"DOUBLES."
The "doubling" of parts, or the allotment to an actor of more
characters than one in the same representation, was an early necessity
of theatrical management. The old dramatists delighted in a long
catalogue of _dramatis personæ_. There are some fifty "speaking parts"
in Shakespeare's "Henry V.," for instance; and although it was usual
to press even the money-takers into the service of the stage to figure
as supernumerary players, there was still a necessity for the regular
members of the troupe to undertake dual duties. Certain curious stage
directions cited by Mr. Payne Collier from the old extemporal play of
"Tamar Cam," mentioned in Henslowe's "Diary" under the date of
October, 1602, afford evidence of an early system of doubling. In the
concluding scene of the play four-and-twenty persons are required to
represent the nations conquered by the hero--Tartars, Bactrians,
Cattaians, Pigmies, Cannibals, &c., and to cross the stage in
procession in the presence of the leading characters. The names of
these performers are supplied, and it is apparent that Messrs. George,
Thomas Morbeck, Parsons, W. Parr, and other members of the company,
were present early in the scene as nobles and soldiers in attendance
upon the conqueror, and later--sufficient time being allowed for them
to change their costumes--as representatives of "the people of Bohare,
a Cattaian, two Bactrians," &c.
In proportion as the actors were few, and the _dramatis personæ_
numerous, so the system of doubling, and even trebling parts, more
and more prevailed. Especially were the members of itinerant companies
compelled to undertake increase of labour of this kind. It was to
their advantage that the troupe should be limited in number, so that
the money accruing from their performances should not be divided into
too many shares, and, as a consequence, each man's profit reduced too
considerably. Further, it was always the strollers' principle of
action to stick at nothing: to be deterred by no difficulties in
regard to paucity of numbers, deficient histrionic gifts, inadequate
wardrobes, or absent scenery. They were always prepared to represent,
somehow, any play that seemed to them to promise advantages to their
treasury. The labours of doubling fell chiefly on the minor players,
for the leading tragedian was too frequently present on the scene as
the hero of the night to be able to undertake other duties. But if the
player of Hamlet, for instance, was confined to that character, it was
still competent for the representative of "the ghost of buried
Denmark" to figure also as Laertes; or for Polonius, his death
accomplished, to reappear in the guise of Osric or the First
Gravedigger; to say nothing of such minor arrangements as were
involved in entrusting the parts of the First Actor, Marcellus, and
the Second Gravedigger to one actor. Some care had to be exercised
that the doubled characters did not clash, and were not required to be
simultaneously present upon the scene. But, indeed, the strollers did
not hesitate to mangle their author when his stage directions did not
accord with their convenience. The late Mr. Meadows used to relate
that when in early life he was a member of the Tamworth,
Stratford-upon-Avon, and Warwick company, he was cast for Orozembo,
the Old Blind Man, and the Sentinel in "Pizarro," and took part in a
mutilated version of Macbeth, in which King Duncan, Hecate, the First
Murderer, and the Doctor were performed by one actor; the bleeding
soldier, one of the apparitions, and Seyton by another; and Fleance,
the Apparition of a crowned head, and the Gentlewoman by the juvenile
lady of the company, the characters of Donaldbain and Siward being
wholly omitted.
Harley's first theatrical engagement was with Jerrold, the manager of
a company at Cranbrook. His salary was fifteen shillings a week, and
in a representation of "The Honeymoon" he appeared as Jaques, Lampedo,
and Lopez, accomplishing the task with the assistance of several wigs
and cloaks. In "John Bull" he played Dan, John Burr, and Sir Francis
Rochdale; another actor doubling the parts of Peregrine and Tom
Shuffleton, while the manager's wife represented Mrs. Brulgruddery and
Frank Rochdale, attiring the latter in a pair of very loose nankeen
trousers and a very tight short jacket. The entire company consisted
of "four white males, three females, and a negro." Certain of the
parts were assigned in the playbills to a Mr. Jones. These, much to
his surprise, Harley was requested by the manager to assume. "Between
you and me," he whispered mysteriously to his young recruit, "there's
no such person as Mr. Jones. Our company's rather thin just now, but
there's no reason why the fact should be noised abroad." Other
provincial managers were much less anxious to conceal the paucity of
their company. A country playbill, bearing date 1807, seems indeed to
vaunt the system of doubling to which the _impresario_ had been
driven. The comedy of "The Busy Body" was announced for performance
with the following extraordinary cast:
Sir Francis Gripe and Charles Mr. Johnston.
