Chapter

The Director began with the encouraging remark that we had the longest part of our inner preparatory work behind us. ‘All this preparation trains your “inner creative state”, it helps you to find your “super-objective” and “through line of action”, it creates a conscious psycho-technique, and in the end it leads you’—this he said with a touch of solemnity—‘to the ‘region of the subconscious”. The study of this important region is a fundamental part of our system.

‘Our conscious mind arranges, and puts a certain amount of order into, the phenomena of the external world that surround us. There is no sharply drawn line between conscious and subconscious experience. Our consciousness often indicates the direction in which our subconscious continues to work. Therefore, the fundamental objective of our psycho-technique is to put us in a creative state in which our subconscious will function naturally.

‘It is fair to say that this technique bears the same relation to subconscious creative nature as grammar does to poetry. It is unfortunate when grammatical considerations overwhelm the poetic. That happens too often in the theatre, yet we cannot do without grammar. It should be used to help arrange subconscious, creative material because it is only when it has been organized that it can take on an artistic form.

‘In the first period of conscious work on a role, an actor feels his way into the life of his part, without altogether understanding what is going on in it, in him, and around him. When he reaches the region of the subconscious the eyes of his soul are opened and he is aware of everything, even minute details, and it all acquires an entirely new significance. He is conscious of new feelings, conceptions, visions, attitudes, both in his role and in himself. Beyond the threshold one’s inner life, of its own accord, takes on a simple, full form, because organic nature directs all the important centres of our creative apparatus. Consciousness knows nothing of all this: even our feelings cannot find their way around in this region—and yet without them true creativeness is impossible.

‘I do not give you any technical methods to gain control of the subconscious. I can only teach you the indirect method to approach it and give yourselves up to its power.

‘We see, hear, understand and think differently before and after we cross the “threshold of the subconscious”. Beforehand we have “true-seeming feelings”, afterwards—“sincerity of emotions”. On this side of it we have the simplicity of a limited fantasy; beyond—the simplicity of the larger imagination. Our freedom on this side of the threshold is limited by reason and conventions; beyond it, our freedom is bold, wilful, active and always moving forwards. Over there the creative process differs each time it is repeated.

‘It makes me think of the shore along the ocean. Big waves and small throw themselves up on the sand. Some play around our ankles, others reach our knees, or even sweep us off our feet, while the largest carry us out to sea, and eventually toss us up on the beach again.

‘Sometimes the tide of the subconscious barely touches an actor, and then goes out. At other times it envelops his whole being, carrying him into its depths until, at length, it casts him up again on the shore of consciousness.

‘All that I am telling you now is in the realm of the emotions, not of reason. You can feel what I say more easily than understand it. Therefore it will be more to the point if, instead of lengthy explanations, I tell you about an actual episode out of my own life which helped me to sense the state I have been describing.

‘At a party one evening, in the house of friends, we were doing various stunts and they decided, for a joke, to operate on me. Tables were carried in, one for operating, the other supposedly containing surgical instruments. Sheets were draped around, bandages, basins, various vessels were brought.

‘The “surgeons” put on white coats and I was dressed in a hospital gown. They laid me on the operating table and bandaged my eyes. What disturbed me was the extremely solicitous manner of the doctors. They treated me as if I were in a desperate condition and did everything with utmost seriousness. Suddenly the thought flashed through my mind: “What if they really should cut me open!”

‘The uncertainty and the waiting worried me. My sense of hearing became acute and I tried not to miss a single sound. All around I could hear them whispering, pouring water, rattling instruments. Now and then a large basin made a booming noise like the toll of a funeral bell.

‘ “Let us begin!” someone whispered.

‘Someone took a firm hold on my right wrist. I felt a dull pain and then three sharp stabs. . . . I couldn’t help trembling. Something that was harsh and smarted was rubbed on my wrist, then it was bandaged, people rustled around, handing things to the surgeon.

‘Finally, after a long pause, they began to speak out loud, they laughed, congratulated me. My eyes were unbandaged and on my left arm lay . . . a new-born baby made out of my right hand, all swaddled in gauze. On the back of my hand they had painted a silly, infantile face.

‘The question is: were the feelings that I experienced true and was my belief in them real or were they what we call “true-seeming’”?

‘Of course, it wasn’t real truth and a real sense of faith,’ Tortsov said as he recalled his sensations. ‘Although we might almost say that, for purposes of the theatre, I really did live those sensations. And yet there was no solid stretch of believing in what I was undergoing. There was a constant wavering back and forth between belief and doubt, real sensations and the illusion of having them. All the while I felt that if I really did have an operation I should go through just such moments as I had during this mock operation. The illusion certainly was sufficiently life like.

‘I felt at times that my emotions were just what they would have been in reality. They recalled sensations familiar to me in real life. I even had presentiments of losing consciousness, if only for a few seconds. They disappeared almost as soon as they came. Yet the illusion left traces. And to this day I am convinced that what happened to me on that evening could happen in real life.

‘That was my first experience in the condition which we call the “region of the subconscious”,’ said the Director as he finished his story.

‘It is a mistake to think that an actor experiences a second state of reality when he is doing creative work on the stage. If that were the case our physical and spiritual organism would be unable to stand the amount of work put on it.

‘As you already know, on the stage we live on emotional memories of realities. At times these memories reach a point of illusion that makes them seem like life itself. Although such a thing as complete forgetting of self and unwavering belief in what is happening on the stage is possible, it occurs rarely. We know of separate moments, long or short in duration, when an actor is lost in “the region of the subconscious”. But during the rest of the time truth alternates with verisimilitude, faith with probability.

