Free My Life in Pieces by Simon Callow

part of the establishment. This did not mean that it was reactionary: Irving himself was socially andintellectually progressive; his Shylock was a radical reassessment of the character from a characteristically liberal perspective. But it meant that the theatre now operated from within society rather than from its traditional position, at its barely respectable fringes.
    Towards the end of his life, Irving unveiled a plaque to one of his great predecessors, James Quin. The stage journal The Era commented: ‘The present generation, with its keen sensitiveness, its intellectual activity, its moderation, its humanity, and its self-control, paid honour on Friday to the eighteenth-century ideal of an actor: the three-bottle or six-bottle man, the rake, the duellist and the beau. How much humanity has advanced since those days of limited ablution and unlimited paint, powder and perfume; of foolish fighting and intemperate indulgence; or heartless repartee and scandalous epigram, it is hardly necessary to note.’ From this distance, it is hard not to lament what has been lost: the great alternative carnival tradition, embracing the antipodes so alarming to the Victorians, celebrating the continuum of existence, exalting the communal body. Thanks to Irving, the theatre ceased to be part of us and became part of them . It has yet to be fully reclaimed.
       
    My knowledge of the theatre, past and present, was becoming encyclo pedic. Immersing myself in it in almost scholarly fashion, I was at a loss to know what to do with these insights, these overwhelming emotions. I had a small – a tiny – outlet in the Sixth Form Literary and Debating Soci ety, which I had founded with the sole purpose of giving myself the opportunity of reading great roles in dramatic masterpieces, which I accordingly did. As the price of that indulgence, I reluctantly submitted to the tedious horrors of the weekly debate. I was also involved in another form of play-acting, in that I had been appointed Head Boy of the school. It was a part I took to enthusiastically, seeing myself as a Reform candi date, which I suppose I must have been. I was a dunce at sport, success in which area had hitherto been the sole criterion for Head Boyship; they must, I reasoned, have wanted something different. So I gave it to them. I vigorously set about transforming the prefectorial system, attempting to increase the prefects’ power and responsibilities and diminish those of the teachers. The headmaster, like many another absolute ruler who has wanted to make a gesture in the direction of change, found that he didn’t in fact want to change anything, and blocked my reforms. I handed in my notice. Like Lady Bracknell, he told me that if I should cease to be Head Boy, he would inform me of the fact; until then I was to go back to doing what every other Head Boy had done. As this amounted to being tall and handsome and doing dashing things with balls, I was unable to oblige, and sulked my way through my year of tenure, in office but not in power.
    I left school in a state of high disgust, reviling the academic life in any form, determined above all not to go to university. Instead, I went to work in Oppenheim’s Library Wholesalers in South Kensington, which was a mistake for someone who loved books, as it involved carrying large piles of Mills and Boon romantic novels from one shelf to another. My visits to the National at the Old Vic became compulsive. As I have recorded elsewhere, my passion for it, and especially for what I perceived to be the company spirit that seemed to touch every part of that organisation – ushers, book stall, ice-cream sellers – led me to write a three-foolscap-page letter to Olivier himself. I stood by the letter box trembling before I finally bit the bullet and shoved the letter in. Astoundingly, he wrote back by return of post, inviting me to come and work at the Old Vic, in the box office. This was my first professional connection with the