The evening telegraph. [volume] (Philadelphia [Pa.]) 1864-1918, 1870-03-30
1IiiE FRENCH STAGE.

but also OF tie tayOrto forms of diversion of
its time; and in one OF the numbers for the
year 1900, tue curious reader may fad an
article on the recrentlOns of Paris, which
gives an account of the Theatre Francaise,
and especially of the deneanor of the au-
dience at the rise of the curtain. The pas
sage is worth transcribing, as au illustration
of some national characteristics of the trench
people which have not caught the infection
of change amongst all the changing fashions
brought forth in the course of the last seventy
years.
''The moment the curtain is seen to rise,
says the writer in the old periodical, THAT
instant confusion turns itself into order I'm
like our countrymen, who call for silence by
the word ITSELF the French express their wish
for attention by noise which may be de-
scribed as prolongation of the syllable tsh.
After the curtain is once up, it is expected
that no person should interrupt the perform
ance; the established rule of a French
audience is universal attention"
This attitude of attention is the same at
the Theatre Francais now as then. There is
the same order, the same absolute silence
observed, the same complete sympathy with
the progress of the drama. Any casual in
terruption is instantly suppressed; silk
dresses are not allowed to rustic, fans must
not futter, no whispers must circulate; the
audience is expected to exist, for the time
being, only for the actors, as the actors exist
only for the audience. Between the acts of
the piece comes the relaxation. Then most
of the spectators leave their seats and throng
the antechambers of the theatre, where the
Imagination still finds stimulus in art.
Grand statues Of dramatists, players, and
poets have their dwelling-place here, giving
dignity to the amusement of the hour, as
they suggest the immortality of genius
The hour passes; the play is acted out when
the curtain falls; but the creative power
which brings noble drama into existence
remains a treasured memory for a great
nation. The marble statue of the man is the
symbol of his genius carved out for unborn
ages. The player who intensified the pas
sions and realized the beauty which the poet
conceived stands by his side in sculptured
glory, and shares his immortality.
An author or an actor, passing through
these halls feels the stir of ambition within
him, and spectator entering them, full of
the emotions which the stage has excited,
feels satisfied that these are not vain things,
and returns to the next lift of the curtain
with deepened interest. When audiences
and actors are in such n condition of mutual
sympathy the actors are impelled to great
efforts. An audience so attentive does not
overlook excellence in the smallest perform
ance-even in the delivery of message-and
therefore every player has sufficient motive
for doing his best.
A complete harmony-which is business of
proportion-an adequate skill in all the parts,
and their combination, result from these in
huences, and an acted drama at the Francais
is a work of high art When such players and
such an audience are dealing with the work
of great author, the excellence produced is
of that kind which makes a permanent i'm
preston of delight upon the mind.
There is a dramatic poem by Alfred de
Musset, little known in England, called 'La
Mutt d'Octobre." 1t is not play, it is dia.
logue which takes place between the poet and
his muse. The poet-who is the victim of
fatal passion, whose soul is stained, whose
life is corrupted by the poison of misplaced
love-is sitting by his deserted hearth in
gloomy meditation when his muse addresses
him with tender reproach. Why has he ne
elected her? why has he abandoned the do
minion of beauty and truth which she had
opened to him? In reply, he tells the history
of his betrayal and his great despair; she an
swers with compassion and with an exhorta-
tion to return to her, and in her pure en-
brace to soothe his bruised heart to accept
the bitter past as a wholesome medicine, to
slake his burning thirst at the sweet waters
of the stream of Helicon, to take her hand
again and suffer her to lead him to the re-
gion of eternal glory. The poet listens,
throws Off his consuming lethargy, worships,
and is reconciled: and so the piece concludes
"a piece depending for its interest exclu-
sively upon the poetry of its passion and
upon the truth with which this poetry is rem
dered in recitation. The dialogue is confined
to two persons, one of whom is a visionary
being behind veil, and there is no move
ment but that of inward passion. No stir
from without, no interruption even for a
single instant to the seclusion of the poets
study, no scenic effect, no action beyond the
gestures of one unhappy man. There is pro-
badly no stage in the universe but that of the
Francois where such representation could
attract and satisfy an audiences; there it does
both satisfy and attract, and when Madlle
Favart and M. Delaunay are playing in it, the
pit is inconveniently crowded, aud yet the
silence of the throng is like that of single
rapt listener.
But where is the English pit, gallery, or
dress circle which could tolerate these revela-
tions of the poets mind with no other aid
from without than that of the muse at the
back of the scene, yelled, following his steps
with slow, floating movement extending her
arms compassionately towards him, but never
meeting his eye?
1t would be less impossible to find trage-
dians in London capable of performing, than
auditors capable of listening to such scene;
indeed, throughout the whole of our great
metropolis we cannot at the present day as
semble full audience willing to listen with
undivided attention to dramatic poem OF
q poetical drama. We have indeed, nc
established DRAMA no playhouse where the
manager can afford to wait. The Francois
and the Opera Comique, the Odeon, the
Chatclet, and the Grand Opera, all the
houses in Paris where the performances arr
i I