M

ACTORS
1884

OST people, I suppose, at one time or another in their lives, have felt the charm of an actor's life, as they were free to fancy it, well-nigh irresistible.

What is it to be a great actor? I say a great actor, because (I am sure) no amateur ever fancied himself a small one. Is it not always to have the best parts in the best plays; to be the central figure of every group; to feel that attention is arrested the moment you come on the stage; and (more exquisite satisfaction still) to be aware that it is relaxed when you go off; to have silence secured for your smallest utterances; to know that the highest dramatic talent has been exercised to invent situations for the very purpose of giving effect to your words and dignity to your actions; to quell all opposition by the majesty of your bearing or the brilliancy of your wit; and finally, either to triumph over disaster, or if you be cast in tragedy, happier still, to die upon the stage, supremely pitied and honestly mourned for at least a minute? And then, from first to last, applause loud and long-not postponed, not even delayed, but following immediately after. For a piece of diseased egotism—that is, for a man— what a lot is this!

How pointed, how poignant the contrast between

a hero on the boards and a hero in the streets! In
the world's theatre the man who is really playing
the leading part-did we but know it-is too often,
in the general estimate, accounted but one of the
supernumeraries, a figure in dingy attire, who
might well be spared, and who may consider him-
self well paid with a pound a week. His utterances
procure no silence. He has to pronounce them as
best he may, whilst the gallery sucks its orange,
the pit pares its nails, the boxes babble, and the
stalls yawn.
Amidst these pleasant distractions
he is lucky if he is heard at all; and perhaps the
best thing that can befall him is for somebody to
think him worth the trouble of a hiss. As for
applause, it may chance with such men, if they
live long enough, as it has to the great ones who
have preceded them, in their old age,

When they are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of themselves,

To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.

The great actor may sink to sleep, soothed by the memory of the tears or laughter he has evoked, and wake to find the day far advanced, whose close is to witness the repetition of his triumph; but the great man will lie tossing and turning as he reflects on the seemingly unequal war he is waging with stupidity and prejudice, and be tempted to exclaim, as Milton tells us he was, with the sad prophet Jeremy: "Woe is me, my mother, that thou hast borne me, a man of strife and contention!"

The upshot of all this is, that it is a pleasanter thing to represent greatness than to be great.

But the actor's calling is not only pleasant in itself-it gives pleasure to others. In this respect, how favourably it contrasts with the three learned professions!

Few pleasures are greater than to witness some favourite character, which hitherto has been but vaguely bodied forth by our sluggish imaginations, invested with all the graces of living man or woman. A distinguished man of letters, who years ago was wisely selfish enough to rob the stage of a jewel and set it in his own crown, has addressed to his wife some radiant lines which are often on my lips:

Beloved, whose life is with mine own entwined,

In whom, whilst yet thou wert my dream, I viewed,
Warm with the life of breathing womanhood,
What Shakespeare's visionary eye divined—
Pure Imogen; high-hearted Rosalind,

Kindling with sunshine all the dusk greenwood;
Or changing with the poet's changing mood,
Juliet, or Constance of the queenly mind.

But a truce to these compliments.

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.

It is idle to shirk disagreeable questions, and the one I have to ask is this, "Has the world been wrong in regarding with disfavour and lack of esteem the great profession of the stage?

That the world, ancient and modern, has despised the actor's profession cannot be denied. An affecting story I read many years ago-in that elegant and entertaining work, Lemprière's Classical Dictionary-well illustrates the feeling of the Roman world. Julius Decimus Laberius was a Roman knight and dramatic author, famous for his mimes, who had the misfortune to irritate a greater Julius,

the author of the Commentaries, when the latter was at the height of his power. Cæsar, casting about how best he might humble his adversary, could think of nothing better than to condemn him to take a leading part in one of his own plays. Laberius entreated in vain. Cæsar was obdurate, and had his way. Laberius played his part-how, Lemprière sayeth not; but he also took his revenge, after the most effectual of all fashions, the literary. He composed and delivered a prologue of considerable power, in which he records the act of spiteful tyranny, and which, oddly enough, is the only specimen of his dramatic art that has come down to us. It contains lines which, though they do not seem to have made Cæsar, who sat smirking in the stalls, blush for himself, make us, 1900 years afterwards, blush for Cæsar. The only lines, however, now relevant are, being interpreted, as follow:

After having lived sixty years with honour, I left my home this morning a Roman knight, but I shall return to it this evening an infamous stage-player. Alas! I have lived a day too long.

Turning to the modern world, and to England, we find it here the popular belief that actors are by statute rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars. This, it is true, is founded on a misapprehension of the effect of 39 Eliz. chap. 4, which only provides that common players wandering abroad without authority to play, shall be taken to be "rogues and vagabonds "; a distinction which one would have thought was capable of being perceived even by the blunted faculties of the lay mind.1

But the fact that the popular belief rests upon

1 See note at end of Essay.

a misreading of an Act of Parliament three hundred years old does not affect the belief, but only makes it exquisitely English, and as a consequence entirely irrational.

Is there anything to be said in support of this once popular prejudice?

It may, I think, be supported by two kinds of argument. One derived from the nature of the case, the other from the testimony of actors themselves.

A serious objection to an actor's calling is that from its nature it admits of no other test of failure or success than the contemporary opinion of the town. This in itself must go far to rob life of dignity. A Milton may remain majestically indifferent to the "barbarous noise" of "owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs," but the actor can steel himself to no such fortitude. He can lodge no appeal to posterity. The owls must hoot, the cuckoos cry, the apes yell, and the dogs bark on his side, or he is undone. This is of course inevitable, but it is an unfortunate condition of an artist's life.

Again, no record of his art survives to tell his tale or account for his fame. When old gentlemen wax garrulous over actors dead and gone, young gentlemen grow somnolent. Chippendale the cabinet-maker is more potent than Garrick the actor. The vivacity of the latter no longer charms (save in Boswell); the chairs of the former still render rest impossible in a hundred homes.

This, perhaps, is why no man of lofty genius or character has ever condescended to remain an actor. His lot pressed heavily even on so mercurial