Introductory.

To the average intellect, nothing is so alluring as a paradox. The reason is simple: in accepting a paradox, the average intellect feels that it has risen above the average. Any fool can believe what is possible and probable, but it demands no ordinary gifts, whether mental or spiritual, to believe what is absurd. How 'many an old philosophy' has been based, like an inverted pyramid, on an almost imperceptible point of paradox! How many a world–embracing creed has sprung from a tiny contradiction in terms! What is a miracle, indeed, but a paradox in action? He who has seen a table dancing a hornpipe, or an elderly gentleman reclining on the ceiling instead of the sofa, naturally feels a certain superiority over the humdrum folk who have seen no miracles save those of Mr. Maskelyne. And if it seems a distinguished thing to believe a paradox, what must it be to invent one? Surely the summit of human ambition.

The paradoxes of philosophy generally prove, on analysis, to be contradictions in terms; those of art on the other hand, are more often truisms turned inside out. This I believe to be a fair description of Diderot's celebrated Paradoxe sur le Comédien. It undoubtedly contains a great deal of truth; but in so far as it is true it is not paradoxical. The paradox is brought in, sometimes in the shape of sheer overstatement, more often by means of a little nimble jugglery with ambiguous terms and misleading analogies. In his arguments from analogy, Diderot does not rise to the fine frenzy of some of his fellow–theorists. 'We no more think feeling a necessary ingredient in acting,' cries one, 'than we should deem it expedient for a painter, after he had finished a likeness upon the canvas to represent the heart, liver, brains, and the internal formation, on the back of it.'^[1] Another—this time an American—executes a still more surprising feat of logical legerdemain. 'Did Rosa Bonheur,' he asks, with withering emphasis, 'feel like a horse–fair when she painted her great picture on that subject? Or did Longfellow feel like "footprints on the sands of time" when he wrote that line of the Psalm of Life?'^[2] Diderot would no doubt admit that the zeal of these disciples outruns their discretion; yet they merely burlesque some of his own arguments.

Not even the firmest believer in Diderot—not even M. Coquelin, who says, 'Je tiens que ce paradoxe est la vérité même'^[3]—will deny that the philosopher founded his doctrine on slender evidence. A few anecdotes of doubtful interpretation, are all that he advances in support of it, and Grimm expressly tells us that for years before he formulated his theory he had gone but rarely to the theatre. 'Able as he was,' a distinguished actress writes to me, 'Diderot, both in his Paradoxe and elsewhere, spoke without that intimate knowledge which only actors of the highest order can possess.' For a fruitful discussion of the points at issue, the interlocutors should be, not, as in Diderot's dialogue, a dogmatic 'First' and a docile 'Second,' but a trained psychologist and an experienced and versatile actor. Mr. H. D. Traill, in his New Lucian, has given imaginary effect to this idea in a suggestive dialogue between George Henry Lewes and David Garrick. Had these two men ever met in the flesh, with a stenographer behind the screen, their colloquy would certainly have been luminous, if not conclusive. Yet the evidence of one actor, though it were Garrick himself, is obviously insufficient. There are exceptional temperaments as well as exceptional talents, and no one man in entitled to make a dogma of his own experiences and methods. We want to arrive at the laws which govern the average or typical mimetic temperament; and to this end we must study as large a circle as possible of individual cases. Imagine David Hume in the green–room of Garrick's Drury Lane, with a royal commission to cross–examine His Majesty's Servants severally and collectively, and you have a nearer approach to the ideal conditions of inquiry.

The discussion is not of the first importance; but since it has started, and has led (in my judgment) to much false logic and empty paradox–mongering, I have long thought that, in the interests of 'lucidity,' a careful investigation should be attempted. I am but an amateur psychologist, and the reasonings contained in the following pages may often stand in need of revision; but at least I have brought together a far larger body of evidence than has hitherto been presented

