Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN ACTOR'S REMINISCENCES, by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) First Line: You want to follow in my steps? Last Line: To play othello: 'tis my benefit. Subject(s): Actors & Actresses; Professions; Theater & Theaters; Actresses; Stage Life | ||||||||
You want to follow in my steps? You choose The Stage for a profession?Well and good. But weigh the matter fully. 'Tis no slight And facile matter when a man decides What path with all his ardour to pursue Till death;and when the path is set with thorns With here and there amid the thorns a flower Splendid (I know it)then the choice becomes Of weightier and more solemn import still. So weigh the matter carefully. Meanwhile It may be of use and cannot be of harm If I narrate to you before you start Some of my own maturer thoughts and dreams Giving you not so much the outward acts As the results of these; experiences Wrought into thoughts, and thoughts made slowly ripe By further thought,till now at last, the Stage Stands clear before me as it is, and as, Please God, it one day will be. Listen then. Now, first of all, if once you choose the Stage For your profession, see that night and day You "magnify your office"with St. Paul. Let no man slight your calling unrebuked: Aye, and no woman either; there are those Oh, I have met them,met them many a time! There are fair English ladies even now Who looking back towards eras long since dead Scoff at the Stage, and ask what worthy thing "Came out of Nazareth,"or Drury Lane! They will quote Mrs. Browning; who declared Somewhere in her lettersthat it needs no high Imagination to enjoy the Stage: Nay, that its strong enjoyment seems to imply A low imagination, unrefined And coarse and unideal and commonplace. These arguers you must meet, and meet them full. Be frank at first; confess that there is truth (Muchyes, too much) in what they do affirm. The Stage has been degraded: doubt it not: Degraded by the public just as much As it has lowered the public:own it quite. But then go on to say, with emphasis: "Of all professions that a man can choose And can pursue before the face of God In holy humble earnest,looking up Straight from his furrow of labour unto Him, Of all these callings there has never been One that can be pursued more holily, Or more in deadliest earnest, than the Stage. Why, what is worship?"so you next will urge "In what does worship lie? Most surely in Pure depth of feeling, earnestness of soul, Exalted passion of spirit, ardent life. These on the Stage you have,more strongly there Than elsewhere; and such feeling leads to God. Why, you yourselves"pursue your argument "You yourselves would confess that deep delight, Strong passion, ever lift the soul on high, Gifting the wingless with superb new wings And adding to the wingful fiery force Of rustling plumage:you would say no doubt That God is found not only in a Church But in the deep green fragrant woods as well And in the gold-starred meadows, and beside The foaming white unfathomable sea. A man can worshipso you would admit While riding, hunting,or while steering hard A Yorkshire coble over crests of waves, Or even while fighting.Good. I claim the same Fair liberal judgment for the Stage, and say That when man's spirit is most exalted, man Is nearest to his Maker."You can quote In full pursuance of your argument That noble sonnet Matthew Arnold gave To Rachel; in his vision seeing her Sick and dejected on an August day In Paristhe white walls ablaze with heat Making her carriage stop before the door Of the French Theatre,and gazing hard, Her swift eyes full of tears, at that strange fane Wherein the passion of her life was spent. Now she was dying; Paris, stricken by heat, Was quite deserted: but the woman came The mighty actress came (my reverence For a true actor or actress is so large I never speak in thought the name of one Without in thought uncovering my brow) The actress came and with her dying eyes, Alone with her own spirit and with God, Yearned o'er the place where most of all her soul Had been endowed with superhuman might, Exalted and exultant most of all, The place that was to her a temple indeed, Temple, and altar of the living God. Of all strange incidents half-sad, half-sweet, I know no sadder, sweeter, than this pause Of dying Rachel at her Theatre, There summing up in one swift dream, perhaps, Before she left this world to give account To God of all her acting, her whole life; Hearing again the mighty applause ring forth And feeling once again the elastic boards Bend at her footfall: seeing again the crowds, The Theatre "lined with human intellect" (As Mrs. Siddons said of that first night When she flamed forth and triumphed),seeing again In one strange awful great unfathomed glimpse The tiers of seats, the faces,ere she turned To act her last part with no hand to applaud Save only God's:This story you should quote To show the people how divinely great Acting may be when a great spirit acts. And that word "acting" leads me to the next Thought that I would most earnestly impress And stamp into your soul,yes, "acting" indeed! "Acting!"just so. O foolish people, ye Say "acting," and ye think that "acting" means Just that and nothing more; a dressing up As children do to play at soldiers; or A shy at Amateur Theatricals! "O fools and slow of heart" do ye not know That acting is just living: nothing more And nothing less,no actor ever yet Was great, but he was great, potentially, In life as well as acting: yes, Stage tears Come from the heart, if they be there at all In any spirit-moving potency. The heart must weep, before the eyes can weep; The soul must suffer, ere the breast can pant And tremble: what we see upon the Stage Must first be learned by thought and suffering; I speak of course of acting worth the name. Acting not worth the namethere's plenty such! Has made men think that acting is unreal Acting as such,as this poor weak stuff is. But this is not the case: there is no life So full of life intensified and great And real and deep and vivid and sublime As that the actor lives, if he be true To his own calling, and the voice within. Consider, too, the comfort of the thing Besides the glory of it,how divine After a snow-clad wind-tossed London day (Or just a foggy dreary London day) To have the Stage for refuge, and the warmth And light; and, wonderful and most of all, The quick electric rush of sympathy That passes through a crowd in unison. I never acted yet but I have felt The better for it,though I may have been Ill and depressed and saddened through the day. The acting woke me up, the electric thrill Rushed through me, and I have surpassed myself Sometimes when feeling up to the very hour Of acting so forlorn and sad and weak That never a wordI thoughtcould pass my lips. And then the changes! Here on earth we live One single life,and that too often dull And sable-winged and dreary: on the Stage We live through countless fiery lives, and blend Our sober proper personality With endless modes of being,passing through Each passionate human phase of mind in turn. And that is rapture,rapture absolute To those who finding one life all too short Would blend their fiery souls with other souls And know the passions of the