# On the Stage—and Off/Chapter 16

Chapter XVI.
Views on Acting.
I quote from two more letters, and then I have done with this stock company. The first was written just after our star had set,—or rather gone to the next town,—the second about a fortnight later:—
" . . . ——— left on Saturday. We had crowded houses all the time he was with us, and I'm not surprised. It must have been a treat to these benighted provincials to see real acting. No wonder country people don't care much for theatres, seeing the wretched horse-play presented to them under the name of acting. It does exasperate me to hear people talking all that thundering nonsense about the provinces being such a splendid school for young actors. Why a couple of months of it is enough to kill any idea of acting a man may have started with. Even if you had time to think of anything but how to gabble through your lines, it would be of no use. You would never be allowed to carry out any ideas of your own. If you attempted to think, you would be requested to look out for another shop at once. The slightest naturalness or originality would be put down to ignorance. You must walk through each part by ​the beaten track of rule and tradition—and such rule and tradition! The rule of Richardson's Show, the tradition of some ranting inn-yard hack. To reach the standard of dramatic art in the provinces, you have to climb down, not up. Comedy consists in having a red nose, and tumbling about the stage; being pathetic makes you hoarse for an hour after; and as for tragedy! no one dare attempt that who hasn't the lungs of a politician.
"But ——— changed all that for us. He infused a new spirit into everybody, and, when he was on the stage, the others acted better than I should ever have thought they could have done. It is the first time I have played with any one who can properly be called an actor, and it was quite a new sensation. I could myself tell that I was acting very differently to the way in which I usually act. I seemed to catch his energy and earnestness; the scene grew almost real, and I began to feel my part. And that is the most any one can do on the stage. As to 'being the character you are representing,' that is absurd. I can hardly believe in any sane person seriously putting forward such a suggestion. It is too ridiculous to argue against. Picture to yourself a whole company forgetting they were merely acting, and all fancying themselves the people they were impersonating. Words and business would of course be out of the question. They would all say and do just what came natural to them, and just when it came natural; so that sometimes everybody would be talking at once, and at other times there ​would be nobody doing anything. Such enthusiasm as theirs would never bow to the pitiful requirements of stage illusion. They would walk over the footlights on to the heads of the orchestra, and they would lean up against the mountains in the background. It would be a grand performance, but it wouldn't last long. The police would have to be called in before the first act was over. If they were not, the Leading Man would slaughter half the other members of the company; the Juvenile Lead would run off with the Walking Lady and the property jewels; and the First Old Man would die of a broken heart. What the manager would do on the second night I don't know. If he opened at all, I suppose he would go in front and explain matters by saying:—
"'Ladies and Gentlemen,—I must apologise for the incompleteness with which the play will be presented to you this evening. The truth is, the performance last night was so realistic all round, that there is only the Low Comedy and a General Utility left. But we've a good many corpses about the theatre, and with these, and the assistance of the two gentlemen mentioned, we will do what we can.'
"Even when studying in one's own room, one cannot for a moment lose sight of one's identity. A great actor, creating a character, doesn't forget he's himself, and think he's somebody else. It's only lunatics who have those fancies. But he is a man of such vast sympathy that he can understand and enter into all human thoughts and feelings; and, ​having pictured to himself the character of the man he wishes to represent, he can follow the workings of that supposed man's mind under all possible circumstances.
"But even this sympathy must be left outside the theatre doors. Once inside, the mind must be kept clear of all distracting thoughts. What is gone through on the stage is merely an exact repetition of what is conceived in the study, and a cool head and a good memory are the only reliable servants when once the curtain is up. Of course a man should feel what he is acting. Feeling is the breath of acting. It is to the actor what Aphrodite's gift was to Pygmalion—it gives life to his statue. But this feeling is as much a matter of memory as the rest. The actual stage is too artificial for emotion to come to one naturally while there. Each passion is assumed and dropped by force of will, together with the words and action which accompany it. . . . "
" . . . I made a sensation here last Tuesday. I was playing the very part in which our Walking Gentleman met with his accident, and he was playing the villain, who tries to stab me while I am asleep. (The Heavy Man has left. He went soon after he had done the mischief.) Well, everything had gone very smoothly so far, and I was lying there on the couch at the back of the darkened stage, and he was leaning over me with the knife. in his hand. I was quite still, waiting for my cue ​to awake, and wondering if I could manage to start up quickly, when I raised my eyes and caught sight of R———'s face. I may have done him an injustice. His expression may have been mere acting. The whole idea was, perhaps, due to nothing but my own imagination. I have thought this since. At the time it flashed across me: 'He means to revenge himself on me for having taken his place. He is going to disfigure me just as he was disfigured.' In an instant I had sprung up and wrested the knife from his hand.
