lies warmth and richness of tone--but was entirely at the service of
the mind in following the dramatic action of the play. The setting being
a reality, there was no need for mechanism to conceal a seamy side; and
the colour-effects were produced by the actors themselves: whose
draperies made a superb colour-scheme of strong hues perfectly
harmonized, of gleaming white, of glittering golden embroideries--which
constantly was rearranged by the shifting of the groups and single
figures into fresh combinations; to which every puff of wind and every
gesture gave fresh effects of light and shade; and over which the golden
light shed always its warm radiance.

Of all those beautiful groupings, the one which most completely
fulfilled the several requirements of a picture--subject, composition,
colour, light-and-shade--was that of the fourth episode: the white-robed
_Antigone_ alone upon the upper plane, an animate statue, a veritable
Galatea; the chorus, a broad sweep of warm colour, on the lower plane;
the electric lights turned off, leaving the auditorium in
semi-obscurity, and concentrating light and thought upon the golden
beauty of the stage. With the entry of _Creon_ and his guards both the
dramatic and the picturesque demands of the situation were entirely
satisfied. In the foreground, a mass of strong subdued colour, were the
minor figures of the chorus; in the background, a mass of strong
brilliant color, were the minor figures of the guards; between those
groups--the subject proper--were _Creon_ and _Antigone_: their white
robes, flashing with their eager gestures and in vivid relief against
the rich background, making them at once the centre and the culmination
of the magnificent composition. And the beauty and force of such a
setting deepened the pathos and intensified the cruelty of the
alternately supplicating and ferocious lines.

There was, I regret to say, an absurd anticlimax to that noble scene.
_Antigone_, being recalled and made the centre of a volley of bouquets,
ceased to be _Antigone_ and became only Mademoiselle Bartet; and the
Greek chorus, breaking ranks and scampering about the stage in order to
pick up the leading lady's flowers, ceased to be anything serious and
became only ridiculous. For the moment French gallantry rose superior to
the eternal fitness of things, and in so doing partially destroyed one
of the most beautiful effects ever produced upon the stage. Even in the
case of minor players