by Bram Stoker
To the “ not impertinent “ comments on his own method he merely alluded in a phrase of deprecation of such comments being made by one player on another. But of the theory advanced by Coquelin, in which he supported the views of Diderot, he offered a direct negative, commenting himself freely on such old-fashioned heresies.
It is but right to mention that when, some two years later, Coquelin republished his article, with some changes and embellishments, in the Revue Illustree, December 1889, under the title, “ L’Art du Comedien,” he left out entirely the part relating to Irving.
When the two men met at Mayer’s they at once became friends. The very fact of having crossed swords brought to each a measure of respect to the other. “ It is astonishing,” says Colonel Damas in The Lady of Lyons, “ how well I like a man when I have fought with him! “ At first the conversation was distinctly on the militant side, the batteries being masked. The others who were present, including Toole, Coquelin fils, and Sir Squire (then Mr.) Bancroft, had each a word to say at times. Irving, secure in his intellectual position with regard to the theory of acting, was most hearty in his manner and used his rapier with sweet dexterity. Toole, who had his own grievance: that Coquelin, an artist of first-class position, late a Societaire of the Comedie Francaise should accept fee or emolument for private performances, a thing not usual to high-grade players of the British stage — limited himself to asking Coquelin in extremely bad French if it was possible that this was true. At that time Coquelin did not speak much English, though he attained quite a proficiency in it before long.
In a very short time the supper party at Mayer’s subsided into gentle and complete harmony. The actors began to understand each other, and from that moment became friends. Coquelin gave imitations of certain French actors, amongst them Frederic Le Maitre and Mounet-Sully. The performance was a strange comment on his own theory that an actor in portraying a character must in the so doing divest himself of his own identity, and quite justified Irving’s remark in his “ note “:
“Indeed it is strange to find an actor, with an individuality so marked as that of Mr. Coquelin, taking it for granted that his identity can be entirely lost.”
To us whilst his imitations were remarkably clever, there was no possibility of forgetting for an instant that the exponent was M. Coquelin. Why should we? If an actor entirely loses his own identity the larger measure of his possible charm is gone!
I had myself first seen Coquelin in 1876 in Les Fourchambauts. My knowledge of French in those days was of a very inadequate kind — as I regret to say it still is; but I remember the extraordinary perfection of the double entente. His pronunciation of two words nearly alike in sound but quite different in idea, was of exquisite delicacy. For instance, he spoke the phrase sans doute so as to also mean sans dot. Both vowel and consonant sounds were in exact midway between the words and defendably for either meant both. I should think myself that for articulation of his own language Constant Coquelin has no peer.
I find this note in my diary regarding Coquelin on that night of Mayer’s supper:
“He is a fine actor; essentially a Comedian!”
In the course of years Irving and Coquelin met often, and the oftener they met the more their friendship ripened. For a good many years Irving took quite an affectionate interest in Coquelin and his affairs; and finally, after the latter had made his enormous success in Paris with Cyrano de Bergerac and was anxious to produce it in London, Irving made arrangements for playing himself for some weeks in the suburbs so that he might give up the Lyceum to his friend.
Cyrano was produced on 4th July 1898 and had a triumphant run.
Irving had purchased the English rights of the play, intending to play Cyrano himself. But on going carefully into it he came to the conclusion that the part was one hardly suitable for him; he sold the rights to Sir Charles Wyndham. It was, I think, after their last meeting that Coquelin sent Irving his picture in character as Cyrano.
There were many gatherings in the Beefsteak Room at which Coquelin was present. One I remember well as of special interest. Victor Maurel was there also and Campbell Clarke (afterwards Sir Campbell) the Paris correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, F. W. Hawkins, A. P. Burbank, the American actor, Major Ricarde-Seaver, and James Whitcomb Riley. The latter at Irving’s request recited a few of his inimitable character sketches. Coquelin and the other actors were loud and eloquent in his praise.
