THINGS IN THE THEATRE
A Defence of the Matinée Hat
The number of matinées at Christmas-time has caused the usual outcry
against the matinée hat, and wrathful or sarcastic letters on the
subject; and it is said that some French managers are taking the strong
step of excluding from the front rows those ladies who, to use the queer
Gallic term, are not "_en cheveux_." It seems surprising that an evil
denounced so universally should be permitted to exist, and that loud
complaints made during many years should have had little or no effect.
The average man regards the matter as quite simple, and wonders why
women are so selfish as to keep on their hats, and thinks that there is
no reasonable explanation of their conduct or excuse for it. It seemed
clear that there must be greater difficulties than are obvious. So
questions were put to an ardent playgoer, who spends appalling sums of
money on her dress, as to why she makes a fuss about taking off her hat
in the theatre.
"My good man," she said to the questioner, "you are talking 'through
your hat' as well as about mine. If my hair was as simple a matter as
yours--" this hit at his unprotected pate seemed rather a blow below the
belt--"there would be no difficulty. Unfortunately, it is a very
complex matter." He hid all but the smallest conceivable fraction of a
smile. "I am not referring to colour," she continued with some asperity,
"but to the fact that, at present, fashion requires me to wear a
prodigious number of little curls. My native crop is ample in quantity,
but I should hardly be in time for a matinée or even an evening
performance if I had it turned into all these little necessary curls.
So, like most of my friends, in order to save time and trouble, I have a
number which are pinned on. Do you think I care to run the risk of
removing my hat without even a looking-glass to guide me? Heaven knows
what might happen. The case is a little better, though far from
satisfactory, with those who wear nothing but their own crop."
This view of the subject seemed to have something in it, a fact which,
of course, could not be admitted. There were, not long before, in _The
Westminster Gazette_ some remarks by "Madame Qui Vive" to the effect
that even a female Absalom or a Mélisande could not do without what she
called the "clever devices of the coiffeur," and claims were made of
woman's right to adopt the fashion of the days when both men and women
wore wigs, on the ground that the coiffeur's "little devices"--English
for sham curls--save time, and also remain "trimmer and neater" than
natural curls.
"Do you think," she said, "that it is pleasant to hold an eight or ten
guinea hat on your knees, to say nothing of a boa and muff and veil? And
what about the damage to a delicate hat caused by people who shove in
front of you and brush against it and crush the tulle and break the
feathers? A lot of style it possesses after being treated in that
fashion!"
"Don't you think you might have special hats for matinées--something
undamageable."
"Perhaps you would like to see me in a tam-o'-shanter, or a yachting
cap, or one of those nice 'sensible' straw hats you men admire; and
suppose I want to go to a lunch _en route_ for the play, or tea
afterwards, or to drive in the Park, or to go anywhere except to my
_cabinet de toilette_?"
"They might make you something extra small and low that would serve for
all these purposes."
"Indeed; don't you think half-a-guinea is enough to pay for a stall
without buying a special hat into the bargain? A nice fuss my husband
would make about my extravagance. Besides, people want us to wear no hat
at all. What does your wife do?"
The interviewer replied that his wife thought it her duty to take off
her hat.
"She behaves better than many ladies of the theatrical world. The other
day I could not see a bit because of the enormous hat worn by Miss ----,
and Miss ----and Miss ---- were just as bad."
It would be pleasant to give the names which would identify popular
actresses who are great shiners in this matter.
"Moreover," she continued, "there is the difficulty of putting it on
again. You men wear your hats on your heads, and can easily get them
straight; we don't, we wear them on our hair, or our scalpettes, or our
transformations, or on any _postiche_ that may be fashionable or
necessary, and can only tell whether they are straight, or even the
right way round, by means of a looking-glass. A pretty thing if I were
to sail out of a theatre with my hat really askew, or before behind;
people might fail to take a charitable view of the situation, and
suspect I had had a glass too much instead of a glass too little."
"All this is irrelevant," said the interviewer, "and the whole
difficulty is--you are too mean to go to the ladies' room and pay or
give sixpence to the attendant."
She smiled pityingly.
"My dear man, you grumble about our being late at the theatre. What
would happen if fifty of us were to take off our hats and touch up our
hair in a room too small for fifteen, before taking our seats? I know
one ladies' room where there is only one looking-glass, and there are
only a few horrid little hooks on which to hang hats and veils. I would
gladly patronize the waiting-room if there were ample accommodation, but
that would be out of the question in most theatres, and one would have
to come much too early and get away needlessly late; and there might be
little mistakes about the hats and furs unless half-a-dozen attendants
were provided, for it can't be a simple question of handing hats and
coats over the counter as it is with you men."
