in his
instructive and delightful book on Chopin, he prolonged the tone, "by
some miraculous means," so that "it swelled and diminished, and went
singing into D, as if the instrument were an organ." It is that power of
sustaining an expression, unchanged, and yet always full of living
significance, that I find in Coquelin. It is a part of his economy, the
economy of the artist. The improviser disdains economy, as much as the
artist cherishes it. Coquelin has some half-dozen complete variations of
the face he has composed for Tartuffe; no more than that, with no
insignificances of expression thrown away; but each variation is a new
point of view, from which we see the whole character.

REJANE

The genius of Rejane is a kind of finesse: it is a flavour, and all the
ingredients of the dish may be named without defining it. The thing is
Parisian, but that is only to say that it unites nervous force with a
wicked ease and mastery of charm. It speaks to the senses through the
brain, as much as to the brain through the senses. It is the feminine
equivalent of intellect. It "magnetises our poor vertebrae," in
Verlaine's phrase, because it is sex and yet not instinct. It is sex
civilised, under direction, playing a part, as we say of others than
those on the stage. It calculates, and is unerring. It has none of the
vulgar warmth of mere passion, none of its health or simplicity. It
leaves a little red sting where it has kissed. And it intoxicates us by
its appeal to so many sides of our nature at once. We are thrilled, and
we admire, and are almost coldly appreciative, and yet aglow with the
response of the blood. I have found myself applauding with tears in my
eyes. The feeling and the critical approval came together, hand in hand:
neither counteracted the other: and I had to think twice, before I could
remember how elaborate a science went to the making of that thrill which
I had been almost cruelly enjoying.

The art of Rejane accepts things as they are, without selection or
correction; unlike Duse, who chooses just those ways in which she shall
be nature. What one remembers are little homely details, in which the
shadow, of some overpowering impulse gives a sombre beauty to what is
common or ugly. She renders the despair of the woman whose lover is
leaving her by a single movement, the way in which she wipes her nose.
To her there is but one beauty, truth; and but one charm, energy. Where
nature has not chosen, s