universe As God discerns them all, ideally; Passing from Faust to Mephistopheles, And Romeo to Macbeth,and knowing in each The very inmost sacred spirit of each, And speaking as each separate being prompts. And this is "acting": not to mouth a part, But with keen grip of mind to apprehend The innermost essence of each character And then to be that woman or that man, Becoming him or her so veritably That all the sense of petty self is lost, Absorbed, transfused, and swallowed up in each Creature whom you would faithfully portray. This is "creation"word so much misused. For when some sorry actor takes a part, Rampages through it, fills it out with "gag," Imprints his soul upon it (such a soul!) Winks at the gallery, and reveals himself (And such a self to exhibit!) to the gods, We call it a "creation": blasphemy! The true "creation" is to recreate Some soul long dead: to bring it back to earth And make it walk the earth, alive indeed. Yes: not to manifest one's live small soul But to create again some dead great soul And bring the audience face to face with him. And this being real "creation" is the cause Why actors and true poets are akin: Aye, far more closely akin than any yet Has fancied: here remains a work to do For the far futureto bestow the gift Of acting on all poets, and the true Poetic inspiration on the Stage. Ah! then will come the Stage's golden day; When actors act as highest poets write, And poets do not only write at home Locked in the silent study, but, besides, Speak forth with resonant voice their great ideas And gather stimulus to further toil From the rapt faces of their fellow men. Poets reach only half their height as yet, And actors not a quarter of their height, Because they think and speak and write and act As separate, not as mingled, entities. Does any man for instance dream or think That even the greatest actors we have seen Could play Hernani as the author could? That is to say if he from early youth Had but been trainedas poets will be trained To use not only his heart and brain and soul, But also voice and eye and hand and limb. Till author also is actor, we shall fail In all its rounded fulness to be 'ware Of what a giant work of art might be. Shakespeare as Romeo!think of that, my friends! Sheridan as Joseph Surface,or as Charles! "She stoops to Conquer," with the author cast For some one of the leading characters! The very thought is dazzling,but it's true. Barring infirmity, or want of strength, The author must be ever most of all The man to indicate the subtle charm, The nuances, and the dainty various traits, Of his creations: take that as assured. No acting yet has equalled, nor come near, The acting of the future: heights undreamed Yet tarry in front, and will be scaled at last. The one thing wanting yet is earnestness, Religious earnestness,upon the Stage. In France they have it; have it more than we. To see a Frenchman act the simplest part Often puts us to shame; our slovenly style Of getting through the thing in the least time, Then off to supper,or to catch the train! 'Tis the old story; nothing can be done Without religion, or at any rate The spirit of religionearnestness. If we were thrilled and held and quite inspired By a due sense of Art, should we start up Before the Play is overseek for wraps And shawls and opera cloaks and comforters While Irving's drawing out his weird last groan Or Sarah Bernhardt's dying on the stage? Never: we should sit still,as we in Church Sit still a moment at the sermon's end, Out of pure reverence; or if not for that Just out of common formal courtesy To the performer struggling to attain For our sakes and his own a passionate goal. Better it is to miss the train, or miss The festive supper, than to dull our brains And scar our hearts by hurling out of each Emotion ere 'tis finished: passion needs, Like music, gradually to die away, Not to be choked out in a search for wraps! But when we're more in earnest, all these things Will be amended. Then the Stage will seem Worthy of e'en the first ability, And men who now seek honour at the Bar Or in the Church, will seek it on the Stage. Then women who now dread to "act" for fear Of coarse companionship and vulgar tongues Will seek the Stage by instinct: for thereon And there alone can passion, otherwise Pent up and tight-imprisoned, burst its chains. There only can one quite forget oneself And pass into the measureless great joy Of so forgetting self:I saw one day, Watching some Amateur Theatricals, A lady whom it was delight to watch; Full of that special nerve-force which implies An actress-nature: full of fun and wit And silvery ready laughter; able too To hold and magnetise the hearer's heart. Well, there are thousands such: it cannot be But that in England there are numberless Bright girls who would, on an Ideal Stage, If trained and cultured, more than quite surpass The Terrys and the Bernhardts of the world, Bringing their lady-like and tender power To bear upon the crude unpolished Stage And adding grace and beauty by their touch. It cannot but be so: but now they shrink, Shrink (and no wonder!) from the ordeal set Before them,knowing that, even the ordeal passed, Night after night they'll have to act their part Unchanged, however weary they may be; Night after night, for months and months and months. This kills all genius: this blind selfishness Upon our parts. The public ought to see That delicate genius be not choked like this. O public, if you had seenas I have seen Real fresh glad acting full of grace and charm And life and infinite variety, If you could realise how sweet a thing Is the real pure life-acting of a girl Who acts because she really loves to act And not because she's paid by the night to act, You'd see that there's a difference as great 'Tween real fresh vivid acting and the stale Poor tawdry tinselly stuff we christen so As the eternal difference between The rouged pearl-powdered kiss of harlotry And the moss-rose-like kiss of pure young love. But acting of this sort you'll never see Upon your modern Stage,or see it but By faintest briefest glimpses,and the cause Is plain: if you take up your genius-girls And set them on the stage and treat them like Mere bloodless heartless puppets, soulless dolls, And make them act for several hundred nights Not like live women but like dead machines, Why the result is certain: either you Subtract the genius by this constant strain Or else, the genius being left, the girl Herself succumbs, and 'ill have no more of it. There's not a nervous system that will stand Acting eight times in six successive days (As the great Paris actress just has done) Without deterioration, falling off, Ruin of tissue, lessening of its force And tender sweet suggestive subtlety. Even the greatest actressall her art Taken for grantedwould be distanced quite By the fresh acting of an untired mind, If we had eyes to see what acting is, For acting is enjoyment; and no laugh Not merry itself can make another laugh, And all the ripples of delight must flow Outward and onward from the actor's soul Firstly, before they can impinge upon The spirits of his hearers: and you mar, Yea, mar for ever and most hopelessly, The actor's rich enjoyment of his part (And, worse than all, the actress's of hers) If you set