pearance—the strong will that even could control
and keep death in abeyance, supplying to this
shrivelled tenement a power almost superhu-
man a bearing still majestic, or, if failing,
only broken by remone, and not by time--
What a picture stood before us and yet,
if possible, more marvellous, as it was un-
doubtedly more terrible—when, stretched upon her
couch, she surveyed the approach of death, and
tried to chase away its phantoms by lingering self-
deceptions—when hoping against hope her vanity
revived, and, straining her fainting limbs to catch
a last look at her glass, she gazed upon a face
scarcely lees spectral than her faneies.—What a
picture was again there, us truthful in its present-
ment as it was profound in its instruction.
It is but a trifling note to make that Madam°
Ristori throughout the play, as the Queen both in her
bloom and her decrepi
ish perhaps a
ing stage reeemblaace that has been given in our tim
er.shie tiseamnoesnatsbtoriladi
Her praise in something higher. :
ment of the woman which either a painter or a poet
could study with advantage. It is scarcely necessary
to add that her performance raised the audience to the
highest state of excitement,their applause throughout
its course rising to an enthusiastic summons at the
close of every act, which became, and very properlY,
a double one at the conclusion. Madame Ristori
was ably supported by Signor Pezzana,
racter of Essex, whose indignant denunciations at
the close of the third act were very deservedly ar
plauded. Madlle. Glech, also, was very effective In
the character of Lady Howard, in the cha-

CITY, TWELVE O'CLOCK.
Money continues plentiful in the general market,
and the rates still show a downward tendency.
Since Monday last the imports of specie have
amounted to £206,500, and the exports have reached
i 717,000.
There was a meeting yesterday of the creditors
of Messrs. J. L. Smith and Co., West India mer-
chants. A balance-sheet, prepared by Messrs.
Johnstone, Cooper, and Co., states the liabili-
ties at £30,692, and the assets at only £7,987.
The deficiency, it was stated, was mainly owing to
the depreciation of p) operty in the West Indies. A
resolution was passed for liquidating the estate in
the hands of trustees for the general benefit of the
creditors.

Two O'CLOCK.

At Paris this morning, according to Mr. Reuter's
telegram, the French 3 per Cent. Rentes were
681. 50c. 68f. 45c.

There has been very little animation in the Eng-
lish Stock Market to-day, and some speculative
sales having taken place, prices have given way to
the extent of k per cent., Consols being 92/ for
transfer, and 921 I, for the account. The New
Threes and Reduced Annuities are 911 i; Exche-
quer Bills have not varied, and India 5 per Cents.
have been dealt in at 1081.
The Foreign Stock Market has been heavy, and
the dealings of a moderate character. Turkish 6
Per Cents., 1862, are 714 72 ; ditto Consolides,
MI 51; Mexican, 378 ; Greek, 371 386; ditto
Coupons, 181 3 ; Spanish Passive, 31.1 35 ; ditto
Certificates, 1214; Portuguese, 491 50; Egyptian,
1001 4 ; Italian, 72/ 1 ; the Confederate Loan, 1 to
dis. ; and the Venezuelan ditto, 11 to / dis.
In the Railway Share Market the dealings have
been very restricted, and prices generally have
shown less firmness. Great Western, Lancashire
and Yorkshire, North Western, and South Eastern
have declined 55., and Bristol and Exeter 10s.

The Foreign and Colonial undertakings have re-
mained very quiet at about previous quotations.
Joint Stock Bank and Miscellaneous Shares
continue dull, without any material change in
values. London Joint Stock are flat at 361, and
Royal Mail Steam at 641 Q. International Finan-
cial Shares are quoted 61 a prem.; London
Financial, 2 to 21 prem. ; General Credit, 21 1
prem.; and Egyptian Trading Company, 11 io
2 prem.

BRITISH FUNDS—CLOSING PRICES
Bank Stock
3 per Cent. Reduced Annuities
3 per Cent. Consols Annuities
New 3 per Cent. Annuities
New 21 per Cent. Annuities —
Annuities, 30 yrs, expire sthiJan., 1880 —
Ditto for 30 yrs, expire sth April, 1885 —
Ditto (Red Sea Telegraph), Aug. 1908 —
India Stock —
Ditto 5 per Cent
Ditto Enfaced Paper, 4 per Cent ..
Ditto 5 per Cent
Ditto 51 per Cent
Ditto Debentures, 4 per Ct., Oct., 1863
Ditto ditto April, 1864
Ditto ditto Aug. 1864 or 66
Ditto Bonds £l,OOO l2 pm
Ditto under £l,OOO l6 pm
Bank Stock for Account
Cmisols for Account, July 9 92 /
March
Exchequer Bills, £l,OOO 21 per Cent 2 dis
Ditto £5OO
Ditto Small
FOREIGN FUNDS—CLOSING PRICES.
Brazilian. 5 per Cent
Ditto 41 per Cent., 1852-58-60
Buenos Ayres 6 per Cent —
Ditto Account 9s}
Chilian 6 Der Cent
Ditto 4f per Cent. .
Danish_,,,, 4 per Cent., 1863
-r-'nptian 7 per Cent lOOl 1
Ditto, Second Issue
Greek 6 per Cent., 1824-5, ex-Coupons —
Ditto Account .. 38r8 1 70 8} 8
Ditto Coupons
Italian 5 per Cent. (Maremmana Railway)
111exiran 3 per Cent
Ditto Account 3B 7±
Ide%v Granada l6
Ditto 2 per Cent.
Ditto Deterred'
Ditto Land Warrants (Hectares) —
Peruvian 41 per Cent.
Ditto 41 per Cent. 1862
Portuguese 3 per Cent.. 1853
Ditto 3 per Cent., 1856, '7, '9, '6O, 62 —
Ditto Account . 491
Ditto Scrip, (1862) £39 paid 5l PM
_Russian 5 per Cent., 1822, £ St
Ditto 5 per Cent., 1862
Sardinian 5 per Cent
Ditto Account B7l-
Spanish 3 per Cent
Ditto New Deferred
Ditto Account
Ditto Pas4ive
Ditto Account
Spanish Cert. of Coup not funded .. l2l 1
Ditto Account..
Turkish 6 per Cent. 1854 —
_Ditto Account
Ditto 6 per Cent. 1858
Ditto Account

June
2 dis

Ditto 6 per Cent. 1862
Ditto Account .. 72 1!
Ditto Guaranteed, 4 per Cent —
Venezuela, 3 per Cent
Ditto Account.. 2sf
Ditto 6 per Cent., 1862
Account
Dividends on the above payable in London.
Italian, 5 per Cent., 1861, Es. 25 francs —
Ditto Account
Ditto Scrip, 1863, £l4 4s. pc id —
TWO O'CLOCK.
Consols, Money .. 92 b
i)itto Account .....