C.W. COULDOCK
(1815-98)

Charles William Couldock was one of the most popular actors of the mid-nineteenth century. Born in London, he made his professional debut in 1835 and fourteen years later emigrated to America where he debuted as Othello on October 8, 1849 in New York . He spent the next several seasons in Philadelphia as leading man at the Walnut Street Theater and touring with Charlotte Cushman. He joined Laura Keene's company in 1858, and though he had made his name as a tragic actor, he was cast as Abel Murcot in Our American Cousin. Hutton said of his performance that his "delineation of the fallen but faithful attorney's clerk ... was a painfully real bit of character acting that was one of the features of the play." Clara Morris said of him that " the strong point of his acting was in the expression of intense emotion--particularly grief or frenzied rage. He was utterly lacking in dignity, courtliness, or subtlety. He was best as a rustic, and he was the only creature I ever saw who could 'snuggle' without being absurd or offensive."

His Hamlet, Iago (below, right)and Shylock--it was his Shylock that caught Miss Keene's eye--were all highly regarded, but his greatest success was in the title role Louis XI (left) in the first American production of Boucicault's play with Miss Keene as the Dauphin and E. A. Sothern as Nemours. Turning to "domestic drama" later in life, he created, among others, Dunstan Kirke (above, right) in Steele Mackaye's long running Hazel Kirke, playing all 486 performances. His portrayal, though, was described as "old school" and having more than a little "Lear" about it. The role was written for someone who could chew the scenery, and no doubt suited him to a tee.

He was very well loved by those who worked with him.He was apparently something of a loveable curmudgeon, as the following anecdotes will illustrate.

DANIEL FROHMAN: "We were all very fond of Couldock. He was a bluff, blustery old fellow, given to extremes of temperament. When his quick temper was aroused, he put on a fine display of fireworks and shot of a picturesque vocabulary of profanity. But jst as suddenly as he flew off the handle, he would return to genial good humor.

"One night at the Madison Square, our famous double stage drove Couldock to give an unexpected performance behind the scenes. At the end of the second act, the blind old father had to make a dramatic exit. His daughter, whom he idolized, had eloped. She seemed irrevocable lost. With supreme and devout resignation, he tottered to the exit. He spoke his curtain lines with lingering pathos: 'God's will be done, God's will be done.'

"But he must have lingered a little longer than usual to wring the utmost effect from his lines. Or perhaps the stage hands were in a particular hurry to start setting the scene for another act. At any rate, before Couldock could step off the stage, it shot into the upper regions, bearing him with it. Leaving his mood of resignation below, he was in a dreadful temper when the stage stopped.

"He stumped heavily down the circular side staircase to the lower floor, grunting angrily at every step. Then he delivered to us with feeling a new exit line, as follows, 'God's will be done. Bah! I don't care a damn if God's will be done or not, but to hell with this double stage!'"

[NOTE: This tale, retold in Daniel Frohman Presents, has not doubt the truth of myth, though the facts are not entirely accurate. Dunstan Kirke has no such curtain line. But, specifics aside, the story has the ring of truth.]

EDWARD H. SOTHERN: "It was to the Madison Square Theatre that I went to pester Mr. Frohman for engagements. Hazel Kirke was then running on its long career. Here I encountered old Mr. Couldock, one of those venerable ones who had nursed me on his knee, a massive and leonine man, who took his profession very seriously. He part of Dunstan Kirke, the old miller, was a very King Lear, and his performance was superb and terrific. Mr. Couldock had shown much favor to a young man who was making his first experiment in a theatre. It was this youth's business in a certain scene to carry, with two other men, some bags of flour across the stage. The detail of his action Mr. Couldock would constantly discuss with him, so important did he consider it that it should be done in just such a manner. The old gentleman's kindly and constant interest and anxiety encouraged the young man to believe that his career as an actor was dear to Mr. Couldock's heart, and he foresaw himself under the great player's protecting wing borne to the very pinnacle of fortune.

"One day, however, the business with the bag of flour went wrong. Intoxicated with Mr. Couldock's encouragement and favor, the wretched novice became light-headed. He, in a careless moment, dropped the bag of flor onto the stage, and ruined the scene so dear to the old actor's heart. He grovelled with apology, but old Mr. Couldock was strangely amiable.

"'Come to my room after the play,' was all he said, and he actually laughed as he said it, a curious light in his eyes which the young man felt sure was the glow of affection.

"'You're a good boy,' said the still amiable Dunstan Kirke after the play, as he stood disrobing himself in his dressing-room.

"The novice had again protested his sorrow for the accident which had ruined the scene.

"'You're a good boy and ought to make a fine actor,'

"'Oh, thank you, Mr. Couldock,' grinned the youth, 'I have been longing to ask your advice about going on the stage. I was so frightened you would be angry with me.'

"'Angry about what?' said old Couldock. 'Not at all. How much salary do you get?'

"It was in Mr. Colluldock's power to recommend an increase of wages, and the pulse of the young man beat high as he said: 'Five dollars a week, Mr. Couldock.'

"'Five dollars a week, eh? And how do you spend it?'

"'Spend it, Mr. Couldock?'

"'Yes, sir! Spend it. You understand English, don't you? What do you do with it?'

"There was a note of impatience in the voice which rather shocked the young hopeful, but he reflected that Mr. Couldock was old and his performance arduous.

"'Well, dod gast it! How do you spend it?'

"'Well, Mr. Couldock, sir,' piped the startled youth, 'I pay a dollar for a week for my room.'

"'A dolloar for your room, eh? Well, go on! What more?'

"'And three dollars for my board.'

"'Three for your board, that's four. What else?'

"And fifty cents for car-fare and extras.'

"'Fifty cents for car-fare. Well, go on! That makes four fifty. Well?'

"'And twenty-five cents for laundry.'

"'Four seventy-five. Well, what else? Dod gast it! Hurry up! What more?'

"Well, Mr. Couldock, that's all.'

"'Then you save twenty-five cents a week?'

"'Well, not always, Mr. Couldock; sometimes I save only ten cents.'

"'Well, dod gast it! Say ten cents, then; that is, you save forty cents a month, eh? Do you or don't you?'

"'Yes, please, Mr. Couldock, sir, I do.'

"'And you want to know my advice about going on the stage, eh? Dod gast it!'

"'Yes, please, Mr. Couldock.'

"'Well, I tell you. Take your forty cents a month, and save it up until you have three dollars. Do you understand me?'

"'Yes, Mr. Couldock, yes,sir!'

"'Until you have three dollars, and then buy an axe and cut your dod-gasted head off!'"