[In the following essay, Smith compares the three main influences involved in the modification of Dumas and Augier's Social drama, including Becque and the Theatre Libre.]

The significant work of Dumas and Augier was done by 1880, and with the weakening of their master hands, the chief faults of the form of drama they represented became apparent. The most fundamental of these was the artificial duality caused by combining the well-made play of Scribe, a comedy of intrigue complete in itself, with a social study, a character analysis, or the demonstration of a thesis. This inherent lack of singleness of purpose, difficult to conceal except for a master of dramatic art, and the further mingling in the same play of all forms of the serious and of the comic theatre, best exemplified in Sardou's pieces, were sure to bring about a strong reaction from the French, whose conception of art and of beauty lies so much in unity of aim and harmony of tone.

The inevitable revolt against these and other minor faults is perhaps coincident with the positive attempt of Naturalism to capture the stage, more than it is a result of this endeavor, but the two movements are inseparably united. They did not lead to the formation of a new school or genre—in fact, the attempt of the Naturalists to establish a school of drama failed quickly and decidedly—but they modified sufficiently the course of the theatre to make this an important date. The result was not only to overthrow the tyranny of the well-made play and simplify the genres, as well as to abolish minor conventions, but especially to win greater freedom in general; recent and contemporary drama has been free to follow various channels, and has been little hampered by any rules except those inherent in the theatre.

The three chief agencies in this attempt to modify the Social drama of Dumas and Augier are Henri Becque, the Naturalistic school of the novel headed by Zola, and the Théâtre Libre, founded by Antoine. The cooperation of all three might be thought of as the effort of extreme realism, or Naturalism, to establish itself on the stage.

Literary realism is a relative term, varying with the epoch; there is the realism of Molière, of Dumas fils, and of Becque or Zola. Moreover, it can not be taken simply as a truthful picture of life at any time, although that may be its professed ambition; there is frequently much in it that is quite conventional, perhaps even unrepresentative of life as a whole. The extreme realism of 1880 had as dominant characteristics its interest in the physical, sordid and ignoble sides of life, or at least in common, everyday life, and a pessimistic philosophy or point of view. Its methods professed to be inductive, and it secured its effects largely by an accumulation of detail, in the manner of the scientist who arrives at general laws through experiments and the collection of phenomena.

The general causes underlying Naturalism are for the most part those mentioned as explaining the realism of 1850, but some of them have been intensified and others can be added.

The pessimistic point of view of Naturalistic literature is the result of various influences. It is true that a strain of pessimism can always be found in the French drama, and, at times, it is quite marked with the writers of the Romantic school, who preceded the realists. But with the Romanticists it is more frequently a matter of mood and not a permanent point of view. With the realists, and particularly the Naturalists, it is erected into a philosophic system; indeed, it takes philosophy as its basis.

The current philosophy of this period, positivism and determinism, the philosophy of Comte, Taine and Renan, was frankly skeptical. If it did not entirely eliminate God, it largely took away the faith and consolation of the church and religion. We are not concerned here with the truth or falsity of such philosophy; the only question is that of its immediate effect, and it is certain that such skepticism, if it attacks seriously faith and religion, the hope, consolation and idealism which these give, makes for pessimism. However, a reasoned philosophy is more a matter for the educated few than for the masses, and there were other more general causes of pessimism.

Not the least of these general influences was the condition of French national or political life just at this time. It was the discouraging period following the French defeats of 1870, in the midst of the difficult struggle to reëstablish stable government. The generation writing from 1880 to 1890 had passed through this troubled epoch at its most impressionable age, and even the older generation was profoundly affected by it. We have seen the echoes in the theatre of Dumas and Augier. A more striking example could be found in Taine's comparison of the English and the French governments, often so pessimistic with regard to the latter.

The influence of science, democracy and commercialism has been mentioned in the chapter on the Realistic theatre, but it had become intensified in 1880. The materialism is especially to be noted. Old standards had fallen. The nobility, with its code of honor, noblesse oblige, had largely passed, and the clergy had lost much of its power and influence. Money was a greater force than ever before in French society, and in many ways a corrupting one. It was not surprising, then, that the moralist—and the French dramatist is frequently a moralist—should judge such society pessimistically.

But after all, realism, Naturalism, and pessimism were the natural stages in the inexorable progress of the logical French mind, starting with the Romantic principle that art should imitate nature and that all life is the proper field of drama. The Romanticists and the early realists combined the elevated and the common sides of life, but it was certain that the French artistic sense and love of unity would in the end revolt and tend, in a single play, to devote itself to the one or the other. With a number of converging influences to aid, and above all through the attraction of a largely unworked vein, this meant for the prevailing Realistic School the field of common or sordid life, and in the end the exploitation of the ignoble character.

