19th Century Actor Autobiographies | Page 8

that

they left all to chance. This is a dangerous course, especially when
acting a new character. I will admit that there are many instances where
great effects have been produced that were entirely spontaneous, and
were as much a surprise to the actors who made them as they were to
the audience who witnessed them; but just as individuals who have
exuberant spirits are at times dreadfully depressed, so when an
impulsive actor fails to receive his inspiration he is dull indeed, and is
the more disappointing because of his former brilliant achievements.
In the stage management of a play, or in the acting of a part, nothing
should be left to chance, and for the reason that spontaneity, inspiration,
or whatever the strange and delightful quality may be called, is not to
be commanded, or we should give it some other name. It is, therefore,
better that a clear and unmistakable outline of a character should be
drawn before an actor undertakes a new part. If he has a well-ordered
and an artistic mind it is likely that he will give at least a symmetrical
and effective performance; but should he make no definite arrangement,
and depend upon our ghostly friends Spontaneity and Inspiration to pay
him a visit, and should they decline to call, the actor will be in a maze
and his audience in a muddle.
Besides, why not prepare to receive our mysterious friends whether
they come or not? If they fail on such an invitation, we can at least
entertain our other guests without them, and if they do appear, our
preconceived arrangements will give them a better welcome and put
them more at ease.
Acting under these purely artificial conditions will necessarily be cold,
but the care with which the part is given will at least render it
inoffensive; they are, therefore, primary considerations, and not to be
despised. The exhibition, however, of artistic care does not alone
constitute great acting. The inspired warmth of passion in tragedy and
the sudden glow of humour in comedy cover the artificial framework
with an impenetrable veil: this is the very climax of great art, for which
there seems to be no other name but genius. It is then, and then only,
that an audience feels that it is in the presence of a reality rather than a
fiction. To an audience an ounce of genius has more weight than a ton

of talent; for though it respects the latter, it reverences the former. But
the creative power, divine as it may be, should in common gratitude
pay due regard to the reflective; for Art is the handmaid of Genius, and
only asks the modest wages of respectful consideration in payment for
her valuable services. A splendid torrent of genius ought never to be
checked, but it should be wisely guided into the deep channel of the
stream, from whose surface it will then reflect Nature without a ripple.
Genius dyes the hues that resemble those of the rainbow; Art fixes the
colours that they may stand. In the race for fame purely artificial actors
cannot hope to win against those whose genius is guided by their art;
and, on the other hand, Intuition must not complain if, unbridled or
with too loose a rein, it stumbles on the course, and so allows a
well-ridden hack to distance it.

SHOULD AN ACTOR "FEEL" HIS PART
Much has been written upon the question as to whether an actor ought
to feel the character he acts, or be dead to any sensations in this
direction. Excellent artists differ in their opinions on this important
point. In discussing it I must refer to some words I wrote in one of my
early chapters:
"The methods by which actors arrive at great effects vary according to
their own natures; this renders the teaching of the art by any strictly
defined lines a difficult matter."
There has lately been a discussion on the subject, in which many have
taken part, and one quite notable debate between two distinguished
actors, one of the English and the other of the French stage [Henry
Irving and Mons. Coquelin]. These gentlemen, though they differ
entirely in their ideas, are, nevertheless, equally right. The method of
one, I have no doubt, is the best he could possibly devise for himself;
and the same may be said of the rules of the other as applied to himself.
But they must work with their own tools; if they had to adopt each
other's they would be as much confused as if compelled to exchange
languages. One believes that he must feel the character he plays, even

to the shedding of real tears, while the other prefers never to lose
himself for an instant, and there is no doubt that they