THUNDERS OF APPLAUSE.
Addison devotes a number of "The Spectator" to a description of "The
Trunkmaker in the Upper Gallery"--a certain person so called, who had
been observed to frequent, during some years, that portion of the
theatre, and to express his approval of the transactions of the stage
by loud knocks upon the benches or the wainscot, audible over the
whole house. It was doubtful how he came to be called the Trunkmaker;
whether from his blows, resembling those often given with a hammer in
the shops of such artisans, or from a belief that he was a genuine
trunkmaker, who, upon the conclusion of his day's work, repaired to
unbend and refresh his mind at the theatre, carrying in his hand one
of the implements of his craft. Some, it is alleged, were foolish
enough to imagine him a perturbed spirit haunting the upper gallery,
and noted that he made more noise than ordinary whenever the Ghost in
"Hamlet" appeared upon the scene; some reported that the trunkmaker
was, in truth, dumb, and had chosen this method of expressing his
content with all he saw or heard; while others maintained him to be
"the playhouse thunderer," voluntarily employing himself in the
gallery when not required to discharge the duties of his office upon
the roof of the building. The "Spectator," holding that public shows
and diversions lie well within his province, and that it is
particularly incumbent upon him to notice everything remarkable
touching the elegant entertainments of the theatre, makes it his
business to obtain the best information he can in regard to this
trunkmaker, and finds him to be "a large black man whom nobody knows;"
who "generally leans forward on a huge oaken plant," attending closely
to all that is occurring upon the stage; who is never seen to smile,
but who, upon hearing anything that pleases him, takes up his staff
with both hands, and lays it upon the next piece of timber that stands
in his way, with exceeding vehemence; after which, he composes himself
to his former posture, till such time as something new sets him again
at work. Further, it was observed of him, that his blows were so well
timed as to satisfy the most judicious critics. Upon the expression of
any shining thought of the poet, or the exhibition of any uncommon
grace by the actor, the trunkmaker's blow falls upon bench or
wainscot. If the audience fail to concur with him, he smites a second
time, when, if the audience still remain unroused, he looks round him
with great wrath and administers a third blow, which never fails to
produce the desired effect. Occasionally, however, he is said to
permit the audience to begin the applause of their own motion, and at
the conclusion of the proceeding ratifies their conduct by a single
thwack.
It was admitted that the trunkmaker had rendered important service to
the theatre, insomuch that, upon his failing to attend at his post by
reason of serious illness, the manager employed a substitute to
officiate in his stead, until such time as his health was restored to
him. The incompetence of the deputy, however, became too manifest;
though he laid about him with incredible violence, he did it in such
wrong places, that the audience soon discovered he was not their old
friend the real trunkmaker. With the players the trunkmaker was
naturally a favourite; they not only connived at his obstreperous
approbation, but cheerfully repaid such damage as his blows
occasioned. That he had saved many a play from condemnation, and
brought fame to many a performer, was agreed upon all hands. The
audience are described as looking abashed if they find themselves
betrayed into plaudits in which their friend in the upper gallery
takes no part; and the actors are said to regard such favours as mere
_brutum fulmen_ or empty noise, when unaccompanied by "the sound of
the oaken plant." Still, the trunkmaker had his enemies, who
insinuated that he could be bribed in the interest of a bad poet or a
vicious player; such surmises, however, the "Spectator" averred to be
wholly without foundation, upholding the justice of his strokes and
the reasonableness of his admonitions. "He does not deal about his
blows at random, but always hits the right nail upon the head. The
inexpressible force wherewith he lays them on sufficiently shows the
strength of his convictions. His zeal for a good author is indeed
outrageous, and breaks down every fence and partition, every board and
plank, that stands within the expression of his applause."
Moreover, the "Spectator" insists upon the value and importance to an
audience of a functionary thus presiding over them like the director
of a concert, in order to awaken their attention and beat time to
their applauses; or, "to raise my simile," Addison continues, "I have
sometimes fancied the trunkmaker in the upper gallery to be, like
Virgil's ruler of the winds, seated upon the top of a mountain, who,
when he struck his sceptre upon the side of it, 'roused a hurricane
and set the whole cavern in an uproar.'"
