The interest of bad plays lies in the test which they afford of the
capability of the actor. To what extent, however, can an actor really
carry through a play which has not even the merits of its defects, such
a play, for instance, as Mr. Henry Arthur Jones has produced in "The
Princess's Nose"? Mr. Jones has sometimes been mistaken for a man of
letters, as by a distinguished dramatic critic, who, writing a
complimentary preface, has said: "The claim of Mr. Henry Arthur Jones's
more ambitious plays to rank as literature may have been in some cases
grudgingly allowed, but has not been seriously contested." Mr. Jones
himself has assured us that he has thought about life, and would like to
give some representation of it in his plays. That is apparently what he
means by this peroration, which once closed an article in the
_Nineteenth Century_: "O human life! so varied, so vast, so complex, so
rich and subtle in tremulous deep organ tones, and soft proclaim of
silver flutes, so utterly beyond our spell of insight, who of us can
govern the thunder and whirlwind of thy ventages to any utterance of
harmony, or pluck out the heart of thy eternal mystery?" Does Mr. Jones,
I wonder, or the distinguished critic, really hear any "soft proclaim of
silver flutes," or any of the other organ effects which he enumerates,
in "The Princess's Nose"? Does anyone "seriously contest" its right not
to "rank as Literature"? The audience, for once, was unanimous. Mr.
Jones was not encouraged to appear. And yet there had been applause,
prolonged applause, at many points throughout this bewildering evening.
The applause was meant for the actors.
If Mr. Jones had shown as much tact in the construction of his play as
in the selection of his cast, how admirable the play would have been! I
have rarely seen a play in which each actor seemed to fit into his part
with such exactitude. But the play! Well, the play began as a comedy,
continued as a tragedy, and ended as a farce. It came to a crisis every
five minutes, it suggested splendid situations, and then caricatured
them unintentionally, it went shilly-shallying about among the emotions
and sensations which may be drama or melodrama, whichever the handling
makes them. "You see there is a little poetical justice going about the
world," says the Princess, when she hears that her rival, against whom
she has fought in vain, has been upset by Providence in the form of a
motor-car, and the bridge of her nose broken. The broken nose is Mr.
Jones's symbol for poetical justice; it indicates his intellectual
attitude. There are many parts of the play where he shows, as he has so
often shown, a genuine skill in presenting and manipulating humorous
minor characters. As usual, they have little to do with the play, but
they are amusing for their moment. It is the serious characters who will
not be serious. They are meant well, the action hovers about them with
little tempting solicitations, continually offering them an opportunity
to be fine, to be genuine, and then withdrawing it before it can be
grasped. The third act has all the material of tragedy, but the material
is wasted; only the actress makes anything of it. We know how Sullivan
will take a motive of mere farce, such words as the "O Captain Shaw!" of
"Iolanthe," and will write a lovely melody to go with it, fitting his
music to the feeling which the words do but caricature. That is how Miss
Irene Vanbrugh handled Mr. Jones's unshapen material. By the
earnestness, sincerity, sheer nature, power, fire, dignity, and gaiety
of her acting, she made for us a figure which Mr. Jones had not made.
Mr. Jones would set his character in some impossible situation, and Miss
Vanbrugh would make us, for the moment, forget its impossibility. He
would give her a trivial or a grotesque or a vulgar action to do, and
she would do it with distinction. She had force in lightness, a vivid
malice, a magnetic cheerfulness; and she could suffer silently, and be
sincere in a tragedy which had been conceived without sincerity. If
acting could save a play, "The Princess's Nose" would have been saved.
It was not saved.
