I was introduced to a ian intellectuals was ers of the Academy of ts such as the director e Française or the pres té des Gens de Lettres. perfunctory way of 1 id the exchange of a vo, as I had met. er Parisians of litera atole France and Vi tion of a French m mport than the grati iosity, the pages d ck fully thirt for an American magazine and in discussing my version with him line by line I learned that his knowledge of English was of no mean order. I learned, too, that, apart from literary mastery, he possessed the rare quality of generosity, which he displayed by reading, without any solicitation, a first novel the critics had scored unmercifully. Not only did he point out its faults with kindliness, but in its jejune pages he found virtues to praise such as even the pride of authorship had not led me to suspect them of possessing. "Pay no attention to the critics," he said, "but study unremittingly the writings of Thackeray, George Eliot, Stendhal, and Flaubert." To find George Eliot in so small a galaxy surprised me, I confess, but having re-read several of her novels of late I begin to understand her appeal to this great analyst of the human heart. Too little attention, alas, was paid by me to his advice. I repeat it here in the hope that it may be heeded by some young writer of to-day who chances to read these lines. That he may be heartened in his darkest hour by so helpful and kindly a master as Monsieur Paul Bourget is my fervent wish. But all French men of letters do not possess the generous qualities of this great novelist. In fact, I have in mind an Academician whose genius I had admired even to the extent of acclaiming it in print, and whose acquaintance I had been more anxious to make than that of any Parisian writer of the day. Yet when this desire was gratified not long ago, in the drawing-room of a mutual acquaintance, his greeting was so condescending and his manner so supercilious that he became antipathetic at once. A few weeks later I chanced to attend a notable meeting at the Sorbonne. When the President of the Republic, preceded by black-clad mace-bearers and the Doctors of the University in their gorgeous robes and followed by the orators of the day, entered the huge amphitheatre, I found not only that the man I have in mind was to be one of the speakers but that his seat upon the platform was directly in front of my own. Instinctively I slipped into a chair that this "Immortal," attired in his habit vert, trembled like the proverbial aspen leaf while reading in a faltering voice the manuscript of his address, I experienced a secret delight at seeing him ill at ease before so vast and distinguished an audience. How different is my recollection of Jules Claretie, director of the Comédie Française for over a quarter of a century. Although his work as manager, dramatist, novelist, and publicist was manifold, this lovable Academician never failed to return a call, answer a letter, or write the line of encouragement or appreciation he felt to be due, even when the fulfilment of such a courtesy necessitated the laying aside of the task in hand. During Monsieur Claretie's directorship of the "House of Molière" I was his guest, not only at répétitions générales, but at preliminary rehearsals as well, when the actors were in street dress and the scenery for the play of the evening was leaning against bare walls. How free those rehearsals were from rowdyism! No swearing on the part of the scene-shifters, no boorish shouting by a stage-manager with a cigar in the corner of his mouth and a hat on the back of his head; but a courtesy and an artistic earnestness such as I have never seen in any other playhouse. Yet what other theatre has the traditions of centuries to inspire its players? And what other theatre possesses a green-room adorned with portraits of the notable actors of its past, a foyer filled with statues of the dramatists whose plays have held its boards, or an entrance-hall hung with tapestries representing the crowning of its greatest genius? What other theatre, moreover, has a library containing every work of value concerned with its history, presided over by a librarian of the attainments of either that ardent Moliériste, the late Monsieur Georges Monval, or Monsieur Jules Couet, his scholarly successor? Only in good ventilation is the Comédie Française excelled by any other playhouse. In fact, after many an evening spent within its walls I have been led to suspect that the air in its auditorium had not been changed since the year 1799, at which time the sociétaires 'N France a distinguished man of letters As a man of letters, Anatole France was performance Communist, is a fact worth It is rather curious that a m French literature probab It is deeply affecting to r And 壹 et worth remember s are so few and so he usually unpardonheresy is overlooked en to their literary s that a man so scep- use there was no of- The published in 1859, bore