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Updated: June 7, 2025
Their excuse may be that for the historical dramas the manager furnishes the costumes, whereas for the modern play the player has to provide his own. This particular actor wore a faded Fedora hat, his trousers were baggy at the knee, and he tapped impatiently on the pavement with a cheap little cane.
M. Coini, in his tan spats and gray fedora, is more fantastic than the entire cast of devils and Christmas trees and lollypops, who seem to be the leading actors in the play. Mr. Prokofieff and Miss Garden have made a mistake. They should have let M. Coini play "The Love for Three Oranges" all by himself.
Flush, colorful cheeks, a light moustache, a gray fedora hat. She now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain. " I didn't say that" she said "Oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with and with an assumed air of mistake, " I though you did."
As a piece of technical skill, Duse's acting in "Fédora" is as fine as anything she has done. It completes our admiration of her genius, as it proves to us that she can act to perfection a part in which the soul is left out of the question, in which nothing happens according to nature, and in which life is figured as a long attack of nerves, relieved by the occasional interval of an uneasy sleep.
"It makes me quite sure that I could make you happy. It makes me quite sure that if you'll give me your hand and trust me, and leave everything to me, you'll have just the things in life that women want. Won't you be brave, Fedora? There are some things to break through, I know, but they don't amount to much they don't, really. And I love you, you know.
A most flattering ovation was waiting for me on my arrival. Then, three days afterwards, installed in my little mansion in the Avenue de Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou, in order to hear him read his magnificent piece, Fedora. What a great artiste! What an admirable actor! What a marvellous author!
Richard Arnold, who is to accompany us to Russia to inspect the war-balloon offered to our Little Father the Tsar. Mr. Arnold, my niece, Fedora Darrel. There, now you know each other." "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Arnold," said Natasha, with mock gravity as they shook hands.
Through this business of skyrockets and crescendos and hobgoblins M. Coini stands out like a lighthouse in a cubist storm. However bewildering the plot, however humpty-dumpty the music, M. Coini is intelligible drama. His brisk little figure in its pressed pants, spats and fedora, bounces around amid the apoplectic disturbances like some busybody Alice in an operatic Wonderland. The opus mounts.
His three-cornered hat was set at a rakish angle till it looked almost like an up-to-date fedora. The great stick that he used to carry had somehow changed itself into the curved walking-stick of a Broadway lounger. The solid old shoes with their wide buckles were gone.
"Yes, he saw him for it was he who brought news of the general to your poor mother." "When was that? We never heard of it." "You remember that, on the day your mother died, you went to the pine forest with old Fedora?" "Yes," answered Rose, mournfully; "to fetch some heath, of which our mother was so fond."
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