Part 16 (1/2)

was first produced on the English stage.

The success of the performance was unquestionable, but the alarms of the authorities were not over. Many of the players took upon themselves to restore pa.s.sages in the comedy which had been effaced by the examiner; and, worse than this, Mr. Farren's appearance did not correspond with the drawing sent to the Chamberlain's office. His wig was especially objectionable; it was an exact copy of the silvery silken tresses of Talleyrand, which had acquired a European celebrity.

It was plain that the actor had ”made up” after the portrait of the statesman in the well-known engravings of the Congress of Vienna. Mr.

Bunn had again to meet the angry expostulations of the Chamberlain. On the 14th of February he wrote to Lord Belfast: ”The pa.s.sages bearing reference to the Queen Matilda in conjunction with Struensee having been entirely omitted, will, I trust, be satisfactory to your lords.h.i.+p. Until the evening of performance I was not aware what style of wig Mr. Farren meant to adopt, such matters being entirely at the discretion of performers of his standard. I have since mentioned to him the objections which have been pointed out to me, but he has sent me word that he cannot consent so to mutilate his appearance, adding that it is a wig he wore two years ago in a comedy called 'Lords and Commons.'” If this was true there can be little doubt that the wig had been dressed anew and curling-ironed into a Talleyrand form that had not originally pertained to it. Meantime King William IV. had stirred in the matter, despatching his Chamberlain to the Lords Grey and Palmerston. ”They--said to be exceedingly irate--instantly attended the performance. In the box exactly opposite to the one they occupied, sat, however, the gentleman himself, _l'homme veritable_, his Excellency Prince Talleyrand, _in propria persona_, and he laughed so heartily at the play, without once exhibiting any signs of annoyance at the appearance of his supposed prototype, that the whole affair wore a most absurd aspect; and thus terminated a singular specimen of 'great cry and little wool.'”

A stage wig has hardly since this risen to the importance of a state affair. Yet the Chamberlain has sometimes interfered to stay any direct stage portraiture of eminent characters. Thus Mr. Buckstone was prohibited from appearing ”made up” as Lord John Russell, and Mr. A.

Wigan, when performing the part of a French naval officer some five-and-twenty years ago, was directed by the authorities to reform his aspect, which too much resembled, it was alleged, the portraits of the Prince de Joinville. The actor effected a change in this instance which did not much mend the matter. It was understood at the time indeed that he had simply made his costume more correct, and otherwise had rather heightened than diminished his resemblance to the son of Louis Philippe. Other stage-wig questions have been of minor import--relating chiefly to the appropriateness of the _coiffures_ of Hamlet and others. Should the Prince wear flaxen tresses or a ”Brutus”? Should the Moor of Venice appear in a negro's close woolly curls, or are flowing locks permissible to him? These inquiries have a good deal exercised the histrionic profession from time to time. And there have been doubts about hair-powder and its compatibility with tragic purposes. Mademoiselle Mars, the famous French actress, decided upon defying accuracy of costume, and declined to wear a powdered wig in a serious part. Her example was followed by Rachel, Ristori, and others. When Auber's ”Gustave, ou le Bal Masque,” was in rehearsal, the singers complained of the difficulty they experienced in expressing pa.s.sionate sentiments in the powdered wigs and stately dress of the time of Louis XV. In the masquerade they were therefore permitted to a.s.sume such costumes as seemed to them suited to the violent catastrophe of the story. They argued that _”le moindre geste violent peut exciter le rire en provoquant l'explosion d'un nuage blanc; les artistes sont donc contraints de se tenir dans une reserve et dans une immobilite qui jettent du froid sur toutes les situations.”_ It is true that Garrick and his contemporaries wore hair-powder, and that in their hands the drama certainly did not lack vehemently emotional displays. But then the spectators were in like case; and _”explosions d'un nuage blanc”_ were probably of too common occurrence to excite derision or even attention.