the following dedi- mémoire d'Eleonora Duse, je veux dire ce qu'est cation: A UN PERE ET UNE MERE BIEN AIMES Chers parents, Les premiers mots que prononce l'enfant The French people are eternally grateful to artists and men of letters, and take care that their memories shall be cherished. Sunday, October 19, was the seventy-fifth anniversary of the death of Chopin. Accordingly public exercises were held at his tomb, in Père Lachaise, with commemorative addresses. This hero-worship must have a marked effect on the boys and girls in the schools. The homage paid to men and women who have distinguished themselves in some form of art, is a large factor in the education of French youth. Every one knows how much attention is given in French schools to literary composition and to every form of expression. And as the road to public success and distinction so often leads through the prize-competitions in various schools and institutions, all things work together toward one goal. The successful poet, dramatist, novelist, singer, actor, painter, architect, has a position universally envied. Yesterday I received a postcard informing me that five enthusiastic American pilgrims had joined the Asolo Club. They are: Florence K. Barr of Paris, Nancy Reynolds, Mary Tubby, Ruth Tubby, Josiah Tubby, all of Westfield, New Jersey. To-day I pick up Comedia, the Paris daily paper devoted to the theatre, and the leading article, covering half the first page, is dated and written from Asolo, and is called "La Profanation de la Tombe d'Eleonora Duse." This protest is by E. Schneider, a personal friend of the late actress, who has been engaged in the preparation of her biography. As his tribute to Asolo is so fine and will please Scribnerians who are interested in devenu, sur ce coin de terre que la grande artiste avait élu pour sa paix définitive, le souvenir universellement vénéré. De tout temps, la petite cité d'Asolo attira les cœurs épris de solitude et de recueillement parce que la lumière qui la couronne, l'immense espace où elle baigne de ses plaines et de son ciel, sont eux-mêmes solitude et recueillement. Robert Browning lui voua une longue fidelité, plus d'un peintre y accourut, souhaitant d'y capter à son tour les richesses imagées que Giorgione fixa pour jamais sur ses toiles.... Comment l'esprit tourmenté d'Eleonora Duse ne lui aurait-il pas demandé lui aussi cette pacification intérieure à quoi il aspirait d'une inlassable force? I fear that this biographer would not approve of the Asolo Club, which, however, was founded in these pages before the death of the famous actress. He says her tomb is now profaned by hundreds of tourists, who group themselves about it for snap-shots; that the little village, once so quiet, is filled with the reek and noise of motor-cars, and that the final insult to her memory will take place when the new (central heating) Grand Hôtel d'Eleonora Duse is constructed. He does not mention Americans by name, but in the ironical language of my friend, Barton Currie, we must now put down Asolo as one more place in Europe that has been "spoiled by Americans." Well, if there are indeed many places in Europe that have been spoiled by Americans, there are surely many Americans who have been despoiled in Europe. By the courtesy of the Director of the Comédie Française, I was admitted to the dress-rehearsal (répétition générale) of a new play, in which the leading part was taken by the most famous actor of the company, Féraudy, who played in New York last winter. For the convenience of American dramatic critics, and for the cause of dramatic criticism, I have long wished that in America we had the French custom of the public dress-rehearsal. In Paris, the first night of a new play is preceded, either the previous night or afternoon, by a performance complete in every respect, for which no tickets are sold, but to which critics. men of letters iournali When there is no political excitement, very afternoon in which I hea they are all dull, though no 667 The same week in which I Femmes," in which a brillian the five dreary acts of in vain to make long-winded teresting, and to make the w the better reason, I saw a n je voulais." This has no p literary merit, it has no great and there was no star actor from the first word to the las fascinating, so that I hated t tain fall. It is to be transla duced in New York. It is only fair to add that performances by Guitry d houses; "L'Ecole des Femm eral weeks, and it will be "Le Misanthrope," a far Furthermore, the audiences siastic. But is this becaus towering reputation, or beca lutely dominates the stage imperial fashion, or becau really interested them? I The French love their own love: the Parisian ch I heard Guitry. seems to amount to e gives an ensemble very character in the 1. Guitry makes it a dinstead of the hero The appears to be in Guitry somehow or terpret him as a man honor. But, in spite resources as an