CHAPTER LXII
SARAH BERNHARDT
Irving sees Sarah Bernhardt — First meeting — Supper in Beefsteak Room — Bastien Lepage — Tradition — Painting a serpent — Sarah’s appreciation of Irving and Ellen Terry
WHEN Irving and Sarah Bernhardt met there was already that pre-disposition towards friendship which true artists must feel towards those who work greatly in their own craft. When the Comedie Francaise came to London in 1879 and played at the Gaiety Theatre, Irving went to one of the matinees and was immensely struck by Sarah Bernhardt’s genius. He was taken round on the stage and introduced to the various members of the Company; but he did not have in that short season any opportunities of furthering friendships. That was a busy season for every one, both the London players and the foreigners. We were playing repertoire and changing the bill every few nights; the rehearsals were endless. So too with the strangers; they had a great list of plays to get through, and they also were rehearsing all day. When they could the various members of the French Company came to the Lyceum, where they were always made welcome. Indeed, all through his management Irving made it an imperative rule that his fellow-artists should when possible be made welcome at his theatre. Little people as well as great people, all were welcome. In those early days the same rule of hospitality did not hold with the Comedie Francaise; actors had to go in like any one else — on a “ specie basis.” Even Irving who had thrown his own theatre open to his French fellow-artists had to pay for his own box at the Gaiety. When, however, Jules Claretie became Director of the Theatre Francais he changed all that, absolutely.
The next year, 188o, Sarah Bernhardt was playing for a short time in London — this time her own venture — again at the Gaiety. Irving took a box for her benefit, a matinee on 16th June. Loveday and I went with him. The bill was Jean Marie, the fourth act of La Rome vaincue, and the fifth act of Hernani. Irving was charmed with her playing in Jean Marie, which is a one-act piece with the same note of sentiment in it as that of the song “ Auld Robin Gray.” He was also struck with her extraordinary tragic force in La Rome vaincue. I had myself seen that play at the Theatre Francais four years before, gth November 1876. When in Paris I had been told that I should not miss seeing a play running at the Francais in which a very young woman named Sarah Bernhardt was with extraordinary power playing a blind woman of eighty. There was such a rush to see the piece that it was being played four times a week — a rare thing at the Francais in those days. Of course I went — I remember I had to buy my way into the parterre and then step by step down to one of the near rows from the individuals who then used to make their living by standing in line so as to get in early and then selling their places to those farther back. I was greatly struck with her acting and also, though in a lesser degree, with that of Mounet-Sully, then young on the stage. He was crude in his artistic method and somewhat rugged, but full of force and power. When I saw Sarah Bernhardt play the act of the play in London I thought that though she had gained in power and finish she had lost something of spontaneity. On that occasion the house was a poor one, but those who were there were delighted — and showed it.
On Saturday night, 3rd July of that year, 188o, Sarah Bernhardt came to supper in the Beefsteak Room. The two other guests were both friends of hers, Bastien Lepage the painter, and Libotton the violoncellist. That was a night of extraordinary interest. Irving and Sarah Bernhardt were both at their best and spoke quite freely on all subjects concerning their art which came on the tapis. Irving was eager to know the opinion of one so familiar with the working of the French stage
and yet so daring and original in her own life and artistic method. When they touched on the subject of the value of subsidy she grew excited and spoke of the value of freedom and independence:
“What use,” she said, “ subsidy when a French actress cannot live on the salary, at even the Comedie Francaise!”
On the subject of tradition in art her manner was more pronounced. She railed against tradition on the stage — as distinguished from the guiding memory and record of great effective work. Her face lit up and her eyes blazed; she smote her clenched hand heavily on the table, as, after a fierce diatribe against the cramping tendency of an artificial method relentlessly enforced, she hurled out:
“A bas! la tradition!”
Then the change to her softer moods was remarkable. She was a being of incarnate grace, with a soft undertone of voice as wooing as the cooing of pigeons. As I looked at her — this was my first opportunity of seeing her close at hand — all the wondrous charm which Bastien Lepage had embodied in his picture of her seemed at full tide. This picture of Bastien Lepage, that wherein she is seated holding a distaff, was exhibited in a silver frame at the first exhibition of the Grosvenor Gallery and met with universal admiration. With the original before one and the memory of her wonderful playing ever fresh in one’s mind it was not possible not to be struck with her serpentine grace. I said to Bastien Lepage in such French as I could manage:
“In that great picture you seemed to get the true Sarah. You have painted her as a serpent with all a serpent’s grace! “ He seemed much interested and asked me how I made that out. Again as well as I could I explained that all the lines of the picture were curved — there was not a single straight line in the drawing or shading. He seemed more than pleased and asked me to go on. I said that it had seemed to me that he had painted all the shadows in a scheme of yellow, shading them to represent in a subtle way the scales of the serpent skin.
