Exception has been taken to the title of this seeming tomfoolery on the
ground that the Catherine it represents is not Great Catherine, but the
Catherine whose gallantries provide some of the lightest pages of modern
history. Great Catherine, it is said, was the Catherine whose diplomacy,
whose campaigns and conquests, whose plans of Liberal reform, whose
correspondence with Grimm and Voltaire enabled her to cut such a
magnificent figure in the eighteenth century. In reply, I can only
confess that Catherine's diplomacy and her conquests do not interest
me. It is clear to me that neither she nor the statesmen with whom she
played this mischievous kind of political chess had any notion of
the real history of their own times, or of the real forces that were
moulding Europe. The French Revolution, which made such short work of
Catherine's Voltairean principles, surprised and scandalized her as much
as it surprised and scandalized any provincial governess in the French
chateaux.
The main difference between her and our modern Liberal Governments was
that whereas she talked and wrote quite intelligently about Liberal
principles before she was frightened into making such talking and
writing a flogging matter, our Liberal ministers take the name of
Liberalism in vain without knowing or caring enough about its meaning
even to talk and scribble about it, and pass their flogging Bills, and
institute their prosecutions for sedition and blasphemy and so forth,
without the faintest suspicion that such proceedings need any apology
from the Liberal point of view.
It was quite easy for Patiomkin to humbug Catherine as to the condition
of Russia by conducting her through sham cities run up for the occasion
by scenic artists; but in the little world of European court intrigue
and dynastic diplomacy which was the only world she knew she was more
than a match for him and for all the rest of her contemporaries. In such
intrigue and diplomacy, however, there was no romance, no scientific
political interest, nothing that a sane mind can now retain even if
it can be persuaded to waste time in reading it up. But Catherine as a
woman with plenty of character and (as we should say) no morals,
still fascinates and amuses us as she fascinated and amused her
contemporaries. They were great sentimental comedians, these Peters,
Elizabeths, and Catherines who played their Tsarships as eccentric
character parts, and produced scene after scene of furious harlequinade
with the monarch as clown, and of tragic relief in the torture chamber
with the monarch as pantomime demon committing real atrocities, not
forgetting the indispensable love interest on an enormous and utterly
indecorous scale. Catherine kept this vast Guignol Theatre open for
nearly half a century, not as a Russian, but as a highly domesticated
German lady whose household routine was not at all so unlike that of
Queen Victoria as might be expected from the difference in their notions
of propriety in sexual relations.
In short, if Byron leaves you with an impression that he said very
little about Catherine, and that little not what was best worth saying,
I beg to correct your impression by assuring you that what Byron said
was all there really is to say that is worth saying. His Catherine is my
Catherine and everybody's Catherine. The young man who gains her favor
is a Spanish nobleman in his version. I have made him an English country
gentleman, who gets out of his rather dangerous scrape, by simplicity,
sincerity, and the courage of these qualities. By this I have given some
offence to the many Britons who see themselves as heroes: what they mean
by heroes being theatrical snobs of superhuman pretensions which, though
quite groundless, are admitted with awe by the rest of the human race.
They say I think an Englishman a fool. When I do, they have themselves
to thank.
I must not, however, pretend that historical portraiture was the motive
of a play that will leave the reader as ignorant of Russian history
as he may be now before he has turned the page. Nor is the sketch of
Catherine complete even idiosyncratically, leaving her politics out of
the question. For example, she wrote bushels of plays. I confess I
have not yet read any of them. The truth is, this play grew out of the
relations which inevitably exist in the theatre between authors and
actors. If the actors have sometimes to use their skill as the author's
puppets rather than in full self-expression, the author has sometimes to
use his skill as the actors' tailor, fitting them with parts written to
display the virtuosity of the performer rather than to solve problems of
life, character, or history. Feats of this kind may tickle an author's
technical vanity; but he is bound on such occasions to admit that the
performer for whom he writes is "the onlie begetter" of his work,
which must be regarded critically as an addition to the debt dramatic
literature owes to the art of acting and its exponents. Those who have
seen Miss Gertrude Kingston play the part of Catherine will have no
difficulty in believing that it was her talent rather than mine that
brought the play into existence. I once recommended Miss Kingston
professionally to play queens. Now in the modern drama there were no
queens for her to play; and as to the older literature of our stage: did
it not provoke the veteran actress in Sir Arthur Pinero's Trelawny of
the Wells to declare that, as parts, queens are not worth a tinker's
oath? Miss Kingston's comment on my suggestion, though more elegantly
worded, was to the same effect; and it ended in my having to make good
my advice by writing Great Catherine. History provided no other queen
capable of standing up to our joint talents.
In composing such bravura pieces, the author limits himself only by the
range of the virtuoso, which by definition far transcends the modesty
of nature. If my Russians seem more Muscovite than any Russian, and
my English people more insular than any Briton, I will not plead, as
I honestly might, that the fiction has yet to be written that can
exaggerate the reality of such subjects; that the apparently outrageous
Patiomkin is but a timidly bowdlerized ghost of the original; and
that Captain Edstaston is no more than a miniature that might hang
appropriately on the walls of nineteen out of twenty English country
houses to this day. An artistic presentment must not condescend to
justify itself by a comparison with crude nature; and I prefer to admit
that in this kind my dramatic personae are, as they should be, of the
stage stagey, challenging the actor to act up to them or beyond them,
if he can. The more heroic the overcharging, the better for the
performance.
