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.