Kansas University Weekly.
379
LITERARY. DESDEMONA.
BY HAROLD W. SMITH,'97.
The study of stage careers is by no means profitless. It is commonly affirmed of actors that they never live a genuine life in a real world. Accustomed as they are to promiscuous imitations, they become incapable of seriousness and sincerity. Both their thoughts and impulses are tinged with mockery—the glamour of stage—land pervades their very being. In most actors the traits of the artist and of the man are inseparably combined; and in the lives of our best actors I believe that the artistic tendencies are dominant.
The following story told me by its hero several years after the occurrence of its actual incidents will help substantiate the preceding observation. The narrator is now an actor of established reputation and considerable fame. His sterling traits of character are unknown to me, except as they were partly revealed in the process of his own narrative. This was his story, as I recall it.
"Did you ever see my father act? Of course you have. After I had finished college work, he took me with him on his theatrical tours; partly, because he wished companionship and felt the responsibility of directing my future, and partly because he deemed travel an invaluable educator. His method was, as it had always been in my case, to allow me full swing, placing no restraint upon the exercise of my will,—seldom censuring my likes and dislikes. His incessant advice was to observe well,—and by that he meant to analyze and ponder what I saw, not merely to record sensations. And he never tired of impressing the virtue and recounting the benefits of solitude. "Society inculcates fickleness," said he: "solitude gives to character tone and a mould."
His secret hope was that the stage should have no charm for me, although he himself was devoted to his art, even to its mechanism. But, like most successful actors, for some reasons almost unaccountable, he never recommended his profession to youthful aspirants. Strange to say, at first the stage did not allure me; perhaps, because I was then living semi-professionally, tasting the routine of an actor's life without being forced to its drudgery. I
took no part; I studied no part with a view to its enactment. I confess that, at times, my father's inimitable portrayals failed to interest me. My conceptions of roles, scenes and pieces were usually identical with his own, but this ideal agreement was hardly gratifying to either of us.
Father, as you may know, appeared only in Shakespearian plays. At that time these were more popular than they now are. But, pray don't think that I give this as a reason for the exclusiveness of his repertoire. I never slight an opportunity for making this remark. My own theatrical experience warrants it. "The Three Guardsmen" in which I am ill at ease invariably meets with a warmer reception than my Hamlet.
Now, for another confession; or rather, what was once a confession, but now, my boast. I am unduly fond of Shakespeare's women. I love them all. I used to be almost childish in my devotion to them. For hours would I sit and live with them, for them, in them,—would mope with Ophelia, weep for Juliet, and fairly live a Desdemona in thought and feeling. Desdemona! Foolish, guileless girl! Ah! too late did you learn to distrust impulse; and, that even in love pure reason is the only assurance of happiness.
This of Shakespeare's characters suited me exactly. Her beauties and her blemishes alike possessed me. I believe I barely escaped monomania, so absorbed was I in the worship of this one creation. I loved not an ideal, but a fiction.
Father had not played "Othello" for two seasons. He disliked the role of Iago, at least he disliked his leading man's conception of it. Although I seldom made father confidant of my joys and sorrows, yet I did not attempt to conceal from him my whims and distempers. He became aware of my penchant for Desdemona, and I half believe that from that moment he learned to share my liking for her. I was not surprised to hear him, one day in the latter half of the theatrical season, express the intention of reviving his Othello—for a short run, anyway. Rehearsals for the play were soon in progress.