Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science, Volume 26 December, 1880. by Various None (have you read this book txt) 📖

Are Played

    With New Effects And Dresses.

 

I Have Cited _La Cigale_,  Not Because It Is A Very Good Play--For It Is

Not--But Because It Shows The Present Carelessness Of French

Dramatists In Regard To Dramatic Construction. _La Cigale_ Is A Very

Clever Bit Of Work,  But It Has The Slightest Of Plots,  And This Made Out

Of Old Cloth; And The Situations,  In So Far As There Are Any,  Follow

Each Other As Best They May. It Is Not Really A Play: It Is A Mere

Sketch Touched Up With Parisianisms,  "Local Hits" And The Wit Of The

Moment. This Substitution Of An Off-Hand Sketch For A Full-Sized Picture

Can Better Be Borne In a Little One-Act Play Than In a More Ambitious

Work In Three Or Four Acts.

 

And Of One-Act Plays Meilhac And Halevy Have Written A Score Or

More--Delightful Little _Genre_ Pictures,  Like The _Ete De

Saint-Martin_,  Simple Pastels,  Like _Toto Chez Tata_,  And Vigorous

Caricatures,  Like The _Photographe_ Or The _Bresilien_. The Frenchman

Invented The Ruffle,  Says Emerson: The Englishman Added The Shirt. These

Little Dramatic Trifles Are French Ruffles. In The Beginning Of His

Theatrical Career M. Meilhac Did Little Comedies Like The _Sarabande_

And The _Autographe_,  In The Scribe Formula--Dramatized Anecdotes,  But

Fresher In Wit And Livelier In Fancy Than Scribe'S. This Early Work Was

Far More Regular Than We Find In Some Of His Latest,  Bright As These

Are: The _Petit Hotel_,  For Instance,  And _Lolotte_ Are Etchings,  As It

Were,  Instantaneous Photographs Of Certain Aspects Of Life In The City

By The Seine Or Stray Paragraphs Of The Latest News From Paris.

 

It Is Perhaps Not Too Much To Say That Meilhac And Halevy Are Seen At

Their Best In These One-Act Plays. They Hit Better With A Single-Barrel

Than With A Revolver. In Their Five-Act Plays,  Whether Serious Like

_Fanny Lear_ Or Comic Like _La Vie Parisienne_,  The Interest Is

Volume 26 Title 1 (Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science) Pg 75

Scattered,  And We Have A Series Of Episodes Rather Than A Single Story.

Just As The Egg Of The Jelly-Fish Is Girt By Circles Which Tighten

Slowly Until The Ovoid Form Is Cut Into Disks Of Independent Life,  So If

The Four Intermissions Of Some Of Meilhac And Halevy'S Full-Sized Plays

Were But A Little Longer And Wider And Deeper They Would Divide The

Piece Into Five Separate Plays,  Any One Of Which Could Fairly Hope For

Success By Itself. I Have Heard That The _Roi Candaule_ Was Originally

An Act Of _La Boule_,  And The _Photographe_ Seems As Though It Had

Dropped From _La Vie Parisienne_ By Mistake. In M. Meilhac'S Earlier

Five-Act Plays,  The _Vertu De Celimene_ And The _Petit Fils De

Mascarille_,  There Is Great Power Of Conception,  A Real Grip On

Character,  But The Main Action Is Clogged With Tardy Incidents,  And So

The Momentum Is Lost. In These Comedies The Influence Of The New School

Of Alexandre Dumas _Fils_ Is Plainly Visible. And The Inclination Toward

The Strong,  Not To Say Violent,  Emotions Which Dumas And Angier Had

Imported Into Comedy Is Still More Evident In _Fanny Lear_,  The First

Five-Act Comedy Which Meilhac And Halevy Wrote Together,  And Which Was

Brought Out In 1868. The Final Situation Is One Of Truth And Immense

Effectiveness,  And There Is Great Vigor In The Creation Of Character.

