oned until Kotzebue's pathetic
power and theatrical skill captured nearly every stage in Europe. In
France the bastard offspring of English tragedy and German drama gave
birth to an equally illegitimate _comedie larmoyante_. And so it happens
that while comedy in English literature, resulting from the clash of
character, is always on the brink of farce, comedy in French literature
may be tinged with passion until it almost turns to tragedy. In France
the word "comedy" is elastic and covers a multitude of sins: it includes
the laughing _Boule_ and the tearful _Froufrou_: in fact, the French
Melpomene is a sort of _Jeanne qui pleure et Jeanne qui rit_.

So it happens that _Froufrou_ is a comedy. And indeed the first three
acts are comedy of a very high order, full of wit and rich in character.
I mentioned _The Stranger_ a few lines back, and the contrast of the
two plays shows how much lighter and more delicate French art is. The
humor to be found in _The Stranger_ is, to say the least, Teutonic; and
German humor is like the simple Italian wines: it will not stand export.
And in _The Stranger_ there is really no character, no insight into
human nature. _Misanthropy and Repentance_, as Kotzebue called his play
(_The Stranger_ was Sheridan's title for the English translation he
revised for his own theatre), are loud-sounding words when we capitalize
them, but they do not deceive us now: we see that the play itself is
mostly stalking sententiousness, mawkishly overladen with gush. But in
_Froufrou_ there is wit of the latest Parisian kind, and there are
characters--people whom we might meet and whom we may remember. Brigard,
for one, the reprobate old gentleman, living even in his old age in that
Bohemia which has Paris for its capital, and dyeing his few locks
because he feels himself unworthy to wear gray hair,--Brigard is a
portrait from life. The Baron de Cambri is less individual, and I
confess I cannot quite stomach a gentleman who is willing to discuss the
problem of his wife's virtue with a chance adorer. But the cold Baronne
herself is no commonplace person. And Louise, the elder daughter of
Froufrou, the one who had chosen the better part and had kept it by much
self-sacrifice,--she is a true woman. Best, better even than Brigard, is
Gilberte, nicknamed "Froufrou" from the rustling of her silks as she
skips and scampers airily around. Froufrou, when all is said, is a real
creation, a revelation of Parisian femininit