Part 19 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THUNDERS OF APPLAUSE.

Addison devotes a number of ”The Spectator” to a description of ”The Trunkmaker in the Upper Gallery”--a certain person so called, who had been observed to frequent, during some years, that portion of the theatre, and to express his approval of the transactions of the stage by loud knocks upon the benches or the wainscot, audible over the whole house. It was doubtful how he came to be called the Trunkmaker; whether from his blows, resembling those often given with a hammer in the shops of such artisans, or from a belief that he was a genuine trunkmaker, who, upon the conclusion of his day's work, repaired to unbend and refresh his mind at the theatre, carrying in his hand one of the implements of his craft. Some, it is alleged, were foolish enough to imagine him a perturbed spirit haunting the upper gallery, and noted that he made more noise than ordinary whenever the Ghost in ”Hamlet” appeared upon the scene; some reported that the trunkmaker was, in truth, dumb, and had chosen this method of expressing his content with all he saw or heard; while others maintained him to be ”the playhouse thunderer,” voluntarily employing himself in the gallery when not required to discharge the duties of his office upon the roof of the building. The ”Spectator,” holding that public shows and diversions lie well within his province, and that it is particularly inc.u.mbent upon him to notice everything remarkable touching the elegant entertainments of the theatre, makes it his business to obtain the best information he can in regard to this trunkmaker, and finds him to be ”a large black man whom n.o.body knows;”

who ”generally leans forward on a huge oaken plant,” attending closely to all that is occurring upon the stage; who is never seen to smile, but who, upon hearing anything that pleases him, takes up his staff with both hands, and lays it upon the next piece of timber that stands in his way, with exceeding vehemence; after which, he composes himself to his former posture, till such time as something new sets him again at work. Further, it was observed of him, that his blows were so well timed as to satisfy the most judicious critics. Upon the expression of any s.h.i.+ning thought of the poet, or the exhibition of any uncommon grace by the actor, the trunkmaker's blow falls upon bench or wainscot. If the audience fail to concur with him, he smites a second time, when, if the audience still remain unroused, he looks round him with great wrath and administers a third blow, which never fails to produce the desired effect. Occasionally, however, he is said to permit the audience to begin the applause of their own motion, and at the conclusion of the proceeding ratifies their conduct by a single thwack.

It was admitted that the trunkmaker had rendered important service to the theatre, insomuch that, upon his failing to attend at his post by reason of serious illness, the manager employed a subst.i.tute to officiate in his stead, until such time as his health was restored to him. The incompetence of the deputy, however, became too manifest; though he laid about him with incredible violence, he did it in such wrong places, that the audience soon discovered he was not their old friend the real trunkmaker. With the players the trunkmaker was naturally a favourite; they not only connived at his obstreperous approbation, but cheerfully repaid such damage as his blows occasioned. That he had saved many a play from condemnation, and brought fame to many a performer, was agreed upon all hands. The audience are described as looking abashed if they find themselves betrayed into plaudits in which their friend in the upper gallery takes no part; and the actors are said to regard such favours as mere _brutum fulmen_ or empty noise, when unaccompanied by ”the sound of the oaken plant.” Still, the trunkmaker had his enemies, who insinuated that he could be bribed in the interest of a bad poet or a vicious player; such surmises, however, the ”Spectator” averred to be wholly without foundation, upholding the justice of his strokes and the reasonableness of his admonitions. ”He does not deal about his blows at random, but always. .h.i.ts the right nail upon the head. The inexpressible force wherewith he lays them on sufficiently shows the strength of his convictions. His zeal for a good author is indeed outrageous, and breaks down every fence and part.i.tion, every board and plank, that stands within the expression of his applause.”

Moreover, the ”Spectator” insists upon the value and importance to an audience of a functionary thus presiding over them like the director of a concert, in order to awaken their attention and beat time to their applauses; or, ”to raise my simile,” Addison continues, ”I have sometimes fancied the trunkmaker in the upper gallery to be, like Virgil's ruler of the winds, seated upon the top of a mountain, who, when he struck his sceptre upon the side of it, 'roused a hurricane and set the whole cavern in an uproar.'”

