THE portrait which accompanies this chapter is that of my old friend Ernest Bendall, to whom I believe I am justified in alluding as the Doyen of Critics at the present day, he having uninterruptedly "observed" and criticised my efforts, and others, since 1873, and invariably with that "open mind" which is so artistically and delicately hinted at in the attitude of the door in the photograph. I have endeavoured to induce an identical state of mind to pervade the following pages, which have not in any way been inspired by consultation or conversation with him or any of his confrères, but are the usual carelessly expressed opinions and ideas of one of "the criticised," who confesses to a deep debt of gratitude for much kindly encouragement and grateful reading.

The position of dramatic critic on an influential, and consequently important, journal is, for many reasons, a desirable objective to any journalist. Also, for quite as many reasons, if not more – as amongst them must be included each individual member of the theatrical profession – it is by no means invariably an enviable one. Several prominent artists, both on the English and French stage, have expressed an opinion to the effect that a personal acquaintance between critic and criticised is a thing to be avoided, but to the best of my recollection they have none of them offered any solution of the difficulty.

In the first place it is impossible to dictate to any person on the subject of any acquaintances that person may choose to make, or be forced to make, and such is the contrariety of human nature that even the slightest indication of such a prohibition is, in most cases, considered a sufficient reason for at once seeking the acquaintance of the person indicated. Also the very occupation of critic and artist is to a certain extent carried on on the common ground of the theatre, additional facilities for meeting being of late years afforded by the presence at dress rehearsals, and even earlier ones, of the critics. Then there are also club life and society gatherings to add to the complications of the problem "to know or not to know," not to speak of the intellectual advantage accruing to the artist – whose mind must of necessity be somewhat self-centred – with the opportunity of discussing cause and effect with some representative of a body of men whose erudite minds are trained to point out the best means of obtaining an effective whole, so frequently thrown out of balance by an over-predominating part.

With the enormous increase in society functions and entertainments of all sorts one would imagine a corresponding increase in opportunities of meeting, but I venture to think that this is not the case, as these gatherings, from their very size, number and promiscuity, have lost some of their distinctiveness of former times.

In the early Victorian era novelists and literati of all descriptions were in the habit of alluding to a certain section of society as "Bohemia," wherein was represented all that was most notable in the hemispheres of Art, Letters and the Stage, leavened with a sprinkling of titled dilettanti in these worlds, and an occasional statesman, who sought the brilliant circle as a relaxation from his arduous duties of framing laws to govern it, and possibly with the (unconfessed) object of obtaining a few useful hints as to the framing of such laws.

The radical and the socialist were not greatly in evidence in those times, the latter because he was then non-existent, and the former probably for the reason that he sought no relaxation from the stern path of duty, and admitted very little power, on the part of others of a different creed, to instruct, advise or modify – an attitude of intolerance which seems to be largely on the increase with all members of all political creeds. I myself profess Unionist principles, and, when discussing political affairs, experience so strong a feeling of indignation should any of my statements be refuted that I refrain from any indulgence in the practice.

Why this desirable circle was so christened, or by whom, I have never discovered, but that the entrée to it was most eagerly sought is an undoubted fact, and to establish a kind of salon for its gatherings was the object of many charming hostesses who had the good fortune to possess a husband, brother or male belonging of sorts, eminent in some one of the directions indicated, or who had themselves qualified for the position.

My own modest achievements, backed by kindly introductions on the part of one or two already qualified members, procured me the great pleasure of being received at all the receptions I could find time and inclination to attend, and the lack of inclination was never the cause of an omission.

Two of the most delightful houses were those of Boughton, the great artist, and Joseph Hatton, the novelist and journalist, and at neither of these was it possible to pass a dull moment or meet a really dull person. No one was ever asked to contribute to the evening's entertainment, for the very good reason that anyone who could do anything volunteered to do it, with the result that one had a musical, dramatic and conversational soirée such as even the wealth of a Rockefeller could hardly have purchased.

