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 American Toyr, 1893, 
 
 ELEO/^ORa DUSE, 
 
 UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OE 
 
 Messrs. CARL AND THEODOR ROSENFELD. 
 
 tFERNANDE^i^ 
 
 By VICTORIEN , SARDOU. 
 
 |The Only Correct and Authentic vSynopsis of the Play ; taken from the 
 Prompt Book of Signof.a Eleonora Duse ; together with a 
 Sketch of Her Life, by Antonio Bracco. 
 
 PUBLISHED AND COPYRIGHTED BY 
 
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 1127 Broad waj'. New York. 
 
 1893. 
 
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American Tour, I 893, 
 
 OF 
 
 ELEOyMORa DUSE, 
 
 UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF 
 
 Messrs. CARL AND THEODOR ROSENFELD. 
 
 --H$h'l€»~ 
 
 # FERNANDE # 
 
 By VICTORIEN SARDOU, 
 
 // 
 
 The Only Correct and Authentic Synopsis of the Play ; taken from the 
 
 Prompt-Book of Signora Eleonora Duse ; together with a 
 
 Sketch of Her Life, by Antonio Bracco. 
 
 i^. 
 
 PUBLISHED AND COPYRIGHTED BY 
 
 CARL AND THEODOR ROSENFELD, 
 1127 Broadway, Ne^^v Yorlc, 
 
 1893. 
 
 Stuyvhsant Press, 
 
 154 & 156 West 27th Street, 
 
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REPERTORY. 
 
 DiVORCONS, 
 
 Adrienne Lecouvreur, 
 
 Anthony and Cleopatra, 
 
 Tristi Amori, 
 
 Fedora, 
 Camille, 
 
 Fernande, 
 
 Nora cdolus house), 
 La Locandiera, 
 
 Francillon, 
 La Femme de Claude, 
 Le Vergini, 
 
 Frou-Frou, 
 
 Cavalleria Rusticana, 
 Odette. 
 
 MEMBERS OF COMPANY. 
 
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 Messrs. Alberto Buffo, 
 
 " Antonio Galliam, 
 
 " Ettore Maryanti, 
 
 " Leo Orlandini, 
 
 •" Silvia Bonivento, 
 
 " Nicola Cartesi, 
 
 " Napoleone Bianco, 
 
 " GlAOCHINO GraSSI, 
 
 *' RiCCARDO CaIMMI, 
 
 *'■ Pietro Betti, 
 
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 Mesdames Giuseppina Tolarzi, 
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 Eleonora Ropolo, 
 Gristina Buffi, 
 Anna Alberici, 
 Virginia Alberici, 
 GiLDA Bonivento. 
 
 M105458 
 
Fe 
 
 rnande: 
 
 Drama in Four Acts, by Victorien Sardou. 
 
 CAST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 The Marquis Andr6 D'Arcis is a genuine Parisian viveur, whose fine 
 character is shown by his marriage with Fernande Senechal, but still 
 more by the magnanimity with which he pardons a false step of her 
 past life. As a bachelor he led the loose life of men of his caste, 
 but after his marriage he becomes a model husband. 
 
 Clotilde, a young widow, who loves the Marquis, becomes aware that he is 
 enamored of another one she sheltered in her house and whose life 
 has not been without blemish. After having artfully wrung the 
 confession from the Marquis that he loves her no longer, she concocts 
 her plan of revenge — a plan unworthy of her character and explicable 
 only as the result of jealously. 
 
 PoMEROL, the lawyer, once a lively bachelor, but now a good husband, 
 sympathetic and kind hearted, is the "deus ex machina," who 
 appears at the right moment and averts disaster. 
 
 Georgette, his jealous little wife, who hunts for proofs of her husband's 
 
 disloyalty, but is otherwise harmless and devoted. 
 
 Madame de Brionne, ^ xt • * .. u .. • ^.u i 
 
 „ T^ ' (Unimportant persons whom we meet in the salons 
 
 The Bareness. ) of the Marquis. 
 
 Madame de Senechal, the widow of a merchant who has died leaving his 
 affairs in a complicated state, comes to Paris, gets into bad company 
 and finally opens a gambling salon. She is a weak woman, who would 
 like to change her evil way of living, but who is always dissuaded by 
 the people who gather at her house. 
 
 De Civry, a young nobleman. Introduced into the house of Madame 
 Senechal by a man who has forced his attentions upon him, he meets 
 Pomerol in her ante-room and warned by him, is energetic enough to 
 tear himself away. 
 
 Fernande, daughter of Madame Senechal's. This young girl grows up amid 
 the most demoralizing surroundings, yet rernains unsullied until one of 
 the scoundrels, profiting by her mother s imprisonment, induces her to 
 sacrifice her virtue as the prize for her mother's liberation. She 
 makes an unsuccessful attempt on her life. 
 
 Barcassin, whom we meet in the salons of Madame Senechal, is a sculptor 
 who has for years designed to model a statue of Ariadne, but has as 
 yet not even so much as touched the clay. 
 
 Amanda, Aster, Gibraltar and Therese, cocottes. 
 
 The " Commander," Don Ramire, an adventurer and swindler. 
 
 The worthy " Mama. Santa Cruz," one of the ensemble at the salon of 
 Madame Senechal. Her specialty is the harmless sport of pocketing 
 all the sugar that is off"ered to her. 
 
