It is a generally received opinion that all stage wardrobes are made up of
tawdry rags, and that the landscapes and palaces that look so charming by
gaslight are but mere daubs by day. But there are wardrobes _and_
wardrobes, scenery and scenery. The dresses used for some great "get up"
at the opera houses, or at the principal London and provincial theatres,
are costly and magnificent; the scenery, although painted for distance and
artificial light, is really the product of artists of talent, and there is
an attention to reality in all the adjuncts that would quite startle the
believers in the tinsel and tawdry view. A millionaire might take a lesson
from the stage drawing-rooms of the Prince of Wales and the Court
theatres, and no cost is spared to procure the _real_ article, whatever it
may be, that is required for the scene. These minutiae of realism, however,
are quite a modern idea, dating no farther back than the days of
Boucicault and Fechter. Splendid scenery and gorgeous dresses for the
legitimate dramas were introduced by John Kemble, and developed to the
utmost extent by Macready and Kean; but it was reserved for the present
decade to lavish the same attention and expenses upon the petite drama.
Half a century ago the property maker manufactured the stage furniture,
the stage books, the candelabra, curtains, cloths, pictures, &c., out of
papier mache and tinsel; and the drawing-room or library of a gentleman's
mansion thus presented bore as much resemblance to the reality as sea-side
furnished lodgings do to a ducal palace. Before the Kemble time a green
baize, a couple of chairs and a table, sufficed for all furnishing
purposes, whether for an inn or a palace.
In these days of "theatrical upholstery," we can scarcely realize the
shabbiness of the stage of the last century. There were a few handsome
suits for the principal actors, but the less important ones were
frequently dressed in costumes that had done service for fifty years,
until they were worn threadbare and frequently in rags. Endeavour to
realise upon the modern stage such a picture as this given by Tate
Wilkinson, of his appearance at Covent Garden as "The Fine Gentleman," in
"Lethe." "A very short old suit of clothes, with a black velvet ground,
and broad, gold flowers as dingy as the twenty-four letters on a piece of
gingerbread; it had not seen the light since the first year Garrick played
'Lothario,' at the theatre. Bedecked in that sable array for the modern
'Fine Gentleman,' and to make the appearance complete, I added an old red
surtout, trimmed with a dingy white fur, and a deep skinned cape of the
same hue, borrowed by old Giffard, I was informed, at Lincoln's Inn Fields
Theatre, to play 'King Lear' in." When West Digges appeared at the
Haymarket as Cardinal Wolsey, it was in the identical dress that Barton
Booth had worn in Queen Anne's time: a close-fitting habit of gilt leather
upon a black ground, black stockings, and black gauntlets. No wonder
Foote, who was in the pit, exclaimed, upon the appearance of this
extraordinary figure, "A Roman sweep on May-day!" When Quin played the
youthful fascinating Chamont, in Otway's "Orphan," he wore a long grisly
half-powdered periwig, hanging low down each side his breast and down his
back, a huge scarlet coat and waistcoat, heavily trimmed with gold, black
velvet breeches, black silk neckcloth, black stockings, a pair of
square-toed shoes, with an old-fashioned pair of stone buckles, stiff
high-topped white gloves, with a broad old scolloped lace hat. Such a
costume upon a personage not in his first youth, and more than inclined to
obesity, must have had an odd effect. But then, as is well known, Garrick
played "Macbeth" in a scarlet coat and powdered wig; John Kemble performed
"Othello" in a full suit of British scarlet regimentals, and even when he
had gone so far as to dress "Macbeth" as a highlander of 1745, wore in his
bonnet a tremendous hearse plume, until Scott plucked it out, and placed
an eagle's feather there in its stead. The costumes of the ladies were
almost more absurd. Whether they appeared as Romans, Greeks, or females of
the Middle Ages, they dressed the same--in the huge hoop, and powdered
hair raised high upon the head, heavy brocaded robes that required two
pages to hold up, without whose assistance they could scarcely have moved;
and servants were dressed quite as magnificently as their mistresses.
