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Stanislavsky, Konstantin,
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1863-1938.
Creating a role
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2062 Stanislavsky* Konstantint 1863-1938.
S67 Creating a roie / Constantin
1961 Stanislavski ; translated by Elizabeth
fieynolds Hapgood ; edited by Hermine I«
Popper ; foreword tiy £obert Lewis* New
York : Theatre Arts Books* cl961*
X iv f 271 p* ; 21 cm*
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1* Method (Acting) 2* Acting* I

Title
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CREATING A ROLE
Also by Constantin Stanislavski
AN ACTOR PREPARES
AN actor's handbook
BUILDING A CHARACTER
MY LIFE IN ART
The Seagull produced by stanislavski

STANISLAVSKI PRODUCES Othello
STANISLAVSKl's LEGACY
CREATING
A ROLE
Constantin Stanislavski
TRANSLATED BY ELIZABETH REYNOLDS HAPGOOD
EDITED BY HERMINE I. POPPER
FOREWORD BY ROBERT LEWIS
THEATRE ARTS BOOKS • New York

(C) I961 BY ELIZABETH REYNOLDS HAPGOOD
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COPYRIGHT UNDER INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT UNION
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED UNDER PAN-AMERICAN COPYRIGHT UNION
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO. 60-IO494
THIRD PRINTING, 1968
Published by
THEATRE ARTS BOOKS

333 Sixth Avenue, New York 14, N.Y.
PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA BY

AMBASSADOR BOOKS LTD., 37O ALLIANCE AVENUE, TORONTO 9
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Foreword
by Robert Lewis
HERE, almost a quarter of a century after his death, are some

more nuggets dug up from the vast gold mine of Stanislavski's
continuous search for a truthful and artistic method of training
actors and working on So rich is the substance of Creating
roles.
a Role, so provocative, that one feels it is possible to take many

of the ideas presented and expand them into essays or books.
The first of the three parts of this book is a particularly bril-
liant break-down of how to work on a part. It will confirm, or
clarify, many points for those actors and directors who already
work along these lines. For those who don't, this study of Stan-
islavski's approach to his role of Chatski in Woe From Wit will
be a revelation. This section, without the device of the teacher-
pupil dialogue used in the rest of the book, seems to me to be
the most lucid presentation of Stanislavski's aims so far.
Here we have a logical break-down of the rehearsal period
from the first reading on. "Beginnings" being so important,
Stanislavski tells us why it is advisable for the play first to be read
to the cast by one person. He shows us how to recount the story of
a play in actors' terms, how to analyze the play and the roles,
being careful to distinguish between intellectual and artistic
analysis. He teaches us how to create a logical subtext to create

an inner which will give substance to the author's words. The
life
most important, and least understood, aspect of the work, the

search into one's own experience to arouse feelings analogous to
those required in the part, gets a thorough airing.
Don't think that "feeling" is all that is stressed here. Unlike
FOREWORD
some modern self-styled practitioners of what they call "The
Method" (no such arrogance will be found in Stanislavski's own
writings) there is more than lip-service paid to beauty of lan-
guage, lightness of verse, rhythm, imagination, and all the the-
atrical and artistic means of expression. Stanislavski was not
unaware that although it is true that if your intention "to not dis-
turb those inside" makes you knock on the door timidly, it is
also true that a careful, delicate knock on the door creates a sense
of timidity in you. He constantly stresses the choice of "physical
actions," a process he keeps intertwining with his "internal ac-
tions" as he works on a role. The question always asked in making
the part true to himself is, "What would I ô if I were in so-and-
so's [the character's] situation?" Yes, always the character's situ-
ation: his life in his city in his time, and so forth; not my life in
my city in my time, as we sometimes suspect modern "methodists"
are thinking.
In Chapter Three, Stanislavski speaks clearly of the physical
embodiment of the part. Here you will find such phrases as
"subtle means of expression of your eyes and face," "use your
voice, sounds, words, intonations, and speech." True, he rightly
maintains that "voice and speech remain in complete dependence
on inner feelings and are their direct, exact, and subservient ex-
pression." But he also knew the importance of voice, speech, move-
ment, and so forth. If it ever was needed, here is proof that gives
the lie to the argument that anything in Stanislavski's method
leads perforce to sloppy speech and slouching. "Every living or-
ganism," he says, "has an outer form as well, a physical body
which uses make-up, has a typical voice as to manner of speech
and intonation, typical way of walking, manners, gestures, and
so forth." What a blow to self-indulgent actors busy squeezing out
a bit of private feeling, who care not a jot how they look, whether
they can be heard, and so forth. Let this once and for all answer
those who mistakenly, or deliberately, accept this lunatic fringe as
exponents of the theories of a man who, for half a century, pro-
vi
FOREWORD
duced with distinction everything from reaHstic plays to opera,
and in every style. It cannot be said too often that Stanislavski's

method is not a style and not applicable to one particular style of
theatre, but is an attempt to find a logical approach to the training
of actors for any play, and an artistic vây of preparing for any
role.
Parts II and III of Creating a Role revert to the style of writing

used in An Actor Prepares and Building a Character. Wt have
that mythical classroom with Tortsov, the teacher, instructing a
group of students. This form of presentation may seem a bit
murky and not as forthright and crystal clear as the more direct
approach of Part I. But we do have a chance to see Stanislavski
trying his rehearsal procedure on two other roles: Othello, and
Khlestakov in The Inspector General. Again he approaches these
parts from the "inside" and the "outside" simultaneously. He dis-
covers, in fact, that finding the correct physical truth of the part
feeds his inner truth better, as he says, than "forcing" feeling. He
pursues the character by his use of the justification of the physical
acts of the part, by placing himself in the circumstances of the
character through the celebrated "magic if," and by breaking
down the inner line of the part into logical objectives; in other
words, an interior and exterior analysis of himself as a human
being in the circumstances of the life of his role, his "own" feel-
ings always chosen to be analogous to the feelings inherent in the

part. This makes for the "truthful playing of the life of the part
in the play."
Of particular interest to directors, there is, in the appendix, a
twenty-five point summing-up of a plan of rehearsal from the first
reading to the final characterization. There are certain sugges-

tions, such as asking the actors where they would like to be on
the stage at given moments, that are the privileges of directors
with permanent theatres. In show-business, that is to say, doing
one isolated production at a time, with newly assembled actors,
vii
!
FOREWORD
all from different backgrounds, with limited rehearsal time, the
director may want to forget that indulgence
All through the three sections of this book you get a picture of
a real artist at work, sometimes failing, but without despair, and
always seeking truthful answers. (He reworked his role of Satin
in The Lower Depths after playing it eighteen years!) Admirers

of An Actor Prepares and Building a Character will relish Creat-
ing a Role. Those being introduced to Stanislavski's writings with

this book will want to examine the other two. A thorough study
of all three books will reveal the all-important point of how to
apply the technique studied in the classroom to the preparation of
roles.
Here, then, more word from the master, rather than from
is
his disciples. It is a book for all theatre professionals as well as

students. Whether you are in agreement or disagreement with all,
or parts, of it, you cannot help being stimulated and enriched by it.
Vlll
Translator's Note
Creating a Role is the third volume of Stanislavski's planned

trilogy on the training of an actor. The first two, An Actor Pre-
pares and Building a Character^ although published thirteen years
apart, were intended to describe the young actor's regime at much
the same period in his development: while training his inner
qualities of emotion memory, imagination and concentration, he
was also developing his physical means by rigorous work on his
voice and body, the very instruments for putting into vivid and
convincingly concrete form what the inner life might develop.
Now, another twelve years later, we are able to issue the projected
third volume. This phase in Stanislavski's teaching, which he be-
lieved an actor should come to after mastery of the other two, is
the preparation of specific roles, beginning with the first reading

of a play and the development of the first scene. The English title
is as close as possible to the rather longer Russian one, literally
The Wor\ of an Actor on a Role.

When I was working with on An Actor Prepares
Stanislavski
and Building a Character (for which he had a contract in Amer-
ica) in France and Germany during 1929 and 1930, he spoke of
his idea of having all three of his books on acting technique cen-
tered on Shakespeare's Othello. He felt that this play, with which
he had long been preoccupied, would be accessible to students of
many nationalities, especially the English-speaking ones. Indeed
at this very time in France, he was sending back to Moscow sug-
gestions for the production of Othello, the direction of which he
was forced to relinquish because of his serious illness in 1928.
These suggestions are the basis for StanislavsJî Produces Othelloy
ix
translator's note
a director's promptbook, with his instructions published opposite

the text of the play, a volume of enormous value as a demonstra-
tion of how this great director worked on a play. But in this
present book we see how his mind also turned to Othello as an
exercise through which actors themselves could enter into their
roles to create characters of truth and a memorable vividness.
Stanislavski died in August 1938. Only An Actor Prepares had
been published in the United States and England (1936) and it
had not yet appeared in the Soviet Union. He had collected all
the material for Building a Character but the Second World War
postponed its publication. Now with the official publication in
Russian of all of Stanislavski's manuscripts, we find that he had
actually drafted three versions of the third book. The first had
been done years earlier (1916-1920), before he had invented the
semi-fictional form of a teacher and his students used in An Actor
Prepares and Building a Character. The other two are dated in the
1930's after he had prepared An
Actor Prepares for publication
and completed the material that was pubHshed as Building a
Character.
The first version presented problems. It deals specifically with
a classic Russian satirical comedy, Griboyedov's Woe from Wit
(also called The Misfortune of Being Clever), which after 150
years still defies translation. Although line after line of this play
has been incorporated into literary Russian much as Shakespeare's
phrases have in English, no translator has as yet succeeded in

conveying Griboyedov's witty verse in a Western European lan-
guage. The situations and the satirical darts even seem to lie be-
yond the comprehension of all except specialists. Yet in its hu-
manity it is universal and thus a meaningful framework for
Stanislavski's search for ways to help an actor perfect his art. In
order to make this first version of Creating a Role accessible to

English-speaking actors we have resorted to minor cuts and some
brief elucidations always clearly marked as such.
It is interesting that in his work on Woe from Wit Stanislavski
translator's note
demonstrates the methods he describes early in My Life in Art,

and the emphasis is on the actor's psycho-technique, on the prep-
aration of the inner pattern of a role as a starting point. In the two
other versions, based on Othello and Gogol's Inspector General,
one sees how Stanislavski was always revising his methods, how
he persisted in his search for better ways. His approach to certain
problems did change toward the end of his and if he here
life
revises some of the practices in the Woe from Wit section, so

much the truer it is of Stanislavski's real method. In publishing
all three we believe the reader has the advantage of seeing Stan-
islavski treat a variety of roles, of comparing his sensitive adjust-
ment to given material in three different plays, of realizing that
his lifelong goal remained the same: the creation of life on the
stage in terms ofwhat he called spiritual naturalism.
These three versions were sent to me for translation and publi-
cation by Stanislavski's son and I believe that in preparing them
for use by English-speaking actors I have carried out once more
the task entrusted to me
by Stanislavski himself, to eliminate
duplications and cut whatever was meaningless for non-Russian
actors. There has been some slight rearrangement of sections
within the versions where we think Stanislavski would have done

the same himself had he had the chance to work over his manu-
scripts. Editor's notes have been added, giving needed infor-
mation from An Actor Prepares and Building a Character and
background which Mrs. Popper and I hope will make Creating a
Role more rewarding for all who read it.
Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood

New York City
June ist, 1961
XI
Contents
FOREWORD by Robert Lewis v
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE ix
Part L Griboyedov's Woe from Wit i
L The Period of Study 3

First Acquaintance with a Part 3
Analysis 8
Studying the External Circumstances I2
Putting Life into External Circumstances i8
Creating Inner Circumstances 25
Appraising the Facts 34
IL The Period of Emotional Experience 44
Inner Impulses and Inner Action 44
Creative Objectives 5^
The Score of a Role 5^
The Inner Tone 62
The Super objective and Through Action 77
The Superconscious 8i
III. The Period of Physical Embodiment 85
Part II. Shakespeare's Othello 107
IV. First Acquaintance 109
V. Creating the Physical Life of a Role 131
VI. Analysis 151
VII. Checking Work Done and Summing Up 194
xiii
CONTENTS
Part III. GogoVsThe Inspector General 211
VIII. From Physical Actions to Living Image 213
Appendices 251
a. Supplement to Creating a Role 253

b. Improvisations on Othello 256
XIV
Parti
Griboyedov's Woe from Wit
The following study in the preparation of a role, with a focus on

Griboyedov's comic classic, Woe from Wit, was written between
1916 and 1920. It is thus Stanislavski's earliest known exploration
of a theme was to preoccupy him in its various aspects for the
that
rest of his life. Although he had not yet settled on the semi-fic-
tional form of An Actor Prepares and Building a Character, the
student of those later works will find here the original statement
of many ideas already familiar to him. In some cases, those ideas
remained stable in subsequent years; in others, they underwent a
subtle sea-change as Stanislavski continued to throw the light of
his free and restless creative imagination on the actor's problem.
—ÊDITOR
CHAPTER ONE
The Period of Study
THE PREPARATORY WORK on a role can be divided into

three great periods: studying it; establishing the life of the role;
putting it into physical form.
First Acquaintance with a Part
Becoming acquainted with a part is a preparatory period in

itself. It begins with one's very first impressions from the first
reading of the play. This all-important moment can be likened to

the first meeting between a man and a woman, the first acquaint-
anceship between two people who are destined to be sweethearts,
lovers, or mates.
First impressions have a virginal freshness about them. They
are the best possible stimuli to artistic enthusiasm and fervor, states
which are of great significance in the creative process.
These first impressions are unexpected and direct. They often
leave a permanent mark on the work of the actor. They are un-
premeditated and unprejudiced. Unfiltered by any criticism, they
pass freely into the depths of an actor's soul, into the wellsprings
of his nature, and often leave ineradicable traces which will re-
main as a basis of a part, the embryo of an image to be formed.
First impressions are —
seeds. Whatever variations and altera-
tions an actor may make as he proceeds with his work, he often is
so attracted by the deep effect of his first impressions that he
yearns to hold on to them even when he finds he cannot apply
GRIBOYEDOV'S WOE FROM WIT
them to his part as it develops. The power, depth, and permanence
of these impressions is such that the actor must be particularly
careful about his first acquaintance with a play.
In order to register these first impressions actors must be in a
receptive frame of mind, a proper inner state. They must have the
emotional concentration without which no creative process is pos-
sible. An actor must know how to prepare a mood to incite his
artistic feelings, to open his soul. Moreover, the external circum-
stances for the first reading of a play should be properly set. One
must know how to choose the time and place. The occasion should
be accompanied with a certain ceremoniousness if one is to invite ;
one's soul to buoyancy, one must be spiritually and physically

buoyant.
One most dangerous obstacles to the receiving of pure
of the
and fresh impressions is any kind of prejudice. Prejudices block
up the soul like a cork in the neck of a bottle. Prejudice is created
by the opinions that others foist upon us. In the beginning and
until such time as the actor's own relationship to the play and his
part is defined and set in concrete emotions or ideas, he is in
danger of being influenced by the opinions of others, especially if
they are false. Another's opinion can distort a naturally established

relationship of an actor's emotions toward his new part. There-
fore during his first acquaintance with a play, an actor should try
not to come under outside influences that might create a prejudice
and throw his own first impressions, as well as his will, his mind,
and his imagination out of line.
If an actor is impelled to seek help to clarify the external and
internal circumstances and conditions of life of the characters in

the play, let him, to begin with, try to answer his questions him-
self; because only then can he sense what questions he can put
to others without doing violence to his individual relation to his

own part. Let the actor for the time being keep to himself, store
up his emotions, his spiritual materials, his reflections about his
part, until his feelings and a definite, concrete, creative sense of
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
the image of his part have become crystallized. It is only with
time, when an actor's own attitude toward his part has become
established, has matured, that he can make wide use of outside
advice and opinions without running the risk of infringing on his
own artistic independence. Let an actor remember that his own
opinion is better than that of an outsider, better even than an
excellent one, if only because another's opinion can only add to his
thoughts without appealing to his emotions.
Since, in the language of an actor, to \now is synonymous with
to feel, he should give free rein, at a first reading of a play, to his
creative emotions. The more warmth of feeling and throbbing,
living emotion he can put into a play at first acquaintance, the
greater will be the appeal of the dry words of the text to his senses,
his creative will, mind, emotion memory, the greater will be the
suggestiveness of this first reading to the creative imagination of
his visual, auditory, and other faculties, of images, pictures, sensa-
tion memories. The imagination of the actor adorns the text of
the playwright with fanciful patterns and colors from his own
invisible palette.
It is important for actors to find the angle of vision from which
the playwright views his work. When this is achieved they are
carried away by the reading. They cannot control the muscles of
their faces, which oblige them to grimace or mime in accordance
with what is being read. They cannot control their movements,
which occur spontaneously. They cannot sit still, they push closer
and closer to the person reading the play.
As for the reader who is presenting the play for the first time,
there are a few practical suggestions which can be made to him.
In the first place he should avoid too illustrative a manner,
which might force his personal interpretation of parts and images
on the actors. Let him limit himself to a clear exposition of the
basic idea of the play, the main line of the development of the
inner action, with the help of such technical aids as are inherent
in the play.
At the first reading the play should be presented simply, clearly,
with understanding of its fundamentals, its essence, the main line
of its development, and its literary merit. The reader should sug-
gest the playwright's point of departure, the thought, the feelings,
or experiences for the sake of which he wrote the play. At this
first presentation the reader should push or lead each actor along
the main line of the unfolding life of a human spirit in the play.
Let the reader learn from experienced literary people how to
pick out at once the heart of a work, the fundamental line of the
emotions. A person trained in literature, who has studied the basic
qualities of literary works, can instantly grasp the structure of a
play, its point of departure, the feelings and thoughts which im-
pelled the playwright to put pen to paper. This capacity is very
helpful to an actor, so long as it does not interfere with his seeing
for himself into the soul of the play.
It is good fortune when an actor can instantly
a great piece of
grasp the play with his whole being, his mind and his feelings.
In such happy but rare circumstances it is better to forget about
all laws and methods, and give himself up to the power of crea-
tive nature. But these instances are so rare that one cannot count
on them. They are as rare as the moments when an actor imme-
diately grasps an important line of direction, a basic section of
the play, important elements out of which its fundamentals are
woven or shaped. It is much more usual for a first reading to leave
only individual moments fixed in an actor's emotions while all
the rest is vague, unclear, and extraneous. The snatches of impres-
sions, bits of feelings, that do remain are like oases in a desert, or
points of light in surrounding darkness.
Why is it that some parts of a play come to life, are warmed by
our feelings, while others remain fixed only in our intellectual
memory? Why is it that when we recall the former we have a
sense of excitement, joy, tenderness, buoyancy, love, while the
recollection of the latter leaves us without feeling, cold, and lack-
ing in expression ?
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
That happens because the places which are infused with imme-
diate life are congenial to us, familiar to our emotions; whereas
the dark places are alien to our natures.
Later on, as we become better acquainted with and feel closer
to the play, which at first we accepted only in fragments, we shall
find that the points of light grow and spread, coalescing with one
another until finally they fill out our entire role. They are like the
rays of the sun coming through a narrow chink in a blind, they
throw only a few bright spots in the dark. But when the blinds
are opened the whole room is flooded with light and the darkness
is banished.
We seldom come to know from one reading. Often it
a play
has to be approached in different ways. There are plays whose
spiritual essence is so deeply embedded that it takes great effort to
dig it out. Perhaps its essential thought is so complex that it must
be decoded. Or the structure is so confused and intangible that we
only come to know it bit by bit, by studying its anatomy piece-
meal. You approach such a play as you do a puzzle, and it does
not offer much interest until it is solved. It must be read over and
over, and with each additional reading we must guide ourselves
by what was established the time before.
Unfortunately, many actors do not realize the importance of
their first impressions. Many do not take them seriously enough.
They approach this stage in their work carelessly and do not con-
sider it part of the creative process. How many of us make serious
preparation for the first reading of a play? We read it hurriedly,
wherever we happen to be, in a railroad train, in a cab, during
intermissions, and we do it not so much because we want to come
to know the play but because we want to imagine ourselves in
some fat part or other. Under such circumstances we lose an im-
portant creative occasion —an irreparable loss, because later read-
ings are deprived of the element of surprise which is so essential
to our creative intuition. You cannot erase a spoiled first impres-
sion any more than you can recover lost maidenhood.
Analysis
The second step in this great preparatory period is the process

of analysis. Through analysis the becomes further acquainted
actor
with his role. Analysis is also a method of becoming familiar with
the whole play through a study of its parts. Like a person engaged
in restoration, analysis guesses at the whole by bringing various
segments of it to life.
The word "analysis" usually connotes an intellectual process. It

is used in literary, philosophical, historical, and other types of re-
search. But in art any intellectual analysis, if undertaken by itself
and for its own sake, is harmful because its mathematical, dry
qualities tend to chill an impulse of artistic elan and creative
enthusiasm.
In art it is mind; the main role
the feeling that creates, not the
and the initiative in art belong to feeling. Here the role of the
mind is purely auxilliary, subordinate. The analysis made by an
artist is quite different from one made by a scholar or a critic. If
the result of a scholarly analysis is thought, the result of an artistic
analysis is feeling. An actor's analysis is first of all an analysis of

feeling, and it is carried out by feeling.
This role of knowledge through feeling, or analysis, is all the
more important in the creative process because only with its aid
can one penetrate the realm of the subconscious, which constitutes
nine-tenths of the life most valuable
of a person or a character, its
part. In contrast with the nine-tenths that the actor uses through
his creative intuition, his artistic instinct, his supersensory flair,
only one-tenth remains for the mind.
The creative purposes of an analysis are:
1. The study of the playwright's work.
2. The search for spiritual or other material for use in creative

work, whatever the play and one's own part in it contain.
3. The search for the same kind of material in the actor himself
8
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
(self-analysis). The material considered here consists of living,
personal memories related to the five senses, w^hich have been
stored up in an actor's emotion memory, or acquired through
study and preserved in his intellectual memory, and which are
analogous to feelings in his role.
4. The preparation in an actor's soul for the conception of crea-

tive emotions —both conscious and especially unconscious feelings.
5. The search for creative stimuli that will provide ever new
impulses of excitement, ever new bits of live material for the spirit
of a role in the places that did not immediately come to life in the
first acquaintance with the play.
Pushkin asks of the dramatist, and we ask of the actor, that he

possess "sincerity of emotions, feelings that seem true in given cir-
cumstances." Therefore, the purpose of analysis should be to study
in detail and prepare given circumstances for a play or part so that
through them, later on in the creative process, the actor's emotions
will instinctively be sincere and his feelings true to life.
What is the point of departure for an analysis ?
Let us make use of the one-tenth part of ourselves which in art
as in life is attributed to the mind, so that with its aid we can
appeal to the work of our feelings, and after that, when our feel-
ings reach the point of expression, let us try to understand their
direction and unobtrusively guide them along the true creative
path. In other words, let our unconscious, intuitive creativeness
be motion by the help of conscious, preparatory work.
set into
—
Through the conscious to the unconscious that is the motto of
our art and technique.
How do we use the mind in this creative process ? We reason
this way: The first friend and best stimulant for intuitive emotion
is artistic enthusiasm, ardor. Let it then be the first means used in

analysis. Ardor can penetrate to what is not accessible to sight,
sound, consciousness, or even the most refined awareness of art.
An analysis made by means and ardor acts

of artistic enthusiasm
as the best means to search out creative stimuli in a play, and they
in turn provoke an actor's creativeness. As an actor is enthused he
comes to understand a part, as he understands it he is even more
enthused the one evokes and reinforces the other.
;
Artistic ardor is at its most expansive at the time of first ac-

quaintance with a play. That is why an actor should repeatedly
enjoy and relish the places in his role that aroused his enthusiasm
at the first reading, the things that struck him and to which he
felt his emotions respond from the outset. An actor's nature is
responsive to everything that possesses artistic beauty, elevation,

emotion, interest, gaiety; he is instantly transported by the play-
wright's flashes of talent, scattered either on the surface or in the
depths of the play. All these places have the explosive quality that
arouses artistic ardor.
But what is do about the portions of the play which
the actor to
did not evoke the miracle of instant intuitive comprehension ? All
such portions must then be studied to disclose what materials they
possess to incite him to ardor. Now, since our emotions are silent,
we have no recourse except to turn to the nearest aid and adviser
of the emotions —the mind. Let it be a scout, to hunt through the
play in all directions. Let it be a pioneer, cutting new paths for
our principal creative forces, our intuitions and feelings. In their
turn, let our feelings seek out fresh stimulants to enthusiasm, let
them call on intuition to search out and find more and more new
bits of live material, parts of the spiritual life of the role, things
which are not reached by conscious means.
The more detailed, varied, and profound an actor makes this
analysis by the mind, the greater his chances of finding stimulants

for his enthusiasm and spiritual material for unconscious creative-
ness.
When you look for something you have lost, more often than
not you find it in an unexpected place. The same is true with crea-
10
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
tiveness. You must send your scouting mind off in all directions.
You must search everywhere for creative stimuh, leaving it to your

feelings and their intuition to choose whatever is most appropriate
for their enterprise.
In the process of analysis searches are made, as it were, in the
width, length, and depth of a play and its roles, its separate por-
tions, itscomponent strata, all its planes beginning with the exter-
nal, more obvious ones, and ending with the innermost, pro-
foundest spiritual levels. For this purpose one must dissect a play
and its roles. One must plumb its depths, layer by layer, get down
to its essence, dismember it, examine each portion separately, go
over all parts that were not carefully studied before, find the
stimuli to creative ardor, plant, so to say, the seed in an actor's
heart.
A play and its roles have many planes, along which their life
flows. First there is the external plane of facts, events, plot, form.
This is contiguous with the plane of social situation, subdivided
into class, nationality, and There is a literary
historic setting.
plane, with its ideas, its style, and other aspects. There is an aes-
thetic plane, with the sublayers of all that is theatrical, artistic,
having to do with scenery and production. There is the psycho-

logical plane of inner action, feelings, inner characterization ; and
the physical plane with its fundamental laws of physical nature,
physical objectives and actions, external characterization. And
finally there is the plane of personal creative feelings belonging to
the actor.
Not all of these planes are of equal significance. Some of them
are basic in creating a life and a soul for a part, while others are
subordinate, providing characterization and additional material
for the body and spirit of the image to be created.
Nor are all of these planes immediately accessible; many of
II
GRIBOYEDOV's WOE FROM WIT
them have to be searched out, one by one. Eventually all of the
planes coalesce in our creative feelings and presentation, and then

they provide for us not only an external form but also an inner
spiritual configuration of part and play, containing all that is
accessible and also inaccessible to our conscious approach.

The conscious levels of a play or part are like the levels and
strata of the earth, sand, clay, rocks, and so forth, which go to
form the earth's crust. As the levels go deeper dow^n into one's
soul they become increasingly unconscious, and down in the very
depths, in the core of the earth where you find molten lava and
fire, invisible human instincts and passions are raging. That is the
realm of the superconscious, that is the lifegiving center, that is
the sacrosanct "I" of the actor, the artist-human, that is the secret
source of inspiration. You are not conscious of these things but
you feel them with your whole being.
Studying the External Circumstances
Thus the line of an analysis takes its point of departure from

the externalform of the play, from the printed text of the play-
wright, which is accessible to our consciousness, and it goes from
there to the inner spiritual essence of the play, that invisible some-
thing which the playwright put inside his work, and which is
largely accessible only to our subconscious. So we go from the

periphery to the center, from the external literal form of the play
to its spiritual essence. In this way we come to know (feel) the
circumstances proposed by the playwright in order, later on, to
feel (know) sincere emotions or at least feelings that appear to be
true.
I begin my analysis with the externals of a play and take up the

verbal text in order to draw from it, in the first instance, the exter-
nal circumstances suggested by the playwright. At the start of my
analysis, I am not interested in feelings — they are intangible and
12
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
difficult to define —but in the circumstances, suggested by the play-
wright, that can give rise to feelings.
Among the external circumstances of life in a play the easiest
to study is the plane of facts. When the playwright created his
work, every tiniest circumstance, every fact, was important. Each
was a necessary link in the unbroken chain of the life of the play.
Yet we from grasping all the facts at once. The facts which
are far
we do comprehend in their essence, and at once, etch themselves
intuitively on our memory. Others which we do not sense at once,
which are not discovered or corroborated by our feelings, remain
unnoticed, unappreciated, forgotten, or hang in the air, each one
separately, a burden on the play. We become confused by them
and can find no truth of living reality in them. All this interferes
with our receiving and absorbing our first impressions of the play.
What is one to do in such cases ? How can one find one's way
around in the external factors of a play? Nemirovich-Danchenko
has offered an extremely simple and intelligent device. It consists
of retelling the contents of the play. Let the actor learn by heart
and write down the existing facts, their sequence, and their exter-
nal physical connection with one another. In the stage of early
acquaintance with the play, one is not able to retell its contents
much better than it is done in the advertisements or the condensed
librettos. But with growing experience of the play and its contents
this method helps not only to pick out the facts and orient oneself
in relation to them but also to get at that inner substance, their
interrelationships and interdependence.
As an example, I shall try to do this with Russia's most popular
play, Griboyedov's Woe from Wit.
[editor's note: The principal characters in this classic verse-play

are: Famusov, a wealthy land- and serf-owner, not of the high
aristocracy. He has a large house in Moscow, where the scene of
the play is laid in the 1820V. He is the father of Sophia, a young
girl brought up on European literature, especially sentimental
13
and romantic novels. She likes to have men and
in love with her
is by the courtship of
flattered her childhood friend Chatski. But
while he is away abroad she discovers that the adoration of her
father's secretary Molchalin is much more slavish than that of
the independent Chats\i. She encourages Molchalin s attentions.
They have just spent the night together playing duets and reciting
poetry when the play opens. 'Liza is Sophias confidential maid, a
peasant and a household serf. Famusov pesters her with his atten-
tions, but she is in love with the
footman Petrushka. Molchalin,
a yes-man in love with Sophia, toadies to anyone farther up in the
social scale than he is. Though anxious to keep in Famusov's good
graces, he eventually insults Sophia and is dismissed by Famusov.
He is a milksop and foil to Chatski, a handsome, brilliant, edu-
cated man who was almost like a brother to Sophia before he went
abroad. As soon as he returns he comes to call on her, only to find
that she has now grown up and he is in love with her. She receives
him coolly and he is revolted to find that she prefers the insignifi-
cant Molchalin to him. He is further indignant at the superfici-
ality of Moscow. He feels that Sophia has
the culture he finds in
been corrupted by all this. His biting denunciation of Moscow
society results in Sophias starting the rumor that he is insane. At
the end of the play he leaves the country once more. Princess
Maria Alexeyevna, the eldest of the family, is the arbiter of Mos-
cow conservative society manners and traditional spirit. The
phrase that ends Woe from Wit—"What will Maria Alexeyevna
say?"— became a household word in Russia. Skalozub is an army
man whom Famusov favors as a prospective son-in-law. He is very
richand of good family, is lively to reach the highest rank ^^ ^^^
army; but he is gruff and military in manner, of limited intelli-
gence, and is scorned by Sophia.]
Here are the facts of the first act:
I. A meeting between Sophia and MolchaHn has continued all

night.
14
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
dawn. They are playing a duet of flute and piano in the
2. It is
next room.
3. Liza, the maid, is asleep. She is supposed to be keeping
watch.
4. Liza wakes up, sees that day is breaking, begs the lovers to
separate quickly.
5. Liza sets the clock ahead to frighten the lovers and turn their
attention to danger,
6. As the clock strikes, Sophia's father, Famusov, enters.
7. He sees Liza, flirts with her.

8. Liza cleverly evades his attention and persuades him to go
away.
9. At the noise Sophia enters. She sees the dawn and is aston-
ished at how quickly her night of love has passed.
10. The lovers have not had time to separate before Famusov
confronts them.
11. Astonishment, questions, angry uproar.
12. Sophia cleverly extricates herself from embarrassment and
danger.
13. Her father releases her, while he goes oflF with Molchalin
to sign some papers.
14. Liza upbraids Sophia and Sophia is depressed by the prose
of daytime after the poetry of her nighttime meeting.
15. Liza tries to remind Sophia of her childhood friend Chat-
ski, who apparently is in love with Sophia.
16. This angers Sophia and causes her to think all the more
about Molchalin.
17. The unexpected arrival of Chatski, his enthusiasm, their
meeting. Sophia's embarrassment, a kiss. Chatski's bewilderment,
he accuses her of coldness. They speak of old times. Chatski is
witty in his friendly chatter. He makes a declaration of love to

Sophia. Sophia is caustic.
18. Famusov returns. He is astonished. His meeting with Chat-
ski.
15
19. Exit Sophia. She makes a sly remark about being out of
her father's sight.
20. Famusov cross-examines Chatski. His suspicions about
Chatski's intentions with regard to Sophia.
21. Chatski is lyrical in praise of Sophia. He leaves abruptly.
22. The father's bewilderment and suspicions.
There you have a list of the facts in the first act. If you use
that as a pattern to write down the facts of the following acts you
would have a catalogue of the external life of the Famusov house-
hold on a given day.
All these facts taken together give the present tense of the play.
There can be no present, however, without a past. The present
flows naturally out of the past. The past is the roots from which
the present grew; the present without any past wilts like a plant
with its roots cut off. An actor must always feel that he has the
past of his role behind him, like the train of a costume he carries
along.
Neither is there a present without a prospect of the future,
dreams of it, guesses and hints about it.
The present deprived of past and future is like a middle with-

out beginning or end, one chapter of a book, accidentally torn
out and read. The past and the dreams about the future make up
the present. An actor should always have before him thoughts
about the future which excite his ardor and which are at the same
time compatible with the dreams of the character he is portraying.
These dreams about the future should beckon to the actor, should
lead him on through all his actions on the stage. He must choose
from the play hints, dreams, of the future.
A direct connection between the present tense of a role with
its past and future gives bulk to the inner life of a character to be
portrayed. If he supports himself with the past and the future of

his role, an actor will be able to appreciate its present with greater
power.
Often the facts of a play derive from a way and kind of life, a
16
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
social situation; therefore it is push down from
not difficult to
them into a deeper level of existence. At the same time the circum-
stances which make up a way of life must be studied not only in
the actual text but also in a variety of commentaries, pieces of
literature, historical writings concerning the period, and so forth.
Thus in Woe from Wit, on the social level, here is a list of facts
that need study:
1.The rendezvous between Sophia and Molchalin. What does
it show? How did it come about? Is it due to the influence of
French education and books ? Sentimentality, languor, tenderness,
and purity on the part of a young girl; yet at the same time, her
laxity of morals.
2. Liza watches over Sophia. You must understand the danger
which threatens Liza: She could be sent to Siberia or demoted to
farm work. You must understand Liza's devotion.
3. Famusov flirts with Liza at the same time that he poses as
being monk-like in behavior. This is an example of a Pharisee of
those times.
4. Famusov is afraid of any misalliance; there is Princess Maria
Alexeyevna to be considered. What is the position of Maria
Alexeyevna ? Her family are afraid of her criticism. One can lose
one's good name, prestige, and even one's place.
5. Liza favors Chatski; she will be ridiculed if Sophia marries
Molchalin.
6. Chatski arrives from abroad. What does it mean to come
home in those days, traveling by coaches with relays of horses ?
As we probe deeper into a play we come to the literary plane.

It is not something we can grasp at once; that comes with further
study. To begin with, however, we can appreciate, in general
terms, the form, style of writing, the formulation in words, the
verse. We can appreciate, for example, the beauty of Griboyedov's
language, the lightness of his verse, the sharpness of his rhythm,
the aptness of his words.
We can dissect a play into its component parts, in order to
17
understand its structure, to admire the harmony and combinatiom
of its various parts, its elegance, smoothness, logic of development, If
the scenic quality of its action, the inventiveness of exposition, the I
characterization of the dramatis personae, their pasts, the hints at ;
their future.
We can appreciate the originality of the playwright in contriv-
ing motives, reasons for precipitating actions, v^^hich in turn reveal
the inner essence and human spirit in the play. We can contrast
and evaluate the outer form in relation to the inner content of the
play-
Digging dow^n still further we come to the aesthetic plane, with
the sublayers of all that is theatrical, artistic, having to do with
scenery and the production, whatever is plastic, musical. You can
discover and make a note of whatever the playwright tells you
about the scene, the setting, the position of rooms, architecture,
lighting, groupings, gestures, manners. Moreover you can hear
what the director of the play and the scene designer say on the
subject. You can look at the various materials collected for use in
the production, and participate in the gathering of these materials
by accompanying the director and the scene designer to museums,
picture galleries, old private homes of the period. And finally you
can look through the diaries and engravings of the period. In
other words you yourself can study the play in relation to its
artistic, plastic, architectural, and other factors.
All the notes you have taken on the external circumstances con-
stitute a great bulk of material, which will be grist to your forth-
coming creative work.
Putting Life into External Circumstances
So far, we have merely established the existence of certain facts.

Now it is necessary to find out what underlies them, gave rise to
them, is hidden behind them. We have accumulated material on

the external circumstances of a play by rather extended intellectual
i8
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
analysis. Up to now it has consisted of more than the
little listing
of facts —past, present, and future— excerpts from the text of the
play, commentaries, really just a record of the given circumstances
of the life in the play and its parts. In any such intellectual study,
the events of a play lack living, authentic meaning; they remain
inert, merely theatrical actions. With any such purely external
attitude toward the given circumstances of a play would be im-
it
possible to react with "sincere emotions" or "feelings that seem

true to life."
In order to mold this dry material to creative purposes, we must
give it and content, the theatrical facts and circum-
spiritual life
stances must be transformed from dead factors into live and life-
giving ones; our attitude toward them must be shifted from the
theatrical to the human. The dry record of facts and events must
be infused with the spirit of life, because only that which is living
can generate life. Thus we must recreate in living form the cir-
cumstances proposed by the playwright.
This transformation is accomplished by the help of one of the
principal creative forces in our art, artistic imagination. At this
point our work is lifted from the plane of reason into the sphere
of artistic dreams.
Every human being lives a factual everyday life, but he can
also live the life of his imagination. The nature of an actor is such
that often this life of imagination is much the more agreeable
and interesting one. An actor's imagination can draw to itself the
life of another person, adapt it, discover mutual and exciting quali-
ties and features. It knows how to create a make-believe existence
to its own taste, therefore close to the heart of the actor, a life that
thrills him, one that is beautiful, full of inner meaning especially
for him, a life closely akin to his own nature.
This imaginary life is created at will by the help of the actor's
own desire and in proportion to the creative intensity of the spirit-
ual material he possesses or has accumulated in himself; it is
therefore close to and cherished by him because it is not taken
19
casually from the outside. It is never in conflict with his inner
desires nor the result of any evil blow of fate, as often happens in
real life. All this makes his imaginary life much more attractive
to the actor than everyday reality; it is not surprising therefore
that his dream arouses a genuinely ardent response in his creative
nature.
An must love dreams and know how to use them. This is
actor
one of the most important creative faculties. Without imagination
there can be no creativeness. A role that has not passed through
the sphere of artistic imagination can never become engaging. An
actor must know how to use his fancy on all sorts of themes. He
must know how to create in his imagination a true life out of any
given materials. Like a child, he must know how to play with any
toy and find pleasure in his game. An actor is completely free in
creating his dream, as long as it does not stray too far from the
playwright's basic thought and theme.
There are various aspects of the life of the imagination and its
artistic functioning. We can use our inner eye to see all sorts of
visual images, living creatures, human faces, their features, land-
scapes, the material world of objects, settings, and so forth. With

our inner ear we can hear all sorts of melodies, voices, intonations,
and so forth. We can feel things in imagination at the prompting
of our sensation and emotion memory.
There are actors of things seen and actors of things heard. The
first are gifted with an especially fine inner vision and the second
with sensitive inner hearing. For the first type, to which I myself
belong, the easiest way to create an imaginary life is with the help
of visual images. For the second type it is the image of sound that
helps.
We can cherish all these visual, audible, or other images; we
can enjoy them passively from the sidelines, without feeling any
impulse to direct action; in a phrase, with passive imagining, we
can be the audience of our own dreams. Or we can take an active
part in those dreams by active imagining.
20
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
I shall begin with passive imagining. With my inner eye I shall
try to visualize Pavel Famusov, at the point where he first appears

in Woe from Wit. The material I amassed in my analysis of facts
about the architecture and furnishings of the 1820's now comes

into use.
Any actor who has powers of observation and a memory for
impressions received (alas for the actor who does not have these
qualities!), any actor who has seen, studied, read, traveled exten-
sively (alas for the actor who has not done this!) can put together
in his own imagination, let us say, the house in which Famusov
lived. We Russians, especially those of us who come from Moscow,
know such houses — if not as whole buildings, at least in part —as
remnants of the times of our ancestors.
In one of these old private houses in Moscow let us suppose we
have seen a vestibule with the front staircase of the epoch. In
another we may remember having seen columns. In a third we
retain the image of a Chinese whatnot, an engraving, say of an
interior in the 1820's, an armchair in which Famusov might have
sat. Many of us may still possess old pieces of handwork, a bit of
material embroidered with beads and silk. As we look at it admir-

ingly we think of Sophia: Could she perhaps have embroidered
some such thing down in the country, where she was obliged to
"languish, to sit with her embroidery frame and yawn at the
church calendar" ?
All our memories, gathered during the analysis of the play and
at various other times and places, memories of real or imaginary
life, all come back to us at our summons and take up their places,
restoring for us a lordly old private house of the 1820's.
After several sessions of this kind of work we can mentally
erect an entire house, and having built it, we can study it, admire
its examine the arrangement of the rooms. As we do
architecture,
this the imaginary objects take their places and gradually the
whole place acquires the atmosphere of something dear, familiar;

everything comes together to form unconsciously an inner life of
21
the house. If anything in this imaginary life does not seem right,
if it is a cause of boredom, we can instantly reconstruct a new
house, or remodel the old one, or simply repair it. The life of the
imagination has the advantage of knowing no obstacles, no de-
lays; it does not recognize the impossible. Anything that pleases
it is available; whatever it desires is instantly executed.
By passively admiring this house several times a day the actor
comes to be familiar with it down to its last detail. Habit, which
is our second nature, does the rest.
However, an empty house is a bore; we must have people inside

it. Imagination will attempt to create them too. First of all the
setting itself tends to produce people. The world of things often

reflects the soul of those who created this world —the inhabitants
of the house.
To be sure, our imagination does not at once produce these
people, or even their personal appearance; all it does is show their
costumes, perhaps the way they wear their hair. With our inner
vision we see how they move around in the costumes even though
they have as yet no faces. Sometimes we fill in the blank with a
vague sketch.
Yet, as I watch, one of the footmen comes out with extraordi-
nary sharpness. With my inner eye I clearly see his face, eyes,
manners. Can it be the footman Petrushka.? Nonsense, it is that
jolly sailor I once saw sailing out of the harbor of Novorossiisk.
How did he get here, into the house of Famusov ? Extraordinary
Will there be other such amazing events in the imagination of an
actor ?
Other characters are still lacking in personality, individual pe-

culiarities, and qualities. Their social position and place in life is
only vaguely reflected in general terms: a father, mother, lady of

the house, daughter, son, governess, houseman, footman, maid
servant, and so forth. Nevertheless these shades of people fill out
the picture of the house, they help to convey a general mood, lend
22
.
THE PERIOD OF STUDY

atmosphere, although for the time being they are merely acces-
sories.
In order to look more closely at the life of the house, I must

open a door slightly into one or another of the rooms; I must
enter one of the halves of the house, going into, shall we say, the
dining room and its dependencies: down the corridor, through

the pantry, into the kitchen, up the stairs. Around dinner time, I
see the maids, who have removed their shoes in order not to mar
the master's floors, running in all directions with plates and dishes.
I see the butler's costume, even though he has no face, as he im-
portantly receives dishes from an underhng, tasting them with all

the airs of a gourmet before taking them in and serving them to
the master. I see the costumes of the footmen and scullery boys
darting along the corridor, on the stairs. One of them may snatch
a hug, just for fun, from one of the passing maids.
Then I see the living costumes of guests, poor relations, god-
children who come to call.They are taken in to bow to Famusov
in his study, to kiss the hand of their benefactor. The children re-
cite verses they have learned for the occasion and their benefactor-
godfather distributes sweets and Then everyone gathers
gifts.
again for tea in the corner or green room. Still later when they
have gone home and the house is quiet once more I see the
all
lamps being carried into all the rooms on a large tray; I hear the
scraping noises as they are turned up ready to light, I hear the
servants bring in stepladders to climb up and put oil lamps in the
chandeliers.
Now the silence of night falls ; I hear slippered feet in the hall.
Someone slips by and all is dark and Only from a distance,
silent.
now and then, comes the call of a watchman, the crunching noise
of a late arrival in a carriage. . .
So far the life of the Famusov household has developed only as

far as its and ways are concerned. To give an inner
external habits
spirit and thought to the life of the house one must have human
beings, yet in addition to myself and the surprising phenomenon
23
of Petrushka there is not a living soul in all the household. In a
concerted effort to put life into the costumes as they are moved
about by people I try to imagine myself in them. This device
works well enough for me. I see myself in the hairdress and cos-
tume of the times walking through the house, in the vestibule,
the ballroom, the living room, the study; I see myself seated at the
dinner table next to the enlivened costume of the lady of the
house, and I am delighted to be put in a place of such honor; or
when I see I have been put way down at the foot of the table
beside the costume of Molchalin I am upset at having been thus

demoted.
In this way I acquire a feeling of sympathy for the people of
my imagination. That is a good sign. Of course, sympathy is not
feeling; nevertheless, it is a step in that direction.
Encouraged by my experiment I try to imagine my head on
the shoulders of the costumes of Famusov and others. I try to re-
call myself as a young man and I put my youthful head on the

shoulders of Chatski's costume, and Molchalin's, and to a certain
degree, I enjoy success. I apply make-up, mentally, and adapt it
to a variety of characters in the play, trying to visualize them as
the inhabitants of this house introduced to me by the playwright.

But although I succeed somewhat with this, it does not offer me
any substantial help. Later on I recall a whole gallery of faces of
living people with whom I am acquainted. I look at all kinds of
pictures, engravings, photographs. I make the same kind of ex-
periment with heads of people living and dead, but they all end in
failure.
This unsuccessful experiment with other people's heads per-

suades me that this is a fruitless kind of work. I have come to
realize that the point of my work is not to be able to visualize
make-ups, costumes, the external appearance of the inmates of the
Famusov household from the point of view of a passive observer,
but to feel that they are actually present, feel them right beside me.
It is not sight and sound but the sense of nearness of an object
24
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
that helps to make us feel existing reality. More than that I realize
that I cannot achieve this sense of nearness, really feel it, by dig-
ging in the text of the play while sitting at my desk; it is neces-
sary to make a mental picture of Famusov's personal relationship
to the people of his family.
How can I accomplish this shift ? It done with the help
also is
of imagination —but this time, the imagination plays an active

rather than a passive role.
You can be the observer of your dream, but you can also take an
active part in it —that
you can find yourself mentally in the cen-
is
ter of circumstances and conditions, a way of life, furnishings,
objects, and so forth, which you have imagined. You no longer

see yourself as an outside onlooker, but you see what surrounds
you. In time, when this feeling of "being" is reinforced, you can
become the main active personality in the surrounding circum-
stances of your dream; you can begin, mentally, to act, have de-
sires, make an effort, achieve a goal.
This is the active aspect of imagination.
Creating Inner Circumstances
The creation of the inner circumstances of the life of a play

is a continuation of the general process of analysis and infusing
life in the material already accumulated. Now the process goes
deeper, it goes down from the realm of the external, the intel-
lectual, into that of the inner, spiritual life. And this is brought
about with the help of an actor's creative emotions.
The difficulty of this aspect of emotional perception is that the
actor is now coming to his part not words of
through the text, the
his role, nor by intellectual analysis or other conscious means of
knowledge, but through his own sensations, his own real emo-
tions, his personal life experience.
To do this he must set himself at the very center of the house-
hold, he must be there in person, not seeing himself as an ob-
25
server, as I was doing earlier; his imagination must be active, not
passive as before. This is a difficult and important psychological
moment whole period of preparation. It requires excep-
in the
tional attention. This moment is what we in actor's jargon call
the state of "I am," it is the point where I begin to feel myself in
the thick of things, where I begin to coalesce with all the circum-
stances suggested by the playwright and by the actor, begin to
have the right to be part of them. This right is not won immedi-
ately, it is achieved gradually.
At this stage in the preparation of Woe from Wit, for example,
I try to transfer myself from the place of observer to that of active
participant, a member of the Famusov family. I cannot pretend
that I can accomplish this at once. What I can do is to shift my
attention from myself to what is surrounding me. I begin again to
go through the house. Now I am entering the doorway, going up
the staircase, I have opened the door to the row of living rooms;
now I am in the reception room, I push a door open into an ante-
chamber. Someone has blocked the door with a heavy armchair
which I push aside to walk on into the ballroom.
But enough of that ! Why fool myself ? What I am feeling as I
take this walk is not the result of active imagining or a real sense
of being in the situation. It is nothing more than self-deception.
I am only forcing myself to have emotions, forcing myself to feel
I am living something or other. Most actors make this mistake.
They only imagine they are ahve in a situation, they do not really
feel it. One must be extraordinarily strict with oneself in this mat-
ter of feeling "I am" on the stage. There is a vast difference be-
tween the true feeling of the life of the part and some accidentally
imagined emotions. It is dangerous to be trapped by such false
illusions; they tend to mislead the actor into forced and mechani-
cal acting.
Nevertheless, in the course of my fruitless walk through Famu-
sov's house there has been one instant when I really felt that I
was there and believed in my own feelings. This was when I
26
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
opened the door into the antechamber and pushed aside a large
armchair; I really felt the physical effort entailed in this act. It
lasted for several seconds; I felt the truth of my being there. It
was dissipated as soon as I walked away from the armchair and I
was again walking in space, amid undefined objects.

This experience teaches me the exceptional importance of the
part played by an object in helping me to get into the state of
I am.
I repeat my experiments with other inanimate objects. Men-
tally I change about all the furniture in various rooms, I carry ob-
jects back and forth, I dust them, examine them. Encouraged, I
push the test a step farther; I now come into closer contact with
animate objects. With whom? With Petrushka, of course, since he
is so far the only living personality in this house of phantoms and
moving costumes. So we meet, let us say, in the dimly lighted

corridor near the staircase leading to the upper floor and the girls'
quarters.
"Perhaps he is waiting for Liza ?" I think, as I jokingly wag my
finger at him.
He smiles a pleasant, engaging smile. At this moment I not
only feel his actual presence among all the imagined circumstances
but I also feel keenly that the world of things has, as it were, come
to life. The walls, the air, things are bathed in a living light.
Something true has been created and I believe in it, and as a
resuh my feeling of "I am" is further strengthened. At the same

time I am aware of a kind of creative joy. It turns out that a live
object is a force in creating the sense of being. It is quite clear

to me that this situation has not created itself directly, but through
my feeling concerning an object, especially a live one.
The more I experiment with creating people mentally, meeting
them, feeling their nearness, their actuality, the more I become
convinced that in order to reach the state of "I am," the external,
physical image (the vision of a head, body, manners, of a person)
is not so important as its inner image, the tenor of its inner being.
27
I also come to realize that in any interchange with other people it
is important not only to know their psychology but also to know

one's own.
That is why my meeting with Petrushka was successful. I
sensed what he was like inside; I could see his inner image. I
recognized the sailor in the image of Petrushka not because of any
external likeness but because of what I imagined his inner nature
was like. I would like to say about the sailor what Liza said about
Petrushka: "How could one not fall in love with him!"
The next question is how to use one's own life experience to
feel what the life of all the other inmates of the Famusov house-
hold is and especially to establish one's own relationship to
like,
them. That, it would seem, is a complex task; to accomplish it

would be almost the same as creating a whole play. My intentions
do not go that far. They are much simpler in scale. It will be
sufficient to find living souls among the phantoms in the house of
Famusov. There is no need for them to be exactly the creatures in-

tended by Griboyedov. Yet since I believe that my own feelings,
my imagination, and my whole artistic nature will be influenced
by the work already done, I am convinced that these living ob-
jects will, if only partially, have some of the traits which should
animate Griboyedov's characters.