actor, ssic intolerably dull. confess that I have y of Molière's on the me or transported me though not so dull as le and Racine. I am what I am saying is is an accurate record The vast majority of tic works are not in1 audiences-that six eare's plays still hold languages is simply is unique excellence as Take Goethe's mple; it is a literary le magnitude and imle stage, what a bore atre. n which I sat through cts of "L'Ecole des a brilliant actor tried g-winded speeches inake the worse appear I saw a new play, "Si has no pretensions to s no great personages, star actor; but it was, to the last, absolutely I hated to see the cur>e translated and pro L. idd that these Molière Guitry draw crowded es Femmes" ran sevwill be succeeded by ' a far greater play. of Guitry's udiences were enthu se abso least eclectic in the world. Putting it sweepingly, most Continental cities would say: If there is any good play in any foreign language, we want to see it as soon as possible. The French would say: What is the use of translating foreign plays when we have so many good ones of our own? Such a generalization is, of course, unjust; but it roughly represents a point of view. or for any of the characters. It is, like all of his work, beautifully written; and of course there is an æsthetic pleasure in savoring so many well-turned phrases. But it is a dead book, and smells of the tomb. It is impossible to read it with gusto, and it takes an effort to read it at all. It is a historical novel, dealing with the period after the Revolutionary War, and the political fight to a finish between the waning Federalists and the waxing Republicans is clearly portrayed. Bale of Balisand is an uncompromising Federalist, and the book is chiefly concerned with a revelation and an analysis of his various moods. But if Mr. Hergesheimer intended Bale to be a representative Southern gentleman, he has lamentably failed; for whatever Bale is, he is most emphatically not a gentleman. Sodden with alcohol, half-drunk most of the time, irritable, quarrelsome, brutal, insulting in conversation, he has hardly a redeeming quality except physical courage. Of that indeed he has a plenty. The tenacity of his political opinions, instead of being the sign of a noble, exalted intellect, that will not compromise to suit a more popular fashion, is, in his case, merely the stupid obstinacy of a mind hermetically sealed. To me the most interesting daily paper in Paris is Comedia. It is filled with articles of great value and suggestiveness, and its professional dramatic criticisms are penetrating. The other day one of its contributors certainly "started something." M. Pierre Brisson, in an essay called "Le Théâtre Juif," said that the Jews wrote the largest proportion of contemporary plays in Paris. In addition, said he, to two dramatists of commanding importance, Georges de Porto-Riche and Henry Bernstein, there are Tristan Bernard, Pierre Wolff, Francis de Croisset, Edmond Sée, Nozière, Alfred Savoir, André Picard, Romain Coolus, Henri Duvernois, Edmond Fleg, and among the younger men, Jacques Natanson, JeanJacques Bernard, André Lang, Adolphe Orna, Henry Marx. It appears that it is easy to name a long list, perhaps a clear majority of playwrights. But is there anything in his thesis? He believes that the Jews are all alike in a certain downrightness; that they have more force than intelligence; more brutality than subtlety; more sensuality than tenderness. Their works are "stronger" than the works of other Frenchmen, "mais que notre faiblesse m'est chère!" Naturally this candid article stirred up many writers, both Jews and others; so that finally the editor of the paper had to call a halt on the discussion. Personally, I don't believe there is anything in it. It is true that many plays are written by Jews, but I cannot see that Jewish human nature is really any different from other human nature; any more than I believe that Americans are more materialistic or keener lovers of money than Europeans. I read Joseph Hergesheimer's latest It is a pity that the attractive heroine fell down-stairs and broke her neck; because that particular dinner party, to which she was descending, would have been filled with excitement, she being engaged to one of the men and in love with another; furthermore, she is the most interesting person in the story, and I regret to see her disposed of in so summary a fashion. If Mr. Hergesheimer possessed, together with his indubitable gift of style, more vitality, more humor, more sympathy, more humanity, what splendid works he might produce! There are few living writers who have a better command of the resources of the English language. "The Old Ladies" is Hugh Walpole's masterpiece. He has surpassed his best previous efforts that is, he has written a book that is better than "The Cathedral" and "The Green Mirror." As a novelist, his specialty has been the Old Lady. Many of his old ladies |