At last there came the solemn evening when I arrived at the Dramatic
School.
It was in a quiet sort of corner off the top of Regent Street, and I got
there at six o’clock for my first lesson in the Thespian art. No less
than four other youngish men had already assembled, and with them was an
old or, at any rate, distinctly oldish man of rather corpulent
appearance, with a clean-shaved face and grey hair. I thought at first
he was the famous actor and elocutionist, Mr. Montgomery Merridew, of
universal fame, who was to be my instructor in elocution and stage
deportment; but judge of my surprise when I discovered that the
distinctly oldish man was a pupil like myself! He gazed with rather an
envious look at the other pupils, and no doubt wished that he had turned
to the art earlier in life; and I felt he was a fatherly and a kindly
sort of man, and certainly added weight and dignity to the class.
He was called Henry Smith, but proposed to change this name for
something more attractive when he got his first engagement; and the
other men were named respectively Leonard Brightwin, Wilford Gooding,
Harold Crowe, and George Arthur Dexter.
Naturally, I scanned their faces eagerly to see if any were destined to
the highest tragical walks of the drama; and I found that two were
evidently going to be low comedians. These were Harold Crowe and Wilford
Gooding. Crowe was a fair man with rather prominent eyes, and he
concealed his nervousness under a cloak of humour of a trivial
character; and Gooding was thin, with a very small head and a comic
face, which he could move about in a most grotesque manner. He and Crowe
already knew each other. George Arthur Dexter had a keen and knowing
face, and was exceedingly stylishly dressed in a check suit, with an
ivory skeleton’s head in his tie, a carnation in his buttonhole, and
several rings, which appeared to have genuine precious stones in them,
on his hands. He had an assertive presence and seemed inclined to take
the lead among us. He might easily have been mistaken for an actor
already, and indeed told us that he was an old hand on the amateur
boards.
He explained to us that he had only come for polish, and wasn’t really
sure if Mr. Merridew would be able to teach him anything that he didn’t
know already.
This man, curiously enough, was the first man I didn’t like in London.
Of course I didn’t like the shady customer who pretended to be Mr.
Martin Tupper, but I only hated him afterwards; whereas, in the case of
Dexter, I felt a feeling of dislike from the start. He was so fearfully
contented with himself, and his clothes, and his skeleton’s head and his
great histrionic gifts.
But Leonard Brightwin was a very different sort of man. Genius blazed
out of his black eyes; he wore his raven locks long, and from time to
time tossed them back from his forehead in a very artistic manner. In
fact, I felt in the presence of a future leader of the stage. He was of
medium height and of shy and retiring nature; but one could not help
feeling that Brightwin was born to be a great tragedian. I longed to be
his friend from the first.
We all fell into conversation of a very animated sort, and Dexter, who
greatly fancied his powers of imitating well-known actors, was just
doing Mr. Edward Terry in _The Forty Thieves_ (as _he_ thought, though
it was utterly unlike), when the door opened and no less a person than
the renowned Mr. Montgomery Merridew stood before us.
One saw the graceful abandon of the old stager at a glance. The way he
walked, the way he extended his hand and poised his leonine head on his
sinewy neck—all showed the practised histrion. He was a shapely man of
fifty, at the least; but such was the almost panther-like grace of his
movements and rich auburn colour of his flowing mustache, that, but for
the deep lines of thought on his brow and under his eyes, one might have
imagined him many years younger.
An air of perfect assurance and the manner of one accustomed to rule,
greatly distinguished Mr. Merridew. His voice was a magnificent organ,
under perfect control, and every gesture and step were timed and studied
to perfection. He was, in fact, an embodiment of the art that conceals
art.
He bowed on entering, not in a servile manner, but with a courtly
familiarity, such as doubtless one sees when kings meet kings. He
appeared astonished at the smallness of the class collected to receive
him; but he concealed his dismay under a nonchalant air of perfect
good-breeding, which I am sure was a lesson in itself.
