Mr. Lennox had to trip across the English Channel, which is a nasty, “choppy” crossing, to find material that would suit his wife. That is always a troublesome thing to do, because the “goods,” when bought, must be well soaked overnight, in order to remove the sting. This was the policy he pursued with “The Marriage of Kitty.” The tactics were very similar in the case of “The Freedom of Suzanne,” which was cut from the cloth of “Gyp’s” novel, “Autour du Divorce.” According to the program, the author “wished to acknowledge his indebtedness for certain passages in the play to a novel by the Comtesse de Martel.” The “Comtesse de Martel” sounded nice and swagger, though “Gyp” is anything but that in her novels.
The comedy was very light, and frolicsome, and jolly, and—er—naughty, and—er—respectable. You had to stay to the very end, which was not bitter, in order to discover that it was quite respectable. That is where the English playwright always seems to improve upon the French. In London, a heroine may be volatile, and saucy, and unconventional, and iconoclastic, and spicy, and shocking, and quite horrible, but in the last act the adapter allows you to discover that she is really a very good, nice, whole-hearted woman; that she loves her husband in a faithful, wifely way, and that she will live happily ever afterward, a perfect picture of all the domestic graces. The curse has gone! It is the triumph of deodorization.
So in “The Freedom of Suzanne,” while Suzanne danced a veritable can-can through two acts, she was brought back to a sedate English jig in the third. It was a play that could not stand, and that did not need a close analysis, for it was just a vehicle by means of which Miss Tempest could let loose the matchless bag-o’-tricks among which her art may be said to lurk. Suzanne gave her the finest acting part that she has ever had. It was an intellectual treat to sit and watch the really exquisite, delicate work that she embroidered upon the diaphanous theme of the amusing little comedy.
Suzanne was terribly tired of her husband, and Charles did seem a bit of a bore. He was the type of “married man” who can no longer see graces in the woman who belongs to him—because she belongs to him. Suzanne chafed, and wanted her freedom. She clamored for a divorce, but there were no grounds upon which to obtain it. She yearned for the right to select her own associates; to do what she liked; to have a good time, and to be responsible to nobody. There was a mother-in-law in the case, of course, and, although the brand has become tiresome, this particular lady was necessary in order to emphasize Suzanne’s apparently hapless plight.
Miss Tempest’s success was assured when, in the first act, she recited the story of her own scandalous doings, with the divorce in view. As a piece of acting, this was worth the attention of every theatergoer. The actress sat on a sofa, and ran through the list of episodes in an amazing way. Some of her story she told with her eyes, with her facial expression, with gestures; the rest she set down in words freighted with every variety of intonation. Not once did she rise from that sofa. The other people were grouped around her, and all they had to do was to display astonished horror. They made a framework.
You were held in a grip of admiration by the telling effect of this scene. No other actress could have played it as Miss Tempest did. Her every meaning leaped over the footlights. Not a word, or the inflection of a word, escaped attention. It was an absolutely flawless piece of comedy. The artistic comedy of Réjane lacked the richness and unction of Miss Tempest’s methods. Those who failed to see “The Freedom of Suzanne” missed a rare treat.
There was very little plot, of course. Suzanne got her divorce by collusion, in a manner that was a bit surprising in view of the fact that Charles was portrayed as a man of culture and refinement. In order to please Suzanne, he gave her a good shaking in the presence of a witness—as grounds for divorce! It was while waiting for the decree to be made “absolute” that Suzanne naturally discovered her love for him, and her rooted objection to the attentions of the three blackguards who were kowtowing before her. This assuredly was not new. It was merely the popular divorce twist of French playwrights.
In the last act of the play, Suzanne and her husband were reconciled, and all the improprieties of the earlier acts carefully smoothed away. “The Freedom of Suzanne” itself, however, did not matter very much. Sledge-hammer criticism could pulverize it. Poor little play! It did not merit any obstreperous handling, for it kept its audience in a state of unreasoning merriment, and it encased Miss Tempest like the proverbial glove. There is nothing more fascinating than perfect comedy acting. It is a tonic, the exhilarating effect of which is invaluable.
Miss Tempest brought over her London leading man, Mr. Allan Aynesworth, a remarkably good actor of drawing-room rôles. The ease and polish of the “thoroughbred”—and “thoroughbred” is a term that should replace the played-out “gentleman”—were convincingly shown. G. S. Titheradge was the other popular London name in the cast. The rest were adequate, but by no means extraordinary. They taught no lesson of artistic excellence, but at the fag-end of the season, we were not clamoring to be taught anything at all. Lessons were the very last thing in the world that we hankered for. Our desire for light entertainment was amply realized. “The Freedom of Suzanne” was a delightful wind-up.
Mr. Frohman, it is said, announced this enterprise as the result of a wish to do something “to be talked about.” We are willing. We are willing at any time to talk about anything that can give us as much undiluted pleasure as this production did. We will even chatter and frivol, if Mr. Frohman will repeat the operation. And by-the-bye, I think that I have done both. My enthusiasm led me away. Let me extinguish it.