the necessary brevity. Beginners are naturally anxious to know what
course they should pursue. In common with other actors, I receive
letters from young people many of whom are very earnest in their
ambition to adopt the dramatic calling, but not sufficiently alive to
the fact that success does not depend on a few lessons in declamation.
When I was a boy I had a habit which I think would be useful to all
young students. Before going to see a play of Shakespeare's I used to
form--in a very juvenile way--a theory as to the working out of the
whole drama, so as to correct my conceptions by those of the actors;
and though I was, as a rule, absurdly wrong, there can be no doubt
that any method of independent study is of enormous importance, not
only to youngsters, but also to students of a larger growth.
Without it the mind is apt to take its stamp from the first forcible
impression it receives, and to fall into a servile dependence upon
traditions, which, robbed of the spirit that created them, are apt
to be purely mischievous. What was natural to the creator is often
unnatural and lifeless in the imitator. No two people form the same
conceptions of character, and therefore it is always advantageous to
see an independent and courageous exposition of an original ideal.
There can be no objection to the kind of training that imparts a
knowledge of manners and customs, and the teaching which pertains to
simple deportment on the stage is necessary and most useful; but you
cannot possibly be taught any tradition of character, for that has no
permanence. Nothing is more fleeting than any traditional method of
impersonation. You may learn where a particular personage used to
stand on the stage, or down which trap the ghost of Hamlet's father
vanished; but the soul of interpretation is lost, and it is this soul
which the actor has to re-create for himself. It is not mere attitude
or tone that has to be studied; you must be moved by the impulse of
being; you must impersonate and not recite.
There has always been a controversy as to the province of naturalism
in dramatic art. In England it has been too much the custom, I
believe, while demanding naturalism in comedy, to expect a false
inflation in tragedy. But there is no reason why an actor should
be less natural in tragic than in lighter moods. Passions vary in
expression according to moulds of character and manners, but their
reality should not be lost even when they are expressed in the heroic
forms of the drama. A very simple test is a reference to the records
of old actors. What was it in their performances that chiefly
impressed their contemporaries? Very rarely the measured recitation of
this or that speech, but very often a simple exclamation that deeply
moved their auditors, because it was a gleam of nature in the midst
of declamation. The "Prithee, undo this button!" of Garrick, was
remembered when many stately utterances were forgotten. In our day the
contrast between artificial declamation and the accents of nature is
less marked, because its delivery is more uniformly simple, and an
actor who lapses from a natural into a false tone is sure to find
that his hold upon his audience is proportionately weakened. But the
revolution which Garrick accomplished may be imagined from the story
told by Boswell. Dr. Johnson was discussing plays and players with
Mrs. Siddons, and he said: "Garrick, madam, was no declaimer; there
was not one of his own scene-shifters who could not have spoken 'To be
or not to be' better than he did; yet he was the only actor I ever saw
whom I could call a master, both in tragedy and comedy, though I
liked him best in comedy. A true conception of character and natural
expression of it were his distinguished excellences."
To be natural on the stage is most difficult, and yet a grain of
nature is worth a bushel of artifice. But you may say--what is nature?
I quoted just now Shakespeare's definition of the actor's art. After
the exhortation to hold the mirror up to nature, he adds the pregnant
warning: "This overdone or come tardy off, though it make the
unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of
which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others."
Nature may be overdone by triviality in conditions that demand
exaltation; for instance, Hamlet's first address to the Ghost lifts
his disposition to an altitude far beyond the ordinary reaches of our
souls, and his manner of speech should be adapted to this sentiment.
But such exaltation of utterance is wholly out of place in the purely
colloquial scene with the Gravedigger. When Macbeth says, "Go, bid thy
mistress, when my drink is ready, she strike upon the bell," he would
not use the tone of
"Pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or Heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind."
Like the practised orator, the actor rises and descends with his
sentiment, and cannot always be in a fine phrenzy. This variety
is especially necessary in Shakespeare, whose work is essentially
different from the classic drama, because it presents every mood of
mind and form of speech, commonplace or exalted, as character and
situation dictate: whereas in such a play as Addison's _Cato_,
everybody is consistently eloquent about everything.
