Theatre Production - Duchess of Dantzic

A storm in a teacup is proverbially one that may safely be ignored by the wise, but there is no proverb that deals with storms in a wash-tub. Throughout the story these storms rage, and it is always the wash-tub that is in evidence, whether our Sans Gêne be in the Rue Royale as Catherine Upscher, or in the Palace of Fontainebleau as the Duchess of Dantzic.

But then these were stormy, stirring times. In July, 1792, the King of Prussia and the Emperor of Austria were preparing for an invasion of France, relying on treason and internal dissension to open a passage for their troops to the capital. Louis XVI. was still nominally king; but his head, though adorned with a cap of liberty, was being clamoured for by a revolutionary mob. The king and emperor had threatened, in his bombastic manifesto, terrible and exemplary vengeance on Paris if the Tuileries were invaded or violated, or if any insult were offered to him or any member of the royal family. To this insolent challenge followed the revolt of the 10th of August, and with the lightheartedness characteristic of the Parisian, a notice was stuck up on the ruins of the Bastille announcing that there would be "dancing nightly" among its ruins.

PRESS REVIEW

(The Westminster Budget [London, UK] - 23rd October, 1903)
"THE DUCHESS OF DANTZIC"

"The Duchess of Dantzic," produced on Saturday at the Lyric Theatre, may be regarded as a step in the right direction - namely, in the direction of legitimate light opera as opposed to the nondescript and more amorphous productions with which we have latterly been so familiar. One might, indeed, make too much of this distinction, for the difference between a good musical comedy of the Gaiety type and the average comic opera, either ancient or modern, is not in truth a matter ot very great moment. The unities and the verities and the probabilities are often as not hardly less disregarded in the one case than in the other, while neither possesses as a rule any higher claim to existence than the fact that it serves to pass an idle hour. There have been many pieces of the Gaiety type whose incidents have been quite as plausible and coherent as those of the average comic opera, properly so called, while if greater licence has sometimes been claimed by them in that respect, they have usually been the more amusing on this account; and, since the only aim of such productions is to please, who shall say that the end has not thereby been justified by the means?

Wherefore a trifle more extravagance and licence in their incidents and plot is really a matter of comparatively small account so long as they fulfil their essential purpose. One might as well demand absolute fidelity to nature in a caricature as perfect verisimilitude in a comic opera or musical comedy, and it is often rather amusing to notice the exaggerated importance sometimes attached to this point on purely academic grounds when entertainments of this description are under consideration. At the same time, other things being equal, one may cheerfully recognise that an underlying story possessed of a certain amount of coherence and intelligibility is to be desired, and on this account Mr. George Edwardes's latest production, which rejoices indeed in the official designation of a Romantic Light Opera, may be regarded as constituting an advance upon some which he has previously given us.

"The Duchess of Dantzic" is, of course, our old friend "Madame Sans-Gêne," whose character and adventures will be familiar to most playgoers through the medium of Sardou's play. The picturesque story has its merits, but I cannot help thinking that one more appropriate as the basis of a work of this nature might well have been found. A plot of a somewhat lighter character would certainly have lent itself more readily to the introduction of those humorous features which it was clearly essential to provide. As it is, these are mainly confined to the somewhat mild and unstimulating funniments of Mr. Courtice Pounds as a pedlar who afterwards becomes Court milliner and the long-drawn-out efforts of Miss Evie Greene as the Marechale Lefebvre, subsequently Duchess of Dantzic and ex-washerwoman at the Court of Napoleon, to execute a curtsey and master the management of her train. Perhaps, however, the whole work is intended to be taken in a more serious spirit, though in this case one would have to write rather severely of the quality of the dialogue, which is for the most part, and judged by any sort of literary standard, of the most unpretending sort imaginable. Nor can it be recorded that the music is of an order any more distinguished. Mr. Ivan Caryll has done work a good deal better than this before. Perhaps he was afraid on this occasion of writing above the heads of his audience; in which case it must be confessed that he has avoided this danger with conspicuous success.