In order to train myself in meeting these live objects, I under-
take a whole series of imaginary visits to the members of the
Famusov household, family, and friends. I am now prepared to
knock at any door in the house for permission to enter.
Under the fresh impact of having just read the play I naturally
wish to on the inmates of the Famusov household
call, first of all,
with whom the author has acquainted me. I wish to see especially
the head of the house, Pavel Famusov himself, then the young
lady of the house, Sophia, then Liza, Molchalin, and so forth. I
go down the familiar corridor, trying not to stumble over any-
thing in the dim light; I count off the doors to the third on the
right. I knock and cautiously open the door.
28
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
Thanks to acquired habit I am quick to beHeve in what I am
doing, in my actually being there. I enter Famusov's room and
what do I see ? In the middle of the room stands the head of the
house dressed in his nightshirt and singing a Lenten song, "Oh,
my prayer is to become a better boy," and all the while making
the gestures of a choir master. In front of him stands a small boy
whose face is contorted with fruitless efforts at understanding. He
squeaks in a thin, childish treble, trying to catch and retain the
words of the prayer. There are traces of tears in his eyes. I take a
seat off to one side of the room. The old man is not in the least
embarrassed by his semi-nude state, and continues to sing. I hear

him with my inner ear and seem to sense his physical nearness.
However the physical sense is not enough, I must try to feel his
soul.
Since this cannot be done in a physical way, I must use other

avenues of approach. After all, people commune with each other
not just by means of words and gestures but mainly through the
invisible radiations of will, vibrations which flow back and forth
between two souls. Feeling finds out feeling, as one soul does an-
other. There is no other way. To try to get at the soul of my living
object I must find out its quality and, above all, my relationship
to it.
I attempt to direct the rays of my will or feelings, a part of my

own self, toward him and to take back a part of his soul. In other
words I am doing an exercise in giving out and receiving rays.
Yet what can I take from or give him, when Famusov himself
does not as yet exist for me, is still without soul ? Yes, he does not
exist, that is true, but I know his position as head of the household,
I know his kind, his social group, even if I do not know him as
an individual. This is where my personal experience helps me;

it reminds me that judged by his external appearance, manners,
habits, his childlike seriousness, his deep faith, his reverence for
sacred music, he must be a familiar type of good-natured, amus-
29
ing, stubborn eccentric, who includes in his make-up the bar-
barous fact of being a serf-owner.
Even though this may not help me to penetrate to the soul of a
person and understand it, it nevertheless enables me to find inside
myself the correct attitude toward Famusov. Now I know how to
take his sallies and acts. For a while these observations engross
me, but then they begin to pall. My attention wanders, I take my-
self in hand and concentrate again, but soon I am of? woolgather-
ing and my thoughts leave Famusov, I have nothing more to do
with him. Nonetheless, I consider this experiment somewhat suc-
cessful, and being thus encouraged I go on to Sophia.
I run into her in the vestibule. She is all dressed up and is hur-
riedly putting on a fur coat to go out. Liza is fluttering around

her, helping to button up her coat, and running around with all
the little packages that a young lady is likely to take with her.
Sophia herself is prinking in front of a mirror. The father has
gone to his office in the ministry —so I have reasoned —and the
daughter is hurrying downtown to the French stores to look at
"hats, bonnets, needles, and pins," to "book and cake shops," and
perhaps "on other errands."
This time the result is the same: My object of attention gives
me a lively feeling of "being" ; yet I cannot retain it for long, my
thoughts are soon distracted. I concentrate again and then in the
end, having nothing to do, I leave Sophia and go off to Molchalin.
As long as he is writing, at my request, the list of relatives and
friends of Famusov on whom I plan to call, I feel at ease. I am
entertained by the florid penmanship with which Molchalin forms
his letters. But when he has finished I am bored and set off to
make my calls. . . .
All you have to do imagine you have left home and the
is to
curiosity of your artistic nature will know no bounds. Everywhere
I go on my imaginary visits I feel the presence of animated objects
and am able to communicate with them if there is any basis for it;
and each time, this reinforces my sense of being. But unfortunately
30
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
each new acquaintance holds my attention only briefly. Why is
that ? It is easy to understand : All of these meetings lack purpose.

They are created as exercises and to feel the physical presence of
the objects chosen. This feeling has been acquired for its own
sake, and one cannot be interested for long in mere physical sen-
sation. It would be quite different if these visits had a purpose,
even an external one. So I repeat my experiments, after first for-
mulating a definite purpose. I go into the ballroom and I say to
myself: The marriage of Sophia and Skalozub will soon take place
and I have been commissioned to get up a great wedding break-
fast for a hundred guests. What is the best way to arrange the
silver, the tables, and so forth?
This brings all sorts of considerations to mind: For instance,

the colonel of Skalozub's regiment and perhaps his whole staff
will be present at the wedding. They will have to be seated by
rank so that no one will be offended by not being as near as
possible to the place of honor, nearest to the bride and groom.
The same problem applies to relatives. They may be all too easily
offended. Having collected so many honored guests I am in a
quandary do not have enough places for them. How about
as I
putting the bridal couple in the center and radiating the other
tables from there in all directions ? That would automatically in-
number
crease the of places of honor.
And the more places one has, the easier it is to seat people
according to rank. I am preoccupied for a long time with this
problem, and when it begins to lose interest something else is
ready to take its place —the preparation of the food, this time for
Sophia's wedding not with Skalozub but with Molchalin.
That changes everything Marrying her father's secretary would
!
be a misalliance, the wedding would be much quieter, only the

immediate family would come, and indeed not all of them would
be willing to grace the occasion. There would be no colonel since
Molchalin's chief is Famusov himself.
New combinations ferment inside me, and I no longer think
31
about the closeness of the objectives, or about being in communi-
cation with my object. I am in action! My head, my feeHngs, will,
imagination all are as busily at happening work as if this were all
in real life. Encouraged by my experiment I decide to try one

more, this time not with inanimate objects but with living ones.
To do this I go once more to Famusov's. He is still teaching the
boy to sing a hymn and is still conducting the music dressed only
in his nightshirt.
I decide to aggravate this old eccentric. I enter, I down at
sit
the other end of the room, I draw my bead, as it were, on him

and seek a pretext to argue in order to tease the old gentleman.
"What is that you are singing ?" I ask.
But Famusov does not deign to reply, perhaps because he has
not reached the end of the prayer. Finally he finishes.
"A very nice melody," I announce calmly.
"That was not a melody, but a sacred prayer," he replies with
emphasis.
"Oh, excuse me, I had forgotten! When . . . is it sung?"
"If you went to church, you'd know."
The old man is already annoyed, but that only amuses me and
incites me to bait him further.
"I'd go except that I can't stand for so long," I say mildly. "Be-
sides it's so hot there!"
"Hot?" retorts the old gentleman. "What about Gehenna?
Isn't it hot there ?"
"That's different," I reply with even greater mildness.
"How so?" demands Famusov, taking a step in my direction.
"Because in Gehenna you can walk around without clothes,

just as God made you," I say with pretended stupidity, "and you
can around, and steam yourself as in a Russian bath; but in
lie
church they make you stand and sweat in your fur coat."
"Oh you . . . and the old gentleman
you're a terrible sinner,"
hurries off lest he "rock the foundations" by laughing.
This new work seems to me so important that I decide to con-
32
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
firm it. I again make a round of calls, but this time I
set off to
have the definite purpose in mind of announcing to the relatives

and friends of Famusov the forthcoming marriage of Sophia and
Skalozub. The experiment is successful, though not always in
equal degree; still I am
aware of the living soul of the objects
with whom I have been communicating. And my own sense of
being in the picture is fortified by each new test.
As my work develops, my ultimate purpose and the ensuing
circumstances become more difficult and complex. Whole events
take place. For example, in my imagination Sophia is sent away,
far down into the country. What is her secret fiance, Molchalin,
to do? In casting around for a solution I go so far as to plan her
abduction. At another time I undertake to defend Sophia in the

family meeting after she has been discovered with Molchalin. The
family judge on this occasion is that pillar of convention. Princess
Maria Alexeyevna. It is not easy to argue with this formidable
representative of family traditions. On a third occasion I am pres-
ent at the surprise announcement of Sophia's engagement to
Skalozub. I rack my brains to think of how to avert such a catas-

trophe. Things reach the point of my becoming involved in a
duel with Skalozub himself and ... I shoot him!
As I did these test experiments in achieving the state of "I am"
I became convinced that simple action is not enough; there must
be incidents. In this way you not only begin to exist in your
imagined life, you more keenly aware of the feelings of
also are
other people, of your relations with them and theirs with you.
You come to know people when they are happy or unhappy.
Meeting people, day by day in the thick of life, going forward
together to face events, facing each other, making efforts, strug-
gling, reaching your goal or abandoning it, you are not only aware
of your own existence but also of your relationship to these others
and to the very facts of life.
When I found myself able to become wholly involved in im-
33
aginary action and my struggles with oncoming events, I felt that
some miraculous metamorphosis had taken place in me. . . .
At this point one comes to appreciate inner circumstances at

their full value. They are compounded of personal attitudes to-
wârd events of external and internal life and of mutual relation-
ships with other people. If an actor possesses the technique of the
creative inner state, that state of "I am," if he has the real feel
of an animate object of attention, and can move among and com-

municate with the phantoms of his imagination, then he is able
to infuse life into external and internal circumstances, breathe a
living spirit into a part; in other words, he can accomplish the
work we set out to do in the first phase of studying a new play.
Facts and people may change; instead of those he creates with his
own imagination an actor may be offered other, new ones; still,
his ability to put life into them is an important factor in his
further work.
With this moment metamorphosis our first phase
of miraculous
of work is temporarily concluded. This working over, plowing up
of the actor's soul, has prepared the ground for producing creative
emotions and experiences. The actor's analysis of the play has
brought to life for him the circumstances proposed by the play-

wright, in which "sincerity of emotions" can now grow in a
natural way. This does not mean that an actor does not have to
come back later to what has already been done. All this work will
continue, be developed, endlessly enlarged until he is in full con-
tact with his role.
Appraising the Facts
Appraising the facts of a play is actually the continuation, in-

deed the repetition, of what we have just finished doing, the result
of which was an inner transformation. The difference is that the
earlier work was done on an ad libitum basis, in the form of
variations on and about the play, whereas now we are to deal
34
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
with the play itself in the form in which the playwright created it.
There is a direct bond between the internal and external cir-
cumstances of a play. Indeed the inner life of the characters is
concealed in the outer circumstances of their life, therefore in the

them separately. If you
facts of the play. It is difficult to assess
penetrate through the external facts of a play and its plot to their
inner essence, going from the periphery to the center, from form
to substance,you inevitably enter the inner life of the play.
So we must go back to the external facts of Woe from Wit, not
for their own sake but for the sake of what they conceal. We must
consider them from a fresh angle of vision, in a new light; we
must see a new state in the Famusov house in view of our own
new creative state of "I am." But we go back to the facts with
considerably more preparation and practical experience than we
started with.
Although I am going to play Chatski, I approach the appraisal
of the facts of my own part gradually; for I must know (feel) all
the life in the Famusov household, and not just that part of it
which directly concerns my role.
First we have the lovers' meeting, Sophia with Molchalin. In

order to weigh this fact in the scales of my own emotions, my
own experience in life, I try mentally to put myself in the place
of the actress who is and in her name I try to exist
to play Sophia,
in the role. As part of my state of "I am," I ask myself: "What
are the circumstances of my inner life, what are my personal,
living thoughts, desires, capacities, if I am a woman and stand
in the relationship to Molchalin that Sophia does.''"
But everything inside me protests: "He's just a cardboard lover
—an opportunist, an underling!" I am revolted by him. No possi-
ble circumstances could force me, were I a woman, to have the
attitude toward Molchalin that Sophia has. Obviously, were a
if I
woman I would be unable to summon up emotions, memories, or

any affective materials with which to bring the role of Sophia to
life; I would have to abandon my part in Woe from Wit.
35
While my reason is working, however, my imagination is not
asleep. Imperceptibly it envelops me with the familiar surround-
ings of life in the Famusov household; it makes me live in the
circumstances of Sophia's life; it pushes me into the thick of the

facts, so that being in the center of things, the impulses of my own
will, my own feelings, my own reason and experience force me to
assess the importance and significance of these factors. And from
this fresh angle, my imagination seeks a new justification, inner
explanation, and approach of feeling for the facts as given by the

playwright.
"And what if Sophia," suggests my imagination, "is so cor-
rupted by her upbringing, by French novels, that the very kind
of love she would prefer is that of an insignificant creature like
this underling Molchalin?"
"How revolting! How pathological," say my feelings indig-
nantly; "where can you find any inspiration for such emotions?"
"In the very revulsion which they cause," comes the cold com-
ment of my mind.
"What about Chatski ?" my feelings protest. "Is it possible that
he could love such a perverse Sophia ? do not want to believe it.
I
It ruins the image of Chatski and the whole play."
When I see that I can find no avenue of approach for my feel-

ings from this angle, my imagination seeks out fresh motives,
other circumstances which will evoke different reactions.
"What if Molchalin," says my imagination temptingly, "is
really an extraordinary person, indeed just what Sophia describes

him as being —poetic, gentle, affectionate, considerate, sensitive,
and above all, easy and compliant ?"
"Then he would not be Molchalin but someone else and very
nice," replies my feeling captiously.
"Very well then," agrees my imagination. "But is it possible to
fall in love with such a person?"
Of course my emotions are routed.

"Besides," insists my imagination without allowing my emo-
36
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
tions to recover their balance, "one must not forget that every
human being, especially a spoiled wôman, tends to self-admiration,
and to that end is obliged to imagine herself as she would like to
be, not as she actually is. If this game is played when she is alone,
how much more agreeable it is when played with someone else,
someone like Molchalin, who evidently sincerely believes anything

anyone wants him to believe. What a pleasure it is for a woman
to pose as a kindly, high-minded, poetic creature, humiliated by
everyone! How pleasant to pity oneself and to arouse the pity
and enthusiasm of others. The presence of an audience impels her
to further tricks, to playing another beautiful role, to admire her-
self afresh; especially if the onlooker is someone who knows how,
as Molchalin does, to give her encouraging replies."

"Yes, but this interpretation of Sophia's feelings is arbitrary
and runs counter to Griboyedov."
"Not in the least. Griboyedov is intent on Sophia's self-decep-
tion, on Molchalin's brazen falseness," concludes my mind.
"Do not believe the teachers of literature," urges my imagina-

tion even more strongly. "Put your faith in your feelings."
Now that the fact of the love between Sophia and Molchalin
has convinced my feelings that it has a justifiable basis, it comes
to life for me and is quite acceptable. I believe in the truth of its
existence. My emotional analysis has accomplished its first mis-

sion, it has created important inner circumstances for the play,
and for my role as Chatski. Besides, the fact of the sincere affection
between Sophia and Molchalin immediately throws light on many
other scenes. It explains the whole line of the love between Sophia
and Molchalin and the circumstances that interfere with that love.
In addition it is like a live wire, sending out currents to all the
which have any relation to it.
other parts of the play
Now suddenly Famusov enters and finds the lovers at their
meeting. Sophia's position becomes much more difficult, and I
cannot refrain from emotional excitement at the thought of being
in her place.
37
Coming suddenly face to face with a despotic character hke
Famusov, when one is in such compromising circumstances,
makes one feel thatsome bold and unexpected step is called for so
that one's adversary will be thrown off balance. At such a moment
one must know the adversary well, know his individual peculi-
arities. But I do not know Famusov except for some hints about
him which I recall from the first reading of the play. Neither the
director nor the actor playing Famusov gives me any help, for
they are as ignorant about him as I am. I have no recourse except
to define his character for myself, his individual peculiarities, the
inner shape of this old and wilful creature. Who is he ?
"He is a bureaucrat, an owner of serfs," is the information
quickly supplied by my mind, which recalls my literature lessons
in school.
"Splendid!" my imagination is already on fire. "That means
Sophia is a heroine!"
"Why that?" queries my bewildered mind.
"Because only a heroine can twist a tyrant around her little
finger with such calm and self-assurance," says my excited im-

agination. "Here is a clash between old customs and new! The
freedom to love! It'smodern theme!"
a
"But what if Famusov is only imposing in appearance, in order
to maintain the customs of the family, the traditions of his class,
in order to curry favor with Princess Maria Alexeyevna?" This is
a new phantasy. "What if Famusov is a good-natured old body,

hospitable, irascible, but easily placated? What if he is the kind
of a father who is led around by his nose by his daughter?"
"In that case —things would be altogether different! Then the
escape from the situation which has been created is perfectly
clear! It's not difficult to deal with a father like that, especially
since Sophia is shrewd, like her late mother," so my mind informs
me.
Having realized how to deal with Famusov it is possible to find
38
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
inner approaches for the basis of many other scenes related to
him, and conversations with him.
The same kind of appraisal must be made of the return of
Chatski, one who is almost a brother to Sophia, almost a fiance,
once the beloved; one who is always bold, tempestuous, free, and
in love. His arrival from abroad after years of absence is a far
from usual thing for those times when there were no railroads,
when people traveled in heavy coaches, when a journey might

well take months to accomplish. As ill-luck would have it Chatski
arrives unexpectedly, and just at the wrong time. This makes So-
phia's embarrassment more understandable, also her feeling
all the
that she must put up some pretense and screen her embarrass-
ment, her prick of conscience; finally it explains Sophia's attacks
on Chatski. When
one considers Chatski's position, his childhood
friendship with Sophia, and compares it with her present cold
attitude toward her former friend, one can understand what the
change is and how astonished Chatski feels. On the other hand,
if one looks from Sophia's angle one is inclined to
at the things
forgive her irritable attitude and realize that the unfortunate im-
pression Chatski's aspersions and sharp wit make on her is be-
cause of the nocturnal lovers' meeting followed by her down-to-
earth scene with her father, and because Chatski's conduct is such
a contrast to Molchalin's unresisting gentleness.
one puts oneself in the place of other characters, relatives of
If
Sophia, one can understand them too. Would they ever stand for
the free speech and ways of Westernized Chatski? Would they
not, living in a country where serfdom still existed, be alarmed at
his speeches aimed at undermining the foundations of their so-
ciety ? Only an insane man would dare to talk and act as Chatski
does. Against this background Sophia's revenge, then, is all the
cleverer and more remorseless when she makes others believe that
her erstwhile friend and fiance is not sane. And again, standing in
Sophia's stead one realizes the weight of the blow of Molchalin's
insulting duplicity to her over-indulged self-esteem. One must
39
have lived in one's imagination amid serf-owners and known their
habits, customs, tenor of hfe, to understand —
hence to feel the —
power of the infinite indignation of Famusov's daughter and her
pain at the shameful discharge of Molchalin, as if he were a hired
footman. And one must put oneself also in the place of Famusov
to understand the depth of his anger, his animosity, the sense of
retributionand horror summed up in his final phrase: "Oh,
good God, what will Princess Maria Alexeyevna say!"
As a result, after testing all the separate facts, all the external
and internal circumstances, by your own experience you can
comprehend (therefore sense) how exciting, how full of unex-
pected happenings, is this day in the life of the Famusov house-
hold which Griboyedov chose for his play. It is only now that
you will be aware of one special quality of this comedy, some-
thing often overlooked by producers of Woe from Wit: the pace,
the temperament, the tempo. Indeed, to squeeze in and account
for the abundance of facts, deeply significant as they are, which
develop through the four acts of the play, which means several
hours in performance, it is necessary to set a rapid pace ; the actors
must be on the alert in their attitude toward everything that hap-
pens on the stage. It is, moreover, necessary to estimate the inner
tempo of the underlying human spirit in the Famusov household
— this is obligatory for all the characters in the play.
The more an and known, the greater his ex-
actor has observed
perience, his accumulation of live impressions and memories, the
more subtly will he think and feel, and the broader, more varied,
and substantial will be the life of his imagination, the deeper his
comprehension of facts and events, the clearer his perception of
the inner and outer circumstances of the life in the play and in his
part. With daily, systematic practice of the imagination on one
and the same theme everything that has to do with the proposed
circumstances of the play will become habitual in his imaginary
life. In turn these habits will become second nature.
Actually what difference is there now between the dry cata-
40
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
logue of facts, as read to me when
became acquainted with
I first
the play, and the present appraisal of those same facts? At first
they all seemed theatrical, external, mere accessories of the plot
and the structure of the play; but now they are living events in an
infinitely exciting day, impregnated with life, indeed my own.
In the beginning the simple, dry item read "enter Famusov";
now those same words contain a serious threat to the discovered
lovers: Sophia stands in danger of being exiled "to the deep coun-
try," and Molchalin is threatened with discharge.
In the beginning what was a simple stage cue, "enter Chatski,"
now becomes the return of the prodigal son to the bosom of his
family and the reunion, for which he has waited for years, with
his beloved. How much imagination, how many inner and ex-
ternal circumstances —how many individual bits of inner life, sup-
positions, images, yearnings, actions — are now included in that
dry stage instruction and in every word the playwright set down!
Now that I have tested the facts of the play through my own
personal experiment, all the life and the inner and outer circum-
stances of my role seem no longer alien, as they did earlier, but
actual and real. All the circumstances of life in the Famusov house
have acquired significance and meaning. I accept them not piece-
meal but as an indivisible part of the whole complicated chain of
circumstances of the play. My attitude toward them becomes a
reality.
In transmitting the facts and plot of a play the actor involun-

tarily transmits its inner content, whatever is included in it; he
conveys that living spirit which like a subterranean river flows
under the external facts. On the stage all one needs are facts of
inner content, facts which represent the end result of inner feel-
ings, or facts which act as motive forces to set emotions in action.
A fact as a fact, by itself and of itself, a fact which is no more
than an entertaining episode, is not worth anything; indeed, it is
harmful because it takes away from true inner life.
The significance of the appraisal of facts lies in its forcing
41
people to come into contact, mentally, with each other, making
them take action, struggle, overcome, or give in to fate or to other
people. It uncovers their aims, their personal lives, the mutual
attitudes of the actor himself, as a living organism in a role, with
other characters in the play. In other words it clarifies the circum-
stances of the inner life of the play and that is what we are look-
ing for.
What else does this appraisal of facts and events signify? It
means that we have to dig down under the external events and in
the depths find that other, more important, inner event which
perhaps gave rise to the external facts. It means also that we must
follow out the line of development of that inner event and sense
both the degree and nature of its effect, the direction and the
line of effort of each character, discern the pattern of the many
inner lines of the characters, their crisscrossing and diverging as
each aims toward his particular goal in life.
In brief, to appraise the facts means to comprehend (therefore

feel) the inner pattern of the life of a human being. To appraise
the facts is to take all the alien life created by the playwright and
make it one's own. To appraise the facts is to find the key to the
riddle of the inner life of a character which lies hidden under the
text of the play.
Itwould be a mistake to fix the appraisal of facts and events in
a play once and for all. As work progresses it is necessary to come
back all the time to fresh re-estimates, which add to the inner sub-
stance. Moreover the facts should be newly evaluated every time
you repeat your creation of a part. Man is not a machine. He can-
not feel a part the same way every time he plays it; he cannot be
stirred each time by the same creative stimuli. Yesterday's estimate
is not quite the same as today's. There will be infinitesimal,
scarcely perceptible changes in the approach, and that is often the

main stimulus to today's creativeness. The power of such stimulus
lies in its novelty, its unexpectedness.
All the innumerable complexities of accident through the in-
42
THE PERIOD OF STUDY
fluence of weather, temperature, light, food, the combination of
outer and inner circumstances, in one degree or another affect the
inner state of an actor. In turn an actor's inner state affects his
relation to the facts. His capacity to take advantage all the time
of these changing complexities, his ability to refresh his stimula-
tion through new approaches — all this is an important part of an
actor's inner technique. Without this faculty an actor can lose in-
terest in his part after a few performances, he can lose touch with
the facts and living events, and be deprived of his sense of their
significance.
43
CHAPTER TWO
The Period of Emotional Experience
WHEREAS THE FIRST period of work on a role was only one

of preparation, this second period is one of creation. If the first
period could be compared to the early courtship between two

lovers, the second represents the consummation of their love, the
conception and the formation of the fruit of their union.
Nemirovich-Danchenko illustrated this moment of creation by
a comparison: In order to produce a plant you must sow the seed
in the ground that seed must decompose and from it emerge the
;
roots of the plant to be. In exactly the same way the seed of the
author's creation must be planted in the soul of the actor, it must
go through the stage of decomposition and then put forth its roots
from which a new creation will be forthcoming; it will belong to
the actor, but in spirit it will be the progeny of the playwright.
If the preparatory period produced the given circumstances,
then this second period will create the sincerity of emotions, the
heart of a role, its inner image, its spiritual life. This emotional
experience of a role is the basic, most important phase in our cre-
ativeness.
The and experiencing a part is an
creative process of living
organic one, founded on the physical and spiritual laws governing
the nature of man, on the truthfulness of his emotions, and on
natural beauty. How does this organic process originate and de-
velop, of what does the creative work of the actor here consist }
Inner hn pulses and Inner Action

Having learned in my early preparation of Woe from Wit how
to "be," to exist, amid the circumstances of life in the Famusov
44
THE PERIOD OF EMOTIONAL EXPERIENCE
household, having thanks to my imagination found a personal
human basis for living there, having come face to face with certain
facts and events, having met the inmates of the household, come
to know them, felt what their emotions are, established direct
communication with them, I have, unbeknown to myself, begun
to harbor certain desires, impulses toward a certain goal which
has asserted itself of its own accord.
For example, I recall my morning visit to Famusov, when he
was singing, and now I not only feel myself there with him, in
his room; I not only feel the presence of a live object and sense
his emotions; I also begin to be aware of certain desires, impulses
toward some nearby objective. For the time being these desires
are extremely simple: I wish Famusov would pay some attention
to me. I seek appropriate words and actions to bring this about;
for instance, I am tempted to tease the old man because I believe
he must be funny when his dander is up.
These creative impulses are naturally followed by impulses
leading to action. But impulse is not yet action. The impulse is an
inner urge, a desire not yet satisfied, whereas the action itself is
either an external or internal satisfaction of the desire. An impulse

calls for inner action, and inner action eventually calls for external
action. It is, however, as yet too soon to speak of this.
At present, being aware of my impulses to action, the imagined

emotional experience of some scene in the life of the Famusov
household, I begin to take aim at some subject of my observation,
to search for means of carrying out an objective. Thus when I
recall the love scene between Sophia and Molchalin as interrupted

by Famusov, I cast about as Sophia to find a way out of the situa-
tion. First of all I must hide my embarrassment by the appearance
of calm, I must summon all my self-control, I must think of a

plan of action, I must find some way to adapt myself to Famusov,
to approach him in his present state of mind, I choose him as my
objective. The more he rages, the calmer I strive to be. As soon as
he cools off I try to disconcert him by my innocent, compliant,
45
reproachful looks. Meantime, all sorts of subtle inner adjustments
spring up in me: the slyness of a resourceful heart, a complexity
of emotions, unexpected inner impulses to action, which only
nature can supply, only intuition knows how to foster.
As soon as I feel these stirrings I can go into action, not physi-

cally as yet, only inwardly, in my imagination. . . .
"What would you do," my imagination asks my feelings, "if

you were in Sophia's situation?"
"I would tell my face to put on an angelic expression," answer
my feelings without hesitation.
"And then what?" my imagination continues.
"I would say to keep stubbornly silent," my feelings reply. "Let
my father say as many harsh and stupid things as he likes. This is
all to the advantage of his daughter who is usually so spoiled.

Then when the old man has poured out all his venom, is hoarse
with his shouting, and exhausted with emotion, when there is
nothing left in the bottom of his soul except his customary good
nature, indolence, love of tranquillity, when he has sat down in a
comfortable armchair to catch his breath and wipe away his
perspiration, I would order more silence, a more angelic expres-
sion such as only a righteous person can muster."
"And then?" urges my imagination.
"I would order Sophia surreptitiously to wipe away a tear, but
do it and I
so that her father notices it, would stand as immovable
as before, until the old man would get worried and ask me, rather
guiltily: 'Why are you so silent, Sophia?' But I would not reply.
'Don't you hear me?' the old gentleman would now beg. 'What
is the matter with you ? Tell me.'
" 'I hear,' the daughter would answer in a humble, defenseless,
childlike voice, in a way to render him helpless."

"What would happen next?" my imagination asks rather in-
sistently.
"Next I would order her still to remain silent, and stand there
humbly, until her father begins to get angry, but now not because
46
he caught her with Molchalin but because she and puts is silent
him in an awkward position. This is an excellent method of dis-

tracting a person's attention, of moving the conversation from one
topic to another."
Finally taking pity on her father she would ask, with extraordi-
nary calm, that he be shown the flute which Molchalin is awk-
wardly and stupidly trying to hide behind his back.
"Look, father," I have her say in a humble voice.
"What's that?" asks her father.
"A flute," she replies, "that's why Molchalin came."
"I see, I see how he is trying to hide it in his coat tails. But how
did it get here, into your room?" asks the old gentleman with
fresh emotion.
"Where should We
were practicing a duet together yes-
it be ?
terday. You know very well, father, that he and I were practicing
a duet for the party this evening."
"Well! . . . Yes, I know," her father agrees cautiously, although
he is still indignant over his daughter's composure, which would
seem to proclaim her innocence.
"To be sure, we worked longer than propriety allows. And for
that I ask your forgiveness. Father." Here Sophia kisses her
father's hand, he kisses her lightly on the forehead and says to
himself: "What a clever girl!"
"We absolutely had to finish learning the duet because other-
wise you would have been annoyed if your daughter had disgraced
your relatives by playing the duet badly.
herself in front of all
Wouldn't you have been annoyed?"
"Well, ... it would have been annoying," the old gentleman
agrees almost guiltily, feeling that the shoe is already being put
on the other foot. "But why here?" he suddenly explodes, as if
trying to extricate himself.

"Where then?" Sophia, with her angelic expression, asks the
old gentleman. "You forbade me to go into the reception room
where the piano is. You said it was not proper to be alone with a
47
young man way off there. Besides it is very cold, as those rooms
were not heated yesterday. Where should we practice our duet if
not here, on the clavichord, in my room ? There is no other instru-
ment. Of course, I ordered Liza to remain here all the time so as
not to be alone with a young man. you And for that, Father, . . .
Of course, I have no mother to take my side! I haven't anyone

to counsel me. I am an orphan. Poor me! Dear God! If death . . .
would only take me!" If Sophia is lucky and tears come to her
eyes, the whole matter will be solved by her receiving the present
of a new hat. . . .
Thus out of desires, inclinations, impulses to act I am naturally

moved to that important thing: inner action.
Life is action that is why our lively art, which stems from life,
;
is preponderantly active.
It is not without reason that our word "drama" is derived from
the Greek word which means "I do." In Greek this is related to
literature, to play writing, to poetry, and not to the actor or his art;
nonetheless it can be to a large degree pre-empted by us. Inciden-
tally our art used to be called "actors' action" or "facial action," to
wit, miming. In most theatres action on the stage is taken incor-
rectly to mean external action. It is commonly thought that plays
are rich in action if people are arriving or departing, getting mar-
ried or being separated, killing or saving one another; in brief,
that a play rich in action is one with a cleverly woven and interest-
ing external plot. But this is an error.
Scenic action does not mean walking, moving about, gesticulat-
ing on the stage. The point does not lie in the movement of arms,
body but in inner movements and impulses. So let us learn
legs, or
once and for all that the word "action" is not the same as "mim-
ing," it is not anything the actor is pretending to present, not
something external, but rather something internal, nonphysical, a
48
.

Spiritual activity. It derives from an unbroken succession of inde-
pendent processes; and each of these in turn compounded of
is
desires or impulses aimed at the accomphshment of some objec-

tive.
Scenic action is the movement from from

the soul to the body,
the center to the periphery, from the internal to the external, from
the thing an actor feels to its physical form. External action on the
stage v^^hen not inspired, not justified, not called forth by inner
activity, is entertaining only for the eyes and ears; it does not
penetrate the heart, it has no significance in the life of a human
spirit in a role.
Thus inner impulses —the urge to action and the inner actions
themselves —acquire
an exceptional meaning in our work. They
are our motive power in moments of creation, and only that crea-
tiveness which is predicated on inner action is scenic. By "scenic"
in the theatre we mean action in the spiritual sense of the word.
By contrast, a passive state kills all scenic action, it produces
feelings for the sake of feelings, technique for the sake of tech-
nique. That kind of feeling is not scenic.
Sometimes an actor practically luxuriates in inaction, wallows
in his own emotions. Blinded by the feeling that he is at home in
his part, he thinks that he is creating something, that he is truly
living the part. But no matter how sincere that passive feeling may
be, it is not creative, and it cannot reach the heart of the spectator,
so long as it lacks activity and does not promote the inner life of
the play. When an actor feels his part passively his emotion re-
mains inside him, there is no challenge to either inner or outer
action.
Even in order to project a passive state in theatrical terms one
must do it actively. Escaping from active participation (in any
matter or event) is in itself action. Indolent, sluggish action is still
action, typical of a passive state. . .
Real life, like life on the stage, is made up of continuously

arising desires, aspirations, inner challenges to action and their
49
consummation and external actions. Just as the sepa-
in internal
rate, constantly repeated explosions of a motor result in the smooth
motion of an automobile, so this unbroken series of outbursts of

human desires develops the continuous movement of our creative
wîll, it establishes the flov^^ of inner life, it helps an actor to expe-
rience the living organism of his part.
In order to invoke this creative experience on the stage an actor
must keep up a continuous fire of artistic desires all through his
part so that they in turn will arouse the corresponding inner

aspirations, which then v^îll engender corresponding inner chal-
lenges to act, and finally these inner calls to action v^îll find their
outlet in corresponding external, physical action.

Need one point out that while the actor is on the stage all these
desires, aspirations, and actions must belong to him as the creative
artist, and not to the inert paper words printed in the text of his
part; not to the playwright, who is absent from the performance;
nor yet to the director of the play, who remains in the wings?
Need one emphasize that an actor can experience or live his part
only with his own, genuine feelings ? Can one live in ordinary life
or on the stage with the feelings of others unless one has been
absorbed by them body and spirit as an actor and human being ?
Can one borrow the feelings or the sensations, the body and soul,
of another person and use them as one would one's own ?
An actor can subject himself to the wishes and indications of a
playwright or a director and execute them mechanically, but to

experience his role he must use his own living desires, engendered
and worked over by himself, and he must exercise his own will,
not that of another. The director and the playwright can suggest
their wishes to the actor, but these wishes must then be reincar-
nated in the actor's own nature so that he becomes completely
possessed by them. For these desires to become living, creative
desires on the stage, embodied in the actions of the actor, they

must have become a part of his very self.
50
Creative Objectives
How does one evoke the desires of one's creative will on the
stage? One cannot simply say: "Desire! Create! Act!" Our crea-
tive emotions are not subject to command and do not tolerate

force. They can only be coaxed. Once coaxed, they begin to wish,
and wishing they begin to yearn for action.

There is only one thing that can lure our creative will and draw
it to us and that is an attractive aim, a creative objective. The
objective is the whetter of creativeness, its motive force. The objec-

tive is the lure for our emotions. This objective engenders outbursts
of desires for the purpose of creative aspiration. It sends inner mes-
I
sages which naturally and logically are expressed in action. The

objective gives a pulse to the living being of a role.
Life on the stage, as well as off it, consists of an uninterrupted
and their attainment. They are signals set all
series of objectives
along the way of an actor's creative aspirations; they show him

the true direction. Objectives are like the notes in music, they
form the measures, which in turn produce the melody, or rather
the emotions —a and so forth. The melody
state of sorrow, joy,
goes on to form an opera or a symphony, that is to say the life of a

human spirit in a role, and that is what the soul of the actor sings.
Such objectives may be reasoned, conscious, pointed out by our
mind, or they may be emotional, unconscious, arising of their own
free will, intuitively.
A conscious objective can be carried out on the stage with al-
most no feeling or will; but it will be dry, unattractive, lacking

in scenic quality and therefore unadaptable to creative purposes.
An objective which is not warmed or infused with life by emo-
tions or will cannot put any living quality into the inert concepts
of words. It can do no more than recite dry thoughts. If an actor
achieves his objective purely through his mind he cannot live or
experience his part, he can only give a report on it. Therefore he
will not be a creator but a reporter of his role. A conscious objec-
tive can be good and scenically effective only when it is attractive
to the hving feeHngs and wîll of the actor and sets them to
working.
The best creative objective is the unconscious one which imme-
diately, emotionally, takes possession of an actor's feelings, and
carries him intuitively along to the basic goal of the play. The
power of this type of objective lies in itsimmediacy (the Hindus
call such objectives the highest kind of superconsciousness), which
acts as a magnet and arouses irresistible aspirations.
to creative will
In such cases all the mind does is to note and evaluate the results.
Often such objectives are destined to remain, if not entirely, then
at least half in the realm of the unconscious. All we can do is to
learn how not to interfere with the creativeness of nature, or work
to prepare the ground, seek out motives and means whereby even
obliquely we can catch hold of these emotional, superconscious
objectives.
Unconscious objectives are engendered by the emotion and will
of the actors themselves. They come into being intuitively; they
are then weighed and determined consciously. Thus the emotions,
will, and mind of the actor all participate in creativeness.
The ability to find or create such objectives as will arouse the
activity of an and the ability to handle such objectives, are
actor,
the crucial concerns of our whole inner technique. There are many
approaches. One must find among them the one which is most
congenial with the nature of the actor in a part, the way to stir
him to greatest creative action. How is this accomplished? Here
is an example.
Let us suppose that Chatski is anxious to convince Sophia that
neither Molchalin nor Skalozub is a proper match for her. Unless
this conviction is backed up by warmth of feeling it will be exter-
nal, merely verbal, dry and unsatisfying. The actor would not be
convinced, he would simply go through the physical external mo-
tions that cannot possibly make him believe in the sincerity and
truth of his feelings. Yet without this faith an actor cannot feel
52
his part, just as without truly feeHng his part he will not have
faith in his emotions.
What is it that will give me, as Chatski, such faith in my objec-
tive that I shall have the strong wish to go into action? Is it the
sight of charming, helpless, inexperienced Sophia at the side of
that pitiable nonentity Molchalin or coarse-grained Skalozub ? But

these people do not as yet exist, at least I do not as yet see them
either in actuality or in my imagination. I do not know them. Yet
I do know of my own experience the feeling of pity, humiliation,
aesthetic outrage at the thought of any fine young girl (whoever
she may be) sacrificing herself in a marriage with a coarse fool,
like Skalozub, or with a shallow opportunist, like Molchalin. The
prospect of such an unnatural and unaesthetic union would arouse
one's instinct; the desire to stop an inexperienced girl from taking
a wrong would be alive in any one of us. For the sake of such
step
a desire it would never be difficult to stir one's impulses, which in
turn would enkindle genuine desire, and action itself.
Of what do these impulses consist? One senses the need to
afiFect the feelings of someone else with one's own feeling of
offense because a fine young life is being destroyed. Something

urges one to go to Sophia, or any young girl like her, and try to
open her eyes to life, convince her not to destroy herself through
an unsuitable marriage that would inevitably bring her sorrow.
One searches for means to make her believe in the sincerity of
one's kindly interest in her. In the name of that sincerity one
wants to ask permission of her to talk on intimate subjects, matters
concerning her heart.
First of all I would try to convince Sophia of my own good
feelings toward her in order to gain her preliminary confidence
in me. Then I would attempt to paint the most vivid picture possi-
between her and the coarse nature of Skalo-
ble of the difference
zub, between her and the shallow, mean little soul of Molchalin.
What I said about Molchalin would require extreme tact, because
Sophia is determined at all costs to see him through rosy specta-
53
cles. Sophia must realize all the more vividly how my heart con-
tracts at the thought of what is in store for her. Let my fears for
her, which I want her to feel, frighten her and make her stop and
think. Each method of convincing her, each approach to her heart
must be softened by radiations of tender feeling, a caressing look,
and so forth. Can one even count all the inner and physical actions,
all the inner impulses, that would well up of their own accord in
the heart of a person touched by his own efforts to save an inexpe-

rienced girl intent on destroying herself ?
* # *
Conscious or unconscious objectives are carried out both in-

wardly and outwardly, by both body and soul. Therefore they can
be both physical and psychological.
For example, going back to the imaginary scene when I made
my morning call on Famusov, I recall an infinite number of
physical objectives which I had to execute in my imagination. I
had to go along a corridor, knock at a door, take hold of and turn
the doorknob, open the door, enter, greet the master of the house
and anyone else present, and so forth. In order to preserve the
truthfulness of the occasion I could not simply fly into his room
in one movement.
All these necessary physical objectives are so habitual that we
execute them mechanically, with our muscles. In our inner realm,
too, we find an infinite number of necessary, simple psychological
objectives.
I recall an example, another imaginary scene in the life
now, as
—
of the Famusov household the interrupted meeting between
Sophia and Molchalin. How many simple psychological objectives
Sophia had to execute with her emotions in order to soften her
father's anger and escape punishment. She had to mask her em-
barrassment, she had to throw her father off balance by her calm,
embarrass and move him to pity by the angelic expression on her
face, disarm him with her humility, undermine his position, and
54
SO forth. She could not, without destroying the truthfulness and
living quality of her action, by one sweep of emotions, one inner
movement, one psychological objective have brought about the
miraculous transformation in the heart of the angry man.
Physical and simple psychological objectives are to some degree
necessary to all human beings. When a person has been
drowned,
for example, he is forced to breathe by mechanical means. As a
result, his other organs begin to function; his heart begins to beat,
his blood begins to circulate, and finally by the sheer momentum
of living organisms his spirit is revived. This is the inborn habitual
and mutual bond among the physical organs.
It is this sort of organic habit, a part of our nature, this sort of
consecutiveness and logic in our actions and feelings, that we make
use of in our art when we give birth to the process of living a part.
This common necessity of the actor-human-being and the human-
being-part is what brings the actor and his part close together for
the first time.
Both physical and psychological objectives must be bound to-
gether by a certain inner tie, by consecutiveness, gradualness, and
logic of feeling. It sometimes happens that in the logic of human
feelings one will find something illogical after all in the harmony
;
of music there are occasional dissonances. But on the stage it is

necessary to be consecutive and logical. You cannot step from the
first floor in a house to the tenth. It is impossible with one inner
movement or one physical movement

do away with all obstacles
to
and immediately persuade another person to do something, or to
fly from one house to another. You must go through and carry
out a whole series of consecutive and logical physical and simple

psychological objectives. You must go out of the house, take a cab,
enter the other house, go through several rooms, find the person
you are looking for, and so forth, before you reach the point of
meeting that other person.
Similarly, to reach the point of convincing the other person
you must fulfill a series of objectives : You must attract the person's
55
attention, you must try to sense what is in his heart, to compre-
hend his inner state, then adapt yourself to it, trying out several
ways of conveying your own feelings and thoughts. In short you
must carry out a series of psychological objectives and inner actions
in order to convince your companion of your thoughts and influ-
ence him by your feelings.
It is not easy to maintain with exactitude all the physical and
simple psychological objectives on the stage so that they corre-
spond to the aspirations and actions of the character portrayed.
The trouble is that the actor tends to identify himself with the
inner life of his character only when he is saying his lines. As soon
as he stops talking and gives the stage to the person playing oppo-
site him, the inner thread of his role breaks; the actor lapses back
into his own life and feelings as if he were merely awaiting his
cue to renew the interrupted life of his role. When this happens,
when the actor breaks the logical chain of physical and psycho-
logical objectives and replaces it with other things, he is crippling
life. All moments in a role that are not filled out with creative
objectives and feelings are a temptation to actors' cliches, theatrical
conventionality. When violence to our spiritual and physical na-
tures is present, when our emotions are in chaos, when we lack
the logic and consecutiveness of objectives, we do not genuinely
live a part.
The Score of a Role
I shall put myself in the place of the actor playing Chatski in

Woe from Wit, and attempt to find out what physical and simple
psychological objectives naturally form themselves in me when I
begin, in imagination, to exist in the center of circumstances, to

"be" in the vortex of life in the Famusov house in Moscow in the
1820's.
Here I am —for the time being I am myself without any of the

feelings or emotions of Chatski. I have just returned from abroad;
without going home I have driven up in a heavy traveling coach,
56
drawn by four horses, to the gates of the house which is almost
another home to me. Now my coach has stopped and the coach-
man has called the yardman to open the gates to the courtyard.
What do I desire in this moment ?
A. 7 desire to hasten the moment of my meeting with Sophia,
something I have dreamed of for so long.
But I am powerless to do anything about it, so I sit helplessly in
my carriage and wait for the gates to be opened. Out of impatience
I pull thoughtlessly on the window cord which has annoyed me
all during my journey.
Now yardman has come, he has recognized me and is
the
hurrying. The hinges on the gates creak; now they are open and
the coach can roll in; but the yardman holds it back, comes up
to the window and greets me with tears of joy in his eyes.
a. I must speaJ{ to him, be agreeable, exchange greetings.
I patiently go through all these motions so as not to offend the

old man, who has known me was a child.
since I I even have to
listen while he goes over the familiar memories of my own child-
hood.
Now finally the great coach with creaking and crunching of
snow moves into the court and pulls up at the porte-cochere.
I jump out of the coach.
What is the first thing I must do ?

b. 1 must quickly rouse the sleepy doorman.
Now I take hold of the bellcord, yank it, wait, ring again.
Meantime, a pet mongrel is whimpering and fawning on my legs.
As I wait for the doorman:
c. 1 desire to greet the dog, and pet this old friend of mine.
Now the front door is opened and I rush into the vestibule. The
familiar atmosphere of the house immediately envelops me. The
feelings and memories I left behind me now crowd into my heart
and fill it to overflowing. I stand still, full of tender emotion.
Now the doorman greets me with something like the whinny
of a horse.
57
d. 7 must say how do you do to him, be nice to him, exchange
greetings.
I patiently carry out this objective, if only I can get to Sophia
without further delay.
Now I am on my way up the front stairs. I reach the first land-
ing. Here I run into the steward and the housekeeper. They are
speechless with surprise at the unexpected meeting.
e. 1 must greet them too, I must as\ about Sophia. Where is
she? Is she well? Is she up?

Now I come to the array of reception rooms.
The steward trots on ahead of me.
I wait in the corridor. Now Liza dashes out with a little scream.
Now she takes me by the coat sleeve.
What do I desire at this moment?

f. / want to get to my main goal quic\ly, see Sophia, the dear
friend of my childhood, almost my sister.
And now at last I lay eyes on her.
Here my first objective A has been fulfilled with the aid of
— —
a whole series of small, almost exclusively physical objectives
(getting out of the carriage, ringing the door bell, running up the
stairs, and so forth.)
A new and large objective now emerges naturally before me:
B. I wish to greet the dear friend of my childhood, one who is
almost a sister to me; I want to embrace her and exchange pent-up

feelings with her.
However this cannot be done at once, with one inner gesture.
There must be a whole series of small, inner objectives which alto-
gether will add up to the main, large objective.
a. First of all I want to loo\ at Sophia carefully, to see her
familiar and dear features, to appraise the changes that have taken
place in my absence.
A girl can change between the ages of fourteen and seventeen
so you hardly recognize her. And this wonderful change has
58
taken place in her. I thought to meet a girl and now I see her
grown into young womanhood.

Through my own memories of the past and my personal expe-
rience I know the feeling of bewilderment which overcomes one
at such a time. I remember the awkwardness, embarrassment,
when faced with the unexpected. can but trace one familiar
If I
feature, the flash of the eyes, the movement of lips or eyebrows,

shoulders or fingers, a familiar smile, then I would recognize
instantly my own dear Sophia. The transient shyness disappears.
The former easy fraternal relationship is restored and a new objec-
tive is formed.
b. / want to convey my feelings in a brotherly \iss.
I rush forward to embrace my friend and sister. I hug her, and
do it so hard that it hurts a little, this on purpose to let her feel
the strength of my friendship.
But that is not enough, I must find other ways to express to her
the feelings I have restrained.

c. / must caress Sophia by loo\ and by word.
And again, as if taking my aim, while searching for endearing,
friendly words I turn on her the radiation of my own warm
feelings.
But what do I see ? A cold expression, embarrassment, a shade
of displeasure. What is this ? Is it my imagination ? Is it the result
of the unexpectedness of my greetings ?
A new objective naturally develops out of this.

C. / must understand the reason for this cold reception.
In turn this objective is made up, in the course of its execution,
of a lot of independent small objectives.
a. / must get Sophia to confess what is the matter.
b. 7 must sha\e her up with interrogation, reproaches, cleverly
put questions.
c.must draw her attention to me, and so forth.
I
But Sophia is clever. She knows how to hide behind an angelic
expression. I feel that it would not be difficult for her to convince
59
me, if only temporarily, that she is glad to see me. It would be all
the easier for her since that is what I wish to believe, so that I
can move more quickly to a new, large, and more interesting ob-
jective.
And D, To cross-examine Sophia about her-

this large objective,
self, her relatives, acquaintances, and all the life of this house and
of Moscow, is then carried out by a series of small objectives.

But now Famusov himself enters and interrupts our friendly
tete a tete. Here objective E appears with the concomitant small
objectives, up to the point at the end of the play when I reach my

final objective:
Z. "Away from Moscow! No longer to this place

I'll come. No turning hac\, hut out into
The world I go, to find a place where
I can lic\ my wounds!"
To carry out this last large objective I have to:
a. Give an order to the footman:
"My carriage, quick, my carriage!"
b. Leave the Famusov house rapidly.
As was mentally choosing and carrying out all these objectives
I
I felt the internal and external circumstances of their own accord
stirring my will and desires. In turn they evoked creative aspira-

tions which were capped by inner impulses to action. They all
combined to lead me to the creative moment of putting life into
my part.
Out of them
whole series of units was formed, around each
all a
large objective. For example if you look at the inner meaning
of all the component objectives Aa to Af, consider all the desires of
Chatski from the moment when he drove into the courtyard of
the Famusov house to the moment of his meeting with Sophia,
we see that he was carrying out one large objective A one unit — —
in the life of his role which we can formulate as: hastening his
meeting with Sophia.
Then all the minor objectives Ba-Bc combine to make another
60
large objective, another unit in his role —B—and this can be called:
desiring to greet and embrace Sophia and exchange feelings with
her.
Out of the small objectives Ca-Cc vfc form a third large objec-
tive and unit— C— the meaning of which is searching for the rea-
:
son for the cool reception given him by his childhood friend.
And so it continues through the vi^hole play.
The first four units create a whole scene which we may call:
The first meeting between Chatskj and Sophia. The next four
units go to make up another scene: The interrupted meeting. The
grouping of other units and objectives form a third and fourth
scene, and so forth. In turn this series of large scenes merges to
form the acts. The acts make a whole play, which is to say a large
and important section of the life of a human spirit.
Let us agree to call this long catalogue of minor and major
objectives, units, scenes, acts, the score of a role. It is made up, for
the time being, of physical and simple psychological objectives.
The score of Chatski's role would be (with minor deviations and
changes) the same for anyone living in circumstances analogous
to those in the play, just as it would be for any actor who is going
through the experience of this role. Anyone arriving home from a
journey, or rehving in his emotion memory his return to his
native country, would either in reality or mentally get out of his

conveyance, enter the house, greet people, orient himself, and so
forth. These are physical necessities.
And anyone returning from a journey would be obliged to go
through a whole series of simple psychological objectives: to ex-
change emotions, greetings, be interested in what he saw and
heard about his dear friends, and so forth. Not everything one's
heart is full of can be conveyed at once; one goes through with
greetings, embracing, looking at each other, understanding each
other, in consecutive order.
None of the listed objectives of the score, let us note, is pro-
found; they can affect only the periphery of the actor's body, the
6i
external manifestations of his psychic Hfe, and only slightly affect
his feelings. Nevertheless they were the creations of live feelings
and not the product of dry reason. They were prompted by artistic
instincts, creative sensitivity, the actor's own life experiences,
habits, the human qualities of his own nature. And each objective
contained its own consecutiveness, gradual development, logic.
One can call them natural objectives. There can be no doubt that
such a score, based on such objectives, will draw the actor as a
human being —physically speaking—closer to the real life of his
character or role.
With time and frequent repetition, in rehearsal and per-
formance, this score becomes habitual. An actor becomes so accus-
tomed to all his objectives and their sequence that he cannot
conceive of approaching his role otherwise than along the line of
the steps fixed in the score. Habit plays a great part in creativeness:
it establishes in a firm way the accomplishments of creativeness.
In the familiar words of Volkonski it makes what is difficult
habitual, what is habitual easy, and what is easy beautiful. Habit

creates second nature, which is a second reality.
The score automatically stirs the actor to physical action.
The Inner Tone
The physical and simple psychological score has now been pre-
pared. Does it respond to all of the needs of an actor's creative
nature? The first requirement is that the score should have the
power an exciting objec-
to attract, because creative enthusiasm,
tive, is the only means of affecting the capricious emotions and
will of an actor.
There can be no doubt that the score so far does not possess all
the necessary qualifications to warm an actor's enthusiasm and
arouse his emotions each and every time he creates it. Even when
I was searching for and choosing my objectives as Chatski they
did not excite me very much. Nor is this surprising. All the objec-
62
tiveschosen were external. They affected only the periphery of my
body, touched my feelings and the life of my part only super-
ficially. Nor can this be otherwise since the hne of my creative
endeavor consisted of external and events on the plane of

facts
the physical and simple psychological life of my part and only

occasionally touched the deeper levels of my inner life.
This kind of a score and the experiences that go with it do not

reflect the more important aspects of a living human spirit in
which we find the essence of a theatre creation, the inner individ-

uality of the life of the role. Any person would have done what
the score of objectives proposed. The objectives are typical for any
person and therefore do not characterize the particular role in its
own peculiar individuality. The score can show the way but it
cannot arouse true creativeness. It does not produce life and it is
soon outworn.
Deeply passionate emotions are necessary to carry away feelings,
will, mind, and all of an actor's being. These can only be aroused
by objectives with a deeper inner content. The secret of inner
technique and its essence are concealed in them. Therefore the

next concern of an actor should be to find objectives that con-
stantly move his feelings and thus put life into his physical score.
This creative score must excite the actor not only by its external
physical truth but above all by its inner beauty, buoyancy. Creative
objectives must callup not simple interest but passionate excite-
ment, desires, aspirations, and action. Any objective lacking these
magnetic qualities is not fulfilling its mission. One cannot, of
course, say that every stirring objective is good and suitable for
the creative score of a part, yet one can say surely that any objec-
tive that is dry is of no use at all.
The fact of Chatski's arrival, demonstrated by the major and

minor objectives with which it is accompanied, is interesting only
because of its inner content, emotions, psychologic motives. They
are the factors that affect his inner being. Without them there
63
would be no heart to the role. Without them the objectives would
be insubstantial, empty.
Let us now add depth to the score of Chatski's role, leading
him along what might be called its submarine current, closer to
the source of his inner life, his own nature as an actor, closer to
that mysterious and intimate center which is the "I" in a role.
What must we do to accomplish this ? Should we change the ob-
jectives and the whole physical and simple psychological score
that provide the external life of his role ? Yet are they not indis-
pensable, and do they cease to exist if depth is added? No! They
continue to exist but they gain in substance. The difference will
lie in the inner life, the general state of the actor, the moods in
which each objective is carried out. His new inner state will re-
fresh and add color to his objectives, will add a depth of meaning,
a new basis and inner motivation to them. This changed inner
state or mood I shall call the inner tone. In actor's jargon it is
called the germ of feeling.