In conclusion, the writer, not caring to confine himself to barren
speculations or to reports of pure matter of fact, without deriving
therefrom something of advantage to his countrymen, takes the liberty
of proposing that upon the demise of the trunkmaker, or upon his
losing "the spring of his arm" by sickness, old age, infirmity, or the
like, some able-bodied critic should be advanced to his post, with a
competent salary, and a supply, at the public expense, of bamboos for
operas, crab-tree cudgels for comedies, and oaken plants for
tragedies. "And to the end that this place should be always disposed
of according to merit, I would have none preferred to it who has not
given convincing proofs both of a sound judgment and a strong arm, and
who could not upon occasion either knock down an ox, or write a
comment upon Horace's 'Art of Poetry.' In short, I would have him a
due composition of Hercules and Apollo, and so rightly qualified for
this important office that the trunkmaker may not be missed by our
posterity."
Addison's paper doubtless possessed an element of fact and truth,
enriched by the fancifulness peculiar to the writer. It was his manner
thus to embroider commonplace; to enhance the actual by large
additions of the ideal. There probably existed such a personage as the
trunkmaker; some visitor to the upper gallery was in the habit of
expressing approval by strokes of his cudgel upon the wainscot; and
his frequent presence had obtained the recognition of the other
patrons of the theatre. It was an easy and a pleasant task to Addison
to invest this upper-gallery visitor with special critical qualities
to attribute to his "oaken plant" almost supernatural powers. In any
case, the trunkmaker was a sort of foreshadowing of the _claqueur_. It
was reserved for later times to organise applause and reduce success
to a system. Of old, houses were sometimes "packed" by an author's
friends to ensure a favourable result to the first representation of
his play. When, for instance, Addison's "Cato" was first produced,
Steele, as himself relates, undertook to pack an audience, and
accordingly filled the pit with frequenters of the Whig coffee-houses,
with students from the Inns of Court, and other zealous partisans.
"This," says Pope, "had been tried for the first time in favour of
'The Distressed Mother' (by Ambrose Phillips), and was now, with more
efficacy, practised for 'Cato.'" But this was only an occasional
_claque_. The "band of applauders" dispersed after they had cheered
their friend and achieved their utmost to secure the triumph of his
play. And they were unconnected with the manager of the theatre; they
were not _his_ friends, still less were they his servants, receiving
wages for their labours, and bound to raise their voices and clap
their hands in accordance with his directions. For such are the
genuine _claqueurs_ of to-day.
Dr. Véron, who has left upon record a sort of secret history of his
management of the Paris Opera House, has revealed many curious
particulars concerning _les claqueurs_, adding a serious defence of
the system of artificial applause. The artistic nature, the doctor
maintains, submitting its merits to the judgment of the general
public, has great need of the exhilaration afforded by evidence of
hearty approval and sympathy; the singer and the dancer are thus
inspired with the courage absolutely necessary to the accomplishment
of their professional feats; and it is the doctor's experience that
whenever a song or a dance has been redemanded by the audience, the
dance has been better danced, and the song better sung, the second
time of performance than the first. Hence there is nothing harmful,
but rather something beneficial, in the proceedings of _les
claqueurs_. Every work produced at the theatre cannot be of the first
class, and legitimately rouse the enthusiasm of the public; every
dramatic or lyrical artist cannot invariably, by sheer force of
talent, overcome the coldness, the languor, or the indifference of an
audience; yet the general effect of the representation would suffer
much if all applause, including that of a premeditated and, indeed,
purchased kind, were entirely withheld; the timid would remain timid,
talent would remain unrecognised, and, therefore, almost unrevealed,
if no cheering were heard to reassure, to encourage, to kindle, and
excite. The suggestion that the public would supply genuine applause
if only the _claqueurs_ were less liberal with the spurious article,
Dr. Véron rather evades than discusses.
The chief of the _claqueurs_ in Dr. Véron's time was a certain M.
Auguste, of Herculean form and imposing address, well suited in every
respect for the important post he filled. He was inclined to
costume of very decisive colours--to coats of bright green or
reddish-brown--presumably that, like a general officer, his forces
might perceive his presence in their midst by the peculiarity, if not
the brilliance, of his method of dress. Auguste was without
education--did not know a note of music; but he understood the
audience of the Opera House. For long years he had attended every
representation upon its stage, and experience had made him a most
skilful tactician. Auguste enjoyed the complete confidence of Dr.
Véron. _Claqueur_ and manager attended together the rehearsals of
every new work, and upon the eve of its first performance held a
cabinet council upon the subject. They reviewed the whole production
from the first line to the last. "I did not press upon him my
opinions," says Dr. Véron; "I listened to his; he appraised, he judged
all, both dance and song, according to his own personal impressions."