There are many causes for the growth of naturalism in dramatic art,
and amongst them we should remember the improvement in the mechanism
of the stage. For instance, there has been a remarkable development in
stage-lighting. In old pictures you will observe the actors constantly
standing in a line, because the oil-lamps of those days gave such an
indifferent illumination that everybody tried to get into what was
called the focus--the "blaze of publicity" furnished by the "float" or
footlights. The importance of this is illustrated by an amusing story
of Edmund Kean, who one night played _Othello_ with more than his
usual intensity. An admirer who met him in the street next day was
loud in his congratulations: "I really thought you would have choked
Iago, Mr. Kean--you seemed so tremendously in earnest." "In earnest!"
said the tragedian, "I should think so! Hang the fellow, he was trying
to keep me out of the focus."
I do not recommend actors to allow their feelings to carry them
away like this; but it is necessary to warn you against the theory
expounded with brilliant ingenuity by Diderot, that the actor never
feels. When Macready played Virginius, after burying his beloved
daughter, he confessed that his real experience gave a new force to
his acting in the most pathetic situations of the play. Are we to
suppose that this was a delusion, or that the sensibility of the man
was a genuine aid to the actor? Bannister said of John Kemble that he
was never pathetic because he had no children. Talma says that when
deeply moved he found himself making a rapid and fugitive observation
on the alternation of his voice, and on a certain spasmodic vibration
which it contracted in tears. Has not the actor who can thus make
his feelings a part of his art an advantage over the actor who never
feels, but who makes his observations solely from the feelings of
others? It is necessary to this art that the mind should have, as it
were, a double consciousness, in which all the emotions proper to the
occasion may have full swing, while the actor is all the time on the
alert for every detail of his method. It may be that his playing will
be more spirited one night than another. But the actor who combines
the electric force of a strong personality with a mastery of the
resources of his art must have a greater power over his audiences
than the passionless actor who gives a most artistic simulation of the
emotions he never experiences.
Now, in the practice of acting, a most important point is the study
of elocution; and in elocution one great difficulty is the use of
sufficient force to be generally heard without being unnaturally loud,
and without acquiring a stilted delivery. The advice of the old actors
was that you should always pitch your voice so as to be heard by the
back row of the gallery--no easy task to accomplish without offending
the ears of the front of the orchestra. And I should tell you that
this exaggeration applies to everything on the stage. To appear to be
natural, you must in reality be much broader than nature. To act on
the stage as one really would in a room, would be ineffective and
colorless. I never knew an actor who brought the art of elocution to
greater perfection than the late Charles Mathews, whose utterance on
the stage appeared so natural that one was surprised to find when near
him that he was really speaking in a very loud key. There is a great
actor in your own country to whose elocution one always listens with
the utmost enjoyment--I mean Edwin Booth. He has inherited this gift,
I believe, from his famous father, of whom I have heard it said, that
he always insisted on a thorough use of the "instruments"--by which he
meant the teeth--in the formation of words.
An imperfect elocution is apt to degenerate into a monotonous
uniformity of tone. Some wholesome advice on this point we find in the
_Life of Betterton_.
"This stiff uniformity of voice is not only displeasing to the ear,
but disappoints the effect of the discourse on the hearers; first, by
an equal way of speaking, when the pronunciation has everywhere, in
every word and every syllable, the same sound, it must inevitably
render all parts of speech equal, and so put them on a very unjust
level. So that the power of the reasoning part, the lustre and
ornament of the figures, the heart, warmth, and vigor of the
passionate part being expressed all in the same tone, is flat and
insipid, and lost in a supine, or at least unmusical pronunciation. So
that, in short, that which ought to strike and stir up the affections,
because it is spoken all alike, without any distinction or variety,
moves them not at all."
Now, on the question of pronunciation there is something to be said,
which, I think, in ordinary teaching is not sufficiently considered.
Pronunciation on the stage should be simple and unaffected, but not
always fashioned rigidly according to a dictionary standard. No less
an authority than Cicero points out that pronunciation must vary
widely according to the emotions to be expressed; that it may be
broken or cut, with a varying or direct sound, and that it serves for
the actor the purpose of color to the painter, from which to draw his
variations. Take the simplest illustration, the formal pronunciation
of "A-h" is "Ah," of "O-h" "Oh;" but you cannot stereotype the
expression of emotion like this. These exclamations are words of one
syllable, but the speaker who is sounding the gamut of human feeling
will not be restricted in his pronunciation by the dictionary rule.
