DOI Heft:
December 3, 1864
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16874#0232
226
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[December 3, 1864.
MR. PUNCH’S HANDY-BOOK OF THE STAGE.
CHAPTER I.—DIRECTIONS TO ACTORS.
he Handy - book will
deal first with the
Actors, not only be-
cause they are the
objects of most public
interest in a theatre,
but because they are
the real foundation-
stones of the theatrical
edifice.
“THE ACTORS MAKE
THE THEATRE.”
Let this fundamental
principle be deeply im-
pressed on the mind of
every one who [.follows
that noble profession,
which can boast the
names of a Shak-
speare, a BenJonson,
and a Garrick. It
will encourage self-re-
spect, which the linger-
ing influence of a
wretched social preju-
dice might otherwise
impair in the Actor,
and teach him a lesson
he needs above all men—to set a proper value on himself. Besides, a con-
viction of this truth is, in a great measure, the secret of the Actor’s public
importance—the key-stone of his position. We may be told that the
Manager and Author are just as essential to the fortunes of a theatre as
the Actors. But where would the Manager or Author be without the
performers ? The one has merely to settle the plans of his theatrical
campaign, to find pieces and capital, to pay his company, to hear their
oomplaints, arrange their little difficulties, protect their interests, and
find them proper opportunities for the display of their abilities. Any-
body can make a Manager. Don’t we see, every day, men who have
failed in every other calling, taking up this, and doing just as well in it,
apparently, as those who have been at it all their lives ? In comparison
with the Actor’s the Manager’s work is child’s play. And besides
being easy, it is mole-like, dull, obscure, and mechanical. You can no
more put the two on the same parallel than you can level distinctions
between the crawling grub or torpid chrysalis and the brilliant butterfly.
As for putting the Author before the Actor, you might as well say the
tailor was greater than the man who wears clothes. The Author is the
poor drudge who laboriously fashions the pale outer husk and dead case
of the part, which it is the Actor’s business to endow with life, colour,
and motion. He is the true creator, who breathes over the dry bones
of the play-wright, and bids them put on flesh, and rise and walk. That
this is the right estimate of the two callings, is shown by their relative
position and remuneration. Compare the social position of the Actor—-
courted, feted, caressed, the darling of the public—with that of the
Author, an obscure drudge, too often shy, shabby, altogether the sort
of person to fight shy of rather than fete or ask to dinner. Put the
rewards of the successful Play-actor by those of the successful Play-
writer. The one shall be receiving his £50 a night, perhaps,
for his performance in a play the Author of which thinks himself
well paid by a fiftieth part of that sum. Look at the Author—even
the successful Author—before the Manager. What do we see ? A
poor creature, submissive, if not abject, thankful for an audience,
grateful for a payment on account, submitting to snubs and sneers,
glad to clip, and carve, and remodel his work at his customers’
dictation—too thankful to have if tried upon any terms, and the bill
paid. Then see the Actor in the Manager’s room, dictating the terms
of an engagement—throwing up apart, or exacting satisfaction for a
grievance or failure of proper respect. You find in him a man animated
by a becoming sense of his importance to the theatre, dealing with his
Manager rather as a superior than an equal, imposing his own terms,
buoyant, and self-confident with that noble assurance which springs
from the proud sense of power, and the invigorating consciousness of
universal recognition.
. As, then, the Actor is the back-bone of the theatre—the working
pivot of the whole stage machinery—it is with the Actor that our
Handy-book first deals.
But the reading and rehearsal of a Play must precede the acting of it,
and in both the Actor has some concern.
A few rules, therefore, for his guidance on these occasions, may pro -
perly precede our hints for his conduct on the Stage
AT THE READING OP A PLAY
Do not trouble yourself to be punctual to a few minutes—if your posi-
tion in the theatre renders you safe from a fine. Nothing is so foreign
to the spirit of an essentially artistic calling as a mechanical, business-
like exactitude. Time was made for slaves—such as clerks, men-of-
business, lawyers, tradesmen, and railway guards—not for the volun-
teers enlisted in the delightful service of the Arts.