"We stood there looking at one another, and neither of us moved or spoke: he, livid underneath his colour, and trembling from head to foot. How long we kept in that position I do not know, for the thud of the curtain upon the stage was the first thing that recalled me to myself. Up to when I had snatched the knife from him, all had been in exact accordance with the book. After that, I should have held him down by the throat, and made a speech of about eight lines. I think our impromptu tableau was more effective.
"There was immense applause, and everybody congratulated me on my success. 'I suppose you know you cut out the end,' said the manager; 'but never mind that. I daresay you were a little nervous, and you acted splendidly, my boy.'
"I didn't say it wasn't acting, and neither did R——— . . . "
I left here to join a small touring company as ​Juvenile Lead. I looked upon the offer as a grand opportunity at the time, and, following Horace's advice, grasped it by the forelock. I, therefore, one Sunday morning packed my basket, went round the town and shook hands with everybody—not without a pang of regret, for there are few human beings we can be with for any length of time and not be sorry to say good-bye to—and then, as the bright summer's sun was setting and the church bells beginning to peal, I steamed away, or rather the engine did, and the city and its people faded out of my sight, and out of my life.
Sunday is the great travelling day for actors. It loses them no time. A company can finish at one town on the Saturday night, and wake up on the Monday morning in the next, ready to get everything ship-shape for the evening. Or an actor can leave one show and join another at the other end of the kingdom without missing a single performance. I have known a man play in Cornwall on the Saturday, and at Inverness on the following Monday. But convenient though it is in this respect, in every other, Sunday travelling is most unpleasant, and, for their gratification, I can assure strict Sabbatarians that it brings with it its own punishment.
Especially to a man with a conscience—an article which, in those early days, I was unfortunate enough to possess. A conscience is a disagreeable ​sort of thing to have with one at any time. It has a nasty disposition—a cantankerous, fault-finding, interfering disposition. There is nothing sociable about it. It seems to take a pleasure in making itself objectionable, and in rendering its owner as uncomfortable as possible. During these Sunday journeys, it used to vex me by every means in its power. If any mild old gentleman, sitting opposite me in the carriage, raised his eyes and looked at me, I immediately fancied he was silently reproaching me, and I felt ashamed and miserable. It never occurred to me at the time that he was every bit as bad as I was, and that I had as much right to be shocked at him as he to be horrified at me. Then I used to ask myself what my poor aunt would say if she could see me. Not that it was of the slightest consequence what the old lady would have said, but the question was just one of those petty annoyances in which a mean-spirited conscience delights. I was firmly convinced that everybody was pointing the finger of scorn at me. I don't know which particular finger is the finger of scorn: whichever it is, that, I felt, was the one that was pointed at me. At every station, my exasperating inward monitor would whisper to me: "But for such abandoned wretches as you, all those porters and guards would be sleeping peacefully in the village church." When the whistle sounded, my tormentor would add: "But for you and other such despicable scoundrels, that grimy, toil-stained engine-driver would be dressed in his best clothes, ​lounging up against a post at his own street corner." Such thoughts maddened me.
My fellow-passengers generally let on that they were going to see sick relatives, and I would have done the same if it hadn't been for that awful basket of mine. But the inventive faculty of a newspaper reporter couldn't have explained away a basket the size of an average chest of drawers. I might have said that it contained a few delicacies for the invalid, but nobody would have believed me, and there would have been a good lie wasted.
But it is not only to people with consciences that Sunday travelling presents vexations. Even you, my dear reader, would find it unpleasant. There is a subdued going-to-a-funeral air about the whole proceeding, which makes you melancholy in spite of yourself. You miss the usual bustling attributes of railway travelling. No crowded platforms! no piles of luggage! no newspaper boys! The refreshment rooms don't seem the same places at all, and the damsels there are haughtier then ever. When you arrive at your destination, you seem to have come to a city of the dead. You pass through deserted streets to your hotel. Nobody is about. You go into the coffee-room and sit down there by yourself. After a while the boots looks in. You yearn towards him as towards a fellow-creature. You would fall upon his neck, and tell him all your troubles. You try to engage him in conversation, so as to detain him in the room, for you dread to be left alone again. But he doesn't ​enter into your feelings; he answers all questions by monosyllables, and gets away as quickly as possible. You go out for a walk. The streets are dark and silent, and you come back more miserable than you started. You order supper, but have no appetite, and cannot eat it when it comes. You retire to your room early, but cannot go to sleep. You lie there and wonder what the bill will come to, and, while thinking of this, you are softly borne away into the land of dreams, and fancy that the proprietor has asked you for a hundred and eighty-seven pounds nine and fourpence ha'penny, and that you have killed him on the spot, and left the house in your nightshirt without paying.