In conclusion, the writer, not caring to confine himself to barren speculations or to reports of pure matter of fact, without deriving therefrom something of advantage to his countrymen, takes the liberty of proposing that upon the demise of the trunkmaker, or upon his losing ”the spring of his arm” by sickness, old age, infirmity, or the like, some able-bodied critic should be advanced to his post, with a competent salary, and a supply, at the public expense, of bamboos for operas, crab-tree cudgels for comedies, and oaken plants for tragedies. ”And to the end that this place should be always disposed of according to merit, I would have none preferred to it who has not given convincing proofs both of a sound judgment and a strong arm, and who could not upon occasion either knock down an ox, or write a comment upon Horace's 'Art of Poetry.' In short, I would have him a due composition of Hercules and Apollo, and so rightly qualified for this important office that the trunkmaker may not be missed by our posterity.”

Addison's paper doubtless possessed an element of fact and truth, enriched by the fancifulness peculiar to the writer. It was his manner thus to embroider commonplace; to enhance the actual by large additions of the ideal. There probably existed such a personage as the trunkmaker; some visitor to the upper gallery was in the habit of expressing approval by strokes of his cudgel upon the wainscot; and his frequent presence had obtained the recognition of the other patrons of the theatre. It was an easy and a pleasant task to Addison to invest this upper-gallery visitor with special critical qualities to attribute to his ”oaken plant” almost supernatural powers. In any case, the trunkmaker was a sort of foreshadowing of the _claqueur_. It was reserved for later times to organise applause and reduce success to a system. Of old, houses were sometimes ”packed” by an author's friends to ensure a favourable result to the first representation of his play. When, for instance, Addison's ”Cato” was first produced, Steele, as himself relates, undertook to pack an audience, and accordingly filled the pit with frequenters of the Whig coffee-houses, with students from the Inns of Court, and other zealous partisans.

”This,” says Pope, ”had been tried for the first time in favour of 'The Distressed Mother' (by Ambrose Phillips), and was now, with more efficacy, practised for 'Cato.'” But this was only an occasional _claque_. The ”band of applauders” dispersed after they had cheered their friend and achieved their utmost to secure the triumph of his play. And they were unconnected with the manager of the theatre; they were not _his_ friends, still less were they his servants, receiving wages for their labours, and bound to raise their voices and clap their hands in accordance with his directions. For such are the genuine _claqueurs_ of to-day.

Dr. Veron, who has left upon record a sort of secret history of his management of the Paris Opera House, has revealed many curious particulars concerning _les claqueurs_, adding a serious defence of the system of artificial applause. The artistic nature, the doctor maintains, submitting its merits to the judgment of the general public, has great need of the exhilaration afforded by evidence of hearty approval and sympathy; the singer and the dancer are thus inspired with the courage absolutely necessary to the accomplishment of their professional feats; and it is the doctor's experience that whenever a song or a dance has been redemanded by the audience, the dance has been better danced, and the song better sung, the second time of performance than the first. Hence there is nothing harmful, but rather something beneficial, in the proceedings of _les claqueurs_. Every work produced at the theatre cannot be of the first cla.s.s, and legitimately rouse the enthusiasm of the public; every dramatic or lyrical artist cannot invariably, by sheer force of talent, overcome the coldness, the languor, or the indifference of an audience; yet the general effect of the representation would suffer much if all applause, including that of a premeditated and, indeed, purchased kind, were entirely withheld; the timid would remain timid, talent would remain unrecognised, and, therefore, almost unrevealed, if no cheering were heard to rea.s.sure, to encourage, to kindle, and excite. The suggestion that the public would supply genuine applause if only the _claqueurs_ were less liberal with the spurious article, Dr. Veron rather evades than discusses.

The chief of the _claqueurs_ in Dr. Veron's time was a certain M.