 Frederic is the servant who is "posted" on everything and who has to sound 
 the alarm in case of a police visitation. 
 
 ROQUEViLLE is the knave who has made himself the tyrant of Madame 
 Senechal and her daughter through " his good connections." He 
 causes the mother to be imprisoned in order to force the daughter ta 
 yield to his solicitations as the prize of her mother's liberation. 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Marquis Andr^ d'Arcis loves Clotilde, a young widow. 
 She passionately reciprocates this feeling in the assurance 
 that his whole heart is hers, nor does she in the least attempt 
 to conceal her intimacy with him, although her good name 
 suffers through it. After the lapse of some years the Mar- 
 quis' ardor gradually cools. Andre regards his relations to the 
 young and accomplished widow in the light of his many other 
 liaisons, and gradually becomes tired of even pretending to 
 love her. By chance he one evening attends a performance 
 in the suburban theatre of Montmartre. His attention is at- 
 tracted by a girl in one of the boxes, by whose beauty and 
 childlike innocence and grace he is carried away. He vainly 
 attempts to make her acquaintance. She disappears immedi- 
 ately after the performance. A few days later, after having 
 vainly searched all Paris for her, he meets her on the street, 
 yet she again eludes him by entering a store and leaving by a 
 different exit. The Marquis now redoubles his efforts, and in 
 order to be unmolested, he tells Clotilde that business calls 
 him to Blois for some days. By arranging with a friend in 
 Blois to dispatch letters for him to her at regular intervals he 
 makes Clotilde believe that he is sojourning in Blois while he 
 is really hunting for his unknown beauty in the streets of 
 Paris. An anonymous letter informs Clotilde of the Marquis' 
 actions. In order to convince herself she resolves to go to 
 the theatre Montmartre, where he is said to pass his evenings. 
 On her way to the theatre an accident happens, her carriage 
 nearly running over a young girl. Fortunately she is pulled 
 out from under the wheels before any harm is done, and Clo- 
 tilde, who pities the beautiful and innocent-looking girl, takes 
 her into her carriage'. Her interest still increases when she 
 

 learns' t'h'at'the'^jouiVg girl has sought to take her life and had 
 thrC)>X<tt 'h^VjelfjuifcJ!^* the wheels. The young would-be sui- 
 'cidd is'Fernancle,' t'he only daughter of Madame Senechal, the 
 widow of a Bordeaux merchant, who had been ruined by un- 
 lucky speculations, had shot himself in consequence, and had 
 left his wife and daughter in the most straightened circum- 
 stances. Under an assumed name Mad. Senechal came to 
 Paris and strove in every possible way to gain a living. 
 Forced by the stress of circumstances she sank lower and 
 lower until she welcomed at her house every evening a mis- 
 cellaneous company, ostensibly for table d'hote, but in reality 
 for gambling purposes. Her house soon became a dangerous 
 gambling hell, and through the presence of fallen women also 
 a house of ill-fame. Once already they have been surprised by 
 the police, who imprisoned Mad. Senechal. She is liberated 
 through the agency of one of her guests, Roqueville, (an arch 
 knave, who has gained an ascendancy over her by threatening 
 to ex ose her to the police), but she has to pay a terrible price 
 for it — Fernande's virtue ; and it is Fernande who has sought 
 to throw herself under the wheels of Clotilde's carriage. 
 
 In the salons of Mad. Senechal we meet the lawyer Philipp 
 de Pomerol. This man, who formerly was a viveur and gam- 
 bler, has since become a model husband, and it is only in the 
 fulfillment of a promise that we find him for. once in his old 
 haunts. He has vowed to Fernande that he would deliver her 
 from her vicious surroundings, and has now come to redeem 
 his promise. Here he meets his . cousin Clotilde who has 
 taken Fernande home after her attempted suicide, and who 
 has now come to see if she can be of assistance to the poor 
 girl. Pomerol explains to Clotilde where she is, and she pro- 
 mises her aid in his undertaking. 
 
 After Mad. Senechal's liberation Pomerol takes her as well 
 as her daughter to Clotilde, who assigns to them apartments 
 }n her house. 
 
 Clotilde's unrequited love for Andr^ causes her great sor- 
 row. By pretending indifference she succeeds in making him 
 "confess that his affection for her has waned, and that he loves 
 
another. To her great chagrin she learns that Fernande, 
 whom he has just discovered through a window sitting at the 
 pianOj is the object of his affection. Clotilde, chafing inwardly 
 at these disclosures, but disguising her real sentiments, intro- 
 duces Fernande to the Marquis, who, she says, has just arrived 
 from the province, and asks them both to dine with her. 
 