It is undeniable that in some cases the ladies' cloak-rooms have not
been designed so as to deal with the question under discussion, because,
of course, theatres are primarily built for the evening performances,
and matinées are only a little extra as a rule.
"The matter," said the lady thoughtfully, "is more important than you
think. I consider that the matinée hat has settled the fate of many new
enterprises. If the lady is asked to take off her hat and does not, she
is uncomfortable during the afternoon, because she knows the people are
hating her, not quite unjustly, and also because they sometimes whisper
at her offensively. If she does take it off she is worried lest she has
made a guy of herself; she is often upset because her hat has been
crushed, and her mind is distracted by wonder if she will get it on
right at the end. The result is that she is in a bad mood for the play
and judges it unfairly.
"I think something could be done. The seats might be so arranged as to
have an open box underneath each stall for the hat and muff of the lady
immediately behind. I do not say it would be easy to get at them; but
even in the case of the narrowest stalls--and many are an outrage--it
would be possible. Something of the sort indeed exists at one or two
theatres, such as the Haymarket. Of course the cartwheel hats would not
go into them, but ladies don't wear such things, only women who want to
advertize themselves. Next," she continued, "comes the question of the
looking-glass. I have made efforts to use a small _miroir de poche_, but
it is far from adequate. In cases where the backs of the stalls are of a
good height, a fair-sized mirror might be fixed high up on the back,
with some little contrivance in the way of a curtain which could be
drawn over it; and aided by these we might be able to grapple with our
difficulties."
A penny-in-the-slot mirror might pay.
A Justification of certain Deadheads
In efforts, certainly justifiable, to discover the reason for the
failure of the theatrical season, some people have made quite a
ferocious attack upon the "deadhead," who really has nothing to do with
the case. He has been spoken of as an incubus. Some people regard the
free entry of the _caput mortuum_ with a hostility like that shown by
our ancestors (and to some extent ourselves) to the mortmain of the
Church.
Let us consider the deadhead for a while. First, it is necessary to
point out that there are several species. The genus includes all members
of the audience who do not pay for their seats. Of course the species of
deadhead critic is not attacked on this particular point; yet indirectly
some members of it affect the situation, for it is said that there are
critics who demand a good deal of "paper" for their friends from
managers, even when the tickets are really saleable.
London critics are not treated like their brethren in Paris--the great
city in which drama flourishes--where a reverence is exhibited for our
craft not manifested in London. On a first night over here you will find
that in many theatres the representatives of first-class papers are in
back rows of the stalls or in the dress circle, whilst deadheads of
another species are occupying most of the better places. Moreover, there
are very, very few journals to which more than one ticket is sent.
The next kind of deadhead is the unprofessional first-night deadhead, a
mixture of personal friends of the manager, the author, the principal
players and of "the backers," if any. It is said that they are the most
troublesome of all to handle, being utterly unreasonable as a body, and
refusing contemptuously seats accepted without a murmur by newspapers
that have a million or so of readers. Many are only willing to lend the
support of their presence on the first night; seats for the second or a
later night are scorned. In this class may be reckoned members of _the_
profession, who, with a strange disregard for the convenience of the
management, demand a couple of stalls for the _première_, though they
are in the habit of complaining that a first performance does justice
neither to the piece nor to the players. Lastly, in the group of
first-night deadheads come the members of the unrecognised,
ill-organised, generally tactless claque.
The species that lately has been attacked is divisible into two groups.
The first consists of the people who will not go to the theatre without
an order, but do not expect first-night tickets--one may call them the
"cadgers." The second species might be entitled the "window-dressers."
Volumes have been written about the "cadgers," and countless stories
told. No doubt they cause trouble and some expense in stamps, stationery
and clerical work. Probably they do not really affect the fate of a
piece, for there seems no reason to doubt the truth of the general
assertion, that nearly all of them would stay away if they could not get
a ticket for nothing.
Now we come to the really lamentable class, people who have to be
brought into a theatre "with a lassoo," to use an American term. Let us
look at the position--the melancholy position. The play is not quite a
hopeless failure; it is in a Mahomet's coffin position. If it can last a
little longer the season may improve and money be made; or it is neither
making nor losing on ordinary nights and does paying business on
Saturdays. There is a third state of affairs--perhaps the commonest: it
is necessary to keep the piece running for a certain number of weeks,
even at a loss, in order that it may visit the provinces and the
colonies or the States as a big London success that has enjoyed a long
run. Yet paying playgoers keep aloof.
What is the manager to do? If his house is but half full the applause
will be faint, the players are likely to act without spirit, and, worse
still, the audience may be chilled, and the members of it will tell
their friends that the house was almost empty, thereby causing them to
think that the entertainment is poor. So half full might become quite
empty. What method does the manager adopt? He knows that the general
public is as uncritical of an audience as of a play or of acting, so he
fills his house as well as he can with the very deadest of deadheads;
"orders" are distributed lavishly to people whose presence in the
theatre is actually a favour to the management.