him or her the dreary task Of acting Romeo or Juliet Straight off for say a couple of hundred nights. Actors and actresses should take more change: Should learn from Nature and from movement more: Think more; talk less; and win more pleasure in life. The slaves they are of the gaslights, as it is To-day; the slaves of the ring, or sharp short "ping" That lifts the curtain,and once more they "act". I said just now that "worst of all it is" To mar the actress's delight and bring Fatigue upon her,and the reason's plain. In acting, as in love, the first force flows Straight from the woman,and she paves the way For all that's noble, histrionically. This is the reason why, when poets act, They'll act so well:because they, most of all, Incomparably chief and most of all, Are sensitive to woman's influence. Set your true poet to act, and let him fall In love with the actressthe result you'll get Will be superb: she'll draw him on and on And quite encompass and surround him with Her strange magnetic influence, till he breathes As she breathes, pulses with her very pulse, Becomes a very living part of her, And acts as if he spoke before God's stars Watching, instead of flaring flames of gas, And felt not the chill draught from corridors But the cool sea-wind lifting his hot hair. "Why, this is love!" you'll say: and so it is. But acting, living, loving, all are one: The man who loveth best, will act the best, And he who liveth highest too will reach The highest mountain-plateaus of his art. It needs imagination to become A very part and portion of each scene, And that is why the poets who possess Strong clear imagination most of all Ought most of all to act: they have the power By their creative force to turn the Stage Into the very thing it represents. Is it a lonely common? Then to them It is a lonely common; and they see The dandelions springing 'mid coarse grass And seem almost to inhale the scent of furze Or mark the purple heather blossoming. Is it a mountain-region? Then on them Swiftly arise the white eternal snows And they can see the peaks in the blue air And hear the ringing horns of mountaineers. Is it a garden? Then the roses gleam Fragrant and red and glad before their gaze And through the sunlit noon or moonlit night They see the green trees bend before the breeze And hear the insects murmur in the leaves, Watching the daisies growing on the lawn. Or is the scene a scaffold? Most of all Then their imagination hath avail, And they can see the crowd of sansculottes Seething just like an angry dark-waved sea Around the foot of the scaffold, and can hear The fierce mad Babel of revengeful tongues All clamouring for their swift and violent death. This is imagination: and this shows How far out Mrs. Browning was when she (Quoted above) declared that never high Imagination revelled in the Stage. The truth is just the very opposite: It needs imagination to enjoy The Stage,and though she had the poet's gift (In noble excess, God knows!) yet this one gift, This one theatric special fancy-side, She had not, knew not,else she had never dubbed The drama-loving fancy poor or "low". It needs imagination to create Out of the lifeless bony skeleton Presented on the Stage the fleshy frame, The blood, the nerves, the sinews, and to give To each its proper place, and all their life. And, in this making of the unreal real, You use the audience for galvanic band Or chain,for an electrical machine, Gathering from them their swift magnetic force That you may use it as creative power. The music helps too: whence I think the plan The French pursue of leaving music out Between the Acts an obvious mistake, Though done with a right motive,motive, viz., That all shall be in earnest and the whole Quite independent of accessories. But music helps; the notes vibrate along The nerves and brain and add creative vis (But then it should be music suitable, Not, as too often in our theatres, Lightest dance-music in the intervals Of some grim soul-absorbing tragedy And vice versâ). As I said, you get From the spectators half your nervous force. And that is why, if their attention swerves, Yours swerves as well: you form a corporate whole You all are members of one wide-branched tree, And if one twig shakes, the great branches shake: Such is your indivisibility. And that is why in a French theatre You feel much more at home,because you are En rapport with each other and the whole Audience;they follow with attention fixed (They view late-comers with intense disgust For one thing)and their solid complex force Supports and cheers and lifts and stimulates. You raise your finger, and you sway the whole; Indeed they form your body for the time (This is the triumph and the crown of Art) And you can rule and move the whole of them As if they were your arms and legs and feet And you the guiding brain and heart of all. This is the glory of acting; thus to sway A thousand hearts as if they were but one. Just as a poet reads his lines aloud To some fair girl and holds her quite spell-bound So that she folds her hands at last and sways From side to side with rhythmic movement timed In strict accordance to the waves of verse: And he can seebeing a lover perhaps How all her sweet face flushes at some line, And he laughs inwardly and feels his power. Just so the audience is but one rapt girl Hanging upon the actor's voice and lips If he but hath the power to hold them fast, And he can almost make the women at least (For these are ever the most sensitive And sweetly open to emotion's waves) Sway listening pliant forms from side to side And sob a low accompaniment to him. This is the triumph of Art; and no such height Can any other of the professions reach. Not pleading, no, nor preaching; not in these (Though they be glorious and their scope be large), Encumbered as they are with purpose set, And definite responsibility, Can such a goal of mighty human force Be reached and such a triumph be achieved As on the Stage:where, losing all of self, You pass by loss of self to higher life, And share with God, and with the stars and sun, Impassioned boundless immortality. Moreover all the spirits who came before Unite to lift and buoy the actor up: This most of all on great historic boards. At Drury Lane, at Covent Garden, at The Théatre Français, what strange memories throng The actor's soul and render him sublime! Macready, Siddons, Rachel, Mathews, Kean, Garrick, Desclée, Robson, Peg Woffington, These and a hundred others storm the heart Of a great actor pacing the same boards And fill his eyes with tears, his soul with fire, And mightily inspire and comfort him, So that his thoughts are not his own at all But theirs: there comes a rush of fiery wings, "A sound as of a mighty wind and tongues Cloven:" the spirit of the past descends Upon the worthy actors of to-day, And they now act not only unto us But unto these,that grim stern critic-band Gazing upon them from the Green-Room door, Saying"Outstrip, surpass us if you can". To these (as at the tomb of Charlemagne Don Carlos prays) the earnest actor prays, Lifting up heart and soul and eager hands To these the dead great spirits, and their God. Just asI well rememberwhen I first Entered Queen Mary's Palace, Holyrood (E'en now I almost tremble at the name), There came