Part 23 (2/2)
Harlequin lost his place as the chief member of the pantomime troop, when the part of clown was entrusted to the famous Grimaldi, ”the Garrick of clowns,” as Theodore Hook called him. This great comic artist devised the eccentric costume still worn by clowns--the original whiteness of the Pierrot's dress being used as a groundwork upon which to paint variegated spots, stars, and patches; and nearly all the ”comic business” of modern harlequinades is of his invention.
The present dress of the harlequin dates from the beginning of the century only. Until then the costume had been the loosely fitting parti-coloured jacket and trousers to be seen worn by the figures in Watteau's masquerade subjects. In the pantomime of ”Harlequin Amulet; or, The Magic of Mona,” produced at Drury Lane in 1800, Mr. James Byrne, the ballet-master, the father of the late Mr. Oscar Byrne, appeared as harlequin in ”a white silk shape, fitting without a wrinkle,” into which the coloured silk patches were woven, the whole being profusely covered with spangles, and presenting a very sparkling appearance. The innovation was not resisted, but was greatly applauded, and Mr. Byrne's improved attire is worn by all modern harlequins.
Some eighty years ago John Kemble, addressing his scene-painter in reference to a forthcoming pantomime, wrote: ”It must be _very short, very laughable_, and _very cheap_.” If the great manager-actor's requirements were fairly met, it is certain that the entertainment in question was of a kind very different to the pantomime of our day--a production that is invariably very long, rarely laughable, and always of exceeding costliness. Leigh Hunt complained in 1831 that pantomimes were not what they had been, and that the opening, ”which used to form merely a brief excuse for putting the harlequinade in motion,” had come to be a considerable part of the performance. In modern pantomime it may be said that the opening is everything, and that the harlequinade is deferred as long as possible. ”Now the fun begins,”
used to be the old formula of the playbills announcing the commencement of the harlequinade, or what is still known in the language of the theatre as the ”comic business.” Perhaps experience proved that in point of fact ”the fun” did not set in at the time stated; at any rate the appearance of harlequin and clown is now regarded by many of the spectators as a signal for the certain commencement of dreariness, and as a notice to quit their seats. The pantomime Kemble had in contemplation, however, was of the fas.h.i.+on Leigh Hunt looked back upon regretfully. Harlequin was to enter almost in the first scene. ”I have hit on nothing I can think of better,”
writes Kemble, ”than the story of King Arthur and Merlin, and the Saxon Wizards. The pantomime might open with the Saxon witches lamenting Merlin's power over them, and forming an incantation by which they create a harlequin, who is supposed to be able to counteract Merlin in all his designs for the good of King Arthur. If the Saxons came on in a dreadful storm, as they proceeded in their magical rites, the sky might brighten and a rainbow sweep across the horizon, which, when the ceremonies are completed, should contract itself from either end and form the figure of harlequin in the heavens; the wizards may fetch him down how they will, and the sooner he is set to work the better. If this idea for producing a harlequin is not new do not adopt it.”
The main difficulty of pantomime-writers at this time seems to have been the contriving of some new method of bringing harlequin upon the scene. Now he was conjured up from a well, now from a lake, out of a bower, a furnace, &c.; but it was always held desirable to introduce him to the spectators as early as might be. In Tom Dibdin's pantomime of ”Harlequin in his Element; or, Fire, Water, Earth, and Air,”
produced at Covent Garden in 1807, the first scene represents ”a beautiful garden, with terraces, arcades, fountains,” &c. The curtain ”rises to a soft symphony.” Aurino, the Genius of Air, descends on a light cloud; Aquina, the Spirit of Water, rises from a fountain; Terrena, the Spirit of Earth, springs up a trap; and Ignoso, the Genius of Fire, descends amid thunder from the skies. These characters interchange a little rhymed dialogue, and discuss which of them is the most powerful. Ignoso is very angry, and threatens his a.s.sociates.
Terrena demands:
Fire, why so hot? Your bolts distress not me, But injure the fair mistress of these bowers, Whose sordid guardian would her husband be, For lucre, not for love.
Rather than quarrel, let us use our powers, And gift with magic aid some active sprite, To foil the guardian and the girl to right.
The proposition is agreed to, and thereupon, according to stage direction, ”Harlequin is produced from a bed of parti-coloured flowers, and the magic sword is given to him.” He is addressed by each of the spirits in turn. Then we read: ”Ignoso sinks. Aquina strikes the fountains; they begin playing. Terrena strikes the ground; a bed of roses appears. Harlequin surveys everything, and runs round the stage. Earth sinks in the bed of roses, and Water in the fountains.