It is said that these playgoers are peculiarly severe in their judgments
and remarkably apathetic! To the truth of part of this we can testify,
since we study such deadheads with great curiosity on the occasions,
rather rare, when we see them, for sometimes a dramatic critic gets
taken to the theatre by a friend. We think ourselves very famous, yet
most of us have friends ignorant of the fact that our trade is to
criticize plays. The position is a little quaint; one is asked to dine
at about the time that is customary to take afternoon tea; the dinner is
short though, if at a fashionable restaurant, the waits are long; and
there comes an awful moment when the host mentions that he has got six
stalls for the ----. Generally there is some friend present who knows
the true position, and exhibits a smile of fiendish mirth.
When this happens we examine the professional deadhead with interest. He
reminds one of the hired mourner at the Hebrew funeral. Fantastic
clothes, strange devices for keeping shirt-fronts clean, queer
contrivances for protecting the throat during the bus-ride home, furtive
umbrellas, ample reticules (in which perhaps goloshes are hidden), and a
genteel reticence in applause or laughter, are marks of the stranger in
the stalls--the harmless, necessary deadhead. He may not be ornamental,
nor even she, despite her sex; perhaps they give little encouragement to
the players; they bring nothing directly to the exchequer, but they fill
a place.
Few of us do more; some of us merely fill a column, and wish we did that
duty as conscientiously as most of these poor creatures do theirs, for,
though obviously determined not to enjoy themselves, they come
punctually, do not cause inconvenience by going out between the acts to
waste money on high-priced refreshments, and remain in their places to
the bitter end--unlike the cash patrons, so many of whom bustle away
brutally towards the close of the entertainment for fear lest they
should miss the chance of earning a nightmare at a fashionable
restaurant. Seeing what service they render to the managers the
deadheads are perhaps entitled to the protection of the phrase "_de
mortuis_."
The foregoing article brought several letters, amongst them one that
deserves a little consideration. All responsibility is disclaimed for
the letter that is published verbatim:
DEAR SIR,--I have lately read an article by you on the subject of the
matinée hat, with almost every word of which I have the honour of
expressing my entire disagreement. Although your views on the topic may
be absurd, they show that you have a mind capable of appreciating more
than one side of a case; so I venture to write to you about the great
question of the day, the proposed suppression of the deadhead.
"Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend," to use the words of the bard;
to think that after all our services to them, the managers, too blind to
see the obvious causes of their distress, should dream of abolishing
the "harmless necessary" deadhead, who often has rendered to them
assistance like that of the mouse "i' the fable" to the lion.
Permit me to discuss the matter seriously. Let me begin by employing,
with trifling modification, a famous phrase by one of the dramatists of
the land from which most of our English drama comes: "There are
deadheads and deadheads!" They may be put into two main groups--the
first-night deadheads and the other-nights deadheads--and there are
subdivisions. Few save those immediately concerned would mourn if the
first group were abolished--you can guess that I do not belong to it.
Yet I am well acquainted with the group, since a cousin of mine, long
time a popular actor, has been of late a too-frequent attendant at these
functions.
Of first-night deadheads there are four varieties: Friends of the
management, including their brother pros.; friends of the author;
friends of principal players in the cast; and the critics. It is a
source of great joy to my cousin to see that on these occasion the
managers know how to put the critics in their proper places, grouping
them, for instance, in rows of stalls bearing the more remote letters of
the alphabet, whilst between them and the footlights come the deadheads
of the other varieties.
Personally, I wonder whether it is wise to put the gentry of the pen in
seats from which they often hear with difficulty, and see without
accuracy, in rows of seats normally belonging to the pit, and merely
posing, _pro hoc vice_, as stalls, and situate in the headachy region
underneath the dress circle.
According to my cousin, the first-night deadheads, as a body, are
unpunctual and unappreciative. They chatter a good deal and seem more
interested in the audience than the play, and might well be replaced by
the many people who would be glad to plank down their money for a seat.
Let them go; and I warrant the managers will be none the worse--I
should, indeed, except the gentlemen of the Fourth Estate.
The case of myself and the deadheads of other nights is quite different.
The managers will find it difficult to do without us.
We are present as much for their benefit as for our pleasure.
_Constatons les faits_, if I may borrow another phrase from the French.
