It is, therefore, not amazing that everybody is interested in the art
of acting, and it is not amazing that every one thinks he can act.
You have only to suggest private theatricals, when a house party is
assembled at some country house, to verify the truth of the statement.
Immediately commences a lively rivalry as to who shall play this part
or that. Each one considers herself or himself best suited, and I
have known private theatricals to lead to lifelong enmities.
It is surprising to discover how very differently people who have
played parts all their lives deport themselves before the footlights.
I was acquainted with a lady in London who had been the wife of a peer
of the realm, who had been ambassadress at foreign courts, who at one
time had been a reigning beauty, and who came to me, longing for a new
experience, and implored me to give her an opportunity to appear upon
the stage. In a weak moment I consented, and as I was producing a
play, I cast her for a part which I thought she would admirably
suit-that of a society woman. What that woman did and did not do on
the stage passes all belief. She became entangled in her train, she
could neither sit down nor stand up, she shouted, she could not be
persuaded to remain at a respectful distance, but insisted upon
shrieking into the actor's ears, and she committed all the gaucheries
you would expect from an untrained country wench. But because
everybody is acting in private life, every one thinks he can act upon
the stage, and there is no profession that has so many critics. Every
individual in the audience is a critic, and knows all about the art of
acting. But acting is a gift. It cannot be taught. You can teach
people how to act acting--but you can't teach them to act. Acting is
as much an inspiration as the making of great poetry and great
pictures. What is commonly called acting is acting acting. This is
what is generally accepted as acting. A man speaks lines, moves his
arms, wags his head, and does various other things; he may even shout
and rant; some pull down their cuffs and inspect their finger nails;
they work hard and perspire, and their skin acts. This is all easily
comprehended by the masses, and passes for acting, and is applauded,
but the man who is actually the embodiment of the character he is
creating will often be misunderstood, be disliked, and fail to
attract. Mediocrity rouses no opposition, but strong individualities
and forcible opinions make enemies. It is here that danger lies.
Many an actor has set out with an ideal, but, failing to gain general
favour, has abandoned it for the easier method of winning popular
acclaim. Inspiration only comes to those who permit themselves to be
inspired. It is a form of hypnotism. Allow yourself to be convinced
by the character you are portraying that you are the character. If
you are to play Napoleon, and you are sincere and determined to be
Napoleon, Napoleon will not permit you to be any one but Napoleon, or
Richard III. Richard III., or Nero Nero, and so on. He would be a
poor, miserable pretence of an actor who in the representation of any
historical personage were otherwise than firmly convinced, after
getting into the man's skin (which means the exhaustive study of all
that was ever known about him), that he is living that very man for a
few brief hours. And so it is, in another form, with the creation or
realisation of the author's, the poet's, fancy. In this latter case
the actor, the poet actor, sees and creates in the air before him the
being he delineates; he makes him, he builds him during the day, in
the long hours of the night; the character gradually takes being; he
is the actor's genius; the slave of the ring, who comes when he calls
him, stands beside him, and envelops him in his ghostly arms; the
actor's personality disappears; he is the character. You, you, and
you, and all of you, have the right to object to the actor's creation;
you may say this is not your conception of Hamlet or Macbeth or Iago
or Richard or Nero or Shylock--but respect his. And who can tell
whether he is right or you are right? He has created them with much
loving care; therefore don't sneer at them--don't jeer at them--it
hurts! If you have reared a rosebush in your garden, and seen it bud
and bloom, are you pleased to have some ruthless vandal tear the
flowers from their stem and trample them in the mud? And it is not
always our most beautiful children we love the best. The parent's
heart will surely warm toward its feeblest child.