then his memory failed him, and he stuck fast. The prompter whispered
"drugs fit;" but stage fright had seized him, and he could not take the
word. He tried back, but stuck again at the same place. Half-a-dozen
people were all prompting him at the same time now, but all in vain. At
length one more practical than the rest whispered angrily, "Pour the
poison in his ear and get off." The suggestion restored a glimmering of
reason to the trembling, perspiring wretch. He could not remember the
words of Shakespeare, so he improvised a line. Advancing to the sleeping
figure, he raised the vial in his hand, and in a terribly tragic tone
shouted, "Into his ear-hole this I'll _power_!"
Some extraordinary and agonising mistakes, for tragedians, have been made
in what are called the flying messages in "Richard III." and "Macbeth," by
novices in their nervousness mixing up their own parts with the context;
as when Catesby rushed on and cried, "My lord, the Duke of Buckingham's
taken." There he should have stopped while Richard replied, "Off with his
head! so much for Buckingham!" But in his flurry the shaking messenger
added, "and they've cut off his head!" With a furious look at having been
robbed of one of his finest "points," the tragedian roared out, "Then,
damn you, go and stick it on again!" Another story is told of an actor
playing one of the officers in the fifth act of "Macbeth." "My lord," he
has to say, "there are ten thousand----" "Geese, villain," interrupts
Macbeth. "Ye--es, my lord!" answered the messenger, losing his memory in
his terror.
But a far more dreadful anecdote is related of the same play. A star was
playing the guilty Thane in a very small company, where each member had to
sustain three or four different characters. During the performance the man
appointed to play the first murderer was taken ill. There was not another
to be spared, and the only resource left was to send on a supernumerary,
supposed to be intelligent, to stand for the character. "Keep close to the
wing," said the prompter; "I'll read you the words, and you can repeat
them after me." The scene was the banquet; the supper was pushed on, and
Macbeth, striding down the stage, seized his arm and said in a stage
whisper, "There's blood upon thy face." "'Tis Banquo's, then," was the
prompt. Lost and bewildered--having never spoken in his life before upon
the stage--by the tragedian's intense yet natural tones, the fellow,
imitating them in the most confidential manner, answered, "Is there, by
God?" put his hand up to his forehead, and, finding it stained with rose
pink, added, "Then the property man's served me a trick!"
Once upon a time I was present at the performance of the celebrated dog
piece, "The Forest of Bondy," in a small country theatre. The plot turns
upon a well-known story, the discovery of a murder through the sagacity of
the victim's dog. The play-bill descanted most eloquently upon the
wonderful genius of the "highly trained" animal, and was sufficient to
raise expectation on tip-toe. Yet it had evidently failed to impress the
public of this town, their experiences probably having rendered them
sceptical of such pufferies, for the house was miserably bad. The first
entrance of "the celebrated dog Caesar," however, in attendance upon his
master, was greeted with loud applause. He was a fine young black
Newfoundland, whose features were more descriptive of good nature than
genius. He sat on his haunches and laughed at the audience, and pricked up
his ears at the sound of a boy munching a biscuit in the pit. I could
perceive he was a novice, and that he would forget all he had been taught
when he came to the test. While Aubrey, the hero, is passing through a
forest at night, he is attacked by two ruffians, and after a desperate
combat is killed; the dog is supposed to be kept out of the way. But in
the very midst of the fight, Caesar, whose barking had been distinctly
heard all the time, rushed on the stage. Far from evincing any ferocity
towards his master's foes, he danced about with a joyous bark, evidently
considering it famous fun. Aubrey was furious, and kicked out savagely at
his faithful "dawg," thereby laying himself open to the swords of his
adversaries, who, however, in consideration that the combat had not been
long enough, generously refused the advantages. "Get off, you beast!"
