daughter might take her mother to see it, without fear of corrupting the innocence of age.  “On peut tres bien vivre sans etre la plus heureuse des femmes”:  that is one of the morals of the piece; and, the more you think over questions of conduct, the more you realise that you might just as well not have thought about them at all, might be another.  The incidents by which these excellent morals are driven home are incidents of the same order as those in “La Veine,” and not less entertaining.  The mounting, simple as it was, was admirably planned; the stage-pictures full of explicit drollery.  And, as before, the whole company worked with the effortless unanimity of a perfect piece of machinery.

A few days after seeing “La Veine” I went to Wyndham’s Theatre to see a revival of Sir Francis Burnand’s “Betsy.”  “Betsy,” of course, is adapted from the French, though, by an accepted practice which seems to me dishonest, in spite of its acceptance, that fact is not mentioned on the play-bill.  But the form is undoubtedly English, very English.  What vulgarity, what pointless joking, what pitiable attempts to serve up old impromptus rechauffes!  I found it impossible to stay to the end.  Some actors, capable of better things, worked hard; there was a terrible air of effort in these attempts to be sprightly in fetters, and in rusty fetters.  Think of “La Veine” at its worst, and then think of “Betsy”!  I must not ask you to contrast the actors; it would be almost unfair.  We have not a company of comedians in England who can be compared for a moment with Mme. Jeanne Granier’s company.  We have here and there a good actor, a brilliant comic actor, in one kind or another of emphatic comedy; but wherever two or three comedians meet on the English stage, they immediately begin to checkmate, or to outbid, or to shout down one another.  No one is content, or no one is able, to take his place in an orchestra in which it is not allotted to every one to play a solo.

A DOUBLE ENIGMA

When it was announced that Mrs. Tree was to give a translation of “L’Enigme” of M. Paul Hervieu at Wyndham’s Theatre, the play was announced under the title “Which?” and as “Which?” it appeared on the placards.  Suddenly new placards appeared, with a new title, not at all appropriate to the piece, “Caesar’s Wife.”  Rumours of a late decision, or indecision, of the censor were heard.  The play had not been prohibited, but it had been adapted to more polite ears.  But how?  That was the question.  I confess that to me the question seemed insoluble.  Here is the situation as it exists in the play; nothing could be simpler, more direct, more difficult to tamper with.