‘The story I have just told you is an example of the coincidence of emotion memories with the sensations called for by the part. The analogy which results from this coincidence draws the actor closer to the person he is portraying. At such times a creative artist feels his own life in the life of his part and the life of his part identical with his personal life. This identification results in a miraculous metamorphosis.’

After a few moments of reflection Tortsov continued:

‘Other things besides such coincidences between real life and a role lead us into the “region of the subconscious”. Often a simple external occurrence, having nothing at all to do with the play, or the part, or the peculiar circumstances of the actor, suddenly injects a bit of real life into the theatre and instantly sweeps us into a state of subconscious creativeness.’

‘What kind of an occurrence?’ he was asked.

‘Anything. Even the dropping of a handkerchief, or the overturning of a chair. A live incident in the conditioned atmosphere of the stage is like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room. The actor must pick up the handkerchief, or the chair, spontaneously, because that wasn’t rehearsed in the play. He doesn’t do it as an actor but in an ordinary, human way and creates a bit of truth that he must believe in. This truth will stand out in sharp contrast to his conditioned, conventional surroundings. It is in his power to include such accidental moments of reality in his part or to leave them out. He can treat them as an actor and, for that one occasion, fit them into the pattern of his part. Or, he can, for a moment, step out of his part, dispose of the accidental intrusion, and then go back to the convention of the theatre and take up his interrupted action.

‘If he can really believe in the spontaneous occurrence and use it in his part, it will help him. It will put him on the road towards the “threshold of the subconscious”.

‘Such occurrences often act as a kind of tuning fork, they strike a living note and oblige us to turn from falseness and artificiality back to truth. Just one such moment can give direction to all the rest of the role.

‘Therefore, learn to appreciate any such occurrences. Don’t let them slip by. Learn to use them wisely when they happen of their own accord. They are an excellent means of drawing you closer to the subconscious.’

The Director’s opening remark today was:

‘Up to now we have been dealing with accidental occurrences which can serve as an approach to the subconscious. But we cannot base any rules on them. What can an actor do if he is not sure of success?

‘He has no course open except to turn for assistance to a conscious psycho-technique. It can prepare ways and favourable conditions for the approach to the “region of the subconscious”. You will understand this better if I give you a practical illustration.

‘Kostya and Vanya! Please play for us the opening scene of the exercise with the “burnt money”. You will remember that you begin all creative work by first relaxing your muscles. So please seat yourselves comfortably and rest, just as if you were at home.’

We went on to the stage and carried out his instructions.

That’s not enough. Relax more!’ called Tortsov from the auditorium. ‘Make yourselves even more at home. You must feel more at your ease than when you are at home, because we are not dealing with reality, but with “solitude in public”. So do loosen up your muscles more. Cut ninety-five per cent, of that tenseness!

‘Perhaps you think that I exaggerate the amount of your excess strain? No, indeed. The effort that an actor makes, when he stands before a large audience, is immeasurable. The worst of it is that all this effort and force is brought about almost unnoticed by, unwished for, and unthought of by the actor.

‘Therefore, be quite bold in throwing off as much tenseness as you possibly can. You needn’t think for a moment that you will have less than you need. No matter how much you reduce tension, it will never be enough.’

‘Where do you draw the line?’ someone asked.

‘Your own physical and spiritual state will tell you what is right. You will sense what is true and normal better when you reach the state that we call “I am”.’

I already felt that Tortsov could not ask for a more relaxed state than the one I was in. Nevertheless he continued to call for still less tension.

As a result I overdid and reached a state of prostration and numbness. That is another aspect of muscular rigidity and I had to struggle against it. To do that I changed poses and tried to get rid of pressure through action. I changed from a quick, nervous rhythm to one which was slow, almost lazy.

The Director not only noticed but approved of what I was doing.

‘When an actor is making too much effort it is sometimes a good idea for him to introduce a lighter, more frivolous, approach to his work. That is another way of dealing with tenseness.’

But I still was unable to achieve the real sense of ease I feel when I am sprawling on my sofa at home.

At this point Tortsov, in addition to calling for still more relaxation, reminded us that we should not be doing this for its own sake. He recalled the three steps: tenseness, relaxation, justification.

He was quite right because I had forgotten about them, and as soon as I corrected my mistake I felt an entire change come over me. My whole weight was drawn towards the earth. I sank deep into the arm-chair in which I was half lying. Now, it seemed to me, the greater part of my tenseness had disappeared. Even so I did not feel as free as I do in ordinary life. What was the matter? When I stopped to analyse my condition I found that my attention was strained and kept me from relaxing. To this the Director said:

‘Strained attention shackles you every bit as much as muscular spasms. When your inner nature is in its grip your subconscious process cannot develop normally. You must achieve inner freedom as well as physical relaxation.’

‘Ninety-five per cent, off on that too, I suppose,’ put in Vanya.

‘Quite right. The excess of tension is just as great, only you must deal with it more subtly. In comparison with muscles the figments of the soul are as cobwebs to cables. Singly they are easily broken, but you can spin them into stout cords. However, when they are first spun treat them with delicacy.’

‘How can we handle inner spasms?’ one student asked.

‘In the same way you deal with muscular contractions. You first search out the point of tension. Next you try to relieve it and finally you build a basis for freedom from it in an appropriate supposition.

‘Make use of the fact that in this case your attention is not allowed to wander all over the theatre but is concentrated inside of you. Give it some interesting object, something that will help your exercise. Direct it to some attractive objective or action.’

