The money obtained by these representations will be spent in the restoration of the theatre, and it is expected in time to make Orange the centre of classic drama, as Beyreuth is that of Wagnerian music.
At Lyons, the cortège was to leave the Paris train and take boats down the Rhône, to their destination. Their programme was so tempting6 that the offer of places in one of the craft was enough to lure7 us away from our prearranged route.
By eight o’clock the following morning, we were on foot, as was apparently8 the entire city. A cannon9 fired from Fort Lamothe gave the signal of our start. The river, covered with a thousand gayly decorated craft, glinted and glittered in the morning light. It world be difficult to forget that scene,—the banks of the Rhône were lined with the rural population, who had come miles in every direction to acclaim10 the passage of their poets.
Everywhere along our route the houses were gayly decorated and arches of flowers had been erected11. We float past Vienne, a city once governed by Pontius Pilate, and Tournon, with its feudal12 château, blue in the distance, then Saint Peray, on a verdant13 vine-clad slope. As we pass under the bridge at Montélimar, an avalanche14 of flowers descends15 on us from above.
The rapid current of the river soon brings our flotilla opposite Vivier, whose Gothic cathedral bathes its feet in the Rhône. Saint Esprit and its antique bridge appear next on the horizon. Tradition asserts that the Holy Spirit, disguised as a stone mason, directed its construction; there were thirteen workmen each day, but at sunset, when the men gathered to be paid, but twelve could be counted.
Here the mayor and the municipal council were to have received us and delivered an address, but were not on hand. We could see the tardy16 cortège hastening towards the bridge as we shot away down stream.
On nearing Orange, the banks and quays17 of the river are alive with people. The high road, parallel with the stream, is alive with a many-colored throng18. On all sides one hears the language of Mistral, and recognizes the music of Mireille sung by these pilgrims to an artistic19 Mecca, where a miracle is to be performed—and classic art called forth20 from its winding21-sheet.
The population of a whole region is astir under the ardent22 Provençal sun, to witness a resurrection of the Drama in the historic valley of the Rhône, through whose channel the civilization and art and culture of the old world floated up into Europe to the ceaseless cry of the cigales.
Châteaurenard! our water journey is ended. Through the leafy avenues that lead to Orange, we see the arch of Marius and the gigantic proscenium of the theatre, rising above the roofs of the little city.
So few of our compatriots linger in the south of France after the spring has set in, or wander in the by-ways of that inexhaustible country, that a word about the representations at Orange may be of interest, and perchance create a desire to see the masterpieces of classic drama (the common inheritance of all civilized23 races) revived with us, and our stage put to its legitimate24 use, cultivating and elevating the taste of the people.
One would so gladly see a little of the money that is generously given for music used to revive in America a love for the classic drama.
We are certainly not inferior to our neighbors in culture or appreciation25, and yet such a performance as I witnessed at Orange (laying aside the enchantment26 lent by the surroundings) would not be possible here. Why? But to return to my narrative27.
The sun is setting as we toil28, ticket in hand, up the Roman stairway to the upper rows of seats; far below the local gendarmerie who mostly understand their orders backwards29 are struggling with the throng, whose entrance they are apparently obstructing30 by every means in their power. Once seated, and having a wait of an hour before us, we amused ourselves watching the crowd filling in every corner of the vast building, like a rising tide of multi-colored water.
We had purposely chosen places on the highest and most remote benches, to test the vaunted acoustic31 qualities of the auditorium32, and to obtain a view of the half-circle of humanity, the gigantic wall back of the stage, and the surrounding country.
As day softened33 into twilight34, and twilight deepened into a luminous35 Southern night; the effect was incomparable. The belfries and roofs of mediæval Orange rose in the clear air, overtopping the half ruined theatre in many places. The arch of Marius gleamed white against the surrounding hills, themselves violet and purple in the sunset, their shadow broken here and there by the outline of a crumbling36 château or the lights of a village.
Behind us the sentries37 paced along the wall, wrapped in their dark cloaks; and over all the scene, one snowtopped peak rose white on the horizon, like some classic virgin38 assisting at an Olympian solemnity.
On the stage, partly cleared of the débris of fifteen hundred years, trees had been left where they had grown, among fallen columns, fragments of capital and statue; near the front a superb rose-laurel recalled the Attic39 shores. To the right, wild grasses and herbs alternated with thick shrubbery, among which Orestes hid later, during the lamentations of his sister. To the left a gigantic fig-tree, growing again the dark wall, threw its branches far out over the stage.
It was from behind its foliage41 that “Gaul,” “Provence,” and “France,” personated by three actresses of the “Français,” advanced to salute42 Apollo, seated on his rustic43 throne, in the prologue44 which began the performance.