Besides, a little waiting will give_ tJie Author time to collect himself-
If he know his place, he will feel timid and nervous, as inferiors must
be expected to feel in the presence of their betters : if he do not know
his place, it will be wholesome to teach him; and for this purpose-
nothing is better than to let him kick his heels for a little time on a.
cold stage, or in an empty green-room.
Be careful in your demeanour, and in any remarks you may address
to the Author—I do not object to your speaking to him, though I must
caution you against any undue familiarity, which is pretty sure to be-
presumed upon—to show that you thoroughly understand his position
and your own. Do not let him for a moment forget that he is convers-
ing with a superior.
When summoned to the reading, do not take your seat hurriedly,
and never submit to any discomfort, such as a place near the door or
the fire, or a possible exposure to draught. To do so, shows a dispo-
sition to put up with slight and disrespect, which is fatal in a theatre.
Always take the best place, and then find fault with it. This will show
you are not a person to be put upon, and will prepare the Author for
that critical severity in your judgment of his piece which is the kindest
service you can render him.
If a lady, you will, of course, take the opportunity of the Author’s-
opening his manuscript, to recognise your particular friends in the com-
pany, exchange the civilities of the morning—which should never be-
omitted in a theatre, where good-breeding ought, ever to find a home—
and any remarks which may be naturally suggested by last night’s per-
formance, the play-bills of The day, or the morning papers. These little
neighbourly attentions cannot be so well paid later in the reading, and
they will help to put the Author at his ease, and show him he is among
friends who make no ceremony with him.
Be careful how you choose your place. Always command a mirror,
and avoid a strong light. You will thus be able to observe the play of
emotion on your own features during the reading—the most improving
study for the Actor—and you will avoid exposing your complexion. to-
that disagreeable observation, from which even the cordial good-feeling
and mutual forbearance generally to be found among members of the
same company will not always preserve you.
I need hardly caution you against feeling—much more showing—an
interest in the scenes as the reading proceeds. Interest is the most
uncritical of all possible moods of mind, and as completely unfits you-
for clear judgment, as a keen appetite for the appreciation of refined
cookery. If you feel an interest growing up, in spite of your better
judgment, struggle against it. Think of something else. Blow. your
nose noisily. Shift your position. Whisper to a neighbour. Rise to-
shut or open the window ... or pretend to fall into a dose, and wake
suddenly, with an exclamation. You will thus break the chain
not only of your own ideas, but of your companions’, and, pro-
bably, the Author’s, and recall him to the region of hard fact, from
which he may be beginning to stray under the united operation of his
self-conceit and the mischievous excitement of reading.
One useful rule for destroying any interest the piece may be awaken-
ing is not to listen to any part but your own. The unerring instinct of
the artist will, of course, soon guide you to the character intended for
yourself. Follow that closely and critically, and see that, in justice to
himself, as well as to you, the Author does not trifle with it
1 Remember that golden rule of your art—to think that the success or
the piece rests entirely on your shoulders. In this way, only, can
thorough devotion to your part be secured. Any attention to the other
parts will naturally weaken your interest in your own, and so diminish
your contribution to the effect of the piece.
If every Actor follow this rule, the result will, of course, be, that all
the parts will be strengthened, and the effect of the ensemble raised in
proportion. . -up
But even if your part should leave nothing to be desired, yon wiil_, of
course, be careful not to let the Author see that you thiuk so. Besides
the general impolicy of encouraging a class at all times. too ready to
presume, it is clearly against your interest ever to be satisfied, as you
may thus bar the way against future requirements. The best part is
likely to have its weak points. Carried away by the general effect, you
may at first overlook these. But be cautious how you yield to your
first impression. Never commit yourself to strong approbation.
Shrug your shoulders; grumble inaudibly; tell the Author you have-
failed to discover the part meant for you; and when he tells you, smile,,
and appear surprised, and say that somehow you do not see yourselt in it.
You will thus prepare the Author’s mind for any demands you may
afterwards ffiid it your duty to make upon him for the enrichment or
strengthening of your part; or in the improbable event of your re-
maining satisfied with it as written, his mind will be more relieved than
if you had never grumbled.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[December 3, 1864.