around me such a rush of wings And all the eyes of such a ghostly crew That I fell back, and wept for very awe. And then along the air Queen Mary came I felt her and I knew that it was she Her quick robes swept around her as she came And touched me, passing,and for half the day Aye, for a week or moreI walked the town And watched the grim grey tall crags in a dream. Just so the garments of the mighty dead Rustle by modern actors; and they bring Strange intuitions, and a sense of awe, And in the end divine ascendency. And this is why I have so often felt That acting is the one most restful thing In all the world: you have the gathered force Of living beings to help you, and the dead As well. When summer sets her flowers upon Green bank and hedgerow, and the airs are sweet, And lovers wander 'neath the moon o' nights, And the warm woodbine scents the window-pane, And star-beams kiss the slowly-rocking sea, Then people say, "In summer what a task It surely must be thus to act and act And act!" And yetI know notbut it seems To me that grander than all ocean-space Lit by a summer moon, and sweeter even Than summer forests filled with smell of ferns, Lordlier than mountains whose high peaks of blue Stare sunward,more august than all these things And more divine and sweeter (and I speak Who know),it is to hold a thousand hearts Like one heart in the hollow of your hand. For, after all, to us poor human souls Humanity is all and everything: And, after yachting over boisterous seas, Or mountain-climbing,or just one small cruise At Whitby or at Brighton,how divine Gleams the first fairy petticoat on shore! Yes: I was speaking to a poet once And envying his high calling ('twas before I learned the true wide bearings of the Stage). "Ah! not for you," I said, "the drudgery Of nightly acting: not for you the toil; The base companionship; the smell of gas; The dust; the tumult; and the slavery To some coarse master of a manager. Your Stage is all wide Nature, and the sea Is your orchestra, and the countless stars Are your footlights; and what you need of praise You win from all the true hearts of the world From living souls, and from posterity: Not from an audience flattered for one night. Not yours the painted trees; the painted girls; The painted horrid canvas waves of seas; The painted staring flowers; the rattle of tin For thunder, and the flashing in the pan Of gunpowder for lightning;most of all Not yours the simulated pale stage-love When fingers curve around a waist but fear To touch, and lips may never dare to close For fear of rubbing off the paint!or else For fear that she the actress will resent (I have known cases) a too amorous kiss And in the Green-Room afterwards exclaim 'That was no stage kiss, most presuming man!' And bring an action 'gainst the luckless fool. "Yours least of all is this. Yours most of all The whole wide world of rosy womanhood (Rosy this time without a touch of paint!) To love and to rejoice in: land on land Wherein to seek the lady of your dreams, While we are chained to the incessant boards. Yours is the living blue sea: yours the clouds Whence the live resonant red levin leaps And the live thunder: yours the pathless crags (Innocent, like your women, of all paint; Perhaps more so): yours the vivid sunset sky And the gold sunrise (when did actor see Sunrise or sunset?): yours the blossoms couched In the green midmost of entangled woods Where scanty sunrays pierce the flexile boughs (What actor ever sees a real green wood Or gets beyond the Green-Room?): yours the air Of summer days, intolerably sweet With odours of a million blossoms mixed. "Your Manager is Nature, and your own Untrammelled spirit that guides and leads you on And the pure universal voice of things." "Yes," said the poet; "but another side There is to this: if I were not a bard I'd choose to be an actor most of all, And choose it with deliberate preference. There are but two professions in the world, Acting and writing: and these two indeed Are in their highest noblest issues one. You act: I write:but were we but combined Nought could withstand our mingled potency! The perfect marriage of the two ideas Is yet to come,we shall not see it yet; But when its consummation-hour is reached There will be a new force within the world. The offspring of this marriage of two arts Will be a Drama and a Poetry Such as the world has neither seen nor dreamed. "I have lived long"so he went on to say "Lived long, done much, seen much,and suffered much; I have seen Paris and I have seen Rome; Revelled in the blue skies of Italy; Walked knee-deep for long sultry happy hours In the bright heather of Scotland and of Wales; Gathered lush hart's-tongue in Devonian lanes; Watched the grey granite boulders cropping up Amid the shining leagues of golden gorse In Cornwall, near Tintagel and the sea; Yes, and I've known the fair delight of love And the strong joy of passion,many times, I've seen the women whom you style so fresh And pure and paintless (there I have my doubts!) Seen them in England, Berlin, Italy; Admired a thousand, and made love to some; But still for all that I would give the half Of my life, full and vivid though it has been, For just one month of fullest freest fling And unchained measureless passion on the Stage. "For, look you, take in parts and analyse The real true essence of a poet's life: Lift it and separate it in your hand As one divides the petals of a flower: Consider what it really means and is: Think of the long sad hours of loneliness, Of voiceless suffering, which the Stage would cure (Or, if it would not, nothing will but death) What is the wandering over dreary hills Or up the sandy ferny Sussex lanes Or over wolds where the far heather gleams, What is it to be one with butterflies And placid anglers and dull silvery brooks And rush and sedges, and the twinkling wren, And stags in Richmond Park with liquid eyes And boats that climb the ridgy crests of seas And all those sunsets that you speak about (Sunrise I do not mention: poets know As little of sunrise as an actor perhaps!) What is it to be one with all these things, Dull, dreary, mute, inanimate, most of them, Compared to being onefor but one night With the blood-pulses of one's fellow-men And of one's fellow-women,lifting these By the majestic force within one's soul, And thus, by seizing and absorbing theirs, Expanding so one's personality That at the last it does in truth become The mingling of our manhood with a God? "Yea, most of all the greatest poet-souls Have ever yearned for action. Never yet Was there a greater poet-soul than she Who wrought her work in prose and not in song, Wonderful Charlotte Brontë: and she felt Within herself the spirit of acting, fierce And clamorous and aggressive oftentimes Read of the 'acting' in Villette, and see. "This, like so many poets, she retained Unused, scarce conscious of it to herself Save when at seasons underneath the stars Or watching miles of purple heather wave At Haworth, or the great sea-meadows wave, She felt within herself a power unknown That could be used, but might not upon earth: The power of drawing all men unto her, As in that Brussels drawing-room some she drew, Not by mere written words,but, greater far And sweeter, by the actual glance of eye And