Jean Aicard

“ And you, Romeo, Falstaff, you all are Shakspeare !
And, with words only, — those words which he called vain,
He has created this people, — a people that breathes,
A strange and powerful choir of divine dreams.
Three centuries ago he lived : to England,
Since then, this gentle conqueror has given a world,
And never shall the praise of Nations
Proclaim a nobler and more glorious Poet !...
The actor turning to Molière’s bust
Molière !
Molière ! From the old World to the new his great name flies ;
While thoroughly french, he is a greek, both by his race and destiny. ”

“ Is Ideal Art, — light, azure and gay, —
Art, the common land of freed minds,
Where Love speaks best in sacred rhythms,
Where the greatest are those whom Justice inspires,
Where Molière smiles — in glory — to Shakspeare ! ”

“ He sang. — The inmost recesses of the soul he brings to light,
The dream of life, all earthly goods, all earthly evils,
Love, affection, horror, joy, madness, crime,
All, — all !... — a storm, — an ocean of words !
It is the Ocean ! You see in him those terrible tides
Which seem the onset of a nightly deluge ;
Screams, sobs, the hurried flights of despairing souls...
It overflows !... Behold, its wave flows back and retires.
Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Lear, — so many tempests !... ”