<h2>THE AUDIENCE</h2>
<p>The long laugh that sometimes keeps the business of the stage waiting
is only a sign of the exchange of parts that in the theatre every night
takes place. The audience are the players. Their audience
on the stage are bound to watch them, to understand them, to anticipate
them, and to divine them. But once known and their character established
in relation to a particular play, the audience—what is called
the audience—need give no further trouble. They themselves
cannot alter; they are fixed and compelled by the tremendous force of
averages. The most inexorable of laws, and the most irresistible
of necessities are upon them; they cannot do otherwise; they are out
of the reach of accidents; they are made fast in their own mediocrity.
They are a thousand London people; and no genius, or no imbecility,
amongst them has any effect upon that secure sovereignty of a number.</p>
<p>The long laugh generally means that the house—by its unalterable
majority—has laughed at one joke three times. The stage
waits upon the audience, and the audience rehearses its collective and
inevitable laugh. It performs. It communicates itself, and
art is a communication. A small and chosen party is made up, behind
the footlights, to see a thousand people, given helpless into the hands
of destiny and subject to averages, so express themselves.</p>
<p>The audience’s audience (the people on the stage) are persuaded
into applauding the laugh too long and too often. The author is,
of course, one of them, and he applauds by making too many such translations.
They are perhaps worth making, and even worth renewing in acknowledgement
of a smile; but it is surely to encourage the house unduly to make them
so important. The actors applaud their audience by repeating—and
not once or only twice—a piece of comic business. Does the
Average laugh so well as indeed to deserve all this?</p>
<p>The Average does little more than laugh. It knows that its
own truest talents are indubitably comic. We have no real tragic
audiences. This is no expression of regret over legitimate audiences,
or audiences of the old school, or any audiences of that kind, whose
day may or may not have had a date. It is a mere statement of
the fact that audiences have lost, or never had, a distinguishing perception
of emotion, whereas they have every kind of perception of humour, distinguishing
and general. Their laugh never fails. If their friends behind
would really care to improve them, it might be done by exacting from
them a little more temperance in their sense of comedy. We shall
never have a really good school of audience without the exercise of
some such severity.</p>
<p>For obviously when we call an average unchangeable, we mean that
it is unchangeable for its time merely. There might be a slow
upraising of the level. It would still be a level, and there would
still be a compelling law upon one thousand that it should do the same
thing as another thousand; but that same thing might become somewhat
more intelligent.</p>
<p>When a fine actor does a fine thing, have we such a school of audience
as to merit this admirable supply to their demands?—this applause
of their understanding? Is there not in the whole excellent piece
of work, something all too independent of their part in the theatre?</p>
<p>If Caligula wished that mankind had but one neck for his knife, and
Byron that all womankind had but one mouth for his kiss, so the audience
has conceived that all arts should have but one mystery for its blundering,
and thus thinks itself interested in acting when it does but admire
the actor as in a drawing.</p>
<p>The time may come when a national school of dramatic audience shall
not accept artifices that could not convince the fool amongst them;
when one brilliant moment of simplicity on the one side of the footlights
shall meet a brilliant simplicity on the other. Which troupe,
which side, to begin?</p>
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