To these brilliant and gifted strangers, however, the new manager did the honours of his craft and extended to them a kindly hospitality. Indeed, since that day, no distinguished artist has visited these shores without being welcomed with rare hospitality.[41]
The most accomplished of French comedians is Coquelin ainé, an extraordinary performer, from the versatility and even classical character of his talents. This gifted man, who never appears without imparting intellectual enjoyment of the highest kind, seems to have always been attracted to the English actor, though exhibiting his feelings in an oddly mixed fashion, compounded of admiration and hostility. Analysis of the workings of character is the most entertaining of pastimes, and is, of course, the foundation of theatrical enjoyment; and the public has much relished the controversies between two such eminent personages. In 1886 Coquelin, during a supper at Mrs. Mackay’s, was invited in a very flattering way by the Prince of Wales to play in London under Mr. Mayer. At this time, in obedience to the very natural “force and pressure” of gain which was beginning to dissolve the great company of the French Comedy, he had begun to “star it,” as it is called, in the various capitals of Europe, and having found himself appreciated in London at private houses, as well as on the stage, he seems to have nourished a feeling that he was contending for the suffrages of the public with the English actor! Not that he was conscious of any actual “jealousy,” but something of this impression was left on those who were watching the incident. In matters of art, however, such contentions are healthy, and pardonable enough.
An early token of this curious feeling was offered in an article published in Harper’s Magazine in May, 1887, where the French actor discussed with some acuteness the different systems of acting in England and in France, particularly in the matter of what is called “natural” or materialistic acting. He dwelt on the question how far the gifts of the comedian will enable him to exhibit tragic characters, contending that the practice of minute observation would materially aid him.
What was in Coquelin’s thoughts all this time would appear to have been a sort of eagerness to measure himself with the English actor in ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which he looked upon as his own, and which had made a reputation for Irving. With some lack of taste or tact, Coquelin later challenged an English audience to decide between the two readings of Mathias. He performed it, I think, on two different occasions. It was an interesting and instructive experiment, for it proved that two artists of eminence might legitimately take directly opposite views of the same character. But does not character in real life offer the same varieties of interpretation? Coquelin presented a sort of comfortable bourgeois, a tradesman-like personage, who was not likely to reach the heroic or melodramatic place. He was not over-sensitive, nor was his remorse very poignant; and the keynote to his agitation was the desire to be thought respectable, to keep his position, and not be found out. It was agreed that the two conceptions were altogether opposed. “Irving’s hero was a grave, dignified, and melancholy being; Coquelin’s was a stout Alsatian, well-to-do, respected by his neighbours, but still on an equality with the humble folk around him. Irving’s was a conscience-stricken personage; Coquelin’s had no conscience at all. Irving’s was all remorse; Coquelin was not in the least disturbed. He takes delight in his ill-got treasures. The only side on which he is assailable is that of his fears, and the arrival of the second Jew, so like the first, terrifies him; and too much wine on the night of the wedding brings on the disturbed dream.” The question might be thus summarized: Irving’s reading was that of a tragedian; Coquelin’s that of a comedian. For myself, I confess a liking for both.
A friendly and even enthusiastic appreciation of the actor was furnished by Jules Claretie, then a critic of eminence. “His reputation,” he said, “would be even greater than it is if he had the leisure to extend his studies and correct his faults; but, as Mr. Walter Pollock remarks, a man who has to play six or seven times a week can hardly be expected to find much time for study. England, unlike France, does not possess a national theatre.
“‘Richelieu’ was the first play in which I saw Mr. Irving in London. Here he is superb. The performance amounts to a resurrection. The great Cardinal, lean, worn, eaten up with ambition, less for himself than for France, is admirably rendered. His gait is jerky, like that of a man shaken by fever; his eye has the depth of a visionary’s; a hoarse cough preys upon that feeble frame. When Richelieu appears in the midst of the courtiers, when he flings his scorn in the face of the mediocrity that is to succeed him, when he supplicates and adjures the vacillating Louis XIII., Mr. Irving endows that fine figure with a striking majesty.
“What a profound artist this tragedian is! The performance over, I was taken to see him in his dressing-room. I found him surrounded by portraits of Richelieu. He had before him the three studies of Philippe de Champaigne, one representing Richelieu in full face, and the others in profile. There was also a photograph of the same painter’s full-length portrait of the Cardinal. Before playing Louis XI. again, Mr. Irving studied Commines, Victor Hugo, Walter Scott, and all who have written of the bourgeois and avaricious king, who wore out the elbows of his pourpoint de ratine on the tables of his gossips, the skin-dressers and shoemakers. The actor is an adept in the art of face-painting, and attaches great importance to the slightest details of his costume.
“I asked him what other historical personage he would like to represent, what face he, who excelled in what I call stage-resurrection, would wish to revive. He reflected a moment, his countenance assuming a thoughtful expression. ‘Français ou Anglais?’ he at length asked. ‘Français ou Anglais: peu importe,’ I replied. ‘Eh bien!’ he said, after another short pause, ‘je serais heureux de créer un Camille Desmoulins.’
“Mr. Irving’s literary and subtle mind leans to psychological plays—plays which, if I may so express myself, are more tragic than dramatic. He is the true Shakespearian actor. How great was the pleasure which the performance of ‘Hamlet’ afforded me! For a literary man it is a source of real enjoyment. Mr. Irving, as manager of the Lyceum, spends more than £3,000 a month to do things on an adequate scale. His theatre is the first in London. He would like to make it a sort of Comédie Française, as he would like to found a sort of Conservatoire to afford young English artists the instruction they stand so much in need of.
“In Louis XI. Mr. Irving has been adjudged superior to Ligier. Dressed with historical accuracy, he is admirable in the comedy element of the piece and the chief scenes with the Monk and Nemours. The limelight projected like a ray of the moon on his contracted face as he pleads for his life excited nothing less than terror. The hands, lean and crooked as those of a Harpagon—the fine hands whose character is changed with each of his rôles—aid his words. And how striking in its realism is the last scene, representing the struggle between the dying king and his fate!”