The manager was surprised at the justice of the _claqueur's_ criticism
by anticipation--at his ingenious plans for apportioning and
graduating the applause. It was Auguste's principle of action to begin
modestly and discreetly, especially at the opera, dealing with a
choice and critical public; to approve a first act but moderately,
reserving all salvoes of applause for the last act and the _dénoûment_
of the performance. Thus, in the last act he would bestow three rounds
of applause upon a song, to which, had it occurred in the first act,
he would have given but one. He held that towards the middle of a
performance success should be quietly fostered, but never forced. For
the _claqueurs_ of other theatres Auguste entertained a sort of
disdain. It was, as he averred, the easiest thing in the world to
obtain success at the Opéra Comique, or the Vaudeville. The thing was
managed there not so much by applause as by laughter. There was the
less need for careful management; the less risk of vexing the public
by injudicious approbation. No one could take offence at a man for
laughing immoderately; he was not chargeable with disingenuousness, as
in the case of one applauding to excess. Occasionally cries were
raised of "_A la porte les claqueurs_;" but such a cry as "_A la porte
les rieurs_," had never been heard. At the Opera House, however, there
was no occupation for laughers; in the score of an opera, or in the
plot of a ballet, appeal was never made to a sense of the mirthful.
Then the opera public was of a susceptible, and even irritable nature;
it might be led, but it could scarcely be driven; it could be
influenced by polite and gentle means; it would resent active
interference, and "a scene" might ensue--even something of a
disturbance. But M. Auguste implored his manager to be easy on that
score. Nothing of the kind should happen; he would prove himself
deserving, worthy of his employer's confidence. "Only," said M.
Auguste, "those fools, the paying public, certainly give us a great
deal of trouble!"
The _chef de la claque_ was, of course, supplied with admission
tickets by the management, and these were issued according to an
established scale. If the success of a work, already represented many
times, showed signs of flagging, and needed to be sustained, Auguste
received some forty or fifty pit tickets; but in the case of a work
highly approved by the public, and still attracting good houses,
twenty, or even ten, tickets were held to be sufficient. But on the
first production of an entirely new entertainment, at least a hundred
tickets were handed to Auguste. There was then a meeting of the
_claqueurs_ at some appointed place--usually a wine-shop in the
neighbourhood of the theatre--and the plan of action was arranged, the
army of applauders organised and marshalled. Intelligent lieutenants,
about ten in number, each in command of a detachment of the forces,
were instructed how to deal with opponents, and to keep watchful eyes
upon the proceedings of their chief. In addition to a money payment
and their own entrance tickets, they were accorded other tickets to be
given only to friends upon whose fidelity they could rely. Certain of
the _claqueurs_ accepted outpost duty, as it were, and acted in
isolated positions; others, and these the majority, took close order,
and fought, so to speak, in column. In addition to his regular forces,
Auguste engaged supernumerary and irregular troops, known to him as
_sous-claqueurs_, upon whose discipline and docility he could not
wholly rely, though he could make them useful by enclosing them in the
ranks of his seasoned soldiers. The _sous-claqueurs_ were usually
well-clothed frequenters and well-wishers of the Opera House, anxious
to attend the first representation of the new work to be produced, and
willing to pay half-price for their tickets, upon the condition that
they placed their applause at the disposal of M. Auguste.
The _claqueurs_ were admitted to the theatre and took their seats some
time before the entrance of the paying public. M. Auguste had thus
ample opportunity of deciding upon his strategic operations, of
placing his advance guard, of securing the position of his main army,
and of defending its flanks and rear. The paying public thus found
itself curiously intermixed and imprisoned by these hosts of
_claqueurs_, and victory usually crowned the efforts of M. Auguste,
who was careful to arrogate to himself the results of the evening's
proceedings. "What a splendid success I have achieved!" he would say;
completely ignoring the efforts of the composer, the artists of the
theatre, and the manager, who were perhaps entitled to some share of
the glories of the performance.
Auguste, as Dr. Véron relates, made his fortune at the opera. He was
in receipt of annuities from several artists of established fame.
Success could hardly be achieved without his aid. The friends,
patrons, and family of a new artist, to ensure his or her success,
invariably paid court and money to Auguste, the price of his services
corresponding with the pretensions of the _débutant_. And then he
undertook engagements of an exceptional kind, sometimes even to the
prejudice of his manager. Artists required of him some times a sudden
increase of their success--that, for a few nights only, an
extraordinary measure of applause should reward their exertions.