Sir George Airy and Whisper Mr. Deans.
Sir Jealous Traffic and Marplot Mr. Jones.
Miranda and Scentwell Mrs. Deans.
Patch and Isabinda Mrs. Jones.
Among other feats of doubling or trebling may be counted the
performance, on the same night, by a Mrs. Stanley, at the Coburg
Theatre, of the parts of Lady Anne, Tressell, and Richmond, in
"Richard III." A Mr. W. Rede once accomplished the difficult feat of
appearing as Sir Lucius O'Trigger, Fag, and Mrs. Malaprop in a
representation of "The Rivals," the lady's entrance in the last scene
having been preceded by the abrupt exit of Sir Lucius and the omission
of the concluding passages of his part. The characters of King Henry,
Buckingham, and Richmond, in Cibber's edition of "Richard III.," have
frequently been undertaken by one performer.
Actors have often appeared in two, and sometimes in three theatres on
the same evening. This may be the result of their own great
popularity, or due to the fact of their serving a manager who has
become lessee of more than one establishment. For twenty-eight nights
in succession, Grimaldi performed the arduous duties of clown both at
Sadler's Wells and Covent Garden Theatres. On one occasion he even
played clown at the Surrey Theatre in addition. It is recorded that
"the only refreshment he took during the whole evening was one glass
of warm ale and a biscuit." A postchaise and four was waiting at the
Surrey Theatre to convey him to Sadler's Wells, and thence to Covent
Garden, and the postboys urged their horses to a furious speed. It is
well known that while fulfilling his double engagement he one wet
night missed his coach, and ran in the rain all the way from
Clerkenwell to Holborn, in his clown's dress, before he could obtain a
second vehicle. He was recognised as he ran by a man who shouted:
"Here's Joe Grimaldi!" And forthwith the most thoroughly popular
performer of his day was followed by a roaring and cheering mob of
admirers, who proclaimed his name and calling, threw up their hats and
caps, exhibited every evidence of delight, and agreed, as with one
accord, to see him safe and sound to his journey's end. "So the coach
went on, surrounded by the dirtiest bodyguard that was ever beheld;
not one of whom deserted his post until Grimaldi had been safely
deposited at the stage-door of Covent Garden, when, after raising a
vociferous cheer, such of them as had money rushed round to the
gallery doors, and making their appearance in the front just as he
came on the stage, set up a boisterous shout of 'Here he is again!'
and cheered him enthusiastically, to the infinite amusement of every
person in the theatre who had got wind of the story."
At one time Elliston, engaged as an actor at Drury Lane, had the
additional responsibility of two theatrical managements, the Surrey
and the Olympic. His performers were required to serve both theatres,
and thus frequently appeared upon the stage in two counties upon the
same night. In 1834 the two patent theatres were ruled by one lessee,
whose managerial scheme it was to work the two houses with a company
and a half. The running to and from Drury Lane and Covent Garden of
actors half attired, with rouged faces, and loaded with the
paraphernalia of their art, of dancers in various stages of dress, of
musicians bearing their instruments and their music-books, was
incessant, while the interchange of mysterious terms and inquiries,
such as "Who's on?" "Stage waits," "Curtain down," "Rung up," "First
music," &c., was sufficiently perplexing to passers-by. At the season
of Christmas, when the system of double duty was at its height, the
hardships endured by the performers were severe indeed. The dancers
were said to pass from one theatre to the other six times during the
evening, and to undergo no fewer than eight changes of costume.
