Then the self-command of Leonore gives
way; she avows all in a piercing shriek. After that there is some
unnecessary moralising ("La-bas un cadavre! Ici, des sanglots de
captive!" and the like), but the play is over.
Now, the situation is perfectly precise; it is not, perhaps, very
intellectually significant, but there it is, a striking dramatic
situation. Above all, it is frank; there are no evasions, no sentimental
lies, no hypocrisies before facts. If adultery may not be referred to on
the English stage except at the Gaiety, between a wink and a laugh, then
such a play becomes wholly impossible. Not at all: listen. We are told
to suppose that Vivarce and Leonore have had a possibly quite harmless
flirtation; and instead of Vivarce being found on his way from Leonore's
room, he has merely been walking with Leonore in the garden: at midnight
remember, and after her husband has gone to bed. In order to lead up to
this, a preposterous speech has been put into the mouth of the Marquis
de Neste, an idiotic rhapsody about love and the stars, and I forget
what else, which I imagine we are to take as an indication of Vivarce's
sentiments as he walks with Leonore in the garden at midnight.
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