growled Aubrey, who evidently desired to fight it out without canine
interference. At length, when the faltering applause from the gallery
began to show that the gods had had enough of it, the assassins buried
their swords beneath their victim's arms, and he expired in great agony;
Caesar looking on from the respectful distance to which his master's kick
had sent him, with the unconcern of a person who had seen it all done at
rehearsal and knew it was all sham, but with a decided interest of eye and
ear in the direction of the biscuit-muncher. In the next act he was to
leap over a stile and ring the bell at a farm house, and, having awakened
the inhabitants, seize a lantern which is brought out, and lead them to
the spot where the villains have buried his master. After a little
prompting Caesar leaped the stile and went up to the bell, round the handle
of which was twisted some red cloth to imitate meat; but there never was a
more matter-of-fact dog than this; he evidently hated all shams, even
artistic ones; and after a sniff at the red rag he walked off disgusted,
and could not be induced to go on again; so the people had to rush out
without being summoned, carry their own lantern, and find their way by a
sort of canine instinct, or scent, to the scene of the murder. But Caesar's
delinquencies culminated in the last scene, where, after the chief
villain, in a kind of lynch law trial, has stoutly asserted his innocence,
the sagacious "dawg" suddenly bounds upon the stage, springs at his
throat, and puts an end to his infamous career. Being held by the collar,
and incited on, in the side scene, Caesar's deep bark sounded terribly
ferocious, and seemed to foreshadow a bloody catastrophe; but his bark
proved worse than his bite, for when released he trotted on with a most
affable expression of countenance, his thoughts still evidently bent upon
biscuits; in vain did the villain show him the red pad upon his throat and
invite him to seize it. Caesar had been deceived once, and scorned to
countenance an imposition. Furious with passion, the villain rushed at
him, drew him up on his hind legs, clasped him in his arms, then fell upon
the stage and writhed in frightful agonies, shrieking, "Mussy, mussy, take
off the dawg!" and the curtain fell amidst the howls and hisses of the
audience.
Another laughable dog story, although of a different kind, was once
related to me by a now London actor. In a certain theatre in one of the
great northern cities business had been so bad for some time that salaries
were very irregularly paid. It is a peculiarity of the actor that he is
never so jolly, so full of fun, and altogether so vivacious, as when he is
impecunious. In prosperity he is dull and melancholy; the yellow dross
seems to weigh down his spirit, to stultify it; empty his pockets, and it
etherialises him. At the theatre in question, the actors amused themselves
if they failed to amuse the audience. Attached to this house was a mongrel
cur, whom some of them had taught tricks to while away the tedium of long
waits. "Jack"--such was his name--was well known all round the
neighbourhood, and to most of the _habitues_ of the house. Among his other
accomplishments he could simulate death at command, and could only be
recalled to life by a certain piece of information to be presently
mentioned. One night the manager was performing "The Stranger" to about
half-a-dozen people. Francis was standing at the wing waiting for his cue
when his eye fell upon Jack, who was standing just off the stage on the
opposite side; an impish thought struck him--he whistled--Jack pricked up
his ears, and Francis slapped his leg and called him. Obedient to the
summons Jack trotted before the audience, but as he reached the centre of
the stage the word "dead!" struck upon his ear. The next moment he was
stretched motionless with his two hind legs sticking up at an angle of
forty-five degrees. The scene was the one in which the Stranger relates to
Baron Steinfort the story of his wrongs, and he had come to the line, "My
heart is like a close-shut sepulchre," when a burst of laughter from the
front drew his attention to Jack. He saw the trick that had been played in
an instant. "Get off, you brute!" he growled, giving the animal a kick.
But Jack was too highly trained to heed such an admonition, having learned
beforehand that the kicking was not so bad as the flogging he would get
for not performing his part correctly. "Doan't tha' kick poor Jack,"
called out a rough voice, "give un the word." "Ay, ay, give un the word,"
echoed half-a-dozen voices. The manager knew better than to disregard the
advice of his patrons, and ground out between his teeth, "Here's a
policeman coming." At that "open Sesame" Jack was up and off like a shot.
It must have been one of the finest bits of burlesque to have seen that
black-ringlet-wigged, sallow, dyspeptic, tragic-looking individual,
repeating the clown's formula over a mangy cur.