Air ascends in the car. Columbine enters dancing; is amazed at the sight of Harlequin, who retires from her with equal surprise; they follow each other round the fountain in a _pas de deux_. They are surprised by the entrance of Columbine's guardian, who comes in preceded by servants in rich liveries. Clown, as his running footman, enters with a lap-dog. Old man takes snuff; views himself in a pocket-gla.s.s. Clown imitates him; old man sees Harlequin and Columbine, and pursues them round the fountains, but the lovers go off, followed by Sir Amoroso and servants.” The lovers are pursued through some sixteen scenes, till the fairies unite them in the Temple of the Elements. At this time, it is to be noted, the last scene held that place as a spectacle which is now enjoyed by the transformation scene. Throughout the pantomime the relations of Clown and Pantaloon, or Sir Amoroso, the guardian (he is called by these t.i.tles indifferently), as master and servant are carefully preserved.
Although in ”Harlequin in his Element” there appears little answering to the modern ”opening,” and no ”transformation” of the characters, yet both these peculiarities are to be discovered in the famous pantomime of ”Mother Goose,” which was presented to the town a year sooner, and was the work of the same author. In ”Mother Goose” there are four opening scenes and fifteen of harlequinade--the pantomime of to-day generally reversing this arrangement of figures. Colin, a young peasant, is changed to Harlequin; Collinette, his mistress, to Columbine; Squire Bugle to Clown; and Avaro, an old miser, to Pantaloon. In the harlequinade are scenes of Vauxhall Gardens, and the exterior of St. Dunstan's Church, Fleet Street, with a crowd a.s.sembled to see the figures strike the bell (these figures were subsequently removed to the Marquis of Hertford's villa, in the Regent's Park), a grocer's shop and post-office, an inn, a farm-yard, &c.; while many of the tricks are identical with those still delighting holiday audiences; but the allusions to political events and current topics, so dear to modern purveyors of burlesque and pantomime, have no place in the entertainment. The doggerel and songs of the opening are without puns or pretensions of a comic kind, and must certainly be described as rather dull reading.
Without doubt the modern pantomime opening owes much of its form to modern burlesque and extravaganza, of which the late Mr. Planche may be regarded as the inventor. Mr. Planche's first burlesque was produced at Drury Lane in 1818, and was called ”Amoroso, King of Little Britain.” ”The _author_!” wrote a fierce critic in ”Blackwood”--”but even the s...o...b..acks of Paris call themselves _marchands de cirage_!” Mr. Planche had compensation, however. His burlesque was quoted in a leading article in _The Times_; the King of Little Britain's address to his courtiers, ”My lords and gentlemen--get out!” was alluded to in relation to a royal speech dissolving Parliament. ”Amoroso” was a following of ”Bombastes Furioso.” But, by-and-by, Mr. Planche was to proceed to ”Pandora,”
”Olympic Revels,” ”Riquet with the Tuft,” and other productions, the manner and character of which have become identified with his name.
Gradually he created a school of burlesque-writers indeed; but his scholars at last rebelled against him and ”barred him out,” a fate to which schoolmasters have been often liable. Still burlesque of the worthy Planche form, and of the spuriously imitative kind, which copied, and at the same time degraded him, grew and throve, and at last invaded the domains of pantomime. ”Openings” fell into the hands of burlesque-writers, their share in the pantomime work ceasing with the transformation scene; punning rhymes and parodies, and comic dances, delayed the entrance of clown and harlequin, till at last their significance and occupation seem almost to have gone from them.
The old language of gesture, with perhaps the occasional resort to a placard to supplement and interpret the ”dumb motions” of the performers (a concession to, or an evasion of the old prohibition of speech in the ”burletta houses”), vanished from the stage. The harlequinade characters ceased to take part in the opening, and that joy to youthful cunning of detecting the players of the later scenes in the disguises of their earlier presentment--harlequin, by the accidental revelation of parti-colour and spangles, and clown by the chance display of his motley trunk and hose--was gone for ever. Smart young ladies in the blonde wigs, the very curt tunics, the fles.h.i.+ngs and the high heels of burlesque, appeared in lieu of these; and the spectacle of the characters in the opening loosening tapes and easing b.u.t.tons in good time to obey the behest of the chief fairy, and transform themselves for harlequinade purposes, became an obsolete and withdrawn delight.
