Part 16 (2/2)

The famous Mrs. Jordan was, it seems, unknown to Mathews, present among the audience on this occasion, having been attracted from her residence at Bushey by the announcement of an amateur Richard. ”Years afterwards,” records Mathews, ”when we met in Drury Lane green-room, I was relating, amongst other theatrical anecdotes, the b.u.mpkin's call from the gallery in commiseration of the trouble I had in killing Richard, when she shook me from my feet almost by starting up, clasping her hands, and in her fervent, soul-stirring, warm-hearted tones, exclaiming: 'Was that you? I was there!' and she screamed with laughter at the recollection of my acting in Richmond, and the length of our combat.”

”Where shall I hit you, Mr. Kean?” inquired a provincial Laertes of the great tragedian. ”Where you _can_, sir,” was the grim reply. For Kean had acquired fencing under Angelo, and was proud of his proficiency in the art. He delighted in prolonging his combats to the utmost, and invested them with extraordinary force and intensity. On some occasions he so identified himself with the character he represented as to decline to yield upon almost any terms. Hazlitt censures certain excesses of this kind which disfigured his performance of Richard. ”He now actually fights with his doubled fists, after his sword is taken from him, like some helpless infant.”

”The fight,” writes another critic, ”was maintained under various vicissitudes, by one of which he was thrown to the earth; on his knee he defended himself, recovered his footing, and pressed his antagonist with renewed fury; his sword was struck from his grasp--he was mortally wounded; disdaining to fall”--and so on. No wonder that many Richmonds and Macduffs, after combating with Mr. Kean, were left so exhausted and scant of breath as to be scarcely able to deliver audibly the closing speeches of their parts. The American stage has a highly-coloured story of an English melodramatic actor with the pseudonym of Bill s.h.i.+pton, who, ”enacting a British officer in 'The Early Life of Was.h.i.+ngton,' got so stupidly intoxicated that when Miss Cuff, who played the youthful hero, had to fight and kill him in a duel, Bill s.h.i.+pton wouldn't die; he even said loudly on the stage that he wouldn't. Mary Cuff fought on until she was ready to faint, and after she had repeated his cue for dying, which was, 'Cowardly, hired a.s.sa.s.sin!' for the fourteenth time, he absolutely jumped off the stage, not even pretending to be on the point of death. Our indignant citizens then chased him all over the house, and he only escaped by jumping into the coffin which they bring on in Hamlet, Romeo, and Richard.” The story has its humour, but is not to be implicitly credited.

Broad-sword combats were at one time very popular interludes at minor theatres. They were often quite distinct performances, prized for their own sake, and quite irrespective of their dramatic relevancy. It cannot be said that they suggested much resemblance to actual warfare.

Still they demanded of the performers skill of a peculiar kind, great physical endurance and ceaseless activity. The combat-sword was an unlikely-looking weapon, very short in the blade, with a protuberant hilt of curved bars to protect the knuckles of the combatant. The orchestra supplied a strongly-accentuated tune, and the swords clashed together in strict time with the music. The fight raged hither and thither about the stage, each blow and parry, thrust and guard, being a matter of strict pre-arrangement. The music was hurried or slackened accordingly as the combat became more or less furious. ”One, two, three, and under; one, two, three, and over;” ”robber's cuts;”

”sixes”--the encounter had an abundance of technical terms. And each performer was allowed a fair share of the feats accomplished: the combatants took turns in executing the strangest exploits. Alternately they were beaten down on one knee, even lower still, till they crawled serpent-wise about the boards; they leaped into the air to avoid chopping blows at their lower members; they suddenly span round on their heels, recovering themselves in time to guard a serious blow, aimed with too much deliberation at some vital portion of their frames; occasionally they contrived an unexpected parry by swiftly pa.s.sing the sword from the right hand to the left. Now and then they fought a kind of double combat, wielding a sword in either hand.

Altogether, indeed, it was an extraordinary entertainment, which evoked thunders of applause from the audience. The eccentric agility of the combatants, the peculiarities of their method of engagement, the stirring staccato music of the band, the clas.h.i.+ng of the swords and the shower of sparks thus occasioned, were found quite irresistible by numberless playgoers. Mr. Crummles, it will be remembered, had a very high opinion of this form of entertainment.

