L'Aiglon

Material from the Acton Davies boon on Maude Adams

To say that she has grasped the possibilities of this part even now, when she has been playing it for several months, would be absurd ; her physical powers could not reach them, although her readings show clearly that she has fully grasped the meaning of the part. When, six weeks after Miss Adams' appearance at the Knickerbocker, Sarah Bernhardt appeared in L'Aiglon at the Garden, it was inevitable that comparisons would be made. They were-but it is unnecessary to enter into that subject here. Miss Adams is still playing L'Aiglon to crowded houses. Madame Bernhardt has had a disastrous season through the West.

At the Academy of Music in Baltimore Maude Adams made her first appearance in L'Aigion. She scored an honest and legitimate success; a success, however, which, in the very nature of things, was subordinate to the success of the play itself. For somehow the reports from Paris, enthusiastic as they had been with regard to Bernhardt's performance of the play, seem scarcely to have done Edmond Rostand's work justice. Even Parisians themselves admitted that as played in Paris it was too drawn out, too talky-talky, as it were. In the adaptation which Louis Parker, supplemented by Edward Rose, had made, the pathos of the play has been preserved., while its action has been strengthened so successfully that the interest never lags. With all its superfluities of verbiage cut away, this play in its English version stands out clean-cut, tremendous., like a star. It is no exaggeration to say that one has to look back to Hamlet to find its peer in the matter of histrionic possibilities. There are scenes which are so great in themselves that while only one, or perhaps two, actresses in the world could realize their possibilities, still from the very strength of the scenes no actress of fair ability could fail in them.

This mark you, is no slur upon Miss Adams' work, for she accomplished marvels. The great scenes, to be sure, lay far, far beyond her, but she brought out the pathos of the life of this poor little eaglet of Napoleon's with so much delicacy and tenderness and, in some instances, power, that she carried her audience completely away with her. In the early scenes she so completely fascinated the audience by her own personality that when the great scenes came she had her hearers completely in her power. The strength of the situation swept her along, and it wasn't until the next morning, over their ham and eggs, in perfectly cold blood, that they began to realize how much greater the play was than the actress. At the same time it must be conceded that in this play Miss Adams scored the great success of her career. With all her shortcomings, her work in L'Aiglon was immeasurably superior to her work in either Barrie's Little Minister or as Shakespeare's Juliet.

But at the same time neither all the king's horses nor all the king's men can ever make this clever little actress encompass the full possibilities of this great role.

She was at her best in the opening act. Here, Bernhardt herself did not surpass her. In the scene where the old tutor attempts to give her a history lesson not at all in accordance with the facts, but entirely in accordance with the orders of her Austrian guardian, Miss Adams was superb. She played this scene with a combination of raillery, wit, and satire which carried all before her. The black garment she wore in this act made her look ghastly - exactly the poor, frail little consumptive she was intended to be. In some of her later scenes she overworked her cough so much that it reminded one of a second-rate Camille. But in her performance of that first act there was no flaw. Her first great test, however, came in the second act, where Prince Metternich drags the young Duke before the mirror and bids him look upon the puny, sickly, effeminate face of his father's son. L'Aiglon snatches the lamp from the Prince's hand and smashes the mirror into fragments. Miss Adams played this scene most cleverly, but the strength of the stage business made it seem almost great.

In the third act Rostand, the playwright, could not help her much. The fancy dress ball at Sch6nbrunn is at its height, and under the park trees the hapless lad learns for the first time the depths of his mother's infamy. There was no well-managed climax to assist Miss Adams here. She had to rely entirely upon her facial by-play and her elocution. Both were unequal to this great task. It was in this scene that Miss Adams' performance reached its lowest ebb. To be sure, the next act, on the battlefield of Wagram, where the voices of the thousands that Napoleon had slain arose to haunt him, L'Aiglon lay immeasurably beyond the little artist's reach, but at the same time the scene was so terrific in itself that it brought Miss Adams enthusiastic curtain calls. In the closing act, the death scene, her acting was entirely conventional, and she lost a great deal of the grip which she had upon her audience throughout the earlier part of the play.