He greeted us each in turn and insisted on shaking hands with all of us.
He wore pince-nez, while engaged in this manner, and having declared his
pleasure at making our acquaintance, threw off the pince-nez with an
almost regal gesture and lost no time, but bade us marshal ourselves
before him, and then began an easy but most illuminating address on the
art of stage deportment and elocution.
While engaged in this opening lecture, he scanned our faces in turn with
such an eagle glance that only George Dexter had sufficient cheek to
return his look. As for the two low comedians, they simply curled up
under it, and so did I; and Brightwin, whose eyes were even more
luminous than Mr. Merridew’s, let them fall to the floor before the
professional’s impassioned gaze. As for poor Mr. Smith, he was, as it
were, mesmerized by the lecturer and kept his eye fixed upon the great
actor’s face, though evidently not wishing to do so.
Mr. Merridew said some beautiful things about art and was, in reality, a
man of no little modesty, considering his fame. He certainly told us a
great deal about himself; but it was only to encourage us and show us
what we might do. His career had been very picturesque, and he claimed
for himself such rare and brilliant powers that he said he could act
anything and everything—from a billiard ball to Macbeth. I mention this
startling saying to show that he allowed stray flashes of humour—you
might almost say _badinage_—to enlighten his discourse.
“An actor,” he said, “ought to be as sensitive as a photographic plate.
He ought to be able instantly to catch the character that he proposes to
portray and allow it entirely to absorb him and soak into every corner
of his soul. When, for instance, I played Iago some few years ago, I
ceased to be Montgomery Merridew during the whole progress of the run! I
_was_ Iago—not only when on the boards, for so thoroughly had I
permitted that fiend in human shape to permeate my being, that again and
again I caught myself thinking and feeling as Iago thought and felt
outside the precincts of the theatre. That is an extreme case; and I
instance it to show you a little of the extraordinary sensibility of the
born actor. And not only can I play on the instrument ‘man’ and move to
tears or laughter, with the ease of an accomplished musician playing on
a musical instrument, but such is my intense feeling and emotional
delicacy that I am equally moved myself when I watch another actor
playing! The vibrating chords of my soul respond to him instantly; and
though I may know that I could probably play the part far better myself,
yet such is my sympathy and understanding, that I weep as readily as any
untutored shop-boy in the audience—provided only that my colleague on
the stage strives honestly to hold the mirror up to nature.”
He proceeded in this exalted strain for some time, then looked at his
watch and concluded his preliminary remarks:
“Aristotle, gentlemen, has written a famous work entitled _The Poetics_,
and no actor, or would-be actor, can afford to go without it. I shall
ask you all to buy a copy—Bohn’s cheap edition—and ponder very carefully
what you find there. Tragedy is a combination of terror and pity.
Through the one you are lifted to the other, and the actor who embarks
on a classic part must always remember that he is not there merely to
harrow the feelings of his fellow-creatures. Far from it—far from it. By
all means let him terrify them first by the presentment of fearful
passions; let him freeze them to the bone and curdle their life’s blood,
if he can, by his representation of rage, remorse, fear, and so forth;
but behind and beneath—permeating, as it were, the very substance of the
soul, we must have the direct appeal to humanity, to our fellow man and
woman. We must remind them that what we do and suffer might be done and
suffered by each one of them, given the dreadful circumstances; and
then, gentlemen—then what have we achieved? Why, we have summoned
compassion into the theatre! We have awakened in each member of the
audience the most ennobling emotion of the human heart! And at such
times, when playing in the greatest parts, I have felt through the
silent, spellbound theatre an electric thrill for which no human
creature was responsible; and I have said, ‘It is the wings of the angel
of pity!’”
The noble man was much moved by this magnificent feat of eloquence. He
blew his nose on a handkerchief which was obviously made of silk, and
then, with a masterly touch, turned to us where we stood, deeply
impressed by his spontaneous eloquence and came, as it were, to earth
with a bound.