I began to go over the objectives in our exercise, all of its given circumstances; mentally I went through all the rooms. Then the unexpected happened. I found myself in an unfamiliar room, one I had not been in before. There was an aged couple, my wife’s parents. This unprepared for circumstance affected and stirred me, because it complicated my responsibilities. Two more people to work for, five mouths to feed, not counting myself! This added significance to my work, to tomorrow’s checking of accounts, to my own going over of papers now. I sat in the arm-chair and nervously twisted a bit of string around my fingers.

That was fine,’ exclaimed Tortsov approvingly. ‘That was real freedom from tension. Now I can believe everything you are doing and thinking about even though I do not know exactly what is in your mind.’

He was right. When I checked over my body I found that my muscles were free from contraction. Evidently I had reached the third stage naturally by sitting there and finding a real basis for my work.

‘There you have real truth, faith in your actions, the state we call “I am”. You are on the threshold,’ he said softly to me. ‘Only don’t be in a hurry. Use your inner vision to see through to the end of each thing you do. If necessary, introduce some new supposition. Stop! Why did you waver then?’

It was easy for me to get back on to the track. I had only to say to myself:

‘Suppose they find a large shortage in the accounts?! That would mean a re-checking of all the books and papers. What a ghastly job. And to have to do it all alone, at this hour of the night—!’

Mechanically I pulled out my watch. It was four o’clock. In the afternoon or in the morning? For a moment I assumed it was the latter. I was excited and instinctively threw myself towards my desk and began to work furiously.

Out of the corner of my ear I heard Tortsov make some approving comment and explain to the students that this was the right approach to the subconscious. But I no longer paid any attention to encouragement. I did not need it because I was really living on the stage and could do anything I chose.

Evidently the Director, having achieved his pedagogic purpose, was ready to interrupt me but I was eager to cling to my mood and I went right on.

‘Oh, I see,’ said he to the others. ‘This is a big wave.’ Nor was I satisfied. I wanted to complicate my situation further and enhance my emotions. So I added a new circumstance: a substantial defalcation in my accounts. In admitting that possibility I said to myself: What would I do? At the very thought my heart was in my mouth.

‘The water is up to his waist now,’ commented Tortsov.

‘What can I do?’ I cried excitedly, ‘I must get back to the office!’ I rushed towards the vestibule. Then I remembered that the office was closed, so I came back and paced up and down trying to gather my thoughts. I finally sat down in a dark corner of the room to think things out.

I could see, in my mind’s eye, some severe persons going over the books and counting the funds. They questioned me but I did not know how to answer. An obstinate kind of despair kept me from making a clean breast.

Then they wrote out a resolution, fatal to my career. They stood around in groups, whispering. I stood to one side, an outcast. Then an examination, trial, dismissal, confiscation of property, loss of home.

‘He is out in the ocean of the subconscious now,’ said the Director. Then he leaned over the footlights and said softly to me: ‘Don’t hurry, go through to the very end.’

He turned to the other students again and pointed out that although I was motionless, you could feel the storm of emotions inside of me.

I heard all these remarks, but they did not interfere with my life on the stage, or draw me away from it. At this point my head was swimming with excitement because my part and my own life were so intermingled that they seemed to merge. I had no idea where one began or the other left off. My hand ceased wrapping the string around my fingers and I became inert.

‘That is the very depth of the ocean,’ explained Tortsov.

I do not know what happened from then on. I know only that I found it easy and pleasant to execute all sorts of variations. I decided once more that I must go to the office, then to my attorney; or I made up my mind I must find certain papers to dear my name, and I hunted through all sorts of drawers.

When I finished playing, the Director said to me, with great seriousness:

‘Now you have the right to say that you have found the ocean of the subconscious by your own experience. We can make analogous experiments by using any one of the “elements of the creative mood” as a starting point, imagination and suppositions, desires and objectives (if they are well defined), emotions (if naturally aroused). You can begin with various propositions and conceptions. If you sense the truth in a play subconsciously, your faith in it will naturally follow, and the state of “I am”. The important thing to remember in all these combinations is that whatever element you choose to start with you must carry to the limit of its possibilities. You already know that in taking up any one of these links in the creative chain you pull them all along.

I was in a state of ecstasy, not because the Director had praised me but because I had again felt creative inspiration. When I confessed this to Tortsov he explained: ‘You are not drawing the right it conclusion from today’s lesson. Something much more important took place than you think. The coming of inspiration was only an accident. You cannot count on it. But you can rely on what actually did occur. The point is, inspiration did not come to you of its own accord. You called for it, by preparing the way for it. This result is of far greater importance.

‘The satisfying conclusion that we can draw from today’s lesson is that you now have the power to create favourable conditions for the birth of inspiration. Therefore put your thought on what arouses your inner motive forces, what makes for your inner creative mood. Think of your super-objective and the through line of action that leads to it. In short, have in your mind everything that can be consciously controlled and that will lead you to the subconscious. That is the best possible preparation for inspiration. But never try for a direct approach to inspiration for its own sake. It will result in physical contortion and the opposite of everything you desire.’

Unfortunately the Director had to postpone further discussion of the subject until the next lesson.

Today Tortsov continued to sum up the results of our last lesson. He began:

‘Kostya gave you a practical demonstration of the way conscious psycho-technique arouses the subconscious creativeness of nature. At first you might think that we had not accomplished anything new. Work was begun, as it should be, with the freeing of muscles. Kostya’s attention was concentrated on his body. But he transferred it skilfully to the supposed circumstances of the exercise. Fresh inner complications justified his sitting there, motionless, on the stage. In him, that basis for his immobility completely freed his muscles. Then he created all sorts of new conditions for his make-believe life. They enhanced the atmosphere of the whole exercise and sharpened the situation with possible tragic implications. This was a source of real emotion.