Their engagements were expiring or were about to be renewed; it was
desirable to deceive both the public and the manager. The vital
question of salary was under consideration; an increase of their
emoluments was most desirable. So, for a while, the mediocre singer or
dancer obtained from Auguste and his auxiliaries unusual favour, and
the manager was induced to form very erroneous opinions upon the
subject. Rumours, too, were artfully circulated to the effect that the
performer in question had received liberal offers from England or
Prussia; that his or her merits had roused the attention of rival
_impresarios_; the Parisian manager was cautioned at all costs to
retain in his theatre ability and promise so remarkable. But with the
signing of a new engagement, at an advance of salary, came
disenchantment. M. Auguste's services were now withdrawn, for the
performer's object was attained; and the management for some time to
come was saddled with mediocrity, purchased at a high price.
But little difficulties and deceptions of this kind notwithstanding,
Dr. Véron approved the _claque_ system, and constituted himself the
friend and defender of Auguste. It was not only that Auguste was
himself a very worthy person--an excellent father of a family, leading
a steady and creditable kind of life, putting by, for the benefit of
his children, a considerable portion of his large annual earnings as
_chef de la claque_--but the advantages of artificial applause and
simulated success seemed to Dr. Véron to be quite beyond question,
while wholly justifiable by their results. The manager detected the
_claque_ system as a pervading element in almost all conditions of
life. To influence large bodies or assemblies, dexterity and
stratagem, he declared, were indispensably necessary. The applause
exacted by Nero, when he recited his verses or played upon the lute,
or Tiberius, posing himself as an orator before the senate, was the
work of a _claque_, moved thereto rather by terror, however, than by
pecuniary considerations. Parliamentary applause he found also to be
of an artificial kind, produced by the spirit of friendship or the
ties of party; and he relates how, when the _Constitutionnel_
newspaper was under his direction, certain leading members attended at
the printing-office to correct the proofs of their speeches, and never
failed to enliven them at intervals by the addition of such terms as
"Cheers," "Loud cheers," "Great cheering," "Sensation," "Excitement,"
&c. These factitious plaudits, tricks, and manoeuvres of players,
singers, dancers, and orators, in truth, deceive no one, he
maintained; while they make very happy, nevertheless, all those who
have recourse to them.
As a manager, therefore, Dr. Véron invariably opposed the efforts made
to suppress the _claqueurs_ in the pay of the theatre. He admits that
sometimes excess of zeal on the part of these hirelings brought about
public discontent and complaint; but, upon the whole, he judged that
they exercised a beneficial influence, especially in the prevention of
cabals or conspiracies against particular artists, and of certain
scandals attached to the rivalry and jealousy of performers. And to M.
Auguste he thus addressed himself: "You have a fine part to play;
great duties to perform: put an end to quarrels; help the weak against
the strong; never oppose the public; cease applauding on a hint of
their disapproval; present an example of politeness and decorum;
conciliate and pacify; above all, prevent all hostile combinations,
all unjust coalitions, against the artists on the stage, or the works
represented."
Dr. Véron has said, perhaps, all that could be said for the _claque_
system; but his plausible arguments and apologies will not carry
conviction to every mind. There can be no doubt of the value, the
necessity almost, of applause to the player; but one would much rather
that the enthusiasm of an audience was wholly genuine, and not
provided at so much a cheer, let us say, by the manager or the player
himself. "Players, after all," writes Hazlitt, "have little reason to
complain of their hard-earned short-lived popularity. One thunder of
applause from pit, boxes, and gallery is equal to a whole immortality
of posthumous fame." But if the thunder is but stage thunder? If the
applause is supplied to order, through the agency of a M. Auguste?
Upon another occasion Hazlitt expresses more tenderness for the
ephemeral glories of the actor's art. "When an author dies it is no
matter, for his work remains. When a great actor dies, there is a void
produced in society, a gap which requires to be filled up. The
literary amateur may find employment for his time in reading old
authors only, and exhaust his entire spleen in scouting new ones; but
the lover of the stage cannot amuse himself in his solitary
fastidiousness by sitting to witness a play got up by the departed
ghosts of first-rate actors, or be contented with the perusal of a
collection of old playbills; he may extol Garrick, but he must go to
see Kean, and, in his own defence, must admire, or at least tolerate,
what he sees, or stay away against his will." And Cibber, in his
apology, has placed on record an elaborate lament, "that the momentary
beauties flowing from an harmonious elocution cannot, like those of
poetry, be their own record; that the animated graces of the actor can
live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them;
or, at least, can but faintly glimmer through the memory or imperfect
attestation of a few surviving spectators."
