MORE OF THE MYSTERIES.
A few companies have done away entirely with the canvas-outlined
turkey and the sawdust-stuffed dumpling, and have meals that figure
in the play served on the stage piping hot from some neighboring
restaurant. There is genuine wine too, and often it is champagne of
such quality that its sparkle makes the eyes of the tipplers in the
audience dance, and their mouths run water. In this and many other ways
the desire to get as near to the real thing as possible in art has
caused encroachments on the property-man's territory, and gradually
his treasures are decreasing. Still his occupation is not as gone as
Othello's. Travelling combinations have their own property-man, and
the theatres each carry one. Besides the magnificent work of producing
snow-storms from paper, etc., there are minor details of his business
that he brings as much art to as the average actor and actress take to
the stage. He builds a warrior's helmet from simple brown manilla paper
and makes a pair of bronze urns in the same cheap way, although they
may appear to be worth $300. Bronze figures, too, are obtained from
the same material; also flower-pots, mantelpieces, and such things.
He goes about the work like an artist. He first makes a model in clay
of the article--say it is an urn. This done he builds a wooden box
around it, and mixing plaster of paris and water pours the mixture
between the box and model where it is allowed to harden. After the
clay mould has been withdrawn the plaster of paris mould is greased,
and five successive coats of small pieces of thick brown paper that
have been soaked in water are carefully laid on. A layer of muslin
and glue follows, and three more coats of the brown paper. When the
application has thoroughly dried, the last three layers of brown paper
are removed, and the urn which has been four days in process of
completion is ready for use. Goblets for royal or knightly banquets
are manufactured by the property-man in the same manner. Often has a
golden goblet, ewer, amphora, or salver fallen to the floor from the
hands of awkward Ganymedes and Hebes without creating any consternation
among the gathered gallants, or making a sound loud enough to ripple
above the lightest notes of the orchestra. These properties are light,
but very durable, and well withstand the harsh and careless treatment
they frequently receive. Often the entire "banquet set" is made of
paper, the skilled work of the worthy property-man, who holds probably
the most independent place in the theatre, being obliged to carry no
article to anybody--not even a foreign star--but leaves that menial
work to the stage manager, prompter, or call-boy.
[Illustration: JOHN PARSELLE.]
Moonlight is one of the most poetical and beautiful of stage effects.
The first work in producing it is done by the scenic artist, who places
a moonlight picture on his canvas. The calcium light filtered through
a green glass fills the foreground with its mellow influence. At the
back of the stage a row of argand burners with light green shades,
gives the faint and soft touches that fill in the distance. A "ground
piece" or strip of scenery runs along the floor at the back of the
stage, and just under the main scene hides the "green mediums," as the
shaded burners are called, from the eyes of the audience. Sometimes the
row is above the stage, and protected from sight by the "sky-borders."
Silver ripples on the surface of water, and twinkling stars in the sky
are frequently made features of moonlight scenery. The twinkling stars
are bright spangles hung by pin-hooks to the scenes, and the ripples
are only slits in the water canvas, behind which an endless towel with
slits cut in its surface and a strong gaslight between the rollers and
the sides of the towel, is made to revolve. Every time the slits in the
towel came opposite the slits in the canvas the light shines through
and the silver dance upon the lake or river. When the slits in the
towel are made to move upward the ripples seem to lift their silvery
tops towards the bending sky. Moonrise, which is always an agreeable
illusion, even to those who know how it is done, is effected by lifting
the "moon-box," as it is carried slowly up behind a muslin canvas, upon
which heavy paper is fastened to represent clouds. The "moon-box" is an
ordinary cubial affair with a round hole at one end, over which a strip
of muslin is fastened, and behind which is a strong illumination. Two
wires from above are manipulated causing the moon to move through its
orbit. When its path lies behind one of the paper clouds the fraudulent
Cynthia, just like the genuine queen of the heavens, fails to shine,
but as soon as she emerges from the dark spot and the outer ruin of
the illuminated circular surface of the "moon-box" touches the white
muslin once again, she is the fair queen of night and the young lovers
in the audience feel as happy as if they were at home swinging on the
front gate, while pa is at the club and ma is entertaining an amiable
cousin in the second parlor. The flushed countenance of the moon, as
she is just rising from Thetis's arms, as you see her every night when
she is taking her first dainty steps up the eastern sky, is obtained by
having the lower edge of the muslin painted red and gradually blending
with the white, while floating clouds are only the result of hanging
or sewing on the gauze drop in front of the muslin screen, pieces of
muslin or canvas cut into the proper shapes. The change from day to
night, or _vice versa_, effects that surpass the other in real beauty,
and also in attractiveness for the public, is produced by having a drop
twice the usual length, painted one half in a sunset and the other
half in moonlight. If the change from day to night, which is the more
effective, is desired, the sunset sky occupies the upper half of the
drop--that is nothing but the sunset sky is presented to the eyes of
the audience. The distance scenery is painted upon a separate piece
and the outlines of the objects are sharply cut out so that the sunset
sky can be seen above the irregular outline of the horizon. A gauze
drop hangs in front to give the picture the required hazy effect, and
red lights give a sunset glow to the entire scene. Rolling up the
back drop the change is made slowly and carefully until the moon is
discovered in the night half of the sky and goes up with it, while the
usual moonlight mediums are brought into requisition to increase the
brightness of the view.
