The Ways of Men

ostand's brilliant drama, Cyrano de Bergerac, in its English dress proves once more the truth of this adage. The fun and pathos, the wit and satire, of th

courage in giving us, as far as the difference of language and rhythm would allow, this chef d'?uvre unchanged, free from the mutilations of the adapter, with the author's wi

could not import the piece fast enough to meet the ever increasing demand of our reading public. By the time spring came,

ter the piece was over, I dropped into Coquelin's dressing-room to shake this

motion and his wit sparkling. He seemed as fresh and gay that evening as though there were not five killing ac

his apartment in the Place de l'Etoile, a cosy museum full of comfortable chairs and priceless bric-à-brac. The conversation naturally turned during supper on the piec

er to repeat the actor's own words as he told his tale o

as the author of a few graceful verses and a play (Les Ro

he new play to interest me. It was La Princesse Lointaine. I shall remember that afternoon as long as I live! From the first line my attention was riveted and my senses were charmed. What struck me as even more remarkable than the piece

to become the greatest dramatic poet of the age; I bind myself here and now to take any play you write (in which there is a part for me) without reading it, to cancel any engagements I ma

On asking him how the play was progressing, to my astonishment he answered that he had abandoned that idea and hit upon something entirely different. Chance had thrown in his way an old volume of Cyrano de Bergerac's poems, which so delighted him that he had bee

if any literary gold remained for another author. It seemed foolhardy to resuscitate the Three Guardsmen epoch-and I d

ic tradition when he made a hunchback the hero of a drama. There remained, however, the risk of our Parisian public

under the trees of the Champs Elysées, for a couple of hours, turning the subject about and looking at the question from every point of view. Before we part

of manuscript. He was at my rooms the next day before I was up, sitting on the side of my bed, reading the result of his labor. As the story unfolded itself I was more and more delighted. His idea of resuscitating

. In the English capital it was a failure; with us it gained a succès d'estime, the fantastic grac

in her sixteenth year. The play turns on her youth and innocence. Now, honestly, is Sarah, even on the stage, any one's ideal of youth and innocence?" This was asked so na?vely that I burst into a laugh, in which my host joi

to work again on Cyrano. As he slowly regained confidence and began taking pleasure once more in his work, the boyish author took to dropping in on me at impossible morning hours to read some scene hot from his ardent brain. When seated by my bedside, he declaimed his lines until, lit at his flame, I would jump out of bed, and wrapping my dressing-gown hastily around me, seize the manuscript out of his hands, and, before I knew it, find my s

shut himself up for over a year in a dismal suburb, allowing no amusement to disturb his incessant toil. Mme. Rostand has since told me that at one time she seriously feared for his reason if not for his life, as he averaged ten hours a day steady work, and when the spell was on him would pass night aft

long known; my profession above all othe

rice that few in a generation would be willing to give or capable of giving for fame. The labor had been in proportion to the success; it always is! I doubt if there is one word in his 'duel' ballad that has not been changed again and again for a more fitting expression, as one might assort the shades

ess that he did not copy from some old print, or a passade that he did not indicate to the humblest member of the troop. The marvellous diction that I had noticed during the reading at Sarah's served him now and gave the key to the entire performance. I have never seen him peevish or

evening. "Never, never have I lived through such an evening. Victor Hugo's greatest triumph, the first night of Hernani, was the only theatrical event that can compare to it. It, however, was injured by the enmity of a clique who persistently hissed the new play. There is but one phrase to express the enthusiasm at our first performance-une salle en délire gives some idea of what took place. As the curtain fell on each succeeding act the entire audience would rise to its feet, shouting and cheering for ten minutes at a time. The coulisse and the dressing-rooms were packed by the critics and the author's friends, beside themselves with deli

st. At our feet, as we stood by the open window, the great square around the Arc d

remarked, smiling: "Now you have heard the st