Part 9 (2/2)
”Be it so. I don't like shams, I suppose,” returned the boy.
”Still, you shouldn't generalise too widely,” urged the other. ”There are plays where one's sensibilities are really touched, where the situations are not forced, where the performers move and speak like living, ordinary human beings, and, in the case of great actors, work upon the feelings of the audience to such an extent----”
”And there the artificiality is all the greater!” chipped in Austin, tersely. ”The more perfect the illusion, the hollower the artificiality. Of course, no one could take Sardanapalus seriously, any more than if he were a marionette pulled by strings instead of the sort of live marionette he really is. But where the acting and the situations are so perfect, as you say, as to cause real emotion, the unreality of the whole business is more flagrantly conspicuous than ever. The emotions pourtrayed are not real, and n.o.body pretends they are. The art, therefore, of making them appear real, and even communicating them to the audience, must of necessity involve greater artificiality than where the acting is bad and the situations ridiculous. There's a person I know, near where I live--you never heard of him, of course, but he's called Jock MacTavish--and he told me he once went to see a really very great actress do some part or other in which she had to die a most pathetic death. It was said to be simply heart-rending, and everybody used to cry. Well, the night Jock MacTavish was there something went wrong--a sofa was out of its place, or a bolster had been forgotten, or a rope wouldn't work, I don't know what it was--and the language that woman indulged in while she was in the act of dying would have disgraced a bargee. Jock was in a stage-box and heard every filthy word of it. Of course _he_ told me the story as a joke, and I was rather disgusted, but I'm glad he did so now. That was an extreme case, I know--such things don't occur one time in ten thousand, no doubt--but it's an ill.u.s.tration of what I mean when I say that the finer the illusion produced the hollower the sham that produces it.”
”You're a mighty subtle-minded young person for your age,” exclaimed St Aubyn, with a good-humoured laugh. ”I confess that your theory is new to me; it had never occurred to me before. For one who has only been inside a theatre two or three times in his life you seem to have elaborated your conclusions pretty quickly. I may infer, then, that you're not exactly hankering to go on the stage yourself?”
”_I_?” said Austin, drawing himself up. ”I, disguise myself in paint and feathers to be a public gazing-stock? Of course you mean it as a joke.”
”And yet there _are_ gentlemen upon the stage,” observed St Aubyn, in order to draw him on.
”So much the better for the stage, perhaps; so much the worse for the gentlemen,” replied Austin haughtily.
A pause. They were now well out in the open country, with the moonlit road stretching far in front of them. Then St Aubyn said, in a different tone altogether:
”You surprise me beyond measure by what you say. I should have thought that a boy of your poetical and artistic temperament would have had his imagination somewhat fired, even by the efforts of the poor showman whom we've seen to-night. Now I will make you a confession. At the bottom of my heart I agree with every word you've said. I may be one-sided, prejudiced, what you will, but I cannot help looking upon a public performer as I look upon no other human being. And I pity the performer, too; he takes himself so seriously, he fails so completely to realise what he really is. And the danger of going on the stage is that, once an actor, always an actor. Let a man once get bitten by the craze, and there's no hope for him. Only the very finest natures can escape. The fascination is too strong. He's ruined for any other career, however honourable and brilliant.”
”Is that so, really?” asked Austin. ”I cannot see where all this wonderful fascination comes in. I should think it must be a dreadful trade myself.”
”So it is. Because they don't know it. Because of the very fascination which exists, although you can't understand it. Let me tell you a story. I knew a man once upon a time--he was a great friend of mine--in the navy. Although he was quite young, not more than twenty-six, he was already a distinguished officer; he had seen active service, been mentioned in despatches, and all the rest of it. He was also, curiously enough, a most accomplished botanist, and had written papers on the flora of Cambodia and Yucatan that had been accepted with marked appreciation by the Linnaean Society. Well--that man, who had a brilliant career before him, and would probably have been an admiral and a K.C.B. if he had stuck to it, got attacked by the theatrical microbe. He chucked everything, and devoted his whole life to acting. He is acting still. He cares for nothing else. It is the one and only thing in the universe he lives for. The service of his country, the pure fame of scientific research and authors.h.i.+p, are as nothing to him, the merest dust in the balance, as compared with the cheap notoriety of the footlights.”
”He must be mad. And is he a success?” asked Austin.
”Judge for yourself--you've just been seeing him,” replied St Aubyn.
”Though, of course, his name is no more Buskin than yours or mine.”
”Good Heavens!” cried the boy. ”And Mr Buskin was--all that?”
”He was all that,” responded the other. ”It was rather painful for me to see him this evening in his present state, as you may imagine. As to his being successful in a monetary sense, I really cannot tell you.
But, to do him justice, I don't think he cares for money in the very least. So long as he makes two ends meet he's quite satisfied. All he cares about is painting his face, and dressing himself up, and ranting, and getting rounds of applause. And, so far, he certainly has his reward. His highest ambition, it is true, he has not yet attained.
If he could only get his portrait published in a halfpenny paper wearing some new-shaped stock or collar that the hosiers were anxious to bring into fas.h.i.+on, he would feel that there was little left to live for. But that is a distinction reserved for actors who stand at the tip-top of their profession, and I'm afraid that poor Buskin has but little chance of ever realising his aspiration.”
”Are you serious?” said Austin, open-eyed.
”Absolutely,” replied St Aubyn. ”I know it for a fact.”
”Well,” exclaimed Austin, fetching a deep breath, ”of course if a man has to do this sort of thing for a living--if it's his only way of making money--I don't think I despise him so much. But if he does it because he loves it, loves it better than any other earthly thing, then I despise him with all my heart and soul. I cannot conceive a more utterly unworthy existence.”
”And to such an existence our friend Buskin has sacrificed his whole career,” replied St Aubyn, gravely.
”What a tragedy,” observed the boy.
”Yes; a tragedy,” agreed the other. ”A truer tragedy than the imitation one that he's been acting in, if he could only see it. Well, here is my turning. Good-night! I'm very glad we met. Come and see me soon. I'm not going away again.”
Then Austin, left alone, stumped thoughtfully along the country road.
The sweet smell of the flowery hedges pervaded the night air, and from the fields on either side was heard ever and anon the bleating of some wakeful sheep. How peaceful, how reposeful, everything was! How strong and solemn the great trees looked, standing here and there in the wide meadows under the moonlight and the stars! And what a contrast--oh, _what_ a contrast--was the beauty of these calm pastoral scenes to the tawdry gorgeousness of those other ”scenes” he had been witnessing, with their false effects, and coloured fires, and painted, spouting occupants! There was no need for him to argue the question any more, even with himself. It was as clear as the moon in the steel-blue sky above him that the a.s.sociations of the theatre were totally, hopelessly, and radically incompatible with the ideals of the Daphnis life.
Chapter the Eighth
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