Pastiche and prejudice

by Arthur Bingham Walkley

And yet, I suggest, it is the peculiarity of the actor’s medium that has often withheld from him, at any rate with unthinking people, his title to rank as an artist. He is his own medium, his own paint and canvas, his own brick and marble. The works of other artists, the picture, the poem, the sonata, have an independent life, they survive their authors; the actor’s works are inseparable from his actual presence, and die with him. Hence a certain difficulty for the unsophisticated in distinguishing the artist from what the philosophers call the empirical man; the Edmund Kean whose genius is illuminating and revitalizing Shylock from the Edmund Kean who is notoriously fond of the bottle and who has lately got into trouble with an alderman’s wife. The physique, the temperament, of the empirical man furnish the medium for the artist. He arrives at the theatre in a taxi, or his own Rolls-Royce, smoking a big cigar, every inch of him a man of to-day; the next moment he is pretending to be an old mad King of Britain. This confusion is behind Johnson’s “fellow who claps a hump on his back and calls himself Richard the Third.” It leaves out of account the imaginative side of him, the artist. Johnson might just as well have dismissed Shakespeare as a “fellow who supposed a hump clapped on the back of one of his fancies, which he calls Richard the Third.” Lamb raised another objection, that the bodily presence of the actor materialized, coarsened, the finer elements of the part—hid from sight “the lofty genius, the man of vast capacity, the profound, the witty, accomplished Richard.” The medium, in other words, is a hindrance to the art, not so much a medium as a nuisance.

These are the objections of ignorance or of whim. Certainly the peculiarity of his medium imposes peculiar restrictions on the actor. If the painter lacks a certain pigment he can get it at the colour-man’s. If the composer needs a certain timbre he can add the necessary instrument to his orchestra. All the quarries are open to the architect. But no “make up” box will furnish a resonant voice to a shrill-piped actor or make Garrick six feet high. An actress may be at the height of her powers, and yet too old to play Juliet. Sir Henry Irving’s physical oddities went far to ruin some of his impersonations. But these limitations of the medium do not affect the actor’s status as an artist. They only restrict the range in which he may exercise his art.

And can it be gainsaid that what he exercises is true art, a spiritual activity, the expression of his intuitions? People, comparing his work with the “creations” of the playwright, are apt to speak of him as a mere “interpreter.” He has his words given him, they say, and his significant acts prescribed for him in advance. The truth is, “creation” and “interpretation” are figurative terms; it would be quite reasonable to interchange them. Shakespeare “interprets” life by giving form to it, by piecing together, say, certain scraps of actual observation along with the image of his fancy into the character of Falstaff. With the printed words and stage-directions as data, the actor re-imagines Falstaff, brings his own temperament and feelings and sympathetic vision to the service of Shakespeare’s indications, and “creates” the living, moving man. True, the processes are at different stages, and may be of different importance. Shakespeare has intuited and expressed life, the actor has intuited and expressed Shakespeare. But both expressions are art.

And note that while Shakespeare “created” Falstaff, no playgoer has ever seen or ever will see Shakespeare’s Falstaff. For the image formed in Shakespeare’s mind has always on the stage to be translated for us in terms of other minds which can never be identical with his—is, in fact, “re-created” by each actor in turn. It is the actor who converts the “cold print” of the text into vivid, concrete life. Life! that is the secret of the actor’s “following,” a much more notable fact in the world of the theatre than the “following” of this or that playwright. The actor, like all who, in Buffon’s phrase, “parlent au corps par le corps,” expresses a temperament, a personality, himself; imposes himself on his part and on us. People “follow” a favourite actor in all his impersonations because his art gives them more pleasure than the playwright’s, or because his art must be added to the playwright’s before they will care about that.

When I say “people” I don’t mean “littery gents.” The typical playgoer prefers life to literature. He is as a rule no great reader. Nor are the actors. There has always been a certain coolness between the men of letters and the actors—their temperaments are so opposed. I have quoted from Lamb. Anatole France said much the same thing of the Comédie Française— “Leur personne efface l’œuvre qu’ils représentent.” Views like these merely express a preference for one art over another. They do not contest the actor’s right to rank as an artist. That, to speak rigorously, is a rank held by many people “for the duration”—i.e., while and whenever they express their intuitions. But it would be impolitic to insist on this strict view. The rate-payers’ list might be seriously affected and much uneasiness occasioned to the Appeal Committee of the London County Council.

AUDIENCES

Audiences may be divided into first-nighters, second-nighters, and general playgoers. All audiences are important, but first-nighters most of all. Without them the acted drama would not begin to exist. For obvious reasons, I have nothing but good to say of them. I wish to live at peace with my neighbours. And I do not believe the malicious story told about a manager, now dead, that he liked to fill the second row of his stalls on first-nights with his superannuated sweethearts. Nobody is fat or old in Ba-ath, and there are no superannuitants among first-nighters.

I find, from Mr. Max Beerbohm’s entirely delightful book “Seven Men,” that it is possible to get tired of first-nighters. I should never have guessed it myself. But this is what he says:—“I was dramatic critic for the Saturday Review, and, weary of meeting the same lot of people over and over again at first nights, had recently sent a circular to the managers, asking that I might have seats for second nights instead.” But mark what follows:—“I found that there existed as distinct and invariable a lot of second-nighters as of first-nighters. The second-nighters were less ‘showy’; but then, they came more to see than to be seen, and there was an air that I liked of earnestness and hopefulness about them. I used to write a good deal about the future of the British drama, and they, for their part, used to think and talk a great deal about it. Though second-nighters do come to see, they remain rather to hope and pray.” Because I have quoted I must not be understood as accepting Mr. Beerbohm’s implied aspersion on first-nighters. It is all very well for him. He has retired (the more’s the pity) from dramatic criticism. But I take his account of second-nighters on trust, because the exigencies of a daily newspaper prevent me from observing them for myself. Evidently they, no more than first-nighters, are average playgoers.

Not that I would disparage the general playgoer. Indeed, I am not sure that he is not, in another sense than Labiche’s, le plus heureux des trois. I can speak for myself. Mind, I am saying nothing against first-nighters. They are entirely admirable persons—I could never bring myself, like Mr. Beerbohm, to call them a lot. But oh! the joy of being, on holiday occasions, a general playgoer, of throwing one’s considering cap over the mills, of garnering no impressions for future “copy,” of blithely ignoring one’s better judgment, of going comfortably home from the play, like everybody else, instead of dashing madly into a taxi for the newspaper office! The play will be well on in its run, the comedian will have polished up his jokes, the superfluities will have been cut out, the programme girls will long since have given up leading the applause, you won’t know a soul, and you won’t even bother to look at the author’s name. You surrender your individuality and drift with the crowd, or, in more pretentious language, merge yourself in the collective consciousness.