What was in Coquelin’s thoughts all this time would appear to have been a sort of eagerness to measure himself with the English actor in ‘Le Juif Polonais,’ which he looked upon as his own, and which had made a reputation for Irving. With some lack of taste or tact, Coquelin later challenged an English audience to decide between the two readings of Mathias. He performed it, I think, on two different occasions. It was an interesting and instructive experiment, for it proved that two artists of eminence might legitimately take directly opposite views of the same character. But does not character in real life offer the same varieties of interpretation? Coquelin presented a sort of comfortable _bourgeois_, a tradesman-like personage, who was not likely to reach the heroic or melodramatic place. He was not over-sensitive, nor was his remorse very poignant; and the keynote to his agitation was the desire to be thought respectable, to keep his position, and not be found out. It was agreed that the two conceptions were altogether opposed. “Irving’s hero was a grave, dignified, and melancholy being; Coquelin’s was a stout Alsatian, well-to-do, respected by his neighbours, but still on an equality with the humble folk around him. Irving’s was a conscience-stricken personage; Coquelin’s had no conscience at all. Irving’s was all remorse; Coquelin was not in the least disturbed. He takes delight in his ill-got treasures. The only side on which he is assailable is that of his fears, and the arrival of the second Jew, so like the first, terrifies him; and too much wine on the night of the wedding brings on the disturbed dream.” The question might be thus summarized: Irving’s reading was that of a tragedian; Coquelin’s that of a comedian. For myself, I confess a liking for both. A friendly and even enthusiastic appreciation of the actor was furnished by Jules Claretie, then a critic of eminence. “His reputation,” he said, “would be even greater than it is if he had the leisure to extend his studies and correct his faults; but, as Mr. Walter Pollock remarks, a man who has to play six or seven times a week can hardly be expected to find much time for study. England, unlike France, does not possess a national theatre. “‘Richelieu’ was the first play in which I saw Mr. Irving in London. Here he is superb. The performance amounts to a resurrection. The great Cardinal, lean, worn, eaten up with ambition, less for himself than for France, is admirably rendered. His gait is jerky, like that of a man shaken by fever; his eye has the depth of a visionary’s; a hoarse cough preys upon that feeble frame. When Richelieu appears in the midst of the courtiers, when he flings his scorn in the face of the mediocrity that is to succeed him, when he supplicates and adjures the vacillating Louis XIII., Mr. Irving endows that fine figure with a striking majesty.