He suddenly took me by both hands and shook them hard — I thought for a moment that he was going to kiss me. Then he patted me on the shoulder, and suddenly shot out the big wide white cuff then in vogue in Parisian dress, and taking a pencil from his pocket drew the picture in little, showing every line as serpentine, and suggesting the shadows with little curved and shaded lines. Then he shook hands again.
I have regretted ever since that I did not ask him to cut off that cuff and give it to me! It was an artistic treasure!
In some of the discussions on art that evening he too got excited. I remember once the violent way in which he spoke of his own dominant note:
“Je suis un re-a-liste! “ As he spoke his voice rose and quivered with that “ brool “ that marks strong emotion. The short hair of his bullet head actually seemed to bristle like the hair of an excited cat. He rose and brought down his raised clenched fist on the table with a mighty thump. One could realise him at that moment as a possible leader of an emeute. One seemed to see him amid a whirl of drifting powder smoke waving a red flag over the top of a barricade.
Another thing which Bastien Lepage said that night has always remained in my memory. It is so comprehensive that its meaning may be widely applied:
“In an original artist the faults are brothers to the qualities!”
We sat late that night. It was five o’clock when we broke up, and the high sun was streaming into our eyes as we left the building. Many a night after that, Sarah Bernhardt spent pleasant hours at the Lyceum — pleasant to all concerned. She grew to love the acting of Irving and of Ellen Terry, and whenever she had an opportunity she would hurry in by the stage door and take a seat in the wings. Several times when she arrived in London from Paris she would hurry straight from the station to the theatre and see all that was possible of the play. It was a delight and a pride to both Irving and Miss Terry when she came; and whenever she could do so she would stop to supper. The Beefsteak Room was always ready, and a telephone message to Gunter’s would insure the provision of supper. Those nights were delightful. Sometimes some of her comrades would come with her. Marius, Gamier, Darmont or Damala. The last time the latter — to whom she was then married — came he looked like a dead man. I sat next him at supper, and the idea that he was dead was strong on me. I think he had taken some mighty dose of opium, for he moved and spoke like a man in a dream. His eyes, staring out of his white waxen face, seemed hardly the eyes of the living.
One night in 1899, whilst she was playing Hamlet at the Adelphi, she came to supper when there were some characteristic Americans, Mark Twain, Nat Goodwin, T. I. Keenan of Pittsburg, then President of the American Press Union, Colonel Tom Ochiltree — who had a peculiar soubriquet, F. P. Dunne, I. N. Ford of the New York Tribune.
She was always charming and fresh and natural. Every good and fine instinct of her nature seemed to be at the full when she was amongst artistic comrades whom she liked and admired. She inspired every one else and seemed to shed a sort of intellectual sunshine around her.
CHAPTER LXIII
GENEVIEVE WARD
When and how I first saw her — Her romantic marriage — Plays Zillah at Lyceum — ” Forget me not” — Plays with Irving: “ Becket”; “ King Arthur”; “ Cymbeline”; “ Richard III.” — Argument on a “ reading” — Eyes that blazed — A lesson from Regnier
I
ON the evening of Thursday, loth November 1873, I strolled into the Theatre Royal, Dublin, to see what was on. I had been then for two years a dramatic critic, and was fairly well used to the routine of things. There was a very poor house indeed; in that huge theatre the few hundreds scattered about were like the plums in a foc’sle duff. I sat down in my usual seat, which the attendants, knowing my choice, always kept for me if possible: the end seat ‘ O.P. or left-hand side looking towards the stage. The play was Legouve’s Adrienne Lecouvreur, a somewhat machine-made play of the old school. The lady who played Adrienne interested me at once; she was like a triton amongst minnows. She was very handsome; of a rich dark beauty, with clear cut classical features, black hair, and great eyes that now and again flashed fire. I sat in growing admiration of her powers. Though there was a trace here and there of something which I thought amateurish she was so masterful, so dominating in other ways that I could not understand it. At the end of the second act I went into the lobby to ask the attendants if they could tell me anything about her as the name on the bill was entirely new to me. None of them, however, could enlighten me on any point except that she had appeared on Monday in Lucrezia Borgia; and the business was very bad.