When depth is added to the score of a part, the facts and the
objectives are altered only in the sense that inner impulses, psy-
chological intimations, an inner point of departure — all the things
that constitute the inner tone of the score and give it a firm basis
of justification —have been added.
The same thing occurs in music Melodies and symphonies
: may
be played in varying keys, major or minor, they can be played
in varying tempi, while the melody itself does not change, only
the tone in which it is played. In a major key and lively tempo
themelody will have a triumphant, bravura character; in a minor
key and slow tempo it will acquire a sad, lyrical character. Thus
we actors can experience varying emotions when playing a score
with the same objectives but in different keys. You can live
through all the emotions of a homecoming, go through all the
physical and simple psychological objectives connected with it; in
a quiet or a joyful key, in a sad or a disturbed or an excited key,

or in the key of a lover who says of himself:
64
. . . beside myself,
Two days and nights on end, and never closing eye
I traveled fast over the many hundred miles, through wind and storm.
In turmoil, many times I fell. . . .
So now let us set a new objective: take the score as it has been
constituted so far and add to it in depth.
I must first of all ask myself: What would be changed in the
score if I came home from abroad, as Chatski did, given the cir-
cumstances of his life, yet not in the state of a returning friend,

but rather inflamed with an ardent love for Sophia? In other
words, I shall try to feel the same score but in a different key.
In this new key of a lover's passion the score is illuminated to
its depths. It acquires an entirely different color, a greater inner
content. These changes must be adapted to Chatski's role. For that
purpose must introduce new given circumstances. Let us suppose
I
Chatski has come back from abroad not only as Sophia's friend
but as one who idolizes her, a fiance desperately in love. What is
changed in the score and what remains as it was ?

Whatever state of passion a man may be in on his return home,
physical circumstances would oblige him to wait until the yard-
man opens the gates into the courtyard, he must rouse the sleepy
doorman, he must greet various members of the household, and
so forth. In short Chatski must to all intents and purposes carry
out almost the same physical and simple psychological objectives
of the score as before. The essential difference introduced by his
state of being violently in love is not so much in the objectives
themselves but in how he executes them. If he is calm, unruffled
by deep inner emotions, he will carry out his objectives patiently
and scrupulously. If, however, he is on fire, if he gives himself up
to the force of his feelings, he will have quite a different attitude
toward his objectives. Some of them will be slurred over, fusing
and merging with one another, being swallowed up in the one
over-riding objective; others will acquire more edge because of
the lover's nervousness and impatience.
65
When a man is completely dominated by passion, involved in
it wîth his whole being, he forgets his physical objectives, he
executes them mechanically, oblivious to them. In real life we are
often oblivious of what we are doing walking, ringing a bell, —
opening a door, greeting someone or other. All this is done largely
in an unconscious way. The body lives its own habitual, motor
existence and the soul lives its deeper psychological life. This
apparent division does not, however, destroy the bond between
body and soul. The appearance derives from the fact that the
center of attention moves from one's external to one's internal life.
Thus the physical score, which the actor has perfected to the
point of mechanical execution, goes deeper now and is rounded
out with new feeling and has become, one might say, psycho-
physical in quality. The way this is accomplished is through in-
direct means, through preliminary work to make it possible : One

has to sense the nature of the passion that is to be portrayed, in
this case the passion of love.
First one must plot a line along which the passion will develop;
one must comprehend, component parts the passion; one
feel the
must prepare a whole scheme which will be like a canvas on

which creative emotions will embroider consciously or uncon-
sciously their inscrutable and complex patterns. How can one
comprehend this passion of love, by what can one be guided in
making a scheme of it ?
To define love from the scientific point of view is a job for the
psychologists. Art is not science; although must con-
I as an artist
stantly draw creative materials and knowledge from life and

science, still, in moments of creativeness, I am accustomed to
using my own emotions, susceptibilities, impressions.
Besides, I am not at present concerned with a detailed study of
the passion of love; what I need is a general, brief, sensitive out-
line, the basis for which I shall find not in my brain but in my
heart. Let this outline lead me and direct my creative nature in
66
my forthcoming work of preparing a subtler inner, psycho-physi-
cal score for the role of Chatski.
This is how I feel the nature of love: I feel that this passion,
like a plant, has a seed from which it springs, has rootsfrom
which its stem emerges, has a stem, leaves, flowers which crown
its development. It is not without reason that they speak of the
"roots of passion" or say that a "passion grows," that love "blos-
soms," and so forth. In short, I feel that in love, as in any other
passion, there is a whole series of processes —the first seed, the
conception, growth, development, flowering, and so forth. I feel
that the development of a passion proceeds along a line laid down

by nature itself and that here, as in the physical realm, there is a
certain sequence, logic, law, which cannot be contravened with
impunity. Let an actor exercise compulsion on his own nature,
let him substitute one feeling for another, destroy the logic of his
emotions, the consecutiveness of the changing periods as they suc-
ceed each other step by step, let him cripple the natural structure
of a human passion —and the result will be emotional distortion.
Every passion is a complex of things experienced emotionally,
it is the sum total of a variety of different feelings, experiences,
states. All these component parts are not only numerous and
varied but they are also often contradictory. In love there is often
hatred and scorn, and adoration, and indifference, and ecstasy,
and and embarrassment, and brazenness.
prostration,
In this sense, human passions can be compared to a pile of
beads. The general tone is achieved through the colorful combina-
tion of an innumerable quantity of individual beads of the most
varied hues (red, blue, white, black). Put together and mixed they
give the general tone to the pile of beads (gray, pale blue, yellow-
ish). So it is in the realm of feelings: The combination of many
individual and most varied, even contradictory, feelings forms
entire passions. A mother brutally beats her beloved child because
it was nearly run over. Why is she so angry at the child while she
is beating it? Just because she loves it so and fears to lose it. She
67
beats the child so that in the future it will never again play such
a dangerous trick. The transient hatred exists alongside her con-
stant love. And the more a mother loves her child, the more she
hates it and beats it at such times. . .
Not only the passions themselves but also their component

parts are mutually contradictory. For instance one of De Maupas-
sant's heroes kills himself because he is afraid of a duel he is
facing. His bold, decisive act, the suicide itself, is brought about
through his cowardice in trying to evade the duel.
Each composed of the same sort of individual ingredi-
role is
ents, producing whole passions, which in turn give us the inner,

spiritual image of the character to be portrayed. Let us then take
the role of Chatski.
This role, and in particular the love of Chatski for Sophia, is
not made up exclusively of love scenes but of a variety of other

moments, containing conflicting emotions and actions which in
their sum total add up to love. And indeed, what is Chatski doing
all through the play? Of what actions is his role composed? In
what way does he manifest his love for Sophia? First of all he
hastens to see Sophia as soon as he arrives; he studies her care-
fully when they meet, and tries to discover the reason for her cool
reception of him; he reproaches her, then jokes, pokes fun at rela-
tivesand acquaintances. At times he makes stinging remarks to
Sophia; he thinks a great deal about her, is tortured and baffled;
he eavesdrops, catches her at a rendezvous when she is preparing
to betray him, and finally flees from his beloved.
listens to her,
Among all these varied actions and objectives only a few hnes of
the text are devoted to words and confessions of love. Neverthe-
less the total of individual moments and objectives, taken all
together, establish the passion, the love of Chatski for Sophia.

One's emotional palette, one's score which is to portray human
passions, must be rich, colorful, and varied. In portraying any of
the human passions an actor should not think about the passion
itself but of the feelings which go into its make-up, and the greater
68
the sweep he wishes to give to the passion the more variegated
and contradictory are the emotions he must search out. Extremes
extend the gamut of human passions and enlarge the palette of
the actor. Therefore when he is playing a good man, he should
seek out what there is of evil in him if he is playing an intelligent
;
character, find his mentally weak spot; if he is playing a jolly per-

son, find his serious side. That is one of the ways to enlarge a
human passion : If you do not at once find the color you want, you
must look for it.
Human passions do not usually have their inception, develop,

and reach their climax at once, but gradually and over a long
period. Dark feelings imperceptibly and slowly change into
brighter ones, and vice versa. So, for example, Othello's heart is
radiantly full of all joyous, bright, loving emotions, like burnished

metal reflecting the rays of the sun. Then here and there dark
spots are suddenly discernible; these are the first moments of
doubt. The number and the shining

of the dark spots increases,
heart of loving Othello is mottled over with evil emotions. These
shadows lengthen, grow, and finally his shining heart becomes
darkened, almost blackened. In the beginning there were brief
hints of growing jealousy, now only a few moments recall his
tender, confident love. Finally these moments are gone and his
whole soul is enveloped in complete darkness.

To be sure there are instances when a man is suddenly and
completely overwhelmed by a passion: Romeo was suddenly
seized by his love for Juliet. Yet who knows whether Romeo, had
he survived, might not have experienced the general destiny of
man and lived through the many difficult times, the many dark
emotions, which are the inevitable concomitants of love ?
Too often on the stage everything happens in sharp contrast to
the nature of human passions. Actors fall in love at once, are
jealous at the first possible opportunity. Many of them are inno-
cent enough to believe that human passions, whether love, jeal-
ousy, miserliness, are like cartridges or bombs which an actor can
69
plant in his heart. There are actors who even speciaHze in quite
primitive ways in one or another of the human passions. Call to
mind the operatic tenor, so prettified, effeminate, with his hair
curled to make him look like an angel. His specialty is love, only
love, which is to pose on the stage, pretend to be thoughtful,
dreamy, constantly pressing one hand to the heart, rushing around
portraying passion, embracing and kissing the heroine, dying with
a sentimental smile, sending her a last plea for forgiveness. And
if by chance the role contains portions unrelated to love, simple
bits of human life, then the tenor either does not act at all or tries
to use those portions as part of his specialty, theatrical love, pre-
tending to meditate after striking a becoming pose. Actors who
play heroic parts in dramas do this same sort of thing; so do the
so-called moralists, the noble fathers in dramas, or the bassi in
the opera, whose usual function is to play hatred on the stage.
These actors are forever intriguing or hating or protecting their
children for all they are worth.
The attitude of such actors toward human psychology and
passions is naively one-sided and single-tracked : Love is portrayed
by love, jealousy by jealousy, hatred by hatred, grief by grief, joy
by joy. There are no contrasts, no mutual relationships between

inner nuances; all is flat and monotone. Everything is done in one
color. The villains are all black, the benefactors all white. For each
passion the actor has his own special color, the way painters paint
a fence or children paint pictures. The result is acting "in gen-
eral." Such actors love "in general," they are jealous "in general,"
they hate "in general." They portray the complex components of
human passion by means of elementary and mostly external signs.
Too often one actor asks another:
"What are you playing such and such a scene on?"
"On tears," or "on laughs," "on joy," or "on alarm," replies the
other, never even suspecting that they are not talking about inner
action but about its external results.
An actor must know the nature of a passion, know the pattern
70
by which he must be guided. The better the actor knows the psy-
chology of the human soul and nature, the more he studies them
in his free time, the deeper he will be able to penetrate the spirit-
ual essence of human passion and therefore the more detailed,
complex, and varied will be the score of any part he plays.
You wish to observe the development of a passion more closely,
so I return to the work we interrupted on the Chatski score when

we recast it in the key of his love for Sophia.
Using the scheme we drew up, I shall try to find in it all the
degrees necessary to the development of the passion of love in
accordance with the period, just as it strikes Chatski on his return
from abroad.
I recall the state of a man in love and put myself in the center
of the circumstances, that is to say in Chatski's position. This time
I work back from the larger objectives to the minor ones.
shall
Here I am, newly arrived from abroad, I have not even gone
home but have driven straight to the gates of the Famusov resi-
dence.
My desire to see Sophia is so strong that I should really revise
my first large objective to:
2A. See my passionately beloved Sophia as soon as possible.
What must I do to that end }
Now my coach has stopped; my coachman is calling the yard-
man to open the gates.
I cannot sit still in the coach. I must do something. My over-

flowing energy makes me act with greater vigor, my buoyancy is
increased tenfold, it drives me on.
2a. / wish to hasten the moment of our meeting, about which
I dreamed so ardently when I was abroad.
Now I jump out of my coach, I rush to the gate, pound it
with the chain hanging on it; I wait for the yardman to open it
and meantime I stamp vigorously up and down out of excess of

energy. The gates creak on their hinges. As soon as they are
71
slightly ajar I slip through; but the yardman bars my way, he
wants to show his joy at seeing me.
2b. / must exchange greetings with him, he nice to him.
I would be glad to do this especially as he is her yardman. But
an inner force is driving me on so that I am almost mechanical

in my greeting and run on before the words are really out of my
mouth.
Thus the need of hastening the meeting with Sophia merges
my small objective 2b with the previous 2a and it becomes a
mechanical action.
Now I run across the large courtyard to the front door.
2c. / must quic\ly arouse the sleepy doorman.
Now I grab the bell and pull it with all my might. I wait. I
ring again.
I cannot keep my hands from moving although I know I run
the risk of breaking the bellcord.
Now the family mongrel whimpers and fawns around my feet.
He is her dog.
2d. / want to caress the dog, who is an old friend of mine, and
also because her dog.
it is
But I have no time. I must ring the bell. So this objective merges
with 2c.
Finally the door is opened and I rush into the vestibule. The
familiar atmosphere envelops me and makes me feel giddy. An
inner force drives me
on harder than ever, it does not let me even
stop to look around. But there is a new delay. The doorman greets
me with his whinnying voice.
2e. / must greet him, be nice to him, exchange a few words
with him.
But this objective merges in my larger over-all objective, and
through my desire to hasten my meeting with Sophia my greet-
ings are perfunctory.
I rush on, quickly muttering something. I jump up the stairs
four steps at a time. Then halfway up, on the landing, I run into
72
the steward and the housekeeper. They are alarmed by my head-
long speed and are transfixed by the unexpectedness of seeing me.
2f. / must exchange greetings with them, 1 must ask^ about
Sophia; where is she? is she well? is she up?

The nearer I come to the end of my striving, the stronger the
pull in her direction. I almost forget to greet them first but imme-
diately exclaim
"Is Mademoiselle up? May I go in?"
And, without waiting for a reply, I run through the familiar
rooms, along the corridor. Someone calls after me; someone runs
after me.
Then I stop and begin to come to.
"I may not go in? She is dressing?"

It takes all my will to contain my excitement and begin to catch
my breath.
To give vent to my painful impatience I stamp my feet. Some-
one comes running up to me with a little scream.
"Ah! Liza!"
Now she takes me by the coatsleeve and I follow her.
Now something occurs. I lose my head, I don't know, I don't
remember anything. Is it a dream? My childhood returned? A
vision? Or is it some joy I once knew in this or some other life?
It must be she Yet ! I cannot say anything about her. I only know
that Sophia stands before me. There she is. No, it is something
better. It is another Sophia.
Then of its own accord, a new objective takes shape.
2B. / want to greet, to spea\ with this vision!
But how? For such a blossoming young woman I must find
new words, a new relationship.
In order to find them:
2a. / must examine Sophia carefully, look^ at her familiar and
loved features, weigh the change in her since we have been sepa-
rated.
73
I gaze at her, I want not only to look at her but to see into her
very soul.
At this moment in my dream I see a charming young girl in
the dress of the 1820's. Who is it? The face is familiar! Where did
itcome from ? From some engraving ? Could it be from a portrait
or some memory w^hich I have mentally transposed and dressed
in the costume of the period ?
I gaze at this imaginary Sophia, I feel the truth in my look.

Probably Chatski himself looked at Sophia with this same sense
of concentrated attention. To this is then added a familiar sensa-
tion, perhaps of bewilderment, perhaps of awkwardness.
What is this feeling? What does it remind me of? Where did
it come from ?
I make a guess. It goes back a long way. When I was still almost
a child I met a little girl. The people around us joked about us,
said that we were a couple, a betrothed pair; I was embarrassed
and afterwards I used to think a great deal about her; we wrote
to one another. Many years passed. grew up, but in my imagina-
I
tion she remained a little girl. Finally we met and we were both
embarrassed because we hadn't expected to look the way we did
to each other. I couldn't imagine how to talk with a grown girl
such as she had become. had to talk with her in a different way;
I
I did not know exactly how, but it could not be the way I used
to. . .
All the awkwardness, the perplexity, the search for a new rela-
tionship come out of my memory now by analogy with the pres-

ent. A lively memory adds the warmth of lively feeling to my
present dream, it makes my heart beat, and I feel the actual truth
of my situation. I feel inside myself something which aiming

is
at, looking for an approach to, trying to establish, new mutual

relationships with someone who is a new object yet a familiar
one. These attempts have the feel of truth about them, they warm
my emotions, they put life into this moment of meeting which I
have imagined.
74
At this second a moment from my childhood recurs in memory.
At some time or other I stood before my small friend just like
this, overwhelmed with unspeakable joy, and all around lay toys
in disorderly array. I do not know anything more about this

moment in my life, yet it is deep and important. Now as then, in
my thoughts I knowing why, but realizing it is

kneel to her, not
very effective At the same time I remember a picture in a child's
!
book of fairy tales. There on the flying carpet kneels, as I am

doing now, a handsome young creature and before him, as before
me, stands a lovely maiden.
At this point as Chatski what I wish to do is:
2b. To convey in a kjss all my pent-up feelings.

But how ? The girl I used to know I would have hugged and
lifted off her feet. But this one ? I lose my head, timidly approach
Sophia, and kiss her somehow in a different way.
2c. / must caress Sophia with loo\ and words.
Now that I have come to feel the real truth of these moments
in my role, I ask myself: What would I do if, like Chatski, I
noticed the embarrassment, the coldness of Sophia, and had felt
the sting of her unfriendly look ?
As if in answer to this question, I feel an inner shrinking from

the hurt, bitterness from my offended feelings fills my heart, and
my disillusionment chills my energy. I want as quickly as possible
to escape from this state. . . .
The score as formed and gone through in the key of a lover

will only convey Chatski's love for Sophia when it actually be-
comes his own score, when it has been tested against the text of
the play and made to fit it; that is to say, when it flows in accord-
ance with the events of the play, parallel with the passion of love
in it, and when all words of the play acquire a corresponding
the
basis in the score. Now, as we establish and try out the physical
and simple psychological score, we must return to the text of the
play in order to choose from it the objectives and units in con-
75
secutive logical sequence that serve to develop the passion of
Chatski.
In doing this work you must know how to dissect the text of
your part. You must know how to cull from it all thecomponent
units, objectives, moments, which in their sum total add up to a
human passion. You must know how to study these units, objec-
tives,and moments in connection with the established pattern of
a passion which you use as a guide. You must also know how to
provide these moments, drawn from the text of the playwright,
with a lively basis and inner motivation. In brief you must sub-
ordinate the text of your part not to the external but the internal
pattern of the development of the given passion, you must find
the right place in the chain of passions for each moment of your
role. . . .
Let us now draw a comparison between the two scores for the
role of Chatski, the score set in the key of a friend, and in the
key of a lover.
What changes and what remains constant in these two scores ?
I shall explain in an example.
Submerged in his desire to see Sophia as quickly as possible,
amorous Chatski greets all the people along the way the yard- —
man, the doorman, the steward, the housekeeper fleetingly, me- —
chanically, only half aware of what he is doing. Whereas when
he was playing this in the key of a friend he executed each one
of these bits with careful attention. Later on as a lover, he has no
time to look around at the familiar rooms. He rushes toward the
goal of his longing, he jumps up the staircase four steps at a time.
In the key of a friendwas quite the contrary his meeting with
it ;
the yardman and doorman, the viewing of the familiar apart-

ments, was given much more time and attention. Here the inner
tone not only broadens but also deepens because it embraces both
the tone of a friend and the tone of the man in love.*
* In the original manuscript, Stanislavski indicated but did not carry through
his intention of developing further the layers of Chatski's role. He would hava
76
In this way the deeper the tone, the nearer it is to the heart of
the actor, the more powerful, passionate, and penetrating it be-

comes, the more it conveys, diffuses, combines in itself the individ-
ual objectives which merge with one another until they form the
substantive parts of the role. Meantime the number of objectives
and units decreases in the score, but their quality and substance
are enhanced.
This example of work on the part of Chatski illustrates vividly
that the same physical and simple psychological score of a part,

experienced emotionally in varying and increasingly deeper tones,
grows closer to the heart of an actor at all creative points.
The combination of these inner elements of a role, when added
to its varied internal and external circumstances, results in infinite
variety. Together they create a long scale of emotional experience;
of their own accord and unconsciously they take on the most
varied rainbow shadings of feeling. As a result the simple objec-
tives in the score acquire deep and important meanings for the
actor as well as inner justification. The score saturates every parti-
cle of an actor's inner being, it enthralls him and acquires a deeper
and deeper hold over him.
By degrees we reach the innermost depths which we define as
the core, the mysterious "I." That is where human emotions exist
in their pristine stage; there in the fiery furnace of human passions
all that is trivial, shallow, is consumed, only the fundamental,
organic elements of an actor's creative nature remain.
The Superobjective and Through Action
In this innermost center, this core of the role, all the remaining
objectives of the score converge, as it were, into one superobjective.
explored it and the lover, as he did here, but

in the keys not only of the friend
also of the free man and the patriot. Thus in the end the score would have "as
it were, three linings." (See also his reference to the role in An Actor Pre-
pares, p. 257.) —EDITOR
17
That is the inner essence, the all-embracing goal, the objective of
all objectives, the concentration of the entire score of the role, of
all of its major and minor units. The superobjective contains the
meaning, the inner sense, of all the subordinate objectives of the
play. In carrying out this one superobjective you have arrived at
something even more important, superconscious, ineffable, which

is the spirit of Griboyedov himself, the thing that inspired him to
write, and which inspires an actor to act.
In Dostoyevski's novel The Brothers Karamazov the super-
objective is the author's search for God and Devil in the soul of
man. In Shakespeare's tragedy of Hamlet such a superobjective
would be the comprehending of the secrets of being. With Che-
khov's The Three Sisters it is the aspiration for a better life ("to
Moscow, to Moscow"). With Leo Tolstoy it was his unending
search for "self-perfection," and so forth.
Only artists of genius are capable of the emotional experience
of a superobjective, the complete absorption into themselves of the
soul of the play, and the synthesis of themselves with the play-
wright. Actors of lesser talents, who lack the marks of genius,
must be satisfied with less.
The great objectives comprise in themselves a quantity of live

emotions and concepts, filled with profound content, spiritual in-
sight, and vital force. One superobjective planted in the spiritual

core of an actor, naturally and of its own accord, creates and mani-
fests thousands of separate small objectives on the external plane
of a part. This superobjective is the main foundation of an actor's

life and part, and minor objectives are corollaries
all the to it, the
inevitable consequence and reflection of the basic one.
Nevertheless a creative superobjective is still not creativeness
itself. In an actor it toward the super-
consists of constant striving
objective and the expression of that striving in action. This striv-
ing, which expresses the essence of creativeness, is the through
action of the role or play. If for the writer this through action is
expressed by the progression of his superobjective, then for the
78
actor the through action is the active attainment of the super-
objective.
Thus the superobjective and the through action represent crea-
tive goal and creative action, which contain in themselves all the
thousands of separate, fragmentary objectives, units, actions in a
role.
The superobjective is the quintessence of the play. The through

line of action is which runs through the entire work-
the leitmotif
Together they guide the creativeness and strivings of the actor.
The superobjective and through action are the inborn vital pur-
pose and aspiration rooted in our being, in our mysterious "I."
Every play, every role, has concealed in it a superobjective and a
line of through action which constitute the essential life of the
individual roles and of the whole work. The roots of the through
action are to be looked for in natural passions, in religious, social,
political, aesthetic, mystical, and other feelings, in innate qualities
or vices, in good or evil origins, whatever most developed in the

is
nature of man and which mysteriously governs him. Whatever

occurs in our inner life or in the outer life which surrounds us,
it all has significance in relation to the mysterious, often uncon-
scious, bond with some main idea, with our innate aspirations,
and with a line of through action which is our human spirit.
Thus a miser seeks in everything that occurs to him the secret

bond with his aspiration to enrich himself, an ambitious man with
his thirst for honors,an aesthete with his artistic ideals. Often, in
life and also on the stage, the through line will manifest itself
unconsciously. It will become defined only after the fact, and its
ultimate goal, the superobjective, will have been secretly, uncon-
sciously, exercising a pull, drawing to itself our human aspirations.
If we deviate from this main line we For exam-

fall into error.
ple, years ago we planned the last act of Gorki's Lower Depths as
a party in the flop-house. We did not know how to feel and to

convey the philosophy of the play, we merely went through the
external motions of drunken carousing. This false representation
79
of feelings was always me, but by force of habit I
repellent to
went through the action in a perfunctory, mechanical way. I made
this same mistake for eighteen years; but recently, before the
beginning of the act, finding myself loath to play it, I began to
search forsome new stimulation, a new approach. What did the
carousing have to do with my feelings in the role of Satin ? It was
just part of the external circumstances, unimportant in itself,
whereas the essence of the scene was entirely different. Luka has
left behind an impress —love of one's neighbor. Satin is affected
by this. He is not drunk, he is concentrated on his new feeling

of pride. I tried to cast aside my false acting; I relaxed my mus-
cles and concentrated my attention. My physical objectives and
thoughts took on new shapes. I played well.
The actor must learn how to compose a score of lively physical
and psychological objectives; to shape his whole score into one
all-embracing supreme objective; to strive toward its attainment.
Taken all together the superobjective (desire), through action
(striving), and attainment (action) add up to the creative process
of living a part emotionally. Thus the process of living your part
consists of composing a score for your role, of a superobjective,
and of its active attainment by means of the through line of action.
Yet no movement, striving, action is carried out on the stage,
any more than in real life, without obstacles. One runs inevitably
into the counter-movements and strivings of other people, or into
conflicting events, or into obstacles caused by the elements, or
other hindrances. Life is an unremitting struggle, one overcomes
or one is defeated. Likewise on the stage, side-by-side with the
through action there will be a series of counter-through actions on
the part of other characters, other circumstances. The collision and
conflict of these two opposing through actions constitute the dra-
matic situation.
Every objective must be within the powers of an actor; other-
wise it will not lead him on, indeed it will frighten him, paralyze
his feelings, and instead of emerging itself it will send in its stead
80
mere cliches, craft acting. How often we see this happen As long !
as a creative objective maintains on the level of affective

itself
feelings, an actor will truly live his part. But as soon as he sets
himself a complicated objective beyond the powers of his own
creative nature, drawn from some lesser-known level of human
emotions, his natural feeling of his part stops short; it is replaced
by physical tension, false feeling, and cliche acting.
The same thing occurs when an objective raises doubts, uncer-
tainty, weakening or even destroying the striving of one's creative
will. Doubt is the enemy of creativeness. It holds back the process
of living one's part. Therefore the actor must watch over his ob-
jectives, keep them free of anything that distracts the will from
the essence of creativeness or weakens the aspirations of the will.
The Superconscious
When he has exhausted all avenues and methods of creativeness

an actor reaches a limit beyond which human consciousness can-
not extend. Here begins the realm of the unconscious, of intuition,
which is not accessible to mind but is to feelings, not to thought
but to creative emotions. An actor's unpolished technique cannot
reach it; it is accessible only to his artist-nature.
Unfortunately, the realm of the unconscious is often ignored in
our art because most actors limit themselves to superficial feelings,
and the spectators are satisfied with purely external impressions.
Yet the essence of art and the main source of creativeness are hid-
den deep in man's soul; there, in the center of our spiritual being,
in the realm of our inaccessible superconsciousness, our mysterious
"I" has its being, and inspiration itself. That is the storehouse of
our most important spiritual material.
It is intangible and not subject to our consciousness; it cannot
be defined in words, seen, heard, known through any senses. In-
deed how could one attain, by conscious means, all the subtleties
of a living soul, for instance a soul as complex as that of Hamlet }
8i
Many of its shadings, ghost phantoms, hints of emotions, are
accessible only to unconscious creative intuition.
How to reach it then ? How to plumb the depths of a role, an
actor, or an audience ? It can only be done with the aid of nature.
The keys to the secret places of the creative superconscious are
given over to the nature of the actor as a human being. The se-
crets of inspirationand the inscrutable ways to approach it are

known only to nature. Only nature can perform the miracle with-
out which the text of a role remains lifeless and inert. In short,
nature is the only creator in the world that has the capacity to
bring forth life.
The more comes to the super-

subtle the feeling, the closer it
conscious, the closer to nature, and the farther it is removed from

the conscious. The superconscious begins where reality, or rather,
the ultranatural, ends, where nature becomes exempt from the
tutelage of the mind, exempt from conventions, prejudices, force.
Thus the natural approach to the unconscious is through the con-
scious. The only approach to the superconscious, to the unreal, is
through the real, the ultranatural, that is to say through nature

and its normal, unforced, creative life.
The yogis of India, who can work miracles in the realm of the
subconscious and the superconscious, have much practical advice
to offer. They also proceed toward the unconscious through con-
scious preparatory means, from the physical to the spiritual,from
the real to the unreal, from naturalism to the abstract. Take a
handful of thoughts, they suggest, and throw them into your sub-
conscious sack, saying: I have no time to bother with them so you
(my subconscious) attend to them. Then go to sleep. When you
wake up, you ask: Is it ready? The answer is: Not yet. Take an-
other handful of thoughts and again throw it into the sack, and
go for a walk. When you return, ask Is it ready ? The answer is
:
still: No! And so on. But in the end your subconscious will say:
It is ready. And then it will return to you what you gave it to do.
How often, when we are going to sleep or taking a walk and

82
Struggling toremember a melody or thought or name or address,
we say to ourselves: "The morning is wiser than the evening";
and when we wake up in the morning we find that we have
somehow recalled what we sought. The work of our subconscious
and superconscious does not end either day or night, either when
the body and all of our being is resting or when our thoughts and
feelings are distracted by the cares of everyday life. But we are not
aware of the work constantly in progress because it goes on be-
yond the reach of our consciousness.
In order to establish some sort of communion with his super-
conscious, an actor must know how to "take some handfuls of
thoughts and throw them into the sack of his subconscious." The
food for his superconscious, the material for creativeness, lies in
those "handfuls of thoughts." Of what do these consist and where
are they to be had ? They are made up of knowledge, information,
experience — all the material accumulated and stored in our mem-
ories. That is why an actor must be constantly filling the store-
house of his memory by studying, reading, observing, traveling,
keeping in touch with current social, religious, political, and other
forms of life. And when
he turns over these handfuls of thought
to his subconscious he must not be in a hurry; he must know how
to wait patiently. Otherwise, so say the yogis, he will be like the
stupid child who planted a seed in the ground and then dug it up
every half hour to see was putting down roots.
if it
All the work we do on ourselves and our roles is aimed at pre-

paring the ground for the inception and growth of living passions
and for inspiration which lies dormant in the realm of the super-
conscious. Some believe that inspiration comes of its own accord,
regardless of what the actor does, and provides its own creative
inner state. But inspiration is a spoiled creature. It will appear only
in prepared circumstances, and any deviation from them will
frighten it away to hide itself in the recesses of the superconscious.
Before he even thinks about the superconscious and inspiration,
an actor must concern himself with establishing a proper internal
83
li
GRIBOYEDOV S WOE FROM WIT
State so firmly that he cannot any other, so that it be-
tolerate
comes second nature to him. More than that he must learn to
accept the given circumstances of his part as his own. Only then
will his fastidious inspiration open its hidden doors, step out
freely, and take into its masterful hands the entire initiative of his
creativeness.
We have now come to the end of our second large period in the
preparation of a role. What have we accomplished.^ If the first
period was one of analysis to prepare the inner ground for the
inception of creative desire, then this second period of emotional
experience has developed that creative desire, it has called forth
aspiration, an inner impulse to creative action, and thus prepared
us for the external, physical action, the actual embodiment of the
role.
84
CHAPTER THREE
The Period of Physical Embodiment
THE THIRD PERIOD of creativeness is the embodiment of the

role.
If the first period was compared to the first acquaintance of two

beings who are to become and the second to their marriage
lovers,
and pregnancy, the third is comparable to the birth and growth
of a young being. Now that we have prepared our desires, ob-
jectives, aspirations, we can put them into action, not only in-
wardly but outwardly, using words and movements to convey our
thoughts and feelings or simply carrying out our objectives in
physical form.
Let us say that having been assigned the role of Chatski, I am
on my way to the theatre for our first rehearsal, which has been
set after a whole series of preparatory sessions such as those already
described. I am excited about the impendingwant to rehearsal. I
prepare myself for it. What shall I begin with ? Shall I assure my-
self that I am not myself but Alexander Chatski ? That would be
wasted effort. Neither my body nor my soul would be taken in by

any such obvious deception. It would only kill any faith I have,
mislead me, and cool my ardor. I cannot exchange myself for any-
one else. A miraculous metamorphosis is out of the question.
An actor can alter the circumstances of the life portrayed on
the stage, he can find it in himself to believe in a new superobjec-
tive, he can give himself up to the main line of action which goes
through a play, he can combine his recalled emotions in one way
or another, he can put them in this or that sequence, he can de-
velop habits in his role which are not native to him, and methods
of physical portrayal as well, and he can change his mannerisms,
85
his exterior. All this will make the actor seem different in every
role to the audience.But he will always remain himself too. He
acts on the stage in his own right, even though spiritually and
physically he may transform himself to be more akin to the role
he is playing.
Now, while I am sitting in my cab, I want to begin to trans-
form myself physically into Chatski, while still being first and
foremost myself. I shall not even attempt to get away from reality;
it is much more to the purpose to use reality for my creative ends.

For ifyou take an imaginary but lifelike circumstance and inject
it into actual life it acquires a kind of vitality, often more attrac-
tive and artistic than reality.
How can I find a bond between the imaginary circumstances

of my role and my present surroundings, sitting in a cab? How
shall I begin my work, begin to be, to exist, amid everyday reality ?
How can I relate it to the life of my part? First of all I must es-
tablish the state of "I am." This time I am not doing it in my
imagination but in real life; not in the imaginary home of Famu-

sov, but in a cab.
It would be fruitless to try to convince myself that I have, only
today, returned from abroad after a long absence. I would not be-
lieve that invention. I must seek some other approach, without
forcing myself or my imagination, and yet putting myself in the
desired state. I try to weigh the meaning of the fact of returning
home from abroad. To this end I ask myself: Do I understand
(really feel) what it means to come back to one's own country
after a prolonged absence? To answer that question I must first
re-evaluate, as deeply and broadly as I can, the very fact of the
return; I must compare it to analogous facts in my own life,
familiar to me through my own experience. I have often returned
to Moscow from abroad, after a long absence, and then as now
taken a cab to the theatre. I recall distinctly how happy I was at
the prospect of seeing my colleagues, the theatre, Russians in gen-
eral, of hearing my own language spoken, seeing the Kremlin,
86
THE PERIOD OF PHYSICAL EMBODIMENT
talking to the uncouth cab driver — I was happy to inhale "the
vapors of our fatherland," v^^hich are to us "so sviêet and con-
genial." Just as a man is happy to exchange his closely fitting
evening clothes and patent leather shoes for a comfortable dress-
ing gown and soft slippers, so one is delighted to return to hos-
pitable Moscow after the hurly-burly of foreign cities.
This sense of serenity, rest, of arriving at one's own hearth is
something one feels even more deeply when the journey has not
been made in a comfortable sleeping car but in a bouncing coach
and with relays of horses. I remember such a journey! The gaping
public, the post horses, the drivers, the waits, the shaking, one's
bruised sides, back, hips, the sleepless nights, the marvelous sun-
rises, the unbearable daytime heat or wintry frosts —in brief, all
that was both wonderful and terrible and went with traveling by
coach! If it was hard to travel for one week, as I did, imagine
what it would have been to travel for months as Chatski did
And how great was the joy of the return! I can feel it now as I
sit in my cab and drive to the theatre. And involuntarily Chatski's
own lines come to my mind:

. . . beside myself,
Two days and nights on end, and never closing eye,
I traveled fast over the many hundred miles through wind and storm. . .
I realize now the emotional impact of these words. I under-

stand, I what Griboyedov must have felt when he wrote
feel,
them. I realize that they were larded with the quivering, live emo-
tions of a man who had traveled widely, had often left and re-
turned to his fatherland. That is why the words are so warm,
deep, and full of meaning.
Warmed by the ardent feelings of the patriot, I try to put to my-
self another question, namely: What would Alexander Chatski
feel if he were driving to see Famusov and Sophia ? Putting my-
self in his stead, I already feel a certain awkwardness, a sense of

somewhat losing my balance. How can one guess the feelings of
87
another ? How can one get inside his skin, put oneself in his place ?
I withdraw the proposed question and replace it with an-
hastily
other, namely: What do men in love do when, after an absence
of years, they are driving to see the lady of their dreams ?
Put in that form the question does not alarm me; yet it seems a
bit dry, vague, generalized, and therefore I hasten to give it a
more concrete formulation: What would I do if I, as now, were
riding in a cab, but not going to the theatre, going to see her, and
never mind whether she is called Sophia or something else ?
I want to underscore the difference between these two versions
of the question. In the first version I ask what the other man
would do, whereas in the second my own feelings are involved.
Such a question strikes closer to home; therefore it has more
vitality, is warmer in feeling. In order now to decide what I
would be doing if I were on my way to her, I must put myself in

the state of feeling the magnetism of her charms.
For every man a she exists, sometimes a blonde, sometimes a
brunette; sometimes she is kind, sometimes fierce, but always
wonderful, fascinating, the kind of a she with whom one could at
any moment fall in love again. I, like anyone else, think of my
ideal sheand rather easily find in myself the familiarly aroused
emotions and inner impulses.
Now I shall try to transplant her into the surroundings of the
Famusov home Moscow. Why indeed should she
in the 1820's in
not be Sophia Famusov and at the same time the kind of girl
Chatski imagined her? Who can check on this? Therefore let it
be as I choose. I begin to think about the Famusovs, about the at-
mosphere into which I now project the lady of my heart. My

memory easily recreates the great mass of material previously col-
lected in my work on the emotional pattern of my role.The

and internal circumstances of life in the
familiar external Famusov
household are again reconstructed in order and envelop me on all
sides. I already feel myself to be at their core, I begin to be, to

exist, in them. Now I can already determine hour by hour what
88
the whole of today will be, I can provide meaning and justification
for driving to the Famusovs.
Nevertheless, while I am doing this work I am aware of a cer-
tainawkwardness; something keeps me from seeing her in the

Famusov house and believing in my imagination. What is this?
What is the reason for it ? On the one hand, here am I, and here
she is, a modern man and woman, a modern cab, modern streets
and on the other hand, there are the 1820's, the Famusovs, their
vivid representatives. Yet is the life of the times and the epoch so
important in the eyes of the eternal emotion of love ? For the life
of a human spirit, is it so important that in other days the car-
riages had other springs under them, that the streets were not so
well paved, that the people going by wore clothes of another cut,
that the sentries carried halberds ? Is it important that their archi-
tecture wasand that futurism and cubism did not exist?
better,
Yet the quiet lane, flanked with old private houses, down which
I am now driving can scarcely have changed at all since those
days; there is the same sad, poetic atmosphere, the same lack of
bustle, the same serenity now as then. As for the feelings of a man
in love, it has in all centuries been composed of the same elements
without regard for streets or the clothing of the passersby.
Searching for a further answer to the question of what I would
do if I were on my way to her if she were living in the circum-
stances of the Famusov household, I look into myself to find the
answer in my own incipient impulses. They remind me of the
familiar excitement and impatience of a man in love. I feel that if
this excitement and impatience were increased in degree I would
find it difficult to sit still, I would find my feet pushing against

the partition of the cab in an effort to make the driver hurry. I
would have the physical sensation of a surge of energy. I would
feel that I must direct it, harness it to some action. I now feel
that the principal motive powers of my inner life have gone to

work to provide the reply to the questions : How meet her ?
shall I
What shall I say and do to make this meeting memorable ?
89
Buy her a bouquet? Candies? How trivial! Is she a cocotte to
whom one takes flowers and sweets on a first assignation! What
can I think of ? Some present from abroad ? That's even worse ! I
am no salesman to heap presents on her the first time I see her,

as though she were my mistress. I blush at such low thoughts and
prosaic impulses. Yet when I see her, how can I greet her in
worthy fashion ? I shall bring her my heart, lay myself at her feet.
"The day is scarcely on its feet, and I am at yours!" Chatski's own
words burst from me. I could not have found a better way to greet
her.
These words in the part of Chatski, which used to be dis-
first
tasteful to me, suddenly are a necessity, I like them, and even the
kneeling, with which they are usually accompanied on the stage,
no longer seems theatrical but perfectly natural. In this instant I
have realized the emotional impact, the inner impulses, which led
Griboyedov to write those lines.
However, if I am to lay myself at her lovely feet, I would like to
feel that I am worthy of her. Am I good enough to give myself to
her? My love, my loyalty, my constant worship of my ideal, all
these are pure and worthy of her, but what about me myself? I
am not handsome and poetic enough! I wish I were better, more
refined. Here I involuntarily straighten up, try to put on a better
face, to find a graceful pose; I console myself with the thought
that I am not worse than others, and to check this I compare
myself to the passersby. Luckily for me deformed people are the
only ones to be seen.
By turning my attention to the people in the street I, without
noticing it, move slightly away from my former purpose I begin ;
to observe the familiar scene from the point of view of a person

accustomed to Western man, over there at
countries. That's not a
the gate, it's a pile of fur. A metal plate gleams on his head like
the single eye of a cyclops. He is a Moscow yardman. Good God,
what barbarism! He must be an Eskimo!
There's a Moscow policeman With the end of his scabbard he
!
90
is pushing against the poor old foundering jade, as if he
ribs of a
would break her in two because she cannot haul an overburdened

cart full of wood. There are yells and curses, the waving of a whip.
Turkey! And we ourselves are we not
Just like Asia, just like —
vulgar, rough-hewn country bumpkins, even if we are all dressed
up in foreign clothing? I blush again at the thought of com-
parison with the West and my heart sinks. How must foreigners
look at all this when they come here. . . .
To all of Chatski's words I find an emotional response inside

myself, the same sort of thing Griboyedov had when he wrote
them. When you begin to examine familiar phenomena closely,
then the old things which you were tired of and had ceased to
look at suddenly make more on you than new
of an impression
and unexpected ones. So it is now with me. The more I observe
the things I meet with along the way to the theatre, the more I
seem to filter these reviewed impressions through the prism of a
person just returned from abroad, the more strongly my feelings
as a patriot are enhanced. I realize that it was not bitterness but
anguish of soul, a great love for Russia, a deep understanding of

what was precious and what was lacking in her, that made Chat-
ski excoriate those who ruin our lives and obstruct her develop-
ment. . . .
"Ah, good day to you," I call out in a perfunctory way, and bow
to someone without taking time to think what I am doing.
Who was that ? Oh, yes. He is a famous aviator and automobile
racer.
That might seem quite an anachronism. My illusion should be

blown right away by it. Not at all! I repeat: It is not a question
of time, of way of life, it is only a question of the emotions of a
man in love and the feelings of a patriot on returning home.
Could not a man in love have an aviator cousin ? Could a patriot
returning home not meet an automobile racer? One thing is,
however, strange. I do not seem to recognize my own manner in
91
the way I greeted him. It is somehow different. Could it be the
way would have done it ?
that Chatski
Another strange thing: Why do I feel a certain artistic satis-
way I greeted that man so spontaneously ? How did
faction in the
it happen? My arm unconsciously made a kind of movement
which was evidently just right. Or was it perhaps right because I

did not have time to think about my gesture and was impelled to
make it by an inner direct impulse? It would be useless to re-
member such an unconscious gesture and attempt to fix it in my
memory. It will either never recur or it will recur of its own
accord, unconsciously; and if it recurs frequently it will eventu-
ally become habitual and be permanently a part of my role. In
other words, to bring this about I must try to recall not the gesture
itself but the general state I was in and which evoked, if only for
a second, an external image, which may already be forming itself

inside me and seeking an outer shape.
That is what happens when you remember a forgotten thought
or melody. The harder you search for it the more stubbornly it
hides from you. But

you are able to recall clearly the place, the
if
circumstances, your general frame of mind, when you first had

the thought, it will of its own accord be resurrected in your
memory.
Here my inner work is interrupted as my cab draws up at the
theatre and stops at the stage door.and enter the theatre
I get out
with the feeling that I am already warmed up and ready for the
rehearsal. My part has been weighed and I feel that "I am."
Inside the theatre we sit at a large table in the rehearsal room.
The reading begins. The first act is read. The director knits his
eyebrows, around with their eyes glued on their books.
all sit
Bewilderment, embarrassment, perplexity, disillusionment! You

do not want to read any more. The book only bothers you, there
is no vital reason for sitting there with your nose in it. Now we
feel as if we had been ducked in water, and we wonder what has
become of all that we searched for so long, what we created with
92
such effort in the quiet of our studies or sleepless nights ? In my
own case, I felt an inner image, emotionally and physically, of the
man I am to portray, I knew the whole inner life of my part.
What has become of all those feelings ? It is as though they had
been broken up into tiny fragments and would be impossible to
it
find and reassemble them inside myself. Worse than that, I feel
that in the place of my stored-up creative riches I have been given
cheap worn-out routines, a strained voice,
actor's tricks, habits,
forced intonations. Instead of the harmonious order I was aware

of when I was working at home, I am now subjected to muscular
anarchy which I am unable to control. I feel I have lost the score
it took me so long to compose, and that I shall have to begin all
over again. The first time the play was ever read I felt I was a
trained master and now I feel like a helpless apprentice. Then I
could confidently go through cliche acting and I felt like a vir-
tuoso in my craft. Now I am diffidently trying to put my role into
physical form and I feel like a student. What has happened to

it all ?
The answer to these harrowing questions is clear and simple.

No matter how long an actor has been on the stage, such mo-
ments of helplessness, like labor pains, are inevitable at the mo-
ment when he brings forth his role. No matter how many roles
he has created, no matter how many years he has worked in the
theatre, no matter what experience he has acquired he will —
never get away from these creative doubts and tortures that we are
now experiencing. And no matter how many times this state is
repeated it will always seem terrifying, hopeless, irreparable while

this mood on him.
is
No experience, no persuasion will convince actors that the crea-

tive work of emotionally experiencing a part and then putting it
into physical form must not be done suddenly, all at once, but
gradually in slow stages. At first, as we have seen, you experience
your role mentally, and then it is embodied in an imaginative
image during those sleepless nights, then in a more conscious way
93
but Still in the quiet of your study, then in intimate rehearsals,
then in the presence of a few spectators, then in a whole series of
dress rehearsals, and finally in a numberless quantity of perform-

ances. And each time you do the same work over from the be-
ginning.
The now posed is how we can recreate in an intimate
question
rehearsal the role we have prepared at home. The director has
already quietly and cheerfully announced that we are not yet
ready for the pure text of Griboyedov. It is not right to muddle
and wear out the words of a play ahead of time. Therefore he
proposes that we abandon further reading.
The verbal text of a play, especially one by a genius, is the
manifestation of the clarity, the subtlety, the concrete power to
express invisible thoughts and feelings of the author himself. In-
side each and every word there is an emotion, a thought, that
produced the word and justifies its being there. Empty words are
like nutshells without meat, concepts without content they are no ;
use, indeed they are harmful. They weigh down a role, blur its
design; they must be thrown out like so much trash. Until the
actor is able to fill out each word of the text with live emotions,
the text of his role will remain dead.
In a work by a genius there is not one superfluous moment or
feeling, and therefore, in the score of his part as composed by an
actor, there should be only those feelings absolutely necessary to
carry out the superobjective and the through action. It is only
when an actor prepares such a score and inner image that the text
will turn out to be the exact measure of the actor's creation. A
play by a genius requires a score to match. Until that is created,
there are too many or too few words, too many or too few emo-
tions.
If many words in the text of Woe from Wit seem super-
of the
fluous that only means that the actor's score is not yet perfected,
and requires trying out on the stage in actual creative action. It is
not enough to discover the secret of a play, its thought and feel-
94
ings—the actor must be able to convert them into Uving terms. A
truly great text is from
condensed, yet that does not prevent it
being profound and full of meaning. The external form and its
ways must match it; the score itself must be solid, the form in
Vi^hich it is conveyed must be packed solidly, and the physical
image must be vivid, incisive, and full of substance.