The process is gradual and is marked by the restriction of the sympathetic figures, to the point finally of substantial elimination. This in itself means pessimism, and its ultimate goal is the comédie rosse, where all the characters are too contemptible to merit the interest of a respectable audience. Such a play, whatever be its technique or ending, if it is taken seriously, is pessimistic.

These were the chief influences which before 1880 had already established Naturalism in the novel, where much more easily than in the theatre this mode of expression finds its place. Zola was at this time the high priest of the Naturalistic novel, and, as we know, he gave more than his blessing to this attempt to capture the stage. He himself wrote plays and dramatized some of his novels, as a rule quite unsuccessfully, and especially he proclaimed much of the theory in numerous articles on the stage. Other writers, such as Curel and Hervieu, also began with the novel.

It is particularly interesting to note in the articles of Zola that he is not aware that there are any inherent differences between the novel and the theatre—and this attitude is most frequent in attacks at this time on the various conventions of the stage. It is not surprising, then, that Zola, and other novelists who were unable to comprehend the stage, should fail in their attempts to give a new dramatic formula. They might supply the theatre with an atmosphere of extreme Naturalism and offer the stimulation of success in another field, but the examples of this new comedy must come from some one with dramatic talent. This was the work of Henri Becque.

HENRI BECQUE (1837-1899)

Becque's dramas can hardly be called the models of the Naturalistic theatre, since he was so rare a combination of certain very decided qualities—with others wholly absent—that he is really inimitable; but he first successfully overthrew the chief barriers that the Naturalists were attacking and led them on the stage, where each comported himself according to his principles and particular character—in most cases very badly. When the most extreme were driven off by outraged taste and decency, the really worthy were able to carry forward French drama in a new atmosphere of freedom, but their work is decidedly different from that of Becque, and they hardly owe him more than the liberty to follow each his bent.

Henri Becque, who was born and lived at Paris, led a life of poverty and controversy. The latter, at least, would seem largely his own fault. He was a misanthrope to the point of abnormality, and rejoiced in the most cruel attacks on his colleagues and on humanity in general. His failure to succeed as a playwright, in any broad or popular sense, he attributed to the ill will, or persecution of theatrical managers, and to the stupidity of the public. He went so far as to bring suit against one manager for refusing a play, and he takes vengeance on the public in all of his pieces.

His dramatic output is small, consisting of only seven or eight plays, and of these only two are really important, Les Corbeaux in 1882 and La Parisienne in 1885.

The subject of Les Corbeaux is the despoiling of the Vigneron family. The mother, three daughters and a good-for-nothing son, on the sudden death of M. Vigneron, a well-to-do manufacturer, are left in the clutches of a dishonest partner and an unprincipled notary, as well as of a horde of other corbeaux, and are plucked of all their heritage. One of the daughters is finally forced to marry this partner, a sixty-year old Harpagon, to save the helpless family from abject poverty.

The action of the play is hardly more exciting than the résumé just given. Its style and composition are absolute in their simplicity and hard realism. There is not a sign of color, not a tirade, not a single theatrical coup, nothing but bitter irony to give life or flavor. There is no plot beyond that indicated, the inexorable closing in of the vultures about their helpless prey, and these victims are too weak to do more than flutter in an aimless way. It is in plot and technique the Naturalist's famous “bleeding slice of life.”

Human nature is seen at its worst. The victims do not count; they are only food for the vultures. It is in the circling, the croaking and the satisfaction of these latter that we find whatever drama there is; and of them all, the partner, the notary, the music teacher, the architect, the furnisher, the fiancé and his mother, not one shows a spark of honesty or honor, nor a moment's impulse of compassion. One would expect them to appear inhuman monsters, therefore, and yet that is exactly what they resemble least, and it is here that we find the supreme art of the author. Their villainy is so natural and so unconscious that it seems proper, and, in listening to them, we have only one doubt: are they honest like ourselves or are we dishonest like them?

The picture is complete in its realism both of language and detail, and perfect in its observation. However, its value may be questioned. It has no conclusion except its unrelieved pessimism, and, natural as this seems, it is certainly a most narrow and one-sided view of life. A family without a member or a friend sufficiently strong to defend its rights, in business contact with none but rascals, may be possible, but it is certainly rare. The author does not juggle the cards during the game in the way the Naturalists accused Dumas and Augier of doing, but he picks all the aces and kings before he begins. And the interest of this play, in any broad way, at least, is as questionable as its value as a picture of life. It is keen and strong, but somber and unentertaining; and the only serious reflection it invites is that we are all fundamentally dishonorable and egoistic—which is either an absurd bit of irony or a philosophic truth too remote to affect practical life.

