Of scenery, in the ordinary sense of the word, there was none at all.
What we saw was the real thing. In the opening scene of "Oedipus," the
_King_--coming forward through the royal portal, and across the raised
platform in the rear of the stage--did literally "enter from the
palace," and did "descend the palace steps" to the "public place" where
_Creon_ and the priests awaited him. It was a direct reversal of the
ordinary effect in the ordinary theatre: where the play loses in realism
because a current of necessarily recognized, but purposely ignored,
antagonistic fact underruns the conventional illusion and compels us to
perceive that the palace is but painted canvas, and (even on the largest
stage) is only four or five times as high as the _Prince_. The palace at
Orange--towering up as though it would touch the very heavens, and
obviously of veritable stone--was a most peremptory reality.
[Illustration: SCENE FROM THE FIRST ACT OF "OEDIPUS"]
The fortuitous accessory of the trees growing close beside the stage
added to the outdoor effect still another very vivid touch of realism;
and this was heightened by the swaying of the branches, and by the
gracious motion of the draperies, under the fitful pressure of the
strong gusts of wind. Indeed, the mistral took a very telling part in
the performance. Players less perfect in their art would have been
disconcerted by it; but these of the Comedie Francaise were quick to
perceive and to utilize its artistic possibilities. In the very midst of
the solemn denunciation of _Oedipus_ by _Tiresias_, the long white beard
of the blind prophet suddenly was blown upward so that his face was
hidden and his utterance choked by it; and the momentary pause, while he
raised his hand slowly, and slowly freed his face from this chance
covering, made a dramatic break in his discourse and added to it a
naturalness which vividly intensified its solemn import. In like manner
the final entry of _Oedipus_, coming from the palace after blinding
himself, was made thrillingly real. For a moment, as he came upon the
stage, the horror which he had wrought upon himself--his ghastly
eye-sockets, his blood-stained face--was visible; and then a gust of
wind lifted his mantle and flung it about his head so that all was
concealed; and an exquisite pity for him was aroused--while he struggled
painfully to rid himself of the encumbrance--by the imposition of that
petty annoyance upon his mortal agony of body and of soul.
In such capital instances the mistral became an essential part of the
drama; but it was present upon the stage continuously, and its constant
play among the draperies--with a resulting swaying of tender lines into
a series of enchanting folds, and with a quivering of robes and mantles
which gave to the larger motions of the players an undertone of vibrant
action--cast over the intrinsic harshness of the tragedy a softening
veil of grace.
An enlargement of the same soft influences was due to the entrancing
effects of colour and of light. Following the Grecian traditions, the
flowing garments of the chorus were in strong yet subdued colour-notes
perfectly harmonized. Contrasting with those rich tones, the
white-robed figures of the leading characters stood out with a brilliant
intensity. And the groups had always a golden background, and over them
always the golden glow from the footlights cast a warm radiance that
again was strengthened by the golden reflections from the wall of yellow
stone, so that the whole symphony in colour had for its under-note a
mellow splendour of golden tones.