Auguste, of Herculean form and imposing address, well suited in every respect for the important post he filled. He was inclined to costume of very decisive colours--to coats of bright green or reddish-brown--presumably that, like a general officer, his forces might perceive his presence in their midst by the peculiarity, if not the brilliance, of his method of dress. Auguste was without education--did not know a note of music; but he understood the audience of the Opera House. For long years he had attended every representation upon its stage, and experience had made him a most skilful tactician. Auguste enjoyed the complete confidence of Dr.

Veron. _Claqueur_ and manager attended together the rehearsals of every new work, and upon the eve of its first performance held a cabinet council upon the subject. They reviewed the whole production from the first line to the last. ”I did not press upon him my opinions,” says Dr. Veron; ”I listened to his; he appraised, he judged all, both dance and song, according to his own personal impressions.”

The manager was surprised at the justice of the _claqueur's_ criticism by antic.i.p.ation--at his ingenious plans for apportioning and graduating the applause. It was Auguste's principle of action to begin modestly and discreetly, especially at the opera, dealing with a choice and critical public; to approve a first act but moderately, reserving all salvoes of applause for the last act and the _denoument_ of the performance. Thus, in the last act he would bestow three rounds of applause upon a song, to which, had it occurred in the first act, he would have given but one. He held that towards the middle of a performance success should be quietly fostered, but never forced. For the _claqueurs_ of other theatres Auguste entertained a sort of disdain. It was, as he averred, the easiest thing in the world to obtain success at the Opera Comique, or the Vaudeville. The thing was managed there not so much by applause as by laughter. There was the less need for careful management; the less risk of vexing the public by injudicious approbation. No one could take offence at a man for laughing immoderately; he was not chargeable with disingenuousness, as in the case of one applauding to excess. Occasionally cries were raised of ”_A la porte les claqueurs_;” but such a cry as ”_A la porte les rieurs_,” had never been heard. At the Opera House, however, there was no occupation for laughers; in the score of an opera, or in the plot of a ballet, appeal was never made to a sense of the mirthful.

Then the opera public was of a susceptible, and even irritable nature; it might be led, but it could scarcely be driven; it could be influenced by polite and gentle means; it would resent active interference, and ”a scene” might ensue--even something of a disturbance. But M. Auguste implored his manager to be easy on that score. Nothing of the kind should happen; he would prove himself deserving, worthy of his employer's confidence. ”Only,” said M.

Auguste, ”those fools, the paying public, certainly give us a great deal of trouble!”

The _chef de la claque_ was, of course, supplied with admission tickets by the management, and these were issued according to an established scale. If the success of a work, already represented many times, showed signs of flagging, and needed to be sustained, Auguste received some forty or fifty pit tickets; but in the case of a work highly approved by the public, and still attracting good houses, twenty, or even ten, tickets were held to be sufficient. But on the first production of an entirely new entertainment, at least a hundred tickets were handed to Auguste. There was then a meeting of the _claqueurs_ at some appointed place--usually a wine-shop in the neighbourhood of the theatre--and the plan of action was arranged, the army of applauders organised and marshalled. Intelligent lieutenants, about ten in number, each in command of a detachment of the forces, were instructed how to deal with opponents, and to keep watchful eyes upon the proceedings of their chief. In addition to a money payment and their own entrance tickets, they were accorded other tickets to be given only to friends upon whose fidelity they could rely. Certain of the _claqueurs_ accepted outpost duty, as it were, and acted in isolated positions; others, and these the majority, took close order, and fought, so to speak, in column. In addition to his regular forces, Auguste engaged supernumerary and irregular troops, known to him as _sous-claqueurs_, upon whose discipline and docility he could not wholly rely, though he could make them useful by enclosing them in the ranks of his seasoned soldiers. The _sous-claqueurs_ were usually well-clothed frequenters and well-wishers of the Opera House, anxious to attend the first representation of the new work to be produced, and willing to pay half-price for their tickets, upon the condition that they placed their applause at the disposal of M. Auguste.

