Some years ago, in Paris, there was a very good comedian who prided himself on being perfectly 'classic.' To be classic in France is to be elegantly conventional. No actress can be really kissed according to classic rules; the lips must be faintly smacked about three feet from her shoulder. Wills are classically written by a flourish of the pen, and classical banqueters never pretend to eat.
Now there was a humorous scene which greatly depended on much breakage of furniture; and to this scene our actor, in the opinion of the manager, did not do justice. Rolling over one tea-cup did not, according to the latter, constitute a grand smash.
The actor became irritated. 'Pa'r'r-bleu!' he exclaimed, 'you shall have a grand smash then, if you must, and no mistake.'
The scene begun. There was a tea-table, and the irate performer gave one kick, and sent the whole concern crashing into the pit. There was a roar of applause.
('Ah! this is something like,' said the manager, rubbing his hands.)
The chairs were next attacked and broken into the completest kindling-wood, as by a madman. The manager began to look grave.
There were two tables left, a piano, and a closet. The actor stepped behind the scenes and reappeared with an axe. Bang! went the timber—crack—splinter—
'Stop!' roared the manager.
'Go on!' 'bravo!' 'go on!' roared the audience.
The stage was cleared, but the scenery still remained. And into the scenery went the actor 'like mad.' Planks and canvas came tumbling down; the manager called his assistants; the house was delirious with joy. The manager rushed on the stage; the actor kicked him over into the orchestra, and seizing the prompter's box, hurled it crashing after.