My endeavour has been to collect, both from biographical records and from the communications of living artists, the views and experiences of 'actors of the highest order.' I believe, however, that not only 'actors of the highest order,' but every intelligent artist who studies himself and others, has a right to be heard upon the questions at issue. I have therefore drawn no invidious distinction between the greater and the lesser lights of the theatrical firmament, but have accepted for what it is worth every ray of illumination that has reached me. Diderot might object that his theory applies only to the greatest actors; that he does not deny that second–rate actors feel and depend on feeling; nay that he expressly affirms it. If we define the great actor as 'he who does not feel,' all controversy is of course at an end, for Diderot is safe in the inexpugnable fortress of a circular argument. But if we define the great actor as 'he who powerfully affects his audiences'; if we learn that many of the greatest actors (in this sense) confess to feeling acutely, and are observed by themselves and others to exhibit many symptoms of acute feeling, some of which are quite involuntary, and are of no direct use in heightening the illusion; if we discover that in all grades of the art the majority of players find by experience that they tend to produce a better effect when they play from the head alone; if we can find, in certain laws of mental and physical action and reaction, a rational explanation of this tendency; and if we can ascertain with tolerable clearness the artistic checks and limitations to which it must be subjected—then, surely, we shall have made a considerable breach even in the irregular and baffling bastions of Diderot's position. To this end we should hear not only Hamlet but the Player King, not only Romeo and Juliet but Friar Laurence and the Fiery Tybalt.

The Editor of Longman's Magazine most courteously did all in his power to further my inquiry, and considerable portions of the present work first appeared in the numbers of that Magazine for January, February, and March 1888, under the title of The Anatomy of Acting.

In setting about the investigation, my first effort was, of course, to get rid of ambiguities. To ask, 'Do you feel in acting?' or 'Do you identify yourself with the characters you represent?' or 'Do you find sensibility an advantage or a disadvantage?' would only be to obscure the issue. It would have required a whole treatise to define, with anything like precision, the meaning I proposed to attach to these phrases, and I could not reasonably expect my obliging informants to study a disquisition on psychology. Moreover, even if I had succeeded in defining my terms, it would have been folly to expect in the general run of actors such habits of minute and accurate introspection as would enable them to give a lucid and trustworthy account of their experience. How, then, could I hope to arrive at practical results? Clearly, by confining my queries to outward symptoms, while reserving to myself the task of interpretation. A tear, a blush, or a tremor is an external, visible, sensible fact; an instance of presence or absence of mind is a subject for ordinary testimony; a device or process for gaining a particular artistic end can be observed and described like any other action or series of actions. It was to these external details that I directed my informants' attention. I neither expected nor desired, of course, that they should refrain from stating their own inferences and interpretations, but it was the facts themselves with which I was chiefly concerned. These once collected in sufficient numbers, I trusted that by comparing, classifying, and interpreting them I might throw some light on the mental processes involved in mimetic art.

The interrogatory which I originally issued will be found in the Appendix. Subsequent experience showed that it was not so aptly worded and arranged as it might have been; nevertheless it served its purpose. My own criticisms on it are implied in the alterations I made when preparing the French version (also reprinted in the Appendix), for which I am indebted to my friend Miss Blanche J. Taylor, of Paris.

How comes it, the reader may ask, since the questions were translated into French, that the experiences of living French actors are so meagrely represented? In explaining this, I shall be able to answer incidentally one or two objections to my method of inquiry.

As I could scarcely expect the leading artists of France to be at the pains of answering an interrogatory issued by an unknown Englishman, I forwarded to M. Francisque Sarcey a proff of my pamphlet, expressing hope that he would call attention to it in his feuilleton in Le Temps. M. Sarcey, to whom my name was not quite unknown, met this request with a polite but firm refusal. 'Je regarde le procédé,' he wrote, 'qui est américain, comme fâcheux à la critique et à l'art.' I made no attempt, of course, to alter M. Sarcey's determination, but I respectfully laid before him my own view the 'procédé.' It was this: The inquiry has no bearing whatever on criticism, which is concerned with the effect produced, not with the phenomena accompanying its production. If an actor can convincingly represent emotion, the critic, as a critic, need not inquire whether he experiences or mechanically simulates it. But criticism is one thing, the psychology of art another; and to this the question at issue belongs. It is more curious than important, granted; but several eminent men, from Diderot to Mr. Irving, have held it worth discussion, so that an attempt to inquire into it systematically can scarcely be altogether idle. Nor is it quite without practical importance. Sensibility can be cultivated or it can be crushed, like any other gift of nature. It is quite conceivable that a young actor may help or hinder the due development of his powers by starting with a right or with a wrong theory as to the artistic value of real emotion. Idiosyncracy, indeed, will generally determine his theory, but sheer intellectual conviction may not be without its effect.

