THE OOMEDIE FRANOAISE.

[SECOND NOTICE.]

TAAST week we attempted to give a summary account of the

Theatre Francais, of the constitution of the society, and of the artistic excellence of its performances. It is now proposed to speak somewhat more in detail of some of the pieces which have been this month presented by it to English audiences. Before doing so it may be well to correct an omission in our former state- ment as to the political history of the Company. A recent decree of 1859 should have been mentioned, which partially abrogates the provisions made in 1850 to restore those of the famous Moscow decree. That doubly theatrical performance of the first Napoleon was itself little more than an embodiment of the long-standing customs of the Comedie Francaise, accumulated by a continuous tradition ever since 1680.

One of the most charming pieces in the repertory of the Francais is Alfred de Musset's Il ne fact jurer de rien. There are other plays of his which have more power and more tenderness, but there is, on the whole, no more finished and agreeable example of his dramatic skill. And this one brings out admirably the several faculties of the artists who take part in it; however we do not insist very much on any such auxiliary evidence of intrinsic merit, for the company of the Comedie Francaise contrive to act everything so as to give the impression that it must have been written on purpose for them. We have already said something of M. Got as the abbe ; but the humour he throws into the part wholly defies description. He seems to command an unlimited effluence of absurdity that exercises a spell on everything he touches. There is food for inextinguishable laughter in the carriage of his hat, and in the play he makes with his spectacles in the corner while the baroness is imparting her confidences to Van Buck. This lady, one of the oddest of De Musset's creations, is excellently represented by Mlle. Jouassain. She quite realizes the eccentric and incon- sequent personage who carries on three conversations at cross purposes all in a breath, and will not leave her game of piquet for a prince, or listen to anything that contradicts her foregone con- clusions, but who yet is thoroughly a gentlewoman. One might laugh at her for ten minutes, wonder for ten more, and adore her at the end of half-an-hour. Van Buck, the uncle of the hero, has full justice done to him by M. Barre. He is a most worthy and substantial retired tradesman, whose past history is disclosed by a certain unmistakable air of importance, and certain tricks of speech so naturally and complacently assumed as to command an unfailing laugh in Paris, but hardly appreciated by English ears. He is always on the point of renouncing his nephew Valentin, and always ends by doing the nephew's pleasure implicitly. This Valentin is M. Delaunay, the most graceful and persuasive of all possible grace- less nephews. The opening scene between him and M. Barre would alone be a delightful entertainment. We can never forget M. Barre stamping round the table, and M. Delaunay sitting quite unmoved, and remarking, not flippantly, as a common-place actor might do it, but in a measured and perfectly calm voice with only the slightest shade of deprecation, " Mon oncle Van Buck, vous allez vous mettre en colere ;" M. Barre's persistent lecturing, and M. Delaunay's imploring remonstrance when he is told, he ought to marry and settle ; and M. Barre's puzzled irritation throughout the .

interview, met by M. Delaunay's bland and imperturbable effrontery, in the strength of which the nephew finally gains the victory and car- ries off the uncle in triumph. It is the perfection of refined comedy.

But M. Delaunay has a surprise in reserve ; charming as all his light dialogue in the first two acts is for its own sake, its office is,

after all, to lead up to a burst of genuine passion at the end. In the pursuit of what he meant to be a mere caprice, Valentin is brought face to face with truth and simplicity, and surrenders himself to the impulse of his own better nature. Here M. Dolan- nay shows for a brief moment his full power, justifying for the actor as well as for the poet the Socratic saying that comic and tragic power are in essence one and the same. Before we leave Il ne fast jurer de rien a word is due to M. Coquelin's dancing-master. Small as the part is, he gives colour and in- dividuality to it without forcing it into any undue importance. If ever it comes to pass that an English actor of leading parts does not think it beneath him to do likewise, it may yet become worth while to go out of one's way to see an English play.