actual swift inflections of her voice And actual rhythm of her neck and hand." "Well," said Ithinking so to comfort him For he had grown impassioned, and his eyes All full of fire and half afloat with tears Showed that his fervent yearning rankled deep; "Well," said I, "perhaps, like Charlotte Brontë, you Will do your acting in another world And on a better Stage"but he flamed out: "Nonsense! a hopeless sapless sort of hope! The very vaguest dream of all things vague! What, join the angels with their golden wings And golden lyres, and act a play with them! Cast Moses for Hernani, and St. Paul For Macbeth, and St. Peter and St. James For Romeo and Orlando, and some grim Stiff strait-laced angel-woman for Rosalind! Ezekiel for a bandit; Gabriel For the persistent 'villain of the piece,' And the slim seraphs for your ballet-girls! No, that won't do. No, I would rather be (Thank you) in gas-lit dingy Drury Lane Carrying a banner, or high-horsed upon Some glittering tinsel pantomimic car At Covent Garden, than thus mixed with these Unhistrionic seraphs up on high! "That always is the way"so he went on "The longed-for things we cannot compass here, In the next world we shall be sure to have We say,and win some comfort from the thought. No: give me no vague next world; give me this To act and love and write in; give me thorns It that's the only way to win a rose, And rough fierce breezes if they be the breath Of the blue wholesome everlasting sea!" Designing then to turn his mind away From the sad thoughts that held him for a time, I said, "What think you of the present age, Its art, its sculpture, and its poetry?" "Its sculpture?" he repeated scornfully: "It has no sculpture. Having lost the eye For form, what noble sculpture can it have? Look at your public buildings; worst of all Your public statues,those damned sooty things That shame the summer in your dusty squares, Standing erect, each with its inky scroll Of parchment tightly held in outstretched hand; Each with its wrinkled stony trousers; each With stony black frock-coat, and stony boots, And stony waistcoat (full), and stony gaze! Good God! the sense of form is wholly lost, Wholly, I say; or how could men endure To see true form blasphemed on every side? "A woman's body is the divinest thing God ever made: but boots and narrow stays And heavy cumbrous clothes have changed it quite. No woman walks:they crawl and limp along, Fashion's devoted and most helpless slaves. Can any woman dance upon your Stage? I trow, not any. Oh, if Greeks were here, How would they hide their horror-stricken eyes At such unheard-of travesties of form! Just in some two or three'tis hardly more Studios the true tradition lingers yet; But that is not the chief point; for no race Has ever yet produced true poets of form Save when the forms around wrought through the eye Upon the heart, and stamped themselves therein. "Now, looking round them, what do sculptors see? Indeed, it seems a mockery to ask. All that they see must dim their sense of form, Or else create a wrong sense (this it does Too often): never was there city yet With such divine potentialities Within it both of matter, and of flesh And soul, as London,which at the same time So heedlessly threw all these gifts away, Clothed in its own perennial hideousness. "Black, black, and grey; and black again, and grey, And grey and blacksuch are the colours mixed Upon our London palette:Notice how The mere coarse green or red or dirty blue Head-shawl or apron of an organ-girl Lights up the street, and take your hint from that Of how the city might be lighted up By seemly dress, artistically worn. "As to the æsthetes, and the 'cultured' dames, The china-worshippers,the idle girls Who, when they might be mending socks at home, Try hands at mending modern Art instead Form 'mutual admiration' cliques, and think That true great poets' fame can be enhanced By gossipping small-talk societies" "Well, as to these?""Well, as to all of these, May God deliver us from all of these. The God of simplest plainest common sense! "'Twas but the other day they had a show Somewhere in the West End; a wondrous show. What had they, think you? Garibaldi's shirt Much torn and tattered,and a broken tooth Of his ('decayed: a molar: stopped with gold': So said the label fixed with infinite care By some fair female æsthete's loving hands) And then another tooth(and this one 'stopped With best "amalgam"'; so the label said) And then a rag: this had been round his foot When he was wounded, and his sacred blood (Too sacred for this fatuous sort of thing!) Was sprent upon it:this immortal rag (It looked just like a pocket-handkerchief With which some schoolboy's nose had been concerned) Was closed in carefully by silken doors, And only one might see it at a time! "Well," said the poet, "all this sort of thing Is rankest folly; and, at the same time, We have for critics such a virtuous crew That when the mighty German brings the old tale Of Tristram and of Iseult,old as the hills! And with his priceless music girds it round, We are straightway told, 'His opera is wrong: All Wagner's work is sensual: Tristram,fie! Fell madly in love with his own uncle's wife!' "With critics so supremely virtuous, And women the reverse of virtuous (Too many), we are likely soon to see Strange things; and perhaps may even live to see, Some of us, the beginning of the end Of England's ocean-wide supremacy. "For nations, like ourselves, must have their day; Be born and wax and reach their destined height, Then pass their zenith, their fair golden noon. Grow old, decay, and perish. Will the sight (Not seen before) of the best cricket team We know, completely beaten by the young Australian gang of nameless vigorous men, Be ever repeated on a wider field? "And will they ever beat us not alone In cricket, but in greater weightier things? In Science, Culture, Sculpture, Music, Art, The Drama, Painting? Will those nobler ends Which you yourself opine the Stage will reach Be reached not in our London, but in some Chicago or some Sydney of the West? I think it may be so. I think that match When at the Oval our best English team Was beaten,aye, and very shamefully, I deem that match historic: for it shows That there are men as keen of eye and hand, As tough of sinew and as bold of heart, As steady and persevering, and as strong In all the points that make a winning game, As any of our vaunted English race, Our Graces and our Hornbys, after all! This great match was historic then, I say. For what these men with might of muscle and hand Did, their descendants may most surely do With the superber might of brain and heart! Why not? The green Australian glades may see Their Miltons and their nascent Shakespeares yet: Their dawning Cleopatras who may win One day the passionate homage of a world: Their Newtons and their Bacons who may push The realm of Science o'er a wider sphere: Yes, and their actors who may quite surpass The highest we have seen or hope to see. "For just consider what a worn-out thing Is English civilisation after all! What men, what women, meet us here in town Or in the country; men all cut and dried, And women on a certain model shaped (The dressmaker's; as bad a model as they Can get by trying!)all divisible Into some obvious classes