The complete suspension of applause, genuine or factitious, must
result in the exceeding depression of the player. He must feel himself
deprived of his proper sustenance; and something of dismay must
possess him, when he finds that all his efforts move his audience in
no way; that they are not _en rapport_ with him; that while he labours
they are listless. Henderson committed himself to the exaggeration
that no actor could perform well, unless he was systematically
flattered both on and off the stage. Liston, the comedian, found
applause, of whatever kind, so absolutely necessary to him that he
declared he liked to see even a small dog wag his tail in approbation
of his exertions. Mrs. Siddons complained of the inferior measure of
applause that she obtained in the theatres of the provinces. At Drury
Lane her grand bursts of passion were received with prolonged cheering
and excitement, that gave her rest and breathing-time, and prepared
her for increased efforts. The playgoers of York were at one time so
lukewarm in their reception of popular players, that, at the instance
of Woodward, Tate Wilkinson, the manager, called on the chief patrons
of the theatre, and informed them that the actor was so mortified by
their coolness, that he could not play nearly so well in York as in
London, Dublin, and Edinburgh. The York audience benefited by the
remonstrance, and on Woodward's next appearance, greatly to his
delight, awarded him extraordinary applause.
The system of calling, or recalling, a favourite performer, which now
appears to be established in our theatres, is of foreign origin, and
was first instituted in London at the Italian Opera House. "It is the
highest ambition of the opera-singers,--like the Methodists--to have
a _call_" says Parke, the oboe-player, in his "Musical Memoirs,"
published in 1830; and he describes the opera season of 1824, when
Rossini was director and composer to the King's Theatre, and his wife,
Madame Colbran Rossini, appeared as _prima donna seria_; Madame Pasta
and Madame Catalani being also engaged for a limited number of nights.
He relates, as something remarkable, that at the fall of the curtain
after the performance of Mayer's "Il Fanatico per la Musica," Madame
Catalani "was _called for_, when she again presented herself, making
her obeisance, amidst waving of handkerchiefs and tumultuous
applause." Madame Pasta, after appearing as Desdemona, "also had a
call when the curtain fell, and was brought back to receive the reward
due to her distinguished talents." Two seasons later Mr. Parke says,
in reference to Madame Pasta's performance of Desdemona: "At the end
of the opera, by desire of the audience, she came forward once more to
receive that reward which is becoming so common that it will shortly
cease to be a mark of distinction." And, two seasons after that, of
her appearance in "Tancredi," he writes: "She, _as usual_, delighted
the audience; and was, _as usual_, enthusiastically applauded. After
the curtain fell she was called for, _as usual_, to go through the
ceremony of being unmercifully applauded."
In the non-operatic theatres it is probable that calls first came in
vogue when epilogues went out.
The players are called simply to congratulate them on their success,
and to express some sort of gratitude for their exertions. There is
nothing to be urged against this method of applauding the performers
when kept within reasonable bounds. Sometimes it is to be feared,
however, the least discreet of the audience indulge in calls rather
for their own gratification--by way of pastime during the interval
between one play and another--than out of any strict consideration of
the abilities of the players; and, having called on one or two
deserving members of a company, proceed to require the presence before
the curtain of others who have done little to merit the compliment.
Certain playgoers, indeed, appear to applaud no matter what, simply
for the sake of applauding. They regard the theatre as a place to be
noisy in, and for the vehement expression of their own restless
natures. When they cannot greet a player with acclamations, they will
clamorously deride a footman, or other servant of the theatre, who
appears before the foot-lights with a broom, or a watering-pot, a
carpet, or other necessary of representation; or they will issue
boisterous commands to the gentlemen of the orchestra to "strike up"
and afford an interlude of music. To these of the audience it is
almost painful that a theatre should be peaceful or a stage vacant;
rather than this should happen they would prefer, if it could possibly
be contrived, and they were acquainted with his name, that the
call-boy or the prompter should be called for and congratulated upon
the valuable aid he had furnished to the performance.