La Parisienne is an even narrower “slice of life,” the traditional little triangle, no broader or thicker than a tea sandwich. Clotilde is a perfect wife and a model mistress. As a lesson to her lover, and to secure an advantage to her husband, she dismisses this first lover and turns to another, but her sense of order and love of a serious, settled existence quickly reassert themselves and she returns to the first, and the perfect triangle is reestablished. The plot ends exactly where it began.

Its artistry is of the same sort as that of Les Corbeaux but even more flawless. The simple beauty of Clotilde's unconscious perversity would be almost touching if the author had not so rigidly excluded all sentiment from actions so natural and dignified. In fact, Becque has in this play arrived at such a perfect mastery of this genre that he occasionally allows his characters to give little moral lectures, without their seeming out of place. Take, for example, the one uttered by Clotilde's lover when he learns that she is on friendly terms with a frivolous and somewhat ultra-modern society lady.

Think of me, Clotilde, and think of yourself. Consider that an imprudent act is quickly committed and can never be repaired. Don't let yourself yield to this inclination for risky adventures, which today makes so many victims. Resist, Clotilde, resist! In remaining faithful to me you remain worthy and honorable.¹

But one should not infer from the above passage that Clotilde's virtue was really in danger. This is nothing but Lafont's jealousy. How strongly anchored her principles were in all matters we see throughout the play, and she even acknowledges that they are somewhat old-fashioned:

You mean that I am old-fashioned! I haven't changed. Oh, as for that, yes, you are right; I am downright conservative. I love order, tranquillity and sound principles. I want to have the churches open when I care to go to them. … You are a free-thinker! I believe you would even get along with a mistress who had no religion. How horrible to think of it!²

And all this appears entirely sincere and unconscious on Clotilde's part. As was said, she is a model wife and mistress. Her devotion to her husband and concern for his interests are unfaltering. Also, she wishes the best of relations and good feeling between the members of her ménage à trois. She even goes so far as to accuse Lafont of not caring enough for her husband—quite unjustly, for the two men are the best of friends:

CLOTILDE.
You don't like my husband!
LAFONT.
Why, yes, I do, I assure you.
CLOTILDE.
No, I warrant you that you don't. You don't care for Adolphe, I can see it in many ways. Perhaps it is because your characters don't agree, or possibly it is the situation that is responsible for it.”(3)

The peculiar merit, then, of Becque is that he puts on the stage characters capable of any baseness and without the slightest moral consciousness, but who preserve the language, sentiments and outward appearances of the most honorable of people. This is the comédie rosse. La Parisienne is the first perfect example, perhaps, and certainly it is one of the most artistic. It is because of its artistic qualities that the French, even the serious critics, have so frequently admired the play. Except for this artistry, and for its constant irony, it is difficult to find anything of value in it. One can hardly accuse the author of confusing vice and virtue in his characters, since virtue is absent, but one can not help thinking how difficult it has been made for virtue to secure a certificate of good moral character when she does return. In any case, such pictures of life are almost discouraging to the maintenance of respectability, and if the author's point of view were general, one might hesitate to practice any virtues, in order to avoid the accusation of hypocrisy.

Becque has discarded the technique of the pièce bien faite. His plays do not come to an end. The curtain falls when the author has got all he can out of his situations and characters. The conclusion is left to the audience. The Naturalists' argument was that life does not begin or end, and all one can do is to give a cross-section of it. If this cross-section means something, all the better, but in any case they held that one must give it as it is, without intervention on the part of the author, and even without attempting to apply or explain it. They abolished the raisonneur and made the theatre purely objective. Especially, one should not touch up his pictures to make them more beautiful or agreeable. The public must learn to look life squarely in the face, however disagreeable that face may be.

This latter principle would have been more reasonable if the Naturalists had not chosen so regularly to visit life in her ugly moods. They objected to colored photography, but their own pictures were too constantly confined to the Rogue's Gallery. Human nature is seen only at its worst, and there is no relief of comedy, none of spirituality, nor of imagination, while the bitter irony practically destroys the possibility of sentiment. The tone is single and simple throughout, but it is also frequently somber and monotonous.