A not inferior success in a very different style of dramatic art is attained in Dumas' play of Mlle. de Belle Isle. The period is that of Louis XV. ; the dramatic interest, as distinguished from the intellectual interest of complex plot and counterplot, is almost entirely of the tragic kind. In many scenes, and those containing critical points of the action, all the proprieties of courtly dialogue have to be observed ; and this gives occasion for a dramatic irony in developing which the actors fully enter into the spirit of the author. We see the Duo de Richelieu and the Chevalier d'Aubigny (MM. Bressant and Febvre) playing at dice with the utmost polite- ness for the life of the loser, and the friend who thinks he has put an end to the quarrel looking on and betting on their game. Here, again, the difference between artistic and common-place act- ing comes out. Vulgar actors would put on an air of forced calm- ness : MM. Bressant and Febvre show us not men who assume anything, but men whose dignity of manner has so thoroughly become part of their nature that not even a question of life and death between them can overthrow it. M. Bressant's performance as the Duc de Richelieu is admirable throughout. He makes visi- ble and intelligible to us the conscience, sensitive and punctilious within the conventional limits of honour, while absolutely insensible to everything outside of them ; the duel of speech waged with no less ceremony than the duel of arms, in delicately-chosen words and clear-cut phrases, whose glittering point is directed by passions that in a less artificial society would break into open violence, and the whole almost incredi- ble character of a generation perhaps more remote from our own in thought than any of its predecessors. Mlle. Favart as Mlle. de Belle Isle has ample scope for her unsurpassed tragic power. In some of the other pieces where she has lately won fresh honours the tragedy is almost without relief. In Paul Forestier the heroine enters with a few joyous words ; but no sooner are they spoken than the exclamation, " C'est son pore !" marks her sense that joy is a thing of the past. In Julie there is a continually deepening horror which becomes almost insupportable. But in this play there are alternations of light with the dark, and finally an outpouring of delight after a paroxysm of despair. This en- ables Mile. Favart to show that her range of expression is not confined to painful or violent emotions. Doubtless her greatest achievements are in representing the force of a grand and over- whelming passion, whether of anger, or joy, or grief ; but she knows, too, how to excel in the more equable passages with such a composed and self-contained refinement as hardly to suggest what force there is in reserve. Her dialogue in the first two acts of Mlle. de Belle Isle is fall of life and interest, but the general tone is one of comparative repose, and the easy natural grace of these scenes is invaluable as a contrast to the strong passion developed afterwards. The exceedingly clever and brilliant acting of Mlle. Marie Royer in the same piece must not pass without special notice.

In Alfred de Musset's Les Caprices de Marianne the chief parts fall again to Mlle. Favart and M. Bressant. The piece is less elaborate, but of a more striking and exciting interest than II ne faut jurer de rien. A series of scenes in which De Musset seems to surpass himself in charm and brilliancy of dialogue lead the way to a catastrophe turning the mirth at one blow into despair. Consummate art is required in the actors to keep pace with the author, and it is not wanting. Mlle. Favart shows herself here not merely at ease in level dialogue, but as perfect in the higher comedy as she is in tragedy. She represents all the little imperious airs of Marianne with a life and fidelity extending to the smallest details of her action ; yet she never loses dignity, and when

her woman's pride rises to a true indignation, it is felt to be the natural outcome of the character. One of the most striking pas- sages is the speech which closes Marianne's conversation with her gay cousin Octave (M. Bressant), who has been provoked by her haughty reception of his message to call her " nue rose de Bengale, sans spine et sans parfum." We shall be excused for quoting it :

"Qu'est-ce apreo tont qu'une femme ? L'oecupation d'un moment, une ombre vaine qu'on fait semblant d'aimer, pour le plaisir de dire qu'on aims. Une femme ! c'est une distraction. Ne pourrait-on pas dire, quand on en rencontre une : Voila une belle fantaisie qni passe ! Et ne serait-ce pas un grand deolier en de telles matieres, quo celui qni bale- sermt les yet= devant elle, qui se dirait tout bas: Voila peut-titre le bonheur d'une vie entiere,' et qui la laisserait passer ? "

The voice, beginning in a tone of almost light sarcasm, vibrates after the first few words with a passionate scorn still repressed, till it swells to its full power in the last sentence ; then on the words "et qui is laisserait passer" it falls to a low monotone, as if the mind in presence of its own vision had forgotten the immediate offence which called it up ; and at the same moment Mlle. Favart, who till then has been walking up to the person addressed, almost driving him before her, turns round and glides out majesti- cally without another look at him. In the last scene both Mlle. Favart and M. Bressant carry out the abrupt transi- tion with great power. M. Bressant, who has gone through the previous light and sparkling talk of Octave so that he might be supposed incapable of serious emotion, throws himself into the new situation as completely as if the shock were a real one ; and the tragic interest of the last few hurriedly exchanged words is as absorbing as the comic interest of all that went before. M. Delaunay appears in this piece as Cenci, the lover of Marianne, who at the end rushes to meet death in the belief that he is be- trayed by his friend Octave. The part does not fill very much space, but it is a masterpiece. Several very trying speeches, addressed indeed ostensibly to Octave, but really in the nature of soliloquies, and one of them involving the difficult task of reading out from a book on the stage, are delivered by him with wonderful beauty of expression and modulation. It is a hard but an unavoidable necessity to give only a passing notice to the amusing representa- tions by M. Got and M. Coquelin of Claudio, the jealous old magistrate who is Marianne's husband, and his valet Tibia, who

follows him like his shadow, bearing the train of his scarlet gown. Clandio's train is in its way as good as the abbe's hat and spectacles.

The comic powers of these two actors are well seen, too, in Les Plaideurs, which has been performed in conjunction with Les Caprices de Marianne. We are inclined to think that Les Plaideurs should have come first ; after the powerfully tragic close of Les Caprices de Marianne it is difficult to be at once prepared for the humours of Les Plaideurs. But the suggestion is perhaps hyper-

critical. M. Got is Lilian* the secretary to the law-enamoured judge (M. Talbot). M. Coquelin is his porter Petit-Jean. Their mock speeches at the trial of the dog are inimitably droll. M.