In the same way the performances at the summer theatre, the Haymarket,
at the commencement and close of its season, often came into collision
with the entertainments of the winter houses, and the actor engaged by
two masters, and anxious to serve both faithfully, had a very arduous
time of it. How could he possibly be present at the Haymarket and yet
not absent from Drury Lane or Covent Garden? As a rule the patent
theatres had the preference, and the summer theatre was compelled for
a few nights to be content with a very scanty company. On one
occasion, however, Farley, the actor, achieved the feat of appearing
both at the Haymarket and Covent Garden on the same night, and in the
plays presented first at each house. The effort is deserving of
particular description.
At Covent Garden the curtain rose at half-past six o'clock. In the
Haymarket the representation commenced at seven. At the former theatre
Farley was cast for one of the witches in "Macbeth." At the latter he
was required to impersonate Sir Philip Modelove, in the comedy of "A
Bold Stroke for a Wife." It was a question of fitting in his exits at
Covent Garden with his entrances at the Haymarket. A hackney-coach was
in attendance, provided with a dresser, lighted candles, the necessary
change of costume, and the means of altering his make-up. His early
duties as a witch at Covent Garden fulfilled, the actor jumped into
his coach, and, with the assistance of his dresser, was promptly
changed from the weird sister of the tragedy to the elderly beau of
the comedy. He duly arrived at the Haymarket in time to present
himself as Sir Philip, whose first entrance upon the stage is in the
second act of the play. This part of his task performed, he hurried
again to Covent Garden, being transformed on the road from Sir Philip
back again to the weird sister. Again he left the patent theatre, and
reached the Haymarket in time to appear as Sir Philip, on the second
entrance of that character in the fifth act of the play. The actor
acquitted himself entirely to the satisfaction of his two audiences
(who were perhaps hardly aware of the extent of his labours), but
with very considerable strain upon his nervous system. For to add to
the difficulties of his task, his coachman, indifferent to the counsel
that the more haste often signifies the worse speed, turning a corner
too sharply, ran his forewheel against a post, and upset coach, actor,
dresser, candles, costumes, and all. This untimely accident
notwithstanding, the actor, with assistance freely rendered by a
friendly crowd, secured another vehicle, and succeeded in
accomplishing an exploit that can scarcely be paralleled in histrionic
records.
But if doubling was sometimes a matter of necessity, it has often been
the result of choice. Actors have been much inclined to undertake dual
duty with a view of manifesting their versatility, or of surprising
their admirers. Benefit-nights have been especially the occasions of
doubling of this kind. Thus, at a provincial theatre, then under his
management, Elliston once tried the strange experiment of sustaining
the characters of both Richard and Richmond in the same drama. The
entrance of Richmond does not occur until the fifth act of the
tragedy, when the scenes in which the king and the earl occupy the
stage become alternate. On making his exit as Richard, Elliston
dropped his hump from his shoulder, as though it had been a knapsack,
straightened his deformed limbs, slipped on certain pieces of
pasteboard armour, and, adorned with fresh head-gear, duly presented
himself as the Tudor prince. The heroic lines of Richmond delivered,
the actor hurried to the side-wings, to resume something of the
misshapen aspect of Richard, and then re-enter as that character. In
this way the play went on until the last scene, when the combatants
came face to face. How was their fight to be presented to the
spectators? This omission of so popular an incident as a broadsword
combat could not be thought of. The armour of Richmond was forthwith
shifted on to the shoulders of a supernumerary player, who was simply
enjoined to "hold his tongue, and fight like the devil." Richard
slain, Richmond departed. The body of the dead king was borne from the
stage, and Elliston was then enabled to reappear as Richmond, and
speak the closing lines of the play.