Yet what were called ”speaking pantomimes,” that is, pantomimes supplied to an unusual extent with spoken matter, were occasionally produced in times not long past. Hazlitt mentions, only to condemn however, an entertainment answering to this description. It was called ”Shakespeare _versus_ Harlequin,” and was played in 1820. It would seem to have been a revival of a production of David Garrick's. ”It is called a speaking pantomime,” writes Hazlitt; ”we had rather it had said nothing. It is better to act folly than to talk it. The essence of pantomime is practical absurdity keeping the wits in constant chase, coming upon one by surprise, and starting off again before you can arrest the fleeting 'phantom:' the essence of this piece was prosing stupidity remaining like a mawkish picture on the stage, and overcoming your impatience by the force of _ennui_. A speaking pantomime such as this one is not unlike a flying waggon,” &c. &c.
”Harlequin _versus_ Shakespeare” was generally voted dreary and a failure. Of another ”speaking pantomime,” called ”Harlequin Pat and Harlequin Bat; or, The Giant's Causeway,” produced at Covent Garden in 1830, Leigh Hunt writes: ”A speaking pantomime is a contradiction in terms. It is a little too Irish. It is as much as to say: 'Here you have all dumb-show talking.' This, to be sure, is what made Grimaldi's talking so good. It was so rare and seasonable that it only proved the rule by the exception. The clowns of late speak too much. To keep on saying at every turn, 'Hallo!' or 'Don't!' or 'What do you mean?' only makes one think that the piece is partly written and not written well.” We may note that Mr. Tyrone Power, the famous Irish comedian, appeared as harlequin in this pantomime, a.s.sisted by a skilled ”double” to accomplish the indispensable att.i.tudinising, dancing, and jumping through holes in the wall. Power abandoned his share in the performance after a few nights, however, and the part was then undertaken by Mr. Keeley, and subsequently by Mr. F. Matthews.
Gradually, speaking was to be heard more and more in pantomimes; and some forty years ago an attempt was made to invest this form of theatrical entertainment with peculiar literary distinction. In 1842 the staff of _Punch_, at that time very strong in talent, provided Covent Garden with a pantomime upon the subject of King John and Magna Charta. The result, however, disappointed public expectation. _Punch_ was not seen to advantage in his endeavour to a.s.sume the guise of harlequin. At a later date, Mr. Keeley, at the Lyceum, produced a fairy extravaganza of the Planche pattern, called ”The b.u.t.terfly's Ball,” and tacked on to it several ”comic scenes” for clown and pantaloon. The experiment was not wholly successful in the first instance; but by degrees the burlesque leaven affected the pantomimic const.i.tution, and pantomimes came to be what we find them at present.
The custom of interrupting the harlequinade by the exhibition of dioramic views, at one time contrived annually by Clarkson Stanfield, expired about thirty years ago; as a subst.i.tute for these came the gorgeous transformation scenes, traceable to the grand displays which were wont to conclude Mr. Planche's extravaganzas at the Lyceum Theatre, when under the management of Madame Vestris. Mr. Planche has himself described how the scene-painter came by degrees to take the dramatist's place in the theatre. ”Year after year Mr. Beverley's powers were taxed to outdo his former outdoings. The last scene became the first in the estimation of the management. The most complicated machinery, the most costly materials were annually put into requisition, until their bacon was so b.u.t.tered it was impossible to save it. As to me, I was positively painted out. Nothing was considered brilliant but the last scene. Dutch metal was in the ascendant.” This was some years ago. But any change that may have occurred in the situation has hardly been for the better. The author ousted the mute; and now the author, in his turn, is overcome by the scene-painter, the machinist, and the upholsterer.
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
”GOOSE.”
The bird which saved the Capitol has ruined many a play. ”Goose,” ”to be goosed,” ”to get the big-bird,” signifies to be hissed, says the ”Slang Dictionary.” This theatrical cant term is of ancient date. In the induction to Marston's comedy of ”What You Will,” 1607, it is asked if the poet's resolve shall be ”struck through with the blirt of a goose breath?” Shakespeare makes no mention of goose in this sense, but he refers now and then to hissing as the playgoers' method of indicating disapproval. ”Mistress Page, remember you your cue,” says Ford's wife in ”The Merry Wives of Windsor.” ”I warrant thee,” replies Mistress Page, ”if I do not act it, hiss me!” In the Roman theatres it is well known that the spectators p.r.o.nounced judgment upon the efforts of the gladiators and combatants of the arena by silently turning their thumbs up or down, decreeing death in the one case and life in the other. Hissing, however, even at this time, was the usual method of condemning the public speaker of distasteful opinions. In one of Cicero's letters there is record of the orator Hortensius, ”who attained old age without once incurring the disgrace of being hissed.”