When the actor in his creativeness measures up to a remarkable
text, the viôrds of his part prove the best, the most indispensable,
the easiest form of verbal embodiment v^îth which he can make

manifest his own creative emotions through his inner score. Then
the words of another, the playwright, become an actor's own
words, and the whole text becomes the best score for the actor.
Then the unusual verse forms and rhythms of Griboyedov will be
necessary not only for audible enjoyment but also for the sake of
keenness and finish in conveying emotions and all that is in an
actor's score.
Generally, the lines of the play become indispensable to the
actor only in the last phase of his creative preparations, when all
the inner material he has accumulated is crystallized in a series of

definite moments, and the physical embodiment of his role is
working out methods of expressing characteristic emotions.
This time has not yet been reached by us. In our present phase,
the unadorned text of the play is only a deterrent. The actor is not
yet capable of making a full or deep or exhaustive estimate of it.
His role is still in the period of searching for a physical embodi-

ment, and his score has not yet been tested on the stage —super-
fluous feelings and ways of expressing them are still inevitable.
The pure text of the playwright seems too brief and actors fill it
out with words of their own, interpolations of "well," and "now,"

and so forth.
In the beginning of the process of physical embodiment an
actor is immoderate and extravagant in using anything and every-
thing to convey his creative emotions —words, voice, gesture,
movement, action, facial expression. At this point the actor spares
95
no means if somehow externahze all that he feels in-
only he can
side him. It seems to him that the more ways and means he uses
in putting each individual moment into physical form, the greater
the choice, the more substantial and stuffed out will be the physi-
cal embodiment itself. But in this period of search, not only the
alien words of the author but even one's own words are too con-
crete to express the young, scarcely full-blown emotions of the
score.
# # #
The director was right in breaking off the reading. We are in-
vited instead to go on with some improvisations on themes of our
choice. These are preparatory exercises in finding physical expres-
and images analogous to those
sion for feelings, thoughts, actions,
of our parts. With their aid and by means of adding ever new
circumstances we feel out the nature of each emotion, its com-
ponent parts, its logic and sequence.
When we begin our improvisations, the point is to put into
action all casual desires and objectives that well up inside us.
These desires and objectives should be derived, at first, not from
make-believe facts drawn from the play, but from the actual cir-
cumstances that surround the actor at rehearsal. Let his inner im-
pulses as they spontaneously shape themselves in him prompt the
most immediate objectives and also the superobjective of the im-
provisation. However, while he is doing this work the actor should
not forget the circumstances proposed by the playwright, which
are those the actor has already been through, and which, in any
case, he would unwillingly part with since he has grown so close
to them in the previous period of experiencing his part emo-
tionally.
The actor now begins to exist amid his actual surroundings,
which this time are not imaginary but real, while at the same time
they are under the influence of the past, present, and future of his
role and are filled with inner impulses congenial to the character
he is portraying.
96
How is this done ? I must make a bond between my actual sur-
roundings —a rehearsal in the foyer of the Moscow Art Theatre
and the circumstances of the Famusov house in Moscow in the
1820's, and with the life of Chatski, which is to say my own life
as set inside the conditions of the life of the hero of the play, to-
gether with his past, present, and the prospect of his future life.
It was not difficult before to feel my way into the imaginary cir-
cumstances of his life, mentally and emotionally. But how can I
do it here amid contemporary life and today's reaHties How can

?
I put sense into my presence in the Moscow Art Theatre How ?
can I find a basis for the circumstances which surround me in this

rehearsal? How can I justify my being here in this room and not
break the close bond with a life analogous to that of Chatski ?
This new creative objective first of all brings into action the
motive forces of my inner life —my mind, and feelings
will, —and
arouses my imagination. It is already beginning to work.
"Why could not I, even in the circumstances of the life of
Chatski, have friends among the actors of the Moscow Art The-
atre?" suggests my imagination.
"It would be strange if I did not," asserts my mind. "People like
Chatski could not but be interested in art. Chatski himself if he
had lived in the 1820's and 1830's could have been in the group of
Slavophiles, the patriots, among whom were
and even actors
Mikhail Shchepkin himself. If Chatski were alive now he would
undoubtedly be a frequent visitor to our theatres and would have
friends among the actors."
"Who are all these people ?" my feelings now ask.
"The same as they are in real life, they are actors of the Moscow
Art Theatre," explains my imagination.
"No, I think thatman sitting over there opposite me is not an
actor but 'that swarthy man on crane's legs,' "* decide my feelings,
not without a touch of acid.
* Chatski's taunting description of an ubiquitous guest at Moscow parties.
97
"All the better. As a matter of fact, he is very like 'that swarthy
man,' " say my feelings, agreeing with themselves.
Discovering the resemblance to the "swarthy man" gives me
great pleasure because, I fear, the actor sitting opposite me does
not have much attraction for me. Chatski himself would look at
that "swarthy man" just as I am looking now at my partner in our
improvisation.
Taking hold of this incipient feeling, which relates me to Chat-
ski, I hasten to greet the "swarthy man" in the way that Chatski,
the elegant man dexterous in the ways of foreign salons, would do.
But I am rudely punished for my haste and impatience. All the
cliche forms of polite manners and good taste are lying in wait to
jump out and take me unawares. My elbow sticks way out at one
side when I shake hands, my arm is as bowed as an ox-yoke, I
slur all my words; in my affectedly casual manner I distort my
way of walking, theatrical triviality invades my being from all
sidesand takes me over.
Numb with shame, I hate my partner and I hate myself. I sit
motionless for a long time, and keep soothing myself with: "Never
mind, this is normal. I should have known what the result of
haste would be. Until the thousand thousands of cobweblike crea-
tive desires have been bound together to form a heavy cable I
shall not be able to cope with cramped muscles. Imust wait until
my creative will is stronger and able to subject my entire body to
its initiative."
While I am reasoning in this fashion my "swarthy man" com-

panion, overacting like mad as if on purpose, demonstrates to me
the horrible results of uncontrolled muscles.
As if to reproach with great gusto, self-assurance,
me, he acts
brilliance, cheap elegance, and does everything I have done. It

seems as though we have suddenly landed on the stage of some
third-rate provincial theatre. I freeze up with embarrassment,
shame, and fear. I dare not raise my eyes;do not know how to
I
extricate myself from him, how to get away from his self-satisfied
98
actor's aplomb. And he, to make matters worse, goes on cavorting
cheerfully in front of me, dragging his "crane's legs" around,
playing with his make-believe monocle, and rolling his r's like the
worst kind of provincial actor in a society part.
The longer it goes on the stupider becomes his incessant chat-
ter. The "swarthy man" is more repulsive to me than ever, and
I long to pour out my feelings of antipathy to him.
But how to do it ? With words ? He would be offended. With
my hands, gestures, actions? I could not get into a scuffle with
him. Only my eyes and my face remain. It is not without reason
that they say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. Our eyes are the
most responsive organ of our body. They are the first to react to
the manifestations of internal or external life. The speech of the
eyes is most eloquent, subtle, direct, and at the same time least
concrete. Besides it is very convenient. You can say far more, say
it with greater force, with your eyes than with words. Yet what
you say gives no cause for offense, for it conveys only a general
mood, the general character of feelings, and not concrete thoughts
and words to which objection can be taken.
In my need, I now turn to my eyes for help, realizing that in
the beginning one must as far as possible avoid action, move-
ments, words, in order not to provoke the destructive anarchy of
muscles. When I thus find an outlet for my feelings without being
obliged to put them into physical form, to act them out, I feel
relieved of my muscular tension, become quite calm, and from
I
having the sense of being a machine to represent something I re-

turn to being just human. Then everything around me goes back
to its normal and natural Here I am sitting quietly, observ-
state.
ing the antics of the "swarthy man," laughing at him inwardly;

and not wishing to hide my feelings, I give them free rein.
Just at this point the rehearsal is broken off. I hurry after the
"swarthy man" who is moving toward the exit. Like Chatski I
want to laugh at him. But along the way I am overtaken by an-
99
Other of my comrades, one who hkes to propound deep philosophy
on stupid themes.
"Do you know," his bass voice booms impressively in my ear,
"it just occurred to me that there was a reason why the playwright
named the character I play Skalozub [show-your-teeth]. Evi-
dently he must have a habit, don't you know, of . .
."
". . . showing his teeth," I suggest.

I cannot tolerate slow wits in the field of art. An irritated, al-
most sharp remark on the tip of my tongue, but again I recall
is
the Chatski improvisation and it seems to me that he would have

looked at this odd creature differently. So I restrain myself.
"It had not occurred to me," I reply lightly. "It must be so.
Griboyedov characterizes people by their names, not just Skalozub
but others too. For instance Khlyostova [stinger] is called that be-
cause she makes stinging sallies. Tugoukhov [slow ears] because
he is hard of hearing. Zagoretzski [hot head] probably because he
gets hot so easily. Repetilov [repeater] ? Surely because his part
calls for many rehearsals. Tell the man who plays it, because he is
lazy. And by the way, don't forget me. Think about why Gri-
boyedov called my character Chatski."
I have the impression that when I leave him my slow-witted
friend is preparing to take deep thought on the subject. No doubt
Chatski would have expressed himself with more wit than was I
able to do; nevertheless it seems to me that his interchange with

my odd comrade would have been analogous to the one I had.
At the same time, I think to myself: Although I scarcely real-
ized it I was speaking in Chatski's stead and in a quite simple,
unforced way. Yet a half hour ago the real words of my part were
of no use to me. Why is this so? The secret of it is that between
our own words and those of another "the distance is of most un-
measurable size." Our own words are the direct expression of our
feelings, whereas the words of another are alien until we have
made them our own, are nothing more than signs of future emo-
tions which have not yet come to life inside us. Our own words
100
are needed in the first phase of the physical embodiment of a part
because they are best able to extract from within us live feelings
which have not yet found their outward expression.
It is with the help of the eyes, face, mimetics that a role most
easily finds physical expression. Then what the eyes cannot spell
out the voice takes up and expresses by words, intonations, speech.
To and explain one's feeling and thought, gestures and
reinforce
movements add vivid illustration. This physical action is finally
crowned and is converted into fact by the effort of one's creative
will.
The speech of the eyes and face is so subtle that it conveys emo-
tions, thoughts, feelings with scarcely perceptible muscular move-
ments. The muscles must be fully and directly subordinated to
feeling. Any arbitrary, mechanical tightening of the muscles of
the eyes and face —whether it comes from indignation, excite-
ment, a nervous tic, or other forms of force —destroys this subtle,
scarcely perceptible "speech."

Therefore an actor's first concern must be to protect his delicate
visual and facial apparatus from all lawlessness on the part of his
muscles by means of counterhabits ingrained as the result of sys-
tematic exercise. It is impossible to root out a bad habit unless one
puts in its stead something better, more true and natural.
After the eyes the next centers of action to express feelings are
the face and its mimetics. The face is less subtle than the eyes, but
more concrete, and sufficiently eloquent to convey the messages
of the subconscious and the superconscious. The mimetics of the
face are also more in danger of lack of control. Facial tension and
artificiality can distort an emotion beyond all recognition. It is
necessary to fight against this danger so that facial expression will

remain in direct relationship with inner emotions and convey
them with precision and immediacy.
lOI
When you have made as much use as you can of the subtle
means of expression of your eyes and
you can then begin to
face,
use your voice, sounds, words, intonations, and speech. To be sure,
from under the words and between the words there is much that
can be conveyed with the aid of facial expression, eyes, and psy-
chological pauses. Yet in expressing all that is concrete, definite,
conscious, personal —words are a necessity. They are indispensa-
ble when one is obliged to convey thoughts and ideas in particular
form. Yet the danger of tension and cliches is also inherent in the
realm of voice and speech. Tension in the voice ruins its sound,
pronunciation, intonation, making it inflexible, coarse; and vocal
cliches are unusually stubborn. They must be combatted so that
voice and speech remain in complete dependence on inner feelings
and are their direct, exact, and subservient expression.
As separate objectives, units, and finally the whole score be-
come clarified, there follows the natural urge to put desires and
aspirations into effect. Without his knowing it, the actor begins to
act. Action naturally calls for the movement of the whole body,
and the same demands are made of the body as were first made of
the eyes and face It must respond to the subtlest, most impercepti-
:
ble inner feelings and convey them with eloquence. The body too
must be protected from arbitrary force, from muscular tension.
This is one reason why the physical incarnation of a role has to be
held back until the final phase of our work, when the inner facets
of the role are perfected and strong enough to control not only
the eyes, the facial expression, and the voice, but also the body.
When this last is under the direct management of inner feelings
then the deadening power of cliche acting is less baneful.
Let the body go into action when it can no longer be held back,
when it feels the deep inner essence of experienced emotions, in-
ner objectives which it has prompted. Then of its own volition

there will emerge an instinctive, natural urge to carry out the as-
pirations of creative will in the form of physical action.

In the battle of the body with artificialities and tensions an actor
102
must remember that nothing is accomplished by prohibitions. You
cannot forbid your body to do certain things, but you can per-
suade it to work along the line of beautiful external expression.
Ifyou try prohibitions, instead of one stencil type of action and
one kind of tension you will have ten. It is a kind of law that a
cliche will fill any empty space much as weeds will do out of
doors. A which is made for its own sake is a piece of
gesture
force perpetrated on one's inner feelings and their natural mani-
festation.
The mechanical habits of an exercised body and its muscles are

very strong and stubborn. They are like a willing but stupid slave,
often more dangerous than an enemy. External methods and me-
chanical artificialities are acquired with extraordinary speed, and
are retained for a long time; after all, the muscular memory of a
human being, especially of an actor, is extremely well developed.
Whereas on the contrary his emotion memory, the memory of
sensations, emotional experiences, are extremely fragile.
Alas for the actor if there is a slippage betweenbody and his
his
soul, between his inner action and his outward movements. Alas
for him if his bodily instrument falsifies his feelings, puts them
off the right key. It is what happens to a melody played on an
instrument out of tune. And the truer the feeling, the more pain-
ful the discordance.
The bodily incarnation of a part, of a passion, should be not
only exact but also beautiful, graceful, sonorous, colorful, harmoni-
ous. How can one manifest what is exalting by trivial means, or
what is noble by vulgar means, what is beautiful by what is de-
formed.? A street player, a bad fiddler, does not need a Stradi-
varius; a simple violin suffices to convey his feelings. But for a
Paganini, a Stradivarius is a necessity. The more substantial the
inner creativeness of an actor, the more beautiful his voice should
be, the more perfect should be his diction, the more expressive
should be his facial movements, the more graceful his body, the
more flexible his entire physical equipment. Embodiment on the
103
Stage, like any other artistic form, is only good when it is true
and same time executes in artistic form the inner substance
at the
of the work. The shape must conform to the inner substance. If
the shape is a failure, the fault lies with the inner creative feeling
that engendered it.
Up to now we have been speaking of finding a physical form

for the inner score of the part, the image that contains its essence.
But every living organism has an outer form as well, a physical
body which uses make-up, has a typical voice as to manner of
speech and intonation, typical way of walking, manners, gestures,
and so forth.
The conscious means of embodying a part begins with the in-
tellectual creation of an outer image, with the aid of the imagina-
tion, the inner eye, ear, and so forth. An actor strives with his
inner eye to see the exterior, the costume, gait, movements, and so
forth, of the character he is to play. Mentally he searches for sam-
ples in his memory. He recalls the appearance of people he knows.
From some he borrows certain qualities and from others he bor-
rows certain others. He makes his own combination and com-
poses the external image he has in his mind.
If, however, he does not find either in himself or his memory
the material he needs, then he must search for it. Like a painter or
sculptor he must seek a live model by looking everywhere, in the
street, in the theatre, at home, or in the places where he can find
groups of people in certain categories —military, bureaucratic,

merchants, aristocrats, peasants, and so forth—depending on his
needs.
Every actor should constantly collect materials to help enlarge
his imagination for use in creating the external appearance of

roles, materials for make-up, whole figures, carriage, and so forth.
For this purpose he should amass a collection of all kinds of photo-
graphs, engravings, sketches for make-up, typical faces, as seen in
reproductions or described in literature. At times when his imagi-
nation runs dry this material will rouse it, make creative sugges-
104
tions, remind him of things that perhaps have been famiUar but
have sHpped out of his memory.
If this material is of no avail then the actor must try other
means to stir up his dormant imagination. Let him attempt to

make a careful sketch of the face or figure he is searching for,
draw the features, the mouth, eyebrows, wrinkles, the outline of
the body, the cut of the clothes. Such a sketch, prepared with a few
strokes, will supply a combination of lines rather like a caricature
to suggest the more typical aspects of his external image.

Having plotted the design the actor then has to transfer it with
all its typical lines to his own face and body.
Often the actor looks for this image on himself. He tries all
kinds of ways of dressing his hair, of using his eyebrows ; he con-

tracts various muscles of his face and body, tries out various ways
of using his eyes, of walking, gesticulating, bowing, shaking
hands, moving about. This experiment is carried further with
make-up. He will put on a whole series of wigs, paste on all sorts
of beards, mustaches, use colored creams to try to find the exact

shade of complexion, lines of wrinkles, shadows, highlights, until
he stumbles on the thing he is looking for — something which,
by the way, often quite surprises him. When the outer image
comes to life, the inner image recognizes its body, gait, manner of
movement. The same work has to be repeated in choosing a cos-
tume. First the actor searches in his memory, then
affective, visual
in drawings, photographs, pictures, then in his own life. He makes

sketches, tries on clothing, in a variety of cuts, pins them up, alters
their aspect, until he accidentally or consciously finds what he is
looking for, or what he did not at all expect to find.
The ability to keep one's body completely at the service of one's

feelings is a principal concern of the external technique of incar-
nating a role. Still, even the most perfect physical equipment can-
105
not transmit many incommunicable, superconscious, invisible
feelings. They are conveyed directly from soul to soul. People
commune wîth one another by means of invisible inner currents,
radiations of their spirit, compulsions of their will. These have a
direct, immediate, pov^êrful effect on the stage, and they convey
things which neither words nor gestures are capable of doing. You
experience an emotional state and you can make others, with
whom you are in communion, do the same.
A great and inveterate mistake made by actors is to believe that
only what is visible and audible to the public, in the wide expanse
of the theatre building, is of scenic quality. But does the theatre
exist only to cater to the eyes and ears of the public ? Does every-
thing that passes through our soul lend itself only to words,
sounds, gestures, and movements ?
The irresistibility, contagiousness, and power
com- of direct
munion by means of invisible radiations of the human will and
feelings are great. It is used to hypnotize people, to tame wild ani-
mals or a raging mob; the fakirs put people to death and resusci-
tate them; and actors can fill whole auditoriums with the invisible
radiations of their emotions.

Some think that the conditions of having to create in public are
a deterrent. On the contrary, they encourage this kind of com-
munion, because the atmosphere of a performance, heavily im-
pregnated with the nervous excitement of the crowd, serves as the
most effective channel for an actor's creativeness. The mass feeling
enhances his feeling of being electrified, it intensifies the atmos-
phere in the auditorium, and it increase the flow of inner currents.
Let the actor pour out the radiations of his emotions, when he is
silent or motionless, in the dark or in the hght, consciously and

unconsciously. Let the actor believe that these are the most effec-
tive, irresistible, subtle, powerful means to convey the most impor-
tant, superconscious, invisible things which cannot be put into
words by the playwright.
1 06
Part II
Shakespeare's Othello
Between 1930 and 1933, when was preparing the

Stanislavski
following study based on Othello, he devised the form of presenta-
tion that he was to use in An Actor Prepares and Building a Char-
acter. The familiar cast of characters —including Stanislavski-as-
teacher-Tortsov and Stanislavski-as-student-Kostya —appear here,
as well as in the study of The Inspector General that follows. As
the chapter titles indicate, the basic concepts developed in connec-
tion with Woe from Wit are carried forward here, but with a shift
of emphasis to the "new and unexpected method" for releasing
the inner life of a role by first creating its physical life. editor
CHAPTER FOUR
First Acquaintance
TORTSOV began by saying: "You now know what a working

creative state is on the stage. This makes it possible for you to enter
the next phase of our program on the preparation of a part. For
this we must have a specific role to work on. It would be even
better to have a whole play for that purpose so that each of you
would have appropriate work to do in it. So it is with the choice
of a play that we shall begin. Let us decide what we shall act, or
rather what we shall use to put into effect all that we have learned
so far."
The was given up to choosing parts, separate
entire lesson
scenes, and a whole play on which we would work.
To my great joy, Tortsov fixed his choice on Othello. I shall
not go into the details, the long arguments that are inevitable in
this sort of a decision. We all know of similar scenes connected
with amateur groups and performances. It will be better for me
to put down the motives which impelled Tortsov to confirm as
the choice for our further activities the very play he had consid-
ered too difficult and dangerous for young beginners.
These were his reasons
"We need a play that will interest you all and in which we can
find suitable parts for all or nearly all of you. Othello is absorbing
to everyone and the roles are excellently distributed: Brabantio
—Kostya; lago—Grisha; Desdemona—Maria; Rod-
Leo; Othello
erigo—Vanya; Cassio—Paul; Emilia—Dasha; the Doge —Nicho-
las. Only Vasya remains without a part.
109
Shakespeare's othello
''Othello is an appropriate choice also because it contains many

small parts; there are crowd scenes too. These I shall distribute
among agroup of apprentices in the theatre with whom we shall
work as we have in the past in elaborating our method.
"This tragedy of Shakespeare's is, as I have said before, too
difficult for beginners. Moreover, it is too complicated to put on
our stage. This will prevent you from indulging in efforts at a
'half-baked' production and performances which could under-

mine your none-too-secure powers. You see I am not going to
oblige you to act the tragedy. We need it only as material we can
use for study. For that we could not find a better play. There is
no question of its first-rate quality from the artistic point of view.

Besides, this tragedy is well defined in the pattern and construc-
tion of its individual sections, in the consecutiveness and logical
development of its tragedy of emotions, in its through line of
action, and in its superobjective.
"There is still another practical consideration. You, as begin-
ners, are above all drawn most cases this desire
to tragedy. In
derives from the fact that you are not yet fully aware of its prob-
lems and demands. So learn about them as soon and as intimately
as possible so that in the future you will not thoughtlessly let
yourselves be carried away by dangerous temptations.

"Every director has his individual approach to the preparation
of a part and his own program for carrying out this work. This
is something for which no fixed rules can be set. Yet the funda-
mental stages, the psychophysiological methods of doing this

work, must be rigorously observed. You have to know them, and
I must demonstrate them to you in practice; I must make you
feel them and test them in your own persons. That is, so to speak,
the prototype of the whole process of preparing a part.

"Besides, you must know, understand, and learn to control all
possible approaches to this work, because the director will make
variations in keeping with the necessities, the development of the
work, its conditions, the individual peculiarities of the actors. I
no
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
must also demonstrate these approaches to you. That is why I shall
do the many scenes of Othello in different ways. Whereas the
first one I shall do in accordance with a fundamental, classic plan,
the others will have new variations on their composition intro-

duced into them constantly. As I introduce these variations I shall
give notice of them in advance."
"Let us read Othello^'' proposed Tortsov at the beginning of

our class.
"We know it already! We've read it!" exclaimed several stu-

dents.
"All the better. In that case take away all the copies of the play
and do not return them until I say so. And you must promise not
to get any others. Since you know the play, tell me its contents."
We were silent.
"It is difficult to tell the contents of a complex, psychological
play; so to begin with, let us be satisfied with the simple external
plot, the line of events."
No one responded to that request either.

"Well, you begin," Tortsov urged Grisha.
"To do that, you see, you have to know the play well," he re-
plied evasively.
"But you said you knew it."
"Excuse me, if you please. I know by heart the whole role of

Othello himself, because, you see, I'm his type; but I just glanced
through the other parts," confessed our tragedian.
"So that is how you made your first acquaintance with OthelloV
ejaculated Tortsov. "That's very sad. Perhaps you will tell us the
contents of the play," said Tortsov, now turning to Vanya who
was sitting next to Grisha.
"I couldn't do it, not for anything. I read it, but not all. There
were a lot of pages missing."
Ill
"What about you?" Tortsov asked Paul.

"I don't recall the play as a whole; I saw some foreign stars in
it. They cut it a lot, as you know, especially the parts not directly
connected with their roles," replied Paul.
Tortsov shook his head
Nicholas had seen the play in a small town and so badly done
it would have been better if he had never seen it at all.
Vasya read the play on a train and was all mixed up about it.
He recalled only the principal scenes.

Leo was familiar with all the literary criticism concerning
Othello, from Hervinus* on down, but he was unable to state any
facts concerning the actions or their sequence.
"This is very bad. As important an event as your first acquaint-
ance with the work of a poet, and it takes place just anywhere,
in a train, in a cab, or a streetcar ! The worst of it is that you read
it not for the sake of coming to know the play but in order to
flatter yourselves by picking out advantageous roles.
"So this is how actors first meet the best classics which they in
due course are supposed to incarnate! This is how they approach
a part with which sooner or later they are to identify themselves,
in which they are to find their alter ego!

"Why, this moment of your first meeting with a part should be
unforgettable.
"As you know, I attribute decisive significance to these first
impressions. If the impressions of a first reading are properly re-
ceived, that is a great gauge of future success. The loss of this
moment is irreparable because a second reading no longer con-

tains the element of surprise so potent in the realm of intuitive
creativeness. To correct a spoiled impression more difficult than
is
to create a proper one in the first place. One must be extraordi-

narily attentive to one's first acquaintance with a part because
this is the first stage of creativeness.
* The German specialist on Shakespeare.
112
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
"It is dangerous to ruin that moment by the wrong approach
to the work of a poet, because it may give you a false conception
of the play and part what is worse, a prejudice about it."

or,
On being questioned by the students Tortsov explained what

he meant.
"Prejudice has many aspects. Let me begin with the fact that it
can be in favor of something as well as against," he said. "Take,

for example, the cases of Grisha and Vanya. They acquired a par-
tial acquaintance with Othello. One read only the role of Othello
himself, the other is unaware of the contents of the parts missing
from his copy.
"Not knowing the whole play but just the one role, which is
magnificent, Grisha is delighted and judges the rest on faith.
That's all very well if one is dealing with a masterpiece like

Othello. But there are many poor plays with magnificent parts in
them Keene, Louis the Eleventh, Ingomar, Don Cesar de
Bazan.* Vanya could insert anything he chose into the pages torn
out of his copy. If he believed his own imagined contents, that
could be the basis of a prejudice that did not correspond to

Shakespeare's ideas. Leo filled his head with criticism and com-
mentary. Can that be infallible ? Much of it is untalented nonsense
and if you take stock in it, it will build a prejudice which will bar
a direct approach to the play, Vasya, by reading the play in a

train, jumbled his impressions of it with those of his travel. There
again is fertile soil for prejudice. Nicholas, not without reason,
fears to recall the small-town performance he saw of Othello. I
am not at all surprised to find that he has a negative impression of

the play.
"Imagine that you cut a beautifully drawn figure out of a can-
vas or that someone shows you bits snipped from a fine painting.
Could you judge or come to know the whole picture from that }
* Keene by Alex. Dumas pere, Louis XI by Casimir Delavigne, Ingomar by

Fr. Halma, Don Cesar de Bazan by Dumanoir and Dennery.
113
It is lucky that Othello in all its component parts is such a perfect

work of art. But were otherwise, if the title role were the only
if it
successfully written one and the others were not worth doing, the
actor who judged the whole play by the one part would be preju-
diced favorably but wrongly by it. One could call that a positive
prejudice. And if things were the other way round, and the author
had been successful with all parts except that of the hero, then
the incorrect impressions and the prejudice would be negative.
"Let me you of such an instance.
tell
"A well-known actress had never seen performances of Woe

from Wit or The Inspector General when she was young; she
knew the plays only from her lessons in literature. The things that
remained in her memory were not the plays themselves but the
critical dissection to which they were subjected by her not-too-
gifted instructor. Her classroom impression remained that these
two classical plays were fine works but —very boring.
"Fortunately for that actress she eventually performed in both
plays; but was only years later, when she had firmly grown
it
into her parts, that she was able to tear out at last the thorns of
prejudice planted in her and see the plays not through the eyes
of others but with her own. Now there is no more ardent admirer
of these two classic comedies. And you should hear what she
thinks of her teacher
"Just see to it that this does not happen to you because of a
wrong approach to OthelloV
We defended ourselves by saying that we had not read the play
in school and no one had instilled foreign notions about it in our
minds.
"Prejudices can be formed outside school as well," replied Tort-
sov."Suppose, for example, before you ever read the play you
heard all sorts of true and false comments about it, good and bad
criticism, you would then begin to criticize it yourselves. Many
of us really believe that to evaluate and understand a work of art
we should be able to discover flaws in it. Actually it is far more
114
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
important to know how to look for and find what is fine, to dis-
cover the merits of a piece of work.

"Unless you are unfettered in your own attitude toward a work
you will not be able to withstand the generally accepted estimate
of a classic which has tradition to back it up. This will force you
to accept Othello exactly as 'public opinion' says you must.
"The reading of a new play is often turned over to the first
person who comes along and whose only attribute is a loud voice
and clear diction. Moreover, the text is handed to him only a few
minutes before he is to begin the reading. Is it surprising that this
accidental reader presents the play in hit-or-miss manner without
any conception of its inner essence ?
"I have known an instance when such a reader rendered the

principal role in a play in the quavering voice of an oldman, not
realizing that the hero, who was nicknamed 'old man,' was still
quite young but had acquired the epithet because he was dis-
illusioned with life. Such a mistake can mutilate a whole play.
"A model reading which is too talented, too good, too vivid,
which gives the reader's own interpretation too imaginatively, can
produce prejudices of another kind. For example, the conception
of the reader may differ from that of the author and still be so
talented and entrancing that the actor is carried away by it. In
this case the prejudice is favorable, but the struggle with it is hard.
At such times the actor is in an impossible position: On the one
hand, he unable to break away from what fascinated him in
is
the reader's interpretation, and on the other hand, this does not
jibe with the play.
"Here is yet another instance. Many playwrights are excellent
readers of their own works, and these readings often create great
popularity for their plays. After the ovation given to the author
the play is ceremoniously handed over to the theatre, and the
electrified company is all set to undertake an interesting piece of
work. How great is their disillusion when a second reading proves
that they have been tricked, that the talented part of the play, the
115
thing that aroused their enthusiasm, was an attribute of the reader

and disappeared with him, while the lesser or worse part belonged
to the writer and is left behind in the form of the play. How is
one to get rid of what was fascinating and talented, and how
reconcile oneself to the ungif ted, disillusioning aspect of the play ?
"In this case, prejudice is all the more powerful and inescapable
because the playwright appears in full panoply before a disarmed
auditorium. The reader is far more powerful than his listeners,
for he has finished his creative work, they have not yet begun
theirs. It is not surprising that the former conquers the latter,
that they surrender unconditionally to his effecton them.

"Even when one is alone in one's room at home one has to
know how to approach a new play and not allow any kind of pre-
conception to enter. How could it do so, you may ask; where
would it come from ? From unpleasant personal impressions, per-
sonal difficulties which have nothing at all to do with the play,
a bad humor, a state in which everything seems wrong, or a lazy,
apathetic, undemonstrative mood, or any other personal or private
reasons.
"Then there are a number of plays which have to be studied at
length, read and re-read, in order to enter into their spirit, because
they are elusive, complicated, or confused in inner content. Such
are the plays of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, and many other authors who
tend away from realism in the direction of generalization, styliza-
tion, synthesis, the grotesque, or all sorts of conventions with
which modern art Such works have to be decoded. You
is filled.
approach them as you would a riddle; they require great intellec-

tual effort. Yet it is important not to burden them with too much
sheer intellectual process on first acquaintance, as this could easily
create a dangerous prejudice that they are boring.
"Be afraid to approach such plays brains first. Brain-cudgeling
processes can often provide the worst preconceptions of all.
"The more intricate the reasoning the farther it leads you away
from creative experience and toward purely intellectual acting or
Ii6
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
over-acting. Any which call for symbols and stylization call
plays
for especial caution when you first become acquainted with them.
They are difficult because in them a major share is left to intui-
tion and the subconscious. You cannot over-act symbolism, styliza-
tion, or the grotesque; the approach must be through sensing the
essentials of the play and their artistic shape. Reason counts least
of all, while most important of all is artistic intuition, which is, as

you know, extraordinarily timorous.
"Do not frighten it further with prejudices."
"And yet," I protested, "there are cases that I have read about
when an actor achieves a role immediately, in all its smallest de-
tails, when it carries him away the very first time he sees it. These
bursts of inspiration are what attract me most about creative stage

work; genius shines through them so vividly, with such fascina-
tion!"
"I should think so! That's what people like to write about in
fiction," was Tortsov's ironic rejoinder.

"You mean it doesn't happen ?"
"On the contrary, it's absolutely possible, but it is far from
being the rule," explained Tortsov. "In art as in love an attraction
can flare up in an instant. More than that it can have not only an
instantaneous genesis but also instantaneous fulfillment.
"In My Life in an example of two actors to whom
Art there is
the leading roles in a new play had just been assigned, and when
they left the room where the first reading had taken place they
were already walking in their new characters. They not only felt
their parts atonce but they also reacted to them physically. Evi-
dently dozens of accidental coincidences in real life had prepared
the creative material for their ready use; it almost seemed as
though nature had predestined these two men to play those two
parts.
"It is a joy when the merging of the actor with his part happens
immediately, through unfathomable means. This is an example
of the direct, intuitive approach in which there is no room for
117
preconceptions. In such cases it is better to ignore technique and
give oneself up wholly to one's creative nature.
"Unfortunately, hoviêver, such occurrences are extraordinarily
rare —they happen to an actor once in a lifetime. You cannot take
them as a rule.
"Accident plays a great part in our work. How, for example,
can you explain why a certain play or a certain part will cause
revulsion in an actor, make it impossible for him to function in
it even though his qualities would have suggested that he was
made for the part? Or the reverse: How can you explain why
another part seemingly completely unsuited to an actor draws
him, and he is excellent in it? Evidently in these cases there is
some beneficent or malign, accidental, unconscious prejudice at

work which affects the actor in some incomprehensible way for
better or for worse.
"Yet there are times when an actor has preconceptions against
a play and still is not impeded from sensing its innermost essen-
tials and expressing them on the stage."
Here again Tortsov referred us to My Life in Art and a descrip-

tion of a director who
wrote a splendid production plan for a new
type of play which he not only did not understand but did not
even like. In this the artistic subconscious of that director came
through, and expressed itself by awakened creative impulses.
Despite the director's conscious feelings, the new tendency of the
play came alive in him and was carried over into the atmosphere
of the theatre.
"All my examples show that the process of first acquaintance
with a part deserves far greater attention than is usually accorded
to it. Unfortunately this from being recognized
simple truth is far
by actors, including you. You have come to know Othello under
the most unfavorable circumstances; it is probable that you have
already received a most incorrect impression of the tragedy, one
which has formed preconceptions in you."
"But according to what you say, don't you see," interrupted
Il8
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
Grisha, "an actor shouldn't read classical or any other plays for
fear of spoiling his first acquaintance with them and because he
might possibly get a part in one of them sooner or later. Nor
should an actor, you know, read criticisms or commentaries, even
good ones, or else he may be infected with false, preconceived
opinions. But, excuse me please, you can't protect yourself against
other people's views, you can't put cotton in your ears when they
talk about old or new plays, you can't tell what play who will
sooner or later be acting in!"
"I quite agree with you," Tortsov repHed calmly, "and it is just
because it is so difficult to protect oneself from prejudices that it

is necessary to learn how either to avoid them or to counter their
effects."
"Howdo you accomplish that?" I asked.

"What can we do and how do we go about becoming ac-
quainted with a play for the first time ?" asked the other students.
"I shall tell you," Tortsov explained. "First of all you should
read and listen to everything, as many plays as possible, criticism,
commentaries, opinions. This supplies and extends your creative
material. But at the same time you must learn to protect your
independence and ward off preconceptions. You must form your
own opinions and not recklessly accept those of others. You must
know how to be free. This is a difficult art which you will achieve
only through knowledge and experience. These, in turn, will be
gained not by some kind of law but by a whole complex of theo-
reticalknowledge and practical work on the technique of art, and
especially by personal reflection, by entering into essentials, by
long years of practice.
"Use your time in school to amplify your scientific knowledge,
and to apply the theory you learn to practice as you come to know
plays and parts.
"Gradually you will become adept in sorting out your impres-
sions of a new You will learn how to reject what is untrue,
play.
excessive, unimportant, how to discover what is fundamental, how
119
to listen to others and to yourself, and how to find your own way
amid the opinions of others.
"The study of world literature will be of tremendous help to
you in these processes. In every play, as in every living creature,
there is a bony structure, members hands, feet, head, heart, brain.
:
A person of literary training will, like an anatomist, study the

structure and form of each bone and joint, and recognize its com-
ponents. He will dissect the work, evaluate its literary or social
import, search out its mistakes, where it blocks, or deviates from,
the development of the main theme. He can sense new and origi-
nal departures in a play, its inner and outer characteristics, the
interweaving of lines, the interrelationship of characters, the facts,
the events. All this knowledge, abihty, and experience is extraordi-
narily important in evaluating a piece of work. Remember all this
and use your lessons as zealously, as deeply and fully as you can
to study the language, the words, the literature taught you in this
school.
"But remember too that the literary experts are not always com-
petent in questions related specifically to our problems as actors
and directors. Not every play, fine as it may be as a piece of litera-
ture, is stageworthy. The demands of the stage, although they can

be studied, are not fixed in any canon. There is no stage grammar.
So your first estimate of a new work should be made without
benefit of aid from scholarly colleagues, on the basis of the practi-
calmethods taught here. In this area, I add now to what

what can
you already know or will know shortly ? I can only say that you
should read every new play remembering, during your first ac-
quaintance with it, to guard against acquiring a wrong or preju-
diced attitude about it."
"Regardless of how unfortunate your first contact with Othello

has been, we are obliged to reckon with and make use of
it it to
the extent that it will influence your further work.
120
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
"Try to recall accurately what has remained in your memory
from your first reading of the play. In constructing a part you will
have to adapt yourselves to whatever sank deeply into you that
first time. Who can tell, perhaps among your feelings there will
be some that contain elements of your future role, the germs of
real life. Kostya, I want you to tell me all that you remember
about the play and the various parts, what affected your memory
most, what created the greatest impression on you, what your
mind's eye sees most clearly, what your inner ear hears."
"As for the beginning of the tragedy," said I, as I began to
analyze my recollections, "I have forgotten ... yet right now I
have the feeling that there were interesting moods: an abduction,
gatherings, a chase. No, that's not it. I am conscious of this
through my mind rather than with my feelings. I have intimations
concerning them but do not see them with my inner vision.
Othello himself is not clear to me either in this part of the play.
His appearance, his being sent for by the Senate, his departure,
the Senate itself — all this is clouded for me. The first vivid mo-
ment is Othello's speech to the Senate, but after that it is all dark
again. The arrival in Cyprus, then the drinking scene and quarrel
with Cassio I have quite forgotten. Nor do I recall the next scenes,
Cassio's request, the arrival of the general,and the love scene with
Desdemona. After that comes a bright patch, in fact a whole
series of them that grow and broaden. Later there is a blank right
up to the end. All I can hear is a sad little song about a willow,
and my feelings are touched by the deaths of Desdemona and
Othello. I think that is all that has stuck with me."
"We must be thankful for even that much," said Tortsov.
"Since you do feel individual moments you must use and
strengthen them."
"What do you mean by strengthening them?" I asked.
"Listen," Tortsov explained, "there is a little corner of your soul
that still contains glimmerings of the feelings that were ignited
when you became acquainted with the play — this is like an un-
121
lighted room with closed windows. If it were not for some chinks,
holes, cracks, complete darkness would reign.
"Yet separate gleams, broad or narrow, bright or dull, cut
through this darkness making light spots of the most varied
shapes. These glimmerings modify the dark. Although you are
unable to see any objects in the dark you can guess they are there
from certain suggestions of outline.
"If you could only enlarge the chinks in the shutters then the
spots of light would grow bigger and bigger and the gleams
would get stronger. Finally light would fill the entire space and
banish all darkness. There would be nothing left but shadows
here and there in the corners.
"That is the picture I have of an actor's inner state after his first
reading of a play and then after his further acquaintance with it.
"The same thing happening with you after your first ac-
is
quaintance with Othello. Only separate moments in different

places have stuck in your feelings and memory; all the rest is
wrapped in darkness and remote from the area of your emotions.
Only here and there are hints which you try vainly to recover.
These random impressions and bits of feeling are scattered
through the play like the gleams in the dark.
"Later on when you come to know the play more closely these
moments will grow, broaden, will make contact with one another,
and finally will fill out the entire role and play.
"Such a creative beginning, growing out of separate flashes and
moments of feelings, exists in other forms of art as well.
"In My Life in Art there is a description of just this happening
to Anton Chekhov before he sat down to write The Cherry
Orchard. First he saw someone fishing and nearby in a pool some-
one was bathing, then along came a rather helpless gentleman
who loved to play billiards. Next he felt a wide-open window
through which a branch of a flowering cherry tree pushed its way
into the room. From that grew a whole cherry orchard which . . .
suggested to Chekhov the beautiful but useless luxury that was
122
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
slipping away from Russian life. Where do you find any logic,
any bond between the helpless billiard player, the flowering branch
of a cherry tree, and — the coming Russian Revolution ?
"Indeed the paths of creation are not to be made known."

After me, Vanya described his memory of the play and showed
how dangerous it is to read a work incompletely. His memory
was filledby a nonexistent duel between Othello and Cassio.
Paul, who knew the play from seeing it performed by visiting
foreign stars, had a visual recollection of the more vivid acting
highlights —of the different ways Othello strangled first lago and
then Desdemona, of how he tore off the handkerchief she bound
on him and almost with revulsion turned away from his beloved.
He remembered in sequence one pose after another, one gesture
after another; how Othello worked up his jealousy in the princi-
pal scene, how in the end he rolled around on the floor in an
epileptic fit, and how he finally stabbed himself and died. I had
the impression all this was visually fixed in his mind with some
kind of reflected light, yet without any real sequence of develop-
ment in the events or emotions of the part. In the end it appeared
that Paul knew the visiting actors' playing of Othello very well
but did not know the play itself. Fortunately he did not remem-
ber at all the role of Cassio, which he is to play and which is
usually badly performed by third-rate actors.

The same investigation of impressive moments was made with
other students and it turned out that many moments in the play
— like, for example, Othello's speech in the Senate, his big scene
with lago, his death —affected nearly everyone in the same degree.
This discovery gave rise to many questions : Why did some places
which were logically bound
in the play excite feeling while others,
up with them, did not; why did some spots vividly and instantly
evoke emotions, affect our emotion memory, while others touched
us only coldly, in a conscious, intellectual sort of way? Tortsov
explained the affinity of emotion and of thought: Some expe-
riences touch us closely by nature, others are ahen to us. But here
123
he pointed out that creativeness is sometimes born as well of

sources which at first appearance have nothing at all in common
with the spiritual essence of a work.
"A true poet scatters the pearls of his talent with an open hand
throughout a play. This is the best material for excitement, the
hot, explosive stuff with which to ignite inspiration.
"The beauties of a work of genius are inherent throughout in —
its external forms as well as in its hidden depths. If the stimuli to
creative fervor have been strewn by the author only over the sur-
face of the play then the work itself, the actors' interest and feel-
ings, will prove merely superficial. If, however, the emotional
wealth lies deeply embedded or hidden in the region of the sub-
conscious, then the play, the creative enthusiasm and living re-
sponses to it, will be profound; and the further down they pene-
trate, the nearer they will be to the genuine human nature of the
characters portrayed and of the actors themselves.
"This enthusiasm deriving from one's first contact with a play
is the earliest intimation of an inner bond between an actor and
various parts of his role. This bond is precious because it is formed

directly, intuitively, naturally."
"Your first acquaintance with Othello left certain impressions

and patches in your memory. We must now undertake a series of
measures to enlarge and deepen them.
"First of all we must read the whole play carefully. But in so
doing let us avoid the mistakes you made during your first con-
tact with it.
"Let us try, during this reading, to observe all the rules which
should prevail during any study of an author's works.
"Let this second reading be undertaken as if it were the first.
Of course, much and affecting impact has already

of the direct
been lost and cannot be regained. Yet, who knows, perhaps some
124
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
feelings will still be stirred in you. Only this time our reading
must proceed according to rules."
"What do they consist of?" I asked.
"First we must decide where and when the reading shall take
place," explained Tortsov. "Each one of us knows by experience
where and how he receives impressions best. One person likes to
read a play in the quiet of his room; others prefer to hear someone
else read it aloud in the presence of the whole company.
"Wherever you decide to make this second acquaintance, it is

important to prepare an atmosphere favorable to opening your
emotions to the joyful reception of artistic impressions. Nothing
should impede your intuition, the flow of lively feelings. The
reader should lead the actors along the fundamental line of the
author's creative impulse, along the main line of the unfolding of
the life of a human spirit, of a living organism, in each part and
in the whole play. He must help the actor to find at once in the
soul of his part a fragment of himself, of his own soul. To teach
this is to teachyou to understand and feel the actor's art.
"When, however, this identification with the play is only par-
tial, or there is a lack of general emotional contact between an
actor and his part, then it is necessary to undertake the arduous

task of preparing that enthusiasm without which there can be no
creativeness.
"Artistic enthusiasm is a motive power in creativeness. Excited
fascination which accompanies enthusiasm is a subtle critic, an
incisive inquirer, and the best guide into the depths of feeling
which are unattainable to a conscious approach.
"After this first acquaintance with a play, actors should give
freer and freer rein to their artistic enthusiasm. Let them infect
each other with it; let them beaway by the
carried play and read
and re-read it as a whole or piecemeal; let them brood over the
places they particularly like; let them show one another each
freshly discovered gem and beauty; let them argue, shout, be
wrought up; let them dream about their own parts and those of
125
other actors, about the whole production. Enthusiasm —^being

—
swept away by the play and by one's part that is the best way to
come close to it, to understand and really know it. The creative
emotions of an actor thus aroused will unconsciously probe
throughout a role into depths of feeling not seen by his eyes or
heard by his ears or noticed by his reason, but only unconsciously
guessed at by his ardent artistic emotions.
"The ability to fire his feelings, his will, and his mind —that is
one of the qualities of an actor's talent, one of the principal objec-

tives of his inner technique."
After we had heard Tortsov, the question was raised: Was
Othello, since everyone knew it, a proper play to demonstrate the
process of first acquaintance? For it to be a first acquaintance it
should not be universally \nown. Based on this consideration the

students, headed by Grisha, concluded to my disappointment that
Othello was not a proper choice.
But Tortsov took a different view. While he believed that a
renewed acquaintance with the play because of the spoiled first
impressions would be more complicated, at the same time the
technical solution of the problem would be more subtle. For this
reason he concluded that it would be both practical and instructive
to study this technique under such circumstances —in other words

by using not an unknown new play but the universally familiar
Othello.
What can I call, how can I define, Tortsov's reading of Othello

today? He set himself no artistic objectives. On the contrary he
eschewed them in order to avoid imposing his personal interpre-
tation, his individuality, on his hearers or evoking in them any

preconceptions favorable (but not theirs) or unfavorable. I could
not call his reading "reporting," because one usually associates
dryness with that word. Perhaps he gave us a clarification of the
126
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
play. Yes, in places he set out this or that line that he considered
of importance for the whole work and interrupted his reading to
explain it. seemed to me that above all Tortsov did his best to
It
present the plot and structure of the play. And indeed many scenes
and places which formerly had passed unnoticed now came to life
and received both their real position and significance. He was not
moved himself by what he read, yet he hinted at places that re-
quire the participation of emotions.
He was careful to point out the literary beauties of the text. In
certain places he even stopped and repeated phrases or expressions,
comparisons or separate words. Yet he did not accomplish all that
he hoped for. For example he did not succeed in revealing the
—
point of departure of the playwright I did not understand what
impelled Shakespeare to sit down and write Othello. Tortsov did
not help me find myself in the title role. Yet I seemed to feel
something of the drift, the line, that one should follow.
He also rather vividly marked out the main phases of the play.
I had never before sensed the significance of the opening scene;
but now, thanks to his reading and various comments he let drop,
I appreciated the skill with which it was constructed. Indeed,
instead of the usual dreary butler and maid exposition which less
skillful playwrights indulge in, or an artificially contrived meet-
ing between two country yokels, Shakespeare created a whole

scene full of an interesting event important to the action of the
play. The point is that lago is preparing to raise an uproar but
Roderigo is balking. He has to be convinced, and the motive used
for that purpose is what leads you right into the play. Thus two
—
birds are killed with one stone boredom is avoided and the dra-
matic action is set in motion as soon as the curtain goes up.
Later, simultaneously with the development of the plot, the
exposition was artfully filled out with the departure for and arrival
in the Senate. The end of that scene, the concoction of lago's dia-
bolical plot, was also clear to me now. Further along I now dis-
covered a similar scene, a continuation in the development of
127
lago's plan, when he talks with Cassio during the revelry on

Cyprus. The uproar, carried to its ultimate limits, enlarges the
guilt of Cassio at the dangerous moment of heightened excitement
among the conquered peoples. In Tortsov's reading one felt, not
just a row between two drunken men, but something far greater,
the hint of mutiny on the part of the natives. All this greatly en-
hanced the significance of what was occurring on the stage; it
enlarged the dimensions of the scene and excited me in places

which earlier had not affected me at all.
The most important result of the reading, I felt, was the revela-
tion of the two principal protagonists, the conflicting lines of
Othello and lago. Before this I had only felt a single line —that
of love and jealousy. Without the vivid counteraction, which was
now defined in lago, my former line for the play had not had
nearly the significance it now gained from the countering impact.
I sensed the powerful tightening of the tragic knot.
And here was another important result from today's reading:
It made me sweep of space in the play, room enough for
feel the
great action. I still did not feel it all, probably because I was not
yet aware of the author's ultimate inner goal which lay hidden
beneath his words and would eventually draw me to itself. Never-
theless I knew that the play boiled with inner activity and move-
ment toward an as yet undesignated, universal objective.
Tortsov was pleased with the results of the reading.
"It is not necessary that all the program I laid down be carried
out, butwe have accomplished something in addition to what you
received from your first reading. The spots of light have been
somewhat enlarged.
"Now, after this reading, I am going to ask very little of you.
Tell me, but in order, the factual sequence of the tragedy, or, as
they call it, and you," here Tortsov turned to me, "as our
the plot,
perennial scribe, make a note of what each one says.
"First you must sort it all out so that you get the line of the
play; this is necessary for all of you because without it there is no
128
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE
play. —
Each play has its skeleton any distortion of it is crippling.
This skeleton must now first of all hold you together, as it does
the flesh of a body. How do you find the skeleton of a play? I
propose this method Answer the question, 'Without what thing,
:
"
what circumstances, events, experiences, would there be no play?'
"Without Othello's love for Desdemona."
"What else?"
"Without the cleavage between two races."
"Of course, but that is not the main thing."
"Without lago's wicked intrigue."
"What else?"
"Without his diabolical slyness, vengeance, ambition, and re-
sentment."
"What else?"
"Without the trustfulness of the barbarian. . .
."
"Now let us examine your answers separately. For instance:

Without what would there be no love between Othello and Desde-
mona?"
I was unable to give an answer.
Tortsov replied in my stead: "Without the romantic ecstasy of
a beautiful young woman; without the Moor's fascinating, legend-
ary stories about his military exploits; without the innumerable
obstacles to their unequal marriage, which arouse the emotions of
a visionary young girl-revolutionary; without the sudden war,
which forces the recognition of the marriage of an aristocratic girl
with the Moor in order to save the country.
"And without what would no cleavage between the
there be
two races? Without the snobbery of the Venetians, the honor of
the aristocracy; without their scorn of conquered peoples, to one
of which Othello himself belongs without a sincere belief in the
;
disgrace of mixing black and white blood. . . .
"Now tell me, do you consider that everything without which

there would be no play, no framework, is necessary to each one
of the characters ?"
129
SHAKESPEARE S OTHELLO
"We do we were compelled to admit.
believe that,"
"In that case you now have a whole series of firmly grounded
conditions in accordance with which you must be guided, and
which will lead you along like signals on your path. All these
proposed circumstances of the author affect every one of you and
from the very beginning must be registered in the score of your
roles. So keep them firmly in mind."
130
CHAPTER FIVE
Creating the Physical Life of a Role
"AS WE CONTINUE our search for a direct, material, intuitive

inner approach to a play and a part," said Tortsov today, "we
come across a new and unexpected method which I commend to
your attention. My system is based on the close relationship of
inner with outer qualities; it is designed to help you to feel your
part by creating a physical life for it. I shall explain it by means
of a practical example that will be demonstrated in the course of
several lessons. To begin with, let Grisha and Vanya go up onto
the stage and play for us the first scene in Othello, between Rod-
erigo and lago in front of Brabantio's palace."
"How can they play without script or preparation?" was the
bewildered reaction of the students.
"They cannot play all of it, but they can do some of it. For
instance, the scene begins with the entrance of Roderigo and lago.
Make an entrance. Then the two Venetians proceed to raise an
alarm. They can do that too."
"But that is not acting the play."
"You are mistaken to think that; they would be acting in
accordance with the play. To be sure it would be only on its most
superficial level. Yet this is difficult enough; perhaps the most diffi-
cult thing to do is to execute the simplest physical objectives like

a real human being."
Grisha and Vanya walked rather uncertainly into the wings and
soon emerged downstage, stopping hesitantly near the prompter's
booth.
way you walk along

"Is that the a street ?" was Tortsov's critical
comment. "That is only the way actors 'tread the boards.' But
lago and Roderigo are not actors. They did not come here to
'represent' anything or to 'entertain' the public, especially since
there is no one else around. The street is empty because everyone
is asleep."
Grisha and Vanya repeated their entrance and again came to a
full stop down stage.
"Now you see how was when I said that with every
right I
single part you have to learn everything from the beginning: how
to walk, stand, sit. Let's get on with it! Now do you know where
you are?" asked Tortsov. "Where is Brabantio's palace? Draw
some kind of plan, whatever occurs to you."
"The palace is there, and the street
. . . over there," said . . .
Vanya, making an outline with some chairs.