In dragging the reader thus for a moment behind the scenes, I am
departing from a rule which I have hitherto imposed on myself so rigidly
that I never permit myself, even in a stage direction, to let slip a
word that could bludgeon the imagination of the reader by reminding him
of the boards and the footlights and the sky borders and the rest of
the theatrical scaffolding, for which nevertheless I have to plan as
carefully as if I were the head carpenter as well as the author. But
even at the risk of talking shop, an honest playwright should take at
least one opportunity of acknowledging that his art is not only limited
by the art of the actor, but often stimulated and developed by it. No
sane and skilled author writes plays that present impossibilities to
the actor or to the stage engineer. If, as occasionally happens, he asks
them to do things that they have never done before and cannot conceive
as presentable or possible (as Wagner and Thomas Hardy have done,
for example), it is always found that the difficulties are not really
insuperable, the author having foreseen unsuspected possibilities both
in the actor and in the audience, whose will-to-make-believe can perform
the quaintest miracles. Thus may authors advance the arts of acting and
of staging plays. But the actor also may enlarge the scope of the drama
by displaying powers not previously discovered by the author. If the
best available actors are only Horatios, the authors will have to
leave Hamlet out, and be content with Horatios for heroes. Some of the
difference between Shakespeare's Orlandos and Bassanios and Bertrams and
his Hamlets and Macbeths must have been due not only to his development
as a dramatic poet, but to the development of Burbage as an actor.
Playwrights do not write for ideal actors when their livelihood is at
stake: if they did, they would write parts for heroes with twenty arms
like an Indian god. Indeed the actor often influences the author too
much; for I can remember a time (I am not implying that it is yet wholly
past) when the art of writing a fashionable play had become very
largely the art of writing it "round" the personalities of a group of
fashionable performers of whom Burbage would certainly have said that
their parts needed no acting. Everything has its abuse as well as its
use.
It is also to be considered that great plays live longer than great
actors, though little plays do not live nearly so long as the worst of
their exponents. The consequence is that the great actor, instead of
putting pressure on contemporary authors to supply him with heroic
parts, falls back on the Shakespearean repertory, and takes what he
needs from a dead hand. In the nineteenth century, the careers of Kean,
Macready, Barry Sullivan, and Irving, ought to have produced a group of
heroic plays comparable in intensity to those of Aeschylus, Sophocles,
and Euripides; but nothing of the kind happened: these actors played
the works of dead authors, or, very occasionally, of live poets who
were hardly regular professional playwrights. Sheridan Knowles, Bulwer
Lytton, Wills, and Tennyson produced a few glaringly artificial high
horses for the great actors of their time; but the playwrights proper,
who really kept the theatre going, and were kept going by the theatre,
did not cater for the great actors: they could not afford to compete
with a bard who was not for an age but for all time, and who had,
moreover, the overwhelming attraction for the actor-managers of not
charging author's fees. The result was that the playwrights and the
great actors ceased to think of themselves as having any concern with
one another: Tom Robertson, Ibsen, Pinero, and Barrie might as well have
belonged to a different solar system as far as Irving was concerned; and
the same was true of their respective predecessors.
Thus was established an evil tradition; but I at least can plead that
it does not always hold good. If Forbes Robertson had not been there to
play Caesar, I should not have written Caesar and Cleopatra. If Ellen
Terry had never been born, Captain Brassbound's Conversion would never
have been effected. The Devil's Disciple, with which I won my cordon
bleu in America as a potboiler, would have had a different sort of hero
if Richard Mansfield had been a different sort of actor, though the
actual commission to write it came from an English actor, William
Terriss, who was assassinated before he recovered from the dismay into
which the result of his rash proposal threw him. For it must be said
that the actor or actress who inspires or commissions a play as often
as not regards it as a Frankenstein's monster, and will have none of it.
That does not make him or her any the less parental in the fecundity of
the playwright.
To an author who has any feeling of his business there is a keen and
whimsical joy in divining and revealing a side of an actor's genius
overlooked before, and unsuspected even by the actor himself. When I
snatched Mr Louis Calvert from Shakespeare, and made him wear a frock
coat and silk hat on the stage for perhaps the first time in his life, I
do not think he expected in the least that his performance would enable
me to boast of his Tom Broadbent as a genuine stage classic. Mrs
Patrick Campbell was famous before I wrote for her, but not for playing
illiterate cockney flower-maidens. And in the case which is provoking me
to all these impertinences, I am quite sure that Miss Gertrude
Kingston, who first made her reputation as an impersonator of the most
delightfully feather-headed and inconsequent ingenues, thought me more
than usually mad when I persuaded her to play the Helen of Euripides,
and then launched her on a queenly career as Catherine of Russia.
It is not the whole truth that if we take care of the actors the plays
will take care of themselves; nor is it any truer that if we take care
of the plays the actors will take care of themselves. There is both give
and take in the business. I have seen plays written for actors that made
me exclaim, "How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes deeds ill
done!" But Burbage may have flourished the prompt copy of Hamlet under
Shakespeare's nose at the tenth rehearsal and cried, "How oft the sight
of means to do great deeds makes playwrights great!" I say the tenth
because I am convinced that at the first he denounced his part as a
rotten one; thought the ghost's speech ridiculously long; and wanted to
play the king. Anyhow, whether he had the wit to utter it or not, the
boast would have been a valid one. The best conclusion is that every
actor should say, "If I create the hero in myself, God will send an
author to write his part." For in the long run the actors will get the
authors, and the authors the actors, they deserve.
Great Catherine was performed for the first time at the Vaudeville
Theatre in London on the 18th November 1913, with Gertrude Kingston as
Catherine, Miriam Lewes as Yarinka, Dorothy Massingham as Claire, Norman
McKinnell as Patiomkin, Edmond Breon as Edstaston, Annie Hill as the
Princess Dashkoff, and Eugene Mayeur and F. Cooke Beresford as Naryshkin
and the Sergeant.