Frenzied Fiction by Stephen Leacock

as we could, “that things are a little bit too much for him.”

    â€œHis will,” went on the Great Actor, disregarding our interruption, “is paralysed. He seeks to move in one direction and is hurled in another. One moment he sinks into the abyss. The next, he rises above the clouds. His feet seek the ground, but find only the air—”

    â€œWonderful,” we said, “but will you not need a good deal of machinery?”

    â€œMachinery!” exclaimed the Great Actor, with a leonine laugh. “The machinery of
thought
, the mechanism of power, of magnetism—”

    â€œAh,” we said, “electricity.”

    â€œNot at all,” said the Great Actor. “You fail to understand. It is all done by my rendering. Take, for example, the famous soliloquy on death. You know it?”

    â€œâ€˜To be or not to be,’“ we began.

    â€œStop,” said the Great Actor. “Now observe. It is a soliloquy. Precisely. That is the key to it. It is something that Hamlet
says to himself
. Not a
word of it
, in my interpretation, is actually spoken. All is done in absolute, unbroken silence.”

    â€œHow on earth,” we began, “can you do that?”

    â€œEntirely and solely
with my face
.”

    Good heavens! Was it possible? We looked again, this time very closely, at the Great Actor’s face. We realized with a thrill that it might be done.

    â€œI come before the audience
so
,” he went on, “and soliloquize—thus—follow my face, please—”

    As the Great Actor spoke, he threw himself into a characteristic pose with folded arms, while gust after gust of emotion, of expression, of alternate hope, doubt and despair, swept—we might say chased themselves across his features.

    â€œWonderful!” we gasped.

    â€œShakespeare’s lines,” said the Great Actor, as his face subsided to its habitual calm, “are not necessary; not, at least, with my acting. The lines, indeed, are mere stage directions, nothing more. I leave them out. This happens again and again in the play. Take, for instance, the familiar scene where Hamlet holds the skull in his hand: Shakespeare here suggests the words ‘Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him well—’”

    â€œYes, yes!” we interrupted, in spite of ourself, “‘a fellow of infinite jest—’”

    â€œYour intonation is awful,” said the Actor. “But listen. In my interpretation I use no words at all. I merely carry the skull quietly in my hand, very slowly, across the stage. There I lean against a pillar at the side, with the skull in the palm of my hand, and look at it in silence.”

    â€œWonderful!” we said.

    â€œI then cross over to the right of the stage, very impressively, and seat myself on a plain wooden bench, and remain for some time, looking at the skull.”

    â€œMarvellous!”

    â€œI then pass to the back of the stage and lie down on my stomach, still holding the skull before my eyes. After holding this posture for some time, I crawl slowly forward, portraying by the movement of my legs and stomach the whole sad history of Yorick. Finally I turn my back on the audience, still holding the skull, and convey through the spasmodic movements of my back Hamlet’s passionate grief at the loss of his friend.”

    â€œWhy!” we exclaimed, beside ourself with excitement, “this is not merely a revolution, it is a revelation.”

    â€œCall it both,” said the Great Actor.

    â€œThe meaning of it is,” we went on, “that you practically don’t need Shakespeare at all.”

    â€œExactly, I do not. I could do better without him. Shakespeare cramps me. What I really mean to convey is not Shakespeare, but something greater, larger—how shall I express it—bigger.” The Great Actor paused and we waited, our pencil poised in the air. Then he murmured, as his