"Now go out and make your entrance again!" ordered Tortsov.
They carried out his instruction; yet from making more effort
they were even more unnatural.
"I don't understand why you again made a procession down-
stage and stopped with your backs to the palace and facing us,"
Tortsov said.
"Otherwise, don't you see, we'd be standing with our backs to

the public," explained Grisha.
"You simply can't do that," said Vanya with great emphasis.
"Who told you to put the palace upstage?" asked Tortsov.
"Where else?"
"On the right or on the left, as far downstage as possible. Then
you would be facing the building and turning your profiles to us,
or if you moved upstage even a we would see three-quarters
little
of your face," explained Tortsov. "You must know how to handle

and master the conventions of the stage. These require that at the
high point of his part the actor should stand as much as possible
in a place where the public can see his face. This is a condition
you have to accept once and for all. And so, since the actor has to
132
CREATING THE PHYSICAL LIFE OF A ROLE
be turned as much as possible toward the spectators and his posi-
tion cannot be altered, nothing remains but to change the position
of the scenery and plan it in accordance with that fact."
"That's right!" said Tortsov approvingly when the chairs were
moved over to the right side of the stage. "Remember that I have
told you more than once that every actor must be his own director.
This instance confirms my words.
"Now why you standing and staring at the chairs? After
are
all they represent the palace of Brabantio. This is the objective for
the sake of which you have come to this place. Is it only there for
you to stare at ? You must know how to become interested in the
object of your attention, how to invent an objective connected
with it, arouse some action. What you have to do is to ask your-
self:'What would I do if these chairs were the walls of the palace
"
and if I came here to raise the alarm?'
"You would be obliged," suggested Vanya, "to look at all the
windows. Is there any light anywhere? If you see one you know
that someone is awake. That means I'll call up to that window."
"That's logical," said Tortsov to Vanya encouragingly. "But if
that window is dark, what will you do?"

"Look for another. Throw a stone, make a noise to waken peo-
ple. Listen, bang on the door."
"You see how much action you have rolled up, how many
simple physical objectives?" teased Tortsov. "Thus you have,"
said he in confirmation, "a logical sequence for the score of your
roles
"One. You enter, you look around, convince yourselves that no
one sees or is listening to you.
"Two. You examine all the windows of the palace. Is there no
Hght in any of them, no sign of any of the inhabitants of the
house? If you get even the merest hint of anyone standing by a
window you try to call attention to yourself. In order to do this
you do not merely shout; you move about, wave your arms. Re-
peat this search in different places, in front of different windows.
Do this in the simplest, most reahstic, natural terms so that you
will be obliged physically to feel the genuineness of what you are
doing and accept it physically. When, after a variety of tests, you
are convinced that no one hears you, invent stronger, more de-
cisive measures.
"Three. Get more and throw them at the windows.
little stones
Of course, few of them are well aimed, but if any do reach their
goal, watch carefully to see if anyone comes to the window. After
all you need rouse only one person and he will rouse the rest of
the household. You will not succeed at first so you will have to
try other windows. If your efforts are still in vain you must have
recourse to even stronger means and action.
"Four. Try increasing the noise, knocking to reinforce your
voice and yells. Use your hands, clap them, stamp your feet on
the stone doorstep. Or go over to the door where you will find a
small hammer hanging in the place of the doorbell of modern
times. Bang with this hammer on a metal disk or make a noise
with the heavy door handle. Or pick up a stick and strike what-
ever you can find. This will also intensify the racket.
"Five. Use your eyes: Peek in the windows or squint through
the lock on the door. Use your ears: Lay one to the door or the
crack of a window and listen attentively.
"Six. Don't forget one more factor which will offer the basis
for even more activity: The point is that Roderigo should be the
principal person in this nocturnal alarm. But he is angry at lago,
he pouts and balks, so Grisha has the job of convincing this
reluctant man to take the most active part in the invented provo-
cation. This is no longer a physical objective but a simple psycho-
logical one.
"In these small and large objectives and actions seek out the
small and large physical truths. It is only when you have sensed
them that your small or large faith in the actuality of your physi-
cal acts will follow of its own accord. And faith, in our kind of
work, is one of the most powerful magnets to attract feelings and
help you experience them When
you believe, you feel
intuitively.
that your objectives and actions have become something real,

living, purposeful. Out of such objectives and actions an unbroken
line is formed. But the main thing is to believe to the end in a
few objectives and acts no matter how small.
"If you are only going to stand beside those chairs and stare at
them you are bound to fall into the worst kind of falseness.
"Go out and enter again and do the best you can to execute the
series of objectives and actions we have laid out. Repeat them,
correct them until this little bit of your roles is something you
really feel, something true that you can believe and have faith in."
Grisha and Vanya went off and after a minute or so they en-
tered and bustled up and down in front of the chairs, raising their
hands to their eyes, walking on tiptoe as if to look in the upper
storey. All this was done with extreme bustle and in a theatrical
manner. Tortsov stopped them.
"In all your movements you have not created even a tiny piece
of truth. It was sheer falseness that led you to all the usual stage
conventions, the cliches, the illogical and incoherent actions.
"The first false note was the excessive bustling. It derived from
your great anxiety to entertain us and not from any intention to
carry out specific objectives. In real life, rapid tempo is entirely
different from the way actors on the stage portray it. The action
itself is unhurried; it takes exactly the space of time needed for
its execution. Yet not a single second is wasted on thrashing about
after the execution of each small act and before the transition to
the next small objective. You bustled around both during and
after your action. The result was purely theatrical activity and not
vital action.
"Why is it that, in real life, energy makes us move with pre-

cision, whereas on the stage, the more an actor 'acts' in a purely
theatrical way the more he blurs his objective and confuses his
action? Because the representational type of actor does not feel
the need of any objective. All he is interested in is pleasing the
135
public; since the author and director of the play require him to
carry out certain actions, he does them merely for the sake of
doing, without any regard for the results. Yet for lago and Rod-
erigo what results from their plan is far from a matter of indiffer-
ence. On the contrary, it is a question of life and death. So look
for a light in the windows, call out, not for the sake of fussing
around those chairs but in order to achieve a genuine, living, close
contact with the people inside. Knock and yell not to rouse us, the
audience, or even yourselves, but to wake Brabantio Leo. You —
must take as your target those who are sleeping behind the thick
walls of the palace. You must radiate your will to penetrate those
walls."
When they played in accordance with Tortsov's instructions
we, the onlookers, really believed in their activity. But this did not
last for long because the magnetic power of an audience again
distracted the attention of Grisha and Vanya. Tortsov tried in
every way to anchor their attention on the stage.
"The second false note is that you are over-exerting yourselves.
I have told you more than once that on the stage it is easy for an
actor to lose his sense of measure so that it seems to him as though

he is doing too little, that with a big audience he should do a lot
more. So he turns himself inside out. Actually he should proceed
in exactly the opposite way. Knowing this peculiarity of the stage,
an actor should always remember not to increase his activity, but

rather to cut three-fourths of it.You make a gesture or carry out
some action —well then, next time cut it down from seventy-five
to ninety percent. During your earlier studies you learned the
process of relaxing your muscles and you were astonished to find
so much extra tension.
"The you do wrong is that you have no logic or
third thing
sequence in your actions. This results in a lack of finish and con-
."
trol. . .
Grisha and Vanya played the scene over from the beginning,
and Tortsov watched them carefully to see that they carried
136
through their physical actions to the point where they themselves
believed in them. He stopped and corrected them each time they
swerved in the wrong direction.
"Vanya," he warned, "your point of attention is not on the stage
but in the auditorium! Grisha, you are thinking about yourself.
You must not do that. Don't be admiring yourself. Don't be in
such a hurry. That's false. You cannot
what is going
see or hear
on inside the palace as quickly as that. You need more time and
concentration. The way you walk is affected and does not ring
true. It is too actory. Make it simpler and freer. Walk with a pur-
—
pose. Do it for Leo for Brabantio —
not for yourself or for me.
Relax your muscles! Not so much effort. No need for grace and
poses! Don't mix rubber-stamp movements with true actions. Do
everything in consonance with your objective!"
Tortsov was intent on hammering in habits, on training us to
work out, as he said, the right stencils for the score of our parts.
When we expressed astonishment at his using the word "stencils"
and urging us to acquire them, he replied:
"There can be good stencils or cliches as well as bad ones. A
good, ingrained habit which helps to hold the true direction in a
part —that is a helpful thing. As a matter of fact if you will form
the fixed habit of doing all the things you should on arrival in the
theatre for your performance —do the exercises of going over and
freshening up all your objectives throughout the score of your
role, the through line of action, the superobjective — I see nothing
bad in that.
"If you school yourselves to a mathematically exact execution

of the score of your parts and carry this to the point of its being a
stencil, I shall not protest. I do not object to a stencil which repro-
duces true and genuine feeling in a part."
After a great deal of work over a long time it seemed to us that
the scene of raising the alarm was at last in order. But Tortsov
was still not satisfied. He tried to get more truthfulness in it,
137
greater natural simplicity in each actionand movement. Most of

all he struggled with the way Grisha walked, which was still pom-
pous and false. Tortsov said to him:

"To walk on the stage and especially to make an entrance is
difficult. Nevertheless this is not a reason to be reconciled to the-
atricality and conventionality, because they are false and as long
as they persist you cannot achieve any faith in your own actions.
Our physical nature will not accept even the slightest imposition
of force. Muscles will do what they are told, but that will not in-
sure the necessary creative state. Indeed one small untruth will
destroy and contaminate all the rest. If in all the genuine action
there is 'a single blot ... by chance brought in, that spells catas-
trophe,'* and the whole purport of the action is perverted into

theatrical falseness.
"There is an example of this in My Life in Art: Take a chemi-
cal retortand put some organic substance into it, then pour in any
other organic substance. They combine. But put in no more than
a single drop of some artificial chemical substance and the whole
is ruined. It gets opaque, sediment, flakes, and other signs of dis-
integration appear. An artificial manner or movement is similar

to that drop of synthetic chemical, it spoils and disintegrates all
the other movements of the actor. He ceases to believe in the truth-
fulness of what he is doing and this loss of faith breeds other ele-
ments detrimental to his inner creative state, turning him into a
mood of rubber-stamp conventional acting."
Tortsov was unable to rid Grisha of the spasms in his legs, and
this cramping of his physical being induced a number of other
false theatrical habits which kept Grisha from believing in what
he was doing.
"There is nothing left for me to do but to take this way of
walking away from you," Tortsov decided.
"What do you mean? You'll have to excuse me, please, but I
* Pushkin, Boris Godunov,
138
simply cannot stand in one place, you know, like a stone statue,"
protested our artificial Grisha.
"Do you mean to say all Venetians are made of stone ? Yet most
of them ride in gondolas rather than walk, especially a rich young
man like Roderigo. So now you, instead of strutting around the
stage, ride up the canal in a gondola; then you will not have
time to be a stone statue."
This idea was grasped with enthusiasm by Vanya.
"I'm not going another step on foot," he declared, pulling some
chairs together to form a gondola, the way children do when they
play games.
Inside the gondola our two actors felt much more at ease, en-
closed, as it were, in a small circle. Besides, they found a lot of
things to do number of small physical objectives which
there, a
took their attention away from the auditorium and fixed it on the
stage. Grisha took up the station of the gondolier. A long piece of
wood took the place of an oar. Vanya seated himself at the tiller.
They floated along, stopped, moored the boat, then untied it
again. At first they did all this for the sake of the actions them-
selves, because they were emotionally involved in them. But soon,
with the help of Tortsov, they were able to transfer what they
were doing in the boat to something more closely connected with
the plot, which was to raise an alarm in the night.
Tortsov had them go over and over the pattern of physical
actions in order to "nail it down." Then he began to extend the
line of action in the scene. But the moment Leo appeared at the
make-believe window, Grisha and Vanya instantly fell silent, not

knowing what to do next.
"What's happened?" Tortsov inquired.
"Well, you see, we haven't anything to say. We haven't any
text," explained Grisha.
"But you have thoughts and feelings which you can put into
your own words. The point is not the words. The line of a role
is taken from the subtext, not from the text itself. But actors are
lazy about digging down skim along

to the subtext, they prefer to
the surface, using the fixed words which they can pronounce me-
chanically, without wasting any energy in searching out their
inner essence."
"Excuse me, but I cannot remember in what order the thoughts
are expressed in a role I am not familiar with."
"What do you mean you cannot remember them ? I have only
just read you the whole play!" exclaimed Tortsov. "Have you
already had time to forget it?"
"I remember it only in general outline, you see. I recall that
lago announces the abduction of Desdemona by the Moor and

offers to organize a chase after the fugitives," Grisha explained.
"Well then, go ahead and do your announcing and make your
offer! Nothing else is needed," said Tortsov.
When they repeated the scene it appeared that Grisha and
Vanya remembered the sequence of thought very well. They even
threw in some of the actual words that they recalled from the text.
They gave the import of the scene correctly, even though not
quite in the sequence fixed by the author.
In this connection Tortsov gave some interesting explanations.
He said:
"You yourselves have uncovered the secret of my method and
expounded it by your playing. The point is that if I had not taken
the text away from you, you would have worked too hard over
the printed words and would have rendered them without thought,
formally, before you had penetrated to the underlying meaning
which shapes the line of your role. Had you done that you would
have suffered the inevitable consequence of that unnatural method.
The words would have lost their active, vital meaning, they would
have become mechanical, gymnastic exercises for your tongue,
making noises to which it was trained. But I was too forehanded
to let that happen. Instead I have deprived you of the text for the
time being, until the line of your role is fixed; I have saved up
for you the author's magnificent words until such time as they
140
will have better use, so that they will not be just rattled off but
employed to carry out some fundamental objective.
"Keep my command strictly and, until I allow you to do so,
do not open the book of the play. Take the time necessary to fix
the habit of the subtext firmly and shape the line of your role. Let
the words themselves become for you only the weapons with
which to go into action, one of the external means to embody the
inner essence of your role. Wait until the words are necessary to
you for the better accomplishment of your objective: to convince
Brabantio. When this time comes, the author's words will be a
prime necessity to you. You will soon come to understand, when
you have identified yourselves with the real objectives of your
part, that there are no better means of achieving them than
through the words written with the genius of Shakespeare. Then

you will snatch at them with enthusiasm, they will come to you
freshly, not tarnished and threadbare from being dragged around
during all the rough work of preparation.
"Treasure the words of a text for two important reasons: first,
not to wear the sheen off them, and second, not to introduce a lot
of mechanical patter, learned by rote and bereft of soul, into the

subtext of the play."
In order to "nail down" firmly the line of the subtext they had
just created, Tortsov made Grisha and Vanya play through the
whole scene according to the sequence of physical and simple psy-
chological objectives and actions.
Some things were still not successful, and Tortsov explained
why.
"You do not grasp the nature of the process of convincing
still
a person. You must understand feelings when you are showing

them. If the news brought is unpleasant, the recipient will instinc-
tively set up as many buffers inside himself as he can in order to
ward impending misfortune. So it is with Brabantio he
off the —
does not want to believe what they are telling him. Out of a sense
of self-preservation he chooses to ascribe this nocturnal disturb-
141
ance to drunken revelers. He scolds them and drives them away.

This complicates matters for those who would convince him. How
can they gain his confidence and dispel his mistaken notion of
them ? How can they make the abduction become an actuality in
the eyes of the unhappy father? It is terrifying to him to face
reality. The dreadful news, which will upset his whole life, is
something he cannot accept at once, the way an actor in the the-

atre does. The actor would show him gay and serene while he is
unaware of anything; then when he has scarcely heard the news,

he would already be dashing around, tearing his collar off to keep
from stifling. But in real life this crisis takes place during a series
of logical steps, a whole psychological sequence leading up to the
consciousness of the dreadful misfortune which has occurred."
This descent Tortsov divided into coherent objectives each one
flowing out of the preceding one
1. First Brabantio is merely angry and scolds at the drunken
revelers who have disturbed his pleasant slumbers.
2. He
made indignant by having
is these vagrants bandy about
the good name of his family.
3. The closer he comes to taking in the terrible news, the more
forcibly he struggles not to believe it.
4. Even so, several words have pierced to his heart and sorely
wounded his feelings. Still he rebuffs even more fiercely the on-
coming misfortune.
5. More convincing proof is offered. He must find new ground
to stand on, a new position to take up. How can he live ? Where
shall he turn? Something must be done! Inaction is the most
painful of all in such a situation.
6. At last he decides what to do. To hurry, to overtake them,
avenge himself, rouse the whole city! Save his treasured daughter!
Leo is a person with literary flair. He can follow the line of the
subtext, though it will be out of reasoned thought, not out of
feelings. Therefore it was not necessary to argue with him about
the words. He easily found his own words to express his thoughts
142
and he kept right to the main intent of the scene since he under-
stood its inner meaning. Tortsov was satisfied that there was no
discrepancy between him and the text in the matter of logical
sequence, apartfrom some rather inexact or unhappy choices of
words. Grisha and Vanya found it easier to follow along the firm
verbal line laid down by Leo.
So the scene went along rather well. Yet Grisha had to spoil it.
He jumped out of the gondola and began again to strut around.
But Tortsov soon tamed him by reminding him that would notit
do for lago to be too much in evidence. On the contrary, it was

best for him to remain under cover, calling from a hiding place
so that he would not be recognized. Where should he hide? In
this connection there was a lengthy discussion about the architec-
ture of the pier, the platform, and the main entrance to the palace.
The actors wanted corners, or columns, behind which they could
hide. In addition, because Grisha was strutting again, they re-
hearsed at length lago's inconspicuous exit.
* # *
Today there was a rehearsal of the crowd scene. A number of

apprentices in the theatre, who had been quietly watching the
previous rehearsals from the back rows were
of the auditorium,
moved up into the front rows. From the beginning they had
caused surprise by their discipline, and now we were not only
astonished but also humbled by their attitude toward their work.
It was obvious that Tortsov found and agreeable to work
it easy
—
with them quite rightly, because they understood what was to be
done. All the director or teacher had to do was to point out mis-
takes and cliches which were to be got rid of, or good parts which
were to be retained and fixed. These apprentices do their work at
home and bring it in to class for checking and approval.
"Do you know the play ?" Tortsov asked them.
"We do!" came the reply, spoken with military precision and
resonantly through the auditorium.
"What you to show and experience in the first scene?"
are
"Alarm and pursuit."
"Do you know the nature of these actions and experiences?"
"Yes."
"We Here Tortsov turned to one of the apprentices.
shall see."
"What are the physical and simple psychological objectives and
actions which go to make up this scene of nocturnal alarm and
pursuit?"
"To understand while still half asleep what has happened. To
clarifysomething no one can make head or tail of. To question
each other, argue back and forth; if answers do not satisfy, to
voice one's own ideas, to come to agreement, to test or prove
whatever is not well founded.
"Having heard cries outside, to look out of the windows to
understand what's going on. At first you can't find room. At last
you succeed. You look out and what these noisemakers

listen to
are yelling. Who are they ? Arguments follow, some take them for
entirely different persons. Roderigo is recognized. You listen to
him and try to understand what he is yelling. At first it is im-

possible to believe that Desdemona would do such a thing. You
try to make the others believe this is a trick or a drunken dream;
scold the noisemakers for keeping you from sleeping; threaten
them and chase them off. Gradually you believe the truth of what
they are saying. You exchange first impressions with the neigh-
bors; express reproaches or regret for what has happened; hurl
hatred, curses on the Moor and threats against him, clarify what
to do and how to go about it. Think of all sorts of solutions for
the situation. Defend your plan, criticize that of the others. Try
to find out the opinion of the leaders. Support Brabantio in his
talk with the noisemakers. Egg him on to revenge. Listen to or-
ders concerning the pursuit. Rush to fulfill them promptly.
"Further objectives and actions," the apprentice continued,
"will conform to the roles of the characters and also to the duties
of the people in the palace. Some will bring out arms, others will
144
fetch lanterns and light up the rooms, will dress themselves in
coats of mail and cuirasses, will pick out helmets and side arms.
They will help each other. The women will weep as though they
were sending their menfolk off to war. The gondoliers will ready
their gondolas, oars, all their equipment. Leaders will form
groups, explain plans of action, send them in different directions
after the fugitives. It is explained where to go and where to meet
again. The leaders confer with their subordinates and urge them
on against the enemies. They disperse. If the scene needs to be
lengthened, pretexts must be invented to have them return, carry
out the new objectives they came back to accomplish.
"Since there are too few people for such a fighting scene it will
be necessary to organize a 'walk around' and a 'variegation,' " the
spokesman warned.
Tortsov hurried to explain to us the meaning of those special
terms. A
"walk around" meant a continual movement of various
groups to one side. To one group Tortsov assigned coming out of
forming of a squad of men and their
the palace, conversations, the
exit on the right. Another group was to do the same but exit on
the left. Both groups on arriving back stage were immediately to
repeat the maneuver not as the same characters but as others of
newly formed squads. In order to mask the change there would
be dressers and propmen stationed backstage who would remove
the more noticeable or typical parts of their costumes and arms
(helmets, capes, hats, halberds, spears) and in exchange give them
different parts of costumes or arms not resembling those just re-
moved.
As for "variegation," Tortsov explained it this way: If there is
a mass movement in one direction, the impression is created of a

definitepush toward a given place, it looks like an organized
movement. But if you send two groups in different directions in
order to have them meet, clash, exchange words, separate, and
—
keep going off the stage then you have the impression of bustle,
chaos, haste. Brabantio has no organized force. It is formed for
145
the occasion out of his servants. So they cannot have any miHtary
discipline; everything happens on the spur of the moment, with-
out sense, all in confused movement. "Variegation" helps to create
such a mood.
"Who prepared you for today's rehearsal?" inquired Tortsov
after he had finished the questioning.
"Petrunin," came the reply, "and Rakhmanov checked us."
Tortsov thanked them both and congratulated the spokesman,
accepted the proposed plan v^îthout alteration, and then invited
the apprentices to execute it in conjunction with us, the actors.
The apprentices stood up as one man and went onto the stage
without hesitation and in most orderly fashion.
"Not the way we do!" I whispered to Paul who was sitting be-
side me.
"How do you like that? Watch out! This is being done to edify
us!" answered Paul.
"Gee, but they work well! Tongue and groove!" exclaimed
Vanya approvingly.
When the apprentices arrived on the stage they took some time
at first to concentrate on how best to accomplish their objectives.
With great intentness they moved from one place to another both
in front of the chairs defining the palace and in back of them,
that is to say inside the palace. When they could not get the action
they wanted they stopped, thought it out, made some changes,
and repeated what had not been successful before. In his turn
Tortsov who, as he expressed it, played the part of a mirror and
reflected what he saw, gave his conclusions
—
"Bespalov I don't believe you! Dondych that's fine! Vern —
you're exaggerating."
I was struck by the fact that although the apprentices played
without props, understood what they were doing, what things
I
they were supposedly putting on or picking up. And they did not
handle a single thing without paying due attention to it. Each
thing was "used" to the full.
146
A kind of solemn, almost churchlike atmosphere filled the stage
and the auditorium. Those on the stage spoke in low tones, the
audience sat motionless, silent.
During a short pause, Tortsov asked to have explained to him

what role each person was playing. Each one of the participants
came forward to the footlights in turn and explained who he was.
"The brother of Brabantio!" explained one handsome, impos-
ing-looking man, no longer in his first youth. "He organizes the
pursuit and acts, as it were, in capacity of commander-in-chief of
the expedition. He is an energetic, austere person."
"Four gondoliers," announced two good-looking young men,
and two others not so good-looking.
"Desdemona's nurse," said a stout elderly woman.
"Two maids who helped in the abduction. They were in a plot
."
with Cassio who arranged the elopement. . .
"Now play the physical actions of the first scene for me. Let us
see how it turns out."
We played Not counting a few mistakes it seemed
it. to us the
scene went well, especially what the apprentices did.
Tortsov said:
"If you will always follow this line in your parts and sincerely
believe in each physical action you will soon create what we call
the score, the physical life of your parts. I talked to you about this
before. Now
you are seeing in your own experience how it is put
together. If you will compress, concentrate, make a synthesis of
the essence of each of these principal fundamental objectives and
actions, then you will have the score for the first scene of Othello.
"I shall name for you the main divisions out of which that
score is made:
"The first fundamental objective and action is: Convince Rod-
erigo to help lago.
"The second is: Rouse the entire household of Brabantio (the
alarm).
"The third: Set them on the pursuit.
147
"The fourth: Organize the squads and the pursuit proper.

"Now when you come onto the stage to play this first scene do
not think of anything except the best possible execution of these
fundamental objectives and actions. Each one of them has been
checked, discussed, studied from the point of view of its physical
and simple psychological nature as well as from that of its logic
and coherence. So that now when I mention to you any one of the
phases of the score — as, for instance, 'Rouse the entire household
of Brabantio' —you know how that would be done in real life and
how it is done on the Concern yourselves with seeing that it
stage.
is done as fruitfully as possible for the main characters and for the
main goal of the play. That is all you need to do for the present.
Only do not let up on the work we have begun; come every day
and go over, if not the whole scene, at least its basic outline. Let
this strengthen more and more the basic objectives and actions,
fix them with greater precision, like signposts along a road. As for
the details, the small component and parts with their adaptations
their execution, do not think too much about them; rather do
them impromptu each time.
"Do not be afraid of this. You have plenty of material prepared
with which to execute them and you will constantly be develop-
ing them more fully, profoundly, so as to make them more attrac-
tive. After all the only good objectives and actions are those which
excite an actor and impel him to be creative. When we reach this
point of going deeper into the development of the basic objectives
and actions of the scheme we meet a new phase in the creation
of a role."
tP ^ ^r
"Now I come back to our point of departure, the thing for the
sake of which we made our last experiment in forming the physi-
cal life of a role : the question of how to find new ways and means
to a more natural, direct, intuitive, inner approach to a play and
a part.
148
"The creation of the physical Hfe is half the work on a role be-
cause, like us, a role has two natures, physical and spiritual. You
will say that the main purpose of our art does not consist of ex-
ternals, that the creation of the life of a human spirit is what it
looks to in order to inform what we do on the stage. I quite agree,

but precisely because of this I begin our work with the physical
life of any part.
"Let me explain the reason for this unexpected conclusion. You
know that if a part does not of its own accord shape itself inside
an actor he has no recourse except to approach it inversely, by
proceeding from externals inward. That is what I do. You did not
feel your parts intuitively, so I began with their physical life. This
is something material, tangible, it responds to orders, to habits,
discipline, exercise, it is easier to handle than elusive, ephemeral,
capricious feeling which slips away. But that is not all. There are
more important factors hidden in my method: The spirit cannot
but respond to the actions of the body, provided of course that
these are genuine, have a purpose, and are productive. This state
of things is particularly important on the stage because a role,
more than action in real life, must bring together the two lines
—
of external and of internal action in mutual effort to achieve a
given purpose. The favorable condition in acting is that both are
drawn from the same source, the play, which makes them con-
genial to each other.
"Why then do we often see the opposite effect on the stage
and replaced by the personal line
the inner line of a role truncated
of the actor, who has been diverted from creativeness by trivial
preoccupations while he continues to move along automatically,
by habit? This is caused by a formalistic, hack attitude toward
acting.
"The physical approach to a part can act as a kind of storage
battery for creative feeling. Inner emotions and feelings are like
electricity. Scatter them and they disappear. But fill up
into space
the physical life of your part with feelings, and the emotions
149
aroused will become rooted in your physical being, in your deeply

felt physical actions. They will seep in, be soaked up, they will
gather up feelings connected with each instant of the physical life
of your role and in this way lay hold of the ephemeral sensations
and creative emotions of an actor. Thanks to this approach the
cold, ready-made physical life of a part acquires inner content.
The two natures of a part, the physical and the spiritual, merge in
each other. External action acquires inner meaning and warmth
from inner and the latter finds its expression in physical
feeling,
terms, external embodiment.
"Here is another no less practical reason why I began our work
from the physical angle. One of the most irresistible lures to our
emotions lies in the truth and our faith in it. An actor on the stage
need only sense the smallest modicum of organic physical truth in
his action or general state and instantly his emotions will respond
to his inner faith in the genuineness of what his body is doing. In
our case it is incomparably easier to call forth real truth and faith
in it in the region of our physical than of our spiritual nature. An

actor need only believe in himself open up to
and his soul will
receive all the inner objectives and emotions of his role. If, how-
ever, he forces his feelings he will never believe in them; and
without that faith he will never really feel his part.
"To permeate external physical actions with inner essentials,

the spiritual life of a part, you must have appropriate material.
This you find in the play and in your roles. Therefore we now
turn our attention to the study of the inner content of the play."
150
CHAPTER SIX
Analysis
TODAY OUR LESSON began with a placard on which was in-
scribed: The Process of Studying the Play and the Role {Analysis).
Tortsov said:
"Let me repeat that the best thing that can happen to an actor
is to have his whole role form itself in him of its own accord. In
such instances one can forget about all 'systems,' techniques, and
give oneself up wholly to the power of magic nature. This, alas,
did not happen to any of you. So we tried all possible means avail-
able to nudge your imagination, attract your feelings, in order to
get you to put natural, direct, intuitive life if not into your whole
role at least into a part of it. Some of this work was successful; in
different spots in the play there were flashes of life. Now evidently
we have gone through all the paths of direct, immediate, intuitive
approach to Shakespeare's work. What else can we do to produce
new them; how
patches of light in the places that have no life in
can you be brought forcibly closer to the inner world of the
characters shown on the stage? For this we need the process of
analysis.
"What does this analysis consist of and what is its purpose ? Its
purpose is to search out creative stimuli to attract the actor, lacking

which there can be no identification with a part; the purpose of
the analysis is the emotional deepening of the soul of a part in
order to comprehend the component elements of this soul, its ex-
ternal and internal nature, and indeed its whole life as a human
spirit. Analysis studies the external circumstances and events in
the life of ahuman spirit in the part; it searches in the actor's own
soul for emotions common to the role and himself, for sensations,
experiences, for any elements promoting ties between him and his
part; and it seeks out any spiritual or other material germane to
creativeness.
"Analysis dissects, discovers, examines, studies, weighs, recog-
nizes, rejects, confirms; it uncovers the basic direction and thought
of a play and part, the superobjective and the through line of
action. This is the material it feeds to imagination, feelings,
thoughts, and will.
"As you see, analysis has many missions to perform, but in the
first instance, at the beginning of our work, it tries to seek out,
understand, and put the right value on the most precious pearls,
the creative stimuli set in the work of a writer of talent or genius,
pearls which have remained unnoticed during our first casual ap-
proach to the play. The talent of an actor is sensitive, it reacts to
all that is fine; creative stimuli naturally arouse a creative re-

sponse in him. This response in turn throws areas of light in the
dark stretches of the play and evokes genuine, if brief, sensations.
These partial sensations serve to draw the actor closer to his role.
Thus our first objective now is to seek out the creative stimuli the
playwright embedded in his work to excite the actor.
"First, as you know, we turn to reason, which is far more sub-
ject to control than emotion. But we do not do this as a purely
intellectual process. We use our mind first so tliat it will, like a
scout, go out and reconnoiter. Reason begins by studying all

planes, all directions, all the component parts of the play and in-
dividual roles. Like an advance guard it blazes new trails for new
prospecting on the part of our feelings; then creative emotions
follow along these paths prepared by the scout; and then, when
the search is over, the mind comes in again, but this time in a
narrowly confined new role. Now it acts like a rearguard, round-
ing up triumphant emotions, and consolidating what has been
won.
152
ANALYSIS
"So analysis is not solely an intellectual process. Many other

elements enter into it, all the capacities and qualities of an actor's
nature. These must be given the widest possible field in which to
manifest themselves. Analysis is a means of coming to know, that
is, to feel, a play. Only through genuine emotional experience can
one penetrate to the secret wellsprings of human nature in a role
and there come to know, to feel, the invisible things hidden in the
souls of people, those things inaccessible to hearing, sight, or con-
scious approach. It is a misfortune that reason is dry. Even though
at times it does evoke a direct outburst of unconscious inspiration,
it often kills it as well. By its conscious nature it often overwhelms
and crushes feelings that are of the greatest value in creativeness.
So that in the process of analysis one must use the mind with ut-
most caution and care.
"When as a boy I had to study the names of the cities along the
Volga for the sheer purpose of memorizing them, I was bored and
could not make them stick in my memory. But when I was older
and my schoolmates and I made boat trips along the Volga, we
learned the names not only of the big towns but of all the tiniest
hamlets, landings, boat stops, and remembered them for all our
lives. Today we can even recall who lived there, what you could
buy, and what was produced there. Without wishing to do so we

came in contact with the most intimate aspects of life, including
some spicy details and local gossip. Everything we came to know
was, without any effort on our part, carefully set on the shelves of
our memories.
"There an enormous difference between studying something
is
just for the sake of knowledge and studying it for use. In the first
case you find no room to store it; in the second case, the space is
all prepared and what you learn goes immediately into it, as
naturally as water flows into a pool or a channel which has been
readied for it.
"The same is true of the analysis of a play. If we were making

an analysis and looking for feelings experienced merely for the
sake of sensations, we should find little space or use for them. But
if the material derived from analysis is something we need to fill
out, justify, or enliven the too shallow physical life of our roles,
then the new material drawn from within the play and the roles
themselves will find important application and will provide fertile
ground for growth.
"The score for the physical life of a role is only the beginning
of our work; the most important part lies ahead —the deepening
of this life until it where the spiritual life
reaches the very depths,
of a role begins, to create which is the main objective of our art.
This objective has now to a large extent been prepared and it will
not be so difficult to achieve it. If you try to reach feelings directly,
without preparation or support, then it is difficult either to grasp
or to hold fast to the delicate substance of their pattern. But now
that you have the firm support of a material, physical, tangible
line for the physical life of your parts you will no longer be dan-
gling in the air, you will be proceeding along a well-beaten path.
"The knowledge of one's physical being is a splendid and fer-
tile field for growth. Everything planted here has a tangible basis
in the material world. Actions based on it especially help to estab-
lish a role, because in this area it is easier to find large or small
truths that produce faith in what one is doing on the stage. And
you already know that faith and truth are powerful magnets for
your emotions.
"Think back: Did your remain unmoved when you
feelings
sincerely lived in the physical being of your roles? If you probe
deeper into this process and watch what happens in your soul at
such a time, you will see that with faith in your physical actions
on the stage you will feel emotions, akin to the external life of
your part, which possess a logical bond with your soul.
"The body is biddable; feelings are capricious. Therefore if you

cannot create a human spirit in your part of its own accord,
create the physical being of your role."
* * #
ANALYSIS
"We have many ways of learning through the analysis of a

play and its roles.
"We can re-tell the content of the play, make lists of facts and
events, given circumstances proposed by the author. We can divide
the play up into pieces —dissect it and divide it into layers, think
up questions and provide the ansvêrs, read the text with exactly
proportioned wôrds and pauses and glance into the past and fu-
ture of the characters, organize general discussions, arguments,
and debates. We can keep close track of the appearance and merg-
ing of areas of light, weigh and estimate all facts, find names for
units and objectives, and so forth. All these differing practical
methods are part of the single process of analysis, or coming to
know the play and your parts.
"I shall give you practical examples. But these cannot be done
all at once and in the one scene we are rehearsing. That would
confuse you; it would stick in your heads, remaining there to give

an impression of extreme intricacy. Therefore I shall introduce
the technical methods of analysis to you gradually, applying them
in each scene."
* * *
At the end of our lesson Tortsov gave us work to do. He or-

dered us to go to Rakhmanov's class and sent word to return to us
the copies of Othello which had been taken away. Each one of
us was, without leaving the premises, to copy out the author's di-
rections. He and copy from the dialogues
told us to choose besides
and soliloquies of the characters everything that was related to
their characteristics, mutual relations, the explanation and justifica-
tion for given facts, the places where the action takes place, the cos-
tumes, explanations of inner emotions, and so forth everything —
we could mine from the text of the play. Out of all these excerpts
we were to combine, under Rakhmanov's direction, a general list
and enter it in the account of our lesson. Copies were to be given
to each of us, but the texts of the play were again to be withdrawn.
"For my part," Tortsov announced, "I shall see the painter who
is making sketches for the setting and costumes. I shall think
about the general production plan for the first scene, and in addi-
tion to the author's indications I shall tell you my proposals at
your next lesson. Then you will have all the necessary data at your
disposal."
Rakhmanov read the play aloud to us and we stopped him
whenever he came to anything which characterized the dramatis
personae, their mutual relationships, or psychology, the author's
notes concerning the production, direction, sets, and so forth. This
all made notes adding up to several pages. These we sorted into
groups (sets, costumes, author's notes, characterizations, psychol-

ogy, thoughts, and so on). This constituted a new list which we
are to present tomorrow to Tortsov.
tP tt
"In order to obtain absolutely everything the author puts into

his text and round it out," said Tortsov today, "and also
to to
clarify things he only hints at, information the actor needs to
have, I suggest another technical means which we have adopted in
our process of thinking about a play. What I have in mind is a
series of questions and answers. For example
"When does the action take place? At the time of the flowering
of the Venetian Republic in the sixteenth century.
"In what season, and in the day or night? The first scene in
front of Brabantio's palace takes place in the autumn or winter
when there are heavy storms at sea. There are storm clouds in
the sky and a tempest is brewing. The action takes place late in
the evening when all Venice is sinking into deep slumber. If one
wishes to apprise the audience of the hour, a clock in a tower
can strike eleven. But since this effect is used very frequently in
the theatre to induce a mood, one must exercise the utmost caution
and not resort to it except in the case of extreme necessity.
156
ANALYSIS
"Where does the action take place? In Venice. In the aristo-

cratic quarter not far from the Grand Canal, where the palaces of
the grandees are located. A large part of the stage is devoted to
water and only a small one to a narrow pavement — this is typical
of the city built on water —and a landing in front of the water

gate or entrance of the palace. It is desirable to have the upper
and lower windows of the palace visible to the audience so that
night lights, lanterns, and the scurrying around inside should con-
vey the impression of a whole household aroused, of great excite-
ment inside, behind the windows."
The students were doubtful about the possibility of reproducing
the effect of real water and floating gondolas, but Tortsov said that
the theatre was equipped for all such things. The ripple of the
water is reproduced by a special kind of projector with a chromo-
trope mechanically revolving at various speeds. It sends out reflec-
magic lantern, and gives the
tions of light flashes, rather like a
absolute effect of rippling water. There are also mechanical de-
vices for reproducing the waves. For example in Bayreuth, for the
production of The Flying Dutchman, they show two large ships
which sail, are maneuvered, turn around, and separate. One of
them comes into port. In these maneuvers and turns, waves dash
on board from different directions and lap the ships like real
water.
# * #
"Now we have to train our telescope on the scarcely percepti-

ble, quite unclear spots in the play so that you may be helped to
breath life into it. How do we proceed ?

"We must plow up the text again, which is to say reread it
thoughtfully. You will, I dare say, protest: 'We've read it! We

know!' But I shall prove to you by a number of instances that
although you have read the play you still do not know it.
"Not only that, in some places you have not even succeeded in
157
parsing the text. Besides, even in the bright patches, as we call
them, you have only an approximate idea of what is said.
"Take as an example one of these large, bright spots — Othello's

speech to the Senate:
Most potent, grave and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approv'd good masters,
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true I have married her
The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. . . .
"Do you understand —do you feel all the contents which have
been put into this speech?"
"Yes. We think we do understand what he is talking about. It
is the abduction of Desdemona!" asserted the students.

"No, it is not quite that," interrupted Tortsov. "He is speaking
of stealing the daughter of a high and doing it from the
official,
position of a foreigner who happens to be in the employ of the

Senate. Tell me, what is the service Othello is engaged in? He
calls the Senators his 'masters.' What is the relationship between
him and them?"

"He is a general, a military man," we decided.
"Is he, in our parlance, a kind of minister of war, and are they
a council of ministers, or is he simply a mercenary soldier, and are
they plenipotentiary governors who make all the binding decisions
in the country?"
"We had not thought of that, and right now I don't see why
actors have to know all those fine points," confessed Grisha.
"What do you mean, you don't see why you have to know such
things?" exclaimed Tortsov with astonishment. "This is a ques-
tion of a conflict not only between two different classes but also
between nationalities. Besides it is also a question of the Senate's
dependence on a black man whom they despise. Why, this is a
terrible conflict for the Venetians —a whole tragedy! And you do
158
ANALYSIS
not want to know

Are you not interested in the social
about it?
status of the characters? How can you sense their interrelation-

ship without it, or the poignancy of their clash, which plays such
a tremendous part in the whole tragedy in general and in the love
story of the two principals in particular?"
"Of course, you are quite right," we agreed.
"Let me go on," continued Tortsov.
That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,

It is most true; . . .
"Now, tell me how this abduction took place. In order to judge

the degree of his guilt it is necessary to know the details, and this
not only from the point of view of the injured and affronted par-
ties — Brabantio, the Doge, —but also from the
and the Senators
angle of the initiator of the crime— Othello— well from that
as as
of Desdemona, the heroine of the love story."

It had not occurred to us to think about this question and we
could not answer.

"I shall continue," said Tortsov.
. . . true, I have married her
"Now tell me, who married them, where, in what church?

Was it a Catholic church? Muslim was
Or because Othello is a
there no Christian priest to be found who would marry them ? If
that is so, to what ceremony would Othello give the name of
marriage? Or was it a common-law marriage? For those times
that would have been perhaps too bold, too brazen."
When we had nothing to say to that either, Tortsov expressed
his opinion of us.
"Evidently," he concluded, "with certain exceptions you are
able to read and acquire an almost formal understanding of what
the words say, of what the printed letters in a copy of Othello in-
dicate. But that is far from being what Shakespeare intended to
say when he wrote his play. In order to comprehend his intentions
you have to take the inanimate, printed letters and restore not
only his thoughts but his visions, his emotions, feelings, in a word
the whole subtext, which underlies the words in the formal text.
Only then can we say that we not only have read but also know
the play.
"The mistake you all made in re-telling the contents of the play
was that you repeated what has long been well known to every-
—
one what the author wrote, the play as in the present.
"But what about its past and its future prospect ? Who will tell
us about them ?
"Do not conceal from us the hints you yourselves get from be-
neath the words, between the lines, the things suggested by Shake-
speare just as you yourselves see, hear, and sense the life of a
human spirit in the play. Be creators, not mere narrators.
"Perhaps you, Grisha, will undertake this difficult task."
"Excuse me, please," replied Grisha, argumentatively, "but I
will repeat what the author you don't like that, if you are
said. If
bored by it, well, let the author answer for it."

"Oh no," interrupted Tortsov. "The author wrote only what
happens after the curtain is up. That is, so to speak, the present
time of the play. But can the present exist without the past? Try
taking away all the antecedents from your own present. Imagine
for a moment you are sitting here preparing to become an
that
actor but there was nothing in your past leading up to this present
work. You did not prepare yourself even in your thoughts to be-
come an actor, you never acted, you never were in a theatre. Don't
you feel that such a present would lose all value, that it would
be like a plant without roots, doomed to wither and die ?
"The present cannot exist without the past or without the
future. You will say we cannot know or foretell the future. Yet we
not only can but must desire it and have ideas about it.
"Of what good would your present, let us say your studies to
become an actor, be if you were not preparing to go on the stage
and devote your life to this profession }
1 60
ANALYSIS
"Naturally, our present occupations are the more interesting

because they bear future fruit.
"If in ordinary life there can be no present without a past and a

future, in the theatre, which mirrors life, it cannot be otherwise.
The playwright gives us the present but in some ways he also
gives us hints of the past and the future.
"A writer of books gives us more, in fact he actually gives us
all three. He even writes prefaces and epilogues. No wonder; he is
not restricted by the length of his book or by time considerations.

"But the case of the playwright is different. He is confined
within the narrow limits of a play. These limits are fixed as to
time, and very brief it is too. At most he can take four, four and a
half hours, including three or four intermissions, each fifteen min-
utes long. He cannot hold the stage for more than forty or forty-
five minutes at a time. That is the extent to which he can count
on the attention of the public. What can he say in that brief time }
And he has much to say. So this is where he looks to the actors for
help. What the playwright does not have the time to say about
the pastand the future the actors should fill out.
"To this you will retort that they cannot put in more than the
playwright's words. This is not exactly so. There are things which
are conveyed in other ways than with words.
"When Duse, in the last act of La Dame aux Camelias just be-
fore she dies, read a letter Armand wrote her when she first knew
him, her eyes, voice, whole being were con-
intonations, her
vincingly expressive of what she saw, knew, and was re-living
down to the last detail of this moment in her past.
"Could Duse have achieved that result if she was not herself
aware of all those minute details, if she had not thought of the
things the heroine is seeing in her mind's eye as she dies ?
"After the work we have done, would seem

it that we could
now say that we know all the written words of the text and what-
ever is hidden beneath them in the subtext —thoughts, feelings,
things seen and heard.
i6i
"That is a great deal. But it is not all. We know by experience

that the playwright does not spell out a great many things which
are necessary to the actor.For example, lago and Roderigo ap-
pear. From where have they come ? What had happened five, ten,
forty minutes, or a day, a month, a year earlier? Does not the
actor have to know? Is it superfluous for the actor playing Rod-
erigo to know where, when, and how he met, knew, courted Des-
demona? If he is not aware of these facts and the images that
correspond to them how can he speak the lines Shakespeare has
given him? There are tiny hints in the text, and we shall take
them into consideration, but what of the rest? Who will tell us
about that ? You cannot bring the author back to lifeand there is
no other to be found. All you have left is your reliance on the di-
rector of the play. But not all directors are willing to proceed
along the same line we do. Besides, what a director thinks up may
prove quite alien to you as an actor. So nothing remains except to
rely on yourselves. So, let's get to work. Let us do some dreaming
and invent what the author did not spell out. You will have to be-
come co-authors and round out what he did not do in his own
name. Who knows, we may have to write a whole play ! . . .
"Meanwhile, it is too bad that you talk and argue about the
play so little among yourselves. How can I stir you up? Debates
are the best means of stirring interest, of getting at essentials and
clearing up misunderstandings."
We tried to explain to Tortsov why such conversations about
the play did not take place outside of our classes.
"I see I shall have to help you," remarked Tortsov as he left the
class.
Today we were scheduled to have a talk between teachers and

students on the subject of Othello. We gathered in one of the lob-
bies of the theatrearound a great table which was covered with a
green baize cloth and on which lay sheets of paper, pencils, pens
162
ANALYSIS
all the paraphernalia of a regular conference. Tortsov sat down

at the head of the table and announced that the session was open.
"Who wishes to talk about Othello as he understands it?"
We were all embarrassed and sat there immobile and silent as if
we had mouths full of water.
Thinking that perhaps the idea of the gathering was not exactly
clear, Tortsov began to explain it. He said
"At some time, somehow or other, you read Othello hastily,
casually. From it you retained certain spots of recollection. Your
second reading added something to these impressions. But all that
is still too httle inner material for your parts. Today's talk was
planned in order to fill out that material. Therefore I am going

to ask each one to express his opinion of the play quite frankly."
Evidently no one had any thoughts about it, because no one
was willing to say anything. After a long and rather difficult
pause, Rakhmanov asked for the floor.

"I have been silent up to now. I said nothing when Kostya
asked to have Othello brought inside our walls, or when Tortsov
confirmed the choice of the play for our work on a role. I have
been silent despite the fact that I have not been in agreement with
this at any time. Why do I oppose this choice? In the first place
because this is not a play for students, and in the second place
and this is —
the principal reason this tragedy is far from being the
best work of Shakespeare. Really it's not even a tragedy but a
melodrama. That is why the plot, the events in it, are so im-
probable that you cannot believe in them. Judge for yourselves —
black general Where do we see any Negro generals ? And I am
!
speaking of our advanced times. So what can we say of the far-

away Middle Ages, of Venice? And this nonexistent black gen-
eral steals away the most beautiful, pure, naive, fairy princess,
Desdemona. That is absolutely improbable! Just let some savage
steal the daughter of an Englishman or any other kind! Just let
him try. It would be made very hot for any such Romeo."
Those present kept wanting to stop Rakhmanov but did not
163
quite dare to do so. After Tortsov however had expressed some

doubt and then, apparently somewhat embarrassed by his friend's
remarks, had stopped him, several of us attacked the speaker and
defended the play. All Tortsov could do then was throw up his
hands and keep saying: "That's enough! What are you saying.?"
Each such remark only poured oil on the flames and the argu-
ment waxed hotter than ever. There was no way of giving it any
direction and Tortsov as chairman kept ringing his bell inces-
santly. Strangely enough, Rakhmanov found defenders in Vanya
and, who would have thought it, in Maria! This upset me and
caused me to enter the fray. Soon it developed that there was no
unanimity even among the opponents. On the contrary there were
many who were critical. It seemed to me (perhaps I was wrong)
that most of those who were protesting — like, say, Grisha and
Vasya —were against Othello not because the play was good or
bad but because it did not give each one a part to his taste. The
hall was filled with groans and cries, and all the more so when
Tortsov left his place as chairman and watched the scene from the
sidelines.
Can it be that all this uproar was provoked on purpose by our

teachers? —the thought flashed into my mind. If so it brilliantly
achieved its purpose, because the arguments about Othello were

burning and continued until well into the evening. Because of this
there were serious fines since the students were not at their
posts operating the sound board during the evening performance
—they were busy with Othello instead. Some of us were even re-
ported. Because of these arguments in which some of the actors

performing that evening participated and attacked Rakhmanov
fiercely, there was a delay in the intermission; they did not hear
the warning bell, they were so interested in the debate.
Now that I have come home after the evening performance is
over, in the quiet of the night, I am summing up what happened,

trying to write down everything I remember. This is difficult to
164
ANALYSIS
do; everything mixed up in my head and

is so I am mortally tired.
That is why there is no order in my notes.
"Now it's just the way it is after a fresh plowing and sowing;
we have examine what has come up and then gather the fruit,"
to
announced Tortsov as he came into class today. "Isn't there some-
thing new in your feelings after your long debates ?"
"There is indeed," was the vociferous consensus. "But it's so
chaotic you can't do anything with it."
"Nevertheless let us try to set it to rights," proposed Tortsov.

To our astonishment, after careful questioning, it appeared that
we had not added any patches of light, although these now had
clustered around them an infinite number of different sensations,
hints, questions. So it is in the heavens when, alongside the bril-
liant large stars, the telescope discovers hosts of scarcely sparkling

tiny stars. It is difficult for us to see that they really are stars at all;
it seems though the sky were shrouded in a milky white veil.

as
"An astronomer would call this a discovery!" was Tortsov's joy-
ous exclamation. "Let us confirm our bright spots. Perhaps they
will enhance the dull stars clustered around them. Let us begin
with our first bright spot —Othello's speech to the Senate. How
can we confirm and enlarge this spot in our memories ?
"After all that has happened, let us now decide what the nature
of our memories is: auditory, visual, or emotional."
"No, I do not hear the voice of Othello and the others," I said,
"but I do feel and see something rather strongly, although it is
indistinct."
"That's good. What is it you feel or see ?" asked Tortsov.
"It turns out to be very little, much less than I thought," I con-
fessed after testing myself at length. "I see some kind of banal,
opera-singer figure and sense in it the nobility of a generalized
character."
165
"That's not good because you will never feel anything like real
life in that kind of 'vision,' " remarked Tortsov. "And yet in this
part of the play there is such a clash of vivid, lifelike, human,
social, national, psychological, and and pas-
ethical excitements
sions that it wôuld seem impossible not to be moved by them.
Even the external plot is so fine, so unexpected, incisive that it
compels your interest. What an interweaving of circumstances!

