CHAPTER IX.

Directions a la Swift.

It is not unlikely that some of my friends will be looking through these pages for hints that may be of use to them, either in their amateur performances, or perchance in contemplation of something of a more ambitious nature.

If it be the latter I should like to remind them that, to take up the “stage as a profession,” one should possess a robust constitution and capacity for hard work and incessant study, or advancement is impossible.

Dramatic sentiment is also an important accessory, without which one can never be wholly successful. It is a gift of nature. I doubt whether it can be acquired. It may, perhaps, be simulated to a certain extent by careful tuition, but there is insincerity about the most perfect simulation. Counterfeit may pass, but the true ring is not there, and the stage manager’s work only carries it through to a certain extent. The temperament must be behind the correct gestures and stage business.

However, when I commenced to write this little volume, it was not my intention to make it anything but a racy book of anecdotes and experiences, acquired during my peregrinations, and if possible to amuse; therefore I am prompted to lay down the following directions a la Swift, which, however, must not be taken too seriously:—

Being a student it is possible you may have dipped into Shakespeare, but it is by no means certain, for there are many who have played in his plays, and supplied this defect by their own genius—a practice much to be commended. However, if you have been taking this unnecessary trouble, you have, perhaps, at some time stumbled on Hamlet’s Instructions to the Players.

Now, if you have been idle enough to learn anything from them, there will be difficulty with you, for you must unlearn it all.

Granted that experience makes fools wise, you must allow that nothing can be more ridiculous and unavailing than these instructions. Who gives them? Shakespeare, one who was confessedly a “poor player,” and who was so in all probability from following his own prescriptions, as every doctor would be sick if he took his own medicine.

Is it unreasonable that we should go to a lame man to teach us how to run? Let us try some of his rules. Is it not the prime object of an actor to excite applause? Then is he to be told not to “mouth” or “bellow” a speech, when you know how much applause you have secured by these means?

“Suit the action to the word.” This would lead to so many indecencies, that nothing can be more reprehensible. Do no such thing.

I once had a prima donna who used her hands “without rhyme or reason,” if I may put it that way, and she gained a roar of laughter as “Patience,” after delivering the lines: “But stay, I have some news for you. The 35th Dragoon Guards have halted in the village, and are now on their way to this very spot.”

“The words to the action.” This, if rightly interpreted, is good. Put in any words you please, according to your action, which, if you would not be thought a mannerist, must every night vary from the intention of the author.

Shakespeare objects also to those who have “neither the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pagan nor man.”

Is there no merit in originality?

Is novelty nothing?

“Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.” Farewell, then, a long farewell to the genius of the comedian! The “gods” shall laugh no more, the player shall be nailed to the dullness of the author, and the author shall be inevitably damned.

Attitude. Attitude is a great thing. When you speak, clap your left hand on your hip, make an angle with your elbow, and stretch out your right. Other positions are preferred by some, but what is most easily recognised will be approved. Then what figure is better than that of a tea-pot?

Coming on out of your turn is sure to attract notice.

In making love, always whine. These are the tones that go to the heart.

Be always Mr. Whatever’s-your-name, in every part. Variety is destructive of consistency.

The less you enter into your part the more command you’ll have over yourself and the beauty of your dress. Never mind the character. Why should you make yourself look ugly?

Never attend to another actor in the same scene with you. You may be better employed in arranging your dress, or winking and nodding at your friends in the boxes.

Address all your speech to the pit, look them full in the face, and make them quite uneasy in their seats. This will render you an interesting performer, and you will find persons saying: “Lord! I do like Mr. —— you hear every word he says.”

If you have any asides to make, bawl them out as loud as you can. If you have no lungs, give up the profession.

If you hear a hundred hisses after a song, and one small voice from the gallery crying “Encore!” come on and sing it again—nothing like respect.

If you can force another actor to laugh by making faces at him, you’ll get the character of being so droll ! The play may suffer by this, but you must look to your reputation.

I once knew one who tried it on. He had been in the habit of imitating and mimicking the principals so much that he became a regular nuisance. At last the manager expostulated. “Sorry, sir,” said the culprit, “I suppose I can’t help it, being an imitator, and used to taking people off.”

“Well,” replied the manager, “just take notice that, in a fortnight from to-day, you shall give us all the pleasure of witnessing you taking yourself off.”

Avoid speaking favourably of any actor in your own lines. Nothing is unhandsome that seems prudent.

Never speak a good word of the manager. I can’t well explain why, but, mind, I caution you not to do it! This is certain, that he will always be trying to thwart your genius by putting you in parts in which he thinks you will appear to most advantage. This is not to be borne by an actor of any spirit.

In an interesting scene, blow your nose and generally have a cough: it will excite pity—perhaps.

Hug the side where the prompter sits—it will show your anxiety to be correct.

In the middle of a speech, if there’s the least applause, stop, turn round, come forward and bow—it’s respectful. In general, the applause will arise from the sentiment, and not from your acting. Bow nevertheless.

There’s nothing further to add but this—Give way to envy and jealousy, and make yourself as miserable as you can at home; it will save your gaiety and spirits, and you’ll have more to waste in the dressing-rooms and elsewhere.

In conclusion: May you never have cause to recite—feelingly—

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