 Their marriage is Clotiide's aim. She leaves the Marquis 
 in the dark in regard to Fernande's past life, while she makes 
 Fernande believe that Andre knows everything. Thus she in- 
 tends to wreak vengeance upon him. The wedding day ap- 
 proaches. Fernande, who is troubled with serious misgivings, 
 shortly before the marriage ceremony writes a letter to the 
 Marquis. in which she acquaints him with the unfortunate epi- 
 sode of her life. Andre in his happy mood omits reading the 
 letter, and the clever Clotilde succeeds in making him give it 
 to her. Fernande now goes to the altar happy in the assur- 
 ance that Andre knows everything and still has not withdrawn 
 his love from her. Pomerol, who on that very day has re- 
 turned from a long journey and learns of the wedding about 
 to be celebrated, and not knowing who the bride is, invites 
 Clotilde to go with him to the ceremony. She delays until 
 the ceremony is over, and then triumphantly tells Pomerol 
 that she intends to revenge herself on Andre by giving him 
 Fernande's letter and thus rendering him unhappy forever. 
 Pomerol takes the letter from her and locks her up in a room 
 until the young couple have departed on their wedding tour. 
 After their return they lead a happy life, as they love each 
 other tenderly. Pomerol does everything to prevent Clotilde 
 from executing her revengeful plans — all in vain. She watches 
 her chance and succeeds in disclosing the secret to Andrd As 
 he is going to give her the lie Fernande's demeanor conveys 
 the terrible assurance that Clotilde has spoken the truth. 
 Overwhelmed with grief he indignantly bids Fernande to leave 
 the house. As she is about to obey Pomerol appears, gives 
 her letter to the Marquis, who by its contents is convinced of 
 his wife's worth and innocence, and again takes her to his 
 bosom. 
 
SYNOPSIS. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 The First Scene is enacted in the salon of Madame Sene- 
 chal. There we first meet the lawyer Pomerol, who has come 
 to make good the promise he gave to Fernande, and has ex- 
 plained to him by Frederic what has taken place during his 
 absence. 
 
 '; The Second Scene introduces Barcassin and Amanda, 
 guests of the salon, and Barcassin entertains his interlocutrix 
 with the history of his statue of Ariadne. 
 
 In the Third Scene we make the acquaintance of Aster, 
 a low creature, who also regularly attends these sittings, and 
 who regales the company with her adventures in Baden- 
 Baden. 
 
 In the Fourth and Fifth Scene we are brought in con- 
 tact with several other representatives of these " salons," 
 ■ namely Gibraltar and Don Ramire, the Commander. This 
 adventurer and swaggerer enters the salon for the first time, 
 introduced by Gibraltar as a rich Egyptian, while Gibraltar 
 . relates how she fleeced him — Don Ramire lying about his 
 wealth. In him we recognize immediately the dangerous 
 swindler and knave. 
 
 The Seventh Scene adds another couple of prison candi- 
 dates to the company, Maresquier and Madame Santa Cruz. 
 Frederic brings the news of an accident to Fernande, who has 
 just been brought home in the carriage of an unknown lady, 
 and the company goes to dinner without waiting for Madame 
 Senechal. 
 ' ' In the Next Scene appears Mr. Civry, the young noble- 
 man on whom Anatole has forced his attention and invited to 
 
the salon. Pomerol warns the young man from entering the 
 dining hall by relating to him the history of his life, and Civry 
 has enough energy to turn back. 
 
 Just as Pomerol in the Ninth Scene says: "The only 
 good that can come from a fault one has committed is to, 
 warn others from falling into the same error," Roqueville ap- 
 pears, the tyrant of the house, to whose question Pomerol 
 coolly replies he has induced the young man to leave. 
 
 In the Next Scene Frederic appears and announces a 
 lady "who is apparently too decent to be admitted without 
 ceremony." At the instigation of Pomerol who thinks the 
 lady dissembles, she is admitted by Frederic, and Pomerol 
 recognizes her as his cousin Clotilde. It was Clotilde's team 
 that had nearly run over Fernande, and she has come to in- 
 quire about her welfare. Pomerol explains to her the nature 
 of her surroundings, and they agree ta jointly rescue the girl. 
 Clotilde also informs Pomerol that the mishap was not acci- 
 dental. " Oh, madame, I did not drive over the young lady, 
 but she threw herself under" the wheels," her coachman had told 
 her. Pomerol then tells his cousin the whole history of Fer- 
 nande's sufferings. Clotilde informs him that on the strength 
 of an anonymous letter she is on her way to the Montmartre 
 Theatre to surprise Marquis Andr(S, her faithless lover. 
 Pomerol reproaches Clotilde for paying attention to this letter, 
 and tells her what kind of company there is in the adjoining 
 salon. Clotilde, impelled by curiosity, would like to pass some 
 hours in this company, and prevails on Pomerol to permit her 
 to enter for an hour, as she otherwise refuses to act for Fer- 
 nande. 
 
 In the Next Scene Mad. Senechal appears and hears from 
 Clotilde the news of her daughter's accident. She relates to 
 Clotilde in what straits she was placed after the suicide of her 
 husband, and that she finally found herself under the necessity 
 of opening her house to such disreputable company. 
 
 Clotilde, moved to pity and intending to help Mad. Sene- 
 chal, begs her to come and live with her, which offer Mad. 
 Senechal accepts with effusive thanks, 
 
In the Next Scene the dihers enter the salon, and We 
 have a vivid picture of the frivolous doings and conversation 
 of such gatherings. 
 
 After Roqueville has given Frederic the order, " See that 
 the alarm bell works and be on the lookout," the gam- 
 bling begins in an adjoining room. While the company sit 
 down to the game, Clotilde, who has been regarded with 
 curiosity by the members of the demi-monde, inquires of 
 Pomerol about the singular customs of the gamblers, who 
 c;xplains them to her. 
 
 Pomerol and Clotilde now succeed in engaging Fernande 
 in a conversation. She promises Pomerol to make no further 
 attempt at suicide, and Clotilde invites her to come to her 
 house next day. 
 