Impending war, the country's painful need of its only savior,
Othello; the brutal outrage perpetrated on the ruling class because
blood has been mixed in the marriage of an aristocrat with a
colored savage, a semi-brute. Try to believe all this and make a
choice between the racial honor of the proud Venetians and the
saving of their country by true patriots. How many varied threads
are knotted together in this one scene. What a skilful theatrical
technique of witty exposition and headlong action.
"If you wish to reinforce this scene still further, throw a bridge
across from it to the two preceding ones. Imagine that they have
been played so that you have felt the blowing up of a huge scan-
dal, which has burst forth in the night like a clap of thunder and
awakened the whole city. Just think, while you were sweetly sleep-
ing there were sudden cries from a rushing mob, the splash of
waves from hurrying gondolas filled with men in arms; mean-
time the windows in the Doge's palace are filled with lights, and
add to this the dreadful rumors of a Turkish invasion, the abduc-
tion of the popular Desdemona by man, a hurricane blow-
a black
ing up. . . . Mix that all together and wake up. I am sure you will
feel that your city of Venice is already in the hands of the infidels
who will at any instant invade your home. See how one bright
patch merges with another just as vivid and forms a large, bright
area which now on the contiguous parts and puts life
reflects light
into them. Indeed the episode of war has now become intertwined
with the episode of Desdemona's abduction. Yet have you for-
gotten that the abduction is strongly bound up with lago's revenge
on Othello because of his resentment over Cassio ? Remember too
1 66
ANALYSIS
that in all this boiling plot a large role is played by Roderigo,

second only to Othello as a suitor for the hand of Desdemona. At
the same time Roderigo is involved viîth lago, and so forth.
"Do you sense how one character, one episode, affects another,
and how therefore the simile of reflected light from stars is valid
for the process of analysis we are now engaged in ? We no sooner
had begun to fix the scene of Othello's appearance before the
Senate when we became involved with other episodes closely
allied with it and they in turn threw light on the preceding scenes.
"After a rapid glance over what has remained in our memories,

we see that some of the clear patches have already merged with
others of the same kind, while a third group, although they have
not yet merged, already show a tendency in that direction, and the
fourth, fifth . . . tenth groups, having received reflected light
from the first, are now becoming more distinct, while all the rest
of these moments memories consist of scarcely perceptible
in our
hints, like the stars in the Milky Way.
"Yet to tell the truth, all we have done so far toward the crea-
tion of new light areas and their combination with our roles has
been directed toward arousing our enthusiasm for certain spots in
the play which had not intuitively entered our consciousness.
"Now that we have rediscovered these remarkable places, our
actor's enthusiasm can in turn become an instrument in our analy-
sis and help us to continue the work we have begun. Enthusiasm
does more than act as a stimulus to creativeness. It is also a wise
guide leading us to the secret wellsprings of the heart, it is a keen

and penetrating searcher, a sensitive critic and appraiser."
* * *
"Gifted poets like Shakespeare give us plays which are full of

genius, larded through with an infinite amount of fascinating food
for thought, with interesting 'magicand proposed circum-
ifs'
stances. In working out another person's theme for creative action
167
we must mainly proceed along the inner line of a play because the
external line of factsand events has already been laid down by
the author. In order to understand and evaluate what is secreted
in a piece of work we have to have imagination.
"Let us make an experiment. Vanya, you tell us the contents of
Othelhr
"A black Moor has stolen away a white girl. The father goes
to the Senate but meantime a war has broken out. The Moor must
be sent, the father does not count. Decide, says Brabantio, about
us first. The Senators decide, they send the black man off to the
war that very night. I'll go with him, I insist, says the daughter.
."
So they go. The war ends in victory. They live in a palace. . .
"What do you think," asked Tortsov turning to the rest of us,

"has Vanya really understood and appraised the new and fascinat-
ing theme for creativeness offered us by Shakespeare?"
We burst out laughing instead of replying.
"Perhaps you, Paul, can help us?"
"Othello stole the daughter of a Senator called Brabantio on the
very night when Turks staged an attack on one of the Vene-
the
tian colonies," began Paul. "The only person who could lead a
successful military expedition was Othello. But before entrusting
him with the defense of their possessions it was necessary to settle
the conflict between him and Brabantio, who demanded redress
from defamation heaped on his family by this man from a black
race scorned by the haughty Venetians.
"The abductor, the Moor, is called before the Senate, where a
special session is being held."
"I'm already bored!" announced Tortsov. "That's the sort of
libretto they give you in theatre programs. You try, Grisha, to tell
us the contents of Othello."

"Cyprus, Candia, and Mauritania are conquered provinces,
under the heavy heel of Venice," began our specialist in cliche
acting. "The arrogant Doges, Senators, and aristocrats do not look
upon the conquered people as human beings and do not allow
i68
ANALYSIS
intermarriage with them. But, you see, hfe does not pay any atten-
tion to such things and it forces people into difficult compromises.
."
Then there is the unexpected war with Turkey. . .
"Excuse me, but I find this dull. It sounds like a history text-
book. There is little in it to carry me away. And yet both art and
creativeness are founded on the fact that they ignite our imagina-
tion, our passions.
"In what you say, you do not feel any of the warm interest of
the material given us by Shakespeare. It is not easy to relate the

essential part of a piece of writing."
I kept had no plan of my own.
silent for I
After a while Tortsov undertook to tell the story himself, or

rather to embroider imaginatively on Shakespeare's theme. He
said:
"I see a beautiful young Venetian woman, who has grown up
amid luxury and is spoiled, high-spirited, full of dreams, fantasies,
the way young girls are who are brought up without mothers,
raised on fairy tales and romances. This scarcely opened flower,
Desdemona, is bored by being shut in with household responsibili-
ties and catering to the whims of her proud and important father.
No one is allowed to come and see her and her young heart craves
love. There are suitors for her hand, arrogant and dissipated young
Venetians. But they do not charm this young dreamer. She is look-
ing for the unheard of, the things you read about in fine romances.
She waiting for a fairy prince or powerful potentate, a king. He
is
will come from some wonderful far-off country. He must be a

hero,handsome, bold, unconquerable. She will give herself to him
and sail away in a fine ship to some fairy-tale kingdom.
"Now you go on from there," said Tortsov turning to me. But
I was so intent on listening to him that I was not prepared and
could say nothing.
"I can't," I said after a pause, "I'm not primed."
"Prime yourself then," urged Tortsov.
"I haven't the wherewithal," I admitted.
169
"I'll give it to you," said Tortsov. "Do you see in your mind's
eye the place where the action is laid, where what you are telling
about all happens?"
"Yes," I replied with quickened interest. "I imagine the action
taking place in a Venice that looks exactly like our Sevastopol;
for some reason I see the Governor's house from Nizhny Nov-
gorod there too. where Brabantio seems to live, it is on the
This is
shore of the South Bay in which little steamers scurry around, as

they do to this day. Yet this does not interfere with the antique
gondolas darting in all directions, with their oars splashing."
"Let us assume that is so," said Tortsov. "Who can explain the
caprices of an actor's imagination! It has no use for history or
geography and is not afraid of anachronisms."
"It is even more curious," I continued with my fantasy, "that
in my Venice, which looks like Sevastopol, there on the is a bluff
shore of the bay exactly like the one in Nizhny Novgorod, on the
banks of the Volga, where there are poetic and secluded places
that I used to love and of which I have tenderly unhappy mem-
ories."
Afterhad finished telling what I saw with my inner vision, I

I
was immediately tempted to criticize the foolish creation of my |
imagination, but Tortsov waved his arms excitedly and said:

"Don't do it, for goodness sake It is not in your power to order
!
yourself in accordance with your own wishes to bring up these or

those memories. Let them come to life of their own accord and
act as powerful stimulants to your creativeness as an actor. The
only proviso is that they should not essentially contradict the basic
plot of the play as written by the author."
In order to further my imaginings Tortsov then gave me an-
other clue.
"When did all this happen, which you see with your inner
vision ?" was his new question.
When my source dried up he stimulated me again to further
work.
170
ANALYSIS
''How did happen?" he asked, and then immediately

it all
clarified his question. "I mean that I would like to know the line
of this inner action, its gradual progress and development. For the
time being we only know that a spoiled young woman, Desde-
mona, lives in a Nizhny Novgorod palace on the shore of the Volga
and does not wish to marry any of the dissipated young Venetians.
Tell me what she dreams of, how she lives, and what happens
next.
This new stimulus was to no avail, so Tortsov carried on in my
stead, thinking up all sorts of fascinating rumors deriving from
the talk about the popularity of the Moor that preceded his arrival.
Tortsov would have it that the Moor's feats and all the hard-
ships he related Desdemona must be like fairy tales, romantically
to
beautiful and effective so that they would excite the overheated
young brain of the girl who had been waiting for the hero in her
dreams.
After another pause Tortsov tried once more to set me in mo-
tion. He advised me to tell in logical order what happened Where :
did they meet, how did they fall in love, get married ?
I was silent because I found it far more interesting and instruc-

tive to hear Tortsov's imagination at work.
So he went on, and described how Othello had arrived in Vene-
tian Sevastopol in a great ship. The legends concerning the gen-
eral's feats drew a huge crowd to the pier. The appearance and
dark skin of Othello aroused curiosity. When he rode or walked
through the streets little boys ran after him in crowds, the passers-
by whispered to each other and pointed their fingers at him.
The first meeting of these future lovers took place in the street
and it made on the young woman. Othello
a great impression
fascinated her not only with his brave appearance but also and
especially with his naive ways of a savage, his modesty and his
goodness, all of which shone in his eyes. This modesty and shyness
joined with valor and imperviousness to fear made an unusual
and beautiful combination.
171
Another time Desdemona saw Othello at the head of troops

coming back from some military exercises. His easy seat on his
horse made an even greater impression on her. That was the time
she first saw Cassio riding with his general.
Desdemona's imaginings kept her from sleep. One day Bra-
bantio announced to his daughter, as mistress of the household,
that he had invited the celebrated Othello to dinner. At this name
the girl almost fainted away.
It is easy to imagine with what care Desdemona dressed herself
and had the dinner prepared, and how she waited for this meeting
with her hero.
The look in her eyes could not but go to the Moor's heart. It
embarrassed him and increased his shyness, which was so becom-

ing in this hero with his name for invincibility.
The Moor, who had not been spoiled by womanly warmth,
could not at first understand the exceptional amiability of his
hostess. He was accustomed to being received and tolerated in the
houses of highly placed Venetians as an official personage. Yet
amid the honors heaped on him he always felt himself to be in
the position of a slave. No pair of wonderful eyes had ever before
looked with warmth on his black and, as he believed, ugly face,
until suddenly on this day. . . .
Nor did Othello sleep for many nights, and he waited with
impatience for another invitation from Brabantio. It was not long
in coming. Probably at the instigation of the lovelorn girl he was
invited again, and yet again, so that they could listen to his stories
of his exploits, of the hard life during campaigns. After dinners,
over the wine, and sitting out on the terrace with a view of Sevas-
topol harbor with the Nizhny Novgorod bluff, the Moor would
modestly but truthfully tell about his exploits, as Shakespeare him-
self described him doing when the Moor speaks to the Senate, and
as Tortsov imaginatively painted him.
I really came to believe that such a story could not but turn the
172
ANALYSIS
head of a high-spirited young woman in a romantic frame of

mind.
"Desdemona was not one to build her life like all the others on
a narrowly bourgeois pattern," continued Tortsov. "She craved
the unusual, the contents of a fairy tale. One could not have imag-
ined a better hero than Othello for a girl of her flaming nature.
"The Moor began to feel more and more at home at Brabantio's.
It was his first opportunity to see a real home at close quarters.
The presence of a beautiful young woman lent an added charm,

and so forth." Here Tortsov broke off his story.
"Do you not find," he asked, "that this kind of re-telling of the
contents of a play is more interesting than the dry recounting of
the facts ?you were to make me tell you still again the contents
If
of this tragedy and I followed the inner pattern rather than the
outer form, I'd think up something more. And the more often
you made me tell the story the more material would be stored up
for imaginative extensions to the words of the author, for the
'magic ifs' which you will use to justify the material given you
by the author.
"So now follow my example, and as often as possible relate the
contents of plays and sketches which you are given to act in,
approaching them each time from a different angle, from your
own point of view in your own person, or from that of one of the
characters, that is to say putting yourself in his stead."
"All this is fine . . . but with one proviso: You must possess a
brilliant natural or highly developed imagination," I said sadly.
"We have to think about what leads to the development of an
imagination which is still only in an embryonic stage."
"Yes, you will have to acquire methods for prodding your
imagination, which has not yet warmed up," agreed Tortsov.
"That's it, what we need That
that's ! is exactly what we lack,"
I added to what he had said.
173
"We have begun our analysis layer by layer, working from the
top down—from the which are more accessible to our con-
things
scious feelings down to those which are less so.
"The topmost layer consists of the plot, the facts, and events of
the play. We have already touched on these but limited ourselves
to their enumeration for the purpose of reproducing them on the
stage. Now we shall continue our study of them. The word 'study'
in our language means not only that we state the fact, look at it,
and understand it, but also that we appraise its worth and signifi-
cance.
"This new aspect of analysis is what we call appraising the facts.
"There are plays (poor comedies, melodramas, vaudeville, re-
vues, farces) in which the external plot represents the principal

asset of the performance. In such works the very facts of a murder,
a death, a wedding, or the process of dumping flour or water on

the head of one of the characters, of losing a pair of trousers, of
getting into the wrong room where a peaceful guest is taken for
a robber, and so forth — all such facts constitute the principal
moments would be superfluous to appraise
of the production. It
them; they are instantly comprehended and accepted by everyone.

"But in other works the plot itself and the facts contained in it
sometimes do not have much significance in themselves. In such
plays it is not the facts but the attitude of the characters toward
them that provides the fulcrum, the central interest, which the
audience follows with thumping pulse. In such plays facts are
needed only to the extent that they provide motivation and occa-
sion for revealing the inner content. Chekhov's plays are of this
kind.
"In the best plays of all, form and content are in direct relation-
ship with each other; then the life of the spirit is indivisible from
the facts and the plot. In most of Shakespeare's plays, and among
them Othello, this complete correspondence exists, this mutual
interaction between the external, factual lineand the inner line.
"In such works, appraising the facts is of prime significance. As
ANALYSIS
you examine the external events you come in contact with the
given circumstances that give rise to the facts. As you study these
circumstances you come to reahze the inner reasons that relate to
them. So you go deeper into the very thick of the spiritual life of
a role, you reach the subtext, you come to the underlying current
of the play which provokes the superficial waves of action.
"The technique of appraising the facts is very simple to start
with.You begin by mentally canceling the fact to be appraised,
and then you try to find out how that affects the life of the spirit
in your role.
"Let us test this process in your roles," said Tortsov turning to
Vanya and Grisha. "The you come to in the play is your
first fact
arrival in front of Brabafitio's palace. Do I need to explain that if

this fact were lacking the whole first scene would be nonexistent,
and during the beginning of the tragedy you could sit quietly in
your dressing room instead of moving around in excitement on
the stage ? It is obvious that the fact of your arrival at Brabantio's
palace is an essential one and you must believe in it, and hence
experience its impact.
"The second of the facts in the first scene which we have re-
corded is the quarrel with Roderigo, lago's defense of his inno-
and of starting the pursuit
cence, the necessity of raising the alarm
of the Moor. Remove all these facts, and what happens ? The two
characters would arrive on the scene in a gondola and immedi-
ately start to raise the alarm. In such a course of events we, the
spectators, would be left in ignorance of the exposition of the
play, that is to say of the relationship between Roderigo and Des-
demona, lago and Othello, of lago's resentment against Othello,
and the regimental intrigue which unlooses the whole tragedy.
"This would be reflected in the acting of the alarm scene. It is
one thing to arrive somewhere, begin to yell, raise a racket to
waken people who are sound asleep; it is quite another to do what
you can to save your vanishing happiness, as in the case of Rod-
erigo who is losing his bride, the eloping Desdemona. It is one
thing to raise a row for the fun of it, and quite another when it
is done in the spirit of revenge, as in the case of lago who is vent-

ing his hatred of Othello. Every action which is carried out not
merely because of some external reason but because of some inner
impulse is incomparably more effective, better grounded, and
therefore more moving to the actor who executes it.
"Appraising the facts is inseparable from another aspect of our

analysis,namely, the justification of the facts. This is a necessary
part of the process, because a fact without a basis dangles in mid-
air. The fact which is not experienced, not included in the inner
line of life in the play, not responsive to no use and indeed
it, is of
is a hindrance to proper inner development. Such an unjustified
fact constitutes a blank, a break in a role. It is a spot of dead flesh
in a living organism, smooth road, it impedes

it is a deep hole on a
free movement and the course of inner feelings. You must either
fill up the hole or throw a bridge across it. That is why we need
the justification of facts. Once a fact is justified it is automatically

included in the inner line of the play, in the subtext; it promotes
the free unfolding of the spiritual life of your part. Facts which
are justified also promote
and consecutiveness in feeling a
logic
part, and you already know what importance those two factors
have in our work. . .
"Now you know the facts of the first scene of the play. More
than that, you have executed them more or less correctly. But you
have not as yet plumbed the depths of their true validity, nor will
you do this until you have justified them on the basis of new given
circumstances, proposed by yourselves. These will compel you to
visualize the course of events in the play as a human being, not
just as an actor, as an initiator and author, not as a mere copyist.
So let us now examine these facts and see whether you have
appraised, from your own personal, human point of view, every-
thing that happens in the first scene, putting yourselves in the
place of Roderigo and lago. As far as the external rendering of
the facts is concerned, I believe what you did. They arrive, just
176
ANALYSIS
as you did, at the landing and moor their gondola. Just as they
do, you tied it up here, not just anyhow but with a purpose to
raise the alarm. In turn you raised the alarm with another and
definite purpose in mind —to pursue and arrest the Moor, and res-
cue Desdemona.
"But yet you do not know—by which I mean you do not feel
why these actions were so urgently necessary to the two of you."
"I know! You bet I know!" Vanya practically burst out.
"Why then, tell me," suggested Tortsov.
"Because I'm in love with Desdemona."
"That means you know her. That's good. Tell us, what is she
like?"
"You mean Maria? There she is!" Vanya exclaimed without
stopping to think.
Our poor Desdemona waved her arms and flew out of the
auditorium. The rest of us, including Tortsov, could not keep
from laughing.
"Well, that fact has certainly been appraised from a human and
not a theatrical point of view!" laughed Tortsov. "But if that is
so, why don't you raise the alarm so as to rescue your beloved?
Why has it been so difficult to convince you how necessary it is
to do this ?"
"Roderigo is capricious," was Vanya's rather confused reply.

"But there must be a reason even for being capricious, or else
neither you nor the audience will put any faith in your caprice.
On the stage nothing can happen irrelevantly," remarked Tortsov.
"He has quarreled with lago!" was the reply Vanya now
squeezed out of himself.
"Who is 'he'?"
"Roderigo; no, it's me."
"If it is you then you know better than anyone else the cause
of the quarrel. Tell us about it."
"It's because he tricked me — he promised I'd marry her and he

didn't keep his word."
177
"How and in what way did he deceive you ?"

Vanya was silent. He was unable to invent anything.
"Don't you realize that lago has twisted you around his little
finger, has extorted large sums of money from you, and all the
time was helping the Moor with his elopement?"
"So he was the one who arranged the elopement! The dirty
dog!" exclaimed Vanya with genuine disgust. "I'll punch his face
?"
in! Why doesn't he, I mean, why don't I want to raise the alarm
Here Vanya threw up his hands and again was silent because he
could not think of any justification for the action.
"You see there is such an important fact for your part and you
have not appraised it at all. That's a large blank space. And you
cannot justify the action with any banal pretexts. What you need
here is not simple but magic action which will really make you
wild and push you into interesting movement. Any dry, formal
pretexts will be harmful for your role."
Vanya had nothing to offer.
"Do you mean to say that you do not remember that Desde-
mona, through lago, promised you her hand and heart, and that
he in turn obliged you to purchase valuable wedding presents and
to prepare a home; you actually went to all the trouble and fur-
nished a place with mad luxury. How much did your friend and
agent make out of all that The day for the elopement was fixed,
!
the church and the priest to marry you were prepared, all was
ready for an intimate but lavish wedding, all paid for out of your
generous purse. You were so full of excitement, anticipation, im-
patience you neither ate nor slept then suddenly Desdemona
. . .
elopes with a black savage. And this was done to you by that
scoundrel lago.
"You are convinced that they are being married in the very
church prepared for your wedding, that the major part of the
trousseau bought by you has gone to Othello. This is mockery, this
is robbery! Nowme,tell if things had happened in this fashion,
what would you do?"
178
ANALYSIS
"I'd thrash the scoundrel!" Vanya decided and even flushed a

little with resentment.
"What if lago worsted you; you know he is a soldier and
powerfully strong."
"What can I him anyway, the fiend! I'd shut up and
get out of
turn away from him!" By this time Vanya was bewildered.
"If that is so, why did you accede to his urging that you come
to Brabantio's palace in your own gondola ? Appraise this action,"
said Tortsov, giving Vanya fresh facts for his appraisal.

But our hot-headed young man was unable to solve the riddle.
"And here is one more fact not yet appraised, and one which
you must examine down to the bottom if you are going to under-
stand the interrelationship of these two important characters in
the play.
"You, Grisha, what have you to say about Roderigo's arrival in
front of Brabantio's palace? How did you, as lago, accomplish
this ?" asked Tortsov with some insistence.
"I grabbed him, do you see, by the scruff of the neck, chucked
him into the gondola, and brought him to where he had to go,"
decided Grisha.
"You suppose, then, that such brute force will help to stir your
creative interest? If you do, all right; but I rather doubt your suc-
cess. After all, analysis, appraisal of the facts, and their justification
are necessary to us if we are to acquire faith in them and be carried
away by interest aroused by them. If I were playing your part I
could not achieve that end by the use of the coarse, primitive
means you and indeed I would find it repel-
suggest. I'd be bored,
lent to act like a top sergeant; I would far rather accompHsh my
purpose by means of wiles that are worthy of lago's diabolical
mind."
"What would you do?" the students asked Tortsov.
"I would immediately turn myself into the most innocent,
meek lamb who has been maligned by the most malicious gossip.
I'd sit there with downcast eyes, and I would go on sitting there
179
until Roderigo, that is you, Vanya, had finished pouring out all
your anger, and hatred. The worse things you said, the more
gall,
unjust they were, the better for me. So there would be no need
to interrupt you. Only when you had thoroughly vented your re-
sentment, thrown off the burden on your soul, exhausted all your
energy, would the time come to start action. Till then, my cue is
to be silent. I should not argue, make any retorts, oryou would be

stirred to fresh accusations and excitement. I must knock the
ground out from under your feet and let you fall flat on your
face. When you had lost all support under you, then I would
have you in my power and I could do what I wanted with you.

That is why I should act that way. I'd stretch my immobility and
silence to the proportions of a long, tiring, and awkward pause.
After that I should walk over to the window, turning my back on
you, and hand you a second even more distasteful pause.
"This awkwardness and misunderstanding is not what you,
Vanya, expected to achieve by your Philippics. You probably ex-
pected that lago would defend himself, as you would have done,
beat his breast in despair. But instead of any outbreak you get
silence, immobility, a mysterious, rather sad, facial expression and
look out of the eyes, embarrassment, misunderstanding. All this

gives you the impression of having misfired ; you are disillusioned,
ill at ease, bewildered. These things cool you off quickly and put
you in your place.
"After this I, as lago, would go over to the table, near which
you are seated, and begin to lay out the money and the valuables
I happen to have with me. In the bygone days of friendship these
were given to me by you, but now that the friendship is at an end

they must be returned. This is the first moment when I can
achieve a turnabout in my inner state. After this I would, while
standing in front of you (since no longer consider myself either
I
as a friend or guest in the house), thank you warmly and sincerely

for bygone favors, letting drop a few remarks about my memories
of the better days of our friendship. Then I would take a sad
1 80
ANALYSIS
leave, without touching your hand (I am no longer worthy of

that), and as I would almost casually yet
go out I quite clearly
let drop the phrase The future will show what I was
: to you. Fare-
well forever
"Now tell me, if you were in Roderigo's place, would you have
let me go? Here you have lost Desdemona and now your best
friend, as well as all hope of the future. Would you not feel lonely,
abandoned by all, helpless? Would not this prospect alarm you?"
"The appraisal of facts and complicated piece of work.

is a big
It is carried out not only by your mind but also and principally
by your feelings and creative will. This work is done on the plane
of the imagination.
"In order to appraise the facts by means of your own feelings,
on the basis of your personal, living relationship to them, you as
an actor must put to yourself this question: What circumstances
—
of my own inner life which of my personal, human ideas, desires,
efforts, qualities, inborn gifts and shortcomings can oblige me, —
as a man and actor, to have an attitude toward people and events
such as those of the character I am portraying ?
"For example, in Othello, Shakespeare gives us a whole series
of facts and events. These must be appraised. The haughty, con-
ceited, power-loving Venetians are well known to everyone. The
colonies which have passed under the yoke of Venice by right of
conquest —Mauritania, Cyprus, Candia —have all been enslaved.
The tribes who inhabit these countries are not even considered
by the Venetians to be human beings. And suddenly one of their
number has dared to carry off Desdemona,
ornament of brightest
Venice, the daughter of one of the proudest and most influential
men in its aristocracy. Appraise this scandal, this crime, shame,
this insult to the family, indeed to the whole arrogant ruling class.
"And here is another fact: Suddenly, like a clap of thunder
i8i
from comes the news that a large Turkish fleet is head-

a clear sky,
ing for Cyprus, which formerly was one of the Turks' possessions
and which they always dreamed of recovering.
"In order to make a more profound estimate of this fact let us
make a comparison. Remember the terrible day when we woke
up to hear that Russia was at war with Japan, and on top of that
to learn that the major part of the Russian fleet had already been
sunk.
"It was that kind of disturbance, only greater, which seized
Venice and all its inhabitants on this fateful night.
"War has begun. Hurriedly they equip an expedition, at night,
during a terrible storm. Whom to send, whom to choose to lead
the expedition ?
"Who else but the famous, the invincible Moor ? He is called to

the Senate.
"Think about this, weigh this fact, and you will sense with
what impatience the arrival of the hero and savior is awaited in
the Senate.
"Meanwhile fresh events, one after the other, are piling up in
this fateful night.
"One new fact enters the picture, makes the situation more
acute: Injured Brabantio demands justice, defense, and the clear-
ing not only of his family honor but of the prestige of the whole
ruling class of Venice.
"Take a thorough look at the position of the government and
try yourselves to untie the knot of all these events. Weigh the fact
of a father's sufferings, having lost at one blow his daughter and
the fair name of his family. Weigh too the position of the Senators
who are compelled by the pressure of events to curb their pride
and effect a compromise. Appraise all these events from the point
—
of view of the principal characters Othello, Desdemona, lago,
Cassio. Passing from fact to fact, event to event, from one action
to another, you will go through the whole play and only then will
you be able to say that you know the plot and can tell it.
182
ANALYSIS
"After we have made this studied analysis of the Hne of the

play, that is to say the author's work, we must repeat the process
with all the circumstances proposed by the director, the scene
designer, and all the others who contribute to the production.
Their attitude and approach to the imagined life on the stage can-
not but be interesting for us.
"Yet the most important circumstances are those with which

we ourselves fill out our roles for the sake of our own creative
state on the stage. At
same time, each one of us has to take
the
into consideration too the circumstances imagined by those oppo-
site whom we play and on whom we largely depend.
"Again it is easiest to begin with external facts, which for rea-

sons you are now familiar with we do not give up while working
toward the accretion of spiritual material."
"Let us turn from theory to practice," said Tortsov, "and go

through the play on various levels, from the top down. Let us
begin with the first scene. The top layer we have already exam-
ined sufficiently —the factsand the plot. On the next level, we
come to Venetian life, manners and customs. What do you think
about them?"
None of the students spoke up, because no one had even
thought about this before; so Tortsov was obliged to intervene.
As a result of his urging, suggesting, hinting, he managed to
squeeze a small amount out of us, but as usual he contributed the

lion's share.
"Who are they, this Roderigo and lago? What is their social
status?" he asked.
"lago is an officer, and Roderigo an aristocrat," we volunteered.
you are flattering them," replied Tortsov. "lago is too
"I think
coarse for an officer and Roderigo is too vulgar for an aristocrat.
Would it not be wiser to reduce their rank somewhat and call
183
lago a top sergeant who has risen, because of his exploits in the
field, from the rank of simple soldier to petty officer ? And count
Roderigo simply as belonging to the class of wealthy merchants ?"
Grisha, who always prefers to play noble characters, voiced a
vigorous protest. He
found that the psychology of his character
was far too "subtly intellectual" for a person of low birth, and re-
fused to look upon him as a simple soldier. We argued about this,
we brought forward examples from and literature, we pointed
life
to Figaro, to Moliere's Scapin, Sganarelle, and to the servants in

Italian comedies who possessed the shrewd wits of the cleverest
dodgers and rogues with whom the "intellectuals" always have to
cope. As for lago, he is a diabolical character from the outset, and
the fiend in him is very subtle, quite apart from any social status
or training.
We succeeded only in persuading Grisha that lago is coarse
albeit an officer. I, for my part, could see the cliche of "nobility"
which Grisha had planted in his mind.
In order to push stubborn Grisha away from this mistaken
position, Tortsov painted a picture of regimental life in which a
soldier by hook or crook is determined to become an officer, an

officer tobecome an "ancient" or adjutant, and so on up to the
rank of general. By means of a true description he hoped to coax
Grisha down off his stilts to come to grips with life. He said
"lago is by origin a simple soldier. His external appearance is
rough, good-natured, sincere, honest. He is brave; in all the battles

he fought side by side with Othello. More than once he saved his
life. He is intelligent, shrewd; he has an excellent understanding
of the battle tactics of Othello, who evolved them out of his mili-
tary genius. Othello consulted with him constantly both before

and during battle, and lago more than once gave him intelligent
and sound advice. There are two personalities in lago: The one is
what he appears to be, the other what he actually is. The one is
pleasant, rather unrefined in manner, good-natured, the other
wicked and repulsive. The exterior which he has assumed is so
184
ANALYSIS
misleading that everyone (to a certain degree this includes his

wife) is convinced he is the most sincere and best-natured of men.
If Desdemona had had a little black son, the big, rough, good-
natured lago would have been the one to rear him in the place of
a nurse. And when the boy grew up he would have looked upon
this fiend with a good-humored face as his uncle.
"Although Othello has seen lago in battle and knows how bold
and ruthless he can be, he still shares the general view of him. He
knows that men in battle become brutish, he is that way himself.
Yet that does not keep him in private life from being soft, tender,
almost shy. Besides, Othello has a high opinion of lago's mind
and shrewdness since he often gave him good advice in the war.
During the campaign lago was not only his counselor, he was also
his friend. Othello poured out to him all his bitter thoughts, his
doubts, and his hopes. lago always slept in his tent. The great
military leader, when he could not sleep, talked frankly with lago.
lago was his servant, his orderly, and when need arose, his physi-
cian. Better than anyone else he could dress a wound, or when
needed he could cheer, distract, sing bawdy but amusing songs,
or tell stories of the same ilk. Because of his good humor he was
allowed to say anything.
"How many times did lago's songs and cynical anecdotes serve
an important purpose! For example, when
army was worn
the
out and the soldiers grumbling, along would come lago to sing
a song that would catch on with the soldiers even if it was cyni-
cal, and their whole mood would be altered. At another critical
time when it was necessary to pacify the resentment of the sol-

diers, lago would not hesitate to invent some horrible, cold-
blooded torture or death for a prisoner, some savage taken in

battle, and this would for a time allay the aroused feelings of the
army. Of course this was done without Othello's knowledge, be-

cause the noble Moor did not tolerate wanton brutality, though
when it was necessary he would instantly, at one blow, strike off a
head.
185
"lago is honest. He does not steal government money or prop-

erty. He is too clever to take that risk. But if he can mulct a fool
(and there are many of them around besides Roderigo) he never
lets an opportunity pass. From such he wheedles money, presents,
invitations to meals, women, horses, puppies, and so forth. These
are his earningson the side, and they provide him with the means
of carousing and having a gay time. Emilia does not know about
all this, although she may suspect it. lago's closeness to Othello,
the fact that he was raised from the ranks to be his lieutenant,
that he sleeps in Othello's tent, and acts as his right-hand man,
and so forth, all this, of course, gives rise to envy among the officers
and affection among the soldiers. They all fear and respect lago
as he is a genuine soldier and fighting man who more than once
has led his regiment out of difficulties, saved them from catas-
trophe. Campaign life suits him.
"Yet, in Venice, amid all the glitter, the starched and haughty
manners at official receptions, or among the highly placed persons
with whom Othello has to deal, lago is not at home. In these
matters Othello is not very well trained either —he needs to have
someone at his side to fill in the blanks in his education, an adju-
tant whomone would not hesitate to send on an errand to the
Doge himself, or to the Senators. He has to have someone versed
in writing letters or able to explain aspects of military science he
is not familiar with. Could he appoint to such an office a fighting
man like lago? Of course, the scholarly Cassio would be a far
more suitable choice. He is a Florentine and at that time Florence
was what Paris is today, a center of worldliness and exquisite arts.
In his relations with Brabantio, in preparing secret meetings with
Desdemona, could he use lago as a go-between ? For this you could
not find anyone better than Cassio. So is there anything surprising
in his naming Cassio adjutant to his person ? Besides, lago's can-
didacy for the post never once entered the mind of the Moor.
Why would lago want to play that role ? Even without it he is an
intimate of Othello, at home with him, his friend. Let him remain
l86
ANALYSIS
as such. Why should Othello put his friend into the awkward
position of an untrained, unpolished, roughshod adjutant who
would be the laughing stock of everyone! That is probably how
Othello reasoned.
"But lago's view was different. He supposed that his services,
his bravery, the fact that he had on several occasions saved his
general's life, and devotion entitled him and
that his friendship
no one else to be adjutant. It might have been all right to pass him
over in favor of some distinguished person, some officer from his
staff of comrades in battle; but to take the first smooth little under-
ling of an officer who does not even know what it is to be in a

battle, or what war is Introduce this silly boy into a close relation
!
to the general just because he can read a book, babble prettily with
the young ladies, and cut a wide swath among the powerful in
the land — this logic is incomprehensible to lago. Therefore the
appointment of Cassio was such a blow, insult, humiliation, such
a piece of ingratitude that he cannot forgive it. The most offensive
part of all is that he, lago, was never considered by anyone for the
post. And what completely annihilated him was that all Othello's
secrets of the heart, his love for Desdemona and the elopement
with her, were hidden from him and entrusted to that boy Cassio.
"There nothing surprising in the fact that recently, ever since
is
Cassio was named adjutant, lago has been drinking heavily and
carousing. It may have been during one of his drinking bouts
that he met and made friends with Roderigo. The favorite theme
of the heart-to-heart talks between these two new friends was, on
the one hand, Roderigo's dream of eloping with Desdemona,
which was something lago was to arrange, and on the other hand,
lago's complaints about the unjust treatment dealt out to him by
the general. In order to give vent to his resentment and also to
—
feed it, he recalls and rehearses all the past his own former serv-
ices and the former ingratitude of Othello, to which he has earlier
paid no thought but which now assumes criminal proportions.

He even recalls camp stories about Emilia.
187
"The point is that while he was close to Othello, lago was the
butt of jealousy in many quarters. In order to have an outlet for
their feelings these people invented all sorts of reasons for the
closeness of lago and Othello. They put out rumors, and saw to
it that they reached lago, to the effect that something had gone
on, and might still be going on, between Othello and Emilia. At
the time, he had not given these rumors the attention they de-
served. This was because he did not bother much about Emilia
and was unfaithful to her himself. He liked her buxomness, she
is a good housewife, she can sing and play on the lute, she is gay,
perhaps she has some money of her own, she comes of a good
merchant family and is well educated for those days. Even if there
had been something between her and the general (and he knew
at the time that there was nothing) he would not have been too
upset about it.
"But now, after the atrocious injury to him, he recalls the gos-
sip about Emilia. Emilia on good terms with Othello. He is a

is
fine person, kindly, lonely, has no one to head his household, there
is no feminine touch in his home; so Emilia as a housewife puts
things to rights in the apartments of the bachelor general. lago is
aware of this. He has seen her often at Othello's and never given
it a thought, but now he begins to accuse Othello. In a word, lago
has so hypnotized himself that he believes things which are not
so. This enables him, wicked as he is, to rage at, slander, accuse
innocent Othello more than ever and to inflame his own inner
resentment and gall.
"This is the state of things when lago learns the improbable,

unexpected, to him incomprehensible news of the accomplished
fact of Desdemona's abduction. He could not believe his eyes
when he entered the general's apartment and saw the famous
beauty almost in the embrace of the hideous black devil, as he now
considers the Moor. The blow was so great that at first he was
stunned. When they explained to him how the lovers, under the
guidance of Cassio, had fooled everyone including himself,
i88
ANALYSIS
Othello's close friend, when he heard gay voices laughing at him,

he ran away to hide the resentment that boiled up inside him.
"The abduction of Desdemona not only offended him, it also
put him in an embarrassing position in relation to Roderigo, be-
cause all was swindling him, lago kept swearing that
the time he
he would get the beautiful girl for him and that he would steal
her away if Brabantio refused his consent to their marriage. Then
suddenly this affront! Even simple-minded as he was, Roderigo
realized that he had been tricked by lago. He even began to doubt
that lago was really close to Othello; he ceased to believe in his
friendship. In short their relations were immediately ruined.

Roderigo was enraged —blindly, stubbornly, like a child and like
a fool. For the time being he even forgot that lago saved him on
one occasion from some drunken revelers who were intent on
beating him.
"The abduction and wedding Desdemona were beautiful and
of
completely successful. Everything went simply and easily. Long
before the appointed day, Cassio had entered into an affair with
one of the maids in the house of Brabantio. More than once he
lured her out to a rendezvous, taking her off in a gondola with a
rear cabin, and then brought her back. For these lover's outings
Cassio bribed Brabantio's servants heavily. One of the rendezvous

had been fixed on this evening, but instead of her maid, Desde-
mona herself came out and vanished from her home forever. They
had even used this same device before, when Desdemona slipped
out to meet with Othello.
"Don't forget that Desdemona is not at all the way she is usually
depicted on the stage. Actresses mostly make a timid, frightened
Ophelia out of her. Yet Desdemona is not at all an Ophelia. She
is decisive, bold. She does not want a conventional marriage
planned out of social considerations. She has to have a fairytale
prince.
"Incidentally, we shall come to her again later on. For the time
189
being enough has been said to show clearly how she consented to
the bold and dangerous plan of abduction.
"When lago learned what had happened he decided not to give
up. He believed all was not yet lost; if he could raise enough of a
stir in the city Othello would be disapproved and, who could tell,
perhaps even his marriage might be annulled on orders from

higher up.
"Perhaps lago was right; that might well have happened if the
marriage and outbreak of war had not coincided. Othello was too
necessary to the government; they could not even think of an-
nulling his marriage at such a critical time. No time could be lost.
When action was imperative lago showed a diabolical energy. He

was able to get everything done in time.
"Having cooled off, lago returned to the young couple, con-
gratulated them, laughed with them, called himself a fool; he
even made Desdemona believe he had acted so stupidly when he
first heard of the abduction and marriage because he was jealous
."
of his adored general. Then lago rushed ofT to find Roderigo. . .
Vanya (as Roderigo) proved to be more tractable than Grisha.

He immediately, and with some relish, demoted his character to
the rank of simple merchant, and he did it all the more readily
because he could not give the slightest proof of any exalted origin
for him. No matter how stupid an aristocrat may be, he will still
show traces of a favored and refinedwhich he was nur-

society in
tured. As for Roderigo there is nothing to be gleaned from the
play about him except his drinking, quarrels, and street brawls.
Vanya not only followed the line laid down by Tortsov, he also
added things out of his own imagination that were congenial to
the life of a simple man. The life they projected made more or
less this social picture
Roderigo is probably the son of rich parents. They are land-
owners, they bring their produce in to Venice. There they barter
it for velvet and other luxury items. Ships carry these things
abroad, even to Russia, where high prices are paid for them.
190
ANALYSIS
But Roderigo's parents are dead. How can he manage such a

large enterprise? All he knows how to do is to squander his
patrimony. Thanks to their wealth both his father and he are
received in aristocratic circles. Roderigo himself is rather simple-
minded and always engaged in carousing; so he provides money
(which, of course, is not returned) to young Venetians with simi-
larly frivolous tastes. Where does he get it ? Thanks to the previous
good management and to loyal employees, the family enterprise

is still running with the old momentum. But this cannot, of course,
last for long.
Unfortunately one morning after a drinking bout, Roderigo

was riding down a canal and saw, as in a dream or a vision, the
beauteous young Desdemona getting into a gondola to ride to
church accompanied by her nurse. His breath was taken away, he
stopped his gondola and blearily watched her for a long time. This
caught the attention of her nurse, who quickly threw a veil over
Desdemona's face. Roderigo followed them, eventually, into the
church. He was so excited that he became quite sober. Roderigo
did not pray, he only watched Desdemona. Her nurse kept trying
to shield her, but the girl herself was rather pleased with the atten-
tion, not because she found Roderigo to her taste, but because it
was such a bore to sit at home or go to church, and also because

she yearned for a little fun.
While Mass was going on Brabantio himself came in, found
his daughter, and sat down beside her and her nurse. The nurse
whispered something in his ear and pointed to Roderigo. Bra-
bantio cast a stern look in his direction. But this did not faze as
brazen a person as Roderigo. When Desdemona went back to her
gondola, she found the bottom of it strewn with flowers. Brabantio

ordered all the flowers thrown out into the water, handed his
daughter into the gondola himself, and sent her and her nurse
home. But Roderigo kept ahead of them all the way, strewing
flowers in their path. The beautiful Desdemona was quite pleased
with the attentions and by the young man's extravagance. Why ?
191
Because it was gay, flattering to her self-esteem, and also because

it annoyed her nurse.
After the first encounter Roderigo quite lost his head. He sat
for whole nights in a gondola under her windows hoping that
she would look out. She actually did do so once or twice, and even
smiled at him out of mischief or coquetry. And he was simple
enough to think he had made a conquest. He began to write verse,
he bribed servants to convey his rhymed declarations of love to
the beautiful lady. Finally, at Brabantio's instance, his brother
went out and spoke to the importunate admirer and told him that
if he did not desist from pursuing Desdemona he would take
steps.But the pursuit did not end.
Then once he waylaid Desdemona's gondola in a dark canal
and as he overtook it he threw into it a large bouquet and a madri-
gal he himself had composed. But, horrors, Desdemona did not
even glance in his direction! With her own hand she threw the
bouquet and madrigal into the water and turning away angrily,
covering her face with a veil. Roderigo was crushed. He did not
know what to do. To avenge himself on this cruel beauty the only
thing he could think of was to go on a week-long spree. . . .
This is how matters stood when Othello appeared on the scene.

Roderigo was in the crowd when Desdemona first saw the Moor
in the street. With the return of the victorious Othello to Venice,
military men became all the rage and the favorites of the cour-
tesans during the nightly carousing. During these orgies Roderigo
footed the bills. This endeared him and threw him
to the officers
together with lago. On one occasion when there was a drunken
brawl some of these officers nearly beat Roderigo to death, but
lago intervened with considerable warmth. Roderigo was so grate-
fulhe wanted to recompense him generously, but lago assured
him he had acted merely out of liking for him. This was the be-
ginning of their friendship.
Meantime Othello's romance with Desdemona was developing
more and more. Cassio, who was the go-between in this love affair
192
ANALYSIS
of Othello and Desdemona, knew of Roderigo's infatuation he —

had also made his acquaintance during one of the nightly brawls.
Cassio was quite well aware of Roderigo's simple-mindedness.
Since he knew the relations between Othello and Desdemona,
Roderigo's hopes of having his love returned seemed quite ridicu-
lous to Cassio. That is why he was constantly joking about it, teas-
ing Roderigo, and inventing hoaxes. He would assure him that
Pesdemona would take a walk in a certain place or that she had
fixed a rendezvous with him at such another place, and Roderigo
would wait around in vain for hours on end expecting to see his
beautiful lady. Insulted and humiliated he ran to lago who took
him under his protection and swore that he would avenge him
and finally arrange the marriage because he never believed in any
romance with the black fiend. This caused Roderigo to cling more
and more to lago and shower him with money.
When Roderigo learned about the marriage between Othello
and Desdemona, the poor simpleton at first burst into tears like a
child; then he heaped all the bad words in his vocabulary on his
friend and decided to break off all acquaintance with him. Poor
lago had all the trouble in the world to persuade Roderigo to help
raise a row throughout the entire city in order to accomplish a
divorce or the nonrecognition of the marriage. We first see the
two friends when lago has practically forced Roderigo into a
gondola (a luxurious one, trimmed with expensive materials, as
is proper for a rich man) and has brought him to the house of
Brabantio. . .
193
CHAPTER SEVEN
Checking Work Done and Summing Up
"WHERE DOES the action take place?" asked Tortsov.

"In Venice."
"When?"
"In the sixteenth century. The year is not fixed, as we have not
yet consulted with the scene designer," answered one of the theatre
apprentices in charge of this matter.
"What is the time of year?"
"Late autumn."
"Why did you choose that season ?"
"So that it would be harder to get up on a cold night and start
off!"
"Is it day or night?"
"Night."
"What is the hour?"
"About midnight."
"What were you doing at this hour?"
"Sleeping."
"Who wakened you?"
"Petrushin," here he pointed at another apprentice.
"Why was he the one to do it?"
"BecauseRakhmanov named him gate-keeper."
"What did you think when you became conscious ?"
"Something untoward has happened and I shall have to go off
somewhere, since I am a gondolier."
"What happened next?"
194
CHECKING WORK DONE AND SUMMING UP
"I hurriedly dressed myself."
"What did you put on?"
"My tights, shorts, my jerkin, cap, and heavy shoes. I fixed my
lantern, took my cape, and got my oar."
"Where are they kept?"
"In the entry, in the hall hanging on brackets fastened to the
wall."
"And where do you sleep ?"
"In the cellar, below water level."
"Is it damp there ?"

"Yes, damp and cold."
"Evidently Brabantio keeps you on short rations."
"What else can I expect? I'm only a gondolier."
"Of what do your duties consist?"
"To keep the gondola and all that goes with it in order. The
accessories are numerous: handsome cushions to sit or lie on, lots
—
of them those for special occasions, some for less formal occa-
sions, and others for everyday use. There is also a gorgeous gold
embroidered baldaquin. There are also dress-up oars and orna-

mented boat hooks. There are lanterns, too, for ordinary use and
a lot of little ones for the grande serenata^
"What happened next?"
"I was surprised by the flurry in the household. Some said there
was fire, enemy was coming. In the vestibule a
others that the
lot of people were listening to what was going on outside. Some-
one out there was yelling like mad. As we did not dare open the
lower windows we rushed upstairs to the reception room. Up
there the windows had already been opened and whoever was
able to, stuck his head out. That's when I heard about the abduc-
tion."
"What did you feel about this ?"
"Terrific resentment. You see I am in love with theyoung lady
of the house. I take her out for rides or to go to church, and I
am proud of this because everyone looks at her and admires her
195
beauty. Because of her I already have a name in Venice. I am

always, accidentally as it were, dropping a flower and am happy
when she finds and keeps it. Or if she touches it and leaves it in
the gondola I pick it up, kiss and keep it as
it, a memento."
"Do you mean to tell me that rough gondoliers are as sensitive
and sentimental as that?"

"Only on account of Desdemona, who is our pride and joy.
This motive is especially valuable to me because it fires me with

energy to go out on the pursuit to save her honor."
"What did you do next?"
"I rushed downstairs. The doors were already open, arms were
being carried out, in the vestibule and corridors men were putting
on armor and mail. I, too, put on some armor in case I had to
fight. Then when we were all assembled, I took up my place in
the gondola to await further orders."
"With whom did you prepare your role ?"
"With Proskurov, and Rakhmanov checked it."
"Very good work. I have no corrections to suggest."
And this man was just an extra, drawn from the apprentices
in the theatre, I thought to myself. What about us? How much
work we still have to do!
After he had listened to everything that had been prepared by
the apprentices Tortsov said
"This is all logical and consecutive. I accept your preparations
and surmise what your plan is." Then he called the rest of us to
join the apprentices on the stage and showed us all the fixed out-
line of the production for the entire first scene.
It appeared that all during the time that we were doing the
first exercises based on this scene, Tortsov had made notes of the
moments most successful in expressing the excitement of the alarm
and pursuit, the mood necessary for this scene, and the images
that naturally derived from it. Now he showed us his mise-en-
scene, adapted to the play, with all his notes on our exercises. He
pointed out that this proposed plan for the scene, the movements
196
and places of action, all were produced by us and therefore spon-
taneous with us.
I wrote out his production plan as follows
"lago and Roderigo arrive in a gondola. There is a gondolier

at one end. The scene begins with the sound of two muffled voices
on the left of the audience and the splash of a gondolier's oar (not
in rhythm with the words). The gondolier is first seen on the left.
"The first six lines are spoken with great heat as the gondola
floats up to the landing at Brabantio's home.
"There is a pause after the words: 'if ever I did dream.' lago
hushes Roderigo. Pause. They reach the landing. The gondolier
lands, rattles some chains. lago stops him. Play the pause out. They
look around. No any of the windows. Begin the hot
one is at
debate again as before the pause, but in subdued voices. lago
makes sure they do not speak too loudly. lago keeps under cover
as much as he can so that he will not be too visible from the win-
dows.
"lago says his line: 'Despise me
do not if I,' but not in . . .
order to underline his evil feelings and character as is usually

done. He is hot under the collar, angry, and is trying to paint his
hatred of Othello in a way to achieve his immediate purpose to —
force Roderigo to shout and raise a racket.
"Roderigo has come around a little. He has even turned his face
half-way toward lago. The latter stands up in a decisive way and
holds out his hand to help Roderigo up. He hands him the oar
from the gondola so that he will bang it on the side of the boat,
lago himself hurries off to hide under one of the archways in front
of the house.
"With Roderigo's words: 'What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Bra-
bantio, ho!' the scene of raising the alarm begins. It must be
played to the hilt, not hurried, but so that each thing will be justi-
fied and one can believe that they really have roused the entire
sleeping household. This is not any too easy. Do not be afraid of
repeating lines several times. Interlard the lines with pauses (to
197
extend the scene) consisting of noises; for example, Roderigo

banging and the sound of chains rattHng at the mooring
his oar,
post. The gondoher can be told by Roderigo also to rattle the
chains. lago, under the colonnade, is hammering away at the door
with a knocker such as they used then instead of a bell. . . .
''The scene of rousing the household: (a) Voices are heard far
off backstage; a window on the second floor is opened; (b) a serv-
ant's face is windowpane; he tries to look out
pressed against a
and see what is going on; (c) a woman's face (Desdemona's
nurse) appears at another window; she looks sleepy, is dressed in
a nightgown; (d) a third window is opened by Brabantio. In the
pauses between their appearance there are growing sounds inside
the awakening house.
"As the scene progresses all the windows are gradually filled
with people. They all look sleepy and are only half dressed. This
is the scene of the alarm in the night.
"The physical objective of the crowd is to make every effort to
look around and try to understand the cause of the noise.
''The physical objective of Roderigo, lago, and the gondolier is
to make as much noise as possible, to frighten everyone and get
their attention.
"So the first crowd-scene interlude comes before Brabantio
appears. The second one is after the words:
Brabantio: Not I. What are you?

Roderigo: My name is Roderigo.
Pause. Crowd what has been said

scene general indignation. After
:
earlier about Roderigo's pursuit of Desdemona and after we know

that this same Roderigo has been pelted with orange peels and
garbage to chase him away, this general indignation is under-
what brazen conduct is this for a good-for-noth-
standable. Indeed
ing drunken creature to raise the whole house in the middle of
the night? It is as if they said to each other: What a brazen fellow!
What shall we do with him }
198
"Brabantio reviles Roderigo, and all the rest believe the dis-
turbance is because of some trifling thing. Many leave the win-
dows, the crowd thins out, and some of the windows are closed.
This excites Roderigo and lago to an even greater pitch.
"The servants who remain at the windows scold at Roderigo
and they all talk at once. In another moment the whole place will
be shut up.
"Roderigo is frantic because Brabantio has already half closed
his window and is turning away. But before he closes the window
entirely, Brabantio says his lines beginning with the words:
But thou must needs be sure

My spirit and my place have in them power . . .
You can imagine the nervousness, the rhythm and tempo of Rod-
erigo and lago as they do everything in their power to hold back
Brabantio.
"lago's line begins: 'Zounds, sir, . . .
'
But he must find some
unusual means of putting an end to the misunderstanding. He
carefully pulls his hat down so he will not be recognized. All who
are still looking out of the windows, and several who have re-
turned to them, crane their necks to see who the unknown man
under the colonnade can be. . . .
"After the words: 'You are —a Senator!' there is a slight inter-

lude and the crowd scene. The indignant household, angered by
lago's sally, rush to Brabantio's defence; but he at once stops them
with his retort.
'
"Roderigo with the words: 'Sir, I will answer anything, . . .
begins with extreme nervousness and precision to relate the events

of the night. He does not do this for the sake of revealing the
plot to the audience, he does it to paint as terrible and scandalous
a picture of the abduction for Brabantio as possible and thus pre-
cipitate him into taking energetic measures. He tries to put the
marriage in the light of a forced abduction and, when he can, he
lays the colors on thick; or else he speaks ironically, doing in
199
short everything he can think of to accompHsh the objective he

has set himself: To rouse the whole city before it is too late and
separate Desdemona from the Moor.
"After the wôrds: 'Let loose on me the justice of the state,'
there is a pause of consternation. This pause is a psychological

necessity. A tremendous inner overturn is taking place in the souls
of these people. For Brabantio, for the nurse, and all the rest of
the household, Desdemona is no more than a child. It is a com-
monly knovi^n fact that a household never realizes just when a
little girl has become a young wôman. To feel these things, to
come to look upon Desdemona as a wôman, the wife not of some

Venetian grandee but of a dirty, dark-skinned Moor; to come to
understand the horror of the loss, the sense of vacancy in the
house; to grow accustomed to the idea that the most precious
thing they had has been taken from father and nurse; to balance
out all new horrors that are besetting their souls and to find
these
a —
new modus vivendi all this takes time. It will be a catastrophe
if those playing Brabantio, the nurse, and the personal servants
skip quickly over this moment as they hurry on to the dramatic
scene.
"This pause is the transitional step leading the actors to the
dramatic scene if they feel it logically and consecutively, that is, if
they visualize Desdemona in the embraces of the black devil, the

room she had as a young girl now empty, the effect of the scandal
that has fallen on the family and its repercussions in the whole
city. If Brabantio sees himself compromised in the eyes of the
Doge himself and all the Senators, sees those and all the other
things that can upset a man and a father ... As for the nurse she
may be thrown out or even haled into court.
"The objective of the actors is to remember, understand, and
determine what they should do at such a time so that they can
live as if the things described in the play had happened to them,
that is to say to living human beings, and not just to characters in

a play. In other words let the actor never forget that especially in
200
dramatic scenes he must always live in his own self and not ta\e
his point of departure from his role more than finding in it the
given circumstances in which it is to be played. Therefore the ob-
jective to be reached amounts to this: Let each actor give an honest
reply to the question of what physical action he would undertake,
how he would act (7iot feel, there should for heaven s sake be no
question of feelings at this point) in the given circumstances cre-
ated by the playwright, the director of the play, the scene designer,
the actor himself by means of his own imagination, the lighting
technician, and so forth. When these physical actions have been
clearly defined, all that remains for the actor to do is to execute
them. (Note that I say execute physical actions, not feel them, be-
cause if they are properly carried out the feelings will be gen-
erated spontaneously. If you work way around and begin
the other
by thinking about your feelings and trying to squeeze them out
of yourself, the result will be distortion and force, your sense of
experiencing your part will turn into theatrical, mechanical act-
ing, and your movements will be distorted.
"I continue to discuss a little longer this important pause fol-
lowing the words: 'Let loose on me the justice of the state,' and I
shall give you a small stimulus, a hint as to what a person such as

Brabantio does at such a time: (i) He tries to understand, from
the terrible news he has been told, all that he can accept; (2) In
the next moment, as the teller of the news comes to the most
terrible point of all, he hastens to stop him as though he were
putting up a shield to ward off the impending blow; (3) He looks

around for help from others; his eyes search their hearts to fathom
—
how they take the news do they accept or credit it ? or he looks —
pleadingly at them as if he begged them to say such a thing is
absurd and unfounded; (4) Then he turns toward Desdemona's
room and tries to imagine it empty; next his thoughts run like
lightning through the whole house, trying to imagine the future
and looking for some object in life; they turn then to some other
place which they see as an unkept room, and in it a filthy fiend
201
his imagination no longer pictures as a human being but as a
beast, a gorilla. To all this he is unable to reconcile himself, there-
fore there is only one way out —as quickly as possible and at what-
ever cost to save her! After feeling all this in logical sequence,
Brabantio spontaneously bursts out with the lines
Strike on the tinder, ho!