It is true—and this may have been in M. Sarcey's mind—that by concentrating attention on individual symptoms of emotion the spectator may become insensible to the whole emotional impression of a performance. He 'cannot see the wood for trees.' While in the thick of my inquiry, I was conscious that this preoccupation displaced my point of view, so to speak, and interfered with my normal receptiveness. In my own case, the effect has already quite worn off; and I can scarcely fear (or hope) that the reader of the following pages will find his mental attitude towards the stage seriously or permanently affected by the considerations they suggest. If this book were in the hands of every playgoer, if the questions it discusses were vividly present to the minds of any large percentage of an average audience, then indeed my inquiry might be 'fâcheux à la critique et à l'art.' Such a disaster, I own would have its consolations for me, if not for M. Sarcey. The fear of it, at any rate, does not disturb my sleep o' nights.

Repulsed by M. Sarcey, I applied to another distinguished Parisian critic, but he too declined to assist me. I do not mention his name, because the reasons he gave were more frank than flattering to the artists whose work he criticises. He did not believe, he said, that my inquiry would lead to any trustworthy result, because few actors had the intelligence, and none the sincerity, to answer my questions aright. This objection has been urged in more than one quarter; indeed Diderot himself advances it. 'You may prove my theory to demonstration,' he says, 'and a great actor will decline to acknowledge it; it is his secret. A middling actor or a novice is sure to contradict you flatly.'^[4] The experience of actors gained in the course of my investigation leads me to dissent entirely from Diderot and my Parisian correspondent. My questions were answered, whether verbally or in writing, I am sure, with perfect sincerity, and generally, I am sure, with perfect intelligence. When it happened that a question was misunderstood, the fault, as a rule, was mine rather than my informant's. Some, of course, answered with more insight, more precision, in short more ability, than others; but I seldom received a reply that was altogether beside the mark. Many artists to whom I sent my 'catechism' lacked time or inclination to respond; but of those who favoured me with their experience not one proved deficient either in intelligence or in earnestness. On the latter point, of course, my opinion must be taken for what it is worth, sincerity being, in the nature of things, incapable of proof. I had now and then to allow for the 'personal equation,' but of wilful insincerity I discovered no trace. Where, indeed, is the motive for it? Once upon a time there might have been a tacit conspiracy among actors to keep what Diderot calls 'their secret' and prevent the outside public from suspecting the hollowness of their emotional displays. If this trick of the trade was ever practised, it has obviously broken down. Great actors—a few, but a very respectable few&mdashl;proclaim the 'secret' to the four winds of heaven; middling actors, so far from 'flatly contradicting' Diderot, are found to swear by him. Diderot himself has made insensibility honourable. It is an unmistakable distinction to belong to the intellectual few who act from the brain alone. If there is any motive for insincerity, it now operates in Diderot's favour; but, though constantly on my guard, I discovered no trace of wilful deception in either sense. My informants even resisted the temptations to levity which, I admit, were offered them.

The attitude of M. Sarcey and his colleague convinced me that there was little hope of obtaining answers from the leading artists of Paris. Accordingly I did not issue my French interrogatory. Only one or two stray copies found their way across the Channel.

As loose quotation too often introduces confusion and error into arguments of this nature, I have in almost all cases given exact references to my authorities. I have also done my best to trace anecdotes to their sources, and to avoid the more or less garbled forms which they are apt, in course of time, to assume. In this I have not always succeeded. Anecdote–tracking is a difficult sport, and those who have most experience of it will most readily excuse an occasional failure to follow up the true scent. I do not pretend to have ransacked thoroughly the theatrical literature even of England and France for evidence upon the points under discussion. A complete collection of the documents in the case would fill ten volumes rather than one. All I can hope to have accomplished is a fairly representative selection of anecdotes and opinions. Where no reference is given, the reader will please understand me to draw upon manuscript authorities in my own possession—either notes of interviews or written answers to my printed questions. In quoting from the Paradoxe I have always referred to Mr. Walter Herries Pollock's useful translation,^[5] but I have in some cases given my own rendering of Diderot's text, for the sake either of brevity or of literalness. I am further indebted to Mr. Pollock for allowing me to make use of his copy of Sticotti's very rare booklet, the peg on which the Paradoxe is hung.

After a careful search for less cumbrous expressions, I have been forced to fall back upon the terms 'emotionalist' and 'anti-emotionalist' to indicate the contending parties in this dispute. They are painfully clumsy; but the choice seemed to lie between them and still clumsier circumlocutions.