The _claqueurs_ were admitted to the theatre and took their seats some time before the entrance of the paying public. M. Auguste had thus ample opportunity of deciding upon his strategic operations, of placing his advance guard, of securing the position of his main army, and of defending its flanks and rear. The paying public thus found itself curiously intermixed and imprisoned by these hosts of _claqueurs_, and victory usually crowned the efforts of M. Auguste, who was careful to arrogate to himself the results of the evening's proceedings. ”What a splendid success I have achieved!” he would say; completely ignoring the efforts of the composer, the artists of the theatre, and the manager, who were perhaps ent.i.tled to some share of the glories of the performance.

Auguste, as Dr. Veron relates, made his fortune at the opera. He was in receipt of annuities from several artists of established fame.

Success could hardly be achieved without his aid. The friends, patrons, and family of a new artist, to ensure his or her success, invariably paid court and money to Auguste, the price of his services corresponding with the pretensions of the _debutant_. And then he undertook engagements of an exceptional kind, sometimes even to the prejudice of his manager. Artists required of him some times a sudden increase of their success--that, for a few nights only, an extraordinary measure of applause should reward their exertions.

Their engagements were expiring or were about to be renewed; it was desirable to deceive both the public and the manager. The vital question of salary was under consideration; an increase of their emoluments was most desirable. So, for a while, the mediocre singer or dancer obtained from Auguste and his auxiliaries unusual favour, and the manager was induced to form very erroneous opinions upon the subject. Rumours, too, were artfully circulated to the effect that the performer in question had received liberal offers from England or Prussia; that his or her merits had roused the attention of rival _impresarios_; the Parisian manager was cautioned at all costs to retain in his theatre ability and promise so remarkable. But with the signing of a new engagement, at an advance of salary, came disenchantment. M. Auguste's services were now withdrawn, for the performer's object was attained; and the management for some time to come was saddled with mediocrity, purchased at a high price.

But little difficulties and deceptions of this kind notwithstanding, Dr. Veron approved the _claque_ system, and const.i.tuted himself the friend and defender of Auguste. It was not only that Auguste was himself a very worthy person--an excellent father of a family, leading a steady and creditable kind of life, putting by, for the benefit of his children, a considerable portion of his large annual earnings as _chef de la claque_--but the advantages of artificial applause and simulated success seemed to Dr. Veron to be quite beyond question, while wholly justifiable by their results. The manager detected the _claque_ system as a pervading element in almost all conditions of life. To influence large bodies or a.s.semblies, dexterity and stratagem, he declared, were indispensably necessary. The applause exacted by Nero, when he recited his verses or played upon the lute, or Tiberius, posing himself as an orator before the senate, was the work of a _claque_, moved thereto rather by terror, however, than by pecuniary considerations. Parliamentary applause he found also to be of an artificial kind, produced by the spirit of friends.h.i.+p or the ties of party; and he relates how, when the _Const.i.tutionnel_ newspaper was under his direction, certain leading members attended at the printing-office to correct the proofs of their speeches, and never failed to enliven them at intervals by the addition of such terms as ”Cheers,” ”Loud cheers,” ”Great cheering,” ”Sensation,” ”Excitement,”

&c. These fact.i.tious plaudits, tricks, and manoeuvres of players, singers, dancers, and orators, in truth, deceive no one, he maintained; while they make very happy, nevertheless, all those who have recourse to them.

As a manager, therefore, Dr. Veron invariably opposed the efforts made to suppress the _claqueurs_ in the pay of the theatre. He admits that sometimes excess of zeal on the part of these hirelings brought about public discontent and complaint; but, upon the whole, he judged that they exercised a beneficial influence, especially in the prevention of cabals or conspiracies against particular artists, and of certain scandals attached to the rivalry and jealousy of performers. And to M.

Auguste he thus addressed himself: ”You have a fine part to play; great duties to perform: put an end to quarrels; help the weak against the strong; never oppose the public; cease applauding on a hint of their disapproval; present an example of politeness and decorum; conciliate and pacify; above all, prevent all hostile combinations, all unjust coalitions, against the artists on the stage, or the works represented.”