It is said of Edmund Kean that he never spoke such ejaculations,
but always sighed or groaned them. Fancy an actor saying thus, "My
Desdemona! Oh, [)o]h, [)o]h!" Words are intended to express feelings
and ideas, not to bind them in rigid fetters. The accents of pleasure
are different from the accents of pain, and if a feeling is more
accurately expressed, as in nature, by a variation of sound not
provided for by the laws of pronunciation, then such imperfect laws
must be disregarded and nature vindicated. The word should be the echo
of the sense.
The force of an actor depends, of course, upon his physique; and it is
necessary, therefore, that a good deal of attention should be given to
bodily training. Everything that develops suppleness, elasticity, and
grace--that most subtle charm--should be carefully cultivated, and
in this regard your admirable gymnasium is worth volumes of advice.
Sometimes there is a tendency to train the body at the expense of
the mind, and the young actor with striking physical advantages
must beware of regarding this fortunate endowment as his entire
stock-in-trade. That way folly lies, and the result may be too dearly
purchased by the fame of a photographer's window. It is clear that
the physique of actors must vary; there can be no military standard
of proportions on the stage. Some great actors have had to struggle
against physical disabilities of a serious nature. Betterton had an
unprepossessing face; so had Le Kain. John Kemble was troubled with
a weak, asthmatic voice, and yet by his dignity, and the force of
his personality, he was able to achieve the greatest effects. In some
cases a super-abundant physique has incapacitated actors from playing
many parts. The combination in one frame of all the gifts of mind and
all the advantages in person is very rare on the stage; but talent
will conquer many natural defects when it is sustained by energy and
perseverance.
With regard to gesture, Shakespeare's advice is all-embracing. "Suit
the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special
observance that you over-step not the modesty of nature." And here
comes the consideration of a very material part of the actor's
business--by-play. This is of the very essence of true art. It is more
than anything else significant of the extent to which the actor has
identified himself with the character he represents. Recall the scenes
between Iago and Othello, and consider how the whole interest of the
situation depends on the skill with which the gradual effect of the
poisonous suspicion instilled into the Moor's mind is depicted in look
and tone, slight of themselves, but all contributing to the intensity
of the situation. One of the greatest tests of an actor is his
capacity for listening. By-play must be unobtrusive; the student
should remember that the most minute expression attracts attention:
that nothing is lost, that by-play is as mischievous when it is
injudicious as it is effective when rightly conceived, and that while
trifles make perfection, perfection is no trifle. This lesson was
enjoined on me when I was a very young man by that remarkable actress,
Charlotte Cushman. I remember that when she played Meg Merrilies I
was cast for Henry Bertram, on the principle, seemingly, that an actor
with no singing voice is admirably fitted for a singing part. It was
my duty to give Meg Merrilies a piece of money, and I did it after the
traditional fashion by handing her a large purse full of coin of the
realm, in the shape of broken crockery, which was generally used in
financial transactions on the stage, because when the virtuous maiden
rejected with scorn the advances of the lordly libertine, and threw
his pernicious bribe upon the ground, the clatter of the broken
crockery suggested fabulous wealth. But after the play Miss Cushman,
in the course of some kindly advice, said to me: "Instead of giving me
that purse don't you think it would have been much more natural if
you had taken a number of coins from your pocket, and given me the
smallest? That is the way one gives alms to a beggar, and it would
have added to the realism of the scene." I have never forgotten that
lesson, for simple as it was, it contained many elements of dramatic
truth. It is most important that an actor should learn that he is
a figure in a picture, and that the least exaggeration destroys the
harmony of the composition. All the members of the company should
work towards a common end, with the nicest subordination of their
individuality to the general purpose. Without this method a play when
acted is at best a disjointed and incoherent piece of work, instead
of being a harmonious whole like the fine performance of an orchestral
symphony. The root of the matter is that the actor must before all
things form a definite conception of what he wishes to convey. It is
better to be wrong and be consistent, than to be right, yet hesitating
and uncertain. This is why great actors are sometimes very bad or very
good. They will do the wrong thing with a courage and thoroughness
which makes the error all the more striking; although when they are
right they may often be superb. It is necessary that the actor should
learn to think before he speaks; a practice which, I believe, is very
useful off the stage. Let him remember, first, that every sentence
expresses a new thought and, therefore, frequently demands a change
of intonation; secondly, that the thought precedes the word. Of course
there are passages in which thought and language are borne along by
the streams of emotion and completely intermingled. But more often
it will be found that the most natural, the most seemingly accidental
effects are obtained when the working of the mind is seen before the
tongue gives it words.
