"ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS."
It is clear that playgoers of the Shakespearean period dearly loved to
see a battle represented upon the stage. The great poet thoroughly
understood his public, and how to gratify it. In some fifteen of his
plays he has introduced the encounter or the marshalling of hostile
forces. "Alarums and excursions" is with him a very frequent stage
direction; and as much may be said of "they fight," or "_exeunt_
fighting." Combats and the clash of arms he obviously did not count as
"inexplicable dumb show and noise." He was conscious, however, that
the battles of the stage demanded a very large measure of faith on the
part of the spectators. Of necessity they were required to "make
believe" a good deal. In the prologue to "Henry V." especial apology
is advanced for the presumption of the dramatist in dealing with so
comprehensive a subject; and indulgence is claimed for the unavoidable
feebleness of the representation as compared with the force of the
reality:
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance:
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times;
Turning th' accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass.
These conditions, however, were accepted by the audiences of the time
in the most liberal spirit. Critics were prone to deride the popular
liking for "cutler's work" and "the horrid noise of target fight;"
"the fools in the yard" were censured for their "gaping and gazing" at
such exhibitions. But the battles of the stage were still fought on;
"alarums and excursions" continued to engage the scene. Indeed,
variety and stir have always been elements in the British drama as
opposed to the uniformity and repose which were characteristics of the
ancient classical theatre.
Yet our early audiences must have been extremely willing to help out
the illusions of the performance, and abet the tax thus levied upon
their credulity. Shakespeare's battles could hardly have been very
forcibly presented. In his time no "host of auxiliaries" assisted the
company. "Two armies flye in," Sir Philip Sidney writes in his
"Apologie for Poetrie," 1595, "represented with four swords and
bucklers, and what harde heart will not receive it for a pitched
fielde?" So limited an array would not be deemed very impressive in
these days; but it was held sufficient by the lieges of Elizabeth.
Just as the Irish peasant is even now content to describe a mere squad
of soldiers as "the army," so Shakespeare's audiences were willing to
regard a few "blue-coated stage-keepers" as a formidable body of
troops. And certainly the poet sometimes exercised to the utmost the
imaginations of his patrons. He required them to believe that his
small stage was immeasurably spacious; that his handful of "supers"
was in truth a vast multitude. During one scene in "King John" he does
not hesitate to bring together upon the boards the three distinct
armies of Philip of France, the Archduke of Austria, and the King of
England; while, in addition, the citizens of Angiers are supposed to
appear upon the walls of their town and discuss the terms of its
capitulation. So in "King Richard III.," Bosworth Field is
represented, and the armies of Richard and Richmond are made to encamp
within a few feet of each other. The ghosts of Richard's victims rise
from the stage and address speeches alternately to him and to his
opponent. Playgoers who can look back a score of years may remember a
textual revival of the tragedy, in which this scene was exhibited in
exact accordance with the original stage directions. Colley Cibber's
famous acting version was for once discarded, and Richard and Richmond
on the eve of their great battle quietly retired to rest in the
presence of each other, and of their audience. However to be
commended on the score of its fidelity to the author's intentions, the
scene had assuredly its ludicrous side. The rival tents wore the
aspect of opposition shower-baths. It was exceedingly difficult to
humour the idea that the figures occupying the stage could neither see
nor hear one another. Why, if they but outstretched their arms they
could have touched each other; and they were supposed to be mutually
eager for combat to the death! It became manifest, indeed, that the
spectators had lost greatly their ancestors' old power of "making
believe." They could no longer hold their reason in suspense for the
sake of enhancing the effect of a theatrical performance, though
prepared to be indulgent in that respect. What is called "realism" had
invaded the stage since Shakespeare's time, and could not now be
repelled or denied. Hints and suggestions did not suffice; the
positive and the actual had become indispensable.
There can be no doubt, however, that Shakespeare's battles had
oftentimes the important aid of real gunpowder. The armies might be
small; but the noise that accompanied their movements was surely very
great. The stage direction "alarums and chambers go off" occurs more
than once in "King Henry V." The Chorus to the play expressly states:
Behold the ordnance on their carriages,
With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur;
... and the nimble gunner
With linstook now the devilish cannon touches,
And down goes all before them.