The Decrepit Old Rake,  The Marquis De Noriolis,  Feeble In His Folly And

Wandering In Helplessness,  But Irresistible When Aroused,  Is A Striking

Figure; And Still More Striking Is The Portrait Of His Wife,  Now The

Marquise De Noriolis,  But Once Fanny Lear The Adventuress--A Woman Who

Has Youth,  Beauty,  Wealth,  Everything Before Her,  If It Were Not For The

Shame Which Is Behind Her: Gay And Witty,  And Even Good-Humored,  She Is

Inflexible When She Is Determined; Hers Is A Velvet Manner And An Iron

Will. The Name Of Fanny Lear May Sound Familiar To Some Readers Because

It Was Given To An American Adventuress In Russia By A Grand-Ducal

Admirer.

 

After _Fanny Lear_ Came _Froufrou_,  The Lineal Successor Of _The

Stranger_ As The Current Masterpiece Of The Lachrymatory Drama. Nothing

So Tear-Compelling As The Final Act Of _Froufrou_ Had Been Seen On The

Stage For Half A Century Or More. The Death Of Froufrou Was A Watery

Sight,  And For Any Chance To Weep We Are Many Of Us Grateful. And Yet It

Was A German,  Born In The Land Of Charlotte And Werther,--It Was Heine

Who Remarked On The Oddity Of Praising The "Dramatic Poet Who Possesses

The Art Of Drawing Tears--A Talent Which He Has In common With The

Meanest Onion." It Is Noteworthy That It Was By Way Of Germany That

English Tragedy Exerted Its Singular Influence On French Comedy.

Attracted By The Homely Power Of Pieces Like _The Gamester_ And _Jane

Shore_,  Diderot In France And Lessing In Germany Attempted The _Tragedie

Bourgeoise_,  But The Right Of The "Tradesmen'S Tragedies"--As Goldsmith

Called Them--To Exist At All Was Questioned Until Kotzebue'S Pathetic

Power And Theatrical Skill Captured Nearly Every Stage In europe. In

France The Bastard Offspring Of English Tragedy And German Drama Gave

Birth To An Equally Illegitimate _Comedie Larmoyante_. And So It Happens

That While Comedy In english Literature,  Resulting From The Clash Of

Character,  Is Always On The Brink Of Farce,  Comedy In French Literature

May Be Tinged With Passion Until It Almost Turns To Tragedy. In France

The Word "Comedy" Is Elastic And Covers A Multitude Of Sins: It Includes

The Laughing _Boule_ And The Tearful _Froufrou_: In Fact,  The French

Melpomene Is A Sort Of _Jeanne Qui Pleure Et Jeanne Qui Rit_.

 

So It Happens That _Froufrou_ Is A Comedy. And Indeed The First Three

Acts Are Comedy Of A Very High Order,  Full Of Wit And Rich In character.

I Mentioned _The Stranger_ A Few Lines Back,  And The Contrast Of The

Volume 26 Title 1 (Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science) Pg 76

Two Plays Shows How Much Lighter And More Delicate French Art Is. The

Humor To Be Found In _The Stranger_ Is,  To Say The Least,  Teutonic; And

German Humor Is Like The Simple Italian Wines: It Will Not Stand Export.

