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<h2>DONKEY RACES</h2> English acting had for some time past still been making a feint of running the race that wins.  The retort, the interruption, the call, the reply, the surprise, had yet kept a spoilt tradition of suddenness and life.  You had, indeed, to wait for an interruption in dialogue—it is true you had to wait for it; so had the interrupted speaker on the stage.  But when the interruption came, it had still a false air of vivacity; and the waiting of the interrupted one was so ill done, with so roving an eye and such an arrest and failure of convention, such a confession of a blank, as to prove that there remained a kind of reluctant and inexpert sense of movement.  It still seemed as though the actor and the actress acknowledged some forward tendency. Not so now.  The serious stage is openly the scene of the race that loses.  The donkey race is candidly the model of the talk in every tragedy that has a chance of popular success.  Who shall be last?  The hands of the public are for him, or for her.  A certain actress who has “come to the front of her profession” holds, for a time, the record of delay.  “Come to the front,” do they say?  Surely the front of her profession must have moved in retreat, to gain upon her tardiness.  It must have become the back of her profession before ever it came up with her. It should rejoice those who enter for this kind of racing that the record need never finally be beaten.  The possibilities of success are incalculable.  The play has perforce to be finished in a night, it is true, but the minor characters, the subordinate actors, can be made to bear the burden of that necessity.  The principals, or those who have come “to the front of their profession,” have an almost unlimited opportunity and liberty of lagging. Besides, the competitor in a donkey race is not, let it be borne in mind, limited to the practice of his own tediousness.  Part of his victory is to be ascribed to his influence upon others.  It may be that a determined actor—a man of more than common strength of will—may so cause his colleague to get on (let us say “get on,” for everything in this world is relative); may so, then, compel the other actor, with whom he is in conversation, to get on, as to secure his own final triumph by indirect means as well as by direct.  To be plain, for the sake of those unfamiliar with the sports of the village, the rider in a donkey race may, and does, cudgel the mounts of his rivals. Consider, therefore, how encouraging the prospect really is.  The individual actor may fail—in fact, he must.  Where two people ride together on horseback, the married have ever been warned, one must ride behind.  And when two people are speaking slowly one must needs be the slowest.  Comparative success implies the comparative failure.  But where this actor or that actress fails, the great cause of slowness profits, obviously.  The record is advanced.  Pshaw! the word “advanced” comes unadvised to the pen.  It is difficult to remember in what a fatuous theatrical Royal Presence one is doing this criticism, and how one’s words should go backwards, without exception, in homage to this symbol of a throne. It is not long since there took place upon the principal stage in London the most important event in donkey-racing ever known until that first night.  A tragedian and a secondary actor of renown had a duet together.  It was in “The Dead Heart.”  No one who heard it can possibly have yet forgotten it.  The two men used echoes of one another’s voice, then outpaused each other.  It was a contest so determined, so unrelaxed, so deadly, so inveterate that you might have slept between its encounters.  You did sleep.  These men were strong men, and knew what they wanted.  It is tremendous to watch the struggle of such resolves.  They had their purpose in their grasp, their teeth were set, their will was iron.  They were foot to foot. And next morning you saw by the papers that the secondary, but still renowned, actor, had succeeded in sharing the principal honours of the piece.  So uncommonly well had he done, even for him.  Then you understood that, though you had not known it, the tragedian must have been beaten in that dialogue.  He had suffered himself in an instant of weakness, to be stimulated; he had for a moment—only a moment—got on. That night was influential.  We may see its results everywhere, and especially in Shakespeare.  Our tragic stage was always—well, different, let us say—different from the tragic stage of Italy and France.  It is now quite unlike, and frankly so.  The spoilt tradition of vitality has been explicitly abandoned.  The interrupted one waits, no longer with a roving eye, but with something almost of dignity, as though he were fulfilling ritual. Benvolio and Mercutio outlag one another in hunting after the leaping Romeo.  They call without the slightest impetus.  One can imagine how the true Mercutio called—certainly not by rote.  There must have been pauses indeed, brief and short-breath’d pauses of listening for an answer, between every nickname.  But the nicknames were quick work.  At the Lyceum they were quite an effort of memory: “Romeo!  Humours!  Madman!  Passion!  Lover!” The actress of Juliet, speaking the words of haste, makes her audience wait to hear them.  Nothing more incongruous than Juliet’s harry of phrase and the actress’s leisure of phrasing.  None act, none speak, as though there were such a thing as impulse in a play.  To drop behind is the only idea of arriving.  The nurse ceases to be absurd, for there is no one readier with a reply than she.  Or, rather, her delays are so altered by exaggeration as to lose touch with Nature.  If it is ill enough to hear haste drawled out, it is ill, too, to hear slowness out-tarried.  The true nurse of Shakespeare lags with her news because her ignorant wits are easily astray, as lightly caught as though they were light, which they are not; but the nurse of the stage is never simply astray: she knows beforehand how long she means to be, and never, never forgets what kind of race is the race she is riding.  The Juliet of the stage seems to consider that there is plenty of time for her to discover which is slain—Tybalt or her husband; she is sure to know some time; it can wait. A London success, when you know where it lies, is not difficult to achieve.  Of all things that can be gained by men or women about their business, there is one thing that can be gained without fear of failure.  This is time.  To gain time requires so little wit that, except for competition, every one could be first at the game.  In fact, time gains itself.  The actor is really not called upon to do anything.  There is nothing, accordingly, for which our actors and actresses do not rely upon time.  For humour even, when the humour occurs in tragedy, they appeal to time.  They give blanks to their audiences to be filled up. It might be possible to have tragedies written from beginning to end for the service of the present kind of “art.”  But the tragedies we have are not so written.  And being what they are, it is not vivacity that they lose by this length of pause, this length of phrasing, this illimitable tiresomeness; it is life itself.  For the life of a scene conceived directly is its directness; the life of a scene created simply is its simplicity.  And simplicity, directness, impetus, emotion, nature fall out of the trailing, loose, long dialogue, like fish from the loose meshes of a net—they fall out, they drift off, they are lost. The universal slowness, moreover, is not good for metre.  Even when an actress speaks her lines as lines, and does not drop into prose by slipping here and there a syllable, she spoils the tempo by inordinate length of pronunciation.  Verse cannot keep upon the wing without a certain measure in the movement of the pinion.  Verse is a flight. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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