Compared, indeed, with the charming light music which is provided so often nowadays in productions of a much less ambitious kind, the music of "The Duchess of Dantzic" must be pronounced distinctly disappointing. The method of its introduction also is a trifle bewildering. A brisk and animated "spoken" dialogue is proceeding when suddenly the orchestra strikes up and, even as Mr. Wegg was wont upon occasion to drop into poetry, the speakers burst forthwith into song with results more amusing than impressive. Music intensifies drama doubtless, but at the same time it slows it; wherefore a conversation begun in "spoken'' is not continued with good effect in music. Mr. Caryll should have confined his attentions to the purely lyrical pages of Mr. Hamilton's book. The whole work wants cutting too. Some of the scenes drag sadly, though as a whole it must be said that it seemed to give every satisfaction. Its reception was, indeed, quite enthusiastic, a result largely due, of course, to the excellence of the performance.

Miss Evie Greene, who is naturally in the front of the picture nearly all the time, was unfortunately the manifest victim of a very bad cold, but acted with all her usual go and energy in a part excellently adapted to her style. Mr. Holbrook Blinn's Napoleon was another sufficiently effective impersonation, while Mr. Denis O'Sullivan and Mr. Lawrence Rea were likewise excellent. Mr. O'Sullivan in particular, as the honest handsome Sergeant of the old regime who becomes the Duke of Dantzic in the next, proved himself a tower of strength to the company, his splendid presence, manly unaffected acting, and fine singing winning general approval. Mr. Courtice Pounds found much favour also, while it is hardly necessary to add in the case of one of Mr. George Edwardes's productions that the whole work has been most handsomely and tastefully mounted.

The fortunes of men are lost and made in times of great social upheaval. Fresh standards of merit are set up, and every man is the creature of the hour. What wonder then that hope of advance and ambitious visions of the future are the topic among all the citizens that flock the Rue Royale. Among these comes Lieutenant Bonaparte, hagard, restless, out of humour with the world, contemptuous of the things that please the noisy throng moving around that jovial spirit, Sans Gêne. Her lover is away at the attack on the Tuileries, and she, to relieve her mind of anxieties on his behalf, betakes herself vigorously to her wash-tub. Bonaparte's advent, rough though it is, is something in the nature of a relief. Besides, the lieutenant owes seventeen francs for washing, and although he may talk vaguely and as a visionary of the great things he will do and the important position he will hold, to a practical woman like Catherine Upscher talk like that doesn't pay bills. On the point, however, of demanding a settlement, she learns from him of his misfortunes, his poverty and his anxious support of an old mother.

That settles the bill. Nay, more, the erstwhile stern creditor actually offers financial assistance. But Catherine as a matter of principle keeps the bill. Scarcely has Napoleon left when a young noble, pursued by the mob, seeks and obtains refuge at the laundry, and is hidden by the intrepid laundress in her bedroom. Not a moment too soon. The mob rushes in, and with them Lefebvre. Has Catherine seen the hated aristocrat? Catherine has not. Papillon, a merry pedlar, who had assisted her in her humane efforts has also not seen him. Can he have got into Catherine's room? Catherine is indignant at the suggestion, but in order to convince the mob Lefebvre, her affianced husband, enters the room, and on his reappearance declares it to be empty. But when alone with Catherine he reproaches her bitterly for hiding a lover, and matters between the two appear to be critical. Overhearing the dispute, the refugee comes forward, and is able, with a few words, even at the risk of being captured, to clear the matter up between the lovers. And now, with Lefebvre as an ally, the Vicomte makes good his escape, leaving his infant son in the charge of Madame Sans Gêne. Already promotion and advancement are in the air. Lefebvre obtains a commission, orders arrive for further operations, and Catherine obtains an appointment as vivandiere to his regiment.