The failure or forgetfulness of stage properties is frequently a source of
ludicrous incidents. People are often killed by pistols that will not
fire, or stabbed with the butt ends. In some play an actor has to seize a
dagger from a table and stab his rival. One night the dagger was forgotten
and no substitute was there, _except a candle_, which the excited actor
wrenched from the candlestick, and madly plunged _at_ his opponent's
breast; but it effected its purpose, for the victim expired in strong
convulsions. It is strange how seldom the audience perceive such
_contretemps_, or notice the extraordinary and ludicrous slips of the
tongue that are so frequent upon the stage.
A playbill is not always the most truth-telling publication in the world.
Managers, driven to their wits' ends to draw a sluggish public, often
announce entertainments which they have no means of producing properly, or
even at all, and have to exercise an equal amount of ingenuity to find
substitutes, or satisfy a deluded audience. Looking through some
manuscript letters of R. B. Peake's the other day, I came across a capital
story of Bunn. While he was manager of the Birmingham Theatre, Power, the
celebrated Irish comedian, made a starring engagement with him. It was
about the time that the dramatic version of Mrs. Shelley's
"Frankenstein"--done, I believe, by Peake himself--was making a great
sensation, and Power announced it for his benefit, playing "the Monster"
himself. The manager, however, refused to spend a penny upon the
production. "You must do with what you can find in the theatre," he said.
There was only one difficulty. In the last scene Frankenstein is buried
beneath an avalanche, and among the stage scenery of the Theatre Royal,
Birmingham, there was nothing resembling an avalanche to be found, and the
AVALANCHE was the one prodigious line in the playbill. Power was
continually urging this difficulty, but Bunn always eluded it with, "Oh,
we shall find something or other." At length it came to the day of
performance, and the problem had not yet been solved.
"Well, we shall have to change the piece," said Power.
"Pooh, pooh! nonsense!" answered the manager.
"There is no avalanche, and it is impossible to be finished without."
"Can't you cut it out?"
"Impossible."
The manager fell into a brown study for a few moments. Then suddenly
brightening up, he said, "I have it; but they must let the green curtain
down instantly on the extraordinary effect. Hanging up in the flies is the
large elephant made for 'Blue Beard;' we'll have it whitewashed."
"What?" exclaimed Power.
"We'll have it whitewashed," continued the manager coolly; "what is an
avalanche but a vast mass of white? When Frankenstein is to be
annihilated, the carpenters shall shove the whitened elephant over the
flies--destroy you both in a moment--and down comes the curtain."
As there was no other alternative, Power e'en submitted. The whitened
elephant was "shoved" over at the right moment, the effect was appalling
from the front, and the curtain descended amidst loud applause.
Not quite so successful was a hoax perpetrated by Elliston, during _his_
management of the Birmingham Theatre, many years previously. Then, also,
business had been very bad, and he was in great difficulties. Let us give
the managers their due. They do not, as a rule, resort to swindles except
under strong pressure; then they soothe their consciences with the
reflection that as an obtuse and ungrateful public will not support their
legitimate efforts, it deserves to be swindled. And a very good reflection
it is--from a managerial point of view. No man was more fertile in
expedients than Robert William Elliston; so after a long continuance of
empty benches, the walls and boardings of the town were one morning
covered with glaring posters announcing that the manager of the Theatre
Royal had entered into an engagement with a BOHEMIAN of extraordinary
strength and stature, who would perform some astonishing evolutions with a
stone of upwards of a ton weight, which he would toss about as easily as
another would a tennis-ball. What all the famous names of the British
drama and all the talents of its exponents had failed to accomplish, was
brought about by a stone, and on the evening announced for its appearance
the house was crammed to the ceiling. The exhibition was to take place
between the play and the farce, and scarcely had the intellectual audience
patience to listen to the piece, so eager were they for the noble
entertainment that was to follow. At length, much to their relief, the
curtain fell. The usual interval elapsed, the house became impatient,
impatience soon merged into furious clamour. At length, with a pale,
distraught countenance, Elliston rushed before the curtain. In a moment
there was a breathless silence.