The actor, for the nonce, put on no "side," the critic came without his cynicism, and the conversationalist assumed an unwonted brilliance in the genial atmosphere; the "turns," all voluntary, were keenly appreciated, in direct contrast to the attitude of the modern deadhead, who sees very little to praise in gratuitous entertainment, and many a "first appearance" was made under auspices which were inspiring instead of the dreaded nerve-racking ordeal.

Critics and criticised met on the most friendly footing; plays, players and authors were discussed in the most fearless manner, and even personalities indulged in, and received in the spirit in which they were made.

Under such circumstances it was inevitable that the two should meet and know each other, and if the critic had perforce to fall foul of his good friend's next performance he did so with all the good will of which he was possessed, and in the full knowledge of his friend's equal good will in the perusal of his opinion.

I am not sure but that the words "his opinion" do not furnish the key to the complacency with which artists regard an adverse criticism of their work; of course, a criticism of a praiseful nature is accepted as a tribute on the part of the public at large, as expressed by the one writer, whereas the criticism which points out certain flaws or faults in the work of either actor or author may legitimately be regarded as the expression of opinion of one man alone, and therefore to be treated as an error of judgment which must not be allowed to affect a personal friendship.

Be it as it may, there is no doubt that the position of the conscientious critic is by no means enviable when he has, in pursuance of his duty to the public, to throw a lurid light on the shortcomings of his friend, and it is much to the credit of both parties in the matter that they can, and do, maintain the entente cordiale in the fullest sense of the expression.

Another point which the critic must inevitably bear in mind, although the stern moralist might contend that it should not influence his writing, is the great expense incurred by his possibly personal friend, the manager, in the production, a very large item indeed, nowadays, in the case of musical plays. Is he to blame that, with this consideration in mind, justice is occasionally over-tempered with mercy? We may be told that what is spent in this direction is no affair of the public, but it is done to please the public eye, and only those who have tried it know the difficulty of criticism which shall not raise the cry of partiality or incompetence.

The pleasing of the eye has, it seems to me, become of more importance than it formerly was, hence the enormous outlay on "productions," but it is a moot point whether the public have demanded this expenditure or the managers been compelled to offer it under the stress of increased competition.

A well-known and popular comedian, with whom I was discussing criticisms lately, apropos a species of modified reproof we had both received at the hands, or rather pen, of one of our friend-enemies, gave it as his opinion that "there should be no critics, and that plays should simply be reported," but I hardly think he could have been in earnest in saying this, as he immediately afterwards agreed with me that certain other pronouncements in certain other journals "formed very pleasant reading"!

Of course it is very easy to say that "personalities" are not criticism, nor are they, but personality enters so largely into the work of author, actor or artist that it really becomes somewhat difficult to determine where personality ends and art begins.

The most successful actors, and, for the purposes of this argument, I mean, by most successful, those occupying the most highly paid positions, most undoubtedly owe not a little of their success to strong personality, which may be manifested, in my humble opinion, in one of three ways: good looks, atmosphere, or mannerism, for none of which, I contend, has the artist the power to claim any credit, unless it be possibly the third, which may certainly be cultivated, improved upon or changed, at the will of the possessor, or even in some cases invented – but which, as being the least important of the three, is hardly an attribute on which to bestow credit.

The two first are obviously gifts, either of nature or a bountiful providence, and, of the two the possession of the second, "atmosphere," is a factor in success the value of which it is impossible to overestimate, for whereas the first is liable to all the accidents of the human frame, including that worst accident of all, age, the latter is an undying and unassailable asset.

To an artist blessed by Fate with these two great gifts everything is possible, but the instances are represented far more by the exception than the rule, whereas the fortunate recipients of the second, even though unaccompanied by the smallest modicum of the former, may, luckily for the English stage and lovers of the theatre, be counted by dozens.

It would be an invidious task to give examples of present-day actors and actresses who possess, or lack, beauty, atmosphere or mannerisms, although nevertheless a very easy one, for it is not possible for any human being to sit in the auditorium of a theatre without feeling the species of magnetism due to the personal atmosphere emanating from the really talented artist the moment he or she appears in sight.