[Illustration: SOL SMITH RUSSELL.]
There are two ways of producing ocean waves. Sometimes a piece of
blue cloth with dashes of white paint for wave-crests covers the
entire stage, when the necessary motion of the waters is obtained by
having men or boys stationed in the entrances to sway the sea. Again,
each billow may be made to show separate with the alternate rows of
billows rearing their white crests between the tips of the row on each
side. These billows are rocked backward and forward--to and from the
audience--while the ocean's roar comes from a wooden box lined with
tin and containing a small quantity of bird shot. The desired sound is
produced by rolling the box around.
[Illustration: ROSE COGHLAN.]
Anybody who has witnessed Milton Noble's "Phœnix" properly placed on
the stage, or "The Streets of New York," must have been, the first
time, both terrified, and still somewhat delighted, with the fire
scenes. Of late years they have been made wonderfully thrilling, and
almost perfect fac-similes of the Fire Fiend himself. The scene-painter
gets up his house in three pieces. The roof is swung from the "flies";
the front wall is in two pieces, a jagged line running from near the
top of one side of the scene to the lower end of the other side. If
shutters are to fall, as in "The Streets of New York," they are
fastened to the scene with "quick match," a preparation of powder,
alcohol, and lamp wick. Iron window and door frames are covered with
oakum soaked in alcohol or other fire-quickening fluid. Steam is made
to represent smoke, and the steam itself is obtained by dissolving lime
in water. A platform from the side affords a footing to the firemen who
are fighting the flames in the very midst of the burning building, and
an endless towel with painted flames keeps moving across the picture
after the first wall and roof have been allowed to fall in, while red
fire plays upon the whole picture and "flash torches" are made to
represent leaping tongues of flame. There appears to be a great deal of
danger from the operation of a scene of this kind, but if proper care
is taken the danger is as worthy of consideration as that attending the
presentation of a parlor scene.
[Illustration: THE RAFT SCENE.]