 > jFrom the adjoining room Roqueville's voice is heard: 
 " The police ! " intermingled with the cry of " Leave the 
 money where it is ! " and such like. After the roulette has 
 been removed Frederic enters and says: "Oh, it's nothing — a 
 dog barked in the neighborhood and our dogs howled to keep 
 him company." 
 
 yd After this reassuring piece of information the game is coti- 
 tinued. 
 
 - Roqueville, who has grown suspicious of the long conver- 
 sation between Pomerol, Clotilde and Fernande, asks the 
 latter what the conference is about and attempts to lead her 
 into an adjoining room. Pomerol flies at the rascal, and Mad. 
 Senechal requests everyone to leave her house; if not she 
 will call the police. 
 
 i\<f Amid cries of "The Commander has pocketed my money/' 
 and the threats of Roqueville they all depart, Pomerol and 
 Clotilde following them. 
 
ACT II. )-- 
 
 We are in the comfortably furnished salon of Clotildie^ 
 whom we find in conversation with Georgette, Pomeroi'fi 
 wife. The latter, who is very jealous, has come to her experj?- 
 enced friend to tell her of her woes, and also relates what droll 
 adventures her jealousy which, after all, turned out to be 
 groundless, has led to. Clotilde reassures her as to her hus- 
 band's loyalty, and Georgette in her turn tells what she has 
 heard in the salon of Mons. de Brionne — sneering rerriiarks 
 about the marriage of Clotilde and the Marquis Andr^. >/j r 
 
 In 'the Second Scene we find Mad. de Brionne herself; 
 who arouses Clotilde's jealousy by telling her that the Mar- 
 quis is not in Blois, as he has made her suppose, but in Paris. 
 
 In the Next Scene Clotilde and Georgette quarrel with 
 Mad. de Brionne. Their conversation is interrupted by 
 Pomerol. Georgette attempts to create a scene because she has 
 found a package of women's photographs among his papers. 
 Pomerol allays her suspicions by explaining that the photo- 
 graphs are exhibits in a divorce-suit. After this explanation 
 Georgette goes. ; ,• 
 
 In the Fifth Scene Pomerol tells Clotilde the unfortun- 
 ate episode in Fernande's life, and confides her and M^d. 
 Senechal under Clotilde's care, as he must leave Paris on 
 business for some time. ; :s 
 
 Clotilde assigns apartments in her house to them; and 
 Madame Senechal is to go under her real name of Madame 
 La Bri^re, while Fernande is to be called Margaret. 
 
 Eighth Scene. — Clotilde receives a telegram from Blois 
 in reply to her inquiry : " The Marquis came to Blois on 
 Wednesday, and returned to Paris the next morning." 
 
 In the Ninth Scene we find Clotilde soliloquizing. It is 
 
clear to her from the Marquis' coldness that he loves another. 
 Just then the Marquis is announced. 
 
 Receiving him coldly Clotilde, by cleverly making him 
 believe that she loves him no longer, succeeds in making him 
 confess that his love to her has gradually weakened into 
 friendship, and that he will be unhappy until he can find his 
 unknown beauty from the Montmartre Theatre. 
 
 Clotilde conceals her real feelings from the Marquis. . 
 They take leave of each other with mutual assurances of 
 eternal friendship and the mutual promise to soon find for 
 each other a good husband and wife. Andrd says in going: 
 " How good you are, Clotilde, the best creature on earth ! 
 And if I had not loved you as you deserved, I would learn to 
 now." 
 
 In the Next Scene Clotilde wholly abandons herself to 
 her sorrow, and resolves to be revenged. On Therese telling 
 her that the Marquis is returning she thinks that he could not 
 leave her after all and is overjoyed. 
 
 Andr^ returns and with great exultation tells Clotilde that 
 he has found his unknown beauty in her own house. He is 
 most happy and becomes enthusiastic over the beauty and 
 innocence of his idol. 
 
 Clotilde is amazed that it should be the very girl that she 
 has rescued from shame, who has estranged her lover from 
 her, and she immediately conceives her plan of revenge. She 
 tells the Marquis that Margaret and her mother had come 
 from the province some weeks ago in rather straightened cir- 
 cumstances. Her father, a country gentleman, she tells him, 
 had met with a fatal accident while on the chase. They are 
 old acquaintances, and she has asked them to live with her. 
 She sends for Margaret. 
 
 In the Next Scene Fernande appears and is introduced as 
 Miss Margaret de la Briere. 
 
 Clotilde whispers to her: "Try to please the Marquis. I 
 have my reasons for it." She entertains the Marquis and 
 Fernande at dinner, 
 
ACT III. 
 
 Pomerol in travelling attire appears^ at Glotilde's apart- 
 iTient in search of his wife. He has just returned from 'a trip, 
 and is surprised to learn that she is here. Georgette, on 
 entering, leaps into his arms. " • 
 
 Georgette tells the unsuspecting Pomerol that Andre an^ 
 Margaret are to be married on that day, and finally has an- 
 other fit of jealousy. Pomerol is about to hurry home to 
 dress for the ceremony when Andre appears to tell him of his 
 marriage. Pomerol asks after Glotilde. 
 
 Andre exultingly relates how at last after a search of sev- 
 eral weeks he has found his love, and how nobly Glotilde 
 assisted him. Pomerol takes leave of Andre and is about to 
 go;^but is called back by Glotilde who has just observed him. 
 He lauds her unselfishness, and she then becomes aware that 
 he does not know who Andrd's bride is. 
 