And the reason is that even the best of actors cannot save a play which
insists on defeating them at every turn. Yet, as we may realise any day
when Sarah Bernhardt acts before us, there is a certain kind of frankly
melodramatic play which can be lifted into at all events a region of
excited and gratified nerves. I have lately been to see a melodrama
called "The Heel of Achilles," which Miss Julia Neilson has been giving
at the Globe Theatre. The play was meant to tear at one's
susceptibilities, much as "La Tosca" tears at them. "La Tosca" is not a
fine play in itself, though it is a much better play than "The Heel of
Achilles." But it is the vivid, sensational acting of Sarah Bernhardt
which gives one all the shudders. "The Heel of Achilles" did not give me
a single shudder, not because it was not packed with the raw material of
sensation, but because Miss Julia Neilson went through so many trying
experiences with nerves of marble.
I cannot help wondering at the curious lack of self-knowledge in actors.
Here is a play, which depends for a great deal of its effect on a scene
in which Lady Leslie, a young Englishwoman in Russia, promises to marry
a Russian prince whom she hates, in order to save her betrothed lover
from being sent to Siberia. The lover is shut in between two doors,
unable to get out; he is the bearer of a State secret, and everything
depends on his being able to catch the eleven P.M. train for Berlin. The
Russian prince stands before the young Englishwoman, offering her the
key of the door, the safety of her lover, and his own hand in marriage.
Now, she has to express by her face and her movements all the feelings
of astonishment, horror, suspense, love, hatred, distraction, which such
a situation would call up in her. If she does not express them the scene
goes for nothing. The actress stakes all on this scene. Now, is it
possible that Miss Julia Neilson really imagined herself to be capable
of rendering this scene as it should be rendered? It is a scene that
requires no brains, no subtle emotional quality, none of the more
intellectual merits of acting. It requires simply a great passivity to
feeling, the mere skill of letting horrors sweep over the face and the
body like drenching waves. The actress need not know how she does it;
she may do it without an effort, or she may obtain her spontaneity by an
elaborate calculation. But to do it at all she must be the actress in
every fibre of her body; she must be able to vibrate freely. If the
emotion does not seize her in its own grasp, and then seize us through
her, it will all go for nothing. Well, Miss Neilson sat, and walked, and
started, and became rigid, and glanced at the clock, and knelt, and fell
against the wall, and cast her eyes about, and threw her arms out, and
made her voice husky; and it all went for nothing. Never for an instant
did she suggest what she was trying to suggest, and after the first
moment of disappointment the mind was left calmly free to watch her
attempt as if it were speculating round a problem.
How many English actresses, I wonder, would have been capable of dealing
adequately with such a scene as that? I take it, not because it is a
good scene, but because it affords so rudimentary a test of the capacity
for acting. The test of the capacity for acting begins where words end;
it is independent of words; you may take poor words as well as fine
words; it is all the same. The embodying power, the power to throw open
one's whole nature to an overcoming sensation, the power to render this
sensation in so inevitable a way that others shall feel it: that is the
one thing needful. It is not art, it is not even the beginning of art;
but it is the foundation on which alone art can be built.
The other day, in "Ulysses," there was only one piece of acting that was
quite convincing: the acting of Mr. Brough as the Swineherd. It is a
small part and an easy part, but it was perfectly done. Almost any
other part would have been more striking and surprising if it had been
done as perfectly, but no other part was done as perfectly. Mr. Brough
has developed a stage-personality of his own, with only a limited range
of emotion, but he has developed it until it has become a second nature
with him. He has only to speak, and he may say what he likes; we accept
him after the first word, and he remains what that first word has shown
him to be. Mr. Tree, with his many gifts, his effective talents, all his
taste, ambition, versatility, never produces just that effect: he
remains interestingly aside from what he is doing; you see his brain
working upon it, you enjoy his by-play; his gait, his studied gestures,
absorb you; "How well this is done!" you say, and "How well that is
done!" and, indeed, you get a complete picture out of his representation
of that part: a picture, not a man.
I am not sure that melodrama is not the hardest test of the actor: it
is, at least, the surest. All the human emotions throng noisily
together in the making of melodrama: they are left there, in their naked
muddle, and they come to no good end; but there they are. To represent
any primary emotion, and to be ineffective, is to fail in the
fundamental thing. All actors should be sent to school in melodrama, as
all dramatic authors should learn their trade there.