In scenery there was no attempt at "sets;" a drop, and a pair of "flats,"
dusty and dim with age, were all the scenic accessories; and two or three
hoops of tallow candles, suspended above the stage, were all that
represented the blaze of gas and lime-light to which we are accustomed.
The candle-snuffer was a theatrical post of some responsibility in those
days. Garrick was the first who used concealed lights. The uncouth
appearance of the stage was rendered still worse on crowded nights by
ranges of seats raised for spectators on each side. The most ridiculous
_contretemps_ frequently resulted from this incongruity. Romeo, sometimes,
when he bore out the body of Juliet from the solitary tomb of the
Capulets, had to almost force his way through a throng of beaux, and
Macbeth and his lady plotted the murder of Duncan amidst a throng of
people.
One night, Hamlet, upon the appearance of the Ghost, threw off his hat, as
usual, preparatory to the address, when a kind-hearted dame, who had heard
him just before complain of its being "very cold," picked it up and
good-naturedly clapped it upon his head again. A similar incident once
happened during the performance of Pizarro. Elvira is discovered asleep
upon a couch, gracefully covered by a rich velvet cloak; Valverde enters,
kneels and kisses her hand; Elvira awakes, rises and lets fall the
covering, and is about to indignantly repulse her unwelcome visitor, when
a timid female voice says: "Please, ma'am, you've dropped your mantle,"
and a timid hand is trying to replace it upon the tragedy queen's
shoulders. Of another kind, but very much worse, was an accident that
befell Mrs. Siddons at Edinburgh, at the hands of another person who
failed to distinguish between the real person and the counterfeit. Just
before going on for the sleep-walking-scene, she had sent a boy for some
porter, but the cue for her entrance was given before he returned. The
house was awed into shuddering silence as, in a terrible whisper, she
uttered the words "Out, out, damned spot!" and with slow mechanical action
rubbed the guilty hands; when suddenly there emerged from the wings a
small figure holding out a pewter pot, and a shrill voice broke the awful
silence with "Here's your porter, mum." Imagine the feelings of the
stately Siddons! The story is very funny to read, but depend upon it the
incident gave her the most cruel anguish.
It is not, however, to the uninitiated outsiders alone we are indebted for
ludicrous stage contretemps; the experts themselves have frequently given
rise to them. All readers of Elia will remember the name of Bensley, one
of "the old actors" upon whom he discourses so eloquently--a grave precise
man, whose composure no accident could ruffle, as the following anecdote
will prove. One night, as he was making his first entrance as Richard
III., at the Dublin Theatre, his wig caught upon a nail in the side scene,
and was dragged off. Catching his hat by the feather, however, he calmly
replaced it as he walked to the centre of the stage, but left his _hair_
still attached to the nail. Quite unmoved by the occurrence, he commenced
his soliloquy; but so rich a subject could not escape the wit of an Irish
audience. "Bensley, darlin'," shouted a voice from the gallery, "put on
your jaisey!" "Bad luck to your politics, will you suffer a _whig_ to be
hung?" shouted another. But the tragedian, deaf to all clamour, never
faltered, never betrayed the least annoyance, spoke the speech to the end,
stalked to the wing, detached the wig from the nail, and made his exit
with it in his hand.
Novices under the influence of stage fright will say and do the most
extraordinary things. Some years ago, I witnessed a laughable incident
during the performance of "Hamlet" at a theatre in the North. Although a
very small part, consisting as it does of only one speech, the "Second
Actor" is a very difficult one, the language being peculiarly cramped. In
the play scene he assassinates the player king by pouring poison into his
ear. The speech preceding the action is as follows:
Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;
Confederate season, else no creature seeing;
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,
With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,
Thy natural magic and dire property
On wholesome life usurp immediately.