The chief merits of this theatre are its reliance on observation, and its power of character analysis, in which it places the main interest. These qualities, with the further freedom that had been won from the too narrow restraint of plot, form the new starting point of the modern theatre, the one from which most of contemporary French drama proceeds.

The immediate effect, however, of Becque's philosophy and characters was something very different. Unfortunately, his cynical views of life accorded too perfectly with the wave of pessimism that existed among the young writers of France in the last two decades of the nineteenth century, and for a time baseness became the theatrical fashion. While Becque should not be held responsible for all the excesses of his followers, there is no doubt that he first, in his comédie rosse, took away all virtue from comedy and gave it the taste of vice that started it on its famous Naturalistic orgy in the days of the Théâtre Libre, an orgy ended only when delirium tremens forced it to become sober.

THE THéâTRE LIBRE OF ANTOINE (1887-1894)

The Théâtre Libre, founded and controlled by Antoine from 1887 to 1894, is generally considered as the practical manifestation on the stage of the extreme realistic reforms typified by Zola and the Naturalistic novel and exemplified in the plays of Becque. Since it coincided with other influences and came at a period of natural reaction against certain features of the drama in vogue, it is not sure that it had all the importance in the development of the French theatre that is sometimes given to it. But whether it be simply the gnat buzzing on the yoke or really one of the oxen pulling the load up the hill, it offers in any case a suitable peg on which to hang the date of a partial reform in the modern French drama, and it illustrates in itself the limitations and failure of extreme realism, or Naturalism, on the stage.

André Antoine was a humble clerk in the Gas Company at Paris. He had had but slight education and little experience as an amateur actor when he founded the Théâtre Libre, but he was irresistibly attracted to the stage, and he soon developed remarkable qualities as an actor. In later years, through the originality and sheer force of his native genius, he became the outstanding theatrical manager of France.

He organized his theatre with the cooperation of a few amateur actors. They were absolutely without funds, and only on his monthly pay day was Antoine able to furnish the rent for the small hall they had hired; he even carried his letters of advertisement himself, to save postage. His first performance, in 1887, was a very doubtful success, and it required still greater courage and efforts to undertake another. However, this second performance brought valuable public notice, and he was encouraged to resign from the gas office and devote himself entirely to the project. The theatre flourished for four or five years and then declined, and Antoine resigned from it in 1894. Later he became a well-known actor, organized another theatre, and was for some years director of the National Theatre of the Odéon.

The avowed aim of the Théâtre Libre was to give opportunity to unknown authors, especially to those representing the Naturalistic ideas, and one of its greatest glories has been to bring before the public a number of new names which have since become famous in the French drama. Brieux and Curel are among those who were discovered by Antoine. Also the Théâtre Libre was one of the first theatres at Paris to represent any considerable number of foreign plays. Ibsen, Tolstoy, Hauptmann, and various other foreign dramatists found place on its programs, and along with the organization of the Oeuvre theatre, which has devoted itself particularly to this field, it inaugurated a much to be desired practice in France. The French have been exceptional, and on the whole quite unjustified, in the slight attention they have given to foreign plays, and notable progress has been made in correcting this attitude during the past thirty years.

It is probable, however, that the greatest service of the Théâtre Libre is to be found in its attack on French theatrical conventions, particularly on the style of acting and staging. The French have been unique in this respect. Conservative, and even given to routine by nature, and with all their drama first produced at Paris, in theatres subsidized in part by the government and aided by the National Conservatory, they have kept their theatrical traditions most intact.

No doubt, many of these are admirable, but they were largely formed in the Classic or, at latest, Romantic schools, in the elevated, heroic genres, and were strikingly out of keeping with the spirit of the realistic drama in the second half of the nineteenth century. Moreover, this incongruity is heightened by the natural French love of fine rhetoric, which is so foreign to Anglo-Saxons. The dramatic tirade, which by its oratory lifts a Frenchman out of his seat and makes an American wish to crawl under his, still persisted in the realistic prose drama at this time, where it was clearly not at home; it was perhaps even an anachronism in the temper of modern society.

Antoine attacked all these conventions and succeeded in transforming some of them. As in other things, his actors often went too far. They talked into the fire and turned their backs too much to the audience, and sometimes did not make themselves understood, but in general their influence in changing theatrical conventions was salutary. It is only to be regretted that the strength of French tradition has prevented it from extending further. Antoine was one of the first in France, following the initiative of Sardou, to utilize fully the crowd on the stage, and his reforms in regard to realism and simplicity in staging were excellent.