Give me a taper! Call up all my people! . , .
"After the words: 'Light, I say! Light!' there is a pause for the
commotion. Do not forget that this commotion takes place inside
the house, so the sounds are muted —that is why lago can speak
against this background.
"lago makes the speech: 'Farewell, for I must leave you' very
hurriedly. It would be a disaster if he were discovered now, for it
would disclose his plot.

"What does a person do when he gives his last instructions in
a great hurry? He speaks with exceptional vividness, precision,
color, and deliberation. It is important that he should not slur or
speak too rapidly, even though inside he is trembling and trying
to get away as quickly as possible. But he curbs his nervousness
and tries to appear as equitable and comprehensible as possible.
Why? Because he knows there is no time for him to repeat any-
thing.
"And here I put the actor who plays lago on notice that he must
act out of his own right and carry out the simplest human objec-
tive, which consists of explaining everything clearly and coming
to an agreement about the subsequent steps to be taken.
"The crowd scene is now an interlude for the gathering of
forces. At lago's last words, when the exposition has been clearly
conveyed to the public, there is a nervous moving around in the
house behind the windows of the night lamps and lanterns. These
nervously intermittent flashes of light, if well rehearsed, can create
an atmosphere of great disturbance. Meantime down below, the
great iron latch is drawn, the lock and the metal hinges creak ai
202
the main door is opened. Out comes the gatekeeper with a lantern,
other servants pour out. They rush out into the colonnade, putting
on odd pieces of clothing as they go, quickly fastening themselves
up; some run to the right, others to the left; then they come back
and explain things to each other which they have not understood,
then they run off again. (Actually these extras go back into the
house and put on, let us say, some helmets or hauberks, armor,
and thus transformed come out of the same door without being
recognized by the public. This cuts down the number of extras
needed.)
"Meantime people in the process of dressing themselves keep
pouring out of the house. They carry halberds, swords, arms; they
swarm into gondolas moored at the landing (not Roderigo's);
they put down the things they are carrying, turn back into the
house, and return carrying more stuff, completing their toilets as
best they can on the run.

"A third group can be seen upstairs in the palace. They have
opened all the windows and are obviously dressing themselves,
putting on doublets and hose, and meantime calling down to the
people below in an exchange of questions and directions which,
because of the noise, no one can hear. They repeat the questions,
they yell, they are angry, excited, quarrel with one another. The
old nurse in a state of panic and screaming hysterically rushes out
into the colonnade. Another woman, probably a maid, and in the
same state, is with her. Up in one of the windows there is a woman
whimpering and watching what is going on below. Perhaps it is
—
the wife of one of the men going off who knows if he will ever
come back ? —after all there will be a fight. . . .
"After the words: 'O unhappy girl! —With the Moor, say'st
thou?' Brabantio comes forward armed with a sword. In a busi-
nesslike way he cross-examines Roderigo who is having his gon-
dola brought around for Brabantio and is giving orders. . . .
"After the words: 'Some one way, some another,' there is a

pause. Brabantio is giving the orders. With 'some one way' he
203
points to the canal the gondola should take to the left of the
audience and leading off stage, and with 'some another' he points
to the street which runs to the left behind Brabantio's house.
"The gondolas cast off, chains rattle.
"After the words :
*. . . get good guard and go along with me,'
Brabantio quickly goes over to one of his servants in a gondola
and says something to him. The servant jumps out of the boat
and races down the street to the right along Brabantio's house.
"At the words: 'Pray lead me on,' Brabantio joins Roderigo in
his gondola.
"During the words: Get weapons, ho!' the soldiers in a
'.
. .
gondola choose and display pikes and halberds.

"At the line: 'And raise some special officers of night,' the maid
who was with the nurse runs off along the street to the right.
"At the last line of the scene: 'I'll deserve your pains,' Roderi-
go's gondola, with Brabantio in it, and the gondola laden with sol-
diers begin to move away."
"The first scene of Othello''' Tortsov said to us, "has now been
prepared far enough for you to play and play it in order to get
it,
the feel of the life of both spirit and body in your parts in accord-
ance with the line we have tested. As you repeat it try to put in
more and more of your own life, try to draw more and more on
your own nature.
"But it is not the acting itself we are so concerned with. We
chose Othello in order to study methods and techniques to apply
to roles. So that now, having finished our experiments on the first
scene, let us try to understand the method and principle on which
this scene of alarm and pursuit was based. Let us say that we move
to theory so that we know what our practice had as its basis.

"You will recall that, to begin with, I took away from you all
copies of the play and made you promise not to look at it again
for the time being.
204
"However, to my astonishment, it turned out that without the
text you were unable to relate the contents of Othello. Yet some-
thing of the play must have remained with you despite your un-
fortunate first contact with it. And indeed there remained in your
memories something like oases in a desert, bright patches you re-
called from various parts of Othello. I attempted to emphasize
these and establish them more strongly.
"After that the whole play was read to you in order to refresh
your memories. This reading did not create new areas of light but
it did clarify the general line of the tragedy. You all recalled cer-
tain facts and later on certain actions in their logical and consecu-
tive order. You wrote them down after you had given an accepta-
ble account of the contents of Othello, and then you played the
first scene according to the facts given and in terms of physical
actions. But there was no truth in your acting, and the creation of
that truth was the hardest part of the work.
"What absorbed the most attention and work were the simplest
and most f amiHar things in real life to walk, look, listen, and so
:
forth. You impersonated them on the stage better than many
professionals, but you could not do it like human beings. It was

necessary to study things you are perfectly familiar with off the
stage. What a difficult job it was! But in the end you accomplished
it, you carried the scene to the point of complete truthfulness, at
first only in spots but later all along the line. When you could not
encompass a large piece of truth, small pieces popped up, which
then merged into larger units. Along with truth came its invari-
able concomitant —faith in the reality of the physical actions and

faith in all the physical being of your parts. Thus we created one
of the two natures inherent in each character of the play. Thanks
to frequent repetitions of this physical being it was strengthened
'The difficult became habitual, the habitual, easy.' In the end you
were in possession of the physical side of your parts, and the

physical actions pointed out to you by the author and the director
205
of the play were transmuted into your own. That is why you re-
peated them with such reHsh. . . .
"It is not surprising that you soon felt the need of using words,
and because you did not have the author's text at hand you had
recourse to your own. You needed them not only to help you
carry out your external objectives but also to express thoughts and
to convey the experiences which were welling up in you. This need
obliged you to turn again to the play in order to make excerpts of
thoughts from it and also, imperceptibly to you, of feelings. Un-
noticed by you I grafted them on you
and consecutive in logical
order by means of suggestion, frequent repetition, and the ham-
mering down of the line of the scene; until finally you gained
possession of the whole first scene as rehearsed. Now the alien
actions set down by the author and indeed the spiritual life in your
parts have grown into being your own, and you soak them up
with pleasure.
"Yet would we have achieved this result if, side by side with
the physical being, the spiritual being of your parts had not
grown ?
"Inevitably the question then arises: Can the first exist without
the second, or the second without the first ?
"More than that, both aspects of life are drawn from the same
source, the play of Othello; therefore, they cannot be alien to one
another by nature; on the contrary their kinship and congruence
are mandatory. I have laid particular emphasis on this law because
that is the basis of our psychotechnique.
"This law is of great practical significance for us because in the
instances when a role does not come to life spontaneously, intui-
tively, it is necessary to build it by psychotechnical means. It is
lucky that this psychotechnique is practical and available. We can

even, in case of need, reach the spiritual life of a role reflexively
through its physical life. This is a valuable resource of creative

acting.
206
"But the greatest advantage of our method has to do with the
thoughts, words, and diction of a role.
"You recall that when I obliged you to use your own words to
express the thoughts in your parts, I often reminded you of or
suggested whatever thought came next. upon my sug-
You seized
gestions with increasing eagerness because you grew more and
more accustomed to the logic of the thoughts which Shakespeare
himself laid down in his play.
"Exactly the same thing happened with the words of your
parts. At first you chose, as you would in real life, the words that
came to your mind and tongue, whatever helped you best to carry
out your intended objective. In this way your speech and your
part developed in normal conditions and was active and effective.
I kept you under these conditions for a long time, indeed until
the whole score of your parts was established and the right line of
objectives, actions, and thoughts was hammered out.
"Only after this preparation did we return to you the printed
text of the play. You
had to work on your lines because
scarcely
for some time in advance I had been suggesting to you Shake-
speare's own words when you had to have them, when you were
reaching out for them for the verbal accomplishment of this or
that objective. You grabbed them hungrily because the author's
text expressed a thought or carried out a piece of action better
than your own. You remembered the Shakespeare words because
you fell in love with them and they became necessary to you.
"What happened as a result of this? Another person's words

became your own. They were grafted on to you by natural means,
without any forcing, and only because of that they retained their
most important quality — liveliness. Now you do not rattle off your
part, you act by means of the words for the sake of carrying out
an objective basic to the play. That is the very thing for which we
are given the play.
"Please think this over well and then tell me: Do you suppose
207 .
that you had begun your work by slaving away to learn the
if
lines, as is done in the majority of the theatres of the world, you
would have achieved what you did by means of our method ?

—
"I can tell you in advance that the answer is no. You would
have forced yourselves to memorize the text mechanically, trained
the muscles of your speech organs to reproduce the sounds of
words and phrases. In this process the thought contained in your
parts would have evaporated and the text have become cut off
from objectives and actions.
"Now let us compare our method with what is done in any
theatre of the ordinary type. There they read the play, hand out
the parts with the notice that by the third or the tenth rehearsal
everyone must know his role by heart. They begin the reading,
then they all go up on the stage and act, while holding the script.
The director shows them the business to do and the actors remem-
ber it. At the predicted rehearsal the books are taken away and
they speak their lines with a prompter present until they are
letter-perfect in their parts. As soon as everything is in order
and they hurry because they do not want wear down or talk
to
—
out their parts they schedule the first dress rehearsal and put out
—
the notices. Then there is the performance a success with the
critics. After that their interest in the play fades and they repeat
their performances in a routine way."
"To sum up : the point of the physical actions lies not in them-
selves as such but in what they evoke: conditions, proposed cir-
cumstances, feelings. The fact that the hero of a play kills himself
is not so important as the inner reason for his suicide. If that does
not appear or is lacking in interest, his death as such will pass
without leaving any impression. There is an unbreakable bond
between the action on the stage and the thing that precipitated it.
In other words there is complete union between the physical and
208
That is what we invariably make use
the spiritual being of a role.
of in our psychotechnique. That is what we have been doing now.
—
"With the help of nature our subconscious, instinct, intuition,
habits, and so forth —
we evoke a series of physical actions inter-
laced with one another. Through them we try to understand the
inner reasons that gave rise to them, individual moments of ex-
perienced emotions, the logic and consistency of feelings in the
given circumstances of the play. When we can discover that line,
we are aware of the inner meaning of our physical actions. This

awareness is not intellectual but emotional in origin, because we
comprehend with our own feelings some part of the psychology
of our role. Yet we cannot act this psychology itself nor its logical
and consecutive feelings. Therefore we keep to the firmer and

more accessible ground of physical actions and adhere rigorously
to their logic and consistency. And since their pattern is inex-
tricablybound up with that other inner pattern of feelings, we
are able through them to reach the emotions. That pattern be-
comes part and parcel of the score of a role.
"By now you have experienced this interplay. This is the ap-
proach from the exterior to the interior. Make this bond a firm
one, repeating your pattern of the physical being of your part
many times over. This will confirm the physical actions but at
the same time strengthen the emotional response to them. Some
of them may become conscious in character.
in time Then you
can make use of them as you choose to recall physical actions
which are naturally tied up with them. But there are many of the
inner stimuli which you will never fully hold in your grasp. Do
not regret this. Consciousness might destroy their effectiveness.
"Still the question will remain: Which of the inner appeals can
one keep hold of and which should one not touch?
"This is not a question you should raise. Leave that to nature.
Only nature can find her way around in this process which is not
accessible to our consciousness.
209
"Your job is to seek help in the method I have described to
you. When you reach the moment of creation do not seek the path
—
of inner stimulation your feelings know what to do better than
—
you can tell them but stick instead to the physical being of your
role."
210
Part III
Gogol's The Inspector General
This latest of the three studies in this volume was written around
1934. As the frequent references in this text to passages in An
Actor Prepares testify, the latter work was already finished and
the manuscript, as Stanislavski intended, was in the United States
for its first publication. Building a Character was as finished as
Stanislavski would ever make it. Thus this section not only cul-
minates Stanislavski's explorations in Creating a Role but serves
as a natural bridge between this volume and the two earlier publi-
cations. —EDITOR
CHAPTER EIGHT
From Physical Actions to Living Image
"HERE IS MY APPROACH to a new role," said Tortsov. "With-

out any reading, without any conferences on the play, the actors
are asked to come to a rehearsal of it."
"How is that possible?" was the bewildered reaction of the
students.
"More than that. One can act a play not yet written."
We were at a loss even for words to express our reaction to that
idea.
"You do not believe me ? Let us put it to the test. I have a play
in mind; I you the plot by episodes and you will act it
shall tell
out. I shall watch what you say and do in your improvisation, and
whatever is most successful I shall jot down. So that by our joint
efforts we shall write and immediately act out a play not yet in
existence. We shall share the profits equally."

The students were even more astonished by this and did not
know what it was all about.
"You are all familiar, through your own experience, with how
an actor feels on the stage when he is in what we call the 'inner
creative state.' He gathers up whole all the elements
into a single
that alert him and orient him toward creative work.
"It would seem that that state should be sufficient to enable him
to approach a new play and part and study them in detail. But
that it is not enough; to study and come to know the essentials of
a playwright's work, to form ideas about it, something is still
lacking, something the actor needs to stir and set his inner forces
213
Gogol's the inspector general
to work. Without this something his analysis of the play and part
is purely intellectual.
"Our mind can be set to work at any time. But it is not suffi-
cient. We must have the ardent and direct cooperation of our
emotions, desires, and all the other elements of our inner creative
state. With their help we must create inside ourselves the actual
life of our role. After that the analysis of the play will proceed
not only from the intellect but from an actor's whole being."
"Excuse me, please," said our argumentative Grisha, "but how
can that be ? In order to feel the life in a role you have to know
the text of the play, you have to, don't you see, study it. Yet you
assert that you mustn't study it without first feeling it."
"Yes," confirmed Tortsov, "you do have to know the text, but

you must not in any circumstances come to it cold. You must be-
forehand pour into your prepared inner creative state the actual
feelings of the life of your part, not just the spiritual but also the
physical sensations.
"Just as yeast causes fermentation, so the sensing of the life of
his role imparts the kind of inner warmth, the ebullition neces-
sary to the actor in the process of creative experience. It is only
when he has reached that creative state that he can think of ap-
proaching a play or role."
"How does one come by the actual spiritual and physical feel-
ing of the life in a role?" asked several students who had been
surprised by Tortsov's remarks.
"Today's lesson will be dedicated to that question. Kostya, do
you remember Gogol's Inspector Gefieral?" said he suddenly turn-
ing to me.
"I do, but only in general outline."
"So much the better. Go up onto the stage and play for us
Khlestakov's entrance in the second act."
"How can I play it since I don't know what I have to do.?"
said I with surprise and objection in my tone.
"You do not know everything but you do know some things.
214
FROM PHYSICAL ACTIONS TO LIVING IMAGE
So play the you know. In other words, execute out of
little that
the life of the part those small physical objectives which you can
do sincerely, truthfully, and in your own person."
"I can't do anything because I don't know anything!"
"What do you mean?" objected Tortsov. "The play says: 'Enter
Khlestakov.' Don't you know how to go into a room in an inn.?"
"I do."
"Well then go on in. Later on Khlestakov scolds Ossip because

he has been lolling around on the bed. Don't you know how to
scold.?"
"I do."
"Then Khlestakov wants to make Ossip go out and try to get
some food. Don't you know how to approach a difficult subject
with another person.?"
"I know that too."
"Then play what is available to you, the things you feel the
truth of, what you yourself can believe in."

"What is available to us at first in a new role?" I asked in an
effort at clarification.
"Very little. You can convey the externals of the plot with its
episodes, with its simplest physical objectives. At first that is all
you can execute sincerely. If you attempt anything more you will
run into objectives beyond your powers, and then you run the
risk of going astray, of overacting and doing violence to your na-
ture. Beware of too difficult objectives to start with —you are not
yet ready to penetrate deep into the soul of your part. Keep
strictly inside the narrow confines of physical actions, search out
"
their logic and consecutiveness, and try to find the state of 'I am.'
"You say convey the plot and the simplest physical actions," I
argued. "But the plot is conveyed by itself as the play unfolds. The
plot was made by the author."
"Yes, by him and not by you. Let his plot remain. What is
needed is your attitude toward it. Go onto the stage and begin
215
with Khlestakov's entrance. Leo will play Ossip for us and Vanya
the tavern waiter."
"With pleasure!" Leo and Vanya answered in unison.
"But I don't know any words, I haven't anything to say," I was
still being stubborn.
"You don't know the words, but you do remember the general
drift of the conversation, don't you?"
"Yes,more or less."
"Then tell us that in your own words. prompt you as to the
I'll
order of the thoughts in the dialogue. Besides you will soon catch
on to their logic and consecutiveness."
"But I know what the image is that I have to show !"
don't
"Nevertheless you do know an important rule: Whatever part
an actor plays he must always act in his own right, on his own
responsibility. If he does not find himself in his part he will kill
off the imaginary character because he will have deprived him of

live feelings. Those live feelings can be given to the character he
has created only by the actor himself. So play every part in your
own right in the circumstances given you by the playwright. In
this manner you will first of all feel yourself in the part. When
that is once done it is not difficult to enlarge the whole role in
yourself. Live, true human feelings —that is the good soil for ac-
complishing your purpose."

Tortsov showed us how to mark off a room in an inn. Leo lay
down on the divan and I wings and prepared my-

went into the
self to appear, as is customary, looking like a half-starved young
member of the gentry. I entered slowly, handed Leo my make-

believe cane and top hat —in other words I repeated all the good
old cliches which cluster around this part.
"I don't understand. Who are you?" asked Tortsov when we

had finished.
"I— it was I, myself."
"It didn't look like you. In real life you are quite different from
2l6
what you were just now on the stage. That's not the way you
yourself would walk into a room."
"How should I?"
"With something on your mind, with an object inside, with
curiosity, but not empty as you were. Off the stage you are com-
pletely aware of all periods and phases of natural communication.
You gave me the entrance of an actor onto the stage, but what I
want is the entrance of a human being into a room. Off the stage
there are other stimuli for action. Find them now on the stage. If
—
you enter with a purpose or as is the case with Khlestakov
without any purpose, just because you have nothing to do, what
actions would best stimulate the corresponding inner state ?
"Your entrance just now was theatrical, done 'in general'; in
your movements there was neither logic nor consecutiveness. You
missed a number of necessary points. For instance, in real life,
wherever you go, you are obliged first of all to orient yourself and
discover what is going on there, and decide how to conduct your-
self. But you did not even look at Ossip or the bed before you said:
'You've been lying around on my bed again.' Also, you slammed
the door the way they do in the theatre when the sets are made
of canvas. You did not remember and you did not convey the
weight of the door. The door knob was handled like a toy. All
these little amount of attention
physical actions call for a certain
and time. After all the work you have done on actions with imag-
inary objects* you should really be ashamed of allowing yourself
to make such mistakes."
"They were caused by my not knowing where I came from,"
I said, trying to excuse myself in my embarrassment.
"You don't say How can you not know on the stage where you
!
came from and where you arrived at; that is one thing you must
absolutely know. Entrances from 'outer space' are never to be
achieved in the theatre."
* See An Actor Prepares, pp. 51 if.
217
"Well, where did I come from ?"

"That's nice! How should I know? That's your affair. Besides
Khlestakov himself tells where he has been. But since you do not
remember that, so much the better."
"Why is it better?"
"Because it will enable you to approach the role in your own
person, from life and not from the author's directions, not from
all the rubber-stamp conventional forms. This will allow you to
be independent in your ideas of the image to be projected. If you
were going to be guided only by printed instructions you would
not be carrying out the objective I gave you, because you would
be doing blindly what the author said, you would be staking
everything on him, you would parrot his lines, ape his actions
—
which are not akin to yours all instead of making your own
image analogous to the one created by the author.
"Envelop yourself in the given circumstances of the play and
then answer this question sincerely: What would you yourself
(not Khlestakov whom you are not acquainted with) do if you
had to extricate yourself from a hopeless situation?"
"Oh yes," I sighed, "when one has to get out of a situation by
oneself and not follow the author blindly, it takes a deal of think-
mg.
"Now that was well said," remarked Tortsov.
"But this is the first time that I have transposed myself into the
situation and the circumstances into which Gogol put his charac-
ters. For the public their situation is comic but for Khlestakov and
Ossip it is hopeless. I felt this today for the first time, and yet how
many times I have read The Inspector General and seen it per-
formed!"
"This came about because you took the right approach. You
and circumstances for these characters
carried Gogol's situation
over into your own terms. That is important. That is splendid!
Never force your way into a part; don't begin to study it with a
sense of compulsion. You yourself must choose and carry out even
2l8
the small fractions of the part which are to begin with accessible
to you. Do that now, and you will in some small measure feel
yourself in the part.
"Now me, how would you in real life, here, today, now,
tell
get out of the situation in which Gogol had placed you?"

I was silent because I was somewhat confused.
"Try to think. How would you spend your day.?" prodded

Tortsov.
"I got up late. The first would persuade Ossip to
thing is that I
go to the proprietor of the inn and take steps to get some tea. Then
there would be a long ado making my toilet, washing, brushing
my clothes, getting dressed, fixing myself up, drinking tea. Then
... I'd stroll along the streets. I would not sit in the airless room.
I have the feeling that on my stroll my citified appearance would
attract the attention of the provincial men."
"And especially the provincial ladies," said Tortsov in a tone of
banter.
"So much the better. I should try to scrape an acquaintance
with someone and scrounge an invitation for dinner. Then I'd
look in at the shops and the market,"

As I said all this I suddenly began to feel a Httle like Khlesta-
kov.
"Whenever would not be able to resist tasting some
possible I
tempting bit displayed on a hawker's tray near the shops or at the

market. Of course this would not sate but rather whet my appetite.
Afterwards I would go to the post office to inquire whether a
money order had arrived for me."
"It hadn't," croaked Tortsov, and egged me on.
"By now I am worn out and my stomach is empty. I have no

recourse except to go back to the inn and try once more to send
Ossip down and negotiate dinner for me."
"Now that is what you bring with you when you make your
entrance in the second act," interrupted Tortsov. "In order to
come on the stage like a human being and not like an actor you
219
GOGOL S THE INSPECTOR GENERAL
had to find out who you are, what has happened to you, under
what circumstances you are hving here, how you have spent your
day, where you came from, and many other supposed circum-
stances you have not yet invented but all of which influence your
actions. In other words, just to walk onto the stage it is necessary
to sense the life of the play and your relation to it."
# * *
Tortsov continued his work with me on the role of Khlestakov.

"Now you know what you have to have before you make your
entrance," he said. "Establish properly the natural process of com-
munication so that you can carry out your actions not for the
entertainment of the public but for the sake of the object of your
attention,and then go on with your physical objectives.
"Ask yourself what it means to you to go into your hotel room
after your fruitless walk through the town. Then put another
question: What would you do in Khlestakov's place after you
came back ? How would you deal with Ossip when you discovered
he had been lying on the bed again? How would you persuade
him to go to the proprietor to wheedle dinner out of him ? How
would you wait for the result of this maneuver and what would
you do in the intervening time ? How would you accept this bring-
ing of food ? And so forth, and so forth.

"In brief, call to mind each episode in the act; realize what
actions each one consists of; follow through the logic and con-
secutiveness of all these actions."
This time when I repeated the scene I did not miss even the
tiniest secondary and thus proved that I understood the
detail,
nature of each of the planned physical actions. In this way I was

able to rehabilitate myself after my lack of success yesterday.
Tortsov recalled our first trials of actions without props, a les-
son memorable for me because he first made me count thin air
instead of money.
220
"How much time was spent then just on this work," said Tort-
sov, "and how quickly you accompHshed an analogous job today."
After a small interruption he said
"Now you have grasped the logic and the consecutiveness
that
of these physical actions as well as felt their truth and established
your faith in what you were doing on the stage, it will not be diffi-
cult for you to repeat this same sequence in different given circum-
stances, which the play will set for you, and which will be en-
larged and enhanced by your own imagination.
"So now, what would you do here, now, today in this supposed
hotel room if you had returned to it after a fruitless expedition
through the town? Begin, only do not act; simply and honestly
decide and say what you would do."
"Why not act ? That would be easier for me."
"Of course. It is always easier to act in the old rubber-stamp
ways than to move about truthfully."
"But I was not speaking of cliches."
"For the time being that is the only way you can talk. They
are ready-made; but truthful action, action with a useful purpose,
prompted by inner impulses, has to live first, and that is what you
are trying to achieve."
Leo lay down on the bed, Vanya began to prepare himself for
his entrance as the hotel waiter.
Then Tortsov put me on the stage and obliged me to talk out
loud to myself;
"I remember the given circumstances of my part, the past, the
present," I said to myself. "As for the future, that is related to me,
not to my part. Khlestakov cannot know the future but I am
obliged to know it. It is my job as an actor to prepare that future
from the first scene I play. The more hopeless my situation is in
this awful hotel room the more unexpected, extraordinary, in-
credible will be my moving to the home of the Mayor, the com-
plications, the matchmaking.
"I shall recall the whole act according to episodes."
221
I then enumerated all the scenes and quickly based them on

circumstances invented by me. When Ihad finished this work, I
concentrated my attention on it and then went into the wings. As
I went I said to myself:
"What would I do if, when I was returning to my hotel room,
I heard the voice of the proprietor behind me?"
Ihad scarcely mentioned the "magic if" when I felt as though
something had struck me from behind. I began to run, I scarcely
knew what I was doing, and suddenly found myself in my imag-
inary hotel room.
"That was original!" laughed Tortsov. "Now repeat the action
in some new given circumstances," he ordered.
I walked off slowly into the wings and after a pause to prepare
myself I opened the door and stood there in an agony of inde-

cision, not knowing whether to come in or go downstairs to the
dining room. But I came in and my eyes kept searching for some-
thing in my room or through the crack of the door. When I real-
ized what I was after, I adapted myself to the situation and left
the stage.
A little later I came on again mood,
in a capricious, difficult
like some spoiled creature. I looked around nervously for some
time. Then thinking and again adapting myself to the situation,
I left the stage.

I did a whole series of entrances until finally I said to myself:
"Now it seems to me that I know what I would bring with me

when I came in, if I were in the place of Khlestakov."
"What do you call the thing you have been doing?" asked
Tortsov.
"I was studying myself, Kostya Nazvanov, in
was analyzing, I
the given circumstances in which Khlestakov is placed."

"Now I hope you realize the difference between approaching
and judging a role in your own person and in that of another,
between looking at a role with your own eyes instead of those of
the author, or director, or drama critic.
222
"In your own person you live your role, in the person of some-
one you simply toy with it, play-act it. In your own person
else
you grasp the role with your mind, your feelings, your desires,
and all the elements of your inner being, while in the person of
another, in most cases, you do it only with your mind. Purely rea-
soned analysis and understanding in a part is not what we need.
"We must take hold of the imagined character with all our
being, spiritual and physical. That is the only approach I am will-
ing to accept."
* * *
"What can I do about it?" said Tortsov meditatively as he came

into class today, as if he were talking over something with him-
self. "Oral transmission is boring, dry, unconvincing for a practi-
cal matter. It would be better to make you do and feel things in
your own persons than to have me give explanations. But unfortu-

nately you are not yet so versed in the technique of handling
imaginary objects that you can do what I believe is necessary. I'll
have go up on the stage myself and show you how, by begin-

to
ning with the simplest objectives and actions, you move on to
create the physical life of a part, and from that you again move
forward and create the spiritual life of a part, and how they to-
gether engender inside you the actual sense of life in a play and
part, which in turn transmutes itself into the inner creative state
with which you are familiar."
Tortsov went up on to the stage and disappeared into the wings.
There was a long pause in which we heard the sound of Leo's bass
voice. He was arguing about where it is best to live, in St. Peters-
burg or in the country.
Suddenly Tortsov ran onto the stage. Such an entrance for
Khlestakov was so sudden and unexpected that I actually trem-
bled. Tortsov slammed the door and then stood looking into the
corridor through the crack. Obviously he imagined that he had
run away from the proprietor of the hotel.
223
I cannot say that I was too well pleased by new angle, but
this
he certainly made his entrance with sincerity. Then Tortsov began

to reflect aloud about what he had just done.
"I overdid it!" he confessed to himself. "It should be done more

simply. Besides, would that be right for Khlestakov ? After all he,
as a resident of St. Petersburg, felt himself superior to anyone in
the provinces.
"What suggested that entrance to me ? What memories ? I can't
think. Perhaps in this mixture of braggadocio with cowardice and

callow youth lies the key to the inner character of Khlestakov.'^
Where did I get the sensations I experienced?"
After thinking about this for a moment Tortsov said to us:
"What did I just do? I analyzed what I accidentally felt and
what I accidentally did as a result of those feelings. I analyzed my
physical actions in the given circumstances of the role. But I made
this analysis my cold mind all the elements in me
not purely with ;
contributed. I made the analysis with my body and soul.

"I shall now develop my work of analysis and tell you what
prompted me. Logic suggested: If Khlestakov is a braggart and
a coward, then in his heart he fears to meet the proprietor, but
outwardly he wants to put on a brave appearance and be calm. He
even exaggerates his calm, although he feels the look of his enemy
behind him and has chills up and down his spine."
Tortsov then went into the wings, prepared himself, and then
executed brilliantly the proposition he had just set forth. How did
he do it? Can it be solely that by sensing the truthfulness of his
physical actions, all the rest, that is to say the emotions, followed
naturally ? If so, his method must be accounted miraculous.

Tortsov stood there for a long time and then he began to speak
"You saw that I did not do this by means of purely intellectual
analysis, but that I studied myself in the conditions set by the part,
and with the direct participation of all human inner elements,
and through their natural impulse to physical action. I did not
carry the action through to the end because I was afraid of faUing
224
into cliches. Yet the principal point is not in the action itself but
in the natural evocation of impulses to act.
From my everyday human experience and life I seek to cull
physical objectives and actions. In order to believe in their valid-
ity, I have to give them an inner basis and justify them in the
circumstances set by the play. When I find and feel this justifica-
tion then my inner being to a certain extent merges with that of
my role."
Tortsov then v^ênt through the same operation with each bit of
the scene —^persuading Ossip go get some dinner for him, the
to
monologue after Ossip goes out, the scene with the waiter and
with the dinner.
When had been accomplished Tortsov withdrew into
all this
himself and seemed to be mentally reviewing the work done.

Finally he said
"I feel that we have made a pale outline of impulses to physical
action in the circumstances of life and the conditions proposed by
the role! Now these must be recorded we did
in writing, just as
after the scene of dramatic inaction.* Do you remember how we
attributed all that to physiology? I shall do the same thing with
this scene of Khlestakov."
Tortsov began to recall all the impulses to action he had re-
marked in himself, and I wrote them down. Grisha at this point
found a reason to object to one of the actions noted. "Excuse me

please, but this is purely psychological and not physical action at
all."
"I thought we had agreed not to argue about words. Besides we

decided, you know, that in every psychological act there is a great
deal of the physical, and in the physical —a great deal of the psy-
chological. At this time Iam going over the role in terms of physi-
cal actions; so that is why I am listing only them. What will come
of this we shall see in the near future."
* See An Actor Prepares, pp. 131-32.
225
And Tortsov went back to the interrupted recording. When

this was finished he explained:
"One can also make a list of physical objectives taken from the
text of the play. If we compared both lists we would find them
coincident in some places (where the actor

and the part naturally
merge), and in others disparate (this is where there is a mistake,
or where the actor's individuality breaks through in ways that
diverge from his part).
"The work is up
further and the director enhanc-
to the actor —
ing the moments when the actor merges with his part and bring-
ing him back from the places where he diverges from it. We shall
talk about this in detail later on. For now the important thing is
only the points at which the actor merges with his part. These
lively contacts draw an actor into the play; he no longer feels
himself to be an outsider in its life, and certain places in his part

are very close to his feelings.
"As I look over this list," explained Tortsov, "I test my objec-
tives, as it were, by a common denominator, by asking myself:
Why did I do this or that ?
"When I have analyzed and summed up what I did, I reach

the conclusion that my basic objective and action was: I wanted
to get something to eat, to allay my hunger. That is why I came
here, that is why I made up to Ossip, was on my best behavior
with the waiter, and later quarreled with him. In the future all
my actions in these scenes will be directed toward the one objec-

tive —to get something to eat.
"Now I shall repeat all the actions confirmed on this list," de-
cided Tortsov. "And in order not to get into routine habits (I

have not yet prepared my actions with content, purpose, and truth)
I shall move from one proper objective and action to the
simply
next without executing them in physical terms. For the time being
I shall limit myself to arousing inner impulses to action and shall
fix them through repetition.
226
"As for the actions themselves, they will develop of their own
accord. Our miracle-working nature will attend to that."
After that Tortsov went over and over the sequence of his
physical actions, or rather he repeatedly aroused his inner impulses
necessary to such action. He tried not to make any movements,
but conveyed what was going on inside him through his eyes, his
facial expression, and the ends of his fingers. He repeated that the
actions would develop of their own accord, that they cannot in-
deed be restrained once you have established the inner impulses
to action.
I followed the list we had written down and reminded him of
any oversight.
"I feel," said he without interrupting his work, "that the in-
dividual, separate actions are shaping into larger periods, and that
out of these periods a whole line of logical and consecutive actions
is emerging. They are pushing forward, creating movement, and
that movement is generating a true inner life. In feeling this life
I sense its truth, and truth engenders faith. The more often I re-
peat the scene the stronger the line becomes, the more powerful
the movement, the life, its truthfulness, and my faith in it. Re-
member that we call this unbroken line of physical actions the
line of physical being.
"This is no small matter, but it is only half (and not the more
important half) of the life of a role."
After a rather long pause Tortsov continued:
"Now that we have created the physical being of a part we
must think about the more important task —creating the spiritual
being in a role.
"Yet would seem that it had begun

it to exist in me already, of
its own accord and outside my will and consciousness. The proof
of this lies in the fact that I, as you yourselves confirmed, executed
my physical actions just now not drily, formally, lifelessly, but
with liveliness and inner justification.
"How did this come about? Quite naturally: The bond between
227
the body and the soul is indivisible. The life of the one engenders
the life of the other, either way around. In every physical action,
unless it is purely mechanical, there is concealed some inner action,
some feelings. This is how the two levels of life in a part are
created, the inner and the outer. They are intertwined. A common
purpose brings them closer together and reinforces the unbreak-
able bond between them.
"In your improvisation on the theme of the madman,* for
instance, your over-all effort to save yourselves and your truthful
action along the line of self-preservation were indivisible and ran
parallelwith each other. But imagine a different combination of
these two levels. The one would be making an effort at self-
preservation and the other, simultaneously, would be tending to
increase the danger, that is to allow the violently insane man free
access into the room. Can one possibly unite two such mutually
destructive lines of inner and outer action? Need I prove to you
that this is not possible because the bond between the body and
the soul is indivisible ?
"I shall prove it in my own person by repeating the scene from

The Inspector General, not mechanically but completely justified
as to the physical being of the part."
Tortsov began to act and at the same time to explain his feel-
ings.
"While I am playing I listen to myself and feel that, parallel
with the unbroken line of my physical actions, runs another line,

that of the spiritual life of my role. It is engendered by the physi-
cal and corresponds to it. But these feelings are still transparent,
not very provocative. It is still difficult to define them or be inter-
ested in them. But that is not a misfortune. I am satisfied because

I sense the beginnings inside me of the spiritual life of my part,"
said Tortsov. "The more often I re-live the physical life the more
definite and firm will the line of the spiritual life become. The
* See An Actor Prepares, pp. 4 iff.
228
more often I feel the two Hnes, the more strongly
merging of these
will I believe in the psycho-physical truth of this state and the
more firmly will I feel the two levels of my part. The physical
being of a part is good ground for the seed of the spiritual being
to grow in. Scatter more of such seeds."
"What do you mean by scattering?" I asked.
"Create more 'magic ifs,' proposed circumstances, imaginative
ideas. They will immediately acquire life and merge with the
physical being of your part, both giving a basis for and also evok-
ing more physical actions."
Tortsov repeated many times the physical actions we had listed.
I did not have to correct or prompt him as he already knew them
in their order of sequence.
In doing this work Tortsov did not seem to realize how much
his truthful, purposeful, productive actions, not just physical but
psychological as well, were being given outward form through

his facial expression, his eyes, his body, the intonation of his voice,
and the expressive gestures of his fingers. With each repetition the
truthfulness of what he was doing was enhanced, hence his faith
in it too. Because of this his acting became more and more con-
vincing.
I was amazed by his eyes. They were the same and yet not the
same. They were stupid, capricious, naive, blinking more than
necessary because of shortsightedness —he could not see beyond
the end of his nose. He made no gestures. Only his fingers worked
involuntarily and very expressively. He spoke no words, but now
and then some funny intonations escaped him, and they too were
expressive.
The more often he repeated this sequence of so-called physical
actions — or, to be more exact, the inner stimuli to action —the
more his involuntary motions increased. He began to walk, to sit
down, to straighten his cravat, admire his boots, his hands, to clean
his nails.
229
As soon as he noticed any of this he instantly cut it out, evi-

dently fearing to get into a routine.
By the tenth repetition his acting took on the aspect of being
finished, thoroughly felt, and, thanks to the paucity of move-
ments, very restrained. He had created life with its true, produc-
tive, purposeful actions. I was entranced by this result and could
not help applauding. The others all joined in.
This quite sincerely astonished Tortsov. He stopped acting and

asked: "What's the matter? What happened?"
"What happened was you never played Khlestakov, never
that
rehearsed the part, but went on the stage and both played and
lived the part," I explained.
"You are mistaken. I did not feel anything, I did not play and
never shall play Khlestakov, as that is a role quite outside my
powers. Yet I can carry out correctly the inner stimuli to action
and invent truthful, productive, purposeful actions in the circum-
stances proposed by the author. Even that small amount gives you
a sense of real life on the stage.
"If the whole company were so prepared it would be possible

by the second or third rehearsal to take up the real analysis and
study of the roles —not the intellectual mulling over of each word
and movement, which takes the life out of a part, but the increas-
ingly real sense of life in the play, the thing you feel with your
body as well as your soul."
"But how do you accomplish this?" All the students were
interested to hear.
"By constant, systematic, and absolutely valid exercises of
actions without props.
"Take me, for instance. I have been on the stage for a long
time; yet every single day, not excluding today, I spend ten or
twenty minutes on such exercises in the most varied circumstances
I can imagine and always do them in my own person, on my own
responsibility, so to say. If were not for this, how much time do
it
you think I should have had to spend on getting to understand
230
the nature and the component parts of the physical actions in that
scene of Khlestakov!
"If an actor keeps in constant exercise of this sort he will come
to know practically all human actionsfrom the point of view of
component parts, their
their consecutiveness and logic. But this
work must be done daily, constantly, like the vocalizing of a
singer, or the exercises of a dancer.
"From what I showed you today you must realize how very
important this is. It is not without reason that I insist on your
putting your special attention on these exercises. When you have
worked out a technique such as has been developed in me through
long training, then you will be able to do what I did. And when
you achieve same inner creative life beyond the range of
this, the
your consciousness will stir in you of its own accord. Your sub-
conscious, your intuition, your experiences from life, your habit
of manifesting human qualities on the stage will all go to work
for you, in body and soul, and create for you.
"Then your playing will always be fresh, you will have a mini-
mum of cliches in your acting, and a maximum of truth.
"Go through the entire play in this same way, all the given
circumstances, all the scenes, the units, objectives, everything that
is accessible to you to begin with. Let us assume that you find in
yourselves corresponding actions; then accustom yourselves to
executing them with the logic and consecutiveness of your role,
right through the play from beginning to end, and you will have
created the external physical being of your part.
"To whom will these actions then belong ? To you or to your
role?"
"Tome!"
"The physical being is yours, the movements also, but the objec-
tives, the given circumstances, these are common to you both.
Where do you end and where does your character begin?"
"There's no possible way of saying," exclaimed Vanya, who was
all confused.
231
"But don't forget that these actions you have found are not
simply external, they are inwardly justified by your feeling, they
are reinforced by your faith in them, they are brought to life by
your state of 'I am.' Moreover inside of you, and running parallel
v^îth the line of your physical actions, there has naturally been
created a continuous line of emotional moments reaching dovv^n
into your subconscious. Between these lines there is complete cor-
respondence. You know that you cannot act sincerely, with direct-
ness, and be feeling something quite different inside you.
"To whom do these feelings belong to you or to your part.?"—

Vanya merely waved his arms in despair.
"There you see, you are quite dizzy. That is a good thing be-
cause it goes to show that a great deal that is in your part and a
great deal that is in you have become so intertwined that you can-
not easily distinguish where the actor begins or his character ends.
When you are in that state you come closer and closer to your
part, you feel it inside you and feel yourself inside of it.
"If you work on your whole role that way you will get an
—
inkling of its life not in any purely intellectual or formal way but
realistically, physically and psychically, because the one cannot
exist without the other. No matter if this life is at first superficial,

shallow, not filled out, nevertheless it does have flesh and blood
in it and a bit of quivering, live soul, the soul of the human-being-
actor-character.
"If you take this attitude toward your character you can speak
and not the third person. This is of great
of his life in the first
importance in relation to further systematic and detailed work on
your part. As a consequence of it everything that you acquire will
immediately find its right place, its own shelf, its own hanger,
instead of rambling around senselessly inside your head, as hap-
pens with actors who
mere word-eaters. In other words you
are
must handle yourself so that you do not approach your character
abstractly, as you would a third person, but concretely, as you
would address your own self. When you achieve the sense of being
232
inside your part and its being inside of you, when it merges by
itself with your inner creative state, which borders on the subcon-
scious, then go forward with assurance.
"Write down the hst of the physical actions you would under-
take you found yourself in the situation
if of your imaginary char-
acter. Do this same work with the textual role, that is to say write
down the list of actions which your character undertakes in

accordance with the plot of the play. Then compare the two lists
or, as it were, superimpose the one on the other as you put tracing
paper over a design to see where the lines coincide.

"If the work of the playwright is done with talent, and if he
has drawn from the living sources of human nature and
his play
human experience and feelings, and if your list of actions was also
prompted by your own living human nature, then there will be a
coincidence at many points between the two lists, especially in all
the basic and principal places. These will be moments for you of
rapprochement with your part, moments bound together by feel-
ings. To feel yourself even partly in your role and your role even
—
partly in you that is a great accomplishment! That is the initial
step of merging with and living with your part. Even for the other
parts of the role, in which an actor still does not feel himself, there
will be some manifestations of human nature; because if the role
is well made it will be human as we are, and one human being
senses another."
Tortsov spoke to us again today about his psychotechnique for

creating the spiritual life of a role through the physical being. As
usual he explained his thoughts in a picturesque example
"Have you you have, you know all about the
ever traveled ? If
changes that take place along the way, both inside the traveler
and outside. Did you ever notice that even the train is transformed
both inwardly and externally depending on the countries through
which it is hurrying?
233
"When it first pulls out of the station it is all new and glittering
in the frosty air. Its roof is covered with white snow, like a fresh
table cloth. But inside it is dark because the winter light filters
with difficulty through the frozen windows. The farewells of

those seeing you off affect your feelings. Sad thoughts fill your
mind. You think of those you have left behind.
"The swaying of the train, the pulse of the wheels, has the
effect of a lullaby. You incline to sleep.
"A day and a night pass. You are traveling southwards. Outside
everything is changing. Already the snow has melted. Other scen-
ery flashes by. But inside the railway car it is close because the
winter heat is still turned on. The passengers are all different;
they speak with different accents, and their clothing is different.

Only the railway tracks remain the same. They run on and on to
infinity.
"It is not the rails, however, but what surrounds you outside
or inside the train that is of interest to you as a traveler. Moving
along the railway you come to ever new places, you receive more
and more new impressions. You experience them, they raise you
to a pitch of enthusiasm or plunge you into a sadness; they excite
and momentarily alter the mood of the traveler, altering him as
well.
"The same thing happens on the stage. What takes the place
of the rails? How do we move on them from one end of a play
to the other ?
"At first it would seem that the best material we could use
would be genuine, live feelings. Let them lead us. But things of
the spirit are evanescent; it is difficult to fix them firmly. We can-
not make sound 'rails' out of them; we need something more
'material.' Most appropriate for this purpose are physical objec-
tives, for they are executed by the body, which is incomparably
more solid than our feelings.
"After you have laid your rails of physical objectives, get aboard
and start off to new lands —in others words, the life of the play.
234
You will be moving along, not staying in one place or thinking
about things with your intellect; you will take action.
"This unbroken line of physical actions, fastened in place with
strongly fixed objectives in lieu of bolts and ties, is just as neces-
sary to us as the rails are to the traveler. Like him too the actor
moves through many lands which are the varying given circum-
stances, through the 'magic ifs' and other inventions of the imag-
ination. Again like him we come upon changing conditions which
evoke in us the most varied moods. In the life of the play, the actor
meets new people —the other characters who play opposite him.
He enters into a common life with them and that also stirs his
feelings.
"And just as the traveler has little interest in the rails them-
selves but only in the new countries and places through which
they run, so too the creative urge of the actor is not absorbed in
the physical actions themselves but rather in the inner conditions
and circumstances which offer justification for the external life
of his role. We need the beautiful fictions of our imagination,
which give life to the characters we are playing, that is, the feel-
ings which surge in the heart of the creative actor. We need
attractive objectives which loom ahead of us as we move through a
whole play."
Here Tortsov stopped speaking. There was a pause. Suddenly
amid the silence we heard the grumbling voice of Grisha:
"That's just fine. Now we know all about the problems of
transportation in art," he growled in scarcely audible tones.
"What are you saying ?" Tortsov asked him.
"I'm just saying, don't you see, that true artists don't ride
around in railway carriages on the ground, they soar in airplanes,
above the clouds," said Grisha with great warmth and emotion,
almost in a declamatory tone.
"I like your comparison," said Tortsov with a slight smile. "We
shall go into that at our next lesson."
* * *
235
"So our tragedian needs an airplane in which to soar above

the clouds, and not a railway carriage traveling down on the sur-
face of the earth," said Tortsov to Grisha on entering the class-
room.
"Yes, don't you see, an airplane!" repeated the "tragedian."
"Nevertheless, unfortunately, before an airplane can take off it
has to run along the firm surface of a runway for a specified dis-
tance," remarked Tortsov. "So, as you see, even to soar you can-
not do without the earth. The airplane pilots need it as much as
we actors need a line of physical actions before we can take o£E
in higher regions.
"Or could you, perhaps, up into the clouds in a ver-
fly straight
tical line without using a runway? They say that mechanics are
so far developed that it can be done, but our actor's technique is
not yet aware of any means of direct penetration into the realm of
the subconscious. If, to be sure, you are caught up in a whirl of
inspiration, it can carry your 'creative airplane' above the clouds
in a vertical line without any preliminary run down the airstrip,
but unfortunately these inspired flights do not depend on us and
we cannot make rules about them. The only thing we have in
our power is to prepare the ground, lay our rails, which is to say
create our physical actions reinforced by truth and faith.
"With an airplane its flight begins when the machine takes off
from the ground; with us the elevation begins when the realistic
or even the ultranaturalistic ends."
"How did you put that?" I asked so that I could gain time to
write it all down.
"What I mean to say," explained Tortsov, "is that I use the
word ultranaturahstic to define the state of our spiritual and physi-
cal natures which we consider entirely natural and normal and
in which we believe sincerely, organically. It is only when we are

in that state that our spiritual wellsprings open wide, that scarcely
perceptible emanations from them reach the surface : hints, shades,
236
the aroma of that true, organic, creative feeHng which is so timid
and easily upset."
"You mean then that those feehngs are engendered only when
an actor believes sincerely in the normality and rightness of the
actions of his physical and spiritual nature?" I asked.
"Yes! Our deep spiritual wellsprings open wide only when the
inner and outer feelings of an actor flow in accordance with the
laws fixed for them, when there is absolutely no forcing, no devia-
tion from the norm, when there is no cliche or conventional act-
ing of any \ind. In short, when everything is truthful to the limits
of ultranaturalism.
"But if you infringe upon the normal life of your nature, it is
sufficient to annihilate all the intangible subtleties of the subcon-

scious experience. That is why even seasoned actors with well-
developed psychotechnique are afraid, when they are on the stage,
of the slightest slip into false feeling or falseness in physical actions.
"In order not to frighten away their feelings these actors do not
put their minds on their inner emotions but center their attention
rather on their physical being.
"From all I have said it must be clear," said Tortsov summing
up, "that the truth of our physical actions and our faith in them
are not needed by us for the sake of realism and naturalism but
rather to affect, in a reflexive way, our inner feelings in our roles,
and to avoid frightening away or forcing our emotions, in order
to preserve their pristine quality, their immediacy and purity, to
convey on the stage the living, human, spiritual essence of the
character we are portraying.
"That is why I advise you not to forsake the earth before you
make your flights into the empyrean, not to abandon your physi-
cal actions when you sail into your subconscious," said Tortsov to
Grisha to wind up the argument between them.
"It is not enough just to soar upwards, you must also orient
yourself up there," Tortsov went on. "There, in the regions of the
subconscious, there are no highways, no rails, no signals. It is easy
237
to lose your way or take the wrong turn. How can you orient
yourself in this unknown region ? How can you direct your feel-
ings since your consciousness does not penetrate there ? In aviation

they send out radio waves from the earth to guide planes that fly
in inaccessible spheres without pilots. In our art we do something

similar. When our feelings soar into a region inaccessible to our
consciousness we work on our emotions obliquely, with the aid of
stimuli, lures. They contain something in the nature of radio
waves, which affect intuition and call forth responses in our feel-
ings."
* * *
Today's lesson was devoted to a discussion of Tortsov's experi-

ment with the role of Khlestakov.
Tortsov gave this explanation:
"People who do not understand the line of the physical being

in a role laugh when you explain to them that a series of simple
physical, realistic actions has the capacity to engender and create
the more elevated life of a human spirit in a role. The naturalistic
quality of this method upsets them. But if they would stick to the
derivation of the word from 'nature' they would realize there is
nothing to be worried about.
"Besides, as have already told you, the point does not lie in
I
these small, realistic actions but in the whole creative sequence

which is put into effect thanks to the impulse given by these physi-
cal actions. What this sequence is I want to discuss with you today.
"I shall use for this purpose the experiments I made with the
role of Khlestakov.
"You saw that neither I nor Kostya could come out onto the
stage, either as human beings or as actors, until we had found a
justification beforehand for our simple physical act in a whole
series of imaginary circumstances, 'magic ifs.' You also saw that
these simple actions required us to break up the scenes into units
and objectives; we had to evolve a logic, a consistency, in our
238
actions and feelings, we had to search out the truth in them, estab-
hsh our faith in them, our sense of 'I am.' But to accomphsh all
this we did not sit at a table with our heads in a book, we did not
divideup the text of the play with a pencil in hand —no, we re-
mained on the stage and acted, we searched in our action, in our

own natural life, for whatever we needed
promote our object.
to
"In other words we did not analyze our actions through our
reason, coldly, theoretically, but approached them in practice,
from the angle of life, human experience, our own habits, our
artistic or other senses, our intuition, our subconscious. We our-
selves searched for whatever was needed to help us execute our
actions; our own nature came to our aid and guided us. Think
about this process and you will realize that it was an internal and
external analysis of ourselves as human beings in the circum-
stances of the life of our role.
"The process I am talking about is carried out simultaneously
by all the intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and physical forces of
our nature; this is not theoretical but practical research for the
sake of a genuine objective, which we attain through physical
actions. Absorbed by the immediate physical actions, we do not
think about nor are we aware of the complex inner process of
analysis, which naturally and imperceptibly goes on inside of us.
"Therefore the new secret and new quality of my method of

creating the physical being of a role consists of the fact that the
simplest physical action when executed by an actor on the stage
obliges him to create, in accordance with his own impulses, all
sorts of imaginary fictions, proposed circumstances, and 'ifs.'
"If such a tremendous effort of the imagination is needed for

the execution of the simplest physical action, then for the creation
of the line of the physical being of an entire role, there must be a
long and unbroken series of imaginative fictions and proposed
circumstances for the whole play. These can be prepared only by
the aid of detailed analysis carried out by all the internal forces
239
of creative nature. My method arrives at this analysis by natural
means.
"This new^ and fortunate quality of a naturally induced self-
analysis is what I wish to stress."