In short, to sum her performance up, Miss Adams accomplished a great many more wonders than any rational person dreamed she was capable of. But at the same time she did not realize the possibilities of L'Aiglon. And after that first performance, when she finally got to bed, tired out after a great night's work finely done, Miss Adams must have easily found it in her heart to say, "God bless M. Rostand, Mr. Frohman, and all my stage managers." For Mr. Charles Frohman had laid himself out upon the production, and all the intricacies of Rostand lines and stage business had been so admirably handled by Stage Manager Humphries that Miss Adams' task had been made easier for her a hundredfold.

It was in his amours that Miss Adams' L'Aiglon was at its weakest. The young Duke's passion for Fannie Elssler had all the ardour of water mixed with milk. . After she shed the funeral garb of the first act Miss Adams looked uncommonly well. The white uniform became her., and her costumes were so neatly cut that they made her at times look almost sturdy.

Mr. Parker's adaptation had been admirably done, but there was one great flaw in it. Indeed, this change deprived the play in one sense of a great deal of its natural strength : L'Aiglon from first to last was made an entirely sympathetic role. This is all wrong.

In the French play, one of the strongest hits is scored when Rostand demonstrates that his poor little Eaglet, beating hopelessly against the bars of his physical cage, is not only an inflamed enthusiast., but, when put to the crucial test, is also an arrant coward. This little wing-clipped eaglet, this bird in a gilded cage which Miss Adams presents, is always pathetic, always thoroughly lovable, but one has to strain both his ear and his imagination to hear him passionately railing against both his fate and his cage.

Miss Adams had attempted a daring feat and carried it through, if not with the greatest honours, at least successfully. She had fairly earned every ounce of the applause.

Famous Actresses of the Day in America, , Lewis C. Strang, 1902.

Chapter IV: Maude Adams in 'L'Aiglon”

In the spring of 1900, Maude Adams put aside the fascinating witcheries of Lady Babbie in 'The Little Minister,' and, after a summer of hard study, donned in the fall the masculine garments of the Duke of Reichstadt, the ill-fated son of Napoleon, pictured by the French dramatist, Edmond Rostand, in his play, 'L'Aiglon.' The change was an astonish one, more astonishing, in fact, than her successful hazard for a brief season of Shakespeare's Juliet. Nor was the experiment without its satisfactory reward of critical and popular approval. Public opinion, as with Miss Adams Juliet, was to be sure, hopelessly divided. But it is safe the declare the actress was justified in her daring by those who had hearts to feel as well as minds to understand.

Exceedingly sorry most of us were, in our selfishness, that there ever had to be an end to Lady Babbie. It was difficult for us, who could never tire of the delightful Egyptian, -for us who had yielded so surely time and time again to her spell,-to imagine that any one under any circumstances might find her wearisome. Babbie was to us as some dear friend, a cherished companion, whom we loved very much, whom we wished always with us, whose happiness was our greatest pleasure, whose sorrows awoke in us keenest sympathy; a friend whom we felt that we could trust to the end of time, who never disappointed nor wounded us, who never fell from our ideal, who returned sentiment for sentiment, who inspired us to look up and to seek beyond, whose sympathy was rich, full and complete, whose influence was ennobling, purifying, and broadening.

Tire of Lady Babbie? Tire of rippling laughter and of innocent mirth, of sweet, pathetic tears, of love, of youth, of beauty, of all that is most gracious and most to be desired? Tire of life that is charged with kindly humanity, with gentleness, life that is all springtime, fresh, clean and joyous? How could one tire of these great and good things?

Ah, so we thought, but there was another side to the picture, a view-point altogether different, the view-pint of the talented, the preciously endowed little woman, who labored so long and faithfully, revealing to us this idealistic creation of the imagination. Again and again she lifted the curtain, although her personal interest in the scene must have long before departed. Conscientiously, with resourceful art, she regenerated the old, old character, lived anew the old, old emotions. We were delighted as ever. But she? Weary, so weary! How she must have welcomed a change!