“Now we must go through our paces, gentlemen,” he said. “Upon the
occasion of our next meeting, I will ask each of you to bring with him
the play of _Hamlet_, and I shall cast it and rehearse a scene or two.
Thus the business of elocution and deportment will go hand in hand, and,
at the same time, you will be able to feel the artist’s pride in
uttering words and impersonating characters that have rejoiced many
generations of men. But to-night I shall ask each in turn to recite
before me some brief, familiar passage that is precious to him. I shall
thus learn a little about your defects and can give each of you a few
preliminary hints. Lastly, if time permit, I shall myself speak a speech
before you with the elocution and gesture proper to it, and explain my
reasons as I proceed. I will ask Mr. Smith, as our senior student, to
begin. Mount the rostrum, Mr. Smith, and forget our presence. Let the
aura of your poet enfold you as with a garment, Mr. Smith. Seek to be
one with him, whoever he is, and in tune with his conception—of course,
to the best of your powers.”
I was greatly encouraged to find that Mr. Smith could rise to this
challenge, for I’m sure I didn’t feel as if I could; but Mr. Smith,
without any evasion, bowed to Mr. Merridew and climbed three steps on to
a low stage at the end of the classroom, and then said that he intended
to recite the poet Shelley’s “To a Skylark.”
“Not all, Mr. Smith. There will hardly be time for all,” said the
preceptor. And this, I believe, secretly upset Mr. Smith and made him
hurried and uneasy. For he was a retiring man of most delicate feelings,
and the thought that he might be taking up too much time evidently put
him bang out of his stride, as we say at the L.A.C.
Mr. Merridew settled himself in his chair, with the nonchalant attitude
of the King in _Hamlet_ during the beginning of the play scene, and Mr.
Smith, thrusting out his right arm in a rather unmeaning way, set off.
He spoke in a hollow and mumbling voice, not suited to a skylark, and
instantly the dreadful truth was forced upon us that he left out the
_h’s_! He began like this:
“’Ail to thee, blithe spirit,
Bird thou never wert,
That from ’eaven or near it
Pourest thy full ’eart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.”
Mr. Merridew started as though a serpent had stung him, at the very
first word, for, of course, to his highly strung senses it must have
been simple agony; and I think Mr. Smith knew there was something wrong,
too; but he went on about “’igher still and ’igher,” and gradually
warmed to his work, so that when he came to “Thou dost float and run,”
he actually tried to do it and stood on his toes and fluttered his arms!
It might have answered fairly well for a turkey, to say it kindly, but
it was utterly wrong for a skylark. One felt that Mr. Smith had thought
it all out and taken immense trouble, and it was rather sad in a way
when the professor stopped him and told him to come down. Mr. Smith
instantly shrank up; and the fire of recitation went out of him and he
sneaked down humbly.
“It’s the aspirate,” he said. “I can’t ’elp it. I’ve fought it for
years; but it conquers me.”
Mr. Merridew, however, was most encouraging.
“Be of good cheer,” he answered. “You labour under a common affliction.
Much may be done to cure it with patience and perseverance. I shall give
you some exercises presently. And you must choose your recitations with
closer regard to your voice and personality. The ethereal and the
soaring don’t become you, Mr. Smith. Something in the rugged and
masculine, and even grim manner we must find for you. ‘Eugene Aram,’
perhaps, or ‘Christmas Day in the Workhouse,’ or ‘The Brand of Cain.’”
So that finished off Mr. Smith for the time being, and one felt, in a
curious sort of way, that Aristotle’s pity and terror were there right
enough, though not, of course, as Mr. Merridew exactly meant.
“Now, Mr. Dexter, what can you do for us?” inquired our preceptor, and
George Dexter, who had been sniggering rather basely at Mr. Smith, leapt
lightly to the platform.