And In _The Stranger_ There Is Really No Character,  No Insight Into

Human Nature. _Misanthropy And Repentance_,  As Kotzebue Called His Play

(_The Stranger_ Was Sheridan'S Title For The English Translation He

Revised For His Own Theatre),  Are Loud-Sounding Words When We Capitalize

Them,  But They Do Not Deceive Us Now: We See That The Play Itself Is

Mostly Stalking Sententiousness,  Mawkishly Overladen With Gush. But In

_Froufrou_ There Is Wit Of The Latest Parisian Kind,  And There Are

Characters--People Whom We Might Meet And Whom We May Remember. Brigard,

For One,  The Reprobate Old Gentleman,  Living Even In His Old Age In That

Bohemia Which Has Paris For Its Capital,  And Dyeing His Few Locks

Because He Feels Himself Unworthy To Wear Gray Hair,--Brigard Is A

Portrait From Life. The Baron De Cambri Is Less Individual,  And I

Confess I Cannot Quite Stomach A Gentleman Who Is Willing To Discuss The

Problem Of His Wife'S Virtue With A Chance Adorer. But The Cold Baronne

Herself Is No Commonplace Person. And Louise,  The Elder Daughter Of

Froufrou,  The One Who Had Chosen The Better Part And Had Kept It By Much

Self-Sacrifice,--She Is A True Woman. Best,  Better Even Than Brigard,  Is

Gilberte,  Nicknamed "Froufrou" From The Rustling Of Her Silks As She

Skips And Scampers Airily Around. Froufrou,  When All Is Said,  Is A Real

Creation,  A Revelation Of Parisian Femininity,  A Living Thing,  Breathing

The Breath Of Life And Tripping Along Lightly On Her Own Little Feet.

Marrying A Reserved Yet Deeply-Devoted Husband Because Her Sister Bid

Her; Taking Into Her Home That Sister,  Who Had Sacrificed Her Own Love

For The Husband; Seeing This Sister Straighten The Household Which She

In Her Heedless Seeking For Idle Amusement Had Not Governed,  Then

Beginning To Feel Herself In danger And Aware Of A Growing Jealousy,

Senseless Though It Be,  Of The Sister Who Has So Innocently Supplanted

Her By Her Hearth,  And Even With Her Child; Making One Effort To Regain

Her Place,  And Failing,  As Was Inevitable,--Poor Froufrou Takes The

Fatal Plunge Which Will For Ever And At Once Separate Her From What Was

Hers Before. What A Fine Scene Is That At The End Of The Third Act,  In

Which Froufrou Has Worked Herself Almost To A Frenzy,  And,  Hopeless In

Her Jealousy,  Gives Up All To Her Sister And Rushes From The House To

The Lover She Scarcely Cares For! And How Admirably Does All That Has

Gone Before Lead Up To It! These First Three Acts Are A Wonder Of

Constructive Art. Of The Rest Of The Play It Is Hard To Speak So Highly.

The Change Is Rather Sudden From The Study Of Character In The First

Part To The Demand In The Last That If You Have Tears You Must Prepare

To Shed Them Now. The Brightness Is Quenched In Gloom And Despair. Of A

Verity,  Frivolity May Be Fatal,  And Death May Follow A Liking For

Private Theatricals And The Other Empty Amusements Of Fashion; But Is It

Worth While To Break A Butterfly On The Wheel And To Put A Humming-Bird

To The Question? To Say What Fate Shall Be Meted Out To The Woman Taken

In Adultery Is Always A Hard Task For The Dramatist. Here The Erring And

Erratic Heroine Comes Home To Be Forgiven And To Die,  And So After The

Fresh And Unforced Painting Of Modern Parisian Life We Have A Finish

Full Of Conventional Pathos. Well,  Death Redeems All,  And,  As Pascal

Says,  "The Last Act Is Always Tragedy,  Whatever Fine Comedy There May

Have Been In The Rest Of Life. We Must All Die Alone."

 

J. Brander Matthews.

 

Volume 26 Title 1 (Lippincott'S Magazine Of Popular Literature And Science) Pg 77

The King'S Gifts.

 

 

 

 

  Cyrus The King In Royal Mood

  Portioned His Gifts As Seemed Him Good:

  To Artabasus,  Proud To Hold

  The Priceless Boon,  A Cup Of Gold--

  A Rare-Wrought Thing: Its Jewelled Brim

  Haloed A Nectar Sweet To Him.

  No Flavor Fine It Seemed To Miss;

  But When The King Stooped Down,  A Kiss

  To Leave Upon Chrysantas' Lips,

  The Jewels Paled In dull Eclipse

  To Artabasus: Hard And Cold

  And Empty Grew The Cup Of Gold.

  "Better,  O Sire,  Than Mine," Cried He,

  "I Deem Chrysantas' Gift To Be."

  Yet The Wise King His Courtiers Knew,

  And