y its tragic grandeur of divine decay.
And yet another touch of pathos, in which also was a tender beauty, was
supplied by the growth of trees and shrubs along the base of the great
wall. Over toward the "garden" exit was a miniature forest of figs and
pomegranates, while on the "court" side the drooping branches of a large
fig-tree swept the very edge of the stage--a gracious accessory which
was improved by arranging a broad parterre of growing flowers and tall
green plants upon the stage itself so as to make a very garden there;
while, quite a master-stroke, beneath the fig-tree's wide-spreading
branches were hidden the exquisitely anachronistic musicians, whose
dress and whose instruments alike were at odds with the theatre and with
the play.

Two ill-advised electric lamps, shaded from the audience, were set at
the outer corners of the stage; but the main illumination was from a row
of screened footlights which not only made the whole stage brilliant
but cast high upward on the wall in the rear--above the gaping ruined
niche where once had stood the statue of a god--a flood of strong yellow
light that was reflected strongly from the yellow stone: so making a
glowing golden background, whence was projected into the upper darkness
of the night a golden haze.

VII

With a nice appreciation of poetic effect, and of rising to strong
climax from an opening note struck in a low key, the performance began
by the appearance in that heroic setting of a single figure:
Mademoiselle Breval, in flowing white draperies, who sang the "Hymn to
Pallas Athene," by Croze, set to music by Saint-Saens--the composer
himself, hidden away with his musicians beneath the branches of the
fig-tree, directing the orchestra.

The subduing effect produced by Mademoiselle Breval's entrance was
instantaneous. But a moment before, the audience had been noisily
demonstrative. As the ministerial party entered, to the music of the
"Marseillaise," everybody had roared; there were more roars when the
music changed (as it usually does change in France, nowadays) to the
Russian Anthem; there were shouts of welcome to various popular
personages--notably, and most deservedly, to M. Jules Claretie, to whom
the success of the festival so largely was due; from the tiers where the
Parisians were seated came good-humored cries (reviving a legend of the
Chat Noir) of "Vive notre oncle!" as the excellent Sarcey found his way
to his seat among the Cigaliers; a