If there were more revolutionists such as he to attack the abuses that still exist in the Paris theatres, due to routine and tradition, the really remarkable merit of the French theatre today would be more immediately apparent, at least to foreigners. It is true that many of these abuses are minor, relating to ticket-selling, seating, scenery and declamation, and the French may well point out that “the play's the thing,” but this can hardly justify eighteenth century conditions in the theatre. In fact such conditions seem all the more regrettable, when they tend to mar the enjoyment of the perfect diction and admirable art of the actors to be found in the well-balanced performances given by the national, and by the other good theatres at Paris.

The Théâtre Libre was a subscription theatre. It was able thus to escape the censor, and to present plays that were forbidden on the other stages, but it also had the disadvantage of being confined to a restricted public. This was one of the causes of its decline. Encouraged by the applause of the partisans of Naturalism, and yielding also to his own preferences, Antoine, who had at first welcomed plays widely different in form and spirit, soon turned almost exclusively to the Naturalistic form, and even to a special type of it written for his theatre.

This type may be best comprehended as a deformation of Becque's comédie rosse. Becque's dramatic characters are despicable at heart but impeccable in manner and speech; in fact the essence of his art is in this contrast between their real character and their assumption of the complete guise of honorable people. The characters created by the extremists of the Théâtre Libre are not only despicable but delight in being so. They are base, ignoble creatures who rejoice in covering themselves with mud. The chief effort of these young authors seems to have been to scandalize the bourgeois—except when they delighted in puzzling him with disconnected scenes and plays without beginning or end.

In short, there are to be found all the disagreeable features of Naturalism: pessimism, coarseness and ugliness; and all of the anarchy in technique that was a protest against the well-made play. The public was soon disgusted. Extreme realism, such as is found in some of the novels of the Zola school, was clearly proven to be impossible on the stage. The Théâtre Libre failed as a purely Naturalistic genre.

Possibly the success of French Naturalism dealing with common and vulgar characters would have been greater on the stage, if it had been less cynical and contemptuous toward the life it so largely treats. In this respect, French realism seems to distinguish itself, in degree at least, from the realism of other countries. There is in Russian Naturalism, for example, a certain mysticism, doubtless a product of faith and religion, which gives it hope and some spirituality; and in English realism one finds a sentimental sympathy for the common characters, often even for those most ugly and sordid, which again keeps such literature from being so entirely cynical and depressing as that characteristically written by the French.

A complete explanation of the causes for the attitude of the French is perhaps difficult and too complex to be attempted here. However, one of the chief reasons is to be found in their conception of the artistic and beautiful, in their fondness for the perfect in line and form, and in their consequent contempt for the coarse and common clay with which they must work in this genre. In any case, the French rarely show the hearty enjoyment often found by the English in the common and vulgar scenes of life, and in the drama especially, where good humor, sympathy and emotion are such necessary appeals, the scientific hardness of French realism is a serious handicap.

The shortcomings and failures of the Naturalistic reforms treated here are obvious, but there are also important gains from this attempted revolution. No entirely new and important genres were set up. Authors continued to write plays of the same general character as before, often even the outright Social dramas of Dumas and Augier, but usually with modified forms and emphasis. Above all, the tyranny of the well-made play was overthrown and plot became less rigid and less important. Action was made dependent on the characters instead of having the characters controlled by the action, as was often the case before; and with this tyranny of plot broken down, both life and characters can be presented more fairly.

Most important of all, there has been a decided tendency away from drama dealing with specific problems and social questions, toward an analysis of character; there is less social and political science, and more psychology, philosophy and humanity.

This seems a decided gain. The only dramatic subject of perennial and universal interest is human nature, mankind. It is entirely proper, and perhaps even necessary, to study human nature in connection with its external manifestations, its reactions toward the life and problems of the day, but this study should emphasize man and not simply his actions. The French theatre, then, has returned far toward Molière. He too was a realist, a satirist and a philosopher, and he also was a writer of social drama, if the emphasis is placed on character as was just stated.

Furthermore, we find a complete restoration of the theatre of observation—with imagination again under restraint. It will be noted that this faculty of the mind is entirely absent in Becque. This subordination of imagination is the usual French tradition. And finally there is again, as in the Classic period, a decided tendency toward unity and harmony of tone, toward a separation of the kinds, or at least against such mingling as was found in the plays of Sardou. The separation of the genres is so much in conformance with the French ideas of order and beauty that it seems likely to reestablish itself, largely without any specific effort to this effect. All these tendencies will be noted in the contemporary authors who inherited from this reform.

Notes

1. Act I, scene I.

2. Act I, scene III.

3. Act III, scene VI.