Of late, however, the broadsword combat has declined as a theatrical attraction if it has not altogether expired. The art involved in its presentment is less studied, or its professors are less capable than was once the case. And perhaps burlesque has exposed too glaringly its ridiculous or seamy side. It was not one of those things that could long endure the a.s.saults of travesty. The spell was potent enough in its way, but it dissolved when once interruptive laughter became generally audible. A creature of theatrical tradition, curiously sophisticated and enveloped in absurdities, its long survival is perhaps more surprising than the fact of its decease. Some attempt at ridiculing it seems to have been made so far back as the seventeenth century, in the Duke of Buckingham's ”Rehearsal.” Two characters enter, each bearing a lute and a drawn sword, and alternately fight and sing; ”so that,” as Bayes explains, ”you have at once your ear entertained with music and good language, and your eye satisfied with the garb and accoutrements of war.” In the same play, also, the actors were wont to introduce hobby-horses, and fight a mimic battle of very extravagant nature.

Ridicule of a stage army was one of the established points of humour in the old burlesque of ”Bombastes Furioso,” and many a pantomime has won applause by the comical character of the troops brought upon the scene. It should be said, however, that of late years the more famous battles of the theatre have been reproduced with remarkable liberality and painstaking. In lieu of ”four swords and bucklers,” a very numerous army of supernumeraries has marched to and fro upon the boards. In the ornate revivals of Shakespeare, undertaken from time to time by various managers, especial attention has been directed to the effective presentment of the battle scenes. The ”auxiliaries” have frequently consisted of soldiers selected from the household troops.

They are reputed to be the best of ”supers,” imposing of aspect, stalwart and straight-limbed, obedient to command, and skilled in marching and military formations. Londoners, perhaps, are little aware of the services their favourite regiments are prompt to lend to theatrical representations. Notably our grand operas owe much to the Coldstreams and Grenadiers. After a performance of ”Le Prophete” or ”L'Etoile du Nord,” let us say, hosts of these warriors may be seen hurrying from Covent Garden back to their barracks. Plays that have depended for their success solely upon the battles they have introduced have not been frequent of late years, and perhaps their popularity may fairly be counted as a thing of the past. We have left behind us the times when versatile Mr. Gomersal was found submitting to the public by turns his impersonation of Napoleon at Waterloo and Sir Arthur Wellesley at Seringapatam; when Shaw, the Lifeguardsman, after performing prodigies of valour, died heroically to slow music; when Lady Sale, armed with pistol and sabre, fought against heavy Afghan odds, and came off supremely victorious. Perhaps the public have ceased to care for history thus theatrically ill.u.s.trated, or prefers to gather its information on the subject from despatches and special correspondence. The last theatrical venture of this cla.s.s referred to our army's exploits in Abyssinia. But the play did not greatly please. Modern battles have, indeed, outgrown the stage, and the faculty of making ”imaginary puissance” has become lost. In the theatre, as elsewhere, the demand is now for the literal, the accurate, and the strictly matter of fact.

CHAPTER XXV.

STAGE STORMS.

Addison accounted ”thunder and lightning--which are often made use of at the descending of a G.o.d or the rising of a ghost, at the vanis.h.i.+ng of a devil or the death of a tyrant”--as occupying the first place ”among the several artifices put in practice by the poets to fill the minds of an audience with terror.” Certainly the stage owes much to its storms: they have long been highly prized both by playwrights and playgoers, as awe-inspiring embellishments of the scene; and it must have been an early occupation of the theatrical machinist to devise some means of simulating the uproar of elemental strife. So far back as 1571, in the ”Accounts of the Revels at Court,” there appears a charge of 1 2s. paid to a certain John Izarde, for ”mony to him due for his device in counterfeting thunder and lightning in the play of 'Narcisses;' and for sundry necessaries by him spent therein;” while to Robert Moore, the apothecary, a sum of 1 7s. 4d. is paid for ”prepared corianders,” musk, clove, cinnamon, and ginger comfits, rose and ”spike” water, ”all which,” it is noted, ”served for flakes of snow and haylestones in the maske of 'Ja.n.u.s;' the rose-water sweetened the b.a.l.l.s made for snow-b.a.l.l.s, and presented to her majesty by Ja.n.u.s.”

The storm in this masque must clearly have been of a very elegant and courtly kind, with sugar-plums for hailstones and perfumed water for rain. The tempests of the public theatres were a.s.suredly conducted after a ruder method. In his prologue to ”Every Man in his Humour,”

Ben Jonson finds occasion to censure contemporary dramatists for the ”ill customs” of their plays, and to warn the audience that his production is not as others are:

He rather prays you will be pleased to see One such to-day as other plays should be; Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas, Nor creaking throne comes down the boys to please, Nor nimble squib is seen to make afeard The gentlewomen; nor rolled bullet heard To say it thunders; nor tempestuous drum Rumbles to tell you when the storm doth come, &c.