“‘Billy’s Rose,’ by G. R. Sims!” he said, and instantly plunged into
that very pathetic and world-famous recitation. He accompanied it with a
great deal of gesture, both of legs and arms, and at the end, when the
rose is given to the angel Billy he suddenly snatched his carnation out
from under his coat, where he had concealed it, and held the flower
aloft with an expression of radiant and beatific excitement. He remained
in this position for some moments, and I believe rather expected that
Mr. Merridew was going to applaud; but he didn’t. All the great man said
was:
“You don’t finish with a conjuring trick, my dear Mr. Dexter. The rose
is a thing of the spirit. I have the honour to know the poet who wrote
those beautiful verses and the rose is, as it were, allegorical—an
essence of the soul. And your mannerisms are thoroughly bad and
amateurish. You’ve walked at least a quarter of a mile since you began.
You are too aggressive, too defiant, too noisy. You tear a passion to
tatters, Mr. Dexter. You must learn to serve your apprenticeship in a
humble and chastened spirit. You have been in a bad school and there is
much to undo.”
Of course, though I still hated Dexter, I was really sorry for this,
because I felt it would knock all the life out of him at the very start
of his career. While he turned exceedingly pale and dropped his
carnation on the floor and returned to us, as though he wished to
shelter himself from the bitter criticism of the professor, he was not
really crushed. In fact, he whispered to me the insulting word “fathead”
as he rejoined us; and I knew that he and Mr. Merridew would be deadly
enemies from that night forward.
Then Harold Crowe and Wilford Gooding asked if they might perform
together, and Mr. Merridew permitted it; but when he found that they
proposed to imitate those world-renowned music-hall entertainers, known
as the “Two Macs,” he stopped them.
“No, gentlemen,” he said, “far be it from me to quarrel with the ‘Two
Macs.’ They are genuine humourists, and their songs and dances and
thoroughly English fun have often entertained me; but we are not here to
emulate the vagaries of eccentric original comedians. Our purpose is to
learn to walk first before we run, and we can develop our personal
genius afterwards—if we have any.”
Unfortunately, Crowe and Gooding could do nothing but imitate the “Two
Macs,” so they lost their chance for that evening; and then Leonard
Brightwin took his place on the stage and recited Antony’s great speech
from _Julius Cæsar_.
I had been very uneasy as my turn approached for various reasons,
because, curiously enough, the only things I knew by heart were purely
religious, and learned long ago in my schooldays. In a few minutes,
however, my anxieties were drowned in the joy of listening to Leonard
Brightwin, who spoke with great force and feeling and accompanied his
words with most appropriate expressions of the face. I felt that here
was one who would certainly make the rest of us look very small.
Mr. Merridew was pleased but guarded.
“Quite good,” he said. “A thousand faults, Mr. Brightwin, a thousand
faults; but there’s ore in the mine and we shall bring it to the surface
presently.”
I congratulated Brightwin at this high praise, and he was evidently much
pleased. He started to explain his view of Mark Antony to Mr. Smith,
when the professor, who had begun to tire and yawn several times, called
upon me.
“Mr. Corkey, please; and be brief, Mr. Corkey, for the lesson has been
quite long enough.”
“I must tell you, sir,” I said firmly, “that I only _perfectly_ know ‘My
Duty to my Neighbour.’”
Dexter laughed, as I knew he would, but Mr. Merridew by no means
laughed.
“You could not know anything better, Mr. Corkey,” he answered, “but
words hallowed by—by sacred memories and—and—in fact—no. It will do for
the moment if you just give us the alphabet—speaking slowly and
distinctly, putting character and feeling into the letters. In fact,
make them interesting.”
I stared in my great ignorance before this amazing man. I felt that it
was quite beyond my power to make the alphabet interesting, or put
character and feeling into the letters; and I told him so honestly. I
said:
“No doubt you could, sir; because you can act anything, from a billiard
ball to Macbeth; but it’s no good my trying, because I haven’t the
faintest idea how to set about it.”