‘Now you ask: What is new in all this? The “difference” is infinitesimal, and lies in my having obliged him to carry out each creative act to its fullest limit. That’s all.’

‘How can that be all?’ Vanya blurted.

‘Very simply. Carry all of the elements of the inner creative state, your inner motive forces, and your through line of action to the limit of human (not theatrical) activity, and you will inevitably feel the reality of your inner life. Moreover you will not be able to resist believing in it.

‘Have you noticed that each time this truth and your belief in it is born, involuntarily, the subconscious steps in and nature begins to function? So when your conscious psycho-technique is carried to its fullest extent the ground is prepared for nature’s subconscious process.

‘If you only knew how important this new addition is!

‘It is all very pleasant to think that every bit of creativeness is full of importance, exaltation, and complexities. As a matter of actual fact we find that even the smallest action or sensation, the slightest technical means, can acquire a deep significance on the stage only if it is pushed to its limit of possibility, to the boundary of human truth, faith and the sense of “I am”. When this point is reached, your whole spiritual and physical make-up will function normally, just as it does in real life and without regard to the special condition of your having to do your creative work in public.

‘In bringing beginners like you to the “threshold of the subconscious” I take a diametrically opposite view from many teachers. I believe that you should have this experience and use it when you are working on your inner “elements” and “inner creative state”, in all your drills and exercises.

‘I want you to feel right from the start, if only for short periods, that blissful sensation which actors have when their creative faculties are functioning truly, and subconsciously. Moreover, this is something you must learn through your own emotions and not in any theoretical way. You will learn to love this state and constantly strive to achieve it.’

‘I can readily see the importance of what you have just told us,’ I said. ‘But you have not gone far enough. Please give us now the technical means by which we can push any one element to its very limit.’

‘Gladly. On the one hand you must first discover what the obstacles are, and learn to deal with them. On the other hand, you must search out whatever will facilitate the process. I shall discuss the difficulties first.

‘The most important one, as you know, is the abnormal circumstance of an actor’s creative work—it must be done in public. The methods of wrestling with this problem are familiar to you. You must achieve a proper “creative state”. Do that first of all and when you feel that your inner faculties are ready, give your inner nature the slight stimulus it needs to begin functioning.’

‘That is just what I don’t understand. How do you do it?’ Vanya exclaimed.

‘By introducing some unexpected, spontaneous incident, a touch of reality. It makes no difference whether it is physical or spiritual in origin. The one condition is that it must be germane to the super-objective and the through line of action. The unexpectedness of the incident will excite you and your nature will rush forward.’

‘But where do I find that slight touch of truth?’ insisted Vanya.

‘Everywhere: in what you dream, or think, or suppose or feel,’ in your emotions, your desires, your little actions, internal or external, in your mood, the intonations of your voice, in some imperceptible detail of the production, pattern of movements.’

‘And then what will happen?’

‘Your head will swim from the excitement of the sudden and complete fusion of your life with your part. It may not last long but while it does last you will be incapable of distinguishing between yourself and the person you are port- raying.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, as I have already told you, truth and faith will lead you into the region of the subconscious and hand you over to the power of nature.’

After a short pause the Director continued:

‘There are other obstacles in your way. One of them is vagueness. The creative theme of the play may be vague, or the plan of the production may not be clear-cut. A part may be worked out wrong, or its objectives may be indefinite. The actor may be uncertain about the means of expression he has chosen. If you only knew how doubt and indecision can weigh you down! The only way of dealing with that situation is by clearing up all that is lacking in precision.

‘Here is another menace: some actors do not fully realize the limitations placed on them by nature. They undertake problems beyond their powers to solve. The comedian wants to play tragedy, the old man to be jeune premier, the simple type longs for heroic parts and the soubrette for the dramatic. This can only result in forcing, impotence, stereotyped, mechanical action. These are also shackles and your only means of getting out of them is to study your art and yourself in relation to it.

‘Another frequent difficulty arises from too conscientious work, too great an effort. The actor puffs; he forces himself to give an external expression to something he does not actually feel. All one can do here is to advise the actor not to try so hard.

‘All these are obstacles that you must learn to recognize. The constructive side, the discussion of what helps you to reach the “threshold of the subconscious”, is a complicated question for which we have not sufficient time today.’

‘Now we come to the positive side,’ said the Director at the beginning of our lesson today. ‘To the conditions and means which help an actor in his creative work and lead him to the promised land of the subconscious. It is difficult to speak of this realm. It is not always subject to reasoning. What can we do? We can change to a discussion of the super-objective and through line of action.’

‘Why to them? Why do you choose these two? What is the connection?’ came from various perplexed students.

‘Principally because they are predominantly conscious in their make-up and subject to reason. Other grounds for this choice will appear in our lesson today.’

He called on Paul and me to play the opening lines of the first scene between Iago and Othello.

We prepared ourselves and played it with concentration and right inner feelings.

‘What are you intent on just now?’ Tortsov asked.

‘My first object is to attract Kostya’s attention,’ answered Paul.

‘I was concentrated on understanding what Paul was saying, and trying to visualize his remarks inwardly,’ I explained.

‘Consequently, one of you was drawing the attention of the other in order to attract his notice, and the other was trying to penetrate and visualize the remarks being made to him in order to penetrate and visualize those remarks.’

‘No, indeed!’ we protested vigorously.

‘But that is all that could happen in the absence of a super-objective and the through line of action for the whole play. There can be nothing but individual, unrelated actions, undertaken each for his own sake.

‘Now repeat what you have just done and add the next scene in which Othello jokes with Iago.’

When we had finished Tortsov again asked us what our objective had been.

‘Dolce far niente,’ was my answer.