Gunpowder was even employed in plays wherein battles were not
introduced. Thus at the close of "Hamlet," Fortinbras says: "Go bid
the soldiers shoot," and the stage direction runs: "A dead march.
_Exeunt_ bearing off the dead bodies; after which a peal of ordnance
is shot _off_." And just as, in 1846, the Garrick Theatre, in
Goodman's Fields, was destroyed by fire, owing to some wadding lodging
in the flies after a performance of the Battle of Waterloo, so in
1613, the Globe Theatre, in Southwark, was burnt to the ground from
the firing of "chambers" during a representation of "King Henry VIII."
Howes, in his additions to "Stowe's Chronicle," thus describes the
event: "Also upon St. Peter's Day, 1613, the playhouse or theatre
called the Globe, upon the Bankside, near London, by negligent
discharging of a peal of ordnance, close to the south side thereof,
the theatre took fire, and the wind suddenly dispersed the flame round
about, and in a very short space the whole building was quite consumed
and no man hurt; the house being filled with people to behold the
play, namely, of 'Henry VIII.;' and the next spring it was new builded
in a far fairer manner than before."
The paucity of Shakespeare's stage armies has sometimes found its
reflex in the limited means of country theatres of more modern date.
The ambition of strolling managers is apt to be far in advance of
their appliances; they are rarely stayed by the difficulties of
representation, or troubled with doubts as to the adequacy of their
troupe, in the words of a famous commander, to "go anywhere and do
anything." We have heard of a provincial Rolla who at the last moment
discovered that the army, wherewith he proposed to repulse the forces
of Pizarro, consisted of one supernumerary only. The Peruvian
chieftain proved himself equal to the situation, however, and adapted
his speech to the case. Addressing his one soldier, he declaimed in
his most dignified manner: "My brave associate, partner of my toil, my
feelings, and my fame, can Rolla's words add vigour to the virtuous
energies which inspire your heart?" and so on. Thus altered, the
speech was found to be sufficiently effective.
In his "Essay of Dramatic Poesy," Dryden complains of the "tumults to
which we are subject in England by representing duels, battles, and
the like, which renders our stage too like the theatres where they
fight prizes. For what is more ridiculous than to represent an army
with a drum and four men behind it, all which the hero of the other
side is to drive before him? or to see a duel fought and one slain
with two or three thrusts of the foils, which we know are so blunted
that we might give a man an hour to kill another in good earnest with
them?"
Two things were especially prized by the audiences of the past: a
speech and a combat. "For God's sake, George, give me a speech and let
me go home!" cried from the pit the wearied country squire of Queen
Anne's time to his boon companion Powell, the actor, doomed to appear
in a part deficient in opportunities for oratory. "But, Mr. Bayes,
might we not have a little fighting?" inquires Johnson, in the
burlesque of "The Rehearsal," "for I love those plays where they cut
and slash one another on the stage for a whole hour together."
The single combats that occur in Shakespeare's plays are very
numerous. There is little need to remind the reader, for instance, of
the hand-to-hand encounters of Macbeth and Macduff, Posthumus and
Iachimo, Hotspur and the Prince of Wales, Richard and Richmond. Romeo
has his fierce brawl with Tybalt, Hamlet his famous fencing scene, and
there is serious crossing of swords both in "Lear" and "Othello."