Wigs are still matters of vital interest to the actors, and it is to be noted that the theatrical hairdressers have of late years devoted much study to this branch of their industry. The light comedian still indulges sometimes in curls of an unnatural flaxen, and the comic countryman is too often allowed to wear locks of a quite impossible crimson colour. Indeed, the headdresses that seem only contrived to move the laughter of the gallery, yet remain in an unsatisfactory condition. But in what are known as ”character wigs” there has been marked amendment. The fict.i.tious forehead is now very often artfully joined on to the real brow of the performer, without those distressing discrepancies of hue and texture which at one time were so very apparent, disturbing credibility and destroying illusion. And the decline of hair in colour and quant.i.ty has often been imitated in the theatre with very happy ingenuity. Heads in an iron-gray or partially bald state--varying from the first slight thinning of the locks to the time when they come to be combed over with a kind of ”cat's cradle” or trellis-work look, to veil absolute calvity--are now represented by the actors with a completeness of a most artistic kind. With the ladies of the theatre blond wigs are now almost to be regarded as necessaries of histrionic life. This may be only a transient fas.h.i.+on, although it seems to have obtained very enduring vitality. Dr. Veron, writing of his experiences as manager of the Paris Opera House forty years ago, affirms: _”Il y a des beautes de jour et des beautes du soir; une peau brune, jaune, ou noire, devient blanche a eclat de la lumiere; les cheveux noirs reussissent mieux aussi au theatre que les cheveux blonds.”_ But the times have changed; the arts of the theatrical toilet have no doubt advanced greatly. On the stage now all complexions are brilliant, and light tresses are p.r.o.nounced to be more admirable than dark. Yet Dr. Veron was not without skill and learning on these curious matters. He discourses learnedly in regard to the cosmetics of the theatre--paint and powder, Indian ink and carmine, and the chemical preparations necessary for the due fabrication of eyebrows and lashes, for making the eyes look larger than life, for colouring the cheeks and lips, and whitening the nose and forehead.

And especially the manager took pride in the capillary artifices of his establishment, and employed an ”artist in hair,” who held almost arrogant views of his professional acquirements. ”My claim to the grateful remembrance of posterity,” this superb _coiffeur_ was wont to observe, ”will consist in the fact that I made the wig in which Monsieur Talma performed his great part of Sylla!” The triumphs of the scene are necessarily short-lived; they exist only in the recollection of actual spectators, and these gradually dwindle and depart as Time goes and Death comes. Nevertheless something of this wig-maker's fame still survives, although Talma has been dead nearly half a century.

As Sylla, Talma was ”made up” to resemble the first Napoleon. Macready writes in his ”Journal” of Talma's appearance as Sylla: ”The toga sat upon him as if it had been his daily costume. His _coiffure_ might have been taken from an antique bust; but was in strict resemblance of Napoleon's. It was reported that several pa.s.sages had been struck out of the text by the censor, under the apprehension of their application by the Parisians to the exiled Emperor; and an order was said to have been sent from the police forbidding Talma to cross his hands behind him, the ordinary habit of Napoleon.” The tragedy of ”Sylla” was written by M. Jouy, and was first performed at the Theatre Francais in 1822.

CHAPTER XXIV.

”ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS.”

It is clear that playgoers of the Shakespearean period dearly loved to see a battle represented upon the stage. The great poet thoroughly understood his public, and how to gratify it. In some fifteen of his plays he has introduced the encounter or the marshalling of hostile forces. ”Alarums and excursions” is with him a very frequent stage direction; and as much may be said of ”they fight,” or ”_exeunt_ fighting.” Combats and the clash of arms he obviously did not count as ”inexplicable dumb show and noise.” He was conscious, however, that the battles of the stage demanded a very large measure of faith on the part of the spectators. Of necessity they were required to ”make believe” a good deal. In the prologue to ”Henry V.” especial apology is advanced for the presumption of the dramatist in dealing with so comprehensive a subject; and indulgence is claimed for the unavoidable feebleness of the representation as compared with the force of the reality:

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance: Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times; Turning th' accomplishment of many years Into an hour-gla.s.s.

