_From a Player’s Letter_
We arrived at Elsinore in the morning. We were at once let into the
presence of the Prince. He received us with the courtesy and kindliness
which were native to him, and he seemed but little changed since
his student days when he was as much our companion as our patron.
It is true that his face and his expression have grown older and
more serious, just as his body has grown more portly, but in so far
as his conduct and demeanour are concerned he is the same. No words
can picture the dreariness and monotony of the life which he leads
here in the Court. He is virtually a prisoner, for should he in any
way transgress the fixed limits of the tradition and etiquette which
govern this place, the courtiers and the officials of the Court do
not hesitate to say that he is deranged in his mind. As soon as he
greeted us he recalled a thousand memories of those freer and happier
days, and he seemed to take as great a delight in our art and our trade
as in days gone by. His love for the stage, for well turned verse,
and the nice declamation of noble lines is as ardent as ever, and he
bade me recall to him a speech from a tragedy on which his sure taste
had alighted, although it escaped the notice and the applause of the
populace.
It was arranged that on the night following the morning of our arrival
we should play before the King and the Court. The piece chosen by the
Prince was entitled “The Murder of Gonzago,” a somewhat old-fashioned
bit of fustian, chosen no doubt to suit the taste of the King and his
courtiers. The Prince himself wrote a speech of some sixteen lines
which he bade me insert in my part. We spent the day in study and
rehearsal, which were sorely needed, since we had not played the piece
for many years. In the evening a banquet was held in the castle. The
King and Queen, the Chamberlain and all the Court dignitaries were
present, and the Prince, although he did not grace the feast with his
presence, insisted that we, the players, should take part in it. The
Court dignitaries were averse to this, but the Prince overruled their
objections by saying that unless we took part in the banquet he would
not be present at the performance.
The feast was in the banqueting-hall; the King and the Queen together
with all the Court took their places before a high, raised table at the
end of the banqueting-hall. We players sat at a separate table at the
further end of the hall. The feast began long before sunset and lasted
far into the night. There was much deep drinking, but an atmosphere of
ceremony and gloom hung over the festivity; the mirth rang hollow and
the hilarity was false and strained.
Towards the end of the banquet the King rose to his feet and in pompous
phrase spoke of the pleasure that he felt in seeing so many loyal
friends gathered about him and that he looked forward to the day when
the Prince, his nephew, would once more join heart and soul in the
festivities of the Court, and then looking towards us he was pleased
to say that he trusted to the skill, the well-known skill, and the
widely-famed art of the players who were now visiting his capital to
have a salutary influence and to be successful in distracting the mind
and in raising the spirits of the Prince, which had been so sadly
affected ever since the demise of his much-to-be regretted brother.
These words elicited loud cheers from the assembly and it was pointed
out to us by the Chamberlain that the speech of the King was a further
sign of his Majesty’s unerring tact and never-failing condescension.
As we left the banqueting-hall, after the King and Queen had retired,
I noticed that the Prince was pacing up and down the terrace of the
castle, lost as it were in abstraction. During the whole of the next
day we were busy in study and rehearsal. The Lord Chamberlain was
somewhat concerned as to the nature of the performance we were to give.
He desired to be present at a rehearsal, but here again the Prince
intervened with impetuous authority. The Lord Chamberlain then sought
me out in person and said that he earnestly trusted there would be
nothing either in the words of the play or in the manner in which it
should be played that would give offence to the illustrious audience. I
replied that the play had been chosen by the Prince and that it would
be well if he would address any suggestions he had to make directly to
His Royal Highness. The Lord Chamberlain said that the Prince was in so
irritable a frame of mind that he could ill brook any interference, but
that he relied on our good sense and inherent tact to omit any word or
phrase which, in the present circumstances (for he pointed out that
the Court was in half-mourning) might be likely to give offence. He
said that for instance any too exuberant display of buffoonery, any too
great an insistence on broad jokes would be out of place at the present
time. I assured him that so far from the Prince having instigated us
towards clowning he had begged us to suppress all buffoonery of any
kind, which had ever been distasteful to him, and this none knew so
well as I.