Macready relates in his Memoirs that the practice of "calling on" the
principal actor was first introduced at Covent Garden Theatre, on the
occasion of his first performance of the character of Richard the
Third, on October 19th, 1819. "In obedience to the impatient and
persevering summons of the house I was desired by Fawcett to go before
the curtain; and accordingly I announced the tragedy for repetition
amidst the gratulating shouts that carried the assurance of complete
success to my agitated and grateful heart." But while loving applause,
as an actor needs must, Macready had little liking for the honours of
calls and recalls--heartily disapproving of them, indeed, when they
seemed to him in any way to disturb the representation. Thus, of his
performance of Werner at Manchester, in 1845, he writes: "Acted very
fairly. Called for. _Trash!_" Under date December 23rd, 1844, he
records: "Acted Virginius [in Paris] with much energy and power to a
very excited audience. I was loudly called for at the end of the
fourth act, but could not or would not make so absurd and empirical a
sacrifice of the dignity of my poor art." Three years later he enters
in his diary: "Acted King Lear with much care and power, and was
received by a most kind, and sympathetic, and enthusiastic audience. I
was called on, the audience trying to make me come on after the first
act, but of course I could not think of such a thing." But these
"calls" relate to the conclusion of an act, when, at any rate, the
drop-scene was fallen, hiding the stage from view, and when, for a
while, there is a pause in the performance, suspension of theatrical
illusion. What would Macready have said to "calls" in the course of
the scene, while the stage is still occupied, with certain of the
characters of the drama reduced to lay figures by the conduct of their
playfellows and the public? Yet in modern times Ophelias, after
tripping off insane to find a watery grave, have been summoned back to
the stage to acknowledge suavely enough by smiles and curtsies the
excessive applause of the spectators, greatly to the perplexity of
King Claudius, Queen Gertrude, and Laertes, and seriously to the
injury of the poet's design--and this is but a sample of the follies
of the modern theatre in this respect.
Such calls, recalls, and imbecile compliments are indeed wholly
reprehensible, and should be suppressed as strenuously as possible.
The managers of the Theatre Royal at Dresden some few years since
forbade the performers to accept calls before the termination of an
act, as "the practice interrupted the progress of the action on the
stage," and respectfully requested the audience to abstain from such
demands in future. Would that this ordinance had obtained more general
obedience.
Writing in 1830, Mr. Parke describes the custom of encoring performers
as a prerogative that had been exercised by the public for more than a
century; and says, with some justice, that it originated more from
self-love in the audience than from gratitude to those who had
afforded them pleasure. He considered, however, that encoring had done
service upon the whole, by exciting emulation, and stimulating singers
to extraordinary exertion; and that though, in many instances, it
destroyed the illusion of the scene, it had become so fixed that, in
spite even of the burlesque of encoring Lord Grizzle's dying song in
Fielding's "Tom Thumb," it continued to prevail as much as ever. He
notes it as curious that, "in calling for a repetition, the audiences
of the French and English theatres should each have selected a word
forming no part of their respective languages--the former making use
of the Latin word, _bis_; and the latter the French word, _encore_."
Double encores, we gather from the same authority, first occurred in
England, at the Opera House, during the season of 1808, when Madame
Catalani was compelled to sing three times one of her songs in the
comic opera, "La Freschetana." As none of the great singers, her
predecessors--Mara, Banti, Grassini, and Billington--had ever received
a similar compliment, this appeared extraordinary, until the fact
oozed out that Catalani, as part of her engagement, had stipulated
for the privilege of sending into the house fifty orders on each night
of her performance. After this discovery double encores ceased for a
time at the King's Theatre; but the system reappeared at Covent
Garden, by way of compliment to Braham, each time the great tenor sang
the favourite polacca in the opera of "The Cabinet;" and subsequently
like honours were paid to Sinclair upon his return from Italy. Until
then, it would seem, Mr. Sinclair had been well satisfied with one
encore, and exceedingly anxious that smaller favour should, on no
account, be withheld from him. When he played the part of Don Carlos,
in the opera of "The Duenna," he was disappointed with the measure of
applause bestowed upon his efforts, and complained that the obbligato
cadenza--which Mr. Parke had time out of mind played on the oboe in
the symphony of the song, "Had I a heart for falsehood framed"--interfered
with the effect of his singing, and that the applause which was
obtained by the cadenza deprived him of his encore. Accordingly
he requested that the cadenza might be suppressed. "Though
I thought this a mean and silly application," says Mr. Parke, "I
complied with it, and never interfered with his encores afterwards."
It must be said for Sinclair, however, that encores had come to be
regarded as tests of a singer's merits, and that a re-engagement at
the theatre sometimes depended upon this demonstration of public
approval. At Vauxhall Gardens, indeed, the manager--"who was not,"
says Mr. Parke, "a musical luminary"--formed his opinion of the
capacities of his singers from the report of a person appointed to
register the number of encores obtained by each during the season. The
singers who had received the most encores were forthwith re-engaged
for the next year. Upon the whole, however, the system was not found
to be completely satisfactory. The inferior vocalists, stimulated by
the fear of losing their engagements, took care to circulate orders
judiciously among their friends, with instructions as to the songs
that were to be particularly applauded; and it frequently resulted
that the worst performers, if the most artful manoeuvrers, were at the
head of the poll at the end of the season, and re-engaged over the
heads of superior artists, and greatly to the ultimate detriment of
the concern. In reference to this system of obtaining encores, Mr.