Coquelin's countenance has a peculiar gift of expressing absolute bewilderment, which he exercises with the happiest effect when Petit-Jean breaks down in his exordium. As for M. Got, he is perfectly at home in the series of assumed voices and manners on which the humour of the part of L'Intime depends. He has an air of supreme satisfaction and enjoyment in his disguise as the process-server. The gravity with which he kneels down in the street to write his proces-verbal, paying no regard to Chicaneau (M. Barre) standing over him with his stick, is admirable. M.

Talbot's Dandin is also a capital piece of comedy, thoroughly well studied and worked out.

The audiences have notably increased in numbers since the first week of the performances, and have on the whole been fairly

appreciative. But there is one curious exception in the case of a play supposed to be one of the best known, and certainly one of

the best acted. The reception of Tartuffe is comparatively cold. It may be simply that we have not in this country the patience or the culture required to enjoy perfect elocution and action without a rapid succession of incidents ; but we suspect the fact is in part accounted for by the vagaries of English propriety. The Tartuffe is no doubt very disagreeable in motive, and very plain-spoken in treatment. The whole scope of the play is so far remote from modern manners that not only such power as that of the Theatre Francais on the part of the actors, but a certain amount of know- ledge and historic imagination on the part of the spectators, is required to make it tolerable in representation ; and this last requisite, we conceive, is not found in London. Probably many. English people know that Tartuffe is a classical play, and so go to see it as a sort of duty, without knowing more. It is not un- natural if, so going, they are shocked ; but it is not fair to the artiste. Either they should make up their minds, as they have a perfect right to do, that Tartuffe is not a piece for themselves and their families to see at all, or if they do choose to see it they should clearly understand that nineteenth-century canons of taste do not apply to it. It is unreasonable to enter a tardy protest by giving faint applause to a performance which brings out almost the entira strength of such a company, and that on ground made their own by the unbroken tradition of two centuries. M. Got and M. Febvre are the only leading actors who do not appear in this play ; though M. Delaunay and M. Coquelin make us regret that the parts of Valere and Loyal are so subordinate. M. Bressant's Tartuffe is horribly perfect ; no weaker term can correspond to the impression the character makes in his hands. In Mlle. Favart's Elmire the trait which most sharply distinguishes it from her other performances is the expression of absolute contempt, a contempt combined with disgust for Tartuffe, and with mocking pity for the credulous Orgon. M. Talbot in Orgon shows more variety than he usually finds opportunity for ; and M. Chary brings great skill to bear on the long and not very attractive part of Cleante. His art is con- spicuous in one particular speech in his first interview with Orgon, which (with all respect for Moliere) could hardly be made to keep attention alive without unremitting and judicious management of voice and gesture. M. Chery's delivery of this passage com- manded the most unrestrained applause we heard throughout the play. Mme. Provost-Ponsin plays Dorine with much humour and vivacity, and gives full effect to the comic situation whereshe reconciles Valere (M. Delaunay) and Marianne (Mlle. Emilie Dubois).

A much better welcome was given to Emile Augier's very fine play L'Aventuriere. The immense power and variety of Mlle. Favart's acting are, perhaps, more completely brought out in this than in any other piece yet represented by this company in London. Dona Clorinde is an adventuress who has set her last desire on winning for herself a place in the respectable world, which she has envied even while she has despised it. She is resolved to enter on a new course, and is prepared to sacrifice the chance of a brilliant conquest for the happiness of the family where she hopes to enter. But at the critical moment she is repelled and exasperated by the hard propriety of a mercilessly virtuous woman, the daughter of the house, who persists in standing aloof from her as an outcast. In the impas- sioned declamation of this scene Mlle. Favart fairly carried away the audience. Finally, after a passing flash of pride and triumph; Dole Clorinde is foiled by a man of stronger will than her own. For a while she faces him and meets scorn with scorn, but at last breaks down, utterly overpowered. The sudden disappearance of the confident self-possession which had marked the character up to this point, and the instantaneous col- lapse of moral and physical forces, are represented by Mlle. Favart with a naturalness that is almost terrible. M. Coquelin is much to be admired as Don Annibal, the lady's brother, her champion on occasion, and her evil genius always. He develops the drinking- scene in the first act with such exquisite humour as to elevate the drunkenness of a stupid soldier into the region of high art, and the whole part is a most noteworthy study of soulless human nature. It is a man whom education might possibly have made into a good dog.

During these three weeks the Comedie Francaise has given us specimens of its power in very considerable variety, though perhaps the proportion of Moliere is a little over-weighted ; but there is much of the promise made in its opening announcement still to be fulfilled. At least one of A. de Musset's best pieces remains to be seen, and we trust that Victor Hugo will not be forgotten.