‘What had become of your previous objective, of understanding your colleague?’

It was absorbed in the next and more important step.’

‘Now repeat everything up to this point and add still another bit, the first intimations of jealousy.’

We did as directed and awkwardly defined our objective as ‘poking fun at the absurdity of Iago’s vow.’

‘And now where are your former objectives?’ probed the Director.

I was going to say that they too had been swallowed up in a succeeding and more important aim, but I thought better of my answer and remained silent.

‘What’s the matter? What is troubling you?’

‘The fact that at this point in the play the theme of happiness is broken off and the new theme of jealousy begins.’

‘It does not break off,’ corrected Tortsov. ‘It changes with the changing circumstances of the play. First the line passes through a short period of bliss for the newly married Othello, he jokes with Iago, then come amazement, dismay, doubt. He repels the onrushing tragedy, calms his jealousy, and returns to his happy state.

‘We are familiar with such changes of moods in reality. Life runs along smoothly, then suddenly doubt, disillusion, grief are injected and still later they blow over and everything is bright once more.

‘You have nothing to fear from such changes; on the contrary, learn to make the most of them, to intensify them. In the present instance that is easy to do. You have only to recall the early stages of Othello’s romance with Desdemona, the recent blissful past, and then contrast all this with the horror and torture Iago is preparing for the Moor.’

‘I don’t see. What should we recall out of their past?’ asked Vanya.

‘Think of those wonderful first meetings in the house of Brabantio, the tales of Othello, the secret meetings, the abduction of the bride and the marriage, the separation on the wedding night, the meeting again in Cyprus under the southern sun, the unforgettable honeymoon, and then, in the future—all the result of Iago’s hellish intrigue, the fifth act.

‘Now go on —!’

We went through the whole scene up to Iago’s famous vow, by the sky and by the stars, to consecrate his mind, will and feelings, his all, to the service of the abused Othello.

‘If you work your way through the whole play in this way, your familiar objectives will naturally be absorbed in larger and fewer aims, which will stand like guide posts along the through line of action. This larger objective gathers up all the smaller ones subconsciously and eventually forms the through line of action for the whole tragedy.’

The discussion turned next on the right name for the first large objective. No one, not even the Director himself, could decide the question. That was, of course, not surprising, as a real, live, engaging objective cannot be found immediately and by a purely intellectual process. However, for lack of a better one, we did decide on an awkward name for it—‘I wish to idealize Desdemona, to give up my whole life to her service.’

As I reflected about this larger objective, I found that it helped me to intensify the whole scene as well as other parts of my role. I felt this whenever I began to shape any action toward the ultimate goal—the idealization of Desdemona. All the other inner objectives lost their significance. For example, take the first one: to try to understand what Iago is saying. What was the point of that? No one knows. Why try when it is perfectly clear that Othello is in love, is thinking of no one but her, and will speak of no one else. Therefore, all enquiries and thoughts of her are necessary and pleasing to him.

Then take our second objective—dolce far niente. That is no longer necessary or right. In talking about her the Moor is engaged in something important and vital to him, and again for the reason that he wishes to idealize her.

After Iago’s first Vow I imagine that Othello laughed. It was pleasant for him to think that no stain could touch his crystal-pure divinity. This conviction put him into a joyful state of mind and intensified his worship for her. Why? For the same reason as before. I understood better than ever how gradually jealousy took hold of him, how imperceptibly his faith in his ideal weakened and the realization grew and strengthened that wickedness, depravity, snake- like cunning, could be contained in such an angelic form.

‘Now where are your former objectives?’ queried the Director.

They have all been swallowed up in our concern over a lost ideal.’

‘What conclusion can you draw from this work today?’ he asked, and then he went on to answer his own question.

‘I made the actors playing that scene between Othello and Iago feel for themselves, in actual practice, the process by which the larger objectives absorb the smaller ones. Now Kostya and Paul also know that the more distant goal draws you away from the nearer one. Left to themselves, these smaller objectives naturally pass under the guidance of nature and the subconscious.

‘Such a process is easy to understand. When an actor gives himself up to the pursuit of a larger objective, he does it completely. At such times nature is free to function in accordance with net own needs and desires. In other words Kostya and Paul now know through their own experience that an actor’s creative work, while on the stage, is really, either in whole or in part, an expression of his creative subconscious.’

The Director reflected for a while and then added:

‘You will see these larger objectives undergo a transformation, similar to that of the smaller ones, when the super-objective supersedes them all. They fall into place as steps leading to a final, all-embracing goal—steps that will, to a large extent, be taken subconsciously.

‘The through line of action is made up, as you know, of a series of large objectives. If you realize how many, many smaller objectives, transformed into subconscious actions, they contain, then consider the extent of the subconscious activities that flow into the through line of action as it goes across the whole play, giving it a stimulating power to influence our subconscious indirectly.’

‘The creative force of the through line of action is in direct proportion to the power of attraction of the super-objective. This not only gives the super-objective a place of primary importance in our work; it also obliges us to devote particular attention to its quality.

‘There are many “experienced directors” who can define a super-objective offhand, because they “know the game” and are “old hands” at it. But they are of no use to us.

‘There are other directors and playwrights who dig out a purely intellectual main theme. It will be intelligent and right but it will lack charm for the actor. It can serve as a guide but not as a creative force.

‘In order to determine the kind of stimulating super-objective we do need to arouse our inner natures, I shall put a number of questions and answer them.

‘Can we use a super-objective that is not right from the author’s point of view, and yet is fascinating to us actors.’

‘No, It is not only useless but dangerous. It can only draw the actors, away from their parts and the play.

