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<h2>ELEONORA DUSE</h2> The Italian woman is very near to Nature; so is true drama. Acting is not to be judged like some other of the arts, and praised for a “noble convention.”  Painting, indeed, is not praised amiss with that word; painting is obviously an art that exists by its convention—the convention is the art.  But far otherwise is it with the art of acting, where there is no representative material; where, that is, the man is his own material, and there is nothing between.  With the actor the style is the man, in another, a more immediate, and a more obvious sense than was ever intended by that saying.  Therefore we may allow the critic—and not accuse him of reaction—to speak of the division between art and Nature in the painting of a landscape, but we cannot let him say the same things of acting.  Acting has a technique, but no convention. Once for all, then, to say that acting reaches the point of Nature, and touches it quick, is to say all.  In other arts imitation is more or less fatuous, illusion more or less vulgar.  But acting is, at its less good, imitation; at its best, illusion; at its worst, and when it ceases to be an art, convention. But the idea that acting is conventional has inevitably come about in England.  For it is, in fact, obliged, with us, to defeat and destroy itself by taking a very full, entire, tedious, and impotent convention; a complete body of convention; a convention of demonstrativeness—of voice and manners intended to be expressive, and, in particular, a whole weak and unimpulsive convention of gesture.  The English manners of real life are so negative and still as to present no visible or audible drama; and drama is for hearing and for vision.  Therefore our acting (granting that we have any acting, which is granting much) has to create its little different and complementary world, and to make the division of “art” from Nature—the division which, in this one art, is fatal. This is one simple and sufficient reason why we have no considerable acting; though we may have more or less interesting and energetic or graceful conventions that pass for art.  But any student of international character knows well enough that there are also supplementary reasons of weight.  For example, it is bad to make a conventional world of the stage, but it is doubly bad to make it badly—which, it must be granted, we do.  When we are anything of the kind, we are intellectual rather than intelligent; whereas outward-streaming intelligence makes the actor.  We are pre-occupied, and therefore never single, never wholly possessed by the one thing at a time; and so forth. On the other hand, Italians are expressive.  They are so possessed by the one thing at a time as never to be habitual in any lifeless sense.  They have no habits to overcome by something arbitrary and intentional.  Accordingly, you will find in the open-air theatre of many an Italian province, away from the high roads, an art of drama that our capital cannot show, so high is it, so fine, so simple, so complete, so direct, so momentary and impassioned, so full of singleness and of multitudinous impulses of passion. Signora Duse is not different in kind from these unrenowned.  What they are, she is in a greater degree.  She goes yet further, and yet closer.  She has an exceptionally large and liberal intelligence.  If lesser actors give themselves entirely to the part, and to the large moment of the part, she, giving herself, has more to give. Add to this nature of hers that she stages herself and her acting with singular knowledge and ease, and has her technique so thoroughly as to be able to forget it—for this is the one only thing that is the better for habit, and ought to be habitual.  There is but one passage of her mere technique in which she fails so to slight it.  It is in the long exchange of stove-side talk between Nora and the other woman of “The Doll’s House.”  Signora Duse may have felt some misgivings as to the effect of a dialogue having so little symmetry, such half-hearted feeling, and, in a word, so little visible or audible drama as this.  Needless to say, the misgiving is not apparent; what is too apparent is simply the technique.  For instance, she shifts her position with evident system and notable skill.  The whole conversation becomes a dance of change and counterchange of place. Nowhere else does the perfect technical habit lapse, and nowhere at all does the habit of acting exist with her. I have spoken of this actress’s nationality and of her womanhood together.  They are inseparable.  Nature is the only authentic art of the stage, and the Italian woman is natural: none other so natural and so justified by her nature as Eleonora Duse; but all, as far as their nature goes, natural.  Moreover, they are women freer than other Europeans from the minor vanities.  Has any one yet fully understood how her liberty in this respect gives to the art of Signora Duse room and action?  Her countrywomen have no anxious vanities, because, for one reason, they are generally “sculpturesque,” and are very little altered by mere accidents of dress or arrangement.  Such as they are, they are so once for all; whereas, the turn of a curl makes all the difference with women of less grave physique.  Italians are not uneasy. Signora Duse has this immunity, but she has a far nobler deliverance from vanities, in her own peculiar distance and dignity.  She lets her beautiful voice speak, unwatched and unchecked, from the very life of the moment.  It runs up into the high notes of indifference, or, higher still, into those of ennui, as in the earlier scenes of Divorçons; or it grows sweet as summer with joy, or cracks and breaks outright, out of all music, and out of all control.  Passion breaks it so for her. As for her inarticulate sounds, which are the more intimate and the truer words of her meaning, they, too, are Italian and natural.  English women, for instance, do not make them.  They are sounds à bouche fermée, at once private and irrepressible.  They are not demonstrations intended for the ears of others; they are her own.  Other actresses, even English, and even American, know how to make inarticulate cries, with open mouth; Signora Duse’s noise is not a cry; it is her very thought audible—the thought of the woman she is playing, who does not at every moment give exact words to her thought, but does give it significant sound. When la femme de Claude is trapped by the man who has come in search of the husband’s secret, and when she is obliged to sit and listen to her own evil history as he tells it her, she does not interrupt the telling with the outcries that might be imagined by a lesser actress, she accompanies it.  Her lips are close, but her throat is vocal.  None who heard it can forget the speech-within-speech of one of these comprehensive noises.  It was when the man spoke, for her further confusion, of the slavery to which she had reduced her lovers; she followed him, aloof, with a twang of triumph. If Parisians say, as they do, that she makes a bad Parisienne, it is because she can be too nearly a woman untamed.  They have accused her of lack of elegance—in that supper scene of La Dame aux Camélias, for instance; taking for ill-breeding, in her Marguerite, that which is Italian merely and simple.  Whether, again, Cyprienne, in Divorçons, can at all be considered a lady may be a question; but this is quite unquestionable—that she is rather more a lady, and not less, when Signora Duse makes her a savage.  But really the result is not at all Parisian. It seems possible that the French sense does not well distinguish, and has no fine perception of that affinity with the peasant which remains with the great ladies of the old civilisation of Italy, and has so long disappeared from those of the younger civilisations of France and England—a paradox.  The peasant’s gravity, directness, and carelessness—a kind of uncouthness which is neither graceless nor, in any intolerable English sense, vulgar—are to be found in the unceremonious moments of every cisalpine woman, however elect her birth and select her conditions.  In Italy the lady is not a creature described by negatives, as an author who is always right has defined the lady to be in England.  Even in France she is not that, and between the Frenchwoman and the Italian there are the Alps.  In a word, the educated Italian mondaine is, in the sense (also untranslatable) of singular, insular, and absolutely British usage, a Native.  None the less would she be surprised to find herself accused of a lack of dignity. As to intelligence—a little intelligence is sufficiently dramatic, if it is single.  A child doing one thing at a time and doing it completely, produces to the eye a better impression of mental life than one receives from—well, from a lecturer. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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