Of course, one has heard from them of old time that an actor’s personality must have nothing to do with the part he is playing; that he only is an actor who can most successfully play the exact opposite of himself.  That is the academic theory of “character-acting,” and of course the half-truth of it is obvious.  It represents the weariness induced in audiences by handsome persons who merely, in the stage phrase, “bring their bodies on”; yet it would go hard with some of our most delightful comedians were it the whole truth about acting.  As a matter of fact, of course, a great actor includes a multiplicity of selves, so that he may play many parts, yet always be playing himself.  Beyond himself no artist, whatever his art, has ever gone.

What reduplication of personality is necessary for the man who plays Hamlet need hardly be said, what wide range of humanity and variety of accomplishment; for, as Anatole France has finely said of Hamlet, “He is a man, he is man, he is the whole of man.”

Time was when Hamlet was little more than an opportunity for some robustious periwig-pated fellow, or it gave the semi-learned actor the chance to conceal his imaginative incapacity by a display of “new readings.”  For example, instead of saying: 

          The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold,

you diverted attention from your acting by an appeal to the literary antiquarianism of your audience, and, out of one or other of the quartos, read the line: 

          The air bites shrewdly; is it very cold?

with the implication that there was a whole world of suggestion in the difference.

One has known actors, far from unillustrious, who staked their whole performance on some such learned triviality or some trifling novelty of business, when, for example, in Hamlet’s scene with his mother, the prince comes to: 

          Look here upon this picture, and on this.

An actor who deserves better than he has yet received in the tradition of the acted Hamlet—­I mean Wilson Barrett—­used to make much of taking a miniature of his father from his bosom to point the contrast.

But all such things in the end are of no account.  New readings, new business, avail less and less.  Nor does painstaking archaeology of scenery or dresses any longer throw dust in our eyes.  We are for the play, the living soul of the play.  Give us that, and your properties may be no more elaborate than those of a guignol in the Champs-Elysees.

Forbes-Robertson’s acting is so imaginative, creating the scene about him as he plays, that one almost resents any stage-settings for him at all, however learnedly accurate and beautifully painted.

His soul seems to do so much for us that we almost wish it could be left to do it all, and he act for us as they acted in Elizabeth’s day, with only a curtain for scenery, and a placard at the side of the stage saying, “This is Elsinore.”