Parke cautiously observes: "Without presuming to insinuate that it was
surreptitiously introduced into our English theatres, I may be
permitted to observe, after forty years' experience in theatrical
tactics, that it would not be difficult, through a judicious
distribution of determined _forcers_ in various parts of a theatre,
with Herculean hands and stentorian voices, to achieve that enviable
distinction." Possibly the reader, bearing in mind certain great
successes and double and treble encores of our own time, may confirm,
from his own experience, Mr. Parke's opinions and suggestions in this
direction.
It was a rule of the theatre of the last century that, although the
audience were at liberty to demand the presence of an actor upon the
stage, particularly with a view to his giving an explanation of any
matter in which he had offended them, this privilege did not extend to
the case of anyone connected with the theatre other than in a
histrionic capacity. Thus, when in the year 1744 a serious riot
occurred in Drury-lane Theatre, relative to the excessive charges made
for admission to an old entertainment--it being understood that for
new entertainments it was permissible to raise the prices--"the
Manager (Mr. Fleetwood) was called for by the audience in full cry;
but, not being an actor, he pleaded his privilege of being exempted
from appearing on the stage before them, and sent them word by one of
the performers that he was ready to confer with any persons they
should depute to meet him in his own room. A deputation accordingly
went from the pit, and the house patiently waited their return."
At this time, no doubt, the actor laboured under certain social
disadvantages; and the manager who did not act, however insignificant
a person otherwise, was generally regarded as enjoying a more
dignified position than that occupied by the most eminent of
performers. In time, of course, the status of the actor improved, and
he outgrew the supposititious degradation attaching to his exercise of
his profession. We have lived to see composers, authors, and even
scene-painters summoned before the foot-lights, nothing loath,
apparently, to accept this public recognition of their merits. But
these are innovations of quite recent date. In a reputable literary
and critical journal,[6] of forty years back, appears an account of
the production at the English Opera House (now the Lyceum Theatre) of
the opera of "Nourjahad," the work of the late Mr. E.J. Loder, of
Bath, then described as the leader of the theatrical orchestra there,
and the son and successor of Mr. Loder, whose talents as a musician
had been long known in that city, and at the Philharmonic and other
concerts. Much praise is awarded to the work, and then we find the
following paragraph:
[6] _The Athenæum._
"The silly practice of calling for a favourite actor at the end of a
play was upon this occasion, for the first time, extended to a
composer; and Mr. E.J. Loder was produced upon the stage to make his
bow. As the chance portion of the audience could not possibly be aware
that a gentleman so little known in London was present, it would have
betrayed less of the secrets of the prison-house if this bit of
nonsense had not been preconcerted by injudicious and over-zealous
friends. The turn of successful authors will, we suppose, come next;
and, therefore, such of them as are not actors had better take a few
lessons in bowing over the lamps and be ready. We know some half-dozen
whom this process would cause to shake in their shoes more vehemently
than even the already accumulated anxieties of a first night."
The critic was, in some sort, a seer. The turn of the authors arrived
in due course, some years later, although history has not been careful
to record the name of the first English dramatist who appeared before
the curtain and bowed "over the lamps." How far the accomplishment of
this proceeding is attended by shaking in the shoes, is preluded by
lessons in the art of deportment, or adds to the anxieties of a first
representation, must be left for some successful playwright to reveal.
It may be noted that this calling for the author is also of foreign
origin. The first dramatist called before the curtain in France was
Voltaire, after the production of "Merope;" the second was Marmontel,
after the representation of his tragedy of "Dionysius." More than a
century ago the author of a "Letter to Mr. Garrick" observed that it
was then usual in France for the audience of a new and well-approved
tragedy to summon the author before them that he might personally
receive the tribute of public approbation due to his talents. "Nothing
like this," he writes, "ever happened in England." "And I may say,
never will," commented the author of a reply to the letter, with more
confidence than correctness of prophecy. Further, he writes, "I know
not how far a French audience may carry their complaisance, but, were
I in the author's case, I should be unwilling to trust to the civility
of an English pit or gallery.... Suppose that every play that is
offered should be received, and suppose that some one of them should
happen to be damned, might not an English audience on this occasion
call for the author, not to partake of their applause, indeed, but to
receive the tokens of their displeasure?" Fears of this kind have been
proved groundless, however. When a play has been condemned, the actors
and the manager may suffer, and be subjected sometimes to very
considerable affront; but the public wrath is not visibly inflicted
upon the author. He is left to the punishment of his reflections and
his disappointed hopes. Certainly he incurs no bodily risk from the
incivility of the pit or gallery. But the old violent method of
condemning a play is nearly out of vogue. The offending work is now
left to expire of inanition, as it were. Empty benches and a void
treasury are found to be efficacious means of convincing a manager
that he has failed in his endeavour to entertain the public.