These conditions, however, were accepted by the audiences of the time in the most liberal spirit. Critics were p.r.o.ne to deride the popular liking for ”cutler's work” and ”the horrid noise of target fight;”

”the fools in the yard” were censured for their ”gaping and gazing” at such exhibitions. But the battles of the stage were still fought on; ”alarums and excursions” continued to engage the scene. Indeed, variety and stir have always been elements in the British drama as opposed to the uniformity and repose which were characteristics of the ancient cla.s.sical theatre.

Yet our early audiences must have been extremely willing to help out the illusions of the performance, and abet the tax thus levied upon their credulity. Shakespeare's battles could hardly have been very forcibly presented. In his time no ”host of auxiliaries” a.s.sisted the company. ”Two armies flye in,” Sir Philip Sidney writes in his ”Apologie for Poetrie,” 1595, ”represented with four swords and bucklers, and what harde heart will not receive it for a pitched fielde?” So limited an array would not be deemed very impressive in these days; but it was held sufficient by the lieges of Elizabeth.

Just as the Irish peasant is even now content to describe a mere squad of soldiers as ”the army,” so Shakespeare's audiences were willing to regard a few ”blue-coated stage-keepers” as a formidable body of troops. And certainly the poet sometimes exercised to the utmost the imaginations of his patrons. He required them to believe that his small stage was immeasurably s.p.a.cious; that his handful of ”supers”

was in truth a vast mult.i.tude. During one scene in ”King John” he does not hesitate to bring together upon the boards the three distinct armies of Philip of France, the Archduke of Austria, and the King of England; while, in addition, the citizens of Angiers are supposed to appear upon the walls of their town and discuss the terms of its capitulation. So in ”King Richard III.,” Bosworth Field is represented, and the armies of Richard and Richmond are made to encamp within a few feet of each other. The ghosts of Richard's victims rise from the stage and address speeches alternately to him and to his opponent. Playgoers who can look back a score of years may remember a textual revival of the tragedy, in which this scene was exhibited in exact accordance with the original stage directions. Colley Cibber's famous acting version was for once discarded, and Richard and Richmond on the eve of their great battle quietly retired to rest in the presence of each other, and of their audience. However to be commended on the score of its fidelity to the author's intentions, the scene had a.s.suredly its ludicrous side. The rival tents wore the aspect of opposition shower-baths. It was exceedingly difficult to humour the idea that the figures occupying the stage could neither see nor hear one another. Why, if they but outstretched their arms they could have touched each other; and they were supposed to be mutually eager for combat to the death! It became manifest, indeed, that the spectators had lost greatly their ancestors' old power of ”making believe.” They could no longer hold their reason in suspense for the sake of enhancing the effect of a theatrical performance, though prepared to be indulgent in that respect. What is called ”realism” had invaded the stage since Shakespeare's time, and could not now be repelled or denied. Hints and suggestions did not suffice; the positive and the actual had become indispensable.

There can be no doubt, however, that Shakespeare's battles had oftentimes the important aid of real gunpowder. The armies might be small; but the noise that accompanied their movements was surely very great. The stage direction ”alarums and chambers go off” occurs more than once in ”King Henry V.” The Chorus to the play expressly states:

Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur; ... and the nimble gunner With linstook now the devilish cannon touches, And down goes all before them.

Gunpowder was even employed in plays wherein battles were not introduced. Thus at the close of ”Hamlet,” Fortinbras says: ”Go bid the soldiers shoot,” and the stage direction runs: ”A dead march.

_Exeunt_ bearing off the dead bodies; after which a peal of ordnance is shot _off_.” And just as, in 1846, the Garrick Theatre, in Goodman's Fields, was destroyed by fire, owing to some wadding lodging in the flies after a performance of the Battle of Waterloo, so in 1613, the Globe Theatre, in Southwark, was burnt to the ground from the firing of ”chambers” during a representation of ”King Henry VIII.”

Howes, in his additions to ”Stowe's Chronicle,” thus describes the event: ”Also upon St. Peter's Day, 1613, the playhouse or theatre called the Globe, upon the Bankside, near London, by negligent discharging of a peal of ordnance, close to the south side thereof, the theatre took fire, and the wind suddenly dispersed the flame round about, and in a very short s.p.a.ce the whole building was quite consumed and no man hurt; the house being filled with people to behold the play, namely, of 'Henry VIII.;' and the next spring it was new builded in a far fairer manner than before.”

