e sometimes told that to read the best dramatic poetry is more
educating than to see it acted. I do not think this theory is very
widely held, for it is in conflict with the dramatic instinct, which
everybody possesses in a greater or less degree. You never met a
playwright who could conceive himself willing--even if endowed with
the highest literary gifts--to prefer a reading to a playgoing
public. He thinks his work deserving of all the rewards of print and
publisher, but he will be much more elated if it should appeal to the
world in the theatre as a skilful representation of human passions.
In one of her letters George Eliot says: "In opposition to most people
who love to _read_ Shakespeare, I like to see his plays acted better
than any others; his great tragedies thrill me, let them be acted
how they may." All this is so simple and intelligible, that it seems
scarcely worth while to argue that in proportion to the readiness with
which the reader of Shakespeare imagines the attributes of the various
characters, and is interested in their personality, he will, as a
rule, be eager to see their tragedy or comedy in action. He will then
find that very much which he could not imagine with any definiteness
presents new images every moment--the eloquence of look and gesture,
the by-play, the inexhaustible significance of the human voice. There
are people who fancy they have more music in their souls than was ever
translated into harmony by Beethoven or Mozart. There are others who
think they could paint pictures, write poetry--in short, do anything,
if they only made the effort. To them what is accomplished by the
practised actor seems easy and simple. But as it needs the skill of
the musician to draw the full volume of eloquence from the written
score, so it needs the skill of the dramatic artist to develop the
subtle harmonies of the poetic play. In fact, to _do_ and not to
_dream_, is the mainspring of success in life. The actor's art is to
act, and the true acting of any character is one of the most difficult
accomplishments. I challenge the acute student to ponder over Hamlet's
renunciation of Ophelia--one of the most complex scenes in all the
drama--and say that he has learned more from his meditations than he
could be taught by players whose intelligence is equal to his own. To
present the man thinking aloud is the most difficult achievement of
our art. Here the actor who has no real grip of the character, but
simply