 -Pomerol: "No woman would have acted as you did; you 
 deserve to be worshipped." 
 
 '■'The Fifth Scene brings Andrd and Fernande on the 
 stage. They are now alone for the first time, Glotilde always 
 having contrived to be present. 
 
 Andre asks of Fernande a confession of her love, which 
 she gives him. But she still fears that Andre, in spiteof Glo- 
 tilde's assurance to her, does not know of that one episode in 
 her life, as he always speaks of her innocence. Andrd tak^esi 
 leave of her with an avowal that he loves her dearly. Tj 
 
 In the Sixth Scene Fernande is at first alone ; she cannot 
 rid herseK of the idea that Andre does -aot know her secrete 
 Glotilde enters; Fernande says to her: " Oh, Madame, you 
 have deceived me!" 
 ;^- 'Glotilde: "Deceived?" '. ;^{d 
 
 Fernande': " When you told mcv' Andre loves you/ki 
 asks for your hand,' what did I reply then, ' never. '^'' ' • 
 
 t^ 
 
Clotildc attempts to remove her suspicions by saying: 
 "And you are astonished that he keeps his word? Do you 
 not feel this great tenderness that makes him appear ignorant 
 so that you may not blush ?" 
 
 Still Fernande is resolved to confess everything and writes 
 to him in spite of Clotilde's resistance. " What madness ! " 
 Clotilde says. "Do consider! Think of him, of his happi- 
 ness, and of that of your mother ! " 
 
 Fernande replies that she will not deceive the man she 
 loves so well. " Though I am not virtuous, I am upright ! It 
 is the only honor that is left to me." 
 
 Therese bears the letter to the Marquis, and now Clotilde 
 is unhappy for having destroyed her lover's joy as well as her 
 own. She prays that he will pardon her. Just then hp 
 appears, ready for the wedding. 
 
 Fernande, believing that he has already read the letter, 
 asks him once more if he loves her. He declares that he does. 
 
 " And in return for all your kindness and love I have only 
 my heart to give you." 
 
 ' Quite happy she now hastens to dress for the wedding. 
 
 In the Next Scene Clotilde succeeds in inducing the Mar- 
 quis to return to her Fernande's letter before he has read it. 
 "You would spoil the pleasure it will give me to have you 
 read it afterwards." Andr^ unsuspectingly returns her the 
 letter. 
 
 ' Therese announces that Fernande is expecting Andr^ who 
 leaves after having asked Clotilde to follow soon. She 
 replies that she first wishes to see Pomerol. Clotilde is alone, 
 and watches the happy couple as they enter their carriage to be 
 driven to the banquet hall. She rejoices at the expected suc- 
 cess of her diabolical plan. " How much longer my sufferings 
 are to last I do not know ; but yours, miserable fellow, shall 
 last forever ! " 
 
 Pomerol, who appears now to take Clotilde to the wed- 
 ding, is detained by her until they are too late for the 
 wedding. Finally Clotilde unfolds to Pomerol her plan of 
 revenge. Pomerol, amazed at her wickedness, gains posses- 
 
sion of the letter, and locks her up in a room,. as the wedding 
 party is returning. This is the safest way to prevent her from 
 executing her plan. Before the company he excuses her by- 
 saying she is suffering from nervousness which made it impos- 
 sible for her to attend. She is still unwell and can see no pne. 
 
 Pomerol avoids speaking to Fernande in order not to pain 
 her, and urges Andre to depart quickly on the wedding trip^ 
 As they depart Andre puts Clotilde in the care of Pomerol,\^^ 
 
 Pomerol: " Never fear, I shall watch over her! " (When 
 alone). "To-day I could save her, but to-morrow?" 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 The salon of the young couple. Mad. de Brionne,. fhe 
 baron, the baroness, the general and an old lady are playing 
 at whist. Fernande serves the tea in her graceful manner, 
 Georgette once again is looking for her husband and is jeal- 
 ous, as she thinks she is on the trail of a secret, although, the 
 letter which has aroused her suspicions smells of tobacco and 
 the characters are those of a man. 
 
 The conversation is about many things and we learn that 
 Clotilde since the young couple's return has gone on a voyage 
 and that Pomerol is frequently away on secret missions.^ ^^i 
 
 In the Next Scene Pomerol appears. Georgette imrhedi- 
 ately has a tiff with him. 
 
 Thereupon Civry appears and relates that he has killed 
 Anatole, a quondam guest of Madame Senechal, in a duel,' ' 
 
 Upon his relating how Pomerol saved him from getting 
 into bad company, Fernande becomes faint. Pomerol imme- 
 diately is master of the situation; he knows there is no danger, 
 as Civry has not seen Fernande when he called at Madame 
 Senechal's. 
 
 After Pomerol has promised the servant two thousand 
 francs if he can prevent Clotilde from seeing the Marquis on 
 the d^y following, he leaves with the rest of the company. 
 