Elsinore, like all courts, was rife with gossip, the common talk being
that the Prince was courting the daughter of the Chamberlain, who,
owing to the position she occupied, they professed to find beautiful,
and who in reality is but an insipid minx and likely to develop on the
lines of her doddering old father, while they say that she will not
hear of his suit, being secretly but passionately enamoured of one of
the minor courtiers, by name Osric.
Others say that the Prince’s passion for the Chamberlain’s daughter is
a mere pretence and that it is his friend Horatio who is in reality
plighted to her. But we, who know the Prince well, know that he
has no thought of such things. He is an artist, and had he not had
the misfortune to be born a Prince he would have been a player of
first-rate excellence. Being gifted with the artistic temperament and
the histrionic nature, the mode of existence which he is forced to lead
amidst the conventions, the formalities, the rules, and the unvarying
tediousness of stiff and stately Court decorum, is to him intolerable.
He is thinking the whole time of modes of expression, pictures,
phrases, situations, conceits, and his mind lives in the world of dream
and holds office at the court of Art. That is why, in this nest of
officials, he is like a cuckoo among a brood of respectable blackbirds.
The performance took place after the banquet on the second evening of
our stay. The stage was appointed in a long, low room adjoining the
banqueting-hall. Slightly raised seats for the King and the Queen were
erected in the centre of the room in front of the stage, and the Court
were assembled in line with them and behind them. The Chamberlain and
his daughter sat in the front row, and the gossip of the place seemed
to be in some way substantiated by the fact that she never took her
eyes off Osric the courtier (a handsome lad) during the whole of the
performance. He was standing next to the Queen’s throne.
The Prince, before the trumpets sounded for the performance to begin,
came to us and gave us his final instructions which bore, as ever,
the stamp of his fine taste and nice discrimination, and which proved
to us once more that he was by nature a professional player. When the
performance began he strolled into the hall and reclined on the floor
at the feet of the Chamberlain’s daughter. We played as well as might
be expected considering the chilling effect which cannot fail to be
produced by the presence of exalted personages, for the Court had
their eyes fixed on the throne and only dared to murmur approval when
approval had already been expressed from that quarter. During all the
first part of the play such moments were rare and indeed the audience
seemed to have some difficulty in comprehending the words and the still
plainer action which we suited to the words. But the Prince came to our
aid, whispering audibly to his uncle and his mother and elucidating
for them the passages which proved perplexing. He also made various
comments to the Chamberlain’s daughter, and was quick to apprehend the
slightest play of feature, gesture, or intonation which struck him as
being successful and true.
The Chamberlain’s daughter was listless throughout and seemed to take
no interest in the play, and her father was too enfeebled in mind to
catch the drift of it at all, but the manifest interest which the
Prince took in it seemed, nevertheless, to cause him uneasiness, and he
never ceased furtively to glance at the King and the Queen. The Queen,
on the other hand, seemed much pleased, and indeed they say that she
has ever been fond of spectacles and stage-playing. By the time the
play had reached its climax, with the entry of Lucianus who spoke the
lines which had been inserted by the Prince, the King, who had been
growing more and more fretful (for he has no taste for letters) rose
from his seat and gave the signal for departure, and the Chamberlain
immediately gave orders that the play should cease. The King remarked
that the heat in the hall was oppressive and he withdrew, followed
by the Court, and the Prince, who was in an ecstasy of joy at the
beautiful performance, clapped his hands loudly and congratulated us
warmly, saying that he had seldom enjoyed a play so much.
So tedious is the routine at these courts that this little incident
was much discussed and debated, and the Prince’s conduct in so loudly
applauding a play after His Majesty had signified that the performance
was tedious has been severely commented on. To-morrow we sail for
Hamburg.