"The World" has been pronounced a novelty in scenic effects. I went
behind the scenes to see how the thing worked, and had the pleasure of
finding out all about it. The play is in seven set scenes. The first
had nothing unusual in it except that the ship with full steam on and
the dock was produced very artistically. The ship and the buildings
were in profile with a good stretch of sky beyond, that was all. Next
came the explosion scene, when the vessel was, by the supposed use of
dynamite, sent flying in splinters in mid-ocean, and all save four
souls went down to the briny depths. The mere ship setting, with its
boilers, its hatches, its galleries, spars and guys, was worthy of
admiration. While the performers were leading up to the point where the
awful and fateful moment comes, a man sat quietly behind the scenes
ready to fire an anvil of guns, each charged to the muzzle; men stood
at the numerous openings in the rear, and men with chemical red-fire
occupied the side-scenes, while others with powdered lycopodium were
under the stage beneath a half-dozen grated openings. At the left, in
the wings, stood an array of "supers," to rush on and increase the
commotion when the shock came. When the heavy villain announced that
there was a dynamite machine on board, and the captain gave orders
to his men to overhaul everything below and try to find it--then
the thunder came. Bang went the young cannons in the rear. The stage
shook, and the theatre seemed ready to fall about our ears; the females
shrieked; the "supers" rushed on and shouted; then came the leaping
flames from below and from the sides, until, finally, the whole picture
was one burning glow and whirl of smoke, and the curtain came down in
time, I suppose, to prevent a panic, for women shrieked, and men got
up from their seats to flee from the theatre. Act three brought the
grandest illusion of all--the great raft scene. This picture shows
a raft tossing on a rolling ocean with a vast stretch of sea on all
sides, the sky and waters apparently meeting as far away as if they
were realities and not mere attempts at nature. This scene always
struck me with awe until I saw it from the stage. The second act at
an end, the stage manager has the stage cleared in a short time; then
the carpenter and his assistants go to work. A "ground piece" of sea
is placed across the stage at the first entrance. All the side scenes
are removed and a huge curtain of light blue is hung in a semi-circle
from one side of the stage, up around to the rear and then down to
the other side. A couple of men now come down to the centre of the
stage bearing something that looks like an old barn-door with four
swinging legs, one at each corner. A pivot is fastened on the stage;
the barn door is balanced on it and down through four small openings
in the stage go the four arms or legs, at points corresponding with
the four corners of the door. I can see now that the upper side of
the door bears a slight resemblance to a rude raft, the timber being
artistically painted upon its surface. Somebody sticks a pole in the
side up the stage. A box is placed at one end for the villain who is
among the saved; a cushion is furnished at the other end for the young
lady who plays the lad, _Ned_; _Old Owen_, the miner, lies along the
lower side and _Sir Clement Huntingford_, the hero, takes his stand
at the mast, pale and haggard with hunger and anxiety. The sea cloth,
covering the stage except for a rectangular aperture that goes around
the raft and has its edges fastened to the raft, is spread; boys crawl
under the sea and lie upon their backs; men stand in the side scenes
holding the ragged edges of the already white-crested sea. Everything
is ready now, and amid the right kind of music the curtain goes up on
the magnificent raft scene. Four men under the stage have hold of the
four pieces hanging from the corners of the raft, and by pulling in
exact line give it the motion of the heaving sea; the men in the side
scenes agitate the blue cloth and the boys beneath it toss and roll the
cloth with hands and feet. _Old Owen_ dies before _Sir Clement_ sights
a ship no bigger than a star away off in the horizon. He ties a rag to
the mast for a signal; but the ship keeps moving past, until at last,
to the despair of all on board the raft, it is about to dip below the
horizon. But it suddenly tacks; there is a tiny rocket seen curving in
the air; the ship has noticed the signal of distress and down comes
the curtain upon the happy trio left alive on board their storm-tossed
and frail raft. Passing over two acts that are only eventful the sixth
comes, which represents the yard of a lunatic asylum, with two great
walls on either side of an iron gate that is set well up the stage, and
through which a stretch of the River Thames and the overhanging sky
are seen. _Sir Clement_, who is the rightful heir to certain property,
has been confined here through the machinations of his brother, who
is in possession, and of another scoundrel. Here, though, the hero
makes his escape by knocking the officers right and left and bounding
through the gate; in a moment the walls part and a house with cornices
and wide projections folds together like a stuffed valentine that has
been sat upon. One of the walls moves off the stage to the left, the
other to the right, each moving in an arc of a circle, and the whole
disappearing from the stage, while _Sir Clement_ is discovered paddling
safely down the Thames from his pursuers. The walls are moved from the
stage through the agency of men stationed inside. Rollers are provided
for the scenic structures, and there are two men inside of each piece,
the one in advance having a lookout hole and acting as guide. The only
thing attractive in the last act is an elevator in the Palace Hotel.
This is a simple mechanical effect, however, and needs no explanation.
I should have said in describing the sea that the horizon rises
gradually from the stage to a height of about three feet at the back,
and the sail that is sighted is a tiny ship mounted on a frame work on
rollers and pulled across the stage by a small cord. This raft scene is
all that has been claimed for it, and the illusion has not its equal on
the stage. The revolving tower in "The Shaughraun," and the vanishing
scene in "Youth," are both worked in the same manner as the lunatic
asylum walls in "The World."