 
Andr^ is alone, as Fernandc has retired. Clotilda , man- 
 
 ' ages to take advantac^e of this propitious moment and dis- 
 
 ■. closes the secret of Fernande's life to him. The Marquis 
 
 forbids Clotilde to ever enter hisf house, again, as he is con- 
 
 . vinced of his wife's innocence; but on Clotilde maintaining 
 
 the truth of her assertion, he sends for his wife, and her 
 
 demeanor removes all doubts as to the truth of Clotilde's 
 
 charge. Fernande, unable to move is, at Andre's command, 
 
 . led to her room. Suddenly Pomerol appears on the scene. 
 
 With the proofs — Fernande's letter — in his possession he is 
 
 enabled to convince Andr6 of his wife's purity. 
 
 Pomerol: "Real virtue is full of indulgence for sin, full 
 of pity for repentance." 
 
 When Andr6 speaks of the talk' and the s'lent sneers of 
 the world Pomerol replies: "You will answer these ninnies 
 that it is better to rescue a girl from the downward path than 
 to encourage her to continue on her way, as they are doing. 
 To those wives who do not always pay for their toilets with 
 their husband's money, you will reply that a fallen one who 
 rises again, is worthier of respect than the one who stands 
 but lowers herself." 
 
 :Jinally Andr6 says: "Oh, friend, in the future she will no 
 ^ longer be my wife in body, but the wife of my soul !" 
 ■While he speaks the last words, Fernande has entered 
 and attempts to leave the room unnoticed. Pomerol keeps 
 her back. 
 
 In the last scene Fernande asks- Pomerol to let her go as 
 - Andr^ does not believe in her innocence nor that she had 
 written all to him before their marriage. 
 
 It is then that Pomerol takes the letter out of his pocket, 
 reads it to Andr^ and explains how they both were victims of 
 Clotilde's revenge. 
 
 Fernande once more reads thfe letter to him kneeling 
 before him, and now Andrd is convinced of the real purity 
 and innocence of his wife. •' 
 
 "Oh, Margaret, my wife; tise! Rise, Madame la Marquise, 
 your place is at my side." . w 
 
ELEONORA DUSE. 
 
 a SHORT time ago " La i)use" was simply the greatest 
 tragedienne of Italy where all people knew her name and 
 fame ; and where they would not have thought of com- 
 paring another artiste to her. Since then one year has passed 
 — a short time in the struggle for fame and glory, yet in that 
 brief spell Eleonora Duse has excited the enthusiasm of Europe, 
 -and is about to ask the judgment of the American people. 
 
 Those who know Eleonora Duse mention her youth and 
 beauty.. She is now thirty-two years old, but who can say 
 whether she is beautiful or not ? On the stage she is beautiful, 
 but she is homely too ; she is tall and she is small ; she is young 
 and old ; awkward and delicate ; apathetic and nervous. She 
 is — whatever her part demands. What no artist before her 
 possessed is hers. She has an incomparable power over her nerves 
 and muscles. In sinking her joersonality in the poet's conception 
 she fascinates, almost hypnotizes us. 
 
 Most of our modern actors lack this wonderful adaptability. 
 Their interpretations reflect their individuality. We see through 
 all their own persons and mannerisms. Eleonora Duse in repress- 
 ing her own self shows the character as created by the author. 
 It seems as though she had appropriated to herself all the subtle 
 I)hases of human sentiment, and the facility with which she realizes 
 the author's ideas is unrivalled. Thus the poet's conception grows 
 and develops itself before our enraptured eyes. Having become 
 accustomed to see our playwrights adapt their characters to the 
 personalities of our actors, her method of acting is distinctive. 
 The modulations of her voice, her carriage, her manners differ 
 with the occasion. She has not her special days or scenes, her 
 humors or caprices. Every time she acts the same i)art in the 
 same way, not on account of any mechanical retentiveness of 
 memory, but because she grows every time into the part that is 
 to be represented. 
 
 But it is hiard, almost impossible, to suggest an idea of 
 this wonderful woman, who seems to have surmounted the 
 boundaries that separate nature from art. 
 
 Who is Eleonora Duse? 
 
She was born at Vigevano, a small town between Piedmont 
 and Lombardy. Her talent is hereditary, her father and grand- 
 father having been actors of no mean ability. 
 
 The grandfather, Luigi Duse, was thoroughly legitimate in 
 his work. He recited in Venetian dialect, a new line in those 
 days and afterwards taken up by Morolin at Veceni and at Milan 
 by Ferravilla. 
 
 This Duse established the Garibaldi Theatre at Padua. ' ' Sor 
 Duse" was his popular Venetian name. The life of Eleonora 
 Duse, the granddaughter, has been one of bitter struggles against 
 poverty and the obstacles of unfavorable environment. 
 
 Habit was her first school ; habit tlie initiation of her artistic 
 life. Perhaps never in the days of her childhood did Eleonora 
 Duse say, "I want to be an actress. " Perhaps no symptom of 
 that irresistible desire which is the usual beginning of every 
 triumphant career, foretold to her — not even in the hours of her 
 most fantastic and audacious childish projects — the glory that 
 to-day reilects upon her sorrowful childhood. 
 
 She was scarcely twelve years old when she was working 
 almost day and night ui)on the stage in obscure theatres, those 
 sad and grotesque asylums of inferior companies. Her wages^ 
 represented the most important item in the income of her not 
 well-to-do family. Those were days of toil and suffering, when, 
 weak from lack of sufficient food, she had to undergo the 
 exhausting fatigues of the stage, and her chief reward was the 
 applause of an audience richer in emotions than in gold and 
 silver. Often while suffering the pangs of hunger, the young- 
 girl, strengthened by her ambition and love of family, hid her 
 l^ersonal pains in the character of the sweetheart of Paolo to be 
 killed by Lancelot, whilst declaiming the sweet, guilty love of 
 Francesca da Rimini. 
 