Among more legitimate exploits in the way of doubling are to be
accounted the late Mr. Charles Mathews's assumption of the two
characters of Puff and Sir Fretful Plagiary in "The Critic;" Miss Kate
Terry's performance both of Viola and Sebastian in "Twelfth Night;"
Mr. Phelps's appearance as James the First and Trapbois, in the play
founded upon "The Fortunes of Nigel;" and the rendering by the same
actor of the parts of the King and Justice Shallow in "The Second Part
of Henry IV." The worst that can be said for these performances is
that they incline the audience to pay less heed to the play than to
the frequent changes of appearance entailed upon the players. The
business of the scene is apt to be overlooked, and regard wanders
involuntarily to the transactions of the tiring-room and the
side-wings. Will the actor be recognisable? will he really have time
to alter his costume? the spectators mechanically ask themselves, and
meditation is occupied with such possibilities as a tangled string or
an obstinate button hindering the performer. All this is opposed to
the real purpose of playing, and injurious to the actor's art, to say
nothing of the interests of the dramatist. Illusion is the special
object of the theatre, and this forfeits its magic when once inquiry
is directed too curiously to its method of contrivance. Still doubling
of this kind has always been in favour both with actors and audiences,
and many plays have been provided especially to give dual occupation
to the performers. Certain of these have for excuse the fact that
their fables hinge upon some question of mistaken identity, or strong
personal resemblance. The famous "Courier of Lyons," founded, indeed,
upon a genuine _cause célèbre_, was a drama of this kind. Here it was
indispensable that the respectable Monsieur Lesurques and the criminal
Dubosc, between whom so extraordinary a likeness existed that the one
suffered death upon the scaffold for a murder committed by the other,
should be both impersonated by the same performer. "The Corsican
Brothers," it need hardly be said, narrated the fortunes of the
twin-born Louis and Fabian dei Franchi, reasonably supposed to be so
much alike that they could not be known apart. Mademoiselle Rachel
appeared with success in a drama called "Valeria," written by
Messieurs Auguste Maquet and Jules Lacroix, for the express purpose,
it would seem, of rehabilitating the Empress Messalina. The actress
personated Valeria, otherwise Messalina, and also Cynisca, a
dancing-girl of evil character, but so closely resembling the empress
that, as the dramatists argued, history had confounded the two ladies,
and charged the one with the misdeeds of the other. "Like and Unlike,"
an adaptation from the French, in which, some years since, Madame
Celeste was wont to perform at the Adelphi, is also a drama of the
same class. But, indeed, works contrived for doubling purposes are
numerous enough. And in this category may be included the elaborate
melodramas which deal with long lapses of years, and relate the
adventures of more than one generation, and in which the hero or
heroine of the earlier scenes reappears at a later stage of the
performance as his or her own child. Here, however, frequent change of
dress is not required; the character first personated, when once laid
aside, is not resumed, but is supposed to have been effectually
removed from the scene by death, generally of a violent description.
It is to be added that the applause often won by the actor who doubles
a part on account of his rapid changes of attire, are in truth due
much less to him than to the activity of his dresser--a functionary,
however, who is never seen by the public. Still, calls before the
curtain have now become such common compliments, that even the
dressers of the theatre may yet obtain this form of recognition of
their deserts.
The services of a mute double to assist the illusion of the scene, or
to spare a leading performer needless fatigue, have often been
required upon the stage. Such a play as "The Corsican Brothers" could
scarcely be presented without the aid of a mute player to take the
place, now of Louis, now of Fabian dei Franchi, to personate now the
spectre of this twin, now of that. In former days, when the deepest
tragedy was the most highly esteemed of theatrical entertainments,
funeral processions, or biers bearing the corpses of departed heroes,
were among the most usual of scenic exhibitions. Plays closed with a
surprising list of killed and wounded. But four of the characters in
Rowe's "Fair Penitent" are left alive at the fall of the curtain, and
among those survivors are included such subordinate persons as
Rossano, the friend of Lothario, and Lucilla, the confidante of
Calista, whom certainly it was worth no one's while to put to death.