The paucity of Shakespeare's stage armies has sometimes found its reflex in the limited means of country theatres of more modern date.

The ambition of strolling managers is apt to be far in advance of their appliances; they are rarely stayed by the difficulties of representation, or troubled with doubts as to the adequacy of their troupe, in the words of a famous commander, to ”go anywhere and do anything.” We have heard of a provincial Rolla who at the last moment discovered that the army, wherewith he proposed to repulse the forces of Pizarro, consisted of one supernumerary only. The Peruvian chieftain proved himself equal to the situation, however, and adapted his speech to the case. Addressing his one soldier, he declaimed in his most dignified manner: ”My brave a.s.sociate, partner of my toil, my feelings, and my fame, can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous energies which inspire your heart?” and so on. Thus altered, the speech was found to be sufficiently effective.

In his ”Essay of Dramatic Poesy,” Dryden complains of the ”tumults to which we are subject in England by representing duels, battles, and the like, which renders our stage too like the theatres where they fight prizes. For what is more ridiculous than to represent an army with a drum and four men behind it, all which the hero of the other side is to drive before him? or to see a duel fought and one slain with two or three thrusts of the foils, which we know are so blunted that we might give a man an hour to kill another in good earnest with them?”

Two things were especially prized by the audiences of the past: a speech and a combat. ”For G.o.d's sake, George, give me a speech and let me go home!” cried from the pit the wearied country squire of Queen Anne's time to his boon companion Powell, the actor, doomed to appear in a part deficient in opportunities for oratory. ”But, Mr. Bayes, might we not have a little fighting?” inquires Johnson, in the burlesque of ”The Rehearsal,” ”for I love those plays where they cut and slash one another on the stage for a whole hour together.”

The single combats that occur in Shakespeare's plays are very numerous. There is little need to remind the reader, for instance, of the hand-to-hand encounters of Macbeth and Macduff, Posthumus and Iachimo, Hotspur and the Prince of Wales, Richard and Richmond. Romeo has his fierce brawl with Tybalt, Hamlet his famous fencing scene, and there is serious crossing of swords both in ”Lear” and ”Oth.e.l.lo.”

English audiences, from an inherent pugnacity, or a natural inclination for physical feats, were wont to esteem highly the combats of the stage. The players were skilled in the use of their weapons, and would give excellent effect to their mimic conflicts. And this continued long after the wearing of swords had ceased to be a necessity or a fas.h.i.+on. The youthful actor acquired the art of fencing as an indispensable step in his theatrical education. A sword was one of the earliest ”properties” of which he became possessor. He always looked forward to impressing his audience deeply by his skill in combat. Charles Mathews, the elder, has recorded in his too brief chapters of autobiography, ”his pa.s.sion for fencing which nothing could overcome.” As an amateur actor he paid the manager of the Richmond Theatre seven guineas and a half for permission to undertake ”the inferior insipid part of Richmond,” who does not appear until the fifth act of the play. The Richard of the night was a brother-amateur, equally enthusiastic, one Litchfield by name. ”I cared for nothing,”

wrote Mathews, ”except the last scene of Richmond, but in that I was determined, to have my full swing of carte and tierce. I had no notion of paying my seven guineas and a half without indulging my pa.s.sion. In vain did the tyrant try to die after a decent time; in vain did he give indications of exhaustion; I would not allow him to give in. I drove him by main force from any position convenient for his last dying speech. The audience laughed; I heeded them not. They shouted; I was deaf. Had they hooted I should have lunged on in my unconsciousness of their interruption. I was resolved to show them all my accomplishments. Litchfield frequently whispered 'Enough!' but I thought with Macbeth, 'd.a.m.ned be he who first cries, Hold, enough!' I kept him at it, and I believe we fought almost literally a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. To add to the merriment, a matter-of-fact fellow in the gallery, who in his innocence took everything for reality, and who was completely wrapt up and lost by the very cunning of the scene, at last shouted out: 'Why don't he shoot him?'”