THE NEW FRANCE

Taihape Daily Times, Volume 7, Issue 218, 2 June 1915, Page 3

THE NEW FRANCE

A SINGES OF THE "MAESEIL-

LAISE.”

STUDY IN EMOTIONS

(By WILL IRWIN.)

The present sensation of' all Paris — bar the war itself) —is a new version, a new dramatic setting, of a very old thing. All Paris is going, during these dim, tortured days, to hear Marthe Chenal sing the "Marseillaise.”

The French attitude towards their national hymn has helped, doubtless, to make Mile. Chenal’s performance effective. In old days they seemed indifferent to it. The British are always rising for ‘ * God Save the- King. •* ’ French orchestras seldom played the "Marseillaise”; and when they did the people were as likely as not to chatter through the performance. Since the war, too, Paris and France in general have seemed to ignore the "Marseillaise.” We would almost say, superficially, that the French did not like it. The song, so perfectly expressive of France, has struck into the depths of! French emotion. It must not be rendered carelessly. It must not be cheapened. It must be rendered as a rife of patriotism, with all accompaniments of beauty—-like a Mass. I went ’to hear Marthe Chenalo and I ' understood fully. OPERA '' CONGREGATION.'’» ! It was Easter Monday, a cheerless holiday in Paris. The crowd at the Opera Comique looked, at all'Parisian audiences look nowadays, alriiost like the congregation at a funeral, with the prevailing black. The gaudy colours of uniforms lit the blackness; and those who wore the uniforms were interesting enough. The audience sat through' the five acts of "Manono Lescot’;' and never was good opera well sung received'with less attention by,a music-loving people. There Was a silent,' impressive wait, during which no one left" his seat. Suddenly the director’s staff sounded; an orchestra of bugles and drums struck up "Le Regiment de Sambre-ct-Meuse, ” the inspiring old marching song of the French' Array. The curtain rose; it was a village of Alsace in the days of the Revolution — peasants, vilagersy and a marching- detail of Revolutionary troops. Out from the regiment stepped a big officer. In a full baritone voice he took up- tile words. The music swung into the "Chant du Depart,” and on in succession canjjß the soldiers who have been the glory of France —the old Republican Army, the Grenadiers of Napoleon the warriors of the lost cause of ’7O. By now a rustling came through the audience; people were weeping already.

Suddenly the chorus part. The audience rose—not formally but as on nr irresistible impulse. For the Tricolour had come on behind it —France. She was a beautiful' young woman, full-bodied yet refined of 'line;- hers was one of those French faces of classical outline relieved by human lights and irregularities. She was all in white, the folds of her robe darwn straight across her bosom. She wore

the black-winged head-dress of the lost Alsace, and for mantle a Tricolour, which floated out behind her as shestrode forward and began, quite simplyr Allons, enfants dc la patrie— j And- as- she 1 sung that first greatr stanza something burst on your mindT like a revelation. It was not the old! r days of the Revolution that she meant but to-day!' 1 f

A FURY' OF THE REVOLUTION, "The glory standard of tyranny isy raised against' us—hear ye not those; savage soldiers' raging in our They come'-to" slaughter, even in our, arms, our wives, our sons” There was a kind of sub'dhed’ fto-rror in her voii?e,j All about the" people were their breath's.- Then, on the refrain J she swept towards 1 the soldiers and vil* lagers of thee chorus. She seized the_ Tricolour and held it high before them’ as she sang—" To-arms, citizens! Form your ranks. Oh, on, until that imptm?' blood soaks our fields! ” Now it was the second 1 stanza, one of the most terrible, most rousing, in all poetry, Qua vent cette horde d’eselves? And novf Chenal' was a’ £6ry of the Revolution—a fury, made* what she was by th(f crimes of'old' autocrats. Her face wsje a oGirgana-’s as* she sang—and agai* Low the- word A-fitted this day: "For whom these rgmoMe fetters, those iron a so long- prepared'? Men of France, for you!' ’Tis-ms that they think to return to the old'slavery! ” And' on the 1 refrain she did a daring' • thing, a thing; which might have beent • ■ ridiculous- and’ which, escaping that, . became sublimei Still raging across ■ the stage; she’ pointed to the audience • with a- gesture* strong yet fluttering, a. gesture which* seemed to stao at eaeii ■ individual' heart among us all. It was ; us-whom-she-meant. It. was us whom she called' to-arms.

There was a hush. The orchestras. • died down to* a whisper. And France ■- the- fury- became France the mother, Wit-H a- slbw gesture she folded the t tri-couour round her; she drew ife close; she kissed it as I have seen French gitte kiss their lovers at the departure for the front. And' iii a low voice, husky as witlEtears, she began that final stanza?

" Amour- sacrc dc la patrie—” When the time came for the refram? the chorus* sang thickly. I looked*-™--they were- weeping. Everyone weeping-..

At that final refrain France trans-,-formed herself again. Out from the*--, fold’s- of her robe she drew a sword, pointed ft on high; she was the warwoman of the Gauls, leader of battles, "On, em> till the impure blood aoaksr our field's!”

The applause when she finished 'was low and short. There are emotions-, even in the theatre, too great for vulgar beating of hands.