MR. PUNCH’S HANDY-BOOK OF THE STAGE.
CHAPTER I.—DIRECTIONS TO ACTORS.
he Handy - book will
deal first with the
Actors, not only be-
cause they are the
objects of most public
interest in a theatre,
but because they are
the real foundation-
stones of the theatrical
edifice.
“THE ACTORS MAKE
THE THEATRE.”
Let this fundamental
principle be deeply im-
pressed on the mind of
every one who [.follows
that noble profession,
which can boast the
names of a Shak-
speare, a BenJonson,
and a Garrick. It
will encourage self-re-
spect, which the linger-
ing influence of a
wretched social preju-
dice might otherwise
impair in the Actor,
and teach him a lesson
he needs above all men—to set a proper value on himself. Besides, a con-
viction of this truth is, in a great measure, the secret of the Actor’s public
importance—the key-stone of his position. We may be told that the
Manager and Author are just as essential to the fortunes of a theatre as
the Actors. But where would the Manager or Author be without the
performers ? The one has merely to settle the plans of his theatrical
campaign, to find pieces and capital, to pay his company, to hear their
oomplaints, arrange their little difficulties, protect their interests, and
find them proper opportunities for the display of their abilities. Any-
body can make a Manager. Don’t we see, every day, men who have
failed in every other calling, taking up this, and doing just as well in it,
apparently, as those who have been at it all their lives ? In comparison
with the Actor’s the Manager’s work is child’s play. And besides
being easy, it is mole-like, dull, obscure, and mechanical. You can no
more put the two on the same parallel than you can level distinctions
between the crawling grub or torpid chrysalis and the brilliant butterfly.
As for putting the Author before the Actor, you might as well say the
tailor was greater than the man who wears clothes. The Author is the
poor drudge who laboriously fashions the pale outer husk and dead case
of the part, which it is the Actor’s business to endow with life, colour,
and motion. He is the true creator, who breathes over the dry bones
of the play-wright, and bids them put on flesh, and rise and walk. That
this is the right estimate of the two callings, is shown by their relative
position and remuneration. Compare the social position of the Actor—-
courted, feted, caressed, the darling of the public—with that of the
Author, an obscure drudge, too often shy, shabby, altogether the sort
of person to fight shy of rather than fete or ask to dinner. Put the
rewards of the successful Play-actor by those of the successful Play-
writer. The one shall be receiving his £50 a night, perhaps,
for his performance in a play the Author of which thinks himself
well paid by a fiftieth part of that sum. Look at the Author—even
the successful Author—before the Manager. What do we see ? A
poor creature, submissive, if not abject, thankful for an audience,
grateful for a payment on account, submitting to snubs and sneers,
glad to clip, and carve, and remodel his work at his customers’
dictation—too thankful to have if tried upon any terms, and the bill
paid. Then see the Actor in the Manager’s room, dictating the terms
of an engagement—throwing up apart, or exacting satisfaction for a
grievance or failure of proper respect. You find in him a man animated
by a becoming sense of his importance to the theatre, dealing with his
Manager rather as a superior than an equal, imposing his own terms,
buoyant, and self-confident with that noble assurance which springs
from the proud sense of power, and the invigorating consciousness of
universal recognition.
. As, then, the Actor is the back-bone of the theatre—the working
pivot of the whole stage machinery—it is with the Actor that our
Handy-book first deals.
But the reading and rehearsal of a Play must precede the acting of it,
and in both the Actor has some concern.
A few rules, therefore, for his guidance on these occasions, may pro -
perly precede our hints for his conduct on the Stage
AT THE READING OP A PLAY
Do not trouble yourself to be punctual to a few minutes—if your posi-
tion in the theatre renders you safe from a fine. Nothing is so foreign
to the spirit of an essentially artistic calling as a mechanical, business-
like exactitude. Time was made for slaves—such as clerks, men-of-
business, lawyers, tradesmen, and railway guards—not for the volun-
teers enlisted in the delightful service of the Arts.