It has been conjectured that satirical allusion was here intended to the writings of Shakespeare; yet it is certain that Shakespeare sustained a part, most probably that of Old Knowell, in the first representation of Jonson's comedy. Storms are undoubtedly of frequent occurrence in Shakespeare's plays. Thus, ”Macbeth” and ”The Tempest”

both open with thunder and lightning; there is ”loud weather” in ”The Winter's Tale;” there is thunder in ”The First Part of King Henry VI.,” when La Pucelle invokes the fiends to aid her endeavours; thunder and lightning in ”The Second Part of King Henry VI.,” when Margery Jourdain conjures up the spirit Asmath; thunder and lightning in ”Julius Caesar;” a storm at sea in ”Pericles,” and a hurricane in ”King Lear.” It is to be noted, however, that all these plays could hardly have been represented so early as 1598, when ”Every Man in his Humour” was first performed.

From Jonson's prologue it appears that the rumbling of thunder was at that time imitated by the rolling to and fro of bullets or cannon-b.a.l.l.s. This plan was in time superseded by more ingenious contrivances. It is curious to find, however, that some fifty years ago one Lee, manager of the Edinburgh Theatre, with a view to improving the thunder of his stage, ventured upon a return to the Elizabethan system of representing a storm. His enterprise was attended with results at once ludicrous and disastrous. He placed ledges here and there along the back of his stage, and, obtaining a parcel of nine-pound cannon-b.a.l.l.s, packed these in a wheelbarrow, which a carpenter was instructed to wheel to and fro over the ledges.

The play was ”Lear,” and the jolting of the heavy barrow as it was trundled along its uneven path over the hollow stage, and the rumblings and reverberations thus produced, counterfeited most effectively the raging of the tempest in the third act. Unfortunately, however, while the King was braving, in front of the scene, the pitiless storm at the back, the carpenter missed his footing, tripped over one of the ledges, and fell down, wheelbarrow, cannon-b.a.l.l.s, and all. The stage being on a declivity, the cannon-b.a.l.l.s came rolling rapidly and noisily down towards the front, gathering force as they advanced, and overcoming the feeble resistance offered by the scene, struck it down, pa.s.sed over its prostrate form, and made their way towards the foot-lights and the fiddlers, amidst the amus.e.m.e.nt and wonder of the audience, and the amazement and alarm of the Lear of the night. As the nine-pounders advanced towards him, and rolled about in all directions, he was compelled to display an activity in avoiding them, singularly inappropriate to the age and condition of the character he was personating. He was even said to resemble a dancer achieving the terpsich.o.r.ean feat known as the egg hornpipe. Presently, too, the musicians became alarmed for the safety of themselves and their instruments, and deemed it advisable to scale the spiked part.i.tion which divided them from the pit; for the cannon-b.a.l.l.s were upon them, smas.h.i.+ng the lamps, and falling heavily into the orchestra.

Meantime, exposed to the full gaze of the house, lay p.r.o.ne, beside his empty barrow, the carpenter, the innocent invoker of the storm he had been unable to allay or direct, not at all hurt, but exceedingly frightened and bewildered. After this unlucky experiment, the manager abandoned his wheelbarrow and cannon-b.a.l.l.s, and reverted to more received methods of producing stage storms.

In 1713, a certain Dr. Reynardson published a poem called ”The Stage,”

which the critics of the time agreed to be a pretty and ingenious composition. It was dedicated to Addison, the preface stating that ”'The Spectator's' account of 'The Distrest Mother' had raised the author's expectation to such a pitch that he made an excursion from college to see that tragedy acted, and upon his return was commanded by the dean to write upon the Art, Rise, and Progress of the English Stage; which how well he has performed is submitted to the judgment of that worthy gentleman to whom it is inscribed.” Dr. Reynardson's poem is not a work of any great distinction, and need only be referred to here for its mention of the means then in use for raising the storms of the theatre. Noting the strange and incongruous articles to be found in the tiring-room of the players--such as Tarquin's trousers and Lucretia's vest, Roxana's coif and Statira's stays, the poet proceeds:

Hard by a quart of bottled lightning lies A bowl of double use and monstrous size, Now rolls it high and rumbles in its speed, Now drowns the weaker crack of mustard-seed; So the true thunder all arrayed in smoke, Launched from the skies now rives the knotted oak, And sometimes naught the drunkard's prayers prevail, And sometimes condescends to sour the ale.

There is also allusion to the mustard-bowl as applied to theatrical uses in ”The Dunciad:”

”Now turn to different sports,” the G.o.ddess cries, ”And learn, my sons, the wondrous power of NOISE.

To move, to raise, to ravish every heart, With Shakespeare's nature or with Jonson's art, Let others aim; 'tis yours to shake the soul With thunder rumbling from the mustard-bowl.”

And further reference to the frequency of stage storms is continued in the well-known lines, written by way of parodying the mention of the Duke of Marlborough in Addison's poem ”The Campaign:”

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