Irving was a very striking and strong example of this personal atmosphere, and his son, H. B., possesses it in a marked degree; Charles Wyndham, Gerald du Maurier and Charles Hawtrey undoubtedly have it, and amongst the ladies of the stage the two most pronouncedly gifted with it are Marie Tempest and Ethel Irving; to none of these is it possible to do anything inartistic, and even if they do not always please one as much as they have educated us into expecting, they do not disappoint in the same measure as would another artist, lacking the atmosphere, in the same part.

Mr Henry Arthur Jones has lately been venturing into print, in praise of the actors of what is known as "the old school," and drawing comparisons unfavourable to those of the present time. There is much to be said on both sides of the argument, but it occurs to me that a clearer definition of what is meant by "the old school" would be advantageous to the discussion.

To take a few names at random, I myself have seen Phelps, Vining, Creswick, Buckstone, Compton, Sothern (who perhaps was the advance guard of the modern style of acting), Miss Bateman, Miss Leclerq, and others too numerous to mention, who belonged, I imagine, to the school indicated, and of the tragedians I recollect an impression of a somewhat laboured diction and corresponding action, producing a dilatoriness which possibly accounted for the early hour at which plays in those days were commenced. There was an irresistible dry humour about Buckstone and Compton, which is perhaps rare in these days – but so it was then – while to match the charm and style of the ladies of that era with present examples is an easy task surely.

Possibly one reason why artists in those days achieved a more lasting fame than is granted to us of the present, lies in the fact that there are now three theatres where there then existed but one, and, consequently, with the increasing number of artists comes an increasing number of talented individuals, with the result of spreading, as it were, the jam, both of admiration and notoriety, over a much greater number of slices of bread. It is only in the nature of things that the talent of an artist should improve with experience, and since the abolition of the "stock company" this can only be acquired by long years of work; so that the term "old school" would seem to apply equally to the stage veterans of the present day – a veteran in experience being by no means of necessity a veteran in years.

There has been of late years a most marked alteration in the social status of the actor and actress as compared with that which obtained in the early Victorian era, which has most undoubtedly been responsible for the recruiting of a larger number of persons of a better class than those which formerly filled the rank and file of the stage army. When I first embarked upon the chequered voyage of a theatrical career (I seem to be rather mixing the Army metaphor with the Naval, but they are inseparable) it was, for some occult reason, deemed a necessity that the tyro should veil his identity under an assumed name; arising, I believe, from a lingering suspicion that the stage as a profession was hardly respectable; this idea has been considerably modified of late years, and yet, as far as one can see, without any very marvellous accession to the respectability which then existed, and is even now fully as much the rule as the exception. We have only to glance at the male choristers in any or all of the present musical plays, or the extra ladies and gentlemen of the drama houses, to be convinced of this improvement, if improvement it be, because, although it is infinitely preferable to watch the efforts of a smart and even athletic-looking crowd of young fellows, it is impossible not to occasionally miss the voice-training to which the chorister of former days had to submit to qualify for the position.

A common form of present-day criticism is that which reads somewhat after this fashion: "Those admirable comedians, Blank and Blink, lent invaluable aid to the scenes in which they appeared, and we have little doubt that when they have had time to build up their parts in the usual manner, they will be as mirth-provoking in this as in anything we have yet seen them do."

This is naturally a direct incentive to Blank and Blink to "improve" on the author, and possibly, in the hands and brains of a capable and careful Blank and Blink, may be an important factor in the successful run of the play, but the question frequently arises, how, where and by whom is a watch to be kept on the firm of fun, and a restraining influence exercised.