“I’ll show you,” answered Mr. Merridew. “A thing of this kind, you must
understand, is merely academic—an exercise, like a Chopin study—but it
will give you a glimpse into the expression and control of emotions and
passions, and show you how the skilled actor can make bricks without
straw and something out of nothing.”
He rose from his professorial chair and lightly ascended the steps to
the stage. Then he stood for a moment, rapt in brooding thought of the
profoundest character, and then suddenly began:
“A!” (astonishment combined with joy, as though he had suddenly met an
old friend, long given up for lost). “B?” (a note of inquiry uttered
with tremulous emotion, as though much depended upon it). “C” (gladly,
with great relief and a nod of the head). “D—E—F” (spoken loudly and
swiftly with an expression of increasing satisfaction and happiness.)
“G!” (a sudden peal of laughter which shook the room and echoed from the
walls). “H” (more laughter; gradually subsiding). “I—J” (laughter; dying
out and at last completely at an end). “K!” (a loud and ringing note of
alarm accompanied by the raising of the hands to the breast). “L!” (the
alarm increasing, the hands lifted gradually and thrown back, the face
showing considerable fear). “M!” (uttered with immense relief, as though
the danger was past, but the effect still apparent in nervous turning of
the head to right and left). “N—O—P!” (three gracious bows in different
directions, as though three welcome persons had come on to the stage to
meet the professor). “Q—R—S” (three gestures each different from the
others, indicating that the professor was shaking hands with each of the
new arrivals). “T!” (a sudden drawing back, as though the last of the
arrivals wasn’t behaving nicely). “U!!” (a most tragic and sudden
explosion, accompanied by a dagger-thrust which settled the last of the
arrivals and laid him dead at the professor’s feet). “V—W!!!” (a sudden
half-turn, during which the momentary triumph over the last of the
arrivals was evidently swept away by the onslaught of the others). “X!!”
(a violent struggle, in which the professor was thrown this way and that
by his invisible antagonists). “Y!!” (a long-drawn, deadly hiss of rage,
accompanied by a flash of victory in the eye and a rapid dagger-stroke,
which prostrated another foe). “Z!!!” (a loud cry of acute despair; both
hands pressed over the heart and the professor sank to his knees, thus
indicating that his remaining foe had been too much for him).
It was a drama in a minute and a half, and we were all so much moved
that we burst into loud applause. Then the professor regained his feet
gracefully and bowed, as though we were an audience of a thousand
people. This magnificent inspiration, executed with consummate _aplomb_,
almost bewildered me and Mr. Smith and Brightwin by its magnificence. It
showed, too, the sort of man who was going to take us in hand.
But Mr. Merridew made nothing of it. It was just a superb bit of
spontaneous acting, dashed off as Michael Angelo would dash off a
statue, or Beethoven a symphony.
In a way it was rather depressing, because it showed how much lay before
us. But we were all excited and hopeful on the whole. Even Mr. Smith
felt a sort of divine fire in his veins. He offered to stand Brightwin
and me some supper after the lesson was over, and we gladly consented to
let him do so.
Mr. Smith told us about himself presently—how he had come into a little
money and was now in a position to give up his work (which, he said, had
been of a subordinate character, but didn’t specify) and seriously
devote himself to the stage.
We listened to him very patiently and made a huge supper.
And afterwards, when we had seen Mr. Smith home to his wife and family
off the Tottenham Court Road, Brightwin said that to be stage-struck at
Mr. Smith’s age and with his figure was a tragedy of the deepest dye.
“There are only certain parts he could play,” explained Brightwin to me;
“but his voice belongs to quite a different order of parts. He has the
voice of a tragedian and the body of a second low comedian. In fact,
there is no hope for him that I can see.
“He might, however, start a theatre; which would be hope for us, if we
kept in with him,” added Brightwin thoughtfully.