Besides, a little waiting will give_ tJie Author time to collect himself-
If he know his place, he will feel timid and nervous, as inferiors must
be expected to feel in the presence of their betters : if he do not know
his place, it will be wholesome to teach him; and for this purpose-
nothing is better than to let him kick his heels for a little time on a.
cold stage, or in an empty green-room.
Be careful in your demeanour, and in any remarks you may address
to the Author—I do not object to your speaking to him, though I must
caution you against any undue familiarity, which is pretty sure to be-
presumed upon—to show that you thoroughly understand his position
and your own. Do not let him for a moment forget that he is convers-
ing with a superior.
When summoned to the reading, do not take your seat hurriedly,
and never submit to any discomfort, such as a place near the door or
the fire, or a possible exposure to draught. To do so, shows a dispo-
sition to put up with slight and disrespect, which is fatal in a theatre.
Always take the best place, and then find fault with it. This will show
you are not a person to be put upon, and will prepare the Author for
that critical severity in your judgment of his piece which is the kindest
service you can render him.
If a lady, you will, of course, take the opportunity of the Author’s-
opening his manuscript, to recognise your particular friends in the com-
pany, exchange the civilities of the morning—which should never be-
omitted in a theatre, where good-breeding ought, ever to find a home—
and any remarks which may be naturally suggested by last night’s per-
formance, the play-bills of The day, or the morning papers. These little
neighbourly attentions cannot be so well paid later in the reading, and
they will help to put the Author at his ease, and show him he is among
friends who make no ceremony with him.
Be careful how you choose your place. Always command a mirror,
and avoid a strong light. You will thus be able to observe the play of
emotion on your own features during the reading—the most improving
study for the Actor—and you will avoid exposing your complexion. to-
that disagreeable observation, from which even the cordial good-feeling
and mutual forbearance generally to be found among members of the
same company will not always preserve you.
I need hardly caution you against feeling—much more showing—an
interest in the scenes as the reading proceeds. Interest is the most
uncritical of all possible moods of mind, and as completely unfits you-
for clear judgment, as a keen appetite for the appreciation of refined
cookery. If you feel an interest growing up, in spite of your better
judgment, struggle against it. Think of something else. Blow. your
nose noisily. Shift your position. Whisper to a neighbour. Rise to-
shut or open the window ... or pretend to fall into a dose, and wake
suddenly, with an exclamation. You will thus break the chain
not only of your own ideas, but of your companions’, and, pro-
bably, the Author’s, and recall him to the region of hard fact, from
which he may be beginning to stray under the united operation of his
self-conceit and the mischievous excitement of reading.
One useful rule for destroying any interest the piece may be awaken-
ing is not to listen to any part but your own. The unerring instinct of
the artist will, of course, soon guide you to the character intended for
yourself. Follow that closely and critically, and see that, in justice to
himself, as well as to you, the Author does not trifle with it
1 Remember that golden rule of your art—to think that the success or
the piece rests entirely on your shoulders. In this way, only, can
thorough devotion to your part be secured. Any attention to the other
parts will naturally weaken your interest in your own, and so diminish
your contribution to the effect of the piece.
If every Actor follow this rule, the result will, of course, be, that all
the parts will be strengthened, and the effect of the ensemble raised in
proportion. . -up
But even if your part should leave nothing to be desired, yon wiil_, of
course, be careful not to let the Author see that you thiuk so. Besides
the general impolicy of encouraging a class at all times. too ready to
presume, it is clearly against your interest ever to be satisfied, as you
may thus bar the way against future requirements. The best part is
likely to have its weak points. Carried away by the general effect, you
may at first overlook these. But be cautious how you yield to your
first impression. Never commit yourself to strong approbation.
Shrug your shoulders; grumble inaudibly; tell the Author you have-
failed to discover the part meant for you; and when he tells you, smile,,
and appear surprised, and say that somehow you do not see yourselt in it.
You will thus prepare the Author’s mind for any demands you may
afterwards ffiid it your duty to make upon him for the enrichment or
strengthening of your part; or in the improbable event of your re-
maining satisfied with it as written, his mind will be more relieved than
if you had never grumbled.