 Nor was she compensated by being feted as an infant wonder. 
 Indeed, siie was almost compelled to conceal her youth from both 
 manager and public, lest it might produce a doubt in their minds, 
 that the repertoire of dramas and tragedies were entirely unsuited- 
 to her tender years. The pressing need of money weighed not 
 only on her genius but on her mind and spirits which, notwith- 
 standing the sufferings of a life of toil, were naturally gay, cer- 
 tainly not due to the wearing, exhaustive work of the tragedienne, 
 but to open-air exercise and the mirth and mischief of a noisy 
 company. Still she developed force of spirit. She combined the 
 manner of the adult woman with that of the thoughtful chikl. 
 Almost unknown to herself she became absorbed in her pr.rt, and. 
 
the woman inoculated the child with strong emotions which 
 deprived her gestures, her face, her voice of all childishness, and 
 touched her audiences and caused her companions to wonder. 
 Thus the germs of a great actress grew in the little wandering 
 comedienne. 
 
 When representing Francesca da Rimini or Caxerina in 
 Angelo, tyrant of Padua, she divined rather than comprehended 
 the sentiment of the dramatic poetry of Silvio Pellico and Victor 
 Hugo, and she aroused the wildest enthusiasm which, even though 
 emanating from audiences of little culture, marked not simply the 
 girl prodigy, but a phenomenal jjromise of future greatness. 
 
 After Silvio Pellico and Victor Hugo she turned her attention 
 to Shakesi^eare, whom she soon understood perfectly. She had 
 scarcely completed her sixteenth year when she acted the tragedy 
 of the sublime poem Romeo and Juliet with infinite sweetness of 
 passion. 
 
 Eleonora Duse had not then ceased to be the leading lady in 
 wandering companies. The representation of the Shakesperian 
 tragedy took place in an open theatre, the Arena of Verona, in 
 the very city where the story of the two lovers, faithful unto 
 death, is popular tradition ; in that very city where the garrulous 
 citizens of the lower class point with pride to the tomb contain- 
 ing the dust of the love-sick Juliet. 
 
 The theatre was crowded with a good-natured audience, less 
 concerned with Shakesx^eare than with the dear legend. The 
 legend seemed reality. The actress did not declaim or recite the 
 part of Juliet^ but was Juliet herself — the true, the only Juliet 
 — come back to life. The Arena of Verona resounded with 
 frantic applause ; the actress was called and recalled. Her 
 triumph was complete. 
 
 But the triumph of Verona did not suffice to make her famous 
 in Italy nor to obtain for her an engagement with a leading 
 dramatic company. Her artistic life was still one of painful 
 and struggling vagabondage. At this time Eleonora Duse, as 
 yet but little known in Italy, made a tour of Dalmatia, but 
 always as before, in the minor theatres. Even in this strange 
 land she was successful. On the picturesque shores of the 
 Adriatic she found and enjoyed all the beauties of nature, but 
 alas ! the turning-point in her career had not yet arrived. 
 
 And by a strange contradiction of fate she, the dreamer of 
 Venice, of that silent, mysterious, melancholy city of Italy, was 
 first comprehended and acknowledged as a great actress in the 
 gayest, liveliest, most beautiful of Italian cities — Naples. 
 
It seemed as though in this metropolis where the theatre has 
 most ancient and honorable traditions, Eleonora Duse was to 
 lind an intelligent appreciation of her genius. At Naples she 
 found a respectable stage and company and a discerning public. 
 At Naples she trod the same boards — those of the old Florentine 
 Theatre — upon which had shone Adam Alberti, Salvini, Bellotti- 
 Bon, Madame Cazzola, Ristori, and the greatest personalities of 
 the Italian stage. At Naples she felt herself to be justly 
 and intrinsically valued. At Naples she became conscious of 
 her own capabilities. 
 
 The grreat characteristic of Eleonora Duse, and one which 
 raises her above all her contemporaries is the manner in 
 which she eliminates all artifice, method and everything 
 indeed that partakes of the artificial, in her life upon the 
 stage. Even at the cost of displeasing the majority of a mixed 
 crowd of spectators and forfeiting applause, she will not 
 aid her portrayals by resorting to those sham elaborations 
 by which actors think they may transform themselves into 
 the persons, whom, for a few hours, they represent. Truth 
 is her goal ; it is also her path. With her it is ever present. 
 She thoroughly conquers truth without catering to the 
 public caprice or her own womanly vanity or the world of 
 illusion belonging to stage life. She sees the truth ; she feels 
 it. Yet it is subjective truth. And of sorrow, the grand 
 motive of feminine action upon the stage, she is the truest 
 exponent. 
 
 She has resuscitated Dumas' s La Femme de Claude, and 
 has caused it to be applauded by the public that had formerly 
 <;ondemned it. 
 