When the grand scene of the play came — that between the actress and her rival, the Princess de Bouillon — the audience was all afire. Their enthusiasm and the sound of it recalled the description of Edmund Kean’s appearance at Drury Lane. I went round on the stage and saw John Harris the manager. I asked him who was the woman who was playing and where did she come from.
“She has no right to be playing to an audience like that! “ I said pointing at the curtain which lay between us and the auditorium.
“I quite agree with you! “ he answered. “ She is fine; isn’t she? I saw her play in Manchester and at once offered her the date here which was vacant.” Just then she came upon the stage and he introduced me to her. When the play was over I went home and wrote my criticism, which duly appeared in the Irish Echo next evening.
That engagement of nine days was a series of debuts. In addition to Adrienne Lecouvreur she appeared in Medea, Lucrezia Borgia, The Actress of Padua, the “ sleep-walking “ scene of Macbeth, The Honeymoon. In one and all she showed great power and greater promise. It is a satisfactory memory to me to find after her career has been made and her retirement — all too soon — effected after more than thirty years of stage success when I find this mem. in my diary of 29th November 1873 — the last night of her engagement” (Mem. will be a great actress).”
During the engagement, Monday, 24th November, one night behind the scenes I met a great friend of mine, the American Consul, Wilson King of Pittsburg, who was paying a visit t
o the actress, whom he had known since childhood, his family and hers having all been old friends. He introduced me to his countrywoman, not formally this time but as a friend. And there and then began a close friendship which has never faltered, which has been one of the delights of my life and which will I trust remain as warm as it is now till the death of either of us shall cut it short.
II
Genevieve Ward both in the choice of her plays and in her manner of playing followed at that time the “ old “ school. I had a good opportunity of judging the excellence of her method, for that very year 1873, after an absence of fifteen years, Madame Ristori had visited Dublin. She was then in her very prime; an actress of amazing power and finish. She had played Medea, Mary Stuart, Queen Elizabeth and Marie Antoinette. Her method was of course the “ Italian “ of which she was the finest living exponent — probably the finest that ever had been. Her speech was a series of cadences; the voice rose and fell in waves — sometimes ripples sometimes billows — but always modified with such exquisite precision as not to attract special attention to the rhythmic quality. Its effect was entirely unconscious. Indeed it was a method which in time could, and did, become of itself mechanical — like breathing — so that it did not in the least degree interfere even with the volcanic expression of passion. The study was of youth and at the beginning of art; but when the method was once formed nature could express herself in it as unfettered as in any other medium. Years afterwards Miss Ward showed me one of Ristori’s prompt books; and I could not but be struck with the accentuation. Indeed the marking above the syllables ran in such unbroken line as to look like musical scoring.
Miss Ward was a friend of the great Italian and had learned most of her art from her. She was a fine linguist, speaking French, Italian, and Spanish as easily as her own tongue. At that time Ristori, who was in private life La Comtessa Campramican del Grillo, lived in her husband’s ancestral home in Rome, and Miss Ward often stayed with her. Miss Ward in her private life was also a Countess, having whilst a very young girl married a Russian, Count de Gerbel of Nicolaeiff. The marriage was a romance as marked as anything that could appear upon the stage. In 1855 at Nice Count de Gerbel had met and fallen in love with her and proposed marriage. She was willing and they were duly married at the Consulate at Nice, the marriage in the Russian church was to follow in Paris. But the Count was not of chivalrous nature. In time his fancy veered round to some other quarter, and he declared that by a trick of Russian law which does not acknowledge the marriage of a Russian until the ceremony in the Russian church has been performed, the marriage which had taken place was not legal. His wife and her father and mother, however, were not those to pass such a despicable act. With her mother she appealed to the Czar, who having heard the story was furiously indignant. Being an autocrat, he took his own course. He summoned his vassal Count de Gerbel to go to Warsaw, where he was to carry out the orders which would be declared to him. There in due time he appeared. The altar was set for marriage and before it stood the injured lady, her father, Colonel Ward, and her mother. Her father was armed, for the occasion was to them one of grim import. De Gerbel yielded to the mandate of his Czar, and the marriage — with all needful safeguards this time — was duly effected. Then the injured Countess bowed to him and moved away with her own kin. At the church door husband and wife parted, never to meet again.