Dr. Veron has said, perhaps, all that could be said for the _claque_ system; but his plausible arguments and apologies will not carry conviction to every mind. There can be no doubt of the value, the necessity almost, of applause to the player; but one would much rather that the enthusiasm of an audience was wholly genuine, and not provided at so much a cheer, let us say, by the manager or the player himself. ”Players, after all,” writes Hazlitt, ”have little reason to complain of their hard-earned short-lived popularity. One thunder of applause from pit, boxes, and gallery is equal to a whole immortality of posthumous fame.” But if the thunder is but stage thunder? If the applause is supplied to order, through the agency of a M. Auguste?

Upon another occasion Hazlitt expresses more tenderness for the ephemeral glories of the actor's art. ”When an author dies it is no matter, for his work remains. When a great actor dies, there is a void produced in society, a gap which requires to be filled up. The literary amateur may find employment for his time in reading old authors only, and exhaust his entire spleen in scouting new ones; but the lover of the stage cannot amuse himself in his solitary fastidiousness by sitting to witness a play got up by the departed ghosts of first-rate actors, or be contented with the perusal of a collection of old playbills; he may extol Garrick, but he must go to see Kean, and, in his own defence, must admire, or at least tolerate, what he sees, or stay away against his will.” And Cibber, in his apology, has placed on record an elaborate lament, ”that the momentary beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution cannot, like those of poetry, be their own record; that the animated graces of the actor can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them; or, at least, can but faintly glimmer through the memory or imperfect attestation of a few surviving spectators.”

The complete suspension of applause, genuine or fact.i.tious, must result in the exceeding depression of the player. He must feel himself deprived of his proper sustenance; and something of dismay must possess him, when he finds that all his efforts move his audience in no way; that they are not _en rapport_ with him; that while he labours they are listless. Henderson committed himself to the exaggeration that no actor could perform well, unless he was systematically flattered both on and off the stage. Liston, the comedian, found applause, of whatever kind, so absolutely necessary to him that he declared he liked to see even a small dog wag his tail in approbation of his exertions. Mrs. Siddons complained of the inferior measure of applause that she obtained in the theatres of the provinces. At Drury Lane her grand bursts of pa.s.sion were received with prolonged cheering and excitement, that gave her rest and breathing-time, and prepared her for increased efforts. The playgoers of York were at one time so lukewarm in their reception of popular players, that, at the instance of Woodward, Tate Wilkinson, the manager, called on the chief patrons of the theatre, and informed them that the actor was so mortified by their coolness, that he could not play nearly so well in York as in London, Dublin, and Edinburgh. The York audience benefited by the remonstrance, and on Woodward's next appearance, greatly to his delight, awarded him extraordinary applause.

The system of calling, or recalling, a favourite performer, which now appears to be established in our theatres, is of foreign origin, and was first inst.i.tuted in London at the Italian Opera House. ”It is the highest ambition of the opera-singers,--like the Methodists--to have a _call_” says Parke, the oboe-player, in his ”Musical Memoirs,”

published in 1830; and he describes the opera season of 1824, when Rossini was director and composer to the King's Theatre, and his wife, Madame Colbran Rossini, appeared as _prima donna seria_; Madame Pasta and Madame Catalani being also engaged for a limited number of nights.

He relates, as something remarkable, that at the fall of the curtain after the performance of Mayer's ”Il Fanatico per la Musica,” Madame Catalani ”was _called for_, when she again presented herself, making her obeisance, amidst waving of handkerchiefs and tumultuous applause.” Madame Pasta, after appearing as Desdemona, ”also had a call when the curtain fell, and was brought back to receive the reward due to her distinguished talents.” Two seasons later Mr. Parke says, in reference to Madame Pasta's performance of Desdemona: ”At the end of the opera, by desire of the audience, she came forward once more to receive that reward which is becoming so common that it will shortly cease to be a mark of distinction.” And, two seasons after that, of her appearance in ”Tancredi,” he writes: ”She, _as usual_, delighted the audience; and was, _as usual_, enthusiastically applauded. After the curtain fell she was called for, _as usual_, to go through the ceremony of being unmercifully applauded.”

In the non-operatic theatres it is probable that calls first came in vogue when epilogues went out.