It may have been fancy, but it seemed to me that I detected the slightest trace of inevitable boredom in Miss Adams' last performances of Lady Babbie, a little loss of spontaneity, a loss so trifling that one hardly dared to hint that it was noticeable. I seemed sometimes to feel that Miss Adams was acting, that Babbie's laughter was not Maude Adams' laughter, that Babbie's tears were only make-believe, that her bewildering lights and shades were there because Maude Adams willed that they should be. In short, I almost dared to maintain that I had seen Maude Adams' art at work, something which, to me at least, had never before been revealed in this part.

Do you wonder, when you consider that matter, that it should have been so? Eight hundred performances of the same role, speaking the same lines, feeling the same things, hearing the same laughter, the same applause, bowing to the same curtain calls, and trying, trying, trying to be pleased with it all! The real surprise was that Miss Adams stood it so long and remained so nearly the perfect Baabbie that she was to the very end. It was not strange that one who had seen her impersonation many times should at the last have suspected a shade of artificiality. The marvel was that she was not frankly artificial, wholly mechanical.

Maude Adams made her first appearance as the Eaglet in Louis N. Parker's English version of the Rostand play in Baltimore, Maryland, on October 15, 1900. In March, 1900, Sarah Bernhardt produced 'L'Aiglon' in Paris, and news of the tremendous effect that the drama had on those of French blood was immediately sent broadcast. 'But the play will never be a success outside of France,' was the accompanying verdict.

How absolutely wrong was this qualification, it needed only a single experience with the great drama to perceive. 'L'Aiglon' is indeed French, and I can well understand how the heart of a Frenchman must be torn to shreds and tatters, and his soul must be inspired and inflamed with the most enthusiastic patriotism by the action and sentiment of the drama. But 'The Eaglet' also deals with sweeping emotions, with mighty struggles, with stirring flights of the imagination, with vast enterprises, with a supreme tragedy; and these belong no more to France than they do to the whole world. 'The Eaglet,' therefore, is rightly to be classified with the universal drama.

When Rostand gave his 'Cyrano de Bergerac' to the public, there was general acknowledgment of his genius, and also general skepticism regarding his ability to repeat himself in force and strength and artistic merit in a second play. After seeing Richard Mansfield's Cyrano and Maude Adam's Eaglet, I was ready to testify that, from the standpoint of the theater, he had accomplished in 'L'Aiglon' the seemingly impossible. I was willing to acknowledge that 'Cyrano de Bergerac' read better than 'The Eaglet,' but it seemed to me that 'The Eaglet' acted better than 'Cyrano de Bergerac.' Acting literature is vitally different from reading literature. Reading literature is first of all an appeal to the mind, and through the mind to the imagination and to the senses. Acting literature is an appeal, first to the senses, then to the imagination, and last of all to the mind. In its appeal, the drama is a combination of music, which stimulates the imagination through the sense of hearing, and painting and sculpture, which stimulate the imagination through the sense of sight. All genuine drama-and it should be recognized that all works in the dramatic form are not drama-must be acted to be complete. That is the condition or the restriction or the privilege under which the dramatist labors. He is writing for the theater-for actors and for spectators. It follows, therefore, that no person-however broad in culture, however catholic in taste, however experienced in stage technique-can judge finally and absolutely of the true worth of a play as literature or as art until he has seen it competently presented on the stage.

Until I saw 'Cyrano de Bergerac' acted up to its full possibilities, as it was in Constant Coquelin's impersonation of the title part, I regarded 'The Eaglet' as superior to 'Cyrano' as an acting play .But that estimate was wrong. 'The Eaglet' being more theatrical than 'Cyrano' suffered less from feeble or mistaken interpretation. 'Cyrano,' on the other hand, has a humanity and a vitality that raise it distinctly above its companion piece. The difference is inherent, not superficial. It is the spirit that inspired 'Cyrano' which counts. 'The Eaglet' otherwise has points of excellence, fully equal to those of its predecessor. It, too, is an exhaustive exposition of character, and its action is placed against a background of marvelous suggestiveness and impressive.' The Eaglet' is the symbolic presentation of the spirit of a most complex and fascinating people; it is the pinning down to dramatic exposition of the unconquered Napoleon. It is a richly sympathetic and a powerfully pathetic retelling of the 'Hamlet' story of a soul struggle against overwhelming odds.

