Acting has been so much a part of my life that my autobiography could
scarcely be written without jotting down my reflections upon it, and I
merely make this little preparatory explanation to apologise for any
dogmatic tone that they may possess, and to say that I present them
merely as a seeker after truth in the domain of art.
In admitting the analogy that undoubtedly exists between the arts of
painting, poetry, music, and acting, it should be remembered that the
first three are opposed to the last, in at least the one quality of
permanence. The picture, oratorio, or book must bear the test of
calculating criticism, whereas the work of an actor is fleeting: it
not only dies with him, but, through his different moods, may vary
from night to night. If the performance be indifferent it is no
consolation for the audience to hear that the player acted well last
night, or to be told that he will act better to-morrow night; it is
this night that the public has to deal with, and the impression the
actor has made, good or bad, remains as such upon the mind of that
particular audience.
The author, painter, or musician, if he be dissatisfied with his work,
may alter and perfect it before giving it publicity, but an actor
cannot rub out; he ought, therefore, in justice to his audience, to be
sure of what he is going to place before it. Should a picture in an
art gallery be carelessly painted we can pass on to another, or if a
book fails to please us we can put it down. An escape from this kind
of dulness is easily made, but in a theatre the auditor is imprisoned.
If the acting be indifferent, he must endure it, at least for a time.
He cannot withdraw without making himself conspicuous; so he remains,
hoping that there may be some improvement as the play proceeds, or
perhaps from consideration for the company he is in. It is this
helpless condition that renders careless acting so offensive.