Blish and Blush, who are playing the subalterns, as it were, to their fun-captains, consider themselves entitled to the same freedom of speech, with the not infrequent result that the humorous scenes become so inordinately lengthened as to throw the play out of balance and develop a weariness of spirit on the part of the audience which the author, in originally framing the sequence of scenes, has spent careful hours in endeavouring to avoid. I have seen this sense of irresponsibility on the part of the comedians spread like an infection and attack the members of the company who are representing the serious or love interest portion of the play, with the result that not only has the intention of the author become thoroughly obscured, but also that an air of insincerity has been imparted to the serious side of the argument which has reduced the audience to a state of annoyance at what is apparently a liberty taken with their understanding and purchased enjoyment, and seriously endangered the success of what may have been a well-thought-out scheme on the part of the author.

This is not altogether the fault of the comedians, for within my own experience (outside Savoy Opera, I need hardly remark) I have met authors who have deliberately left Blank and Blink to write their own scenes, those of them who were sufficiently wary safeguarding themselves by arranging that such scenes had little or nothing to do with the plot of the piece.

An excellent anodyne for the divergence from the paths of art – I use a medical term advisedly for a procedure which is frequently the ground of a complaint – might be found in the fortnightly or monthly application of a critical liniment of praise or censure well rubbed in with a practised hand, but at present there is but slight notice taken of a successful play between its production and the "second edition," which is usually forthcoming after the lapse of some twelve or eighteen months, thus leaving a considerable interval free for the development of these personal idiosyncrasies which do not invariably please.

This mode of treatment, however, would not be an easy matter to arrange, as, owing to the enormous number of productions in all directions, the dramatic critic is already an overworked personage and should not, in common fairness, be condemned to sit in constant judgment on the same play or set of players.

A book which I have lately read with much pleasure and interest, written by Mr Spencer, the talented critic of The Westminster Gazette, although covering a great deal of ground, leaves me with the hope that he will gratify us with a second and more exhaustive volume. Although on one or two points I join issue with his reasoning – I being an actor, he a critic, this is but fitting – there is, to my mind, evidence on every page of a man who knows and loves his subject, writes on it fearlessly, and has a great desire to see the English stage in the forefront of honour attributable to good work on the part of both authors and delineators.

In discussing the imperative necessity of a love story in plays – which, I gather, he believes need not exist – he makes the remarkable statement that "love in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas is treated with cruel levity." To what opera does he allude? In Pinafore, Mikado and Pirates love conquers disparity in rank, and where can he find more dignified or tender tales of love than the double interest in Yeomen of the Guard and Casilda and Luiz in Gondoliers? The passion of the middle-aged woman for the youth in one or two of the operas is perhaps treated with a "cruel levity," but is surely a phase of love which has earned it from time immemorial, and after all, in those operas, is only a secondary interest.

In speaking of the importance, or the reverse, of "make-up" he puts forth this proposition: "Can it be that the triumphs, that we sometimes see, of the actress over the actor, are partly due to the fact that she reduces make-up to the minimum?"

The make-up practice of the ladies of the stage is, in my experience, confined almost entirely to securing the effect of superhuman eyelashes and scarlet mouths of a stereotyped shape entirely without reference as to their harmony with the other features, the gaining of which effects usually occupies anything from an hour to an hour and a half, and, more often than not, seems to necessitate the use of a trowel in application. I shall never forget the comic distress of the Savoy company concerning what they considered the enforced ugliness of the make-up for The Mikado, and my dear old friend Rosina Brandram, of the glorious voice, left no doubt that hers was indeed a make-up and nothing like an attempt to conceal her youth. The restlessness of English acting is another thing which Mr Spencer finds fault with, and here I am in complete accord with him, as I fancy would be the majority of his readers; the enormous value of repose is not generally appreciated, and the power to assist a somewhat lengthy scene with an almost wordless effectiveness is indeed rare; in truth I have known cases of actors and actresses declining to remain on "all through that with nothing to say," ignoring the fact that the author has probably planned it so with a purpose.

I should like to say something on the subject of self-elected critics, but this chapter, being already of an inordinate length, seems to shake a warning finger with a blot of printer's ink on it which is plainly decipherable as a full stop.

Page modified 2 February 2008