"The Bohemian has deceived me!" were his first words. "_That_ I could have
pardoned; but he has deceived you, my friends, _you_;" and his voice
trembled, and he hid his face behind his handkerchief and seemed to sob.
Then, bursting forth again, he went on: "I repeat, he has deceived me; he
is not here."
A yell of disappointment burst from the house.
"The man," continued Elliston, raising his voice, "of whatever name or
nation he may be, who breaks his word, commits an offence which----" The
rest of this Joseph Surface sentiment was drowned in furious clamour, and
for some minutes he could not make himself heard, until he drew some
letters from his pocket, and held them up.
"Here is the correspondence," he said. "Does any gentleman here understand
German? If so, will he oblige me by stepping forward?"
The Birmingham public were not strong in languages in those days, it would
seem, for no gentleman stepped forward.
"Am I, then, left alone?" he exclaimed in tragic accents. "Well, I will
translate them for you."
Here there was another uproar, out of which came two or three voices, "No,
no." Like Buckingham, he chose to construe the two or three into "a
general acclaim."
"Your commands shall be obeyed," he said bowing, and pocketing the
correspondence, "I _will not_ read them. But my dear patrons, your
kindness merits some satisfaction at my hands; your consideration shall
not go unrewarded. You shall not say you have paid your money for nothing.
Thank heaven, I can satisfy you of my own integrity, and present you with
a portion of the entertainment you have paid to see. The Bohemian, the
villain, is not here. But the _stone_ is, and YOU SHALL SEE IT." He winked
at the orchestra, which struck up a lively strain, and up went the
curtain, disclosing a huge piece of sand rock, upon which was stuck a
label, bearing the legend in large letters, "THIS IS THE STONE."
It need scarcely be added that the Bohemian existed only in the manager's
brain. But it is a question whether the audience which could be only
brought together by such an exhibition did not deserve to be swindled.
An equally good story is told of his management at Worcester. For his
benefit he had announced a grand display of fireworks! No greater proof of
the gullibility of the British public could be adduced than their
swallowing such an announcement. The theatre was so small that such an
exhibition was practically impossible. A little before the night Elliston
called upon the landlord of the property, and in the course of
conversation hinted at the danger of such a display, as though the idea
had just struck him; the landlord took alarm, and, as Elliston had
anticipated, forbade it. Nevertheless the announcements remained on the
walls, and on the night the theatre was crowded. The performance proceeded
without any notice being taken by the management of the fireworks, until
murmurs swelled into clamour and loud cries. Then with his usual kingly
air, Elliston came forward and bowed. He had made, he said, the most
elaborate preparation for a magnificent pyrotechnic display; he had left
nothing undone, but at the last moment came the terrible reflection, would
it not be dangerous? Would there not be collected within the walls of the
theatre a number of lovely young tender girls, of respectable matrons, to
do him honour? What if the house should catch fire--the panic, the
struggle for life--ah, he shuddered at the thought! Then, too, he thought
of the property of that worthiest of men, the landlord--he rushed to
consult him--and he now called upon him--there he was, seated in the stage
box--to publicly state, for the satisfaction of the distinguished audience
he saw before him, that he had forbidden the performance from
considerations of safety. The landlord, a very nervous man, shrank to the
back of his box, scared by every eye in the house being fixed upon him;
but the audience, thankful for the terrible danger they had escaped, burst
into thunders of applause.
The stories are endless of the shifts and swindles to which country
managers, at their wits' end, have had to resort to attract a sluggish
public. How great singers have been advertised that never heard of such an
engagement, and even forged telegrams read to an expectant audience, to
account for their non-appearance. How prizes have been distributed on
benefit nights--to people who gave them back again. How audiences, the
victims of some false announcement, have been left waiting patiently for
the performance to commence, while the manager was on his way to another
town with their money in his pocket. But there is a great sameness about
such stories, and one or two are a specimen of all.
H. BARTON BAKER, _in Belgravia_.