In France in the final decades of the nineteenth century there was a
wide-spread revival of interest in pantomime, where the art had been
dormant since the days of Deburau. A society was formed for its
encouragement, and a host of little wordless plays was the result. The
most ambitious effort was the 'Enfant Prodigue,' a genuine comedy in
three acts, by M. Michel Carre, with music by M. Alfred Wormser. This
wordless play on the perennially attractive theme of the Prodigal Son
proved to be the modern masterpiece of pantomime. It was limpidly clear
in its story; it was ingeniously put together in its plot; it combined
humor and pathos; and it was devoid of the acrobatic features and of the
slap-stick fun which have generally been considered the inevitable
accessories of pantomime. We had brought before us the dull and prim
home life of old Pierrot and of his wife, and we were made to behold the
impatience of young Pierrot with this prim dullness. We saw the
Prodigal rob his father and go forth in search of pleasure. In the
second act we were witnesses of the sad results of the pleasure young
Pierrot had sought superabundantly, and we discovered that he had spent
his money and that he was capable of descending to marked cards to win
more gold to satisfy the caprices of the woman who had fascinated him.
We saw his return with his ill-gotten gains after his charmer had been
tempted to go off with a wealthier man. And in the third act we were
taken back to the home of his broken-hearted parents; and we witnessed
the Prodigal's return, poverty-stricken, disenchanted, and reformed. His
mother takes him to her arms; but his father is obdurate. Then we hear
the fife and drum afar off, and young Pierrot, if he has lived
unworthily for himself, can at least die worthily for his country. So
the old father relents and bestows his blessing on the erring son as the
boy goes forth to war.
The art of the 'Enfant Prodigue' was at once delicate and firm; and its
popularity was not confined to France. Here was a true play, moving to
tears as well as to laughter, holding the interest by a human story of
universal appeal. It was taken across the Channel from Paris to London,
and from London it was taken across the ocean to New York. Augustin
Daly, always on the alert for novelty, brought it out at his own
theater, first with his own company, and then a little later with a
French company. Excellent as was the performance of the French company,
two characters were as well sustained by the American company. Charles
Leclercq appeared as old Pierrot, and he had had in his youth experience
in pantomime in England. Mrs. G. H. Gilbert appeared as Mrs. Pierrot,
and in her youth she had been a ballet dancer, and had taken part in
pantomimes. To these two performers the principles of the art of gesture
were perfectly familiar; and it was a constant delight to follow the
dexterity and the adequacy of their gestures. But Miss Rehan, who
appeared as the Prodigal Son, had had no pantomimic experience, and she
was not able to acquire the art offhand. In dozens of dramas she had
revealed herself as an actress, not only of great personal charm, but
also of great histrionic skill. Merely as an actress she was
incomparably superior to the impersonator of the Prodigal Son in the
French company; but merely as a pantomimist she was inferior. More than
once she appeared as if she wanted to speak, failing because she was
deprived of voice. Her gestures seemed like afterthoughts; they lacked
spontaneity and inevitability. She suggested at moments that she was a
poor dumb boy gasping for words.
Now, the convention underlying pantomime is that we are beholding a
story carried on by a race of beings whose natural method of
communicating information and ideas is gesture--just as the convention
of opera is that we are beholding a story carried on by a race of beings
whose natural method of communicating information and ideas is song. No
such races of beings ever existed; but we must admit the existence of
such races as a condition precedent to our enjoyment of pantomime and of
opera. The spectators must accept the art as it is, and the performers
must refrain from any suggestion that they would speak if they could.
This underlying convention was viciously violated in "Professor"
Reinhardt's overpraised 'Sumurun,' when the Hunchback gives a shriek of
horror as he sees the woman he loves in the arms of another man. It is
viciously violated again in the same play when Sumurun and two
attendants are heard singing. If Sumurun can sing, why can she not
speak? If the Hunchback can shriek and sob audibly, why is he ordinarily
reduced to mere gesture?
'Sumurun' was provided with a plot devised by Herr Freksa, and with
music composed by Herr Hollaender; and it was produced by "Professor"
Max Reinhardt. The story was a little complicated, and it lacked the
transparent simplicity of the 'Enfant Prodigue,' as it lacked also the
broad humanity of the French piece. Its chief claim to attention was
that it is an amusing spectacle, sensual as well as sensuous. Its humor
had a Teutonic heaviness in marked contrast with the Gallic lightness of
the 'Enfant Prodigue.' "Professor" Reinhardt sought eccentricity rather
than originality, queerness rather than beauty. His effort was directed
to the achieving of something unexpected and something different rather
than to the attaining of something good in itself, or of something
poetic. Esthetically, musically, dramatically the German pantomime was
pitiably inferior to the French; and yet so potent and so permanent is
the appeal of the wordless play that 'Sumurun' pleased a host of younger
playgoers, not old enough to be able to recall the 'Enfant Prodigue' or
'Humpty-Dumpty,' the Hanlon-Lees, or the Ravels.