The only question is, is it true to human nature? What puzzled me in this
American play was its raising the old question of nature and art. You've
seen Coquelin? Well, that is acting, as artificial as a sonnet, the
perfection of training, skill in an art. You never doubt that he is
performing in a play for the entertainment of an audience. You have the
same enjoyment of it that you have of a picture--a picture, I mean, full
of character and sentiment, not a photograph. But I don't think of Denman
Thompson as an actor trained to perfection in a dramatic school, but as a
New Hampshire farmer. I don't admire his skill; I admire him. There is
plenty that is artificial, vulgarly conventional, in his play, plenty of
imitation of the rustic that shows it is imitation, but he is the natural
man. If he is a stage illusion, he does not seem so to me." "Probably to
an American audience only he does not," Mr. Lyon remarked.
"Well, that is getting to be a tolerably large audience."
"I doubt if you will change the laws of art," said Mr. Lyon, rising to
go.
"We shall hope to see you again at our house," my wife said.
"You are very good. I should like it; but my time is running out."
"If you cannot come, you may leave your adieus with Miss Debree, who is
staying some time in the city," my wife said, evidently to Margaret's
annoyance.
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