For some time the successful author, yielding to the demand that he
should appear personally before the audience, was content to "bow his
acknowledgments"--for so the proceeding is generally described--from a
private box. It was felt, however, that this was but a half measure.
He could be seen by a portion of the audience only. From the private
box to the stage was but a step, and the opinion prevailed that if he
was to appear at all, he must manifest himself thoroughly, and allow
the whole house a fair opportunity of viewing him. Still it should be
understood that it is at the option of the dramatist to present
himself publicly or to remain in private, and leave the audience to
form such conjectures as may occur to them concerning the nature of
his physical aspect. The public have no more real right to insist on
the dramatic author's crossing the stage than to require that a
successful poet, or novelist, or historian, shall remain on view at
his publisher's for a specified time after the production of his
latest work. It is necessary to insist on this, because a little scene
that occurred a short time since in a London theatre shows some
misapprehension on the subject in the minds of certain of the public.
A successful play had been produced by a well-known writer, who was
called for in the usual manner at the conclusion of the performance.
The stage-manager explained the non-appearance of the author--he was
not in the house. Thereupon an angry gentleman stood up in the pit,
and demanded "Why isn't he here? He was here during the performance,
because I saw him." The stage-manager could only repeat that the
dramatist was not then in the theatre. "But he never appears when he's
called for," cried the complainant; and he proceeded to mention
instances in support of his statement, the stage-manager being
detained upon the stage some time during the progress of his argument.
The sympathies of the house appeared to be altogether with the
expostulant, and the notion that the author had any right to please
himself in the matter failed to obtain countenance. Upon a subsequent
occasion, indeed, the author in question--another of his works having
been given to the stage--thought it prudent to comply with the public
demand, and, though with evident reluctance, presented himself before
the foot-lights, to be inspected by his admirers and to receive their
congratulations. He yielded to a tyranny he was quite justified in
resisting. Other authors, though whether or not from unwillingness to
appear can hardly be affirmed, have forborne to attend the first
representation of their plays, and the audience have been compelled to
be content with the announcement--"Mr. ---- is absent from London."
Sometimes particulars are supplied, and happy Mr. ---- is stated to be
"probably, at that precise moment, enjoying his cigar upon the
esplanade at Brighton," it being added, that "intelligence of the
triumphant reception of his new play shall be forthwith despatched to
him by means of the electric telegraph."
If the name of the English author who first bowed over the foot-lights
cannot now be ascertained, a dramatist perfectly willing to adopt that
course can nevertheless be mentioned. To Talfourd the representation
of his dramatic works was always a source of intense delight. He would
travel almost any distance to see one of his plays upon the boards.
Macready has left some curious particulars touching the first
production of "Ion": "Was called for very enthusiastically by the
audience, and cheered on my appearance most heartily.... Miss Ellen
Tree was afterwards called forward. Talfourd came into my room and
heartily shook hands with me and thanked me. He said something about
Mr. Wallack, the stage-manager, wishing him _to go on the stage as
they were calling; but it would not be right_. I said: _'On no account
in the world.'_ He shortly left me, and, as I heard, was made to go
forward to the front of his box and receive the enthusiastic tribute
of the house's grateful delight." How happy he must have been! In
1838, concerning the first night of Sheridan Knowles's play of
"Woman's Wit," Macready writes: "Acted Walsingham in a very crude,
nervous, unsatisfactory way. Avoided a call by going before the
curtain to give out the play; there was very great enthusiasm. Led on
Knowles in obedience to the call of the audience." But Knowles was not
an author only, he was an actor also--he had trod the boards as his
own Master Walter, and in other parts, although he was not included in
the cast of "Woman's Wit." No doubt, from Macready's point of view,
this distinguished his case clearly from that of Talfourd's.
After the calling on of authors came the calling on of scene-painters.
But of late, with the help of much salutary criticism on the subject,
a disposition has arisen to check this very preposterous method of
acknowledging the merits of a worthy class, who should be satisfied
with learning from the wings or the back of the stage the admiration
excited by their achievements, and should consider themselves in such
wise as sufficiently rewarded. If they are to appear between their
scenes and the public, why not also the costumiers and the
gas-fitters, and the numberless other contributors to theatrical
success and glory? Indeed, as a rule, the applause, calls, and encores
of the theatre are honours to be conferred on singers and actors only,
are their rightful and peculiar property, and should hardly be
diverted from them or shared with others, upon any pretence whatever.