You will see that the limits of an actor's studies are very wide. To
master the technicalities of his craft, to familiarize his mind
with the structure, rhythm, and the soul of poetry, to be constantly
cultivating his perceptions of life around him and of all the
arts--painting, music, sculpture--for the actor who is devoted to
his profession is susceptible to every harmony of color, sound, and
form--to do this is to labor in a large field of industry. But all
your training, bodily and mental, is subservient to the two great
principles in tragedy and comedy--passion and geniality. Geniality
in comedy is one of the rarest gifts. Think of the rich unction of
Falstaff, the mercurial fancy of Mercutio, the witty vivacity and
manly humor of Benedick--think of the qualities, natural and acquired,
that are needed for the complete portrayal of such characters, and you
will understand how difficult it is for a comedian to rise to such
a sphere. In tragedy, passion or intensity sweeps all before it, and
when I say passion, I mean the passion of pathos as well as wrath
or revenge. These are the supreme elements of the actor's art,
which cannot be taught by any system, however just, and to which all
education is but tributary.
Now all that can be said of the necessity of a close regard for nature
in acting applies with equal or greater force to the presentation of
plays. You want, above all things, to have a truthful picture which
shall appeal to the eye without distracting the imagination from the
purpose of the drama. It is a mistake to suppose that this enterprise
is comparatively new to the stage. Since Shakespeare's time there has
been a steady progress in this direction. Even in the poet's day every
conceivable property was forced into requisition, and his own sense
of shortcomings in this respect is shown in _Henry V._ when he
exclaims:--
"Where--O for pity!--we shall much disgrace
With four or five most vile and ragged foils
The name of Agincourt."
There have always been critics who regarded care and elaboration in
the mounting of plays as destructive of the real spirit of the actor's
art. Betterton had to meet this reproach when he introduced scenery in
lieu of linsey-woolsey curtains; but he replied, sensibly enough, that
his scenery was better than the tapestry with hideous figures worked
upon it which had so long distracted the senses of play-goers. He
might have asked his critics whether they wished to see Ophelia played
by a boy of sixteen, as in the time of Shakespeare, instead of a
beautiful and gifted woman. Garrick did his utmost to improve the
mechanical arts of the stage--so much so, indeed, that he paid his
scene-painter, Loutherbourg, £500 a year, a pretty considerable sum
in those days--though in Garrick's time the importance of realism in
costume was not sufficiently appreciated to prevent him from playing
Macbeth in a bagwig. To-day we are employing all our resources to
heighten the picturesque effects of the drama, and we are still told
that this is a gross error. It may be admitted that nothing is more
objectionable than certain kinds of realism, which are simply vulgar;
but harmony of color and grace of outline have a legitimate sphere in
the theatre, and the method which uses them as adjuncts may claim to
be "as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine."
For the abuse of scenic decoration, the overloading of the stage with
ornament, the subordination of the play to a pageant, I have nothing
to say. That is all foreign to the artistic purpose which should
dominate dramatic work. Nor do I think that servility to archæology on
the stage is an unmixed good. Correctness of costume is admirable
and necessary up to a certain point, but when it ceases to be "as
wholesome as sweet," it should, I think, be sacrificed. You perceive
that the nicest discretion is needed in the use of the materials
which are nowadays at the disposal of the manager. Music, painting,
architecture, the endless variations of costume, have all to be
employed with a strict regard to the production of an artistic
whole, in which no element shall be unduly obtrusive. We are open to
microscopic criticism at every point. When _Much Ado about Nothing_
was produced at the Lyceum, I received a letter complaining of the
gross violation of accuracy in a scene which was called a cedar-walk.
"Cedars!" said my correspondent,--"why, cedars were not introduced
into Messina for fifty years after the date of Shakespeare's story!"
Well, this was a tremendous indictment, but unfortunately the
cedar-walk had been painted. Absolute realism on the stage is not
always desirable, any more than the photographic reproduction of
Nature can claim to rank with the highest art.
IV.
THE REWARDS OF THE ART.