two or three, With nought original outside these bounds. "There are the men of scienceTyndall's set A lively pleasant joyous sort of set Men whose chief glory it would be to kill The living universe (if but they could!) And then dissect it. Men who'd take the stars, The eyes of heaven, from heaven to analyse, And, having cast their petty sounding lines Across the blue infinity up there, Would come and tell us that there is no God Because, forsooth, God took no heed of them! "And then there are the clergy:some engaged In a strange warfare about copes and albs And chasubles and many mystic things That the lay heart quite fails to understand: And some crying out,'The world is on its way To swift perdition; every soul is damned By nature. If you would escape the fires, Believe ... believe ... believe.' ... Believe in what? In Mr. Tomkins, or in Mr. Smith, Or Mr. Noddy: yes, it comes to that. And then there is the Broad Church lusty school, The school of Canon Kingsley (greater man Than they); the tribe of stalwart priests with big Biceps and sunburnt cheeks and freckled hands; The men who'd save the world by making it 'Believe' in cricket and athletic sports; The men who rush away in intervals Of their hard toil (yes: they work very hard) To climb the Alps, or take a scamper through The far-stretched lonely desert of Sinai. Or else they take a tourist ticket: run And snatch a glimpse of Rome: then home they come, Prepare some 'sermons for the people,'give Their shallow impressions to a shallow crowd, A congregation at their beck and call. "And then the women; we must not forget The women in thus summing up the age! The women: oh, the women! You will find That, like the men, they are divided too. For some preach faith, and some are atheists, And some are antivivisectionists; And some are ardent vivisectionists (I used to wonder at this: but I have lived Two years in London now, and so of course By this I never wonder at anything): And some are good and ugly: some are bad And handsome,some are good and handsome too: And some assist in getting up, to help The poor, Art-Exhibitions at the East End, And label all the pictures daintily, As this'A breezy day at sea. A good Picture to look at on an August day In Whitechapel' (a carper might remark The show was held at Easter). Then again They send Art-needlework, which all must know Is very grateful for poor starving folk To gaze on,fills their bellies through their brain, And gives them useful patterns for the socks And shirts and waistcoats of their men at home. "Oh, if our ladies,if they only knew The worth of their own womanhood! If they Would use their splendid birthright; mix their souls With the sea-wind that lifts their golden hair, And blend their being with our stars and waves! If they would see that nobler work is theirs Than just to copy Paris fashions,strive Each day to pinch within a smaller shoe A still more shapeless hoof! If they would rise To the full stature of their destiny! But now they follow along the easy path Of hollow false Conventionality, And, if one steps aside, it is to seek Some alien strange æsthetic edifice, Or pseudo-scientific edifice, Or ritualistic gaudy temple perhaps: Never to seek for Nature; never that. "And then there are the country Rectors: men Who spend their days in planning harvest-homes, And smoking pipes, and taking country walks. Most worthy men: yet what can these men know Of all the strife and stress of modern thought That roars its way along the streets of towns And lifts our spirits upon its tidal waves? They marry and bestow in marriage: these. God and the angels when they find in towns No Churches left, but all these given away To modern scientific lecturers And Comtists, and to Health Societies, Will surely have to beat a swift retreat To Surrey or to Yorkshire; finding there Still a surviving island-Church or two Stemming the flood of infidelity! "And then the Spiritualists: a wondrous flock Of gaping, credulous, but earnest men, Who see strange visions, and bring Shakespeare back And Milton, to declaim and rant and spout And utter frothy nonsense by the yard Or write it (if so, damnably misspelt!) In dusty airless rooms in Bloomsbury. Wonderful creatures, these! You pay your fee And take your choice. 'Will you have Moses up, Or Peter, or perhaps Aaron?Moses? Good.' And in a twinkling, with a long grey beard ('Of course it's Moses. Look at the grey beard!' So some believing dear old lady says), Moses appears, and he lays down the law Not on ten tablets, but with fingers ten That rap upon the table in the dark. Or, if you'd rather see a female ghost Many would rather see a female ghost, There is less danger: for the strong male ghosts Can sometimes rap your knuckles very hard! If you would rather see a lady ghost, You've but to say: there are so many ghosts Waiting; kept waiting just outside these rooms Always. They stand in rows like Hansom cabs Outside the doors, until the medium calls And, at their proper moment, they appear. Proper, or half improper: for they come Sometimes just covered with a scanty shawl Or bit of lacethe mere ghost of a dress As if they'd fled, and fled precipitately, From sitting as nude models up in heaven, Or elsewhere, to angelic sculptors.Well, You pay your money, and you name your ghost: Queen Mary, Cleopatra,any one: The odds are that that very ghost will come And,if you're nice and show your interest, That very ghost will answer queries all And, ere she melteth, kiss you on the cheek. Now if that is not cheap for such a show The real great Scottish Mary,only think! The very Cleopatra tawny-skinned (The ghost was tawny-skinned; or dirty-skinned) The very Cleopatra who o'erthrew The whole world for the pleasure of her kiss. Natures change fast in heaven. Some lose pride, And some lose sense; and some forget the parts Of speech, and mix their grammar woefully! But all their natures change,else how should she, The proud sweet Queen of Egypt, hurry down At the coarse bidding of this medium To kiss a casual clerk in Bloomsbury! Well, as I said, I think that such a show Is cheap, dirt-cheap (no dwelling on the word!) It is so pleasant just to pay your bob And thus to be allowed to summon up The Queen of Sheba, or an 'Indian girl' There are such lots of ghostly 'Indian girls'! While 'Gather at the River' 's slowly sung, Sung out of tune (it must be out of tune; Or else the ghosts would recognise it not). "And then they tell you such delightful things About yourself; things that convince you quite (Unless you're the most sceptical of men, A Donkin or a Lankester indeed!) Things that convince you fully once for all That you are dealing not with flesh and blood But with real disembodied entities! "They'll tell you, just for instance, that one day Ten summers since you pulled a grey hair out At half-past eight in the morning. While you look Aghast, and struggle to fling memory back And realise this most important deed, The circle grows impatient: and at last The former faithful dear old lady says, 'Depend upon it, Sir, the spirit is right: They always are'. At which you quite subside. "Enough of spirits. The æsthetic band Of pseudo-poets claims attention next: The men whose souls are so intensely wrought That they can watch a lily all the day