The haughty gallant, gay Lothario, is slain at the close of the fourth
act, but his corpse figures prominently in the concluding scenes. The
stage direction runs at the opening of the fifth act: "A room hung
with black; on one side Lothario's body on a bier; on the other a
table with a skull and other bones, a book and a lamp on it. Calista
is discovered on a couch, in black; her hair hanging loose and
disordered. Soft music plays." In this, as in similar cases, it was
clearly unnecessary that the personator of the live Lothario of the
first four acts should remain upon the stage to represent his dead
body in the fifth. It was usual, therefore, to allow the actor's
dresser to perform this doleful duty, and the dressers of the time
seem to have claimed occupation of this nature as a kind of privilege,
probably obtaining in such wise some title to increase of salary. The
original Lothario--the tragedy being first represented in 1703--was
George Powell, an esteemed actor who won applause from Addison and
Steele, but who appears to have been somewhat of a toper, and was
generally reputed to obscure his faculties by incessant indulgence in
Nantes brandy. The fourth act of the play over, the actor was
impatient to be gone, and was heard behind the scenes angrily
demanding the assistance of Warren, his dresser, entirely forgetful of
the fact that his attendant was employed upon the stage in personating
the corpse of Lothario. Mr. Powell's wrath grew more and more intense.
He threatened the absent Warren with the severest of punishments. The
unhappy dresser, reclining on Lothario's bier, could not but overhear
his raging master, yet for some time his fears were surmounted by his
sense of dramatic propriety. He lay and shivered, longing for the fall
of the curtain. At length his situation became quite unendurable.
Powell was threatening to break every bone in his skin. In his
dresser's opinion the actor was a man likely to keep his word. With a
cry of "Here I am, master!" Warren sprang up, clothed in sable
draperies which were fastened to the handles of his bier. The house
roared with surprise and laughter. Encumbered by his charnel-house
trappings, the dead Lothario precipitately fled from the stage. The
play, of course, ended abruptly. For once the sombre tragedy of "The
Fair Penitent" was permitted a mirthful conclusion.
Whenever unusual physical exertion is required of a player, a perilous
fall, or a desperate leap, a trained gymnast is usually engaged as
double to accomplish this portion of the performance. When in the
stage versions of "Kenilworth," Sir Richard Varney, in lieu of Amy
Robsart, is seen to descend through the treacherous trap and incur a
fall of many feet, we may be sure that it is not the genuine Varney,
but his double who undergoes this severe fate. The name of the double
is not recorded in the playbill, however, and he wins little fame,
let him acquit himself as skilfully as he may. Occasionally, however,
doubles of this kind are found to emerge from obscurity and establish
a reputation of their own. In 1820, a pantomime, dealing with the
fairly tale of "Jack and the Beanstalk," was produced at Drury Lane.
The part of the hero was allotted to little Miss Povey, who declined,
however, to undertake Jack's feat of climbing the famous beanstalk, a
formidable structure reaching from the stage to the roof of the
theatre. It became necessary to secure a substitute who should present
some resemblance to the small and slight figure of the young actress,
and yet be sufficiently strong and courageous to undertake the task
she demurred to. The matter was one of some difficulty, and for some
time no competent double was forthcoming. One morning, however,
Winston, the stage-manager, descried a little active boy, acting as
waterman's assistant, at the hackney-coach stand in Bedford Street,
Covent Garden. He was carried to the theatre and his abilities put to
the test at a rehearsal of the pantomime. His performance was
pronounced satisfactory. He nightly appeared during the run of "Jack
and the Beanstalk" as the climbing double of Miss Povey. Subsequently,
he became one of the pupils of the clown. The boy said he believed his
name was Sullivan. Years afterwards he was known to fame as Monsieur
Silvain, ballet-master, and principal dancer of the Academic Royale,
Paris, an artist of distinction, and a most respectable member of
society.
Mrs. Mowatt, the American actress, has recorded in her Memoirs a
curious instance of a double being employed in connection with a dummy
to secure a theatrical illusion of a special kind. The play produced
at the Olympic Theatre some twenty years ago, was an English version
of the "Ariâne" of Thomas Corneille. In the original, Ariadne, upon
the discovery of the perfidy of Theseus, falls upon a sword and
expires. This catastrophe was altered in the adaptation, and a
startling effect produced by the leaping of the heroine from a rock,
and her plunging into the sea, while the ship of Theseus is seen
departing in the distance. It was found necessary that three Ariadnes,
similarly costumed, and identical in appearance, should lend their aid
to accomplish this thrilling termination. Mrs. Mowatt, as Ariadne the
first, paced the shore, and received the agonising intelligence of
the desertion of Theseus. A ballet-girl, as Ariadne the second,
climbed the rocks of the Island of Naxos, reaching the highest peak to
catch the last glimpse of the vanishing vessel. The third Ariadne was
a most lifelike lay figure, which, on a given signal, was hurled from
the cliff, and seen to fall into the abyss below.