‘Can we use a main theme which is merely intellectual? No, not a dry product of pure reason. And yet a conscious super-objective, that derives from interesting, creative thinking, is essential.

‘What about an emotional objective? It is absolutely necessary to us, necessary as air and sunlight.

‘And an objective based on will that involves our whole physical and spiritual being? It is necessary.

‘What can be said of a super-objective that appeals to your creative imagination, which absorbs your whole attention, satisfies your sense of truth, and faith, and all the elements of your inner mood? Any such theme that puts your inner motive forces to work is food and drink for you as an artist.

Consequently, what we need is a super-objective which is in harmony with the intentions of the playwright and at the same time response in the soul of the actors. That means that we must search for it not only in the play but in the actors themselves.

‘Moreover, the same theme, in the same part, set for all the actors who play it, will bring a different expression from each of them. Take some perfectly simple, realistic objective, such as: I will to grow rich! Think of the variety of subtle motives, methods and conceptions you can put into the idea of wealth and its attainment. There is so much, too, that is individual in such a problem and cannot be subject to conscious analysis. Then take a more complicated super-objective, such as lies at the root of a symbolic play by Ibsen or an impressionistic play by Maeterlinck, and you will find that the subconscious element in it is incomparably more profound, complex and individual.

‘All these individual reactions are of great significance. They give life and colour to a play. Without them the main theme would be dry and inanimate. What gives that intangible charm to a theme so that it infects all the actors playing one and the same part? Largely it is something we cannot dissect, rising from the subconscious with which it must be in close association.’

Vanya was again distressed and asked, ‘Then how do we get at it?’

‘In the same way you deal with the various “elements”. You push it to the extreme limit of truthfulness and sincere belief in it, to the point where the subconscious comes in of its own accord.

‘Here again you must make that small but extraordinarily important little “addition”, just as you did when we discussed the extreme development of the functions of the “elements”, and again when we had up the question of the through line of action.’

‘It can’t be very easy to find such an irresistible super-objective,’ someone said.

‘It is impossible to do it without inner preparation. The usual practice, however, is quite different. The director sits in his study and goes over a play. At almost the first rehearsal he announces the main theme to the actors. They try to follow his direction. Some, by accident, may get hold of the inner essence of the play. Others will approach it in an external, formal way. They may use his theme at first, to give the right direction to their work but later they ignore it. They either follow the pattern of the production, the “business’, or they go after the plot and a mechanical rendering of the action and the lines.

‘Naturally, a super-objective that leads to such results has lost all its significance. An actor must find the main theme for himself. If, for any reason, one is given to him by someone else, he must filter it through his own being until his own emotions are affected by it.

‘To find the main theme, is it sufficient to employ our usual methods of psycho-technique for bringing about a proper inner creative state, and then add the extra touch which leads to the region of the subconscious?

‘In spite of the great value I lay on that preparatory work, I must confess that I do not think even the inner state it creates is capable of undertaking the search for the super-objective. You cannot feel around for it outside of the play itself. So you must, even in some small degree, feel the atmosphere of your make-believe existence in the play and then pour these feelings into your already prepared inner state. Just as yeast breeds fermentation, this sense of life in a play will bring your creative faculties to boiling point.’

‘How do we introduce yeast into our creative state?’ said I, puzzled. ‘How can we make ourselves feel the life of the play before we have even studied it?’

Grisha confirmed me. He said, ‘Of course, you must study the play and its main theme first.’

‘Without any preparation, à froid?’ the Director broke in. ‘I have already explained to you what that results in, and I have protested against that type of approach to a play or a part.

‘My main objection, however, is to putting an actor in an impossible position. He must not be forcibly fed on other people’s ideas, conceptions, emotion memories or feelings. Each person has to live through his own experiences. It is important that they be individual to him and analogous to those of the person he is to portray. An actor cannot be fattened like a capon. His own appetite must be tempted. When that is aroused he will demand the material he needs for simple actions; he will then absorb what is given him and make it his own. The director’s job is to get the actor to ask and look for the details that will put life into his part. He will not need these details for an intellectual analysis of his part. He will want them for the carrying out of actual objectives.

‘Besides, any information and material which he does not need immediately to pursue his aims only clutters up his mind and interferes with his work. He should be careful to avoid this, especially during the early period of creativeness.’

‘Then what can we do?’

‘Yes,’ Grisha said, echoing Vanya. ‘You tell us we may not study the play and yet we must know it!’

‘Again I must remind you that the work we are discussing is based on the creation of lines formed from small, accessible, physical objectives, small truths, belief in them, which are taken from the play itself and which give to it a living atmosphere.

‘Before you have made a detailed study of the play or your part, execute some one small action (I do not care how slight it is), which you do with sincerity and truthfulness.

‘Let us say that one of the persons in the play has to come into a room. Can you walk into a room?’ asked Tortsov.

‘I can,’ answered Vanya promptly.

‘All right then, walk in. But let me assure you that you cannot do it until you know who you are, where you came from, what room you are entering, who lives in the house, and a mass of other given circumstances that must influence your action. To fill all that in so that you can enter the room as you should, will oblige you to learn something about the life of the play.

‘Moreover, the actor has to work out these suppositions for himself and give them his own interpretation. If the director tries to force them on him the result is violence. In my way of doing, this cannot happen because the actor asks the director for what he needs as he needs it. This is an important condition for free, individual creativeness.

‘An artist must have full use of his own spiritual, human material because that is the only stuff from which he can fashion a living soul for his part. Even if his contribution is slight, it is the better because it is his own.

‘Suppose, as the plot unfolds, when you come into that room you meet a creditor and that you are far behind on the payment of your debt to him. What would you do?’