Open, and watch it folded all the night, And never tire nor hunger,no, nor thirst, Feeding their souls on sweetness and on dreams. These are great men: and they inspire the age Greatly. They teach it that of nothing worth Are virtue, heroism, love of man, Courage and self-denial, purity, Compared to just the curving of a neck, Or arch of eyebrow, or the tender tints Upon the crispèd petals of a rose. They live not on the vulgar bread and cheese, Beefsteak and chops, of ordinary men: They live on blossoms, and they feed their souls On sunsets, and they follow along the shore The dimpled marks of Aphrodite's feet With long hair streaming in the laughing wind! "And they have women-worshippers who throng Their churchesthe æsthetic lecture rooms And who to carry out their precepts, dress In clothes of many colours: peacock green And terra-cotta red, and many shades Of subtle sweet intense alluring brown. These are grand women: giant intellects: Great followers of the great apostles: fit Seductive sage-green social missionaries To spread the æsthetic gospel through the world. If they were beautiful or really knew Deep things of Art, they would not preach so well. Not for the first time the best preachers are The shallowest and most ignorant of all." "Well, you should go upon the Stage," I said (I thought by this time he had stormed enough), "And work your spleen off. Perhaps before you die You'll hold the listening people spell-bound yet, And add the laurels of dramatic fame To your undying green poetic bays." The mere thought flushed him. What strange sensitive Half-morbid curious minds these poets have! "Nor," I went on, "do I entirely hold Your view (I hold it partly); for I think That, though the æsthetic movement has its fill Of folly and of arrant childishness, It has its wholesome healthy side as well. The ladies who assist at Whitechapel For instance, do this just because they feel The insufficiency of common life. They do it to escape themselves; as you Would seek forgetfulness upon the Stage. They do it just becauseto quote from you 'To feel the sea-wind mingling with their hair And to blend beings with the stars and sea' Is sweet (I doubt it not), but rather vague For English active energetic girls To find support in: and in the same way They've taken up this strange æsthetic craze That you're so hard on, just to give themselves Something outside themselves to dwell upon; Just to give outness to their inward thought. Even a flimsy dubious form of Art Is better perhaps than quite no Art at all, And they may climb by these æsthetic steps To higher places whence may burst upon Their startled vision Nature's very self. "And then again there never was a time (Though we've no noble sculpture, I admit) When landscape-painting reached a grander height Or landscape-vision marked so many things. Go to the Royal Academy: then go on To the French Salon: you will note two things. First you will note,and sorrow as you note, How far diviner, and more subtle far, Is the French average eye for human form. This finer eye undoubtedly they have, In spite of all their nude extravagances (Wrought through a love of form and deep desire To win the glory of new modes of form And ever newer modes, which we in our Form-disregarding folly never quite Appreciate or fully understand). But, secondly, you cannot fail to note How though the glory of form is hidden as yet From usyes, even of pure Grecian form, A thing apart from French fantastic form Still, all the glory of Nature and the sea Is ours: the splendour of the sunsets' fire, The golden long shores, and the rustling reeds And steel-blue mountain-tarns and heathery slopes And ferny deep dim fairy-haunted woods: These, perfectly, our painters reproduce. "And then what women there are! in spite of 'form' Decried and mocked at and misunderstood. 'Our civilisation is a worn-out thing' You say: but can it be a worn-out thing When 'spite of boots and stays and Fashion's laws Such women every moment may be met, Their feet deformed and shapeless certainly, But otherwise unspeakably divine. I saw one in Bond Street the other day, A woman to go mad about,if I Were a susceptible quick bard, like you! She leant back in her carriage (I admit I did not see the shapeless pointed feet Which tapped the carriage-rug below no doubt) She leant back; and I marked the shapely head So full of breeding,small, and nobly set Upon the firm white pillar of a neck; An olive-clear complexion: clear brown eyes: Lips curved, and somewhat haughtily: the hair Just of that very loveliest of all shades (To me)the deep brown verging into black, But not quite black; 'black-brown' you poets call, If I remember right, the lovely tint: And, with consummate and delightful taste, The bonnet poised upon her dainty head (A steely glittering spangled kind of thing) Had in its centre a broad velvet band Of black, jet-black,the harmonious complement Of colour to the brown-black of the hair. A very lovely woman she was indeed: A woman of the brunette darker type. And then I met another; a fair girl More of the pink-cheeked average English type, Less lovely and less striking, much, to me. But perhaps she would have been to many eyes More pleasing; she was in a carriage too And she was in Bond Street: she had light-brown hair And bright grey eyes and girlish happy smile. "Well, there are just as many as you like To look for of these fair-cheeked handsome girls In London and in England; and there are (No, not so many) but a goodly crowd Of the dark-eyed black-brown-haired sweet brunettes Besides:and so I say that England still Has hope (in spite of the lost cricket-match!), Since still her women are so very fair, And full of grace as ever in the old days. Yes: when the Irish steamer darts across The weltering Channel, think you that it brings Not often and often Irish girls across (Still with the immemorial Irish eyes Of keen clear grey, and 'black-blue Irish hair') As fair as Iseult when with Tristram she Crossed that same Channel, and the blue waves laughed To see their lips cling so inseparably After the love-draught from the golden cup? "So much for bodily grace. But when you come To mental quality, there I own you have A case: and that reminds me I have here A letter shown me some few days ago Written by a lady in London to amuse Her sister in the country:she describes (Particularly well, as you will see) Her visit to some London Theatres. I'll read the letter. This is how it begins: "'My very dear old Charlotte, I received Your letter gladly, and I hasten now To send the promised answer long-deferred. I hope so that you're well, and that the "Chicks" Are well: kiss Tottie will you, dear, for me, And please tell Willie that I've got a box Of wonderful tin soldiers,quite alive They look, each man of them!which he shall have (If only he's good!) as soon as I return. And, Charlotte, did I leave that Spanish fan (With the green-petticoated girl; you know The one I mean?) upon the mantel-piece? I somehow fancy that I left it there, At least I have not got it: kindly look. And then I want some flowers to wear at night; I think that if you would explain this, dear, To Steel the gardener, he might manage perhaps To cut some every morning the first thing And send them (nicely packed in