The prologues of Ben Jonson and Beaumont and Fletcher frequently deprecate the hissing of the audience.
But theatrical censure, not content with imitating the goose, condescended to borrow from another of the inferior animals--the cat.
Addison devoted one of his papers in ”The Spectator” to a Dissertation upon Catcalls. In order to make himself master of his subject, he professed to have purchased one of these instruments, though not without great difficulty, ”being informed at two or three toy-shops that the players had lately bought them all up.” He found that antiquaries were much divided in opinion as to the origin of the catcall. A fellow of the Royal Society had concluded, from the simplicity of its make and the uniformity of its sound, that it was older than any of the inventions of Jubal. ”He observes very well that musical instruments took their first rise from the notes of birds and other melodious animals, 'and what,' says he, 'was more natural than for the first ages of mankind to imitate the voice of a cat that lived under the same roof with them?' He added that the cat had contributed more to harmony than any other animal; as we are not only beholden to her for this wind instrument, but for our string music in general.”
The essayist, however, is disposed to hold that the catcall is originally a piece of English music. ”Its resemblance to the voice of some of our British songsters, as well as the use of it, which is peculiar to our nation, confirms me in this opinion.” He mentions that the catcall has quite a contrary effect to the martial instrument then in use; and instead of stimulating courage and heroism, sinks the spirits, shakes the nerves, curdles the blood, and inspires despair and consternation at a surprising rate. ”The catcall has struck a damp into generals, and frightened heroes off the stage. At the first sound of it I have seen a crowned head tremble, and a princess fall into fits.” He concludes with mention of an ingenious artist who teaches to play on it by book, and to express by it the whole art of dramatic criticism. ”He has his ba.s.s and his treble catcall: the former for tragedy, the latter for comedy; only in tragi-comedies they may both play together in concert. He has a particular squeak to denote the violation of each of the unities, and has different sounds to show whether he aims at the poet or the player,” &c.
The conveyance of a catcall to the theatre evidences a predisposition to uproarious censure. Hissing may be, in the nature of impromptu criticism, suddenly provoked by something held to be offensive in the representation; but a playgoer could scarcely have armed himself with a catcall without a desire and an intention of performing upon his instrument in any case. Of old, audiences would seem to have delighted in disturbance upon very light grounds. Theatrical rioting was of common occurrence. The rioters were in some sort a disciplined body, and proceeded systematically. Their plan of action had been previously agreed upon. It was a rule that the ladies should be politely handed out of the theatre before the commencement of any violent acts of hostility; and this disappearance of the ladies from among the audience was always viewed by the management as rather an alarming hint of what might be expected. Then wine was sent for into the pit, the candles were thrown down, and the gentlemen drew their swords. They prepared to climb over the part.i.tions of the orchestra and to carry the stage by a.s.sault. Now and then they made havoc of the decorations of the house, and cut and slashed the curtains, hangings, and scenery. At Drury Lane, in 1740, when a riot took place in consequence of the non-appearance of Madame Chateauneuf, a favourite French dancer, a n.o.ble marquis deliberately proposed that the theatre should be fired, and a pile of rubbish was forthwith heaped upon the stage in order to carry into effect this atrocious suggestion. At the Haymarket Theatre, in 1749, the audience, enraged at the famous Bottle Conjurer hoax, were incited by the Culloden Duke of c.u.mberland to pull down the house! The royal prince stood up in his box waving his drawn sword, which someone, however, ventured to wrest from his grasp. The interior fittings of the theatre were completely destroyed; the furniture and hangings being carried into the street and made a bonfire of, the curtain surmounting the flaming heap like a gigantic flag. A riot at the Lincoln's Inn Fields, in 1721, led to George I.'s order that in future a guard should attend the performances. This was the origin of the custom that long prevailed of stationing sentries on either side of the proscenium during representations at the patent theatres. Of late years the guards have been relegated to the outside of the buildings. On the occasion of state visits of royalty to the theatre, however--although these are now, perhaps, to be counted among things of the past--Beefeaters upon the stage form an impressive part of the ceremonial.
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