The greatest difficulty seems to have been experienced at rehearsal in
persuading Ariadne the second even to walk up the steep rocks of
Naxos. The poor ballet-girl had been chosen for this duty less because
of her courage than on account of an accidental resemblance she bore
to Mrs. Mowatt. "She stopped and shrieked halfway, protested she was
dizzy, and might fall, and would not advance a step farther. After
about half-an-hour's delay, during which the poor girl was encouraged,
coaxed, and scolded abundantly, she allowed the carpenter, who had
planned the rocky pathway, to lead her carefully up and down the
declivity, and finally rushed up alone." At a certain cue she was
required to fall upon her face, concealed from the audience by an
intercepting rock, and then the lay figure took its flight through the
air.
The success of the performance appears to have been complete. The
substitution of the double for Ariadne, and the dummy for the double,
even puzzled spectators who were provided with powerful opera-glasses.
"The illusion was so perfect," Mrs. Mowatt writes, "that on the first
night of the representation, when Ariadne leaped from the rock, a man
started up in the pit, exclaiming in a tone of genuine horror: 'Good
God! she is killed!'" How this exclamation must have rejoiced the
heart of the stage-manager! For one would rather not consider the
possibility of the "man in the pit" having been placed there by that
functionary with due instructions as to when and what he was to
exclaim.
It is a sort of doubling when, in consequence of the illness or
absence of a performer, his part is read by some other member of the
company. In this way curious experiments have sometimes been made upon
public patience. At Dublin, in 1743, Addison's tragedy was announced
for representation, with Sheridan, the actor, in the character of
Cato. Sheridan, however, suddenly declined to appear, the costume he
had usually assumed in his performance of Cato being absent from the
wardrobe. In this emergency, Theophilus Cibber submitted a proposition
to the audience that, in addition to appearing as Syphax in the play,
he should read the part Mr. Sheridan ought to have filled. The offer
was accepted, the performance ensued, and apparently excited no
opposition. Sheridan was much incensed, however, and published an
address to the public. Cibber replied. Sheridan issued a second
address, to which Cibber again responded. Their correspondence was
subsequently reprinted in a pamphlet entitled "Sock and Buskin." But
the fact remained that "Cato" had been represented with the chief part
not acted, but read by a player who had other duties to fulfil in the
tragedy. One is reminded of the old-established story of the play of
"Hamlet" being performed with the omission of the character of the
Prince of Denmark; a tradition, or a jest, which has long been
attributed to Joe Miller, or some similar compiler of facetiæ. It
would seem, however, that even this absurd legend can boast some
foundation of fact. At any rate, Mr. Parke, the respectable oboist of
the Opera House, who published his Musical Memoirs in 1830, is found
gravely recording of one Cubit, a subordinate actor and singer of
Covent Garden Theatre, that once, "when during one of his summer
engagements at a provincial theatre, he was announced to perform the
character of Hamlet, he was seized with a sudden and serious illness
in his dressing-room, just before the play was going to begin;
whereupon the manager, having 'no more cats than would catch mice,'
was constrained to request the audience to suffer them to go through
with the play, omitting the character of Hamlet; which, being complied
with, it was afterwards considered by the bulk of the audience to be a
great improvement." Mr. Parke proceeds to record, by way, perhaps, of
fortifying his story: "Although this may appear ridiculous and
improbable, an occurrence of a similar kind took place several years
afterwards at Covent Garden Theatre, when Cooke, the popular actor,
having got drunk, the favourite afterpiece of 'Love à la Mode' was
performed before a London audience (he being absent) without the
principal character, Sir Archy MacSarcasm."