During the fifteen years that succeed events have followed one another rapidly and almost dramatically. The morbid lieutenant who owed seventeen francs for his washing is Emperor of France. The young soldiers who were his friends in those earlier days have become Marshals of the Grand Army. Dukes and generals from the Rue Royale surround the throne, and in their gorgeous habiliments betray little of their lowly origin. With one exception there is masquerade and pretension. Even Papillon, the good-natured pedlar, the jovial and gay wanderer of the old times, is now cramped in fashionable attire, and limited in his gaieties by fine courtesies and elaborate etiquette. But Sans Gêne, as Duchess of Dantzic, is Sans Gêne still. Alas for the peace of the Courts, too much Sans Gêne. Would it be credited that among all that aristocratic bourgeoisie the Duchess has the effrontery to be genuinely in love with her "dear old man," her old lover Lefebvre, now Marshal of France?

Nay more. There are other scandalous rumours about. The Duchess had been caught by Napoleon's magnificent sisters trying on a new cloak on the terrace at Fontainebleau, and taking lessons in deportment from a mere milliner - Papillon to wit! A wrangle follows in which Catherine, having retained some of her old fluency, easily routs her opponents, but not before the Emperor has intervened. He is weary of this incessant cackle. His Court is disgraced by conflicts that might be tolerated among washerwomen in the Rue Royale, but cannot be permitted at his Court and round his person. Already he is thinking of his own divorce. To a man who has made his position by adventure, position is everything. A noble wife enhances, while a low-born one degrades it. That a Marshal of France should be mated to a vulgar shrew is an offence to this principle, and to the parvenu crowd that surrounds him. It seems therefore quite rational that the Emperor should order his high officers' affairs to the extent of decreeing a divorce where an unsuitable wife appears unable to take the position he has bestowed upon her husband. Marshal Lefebvre, Duke of Dantzic, is peremptorily commanded by Napoleon to discard his wife and marry a lady of the Court, Renee de Saint Mezard. But advancement and welle-arned honours have not made the honest soldier less appreciative of his good wife, and he indignantly refuses.

The Emperor is inexorable, and, to further distress the couple, a lamentable want of discretion on the part of their adopted son - the child left with them by that Vicomte de Bethune whom they rescued from the mob - places their fate in the hands of the autocrat whose god is ambition. Adhemar de Bethune is in love and affianced to this same Mademoiselle Renee whom Lefebvre is commanded to marry, and the young man, on learning of his Emperor's infamous plans, insults him, breaks the sword he wears as an officer in his army, and refuses to serve him any longer. Arrest and a death sentence follow promptly.

One condition of respite is allowed. The Vicomte shall live if the Duke and Duchess of Dantzic consent to a divorce and the Duke to the remarriage arranged for him. The death of the young man whom they love as a son is brutally laid at their door if they refuse. The Court is jubilant. The Emperor's sisters cannot conceal their satisfaction. The Duchess is forbidden the Court, and opportunity of supplication is therefore impossible. But Catherine is Sans Gêne when circumstances require resourcefulness. She has treasured up a small scrap of paper at the head of which figures the name of a certain Lieutenant Bonaparte, and under that name certain details as to shirts and pants, and a grand total of seventeen francs, unpaid, for their washing.

Armed with this the distracted but still alert Catherine forces her way to the Emperor. The Court is indignant at this disobedience, and the Emperor orders her to be kept in confinement. One moment alone with him gives her the opportunity she seeks. She produces the bill, demands her seventeen francs, and reminds the now bewildered Emperor that she was that Sans Gêne who took pity on his poverty, and who, when days were hard for her too, not only allowed him this extended credit, but offered to ease his embarrassed circumstances by a loan. Napoleon Bonaparte has his past struggles thus thrust forcibly upon him. Hard though he is he cannot resist the friends of his old days, better and more genuine than those with whom success has surrounded him. Madame Sans Gêne wins her suit, and the Emperor himself blesses the union between Adhemar and Renee.