Tortsov did not have the time to finish his examination of his
experiment with the role of Khlestakov so he promised to do it
at our next lesson.
As he came into class today Tortsov announced

"I shall continue the examination of my method for creating
the physical being of a role.
"To answer the question I put to myself ('What would I do if
I found myself in Khlestakov's situation?'), I have to invoke the

aid of all the inner as well as physical nature of an actor. This is
what helps not only to understand but to feel, if not the whole
play at once, at least its over-all mood, its atmosphere.
"By what means can we induce our creative nature to go to
work with entire freedom of action ? Here too my method can be
of help.
"As you are drawn you are drawn away
to physical actions
from the life of your subconscious. In that way you render it free
to act and induce it to work creatively. This action of nature and
its subconscious and profound that the person who is
is so subtle
doing the creating is unaware of it.
"Thus when I was making my experiment with Khlestakov
and started off with physical actions as a way of creating the physi-
cal being in my role,
was not aware of what was going on inside
I
of me. I was naive enough to imagine that I was creating the

physical actions, that I was managing them. But actually it turned
out that they were merely the external reflections of the creative
work which, beyond my consciousness, was being carried on in-
side me by the subconscious forces of my nature.
"It is not within the range of human consciousness to carry out
240
this occult work, and so what isbeyond our powers is done in our
stead by nature itself. And what induces nature to do this work ?
My method of creating the life of the physical being of a part.
My method draws into action by normal and natural means the
subtlest creative forces of nature which are not subject to calcula-
tion. This is a new quality of my method, and I wish to stress it."
The students, and I among them, understood Tortsov's explana-

tion but nevertheless did not know how to apply it to themselves.
We begged him to give us a more concrete, technical explanation.
To this request Tortsov made the following reply
"When you are on the stage, carrying out certain physical
actions, adapting yourself to the object of your attention in accord-
ance with the terms of the play, keep your mind entirely on pro-
jecting what you have to convey in the most vivid, true, and
pictorial form. Put yourself firmly to the task of making the per-
son playing with you think and feel as you do, see the things you
are talking about with your eyes, hear them with your ears.
Whether or not you succeed in this is another question. The im-
portant thing is that you earnestly desire it and that you believe
in the possibility of achieving your objective. If you do so, your
attention will be wholly centered on your prepared physical
actions. Meantime your own nature, freed from supervision, will
do for you what no psychotechnique can consciously accomplish.
"Take a firmer hold of physical actions. They are the key to
—
freedom for that marvelous artist creative nature and they will —
protect your feelings from all force.
"Just think: You prepare with logic and consistency a simple,
accessible line for the physical being of your role, and as a result
you suddenly feel inside yourself the life of a human spirit. To
find in yourself the same kind of human material as the author
took from life, from the human nature of other people, when he
—
wrote your part isn't that a wonderful piece of conjuring!
"Such a result is all the more important because in the creative
work we do here we are looking not for conventional and theatri-
241
cal but for genuinely human material. And this can be found only
inside the soul of the creative actor.
"And did you notice that when I began to feel inner impulses
to action in the part of Khlestakov,no one was exerting any pres-
sure on me externally or internally, no one was giving me any
directions ? More than that, I was myself making an effort to get
rid of the old barnacles of tradition that have clustered around
the performance of this classic role.
"I was trying, besides, for the time being, to protect myself from
the influence of the author, and on purpose did not look at the
text of the play. I did all this in order to remain uninhibited and
independent, to pursue my own human experience.
"As time goes on, as I get deeper into my part, I shall call for
much and most varied kinds of information about the play. All
advice and information, anything of practical application in solv-
ing the given question or in accomplishing the projected action,
all this I will accept with gratitude and put into immediate use,
so long as it does not run counter to my feelings. But at my first
approach, until I have created some kind of a firm base from

which I can operate with assurance, I am afraid of anything that
might distract comphcate my work unduly.
me and
"Remember the importance of this fact that to begin with it is
the actor himself who, because of his own needs, necessities, im-
pulses, seeks the help and directions of others, and this help is not
forced on him. In the first case he maintains his independence,
in the second he loses it. Any creative material taken over from
another person and not experienced in one's own person is cold,
intellectual, not organic.
"In contrast, one's own personal material immediately falls into
place and begins to work. Anything which an actor takes from his
own life experience, the thing to which he responds inwardly, can
never be alien to him. It does not have to be artificially produced.
It is already there, it wells up of its own accord, it begs to be mani-
fested in physical actions. I do not need to repeat that all these
242
'own' feelings of an actor must be analogous to the feelings in-
herent in his part.
"For a better evaluation of the method I recommend, compare
it with the approach to a new role in most of the theatres through-
out the world.
"There the director of the play studies it in his office and comes
to the first rehearsal with a ready-made plan. Indeed many of
them do not make any serious study of it but rely on their own
experience. At one wave of the hand, out of sheer ingrained habit,
these 'experienced' directors lay down the line the play is to
follow.
"Other, more serious, directors with a literary bent will formu-
late an intellectual line after detailed study in the quiet of their
offices. It will be a true line, but it will have no appeal and there-
fore be of no use to a creative actor.
"Finally there is the director of exceptional talent who shows
the actors how to play their parts. The more gifted his demonstra-
tions, the deeper the impression he makes, the greater the actor's
enslavement. Having seen the brilliant handling of his part, the
actor will wish to play it just as he has seen it demonstrated. He
will never be able to getaway from the impression he has received,
he will be compelled awkwardly to imitate the model. But he will
never be able to reproduce it for this objective is beyond his native
powers. After such a demonstration an actor is shorn of freedom

and of his own opinion about his role.
"Let every actor produce what he can and not chase after what
is beyond his creative powers. A poor copy of a good model is
worse than a good original of mediocre pattern.
"As for the directors, one can only advise them not to foist any-
thing on their actors, not to tempt them beyond the range of their
capacities, but to enthuse them and make them ask of their own
accord for the information they need in order to execute simple
physical actions. A director should know how to stimulate in an
actor an appetite for his part.
243
"Now then, I have explained to you what is done in the ma-
jority of theatresand also the particular secret of my method
which preserves the freedom of the creative artist.
"Compare and choose."
Today an interesting conversation took place in the green room.

It was a discussion among some experienced actors about Tortsov's
new method. It seems that a number in the company do not
accept this attitude toward art.
"It is easier for me to talk with you established actors by begin-

ning end and working backwards," said Tortsov. "You are
at the
very familiar with the feelings of a creative actor in a fully-made,
finished part. These are sensations beginners do not know. Now
if you dig down in yourselves, your thoughts, your feelings, and
recall any one of your roles which you have played many times,
one that is firmly set, then tell me: What are you preoccupied
with, what are you preparing yourself for, what do you foresee,
what objectives, what activity draws you, when you leave your
dressing room and go out on the stage to play a familiar part ? I
am not talking now to actors who compose the score of their

roles out of simple craft, tricks and special 'turns.' I am speaking
to serious, creative actors."
"I think about my first objective when I go onto the stage,"
said one of the "When I

actors. have achieved that the second
follows of its own accord; when I have played out the second, I
think of the third, the fourth, and so forth."

"I begin with the through line of action. It unrolls in front of
me like an endless highwayend of which I see the sparkling
at the
cupola of the superobjective," added another, older actor.

"How do you try to attain your ultimate goal, or to approach
it?" asked Tortsov.
"By logically accomplishing one objective after another."
244 i
"You act, and by your action you advance nearer and nearer to
your ultimate goal?" Tortsov pressed him for further explanation.
"Yes, of course, as one would with any score."
"What is your concept of these actions in a familiar part ? Are
they difficult, complex, intangible?" queried Tortsov.
"They used to be, but finally they were resolved into about ten
very clear, realistic, comprehensible, accessible actions, what you
might call the marked channel of the play and part.
"What are they — subtle psychological actions ?"
"Of course they are of that nature. But thanks to frequent repe-
tition, and the indivisible bond between them and the life of the
role, their psychology has to a large extent put on flesh, and
through it one can reach the inner essence of feelings."

"Tell me, why is that so?" insisted Tortsov.
"I imagine because it is natural. The flesh is tangible, accessible.
All one has to do is act with logic and consistency, and feeling
follows of its own accord."
"Then," said Tortsov catching up his expression, "what you
really end up with is simple physical action, and that is what we
begin with. You say yourself that external action, the physical
being, is most accessible. Then would it not be better to begin
your creative work on a part with what is accessible, that is to say
physical actions ? You say that feeling follows action in a finished,
well-prepared part. Yet in the beginning, even before the part is
created, feeling also follows the line of logical actions. So why not
coax it out from the very start, when you take your first steps?
Why sit months and try to force out your dormant
at a table for
feelings? Why try to force them to come to life divorced from

actions ? You would do better to go out on the stage and at once
engage in action, that is to say to do what is accessible to you at
the time. Following that action, whatever is accessible to your
feelings at the time will naturally emerge, in harmony with your
body."
245
It seemed strange to me as a student that the older actors should

find it difficult to grasp such a simple, normal, natural truth.
"How can it be?" I asked one of them.
"The tempo of work, the launching of plays, the repertory,
rehearsals, performances, understudying parts, replacements, extra
recitals, half-prepared work —
encumbers the life of an
all this
actor. You cannot see through it to what is being done in art any
more than you can see through a curtain of smoke. Whereas you,
lucky devils, are immersed in it." This was said to me by a young
pessimist who is active in the repertory of the theatre.
And yet we students envy him
"Let us sum up our work in investigating my method.

"The result is to be looked for in the creative state which is
formed in the actor when he has created the line of the physical
and spiritual being in his role. Many of you have already, either
accidentally or with the aid of psychotechnique, succeeded in
establishing a true inner creative state while on the stage. But as
I have already pointed out that is not sufficient. You must be able
to pour into your inner creative state a genuine sense of the life
in your role in accordance with the given circumstances of the
play. This produces a miraculous transformation in the feelings of
an actor, a transfiguration or metamorphosis.
"Now listen to this : When I was young I was fascinated by the
life of antiquity. I read about it, talked with experts, collected
books, engraving, drawings, photographs, postcards, and it seemed
to me that not only was I familiar with that epoch but that I also
really felt it.
"Then ... I came walked in the same

to Pompeii. There I
streets as did the people in ancient times, I saw with my own eyes
the narrow little alleys of the city, I went into homes that were
still intact, I sat on the marble slabs where ancient heroes had
246
rested, my hands touched objects which once upon a time they
had handled, and for a whole week I was deeply aware both
spiritually and physically of this past life.
"Because of that all my odd books and bits of information fell
into place, they came to life in a different way, in a common,
integrated existence.
"Then I really understood what the great difference was be-
tween nature and postcards, between an emotional realization of
life and a bookish, intellectual comprehension of it, between a
thought image and physical contact.

"Almost the same thing occurs when we first approach a part.
A superficial acquaintance with it offers only a pale result from
the point of view of emotional perception, no more than what a
book, a vicarious view of an epoch, can give you.
"After our first acquaintance with the work of a playwright
our impressions on within us in something like patches, sepa-
live
rate moments, often vivid, unforgettable, which lend color to all

our further work on the play. Yet these separate and distinct
points which have no interrelation except the external one of the
play, which lack inner cohesion, do not give us the sense of the
whole play.
"When you reach the point beyond the intellectual concept of
the play, when you execute physical actions analogous to your
part, in given circumstances analogous to those set up by the play-
wright, then and only then can you understand and feel the puls-
ing life of your character and do it with your own whole being.
"If you carry the line of the physical being through your whole
part and if, thanks to that, you feel the living spirit in it, then all
the separate and distinct pointsand sensations fall into place and
acquire a new and genuine meaning.
"That state forms a solid foundation for creative work.
"When you have achieved that foundation, then any informa-
tion received from the outside, from your director or from other
sources, no longer rolls around in your head and your heart like
247
some superfluous supplies in an overfilled storeroom; it falls into
its predestined place or else it is rejected.
"This work is not done by the intellect alone but by all your
creative forces, all the elements of your inner creative state on the
stage together vvîth your real sense of the life in the play.
"I have taught you to create in yourselves a physical as wêll as
a spiritual sense of the life in a play. This acquired feeling of its
own accord merges with your inner creative state already in exist-
ence and together they form the lesser wor\ing creative state. It
is only when you are in this state that you are able to undertake
the analysis and study of your role with the participation of all
your spiritual and physical creative forces, and not merely those
of your intellect.
"I lay great significance on this : Your first steps in approaching
a new play must not be taken with your mind as much as with
your feelings, while your subconscious and intuition, both as an
actor and a human being, are still fresh and free. The soul of your
part will be shaped from the bits of your own living soul, your
desires, yearnings, imagination. If you accomplish this creative
work, then your every character will live on the stage and will
possess its own individual colors.
"When I was demonstrating Khlestakov I myself at times felt
that I was inside the very soul of Khlestakov. This feeling alter-
nated with another when
found part of the soul of the role in
I
me. This happened too to Kostya when he felt that he really could
snatch a bit of something to eat from a hawker's tray. That was a
moment when he merged completely with his part, finding in
himself some of Khlestakov's instincts. As I probed deeper I found
fresh points of contact in conditions of external and internal life
similar to those of my
These moments of congeniality
character.
became more and more frequent, until they formed a whole un-
broken line of both physical and spiritual being. Now that I have
been through this prehminary creative period I can assert that if
I were to find myself in Khlestakov's situation I would act in real
248
life just the way he does in the physical being I have created for
him.
"When I feel this way, I am very close to the state of 'I am,'
and nothing frightens me. Standing thus on a firm base, I can
manipulate both my physical and my spiritual nature without
fear of becoming confused and losing my ground. And if I do slip
off into a false direction I can easily come back and direct myself
again along the right path. On this same basis, when I am on the
stage I can assume my external characterization with the help of
my trained habits. And in the framework of given circumstance
and logical feelings I can use the inner material I have acquired
to produce any inner characterization desired. If both those exter-
nal and inner characterizations are based on truth they will in-
evitably merge and create a living image.
"Thus my method of creating a physical being automatically
analyzes a play; it automatically induces organic nature to put its
important inner creative forces to work to prompt us to physical

action; it automatically evokes from inside us live human material
with which to work: it helps, when we are taking our first steps
toward a new play, to sense its general atmosphere and mood. All
these are the new and important possibilities of my method."
249
Appendices
A. Supplement to Creating a Role
A Plan of Wor\
1. Tell the story of the plot (in not too much detail).
2. Play the external plot in terms of physical actions. For example: enter
a room. But since you cannot enter unless you know where you came from,
where you are going and why, seek out the external facts of the plot to
give you a basis for physical actions. This should all be in rough form
and constitutes the justification of an outline of given circumstances (just
rough, external ones). Actions are drawn from the play; what is lacking
is invented in line with the spirit of the play: What would I do if here,
today, this very minute, I found myself in the situation analogous to that
of the plot?
Act out improvisations dealing with the past and the future (the
3.
present occurs on the stage): Where did I come from, where am I going,
what happened between the times I was on the stage?
4. Tell the story (in greater detail) of the physical actions of the plot of
the play. Produce subtler, more detailed, more profoundly based proposed
circumstances and "magic ifs."
5. Draft a temporary definition, in approximate terms, and rough outline

of the superobjective.
6. Onthe basis of the acquired material shape a rough, approximate line
of through action, always saying: What would I do "if ... ?"
7. For that purpose break up the play into large, physical units (there is
no play without these large physical units, large physical actions).
8. Execute (act out) these roughly sketched physical actions based on the
question: What would I do "if ... ?"
9. If the larger units are too difficult to encompass, brea\ them up tem-
porarily into medium-sized units, or even, if necessary, into smaller and
smaller units. Study the nature of these physical actions. Adhere stricdy to
APPENDICES
the logicand consecutiveness of the large units and their component parts
and combine them in whole large actions, always without props.
10. Shape a logical, consecutive line of organic, physical actions. Write it
down and fix it firmly by frequent repetition. Clear it of all superfluity

cut ninety-five percent! Go over it until it reaches the stage of being true
enough to be believed in. The and consecutiveness of these physical
logic
actions will lead to truthfulness and faith. But this is achieved by being
logical and consistent, not by trying to achieve truth for the sake of truth.
11. Logic, consecutiveness, truth, faith, set in the state of being "here,
today, this very minute," is now further grounded and fixed.
12. All this taken together produces the state of "I am."
13. Whenyou have achieved the "I am" you will also have arrived at
organic nature and its subconscious.
14. Up to now you have been using your own words. Now you have the
first reading of the text. Seize on the separate words and phrases which
you feel the need of; write them down and add them to your own free
text.
When you come to the second and later readings, take down more notes,
cull more words to be included in your own invented text of your parts.
Thus gradually with small bits and then whole phrases your role becomes
supplied with the playwright's own words. The blanks are soon filled in
with the actual text of the play according to its style, language, and diction.
15. Study the text, fix it in your minds, but avoid saying it aloud so as
not to jabber mechanically or build up a series of word acrobatics. Repeat
many times and fix firmly your line of logical, consecutive physical actions,
truth, faith, "I am," organic and the subconscious. By giving these
truth,
you
actions a basis of justification always fresh, new, subder given
will find
circumstances coming into your mind and a more profound, broad, all-
embracing sense of concerted action. As you do this work, go over and
over in constandy increasing detail the contents of the play. Imperceptibly
you will acquire a basis for your physical actions which is psychologically
more subtle because of your proposed circumstances, the through line of
action,and your superobjective.
16. Continue to act the play along the lines now set. Think about the
words, but when you act, replace them with rhythmic syllables (tra-la-la-la).
17. The true inner pattern of the play has now been laid down by the
process of justifying your physical actions. Fix even more firmly, so that
it
the spoken text will remain subordinate to and not be jabbered me-
it
chanically and independendy from it. Continue to act the play using
rhythmic syllables. Go over in your own words ( i ) the pattern of thought,
SUPPLEMENT TO CREATING A ROLE
(2) the pattern of visualization of the play; (3) explain them both to those
playing opposite you in order to establish intercommunication with them
and also a pattern of inner action. These basic patterns form the subtext
of your role. Ground them as firmly as possible and maintain them con-
stantly.
18. After this pattern has been fixed, while you are still sitting around the
table, read the play in the author's own words, and without moving even
your hands, convey as accurately as you can to those playing opposite you
the patterns wor\ed out, the actions, all the details of the score of the play.
19. Do the same thing, still sitting around the table but with your hands
and bodies free, using some of the business blocked out for provisional pro-
duction.
20. Repeat the same on the stage with the business as bloc\ed out pro-
visionally.
21. Wor\out and fix the plan of the stage sets (inside four walls). Each
person to be asked: Where would he choose (in what setting) to be and
to act? Let each one suggest his own plan. The plan for the sets will be
taken from the consensus of the plans proposed by the actors.
22. Workout and record the stage business. Set the stage according to
the agreed plan and introduce the actors into it. Ask the actors where they
would choose to make a declaration of love; where they would choose to
work on the person playing opposite to engage in a heart-to-heart talk, and
so forth; where it would be more convenient to cross over in order to hide
some embarrassment? Let the actors cross and carry out their physical
actions as required by the play —
hunt for books on the bookshelves, open
windows, light a fire, and so forth.
23. Test the pattern of the stage business by opening arbitrarily any one
of the four walls.
24. Sit down at a tableand carry on a series of conversations concerning
the literary, political, artistic, and other aspects of the play.
25. Characterization. All that has been done so far has achieved inner
characterization. Meantime the external characterization should have ap-
peared of its own accord. But what is to be done if this does not oc-
cur? You should go over what has already been established but add a
game leg, terse or drawling speech, certain attitudes of arms or legs,
position of the body in keeping with certain mannerisms, habits. If the
external characterization does not appear spontaneously, it must be grafted
on from the outside.
255
B. Improvisations on Othello
These two short studies in Othello appeared in the Russian edition of

Creating a Role. They are printed here for their interest, although their
context relates less to the discussion in this volume than to that in An Actor
Prepares (pp. 280 ff.). Thus Paul here plays the part of lago as he did in
An Actor, and the scene under discussion, as then, is the third scene of
Act III, and not, as in this volume, the opening scene of the play. editor
Objectives; Through Line of Action; The Superobjective
TODAY TORTSOV decided to return to work on improvisations and to

have us play for him our whole repertoire of sketches.
But since some of the students were detained we had to begin with the
improvisations of Othello.
At first I refused to act without preparation, but then I agreed to do it
because I really wanted to.
I was so excited that I did not know what I was doing. I could not hold
myself in.
Tortsov'scomment was:
"You make me think of a motorcyclist whizzing down a highway and
yelling: 'stop me or I'll have an accident!' "
"When I am excited I am so wrought up I can't control myself," I said in
self-defense.
"That is because you lack creative objectives. You play tragedy 'in gen-
eral.' And any generality in art is dangerous," Tortsov said with convic-
tion. "Be honest, what were you aiming at today?" he queried.
"It is best," he continued, "to limit yourself in any part to one and
only one superobjective which contains in itself all the other units and
objectives, large and small. But probably only a genius can encompass that.
256
IMPROVISATIONS ON OTHELLO
To feel in a super objective all the complex spiritual content of a play is no
easy thing! It is beyond the powers of ordinary mortals. If we can limit the
number of our objectives to five in each act with a total of twenty or twenty-
five for the whole
and they taken together contain the essence of that
play,
whole play, that is the best result we can hope to achieve.
"Our creative path is like a railway with its large and small stations, flag
stops —
which are our objectives. We have our capitals of provinces and our
provincial cities, down to the one-horse towns, which require more or less
attention, longer or shorter stops. We can whizz by all these stations with
the speed of an express or plod like a mail train. We can stop at all stations
or only the largest ones. We can make longer or shorter stops. Today you
whizzed by like a fast express making no stops at any intermediate objec-
tives. They flashed by like so many telegraph poles. You did not even notice
them, nor did they interest you because you did not really know your
destination."
"I didn't know because you haven't told us anything about this," I said in
self-justification.
"I have not spoken about it because the time had not yet come. But today
I have spoken of it because it is time you knew about it.
"First of all we must see to it that the goal we set ourselves is clear, true,
and well-defined. must rest on a solid basis. It is the first thing to think
It
about. Toward it we must direct all our desires and efforts. Otherwise we
shall go off the tracks as you did today.
"The goal or the objective must not only be definite, it must also be at-
tractive, and exciting. The objective is a live bait which our creative will
hunts down like a fish. The bait must be tasty; just so an objective must
have substance and charm. Without them, it will not draw your attention.
The will is powerless until it is inspired by passionate desires. An exciting
objective is what will stimulate it. It is a powerful motive force behind our
creative will, it is its greatest magnet.
"Moreover, it is of extraordinary importance that the objective be a
true one. That kind of an objective will stir true desires; this in turn calls
for true effort, and true effort ends up in true action.
"Shchepkin said that you can act well or badly that — is not important.
What is important is that you play truly. In order to play truly you must
follow the path of true objectives; they are like signposts showing you the
way.
"Before we do anything else we must correct your mistake; so please
play the whole scene over again. But first let us divide it up into large,
medium, and small units and objectives.
APPENDICES
"In order not to get bogged down in details, do your scene according to
the largest of your units and objectives. What are Othello's and what are
lago's?"
"lago provokes the jealousy of the Moor," said Paul.
"What does he do to that end?" asked Tortsov.
"He uses slyness, slander, disturbs his rest," answered Paul.
"And does it, of course, in a way to make Othello believe him," added
Tortsov. "Now
you go and accomplish this objective as best you can and
convince, not Othello because he is not here yet, but this very much alive
Kostya who is sitting in front of you. If you can do that nothing more will
be asked of you," said Tortsov firmly.
"And what is your objective?" asked Tortsov turning to me.
"Othello does not believe him," I said.
"In the first place Othello does not yet exist. You have not created him.
So far there is only Kostya," Tortsov corrected me. "In the second place if
you are not going to believe what lago tells you, there will be no tragedy.
There will be a happy ending instead. Can't you think of something more
consonant with the play?"
"I try not to believe lago."
"In the first place that is not an objective, and in the second place you do
not have to make any effort. The Moor is so sure of Desdemona that his
normal reaction is to believe his wife. That is why it is so hard for lago
to destroy his confidence in her," explained Tortsov. "It is difl&cult for you
even to understand what the villain you had heard the
is saying. And if
terrible news from any other source than lago, whom you hold to be the
most honest and devoted of men, you would laugh him to scorn and chase
him away as an intriguer, and the incident would be closed."
"In that case perhaps the Moor's objective is to try to understand what
lago is saying," said I offering a new objective.
"Of course," approved Tortsov; "before you can believe it, you have
to try to understand this improbable thing that is being said to the trusting
Moor about his wife. It is only after he has considered the slander that he is
seized with the need of proving the falseness of the accusation, the purity
of Desdemona's soul, the injustice of lago's view, and so forth. So to begin
with try only to understand what and jor what purpose lago is saying these
things.
"Thus," said Tortsov summing up, "let Paul try to upset you and you
try to understand what he is saying to you. If you both carry out these two
objectives I shall be very well satisfied.
"Take each one of the secondary, auxiliary objectives and string it on
258
one general one, which we through line of action and at the
shall call the
end, like a clasp, put the superobjective you are trying to attain. When you
can do this your sketch will have homogeneity, beauty, sense, and power."
After these explanations Tortsov made us play the sketch over again, as
he put according to objectives, with a through line of action and in con-
it,
sonance with the superobjective. After we finished playing we were given a

criticism and some explanations. This time Tortsov said:
"Yes, You played the sketch according to objectives, thinking all the time
about the through line of action and superobjective. But . . . thinking does
not yet mean action for the sake of a basic goal. You cannot reach the super-
objective by means of your thoughts, your mind. The superobjective re-
quires complete surrender, passionate desire, unequivocal action. Every bit,
every separate objective, is needed for the sake of getting closer to the
fundamental purpose of the play, that is to say the superobjective. There
you must head straight for your goal and never allow yourselves to go ofi
on tangents or deviate from your through line.
"To create means to head for your superobjective with passion, effort, in-
tensity, purpose, and justification.
"As for the subsidiary objectives, of course they must be filled out care-
fully and completely, but only to the extent necessary and helpful to the
superobjective and through line of action, never as today, taking each ob-
jective separately.
"Try to understand and fix in your minds to the best of your ability this
line: From the superobjective to desire, effort, the through line of action,
and back to the superobjective."
"But how can that be," we exclaimed in bewilderment, "from the super-
objective you come back in the end to it again?"
"Yes, that is just how it is," explained Tortsov. "The superobjective which
expresses the main, basic essence of the play should arouse the actor's crea-
tive desire, his efforts, and his action, so that in the end he will master the
superobjective which to begin with initiated his creative process."
Through the Text to the Subtext
"Now you know the principal secret of our creativeness let me see
that
you play an excerpt from Othello" said Tortsov to us today.
Paul and I went up on the stage and began to play a scene between
lago and Othello.
How long had it been since Tortsov went over this scene with me and
corrected it? In any case I did not believe his work had been entirely in
259
APPENDICES
vain. But it was. I had scarcely begun to say my lines when I went oS.
again on the same old track.
Why did this happen?
Because while I was acting, and I was not conscious of it, I had in mind
some former, casual objectives which, to tell the truth, amounted to no
more than playing a fixed image. This resulted in exaggerated acting, and
I did my best to justify it by inventing given circumstances and actions.
As for the words and thoughts, I pronounced them mechanically, un-

consciously, the way you sing a song while you are working or when you
are hauling a barge. Could this coincide with the author's intentions.?
The text called for one thing, my objectives for something else. The words
impeded the action and the action interfered with the words.
In a minute Tortsov stopped us.
"You are just contorting yourself and not living," he said.
"I know it! But what can I do!" I replied in a hysterical voice.
"What?" exclaimed Tortsov. "You ask what you should do? And this
?
after I unveiled to you the principal secret of our creativeness
I remained stubbornly silent, angry at myself.
"Answer me this," began Tortsov. "Where were your feelings just now?
Did they respond instandy, intuitively to your creative challenge?"
"No," I admitted.
"If not what should you have done?" said Tortsov, pressing his cross-
examination.
Again I was and sulky.
silent
"When feelings do not respond to a creative challenge of their own
accord, you must leave them alone because they will not bow to force,"
Tortsov answered his own question. "In such cases you must turn to the
other members of the triumvirate, your will and your mind. The most
accessible is your mind. So begin with it."
I did not speak or move.
"With what do you begin your acquaintance with a play?" said Tortsov
patiently and persuasively. "You begin with a careful reading of the text.
There it is in black on white, in permanent form, and it represents, in this
case, a marvelous work of art. The tragedy of Othello is splendid material
for creative acting. Is it reasonable not to use this material, and is it possi-
ble not to be enthralled by such a theme? You know you yourself could not
invent anything better than Shakespeare created. He was not a bad writer
at all. No worse than you. Why refuse to give him a trial?
"Would it not be simpler, more natural, to start on your work by using
the text of this play by a genius? He traces the right creative path for you
260
with and beauty and points out the necessary objectives and actions;
clarity
he gives you the right hints in building the proposed circumstances; and
above all he has put into his words the spiritual essence of the play.
"Therefore begin with the text and put your mind to work on reading its
depths. Your feelings will not hesitate to join your mind and lead you
deeper down into the subtext where the writer has concealed the motives
which prompted him to create the play. The text thus gives birth to the
subtext in order to have it recreate the text."
After these explanations Paul and I stopped acting and began to say over
the lines. Of course all we did was repeat the words without taking the
time to penetrate into their underlying meaning.
Tortsov was not long in putting an end to this.
"I suggested that your mind and thought, so that by means

you resort to
of them you would reach your feeling and the subtext," he said to us. "But
where is the mind, where is the thought in what you are doing? You don't
need them to scatter the words around like so many peas. For that all you
need is a voice, lips, and tongue. Mind and thought have nothing in com-
mon with such mechanical action."
After this lecture we started to make ourselves penetrate into the mean-
ing of the words we were pronouncing. The mind is not as skittish as the
feelings and it does admit of more direct pressure.
" 'My noble lord . . .
' " Paul began with calculated tone.
"'What dost thou say, lago?'" I replied with an expression of deep

thought.
" 'Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, know of your love?'
asked Paul, looking as if he were trying to solve a brain-teaser.
" 'He did, from first to last ...,'" I replied with calculated pauses, the
way one speaks in translating from a foreign tongue.
Here Tortsov interrupted our arduous labor.
"I don't believe either of you. You never tried to win Desdemona's hand
and you know nothing about your past," he said to me. "As for you,"
turning to Paul, "you have really very little interest in the questions you
are putting. You don't really need the answers to them. You put a question
and do not even listen to Othello's reply."
Apparendy we had not realized the simple truth that every word spoken
must have its basis, its justification, in some imaginary given circumstance,
some "magic if."
We had done this kind of work more than once, preparing objectives
and actions, but this was the first time we were called upon to do it in
conjunction with the actual words of another person. Besides in our im-
261
APPENDICES
provisatlons, when we were we used any thoughts and words that
acting,
came along. They popped minds and slid off our tongues as part
into our
of the particular objective and action, whenever words became necessary.
But it is one thing to use your own words and thoughts, and quite an-
other to adopt those of someone else, which are permanendy fixed, cast as
it were in bronze, in strong clear shapes. They are unalterable. At first they
are alien, strange, remote, and often even incomprehensible. But they have
to be reborn, made into something vitally necessary, your own, easy, de-
sired — words you would not change, drawn from your own self.
For the first time we were being faced with the process of assimilating
the words of another person. And our amateurish babbling of inanimate
sounds, which was what Paul and I were doing with the magnificent words
of Othello, certainly did not count.
I realized that we had come to a new phase in our work —the creation of
the living word. The roots of this run down into one's soul, they feed on
one's feelings; but the stem reaches up into consciousness where it puts
forth luxuriant foliage of eloquent verbal forms, conveying all the deep
emotions from which they draw their vitality.
I was excited and embarrassed by the importance of this occasion. In

such a state it is difficult to gather in one's attentions and thoughts, to fire
one's imagination to produce a long series of given circumstances, justify-

ing and breathing life into each thought, each phrase, the entire verbal text
of the playwright.
In the distracted condition in which we found ourselves, I felt incapable
of coping with the problem put to me. So we asked Tortsov to postpone
our work until the next lesson so that we could have time and opportunity
to think about it and make preparations at home, that is to say to invent all
the necessary fantasies, given circumstances which would justify and en-
liven the lines which up to now had been so many inert words.
Tortsov agreed.
This evening Paul came to see me and together we thought about various
circumstances which would justify the words of our roles in Othello.
In accordance with Tortsov's prescription we first went through the en-
tire play, and after that we addressed ourselves to the careful study of the
thoughts contained in our scene.
In this way we harnessed to our task, as we were taught to do, the most
biddable of our creative triumvirate —our minds. We read:
262
Iago: My noble lord . . .
Othello: What dost thou say, Iago?

Iago: Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady.
Know of your love?
How much must bring into play to give the Moor occasion
fantasy one
to recall the past. One knows something of his earlier life, the period of his
first acquaintance with Desdemona, his falling in love, the abduction, all
this is in the first acts and Othello's speech to the Senate. But how much
more the author left unsaid concerning what happened before the play be-
gins, also in the intervals between scenes or at the same time as the action
but off stage.
It was what Shakespeare left unsaid that Paul and I undertook to fill
out.
I have neither the time nor the patience to set down here all the many
combinations, permutations of imagination, we thought up concerning
how, with Cassio's aid, secret meetings with Desdemona were contrived.
Many of the things we invented excited us and seemed in our eyes both
poetical and beautiful. For young men like ourselves, who were keen for
love, such themes are always emotionally exciting no matter how many
forms they may take.
We also talked at length on the subject of Othello's feelings with regard
to the woman who did not scorn the love, the kisses, the secret embraces of
this black slave.
On this we broke of? our work for it was after one o'clock. Our heads
were tired and our eyes drooping.
We parted with the satisfaction of knowing that we had made what we
could call a sound beginning for the scene, built on a foundation of pro-
posed circumstances.
Again today, on the eve of our lesson with Tortsov, Paul and I met to
go on with our work of inventing proposed circumstances for our scene in
Othello.
Paul demanded that we work on he had nothing
his role as to show
Tortsov, whereas for mine I had already imagined a few things.
Yes, it was just a few things and far from enough, for I hoped to build
all my scene on a basis of proposed circumstances. It is so much more

pleasant to work on the stage you have that
if basis. However, there was
nothing to do but go to work on Iago.
263
APPENDICES
Again we called our minds words we went through
into play. In other
the text carefxilly, analyzed it, and decided that we wished to look into
the past of this classic Shakespearean villain. Little is said about him in
the play. This, however, had its silver lining, because it left a clear field for
our imagination.
I do not intend to record anything which did not have a direct bearing
on my part. Why should I? Yet anything that does influence my imaginary
character I am bound to enter in this diary.
I feel a great urge to see lago with an attractive exterior, not a repulsive
person at all. Without this it would be impossible to account for the confi-
dence I as Othello have to feel in him. To achieve this there must be a
visual basis for taking lago, the genuine villain, for a simple-hearted man.
If he appears before me in the guise of an operatic villain with viperish
eyes, and makes grimaces, which is how he is usually played, I would be
obliged deliberately to turn away from him or else feel myself in a foolish
position.
The trouble is that Paul is naturally a person who will excuse or forgive
anything. In this case he tends to excuse and forgive lago. In order to do
this he tries to make him jealous of his wife Emilia and Othello who is
supposedly having an affair with her. To be sure, there are hints of this in
the text. Using them as a point of departure you can, to a certain degree,
use them to justify the malice, hatred, thirst for revenge, and all the other
which the soul of lago is impregnated. However, this
vicious qualities with
throwing of a shadow on Othello does not suit me. It does not fall in with
my plans. My fairy-tale hero is pure as a dove. He must be innocent of
relations with women. lago's suspicions must be false. They cannot have
any basis in fact.
Therefore, if Paul feels this is necessary, let lago rage with jealousy; but
I demand of the actor playing the part that he persistendy and skilfully
keep from me any external signs which might reveal these wicked feelings
festering in his soul.
I also need to feel that lago, for all his great mind, is rather simple.
Otherwise how can I laugh at what would seem naive suspicions? I want
to see in lago a huge, immovable, rough, naive, loyal soldier, to whom one
forgives anything for the sake of his devotion. It is easy to hide a villain
under the rough good-natured exterior of a simple-minded soldier, and it
would be difficult for me to unmask him.

I think I persuaded Paul at least pardy to this view.
264
I was just undressing to bed when this question arose in my mind:
go to
Previously, in all our improvisations without the lines of the play, we
started with the proposed circumstances and arrived at the physical ob-
jectives, or the other way round, from the objectives to the proposed
circumstances. Today we acted quite differendy, we began with the play-

wright's own text and finally reached the proposed circumstances just the
same. Does this mean Rome? And therefore does it make
all roads lead to
any difference from which end you make a start from the objective or —
from the text? From the mind or from the will?
I went to Tortsov's lesson today with less than wings on my feet, for I
felt that was far from properly prepared.

I
He on Paul and me first but did not hurry us, that is to say,
called
he gave us time to get ready, to go over in our minds the pattern of pro-
posed circumstances we had prepared.
As we are supposed to do, we called on our intellect as the most re-
sponsive of our three motive powers. It produced the facts, the thoughts
encased in the lives, the circumstances of Othello's and lago's lives, all the
things Paul and I had gone over in our two sessions. This put us on our
rails at once and provided a direct and natural approach to what underlies
the text.
I felt at ease. It on the stage and I also felt I had
was pleasant to be
the right to be there, to speak the words and do what came naturally to
me from the unrolling of the ribbon of proposed circumstances and from
the text itself. Earlier, when I had played Othello in our improvisations I
had only occasionally had this feeling. Now I was completely at ease and
for much longer.
The main point is that when this had happened earlier it was purely un-
conscious, accidental. Now it was brought about consciously with the help
of an inner technique and a systematic approach. Was this not to be called
a success?
I shall try to define the charms of this sensation and what the steps were
which led me to it.
To begin with, Paul as lago was rather skilful in assuming the exterior
of a simple-minded person. At any rate I believed in his transfiguration.
lago says:
Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady.

Know of your love?
265
APPENDICES
As I pondered his question I involuntarily recalled my Venice-Sevastopol-
Nizhny Novgorod house, on the banks of the Volga; I remembered coming
to know Desdemona, her charming, affectionate, playful ways, the wonder-
ful secret meetings arranged with the help of Cassio who knew our secrets
"from first to last."
With these thoughts and pictures in my mind I was glad to answer lago
because I had so much to tell him; I was glad to have him question me at
length. It was difficult to restrain my lips from some
the smile that rose to
inner source. Perhaps was not experiencing what the live Othello did,
I
but I understood the character of his thoughts and sensations and I be-
lieved in them.
That is the great thing on the stage — belief in thoughts and feelings.
It is also a great satisfaction to speak phrases and thoughts which cover
a multitude, an unbroken line, of inner visualizations unrolling like a
moving picture.
To convey anyone else you have to use every available form of
this to
communication and, above all, words. The most suitable and expressive
ones will prove to be Shakespeare's. First, because he is a poet of genius,
and second, because what I now need to know I find in those very words.
What better can convey their own inner essence than they themselves?
Under such circumstances another's words are necessary, dear, and close
to me, they become my own. They come out of their own accord, natu-
rally.
Words which had been empty up to now had been filled out with artistic
invention and imagined pictures in which I was able to believe. In short,

I sensed the spiritual essence of the play, made me
it feel akin to it, and it
required once more itsown forms in order to be made manifest.

What a remarkable process! And how close to the creative ways of nature
itself!
Really it was
though had plucked a seed from a ripe fruit and from
as I
it had raised fruit exacdy like that from which it originally came. I had
taken the kernel substance from the playwright's text and then expressed
it freshly with his words which now were my own. They had become a
necessity to me, not because this time I was determined to get at their core
but because I needed to put that essence in verbal form. The text had bred
the subtext and the subtext had resurrected the text.
This is what happened throughout the beginning of the well-prepared
and well-imagined scene Paul and I worked on in my apartment. What
would now happen to the part I had not yet succeeded in filling out and
justifying with suflBcient proposed circumstances?
266
I collected all my attention in order to take in all of lago's lines. I was
well aware of the villainy underlying his poison-laden questions. I realized,
I mean I felt, their diabolical power, the irresistibility of their logic and
consecutiveness leading inevitably to catastrophe. I could sense what slander
and intrigue could be in the hands of a virtuoso.
For the first time I could follow and feel how by cleverly phrased ques-
tions and a whole series of logically plotted thoughts the villain imper-
ceptibly cut away the firm ground under his victim's feet, poisoned the
pure atmosphere, leading him to astonishment and bewilderment, to doubt;
then awoke suspicion, horror, grief, jealousy, hatred, execration, and finally
vengeance.
This terrifying spiritual transformation of Othello is told in only ten
small printed pages! The genius of the inner pattern of Shakespeare's
masterpiece now struck me with full force for the first time.
I do not know whether I played well or badly, but I had no doubt about
the fact that for the first time I played the text, for the first time I took a
close look into itand saw into the subtext. Perhaps my emotions did not
reach that far, perhaps it was only my attention. Perhaps the creative stage
I was not really living my part but only a presentiment of it. Never-
felt
theless the undoubted fact was that this time the actual lines of the play
hooked me and dragged me along, logically, consecutively, down into their
soul.
Paul and I had a clear and great success today. We were praised not only
by Tortsov and Rakhmanov but also by our fellow students.
The most indicative thing was that not even Grisha objected or criticized.
That was more important than praise. I was happy about this.
Can it be that our success was due just to the author's lines?
"Yes," said Rakhmanov as he went by me, "today you believed Shake-
speare. Before, you hid his words, but today you were not afraid to relish
them. Shakespeare held up his end. You can be sure of that!"
Elated by our success Paul and I by the Gogol monument for a long
sat
time and rehearsed in detail, step by step, everything that happened today at
our lesson.
"All right," he said, "let's begin from the beginning when lago teases
Othello, and my line is:
But for a satisfaction of my thought;

No further harm.
267
APPENDICES
Or, I added more specifically,
... By Heaven, he echoes me,

As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown. . . .
That's it exactly," agreed Paul. "It seemed to me," he went on, "that just
then you and light-hearted."
felt at ease
"Yes, that's true," I answered taking up his hint; "and do you know
why? It was thanks to you. What happened was that I suddenly felt you
were the good-natured soldier whom I had always wanted to see in lago.
I believed you and instantly I had that feeling of 'having the right to be
on the stage.' Then later, at the lines:
And didst contract and purse thy brow together

As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit. . . .
I felt and like cracking some kind of a joke, saying something

quite gay
funny to cheer you up and myself as well," I confessed.
"Tell me once more," asked Paul with interest, "Just where the place is
where I succeeded in winning you away from joking and in making you be
serious?"
"I began to listen to your words, or rather to take in Shakespeare's
thoughts, at the place where you say:
Men should be what they seem;

Or those that be not, would they might seem none!
and then later, where you speak in riddles:
Why then, I think Cassio's an honest man.
or when, pretending to be noble, you seem to be trying to avoid question-

ing:
Good my lord, pardon me.

Though I am bound to every act of duty,
I am not bound to that all slaves are free to
At these points I felt a hint, already tinctured with fiendish poison, and I
thought: What a snake this lago is! He is pretending to be offended so that

he will be more easily believed! Moreover, I realized that although an an-
268
swer like that could not go unchallenged, yet the more explanation is re-
quired the deeper you bog down in the quicksands of his plot. And again
I was amazed at Shakespeare's genius."
"I have the feeling that you philosophized and mulled over the play more
than lived it," said Paul doubtfully.
"I think I did both," Iwhat harm was there in that as
agreed. "But
long as I was at ease when I was questioning you?"
"And so did I when I was squirming out of your questions and be-
wildering you," said Paul, relieved. "That was my objective."
"Objective?" I thought. "Eureka!" I exclaimed suddenly, "Listen care-
fully! is what happened to us," and I painstakingly tried to recover
This
all the sensations and thoughts which I had not yet succeeded in clarifying
and collating. "In all our exercises and improvisations, such as those with
the mad dog and lighting the fire, we started from the objective which
spontaneously generated thoughts and words, a kind of accidental text
which became vital to us in carrying out the given objective.
"Today we started from the author's text and arrived at our objective.
"Wait; let us trace the path of this: The day before yesterday, when we
were working in my apartment, we went from the text to the proposed cir-
cumstances. Isn't that so?" I asked thoughtfully. "Today however, without
our having been conscious of it, we went from the text via the proposed
circumstances and reached our creative objective!
"Let us test this and see how it happened."
We began to recall our induced emotions as we were playing the scene.
It turned out that Paul was trying at first only to draw my attention to him.
Next he wanted me to feel that he was a good-natured soldier, which was

what I too wanted to see in him. To accomplish this he tried to represent
himself in that light as well as he could. When he succeeded in this he began
to drop one thought after another in my mind, all of which were com-
promising to Cassio and Desdemona. Meantime his thoughts were strongly
fixedon the subtext.
As for me, my objectives were evidently as follows: At first I only
clowned, I poked fun at myself and lago. Then when he agitated me I
turned the conversation into serious channels, I wanted to gain a closer
comprehension of the words or rather the thoughts of the villain. Later, I
recall, I tried to make a mental picture of Othello in his complete loneli-
ness, a joyless prospect. Finally, when

was able to a certain extent to
I
achieve this, I realized that the deceived Moor, frightened by the visions
conjured up, would hasten to get rid of, send away this villainous, poison-
ous lago.
269
APPENDICES
All these were objectives engendered by the text. Following it along
through the play we came to other deeper lines, other proposed circum-
stancesand objectives that naturally, spontaneously, and inevitably arose
from the text and the subtext. In this approach there can be none of that
regrettable divergence between the text and subtext as occurred during the
first period of my work on the role of Othello, I mean during my test per-
formance.
So it was, we decided today, that the right, you might say classic, course
of creativeness operates from the text to the mind; from the mind to the
proposed circumstances: from the proposed circumstances to the subtext;
from the subtext to feeling (emotions); from emotions to the objective, de-
sire (will) and from the desire to action, the clothing in words, gestures
and so forth, of the subtext of the play and its parts.
Tomorrow we have a lesson with Tortsov. So today Paul and Iworked

some more on the proposed circumstances and objectives in our scene from
Othello.
We not only succeeded in going through it to the end but were also able
to repeatwhat we had done earlier. As a result the line of proposed cir-

cumstances and objectives was sufficiently filled out.
What a big piece of work! Tortsov must see it.
Can we fail to put it across when we play for him at our lesson?
It would be a pity work should go for nothing and we should
if all this
be unable to clarify completely this thing on which we seem to be getting

a hold!
We did not have to ask Tortsov to let us play. He suggested himself that
we repeat our scene from Othello and we did.
To our complete bewilderment, however, this time we had no success
with it, despite the fact that we felt ourselves to be in a splendid creative
state while we were playing!
"Do not be upset," said Tortsov when we confessed to him how disil-
lusioned we were. "That happened because you overloaded the text. A
long time ago at your test performance, I scolded you because you spat out
your text like bits of unnecessary peel. Today, by contrast, you overbur-
dened the text, made it too heavy by reason of a too complicated and
detailed subtext.
270
"When a word has substantial inner content it becomes heavy and is
spoken slowly. This happens when an actor begins to stress the text to use
it as a vehicle to convey the multitude of his inner emotions, thoughts, visu-
alizations, in brief the whole inner content of the subtext.
"An empty word ratdes like a pea in a dry pod; an overstuffed word is
slow to be turned, like a sphere filled with mercury.

"But I repeat, do not let this distress you. On the contrary it should be
the cause of joy in you," he said approvingly to us both. "The most difficult
thing we have to do is to create a substantial subtext. That caused the over-
loading for you, but in time the inner essence of the text will setde, be
padded down, will crystallize, become more compact and so, without losing
its substance, will gain in lightness and fluency."
271

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z!

1* Method (Acting) 2* Acting* I

20 NOV 92 268014 NJBWCxc 60-10494r925

The Seagull produced by stanislavski

TRANSLATED BY ELIZABETH REYNOLDS HAPGOOD

EDITED BY HERMINE I. POPPER

FOREWORD BY ROBERT LEWIS

THEATRE ARTS BOOKS • New York

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COPYRIGHT UNDER INTERNATIONAL COPYRIGHT UNION

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED UNDER PAN-AMERICAN COPYRIGHT UNION

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO. 60-IO494

THIRD PRINTING, 1968

THEATRE ARTS BOOKS

PUBLISHED SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA BY

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

HERE, almost a quarter of a century after his death, are some

a Role, so provocative, that one feels it is possible to take many

analysis. He teaches us how to create a logical subtext to create

most important, and least understood, aspect of the work, the

and in every style. It cannot be said too often that Stanislavski's

Parts II and III of Creating a Role revert to the style of writing

ings always chosen to be analogous to the feelings inherent in the

reading to the final characterization. There are certain sugges-

in The Lower Depths after playing it eighteen years!) Admirers

ing a Role. Those being introduced to Stanislavski's writings with

his disciples. It is a book for all theatre professionals as well as

Creating a Role is the third volume of Stanislavski's planned

the preparation of specific roles, beginning with the first reading

is as close as possible to the rather longer Russian one, literally

The Wor\ of an Actor on a Role.

a director's promptbook, with his instructions published opposite

phrases have in English, no translator has as yet succeeded in

order to make this first version of Creating a Role accessible to

demonstrates the methods he describes early in My Life in Art,

revises some of the practices in the Woe from Wit section, so

within the versions where we think Stanislavski would have done

Elizabeth Reynolds Hapgood

FOREWORD by Robert Lewis v

Part L Griboyedov's Woe from Wit i

L The Period of Study 3

III. The Period of Physical Embodiment 85

Part II. Shakespeare's Othello 107

IV. First Acquaintance 109

V. Creating the Physical Life of a Role 131

VI. Analysis 151

VII. Checking Work Done and Summing Up 194

Part III. GogoVsThe Inspector General 211

VIII. From Physical Actions to Living Image 213

a. Supplement to Creating a Role 253

Griboyedov's Woe from Wit

The following study in the preparation of a role, with a focus on

The Period of Study

THE PREPARATORY WORK on a role can be divided into

First Acquaintance with a Part

Becoming acquainted with a part is a preparatory period in

reading of the play. This all-important moment can be likened to

one's soul to buoyancy, one must be spiritually and physically

they are false. Another's opinion can distort a naturally established