Appreciating the truth, sympathy, sincerity, and subtlety of the composition of the character of the Duke of Reichstadt as a dramatic creation, I, nevertheless, do not feel that the Eaglet, himself, is the really significant factor in Rostand's play. The drama was not written, in my judgment, so much to present the Duke of Reichstadt as it was patriotically to inspire Frenchmen, and to set forth in symbolic form the ideal spirit of France as Rostand conceived it. So clearly evident has Rostand made his ideal that, not only can France perceive her own perfect image, and be enthused by it, but we outsiders can see it also and be fired and inflamed in a similar manner as is the Frenchman, though to a less degree. Whether this inspiration would be felt so strongly in London with an audience of Britons, is doubtful. That it could teach an audience of Germans is practically impossible. But here in this country we have enough of the emotional vivacity of the Frenchman partially to understand him. The Frenchman is away ahead of us in honest sentiment. We are ahead of him in 'horse' sense. He poses far more effectively than we do. We are too crudely and vulgarly self-conscious.

In that most striking creation, the grenadier Flembeau, it seems to me that Rostand gives us, as it were, a summing up of France -France, wholly optimistic and wholly debonair; France willing to risk everything for a bit of sentiment-foolish sentiment, you of stern practicability declare-even as Flambeau risked his life for the pretty sentiment of guarding Napoleon's son, wearing the uniform of the old guard, bearskin on head and white-slung musket in hand; France, light-hearted and frivolous and gay, but true and brave and faithful to the last breath. What a picture of a nation is this! What a picture! What wonder that Frenchmen went crazy over Rostand's work! The greater wonder is that they could strangle their emotion sufficiently to express it even crazily!

It was the unmistakable presence of the French spirit, in union with the mighty struggle of the Napoleonic spirit, that made the second act of 'The Eaglet' so supercharged with emotional stress, with pathetic appeal, and with dramatic strength. In the Louis N. Parker version, used by Maude Adams, this second act was a combination of the second and third acts of the original play .This crowding together process resulted in momentary incongruity as regards time, but it had value in continued and uninterrupted interest in the action. From the moment that Flambeau appeared in this act, until he perished by his own hand on the field of Wagram, he overshadowed the action. Helped on, buoyed up, urged forward by the constant optimism and faithful service of the irresistible grenadier, even the weak, wan, wretchedly hopeless Eaglet dared to try to fly-actually fluttered his wings alone for the distance from the tree to the ground. But it was all impossible. The Eaglet was not Napoleon-except in his own fevered imagination and in the equally fevered imaginations of his loyal friends. Struggle against the truth as he might, the Eaglet was compelled to acknowledge a spiritual as well as a physical master-that fixed quantity, Metternich. A Napoleon could never have known the helplessness of facing a will stronger than his own.

This subtle phase of the Eaglet's character-a phase that made the almost indomitable spirit and strength of will displayed in the death scene nearly a complete victory-was most dramatically exposed in the mirror scene by Metternich, who pointed out ruthlessly and relentlessly, ever weakness, ever taint, every flaw in the face, form, and a character of the struggling, terrified boy. Nor could the pitiful little duke get the phantoms from his brain until he dashed the candelabra into the reflection of himself and smashed the mocking glass into fragments.