‘I don’t know,’ exclaimed Vanya.

‘You have to know, otherwise you cannot play the part. You will just say your lines mechanically and act with pretence instead of truth. You must put yourself into some position analogous to that of your character. If necessary, you will add new suppositions. Try to remember when you yourself were ever in a similar position and what you did. If you never were in one, create a situation in your imagination. Sometimes you can live more intensely, more keenly, in your imagination than in real life. If you make all your preparations for your work in a human, real way, not mechanically; if you are logical and coherent in your purposes and actions, and if you consider all the attending conditions of the life of your part, I do not doubt for a moment that you will know just how to act. Compare what you have decided on with the plot of the play and you will feel a certain kinship with it, to a great or small degree. You will come to feel that, given the circumstances, the opinions, the social position of the character you are playing, you would be bound to act as he did.

‘That closeness to your part we call perception of yourself in the part and of the part in you.

‘Suppose you go through the whole play, all of its scenes, bits, objectives, and that you find the right actions and accustom yourself to executing them from start to finish. You will then have established an external form of action which we call the “physical life of a part”. To whom do these actions belong, to you or to the part?’

‘To me, of course,’ said Vanya.

‘The physical aspect is yours and the actions too. But the objectives, their inner foundation and sequence, all the given circumstances are mutual. Where do you leave off and where does your part begin?’

‘That’s impossible to say,’ answered Vanya, perplexed.

‘All you must remember is that the actions you have worked out are not simply external. They are based on inner feelings; they are reinforced by your belief in them. Inside of you, parallel to the line of physical actions, you have an unbroken line of emotions verging on the subconscious. You cannot fellow the line of external action sincerely and directly and not have the corresponding emotions.’

Vanya made a gesture of despair.

‘I see your head is swimming already. That is a good sign, because it shows that so much of your role has already become mixed into your own self that you cannot possibly tell where to draw the line between you and your part. Because of that state you will feel yourself closer than ever to your part.

‘If you go through a whole play that way you will have a real conception of its inner life. Even when that life is still in the embryonic stage, it is vital. Moreover, you can speak for your character in your own person. This is of utmost importance as you develop your work systematically and in detail. Everything that you add from an inner source will find its rightful place. Therefore, you should bring yourself to the point of taking hold of a new role concretely, as if it were your own life. When you sense that real kinship to your part, you will be able to pour feelings into your inner creative state, which borders on the subconscious, and boldly begin the study of the play and its main theme.

‘You will now realize what a long, arduous task it is to find a broad, deep, stirring super-objective and through line of action that will be capable of leading you to the threshold of the subconscious and carrying you off into its depths. Also you see now how important it is, during your search, to sense what the author of the play had in his mind and to find in yourself a responsive chord.

‘How many themes must be cut back so that others will grow! How many times must we aim and shoot before we hit the bull’s eye!

‘Every real artist should make it his object, while he is on the stage, to centre his entire creative concentration on just the super-objective and through line of action, in their broadest and deepest meaning. If they are right all the rest will be brought about subconsciously, miraculously, by nature. This will happen on condition that the actor recreates his work, each time he repeats his part, with sincerity, truth and directness. It is only on that condition that he will be able to free his art from mechanical and stereotyped acting, from “tricks” and all forms of artificiality. If he accomplishes this he will have real people and real life all around him on the stage, and living art which has been purified from all debasing elements.’

‘Let us go still farther!’ exclaimed the Director as he began the lesson. ‘Imagine some IDEAL ARTIST who has decided to devote himself to a single, large purpose in life: to elevate and entertain the public by a high form of art; to expound the hidden, spiritual beauties in the writings of poetic geniuses. He will give new renderings of already famous plays and parts, in ways calculated to bring out their more essential qualities. His whole life will be consecrated to this high cultural mission.

‘Another type of artist may use his personal success to convey his own ideas and feelings to the masses. Great people may have a variety of high purposes.

‘In their cases the super-objective of any one production will be merely a step in the fulfilment of an important life purpose, which we shall call a supreme objective and its execution a supreme through line of action.

‘To illustrate what I mean I shall tell you of an incident from my own life.

‘A long time ago, when our company was on tour in St. Petersburg, I was kept late in the theatre by an unsuccessful, badly prepared rehearsal. I was upset by the attitude of some of my colleagues. I was tired and angry as I left. Suddenly I found myself in a mass of people in the square before the theatre. Bonfires were blazing, people were sitting on campstools, on the snow half asleep, some were huddled in a kind of tent that protected them from the cold and wind. The extraordinary number of people—there were thousands of them—were waiting for morning and the box office to open.

‘I was deeply stirred. To appreciate what these people were doing I had to ask myself: “What event, what glorious prospect, what amazing phenomenon, what world-famous genius could induce me to shiver night after night out in the cold, especially when this sacrifice would not even give me the desired ticket, but only a coupon entitling me to stand in line on the chance of obtaining a seat in the theatre?”

‘I could not answer the question because I could not find any happening that could persuade me to risk my health, perhaps even my life, for its sake. Think what the theatre meant to those people! We should be deeply conscious of that. What an honour for us that we can bring such a high order of happiness to thousands of people. I was instantly seized with the desire to set a supreme goal for myself, the carrying out of which would constitute a supreme through line of action and in which all minor objectives would be absorbed.

‘The danger would lie in letting one’s attention centre for too long on some small, personal problem.’

‘Then what would happen?’

‘The same thing that happens to a child when he ties a weight on the end of a string and winds it up on a stick. The more it winds the shorter the string becomes and the smaller the circle it describes. Finally it strikes the stick. But suppose another child pushes his stick into the orbit of the weight. Its momentum will cause it to wind its string on the second stick and the first child’s game is ruined.