 It is easily understood how and why the revelations of this art 
 have revolutionized the theatrical world of Europe, first exciting 
 the curiosity of her various audiences, and gradually provoking 
 them to enthusiasm. Under the management of Commendator 
 Cesare Rossi she gave at Venice a^ most vivid demonstration of 
 her power, interpreting the part of that very original type of 
 combined honesty and ferocity, the Princess of Bagdad. And 
 very soon the most difficult and audacious French repertoires 
 had in her an interpreter both subtle and powerful — an interpre-. 
 ter who at the same time knew how to purify them of all the 
 effects indispensable to success in Paris. 
 
 She renewed in an exquisite manner Marguerite Gautier, that 
 always fascinating heroine of Dumas. She put new life into and 
 humanized Clotilde in the drama Fernande, in which the vin 
 
dictive hatred of an enamored woman has the persistence, the 
 patience, the deliberation which scorn impossibilities. 
 
 Continuing this kind of corrective and molding work she 
 succeeded even in elevating characters which had hitherto been 
 failures in the countries of their respective authors, and she 
 obtained enthusiastic applause in Europe for that audacious 
 incarnation of feminine atrocities, the Femme de Claude, of 
 Dumas, and compelled appreciation of the worth of that highly 
 philosophical but little theatrical U Abbesse de Jouarre, of 
 Renan. 
 
 She passed from nervousness to the solemnity of philosophy, 
 arbitrarily applied to the theatre, and from philosophy to the 
 merry coquetry of Parisian comedy — aristocratic as in Francil- 
 lon risque as in D Ivor cons. From Parisian comedy she passed 
 to the purely Italian art of Carlo Goldoni, who in the delicious 
 simplicity of her acting found a new type of youth, of happy 
 and smiling beauty. 
 
 Whilst she api^lied herself with such profitable activity to the 
 modem theatre she gave at the same time her scrupulous atten- 
 tion to Shakespeare. She felt more deeplythan ever the infinite 
 love of Juliet ; immersed herself in the suave, fluctuating mad- 
 ness of Ophelia ; brought upon the stage the beautiful and fatal 
 Cleojpatra. 
 
 After having seen Eleonora Duse in Shakesj)eare's Anthony 
 and Cleopatra, it may be possible to get an idea of the great 
 range of this actress' genius. Her Cleopatra is the most perfect 
 incarnation of that famous historical woman — that superb creation 
 of Shakespeare's genius. One feels one's self under a spell, 
 seeing the beautiful Egyptian with her bronzed face, glancing in 
 violent, almost brutish passion uj^on Anthony, in whose embrace 
 she is lingering. 
 
 And it is notable how, interpreting the tragic repertoire, she 
 succeeded in substituting her simple and grave recitation for 
 the stilted language of the classic drama. The abolition of 
 declamatory speech in tragedy is one of the greatest results of 
 this reforming work of Eleonora Duse. 
 
 And during this immense work of reform, public and critics 
 alike united in applauding and praising. And she, thrusting 
 aside the unsuitable, keeping the valuable, reading, studying, 
 selecting, has never consented to interpret a part in which shfe did 
 not find herself capable of that psychological elaboration — that 
 assimilation which is the secret of her art. 
 
 Eleonora Duse, the unerring portrayer of the truth. 
 
has never renounced and never will renounce upon the 
 stage that perfect charm which Alexandre Dumas in one of 
 his brilliant prefaces pronounces as being, in a theatre, more 
 necessary than truth. 
 
 But there is the difference : Dumas wants charm at any rate, 
 on any condition ; Duse on the contrary wants and obtains charm 
 through the medium of truth. 
 
 Alexandre Dumas and Duse are personally unknown to each 
 other, yet they may well be called good friends. The unexpected 
 success of La Femme de Claude united them in an agreeable 
 exchange of correspondence. And later Dumas, grateful to her 
 for the artistic renewal of this particular play, created for 
 lier a Denise, whose tormented and noble innocence harassed, 
 l^ut not soiled by crime, counterbalanced in the artistic budget 
 of Dumas and in that of Duse the depravities of the Femme de 
 Claude. 
 
 In a new edition of his TJieatre Complet just issued in Paris 
 Dumas says: "There is in this new edition of Princess oj 
 Bagdad an amendation in the last scene. Neither I nor the 
 French actress who created this part in Paris suggested it, al- 
 though it is now, as we see, irrefutable and irresistible. It was 
 Eleonora Duse, the admirable Italian tragedienne, now exciting 
 the enthusiasm of Vienna, who had this inspiration when 
 she played the part in Rome. I have changed it definitely and 
 for ever, but the honor and the merit are hers. I wish to thank 
 her, and I feel called upon to do so publicly for introducing two 
 of my plays, never played before her, into the Italian theatre. 
 It is to be regretted for our French dramatic art that this unsur- 
 passed artiste is not French." 
 
 There is nothing further to say. In the noble lineaments of 
 .her pallid face there is sometimes the expression of weariness, 
 sometimes the fierceness of hate, the tenderness of affection, the 
 spasm of anguish, the joy of triumph, mirrored with that ver- 
 satility and admirable precision belonging to great artistes. 
 
 No one can make such sudden and quick changes of expres- 
 sion as Eleonora Duse, or with simpler means. A hasty, un- 
 expected turn of the eyes, a movement of the head, a curl of 
 the lips that, with a sarcastic smile concealing her tears, give 
 expressions continually different and continually new to her face, 
 except when a sudden blush — a blush natural and true caused 
 by the agitation of passion — diffuses it with color and modifies 
 aiid transforms it exactly as the action demands. 
 
 Antonio Bracco. 
 
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