hing is
certain in the world or in their own hearts, and they know that love
most often does the work of hate and that hate is sometimes tenderer
than love. In "Pelleas and Melisande" we have two innocent lovers, to
whom love is guilt; we have blind vengeance, aged and helpless wisdom;
we have the conflict of passions fighting in the dark, destroying what
they desire most in the world. And out of this tragic tangle Maeterlinck
has made a play which is too full of beauty to be painful. We feel an
exquisite sense of pity, so impersonal as to be almost healing, as if
our own sympathy had somehow set right the wrongs of the play.

And this play, translated with delicate fidelity by Mr. Mackail, has
been acted again by Mrs. Patrick Campbell and Mr. Martin Harvey, to the
accompaniment of M. Faure's music, and in the midst of scenery which
gave a series of beautiful pictures, worthy of the play. Mrs. Campbell,
in whose art there is so much that is pictorial, has never been so
pictorial as in the character of Melisande. At the beginning I thought
she was acting with more effort and less effect than in the original
performance; but as the play went on she abandoned herself more and more
simply to the part she was acting, and in the death scene had a kind of
quiet, poignant, reticent perfection. A plaintive figure out of
tapestry, a child out of a nursery tale, she made one feel at once the
remoteness and the humanity of this waif of dreams, the little princess
who does know that it is wrong to love. In the great scene by the
fountain in the park, Mrs. Campbell expressed the supreme
unconsciousness of passion, both in face and voice, as no other English
actress could have done; in the death scene she expressed the supreme
unconsciousness of innocence with the same beauty and the same
intensity. Her palpitating voice, in which there is something like the
throbbing of a wounded bird, seemed to speak the simple and beautiful
words as if they had never been said before. And that beauty and
strangeness in her, which make her a work of art in herself, seemed to
find the one perfect opportunity for their expression. The only actress
on our stage whom we go to see as we would go to see a work of art, she
acts Pinero and the rest as if under a disguise. Here, dressed in
wonderful clothes of no period, speaking delicate, almost ghostly words,
she is herself, her rarer self. And Mr. Martin Harvey, who can be so
simple, so passionate, so ful