English audiences, from an inherent pugnacity, or a natural
inclination for physical feats, were wont to esteem highly the combats
of the stage. The players were skilled in the use of their weapons,
and would give excellent effect to their mimic conflicts. And this
continued long after the wearing of swords had ceased to be a
necessity or a fashion. The youthful actor acquired the art of fencing
as an indispensable step in his theatrical education. A sword was one
of the earliest "properties" of which he became possessor. He always
looked forward to impressing his audience deeply by his skill in
combat. Charles Mathews, the elder, has recorded in his too brief
chapters of autobiography, "his passion for fencing which nothing
could overcome." As an amateur actor he paid the manager of the
Richmond Theatre seven guineas and a half for permission to undertake
"the inferior insipid part of Richmond," who does not appear until the
fifth act of the play. The Richard of the night was a brother-amateur,
equally enthusiastic, one Litchfield by name. "I cared for nothing,"
wrote Mathews, "except the last scene of Richmond, but in that I was
determined, to have my full swing of carte and tierce. I had no notion
of paying my seven guineas and a half without indulging my passion. In
vain did the tyrant try to die after a decent time; in vain did he
give indications of exhaustion; I would not allow him to give in. I
drove him by main force from any position convenient for his last
dying speech. The audience laughed; I heeded them not. They shouted; I
was deaf. Had they hooted I should have lunged on in my
unconsciousness of their interruption. I was resolved to show them all
my accomplishments. Litchfield frequently whispered 'Enough!' but I
thought with Macbeth, 'Damned be he who first cries, Hold, enough!' I
kept him at it, and I believe we fought almost literally a long hour
by Shrewsbury clock. To add to the merriment, a matter-of-fact fellow
in the gallery, who in his innocence took everything for reality, and
who was completely wrapt up and lost by the very cunning of the scene,
at last shouted out: 'Why don't he shoot him?'"
The famous Mrs. Jordan was, it seems, unknown to Mathews, present
among the audience on this occasion, having been attracted from her
residence at Bushey by the announcement of an amateur Richard. "Years
afterwards," records Mathews, "when we met in Drury Lane green-room, I
was relating, amongst other theatrical anecdotes, the bumpkin's call
from the gallery in commiseration of the trouble I had in killing
Richard, when she shook me from my feet almost by starting up,
clasping her hands, and in her fervent, soul-stirring, warm-hearted
tones, exclaiming: 'Was that you? I was there!' and she screamed with
laughter at the recollection of my acting in Richmond, and the length
of our combat."
"Where shall I hit you, Mr. Kean?" inquired a provincial Laertes of
the great tragedian. "Where you _can_, sir," was the grim reply. For
Kean had acquired fencing under Angelo, and was proud of his
proficiency in the art. He delighted in prolonging his combats to the
utmost, and invested them with extraordinary force and intensity. On
some occasions he so identified himself with the character he
represented as to decline to yield upon almost any terms. Hazlitt
censures certain excesses of this kind which disfigured his
performance of Richard. "He now actually fights with his doubled
fists, after his sword is taken from him, like some helpless infant."
"The fight," writes another critic, "was maintained under various
vicissitudes, by one of which he was thrown to the earth; on his knee
he defended himself, recovered his footing, and pressed his antagonist
with renewed fury; his sword was struck from his grasp--he was
mortally wounded; disdaining to fall"--and so on. No wonder that many
Richmonds and Macduffs, after combating with Mr. Kean, were left so
exhausted and scant of breath as to be scarcely able to deliver
audibly the closing speeches of their parts. The American stage has a
highly-coloured story of an English melodramatic actor with the
pseudonym of Bill Shipton, who, "enacting a British officer in 'The
Early Life of Washington,' got so stupidly intoxicated that when Miss
Cuff, who played the youthful hero, had to fight and kill him in a
duel, Bill Shipton wouldn't die; he even said loudly on the stage
that he wouldn't. Mary Cuff fought on until she was ready to faint,
and after she had repeated his cue for dying, which was, 'Cowardly,
hired assassin!' for the fourteenth time, he absolutely jumped off the
stage, not even pretending to be on the point of death. Our indignant
citizens then chased him all over the house, and he only escaped by
jumping into the coffin which they bring on in Hamlet, Romeo, and
Richard." The story has its humour, but is not to be implicitly
credited.
Broad-sword combats were at one time very popular interludes at minor
theatres. They were often quite distinct performances, prized for
their own sake, and quite irrespective of their dramatic relevancy. It
cannot be said that they suggested much resemblance to actual warfare.