Before writing a word regarding Miss Adams' impersonation of the Duke of Reichstadt, I wish to a void all misunderstanding by speaking my appreciation of her mental power of her art, and of her pluck. Whether she was wise to force her resources to, and even beyond, the limit,k and whether, with her slight physique, she did not risk too much in undertaking such aq tremendous part as the Eaglet, are debatable questions, perhaps, but they are really none of my business. To declare, however, that by her presentation of such characters as Juliet and the Duke of Reichstadt she injured or jeopardized her artistic reputation is out and out nonsense. Her Juliet I recall in certain of its phases as the best I ever saw. Regarding her Eaglet it may be asserted that no loss of prestige was to be feared while Miss Adams was able to make apparent at all points her thorough mental command of Rostand's conception. With her ideal of the duke, her understanding of his characters, her treatment of his complexities and perplexities, her exposition of motives, of purposes and cross-purposes-with these there was little or no fault to be found. Mentally the Dukie of Reichstadt was here. This of itself was a task of no mean nor small order, for Rostand in the Eaglet portrayed a human being, and portrayed him with analytical keeness, acumen, and completeness most uncommon.

Miss Adam's first entrance was not effective. Her physical tinyness and weakness made so overpowering an impression that the notion of royalty and of Napoleonic heritage did not at once strike home. Not until the line spoken by the Countess Camerate, 'They say you do now know your father's history,' which was answered by the duke,' Do they say that?' did the fire begin to burn. From that point, through all the sharpening of wits and mental fence with court and ambassadors and during the magnificent outburst of infectious enthusiasm inspired by the history lesson-leading phases of the first act; through the magnificent second act, which never permitted the tears to leave the eyes, and the tremendous range of emotion involved in the episode of the paint4ed soldiers; in the meeting with Flambeau and the interview with Australia's emperor; in the representation of the joy of the child, the fear of the child, and the defiance of the child; in facing the cool opposition of the implacable Metternich, and finally in the tremendous mirror scene, culminating with its purely theatrical but none the less appalling crash of broken glass,-in every one of these moments of the first two acts Miss Adams was great.

But the climax of the second act marked the climax of her emotional power. The third act of 'The Eaglet' may be quickly passed by. It was picturesque enough, and it may have had a certain value as a halting place between the stress of the second act and the mighty emotionalism of the scene on the field of Wagram. Still, beyond its purely mechanical use in carrying on the story, it seemed dramatically worthless.

The fearful scene on the field of Wagram was completely beyond Miss Adam's powers. She could not give physical expression to those imaginary terrors, and one felt them not. In that scene nothing short of the impressiveness of tragic power would do. Tragic power Miss Adams had not. The mechanics of the scene were beautifully conceived and execut4ed. No apparitions were visibly shown, and the cries and wild shouts of phantom voices were so mingled with the soughing of the wind, that it was not difficult to conceive of a fevered imagination conjuring these mysteries from what was really the droning roar of the gale. There were all the elements of terror present, and these were increased by the sense of loneliness and dreariness wrought by the setting. The full sweep of the stage was shown, with only a perspective of six, eight, ten miles,-the only distant objects in sight being the little mound of which the terrified Eaglet wrestled with his soul, the stolid figure of the sign-post pointing the way to France, and in the foreground the dead body of the grenadier.

Against this awesome and stupendous background stood forth the weak, feeble figure of the Duke of Reichstadt. It was a moment when domination of surroundings could be obtained only by the compelling sweep of supreme tragedy. Miss Adams failed to dominate, largely-almost wholly-because she lacked the brute force. The environment was too strong for her unfortunate physical limitations.

What she lost in the Wagram scene she recovered in the death scene. This was indescribably pathetic, and the wan pitifulness of it was well-nigh heartrending. Here just those qualities that made ineffective the fear-inspiring hallucinations of the preceding act rendered vastly moving the bitter and vein fight of the little Eaglet against disease and death. one could feel the power of his will; one could feel it straining and almost rending into shreds the weak, unresponsive muscles. The agony was the keenest emotional torture for the spectator.

Of light and shade, of touches of deeply significant comedy, of delicacies of subtlety and fine significance, there were many throughout the impersonation, and they all were admirable. Over the tragic figure of the Eaglet Miss Adams cast her magic mantle of pathetic appeal, made all the more powerful by contrasting tones of touching humor that were themselves almost weeping. Except in the instance of the field of Wagram, pathetic appeal carried the day.