His art may be compared with
that of Sarah Bernhardt for its infinite care in the training of nature.
They have an equal perfection, but it may be said that Coquelin, with
his ripe, mellow art, his passion of humour, his touching vehemence,
makes himself seem less a divine machine, more a delightfully faulty
person. His voice is firm, sonorous, flexible, a human, expressive,
amusing voice, not the elaborate musical instrument of Sarah, which
seems to go by itself, caline, cooing, lamenting, raging, or in that
wonderful swift chatter which she uses with such instant and deliberate
effect. And, unlike her, his face is the face of his part, always a
disguise, never a revelation.
I have been seeing the three Coquelins and their company at the Garrick
Theatre. They did "Tartuffe," "L'Avare," "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme,"
"Les Precieuses Ridicules," and a condensed version of "Le Depit
Amoureux," in which the four acts of the original were cut down into
two. Of these five plays only two are in verse, "Tartuffe" and "Le Depit
Amoureux," and I could not help wishing that the fashion of Moliere's
day had allowed him to write all his plays in prose.
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