Since midday the weather had been threatening. At seven o’clock there was almost a shower—a moment of terrible anxiety. What a misfortune if it should rain, just as the actors were to appear, here, where it had not rained for nearly four months! My right-hand neighbor, a citizen of Beaucaire, assures me, “It will be nothing, only a strong ‘mistral’ for to-morrow.” An electrician is putting the finishing touches to his arrangements. He tries vainly to concentrate some light on the box where the committee is to sit, which is screened by a bit of crumbling wall, but finally gives it up.
Suddenly the bugles45 sound; the orchestra rings out the Marseillaise; it is eight o’clock. The sky is wild and threatening. An unseen hand strikes the three traditional blows. The Faun Lybrian slips down from a branch of a great elm, and throws himself on the steps that later are to represent the entrance to the palace of Agamemnon, and commences the prologue (an invocation to Apollo), in the midst of such confusion that we hear hardly a word. Little by little, however, the crowd quiets down, and I catch Louis Gallet’s fine lines, marvellously phrased by Mesdames Bartet, Dudlay, Moreno, and the handsome Fenoux as Apollo.
The real interest of the public is only aroused, however, when The Erynnies begins. This powerful adaptation from the tragedy of Æschylus is the chef d’œuvre of Leconte de Lisle. The silence is now complete. One feels in the air that the moment so long and so anxiously awaited has come, that a great event is about to take place. Every eye is fixed46 on the stage, waiting to see what will appear from behind the dark arches of the proscenium. A faint, plaintive47 strain of music floats out on the silence. Demons48 crawl among the leafy shadows. Not a light is visible, yet the centre of the stage is in strong relief, shading off into a thousand fantastic shadows. The audience sits in complete darkness. Then we see the people of Argos, winding toward us from among the trees, lamenting49, as they have done each day for ten years, the long absence of their sons and their king. The old men no longer dare to consult the oracles50, fearing to learn that all is lost. The beauty of this lament40 roused the first murmur51 of applause, each word, each syllable52, chiming out across that vast semicircle with a clearness and an effect impossible to describe.
Now it is the sentinel, who from his watch-tower has caught the first glimpse of the returning army. We hear him dashing like a torrent53 down the turret54 stair; at the doorway55, his garments blown by the wind, his body bending forward in a splendid pose of joy and exultation56, he announces in a voice of thunder the arrival of the king.
So completely are the twenty thousand spectators under the spell of the drama that at this news one can feel a thrill pass over the throng, whom the splendid verses hold palpitating under their charm, awaiting only the end of the tirade57 to break into applause.
From that moment the performance is one long triumph. Clytemnestra (Madame Lerou) comes with her suite58 to receive the king (Mounet-Sully), the conqueror59! I never realized before all the perfection that training can give the speaking voice. Each syllable seemed to ring out with a bell-like clearness. As she gradually rose in the last act to the scene with Orestes, I understood the use of the great wall behind the actors. It increased the power of the voices and lent them a sonority60 difficult to believe. The effect was overwhelming when, unable to escape death, Clytemnestra cries out her horrible imprecations.
Mounet-Sully surpassed himself. Paul Mounet gave us the complete illusion of a monster thirsting for blood, even his mother’s! When striking her as she struck his father, he answers her despairing query61, “Thou wouldst not slay62 thy mother?” “Woman, thou hast ceased to be a mother!” Dudlay (as Cassandra) reaches a splendid climax63 when she prophesies64 the misfortune hanging over her family, which she is powerless to avert65.
It is impossible in feeble prose to give any idea of the impression those lines produce in the stupendous theatre, packed to its utmost limits—the wild night, with a storm in the air, a stage which seems like a clearing in some forest inhabited by Titans, the terrible tragedy of Æschylus following the graceful66 fête of Apollo.
After the unavoidable confusion at the beginning, the vast audience listen in profound silence to an expression of pure art. They are no longer actors we hear, but demi-gods. With voices of the storm, possessed67 by some divine afflatus68, thundering out verses of fire—carried out of themselves in a whirlwind of passion, like antique prophets and Sibyls foretelling69 the misfortunes of the world!
That night will remain immutably70 fixed in my memory, if I live to be as old as the theatre itself. We were so moved, my companion and I, and had seen the crowd so moved, that fearing to efface71 the impression if we returned the second night to see Antigone, we came quietly away, pondering over it all, and realizing once again that a thing of beauty is a source of eternal delight.
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1
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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8
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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12
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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13
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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16
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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26
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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27
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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29
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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30
obstructing
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| 阻塞( obstruct的现在分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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acoustic
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| adj.听觉的，声音的；(乐器)原声的 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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33
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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34
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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36
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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39
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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40
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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41
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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42
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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43
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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44
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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45
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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46
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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47
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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48
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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49
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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50
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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51
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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52
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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53
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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54
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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56
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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57
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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58
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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sonority
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| n.响亮，宏亮 | |
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61
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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afflatus
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| n.灵感，神感 | |
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foretelling
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的现在分词 ) | |
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immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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