Still they demanded of the performers skill of a peculiar kind, great
physical endurance and ceaseless activity. The combat-sword was an
unlikely-looking weapon, very short in the blade, with a protuberant
hilt of curved bars to protect the knuckles of the combatant. The
orchestra supplied a strongly-accentuated tune, and the swords clashed
together in strict time with the music. The fight raged hither and
thither about the stage, each blow and parry, thrust and guard, being
a matter of strict pre-arrangement. The music was hurried or slackened
accordingly as the combat became more or less furious. "One, two,
three, and under; one, two, three, and over;" "robber's cuts;"
"sixes"--the encounter had an abundance of technical terms. And each
performer was allowed a fair share of the feats accomplished: the
combatants took turns in executing the strangest exploits. Alternately
they were beaten down on one knee, even lower still, till they crawled
serpent-wise about the boards; they leaped into the air to avoid
chopping blows at their lower members; they suddenly span round on
their heels, recovering themselves in time to guard a serious blow,
aimed with too much deliberation at some vital portion of their
frames; occasionally they contrived an unexpected parry by swiftly
passing the sword from the right hand to the left. Now and then they
fought a kind of double combat, wielding a sword in either hand.
Altogether, indeed, it was an extraordinary entertainment, which
evoked thunders of applause from the audience. The eccentric agility
of the combatants, the peculiarities of their method of engagement,
the stirring staccato music of the band, the clashing of the swords
and the shower of sparks thus occasioned, were found quite
irresistible by numberless playgoers. Mr. Crummles, it will be
remembered, had a very high opinion of this form of entertainment.
Of late, however, the broadsword combat has declined as a theatrical
attraction if it has not altogether expired. The art involved in its
presentment is less studied, or its professors are less capable than
was once the case. And perhaps burlesque has exposed too glaringly its
ridiculous or seamy side. It was not one of those things that could
long endure the assaults of travesty. The spell was potent enough in
its way, but it dissolved when once interruptive laughter became
generally audible. A creature of theatrical tradition, curiously
sophisticated and enveloped in absurdities, its long survival is
perhaps more surprising than the fact of its decease. Some attempt at
ridiculing it seems to have been made so far back as the seventeenth
century, in the Duke of Buckingham's "Rehearsal." Two characters
enter, each bearing a lute and a drawn sword, and alternately fight
and sing; "so that," as Bayes explains, "you have at once your ear
entertained with music and good language, and your eye satisfied with
the garb and accoutrements of war." In the same play, also, the actors
were wont to introduce hobby-horses, and fight a mimic battle of very
extravagant nature.
Ridicule of a stage army was one of the established points of humour
in the old burlesque of "Bombastes Furioso," and many a pantomime has
won applause by the comical character of the troops brought upon the
scene. It should be said, however, that of late years the more famous
battles of the theatre have been reproduced with remarkable liberality
and painstaking. In lieu of "four swords and bucklers," a very
numerous army of supernumeraries has marched to and fro upon the
boards. In the ornate revivals of Shakespeare, undertaken from time to
time by various managers, especial attention has been directed to the
effective presentment of the battle scenes. The "auxiliaries" have
frequently consisted of soldiers selected from the household troops.
They are reputed to be the best of "supers," imposing of aspect,
stalwart and straight-limbed, obedient to command, and skilled in
marching and military formations. Londoners, perhaps, are little aware
of the services their favourite regiments are prompt to lend to
theatrical representations. Notably our grand operas owe much to the
Coldstreams and Grenadiers. After a performance of "Le Prophète" or
"L'Etoile du Nord," let us say, hosts of these warriors may be seen
hurrying from Covent Garden back to their barracks. Plays that have
depended for their success solely upon the battles they have
introduced have not been frequent of late years, and perhaps their
popularity may fairly be counted as a thing of the past. We have left
behind us the times when versatile Mr. Gomersal was found submitting
to the public by turns his impersonation of Napoleon at Waterloo and
Sir Arthur Wellesley at Seringapatam; when Shaw, the Lifeguardsman,
after performing prodigies of valour, died heroically to slow music;
when Lady Sale, armed with pistol and sabre, fought against heavy
Afghan odds, and came off supremely victorious. Perhaps the public
have ceased to care for history thus theatrically illustrated, or
prefers to gather its information on the subject from despatches and
special correspondence. The last theatrical venture of this class
referred to our army's exploits in Abyssinia. But the play did not
greatly please. Modern battles have, indeed, outgrown the stage, and
the faculty of making "imaginary puissance" has become lost. In the
theatre, as elsewhere, the demand is now for the literal, the
accurate, and the strictly matter of fact.