‘We actors have a tendency to become sidetracked in the same way, and to put our energy into problems aside from our main purpose. That, of course, is dangerous and has a deteriorating influence on our work.’

All during these recent lessons I had been rather dismayed at hearing so much reasoning about the subconscious. The subconscious is inspiration. How can you reason about it? I was even more shocked by being obliged to piece the subconscious together out of small bits and crumbs. So I went to the Director and spoke my mind.

‘What makes you think’, said he, ‘that the subconscious belongs altogether to inspiration? Without stopping to think, instantly, give me the name of some noun!’

Here he turned abruptly to Vanya, who said, ‘A shaft.’

‘Why a shaft, why not a table, which is standing in front of you, or a chandelier, hanging overhead?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Vanya.

‘Neither do I,’ said Tortsov. ‘Moreover, I know that no one knows. Only your subconscious can tell why that particular object came into the foreground of your mind.’

Here he put another question to Vanya: ‘What are you thinking about, and what do you feel?’

‘I?’ Vanya hesitated, then he ran his fingers through his hair, stood up abruptly and then sat down, rubbed his wrists on his knees, picked up a scrap of paper from the floor and folded it up, all this in preparation of his reply.

Tortsov laughed heartily.

‘Let me see you repeat consciously every little movement you just made before you were ready to answer my question. Only your subconscious could solve the puzzle of why you went through all those motions.’

Thereupon he turned back to me and said, ‘Did you notice how everything Vanya did was lacking in inspiration yet contained a great deal of subconsciousness? So, too, you will find it to some degree in the simplest act, desire, problem, feeling, thought, communication or adjustment. We live very close to it ordinarily. We find it in every step we take. Unfortunately we cannot adapt all of these moments of subconsciousness to our uses, and also there are fewer of them where we need them most, when we are on the stage. Just try to find any in a well-polished, ingrained, hackneyed production. There will be nothing in it but hard and fast, established habits, conscious and mechanical.’

‘But mechanical habits are partly subconscious,’ insisted Grisha.

‘Yes, but not the kind of subconsciousness we are discussing,’ replied Tortsov. ‘We need a creative, human, subconscious and the place to look for it above all is in a stirring objective and its through line of action. Their consciousness and subconsciousness are subtly and marvellously blended. When an actor is completely absorbed by some profoundly moving objective, so that he throws his whole being passionately into its execution, he reaches a state that we call inspiration. In it almost everything he does is subconscious and he has no conscious realization of how he accomplishes his purpose.

‘So you see, these periods of subconsciousness are scattered all through our lives. Our problem is to remove whatever interferes with them and to strengthen any elements that facilitate their functioning.’

Our lesson was short today as the Director was appearing in a performance in the evening.

‘Now let us have a check up,’ proposed the Director as he came into class today, for our last lesson.

‘After nearly a year’s work, each of you must have formed a definite conception of the dramatic, creative process. Let us try to compare that conception with the one you had when you came here.

‘Maria, do you remember searching for a brooch in the folds of the curtain here because the continuance of your work in our school depended on your finding it? Can you recall how hard you tried, how you ran around and pretended to play despair, and how you enjoyed it? Would that kind of acting satisfy you now?’

Maria, thought for a moment and then an amused smile broke over her face. Finally she shook her head, evidently entertained by the memory of her former naïve ways.

‘You see, you laugh. And why? Because you used to play “in general”, trying to reach your goal by a direct onslaught. It is not surprising that all you accomplished was to give an external and wrong picture of the feelings of the person you were portraying.

‘Now remember what you experienced when you played the scene with the foundling infant, and you found yourself rocking a dead baby. Then tell me, when you contrast your inner mood in that scene with your former exaggeration, whether you are satisfied with what you have learned here during this course.’

Maria was thoughtful. Her expression was first serious and then sombre; there was a look of terror in her eyes for an instant, then she nodded her head affirmatively.

‘Now you are no longer laughing,’ said Tortsov. ‘Indeed, the very memory of that scene has almost brought you to tears. Why? Because in creating that scene you followed an entirely different path. You did not make a direct assault on the feelings of your spectators. You planted the seeds and let them come to fruition. You followed the laws of creative nature.

‘But you have to know how to induce that dramatic state. Technique alone cannot create an image that you can believe in and to which both you and your spectators can give yourselves up completely. So now you realize that creativeness is not a technical trick. It is not an external portrayal of images and passions as you used to think.

‘Our type of creativeness is the conception and birth of a new being—the person in the part. It is a natural act similar to the birth of a human being.

‘If you follow each thing that happens in an actor’s soul during the period in which he is living into his part, you will admit that my comparison is right. Each dramatic and artistic image, created on the stage, is unique and cannot be repeated, just as in nature.

‘As with human beings, there is an analogous, embryonic stage.

‘In the creative process there is the father, the author of the play; the mother, the actor pregnant with the part; and the child, the role to be born.

‘There is the early period when the actor first gets to know his part. Then they become more intimate, quarrel, are reconciled, marry and conceive.

‘In all this the director helps the process along as a sort of matchmaker.

‘Actors, in this period, are influenced by their parts, which affect their daily lives. Incidentally the period of gestation for a part is at least as long as that of a human being, and often considerably longer. If you analyse this process you will be convinced that laws regulate organic nature, whether she is creating a new phenomenon biologically or imaginatively.

‘You can go astray only if you do not understand that truth; if you do not have confidence in nature; if you try to think out “new principles”, “new bases”, “new art”. Nature’s laws are binding on all, without exception, and woe to those who break them.’