cotton-wool: Be sure you don't forget the cotton-wool!) To London for me by the early train. I'm sorry to be such a bother, dear, I'm really sorry; but you see that girl, That horrid Hunter girl, wore flowers last night, Real flowers (they made her fat cheeks look so pale!) And so I'd better get some, had I not? Oh, by the bye, that just puts me in mind They say that Mr. Verger's teeth are false! You'd never think so, would you? Mrs. Crewe Was talking quite by chance the other night To thin Miss Brown (she is a skeleton!) And she, Miss Brownso curious it is! Knows several people who know the Fergussons, And at the Fergussons' the other day A Mr. O'Tolmach (such a pretty name! Whenever anybody's name begins With O', I think of claymores and of kilts! Send me that kilting, do. I want it so. I've asked you for it in every letter yet!) Where was I?Mr. O'Tolmach knows a man Who goes to Mr. Verger's dentist: so You see it must be true he has no teeth. "'But now you'll want to know about the play. Yes, we have been to the Theatre several times, And thoroughly enjoyed it. Do you know How very low the dresses are this year, Low-necked I mean? Of course one has to be Quite in the fashion: but one catches cold. "'We went to the Lyceum, Tuesday night. The scenery was most magnificent; So were the dresses: and oh, Charlotte dear, There was a lady sitting in the stalls So fat she filled them both"the fatted calf Installed" rude Charlie (you know Charlie Bruce) Kept calling her: he made me laugh quite loud And all the people looked: he is great fun. He dressed up like a gipsy the other day And came round begging with a real guitar And made us give him pennies: 'twas at that Delightful Fancy Fair at Bedford Park, When, you remember (did I tell you, dear? Oh this is my first letter: so it is) That Mr. Barnes the great tall clumsy man Dressed as a bearded woman: it wasn't nice. "'And now I think I've written you a long And interesting letter, have I not? Please send the letter on to Cousin Anne, Will you? She wanted so to know about The acting. Oh, by the bye, there's one thing more, The French PlaysI thought Sarah Bernhardt poor And disappointing: women mostly do: They're better judges of acting than the men. And now I'll say Good-bye. Best love to you, And to Papa,and kiss the kitten for me, Will you? (I do wish we could dress it up Like Charlie Bruce, and give it a guitar, And have it photographed, and send him one, One of the photographs,d'you think we could? It would be such real rich delightful fun!) "'Well now, Good-bye again. I'm going out First in the Park and then to make a call. Think of me at the Theatre to-night. Your very very loving sister, Jane. "'P.S. Be sure you find the Spanish fan And have the roses wrapped in cotton-wool. And, if you find the fan, you might send too That other fan,I think t'would be of use, The one I've had so longthe ivory one; I think I left it somewhere in my room.'" "Well, do you know," the poet smiling said, "I have a letter in my pocket too, In fact I have a couple,and the first Is from a lady devotee of Art (I'm the recipient of some hundreds such). I will not read it all: don't be afraid. This is a passage from the middle of it. She's at the sea-side; and she writes like this: 'The red sea-weed is most adorable, And there are mollusks with resplendent shells Dyed in the fiery sunsets: do you know, I think that you could write great sonnets here, Far greater than the foggy dreary town Will ever inspire you with. I saw to-day A fisher-maiden coming back from shrimps' (From catching shrimps, she means. Her style is terse) 'With such a face and brow! She might have sat To Raphael for Madonna. On her back She bore the pink pellucid crispy shrimps Encradled. How they twisted, these, and leapt And fought just like a herd of struggling snakes, Small wriggling boa-constrictors of the sea' Enough. You see the style. And, after this, It gets more confidential: 'twould be wrong If I made public all her wondrous heights Of aspiration and ideal dreams. Only I would remarka mere remark En passant; nothing of much consequence; That shrimps are brown, not 'pink,'until they're boiled, "And then I have a letter,wonderful And dim and great and learned and obscure (To all save only the writer, but to her Translucid doubtless; let us trust it is!) It is from a female Spencerian (You know the species?)listen; thus it runs. "'I've read your letter; but I can't agree. Why, there is not the slightest evidence In all creation of a conscious God! Not God created man: nay, man made God In his own image surely: from the first Adding to Godhead every attribute That he himself deemed noble and of worth. You ask me "am I satisfied?" oh yes. I am content: yes more than that, I am Triumphant at the thought that we shall pass Like summer flowers and leave no trace behind. Will you read Herbert Spencer? Never man Yet thought as he thought, or expressed himself As this vast genius has expressed himself, Bringing the Cosmos into concrete form. The man's a god: he is not merely man. For, taking up the rough chaotic world Dispersed as it were in floating nebulæ He has condensed and focussed and arranged The wandering atoms in a perfect whole, And given the world a priceless final gift, His new Synthetic grand Philosophy. When man has slowly learnt to do without That old immoral figment of a God (The certain cause of every kind of crime) When he at last has learnt to stand alone Without the aid of priests and churches, then The earth will garb her for her wedding-day And all the rocks and hills and streams will sing. It is this tiresome fiction of a God To which men cling incomprehensibly Which, acting like a brake upon the wheels Of progress, makes us move so slowly along The glittering far-stretched iron rails of Time. Once fairly cast it off, and we shall rise Into a larger and more liberal air, And be our own gods; praying not to God But to the silent god within ourselves, And worshipping the holy eternal Soul Revealed continuously within the race' So on, and so on." "Well," I said, "this makes One reason why you yearn for acting, plain. It would be, certainly, a vast relief After high abstract arguing such as this To turn one's sleeves up, turn one's trousers up, And turn one's nose up, and perform a part In some rich modern realistic play, If only the part of some poor stable-man Who by the light of a lantern overhears The villain plotting, and frustrates him quite." And then he left me: and that brings me back To my own proper subject, viz., the Stage. Directly or indirectly, now, I think I've mooted most of my own theories. Now I must go and dress. I have to-night To play Othello: 'tis my benefit. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 1. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 2. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL ELEGY IN A THEATRICAL WAREHOUSE by KENNETH FEARING LOGIC AND 'THE MAGIC FLUTE' (IMPRESSIONS OF A PREMIERE) by MARIANNE MOORE DEPRESSION DAYS (2) by PAT MORA BOY AND MOM AT THE NUTCRACKER BALLET by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE EYES LIKE LEEKS by LINDA GREGERSON A GIFT OF SPRING by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |
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