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Coquelin is a great artist, but he did not understand Cyrano.
I was obliged to put on a strong voice, she to soften hers. In fact, it was absurd. The piece was a demi-succes. After that I created L'Absent, a pretty piece in verse, by Eugene Manuel; Chez l'Avocat, a very amusing thing in verse, by Paul Ferrier, in which Coquelin and I quarrelled beautifully. Then, on August 22, I played with immense success the role of Andromaque.
"But it is so local!" "Anything that is true must be true to local conditions, to begin with. The only question is, is it true to human nature? What puzzled me in this American play was its raising the old question of nature and art. You've seen Coquelin? Well, that is acting, as artificial as a sonnet, the perfection of training, skill in an art.
"And change Coc into Poc, nard into lin; and instead of Coquenard I shall have Poquelin." "'Tis wonderful," cried D'Artagnan, astounded. "Go on, my friend, I am listening to you with admiration." "This Coquelin sketched my arm on the glass." "I beg your pardon Poquelin." "What did I say, then?" "You said Coquelin." "Ah! true.
Thus, in the year in which the elder Coquelin obtained his prize the public loudly protested against the award of the jury, declaring that the most gifted pupil of the class was a certain M. Malard, who now holds a third-rate position on the boards of the Gymnase.
M. Coquelin has told me that he hopes to be able some day to edit other of Molière's masterpieces on this principle. And it is greatly to be wisht that some stage-manager of scholarly tastes would provide us with a record of the customary effects to be obtained in the performance of most of Shakspere's plays, as these have been accumulated in the theater itself.
The abstinence of this class is the most significant, for well-read, refined, fastidious citizens are the pride of a community, and their influence for good is far-reaching. Of this élite New York has more than its share, but you will not meet them at the play, unless Duse or Jefferson, Bernhardt or Coquelin is performing. The best only tempts such minds.
It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite right. The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M and Meillet.
Coquelin the younger was our stage-manager, and acted the principal part. I was alone on the stage and, thinking that no one could see me, I slipped off my Moliere hoop of flowered silk and let myself go, in lace petticoats, to the wonderful music. Suddenly I heard a rather Cockney voice say from the wings: "My Lord! How you can dance! Who taught you, I'd like to know?"
It is only half an hour's walk from my house to Pont-aux-Dames, where Coquelin set up his maison de retraite for aged actors, and where he died and is buried.
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