Under what circumstances are we invited? When a play is doing good
business? Certainly not. It is when the company are discussing in
whispers whether the notice will go up or not, that the Fiery Cross is
sent round to us and we come and fill the house. Without us there would
be an aching void, and the few paying people, aghast at the gloom, would
spread very bad reports. Managers, like nature, abhor a vacuum. Our
presence saves the situation and the face of the management. No doubt
our assistance is often vain, but the cases are numerous when, thanks to
us, the management has been able to tide over a bad week or two during a
run.
"They also serve who only sit and watch" is our motto, taken, you will
see, from a line by the "organ-mouthed voice of England." Would not
_Dorothy_ have died young but for our intervention? Would not _The Lion
and the Mouse_ have enjoyed the success it deserved if we had been
called in to dress the house until the public had discovered the piece?
Many are the cases where, during weeks of bad weather or sudden gloom
we have rallied loyally to the theatre and kept a play going.
Do services such as this count for nothing? Is my occupation to become
like that of the Moor of Venice--merely because managers are forgetful?
Do we make no sacrifices when we come to their aid? What about the
expense of coming to and fro? What about wear and tear of dress clothes,
useless to some of us except for such purposes, and, in honesty I should
add, so far as the nether portions are concerned, for attending
funerals?
Let me discuss what is urged against us. It is said that if we did not
get free tickets we should pay to visit the play. There is a little
truth in this, but not much. We might take tickets for the pit to see
the good plays; our judgment tells us they are but few, whereas a sense
of duty compels us in our quasi-professional capacity to attend even the
most deplorable rubbish. This aspect of the matter amounts to no more
than a trifle. The managers would gain little from our occasional
shillings and lose much by our frequent absence.
It is urged that we do not applaud. I maintain that deceitful applause
is not in our implied contract; certainly we never hiss or boo, though
there is a splendid tradition rendered popular by poor Lal Brough that
one of us found a play so utterly bad that he left his seat, went to the
box-office, and bought a ticket, in order that he might express his
opinion without prejudice to his conscience. As a body we are playgoers
of judgment and experience, and, though I protest that we clap
generously when there is a reasonable opportunity, the suggestion that
we are a claque failing to do its duty because we do not applaud bad
pieces is an outrageous insult.
No, sir; I do but humbly voice the opinion of my fellow-deadheads when
I say that we would rather be abolished than have to offer sycophantic
applause as part of the bargain. I insist a little upon this aspect,
because the refusal to applaud rubbish seems to be looked upon as the
dead head and front of our offending, if I may take a trifling liberty
with the words of the Swan of Avon.
I had forgotten, sir, to mention one of our most important services. It
is notorious that many plays are run in London without there being any
expectation that they will make money in the Metropolis, but in the
belief that if they can be called "a great London success," our
simple-minded cousins in the country will accept them with enthusiasm.
How, I ask you, are these London successes manufactured? How could they
be without our aid? I could name plays that have been run for a hundred
nights in town at a heavy loss, and yet have proved gold-mines; and I
have visited them at the call of duty and seen with my trained eyes so
few of the paying public that a mere sense of decency would have
compelled the managers to close the doors if we had not been present.
Our assistance on these occasions is an odious part of our duty. It goes
sadly against my conscience to be one of a kind of stage-army audience,
playing a part in order to deceive country or colonial managers into the
belief that some piece of rubbish has had a genuinely successful London
run. Is not service of this character to be counted? Surely, at the
least, if we are to be abolished it should be recognized that the old
hands amongst us are entitled to some compensation. Why, sir, seeing
that serious politicians do not propose to suppress licences for the
sale of poisons without giving compensations, surely we, who have done
much and suffered much, ought not to be put into limbo without some
recognition of our services. I remain, yours sincerely,
CAPUT MORTUUM
Just a line. On careful consideration of this letter, it seems only
right to make a suggestion that some doubts exist whether it is entirely
genuine, but it certainly appears to contain some grains of truth.
Theatrical Advertisements
It may be doubted whether the historian will call our period "the age of
advertisement," though some have thought so. For there are such rapid
and prodigious growths in the base craft of beating the big drum that
our most audacious and colossal efforts may, to our grandchildren, seem
like a Brown Bess to a modern repeater in comparison with their means of
man-allurement. Of all the arts the one relying most upon advertisement
is the drama; yet the phrase is half-unjust to real drama.
Perhaps it is fairer to say that there is more advertisement in
connexion with the theatrical art than any other, or, indeed, all the
others put together. The position is surprising; a large mass of the
reading matter of the London papers is filled with copy concerning the
theatres and players, though only a small percentage is criticism. More
people would recognize each of thirty popular performers than could
identify even one of the great in other branches of art or in science. A
recent squabble about a couple of actresses has been the subject of
greater fuss than would be caused by the discovery of the lost books of
Livy, of a picture by Apelles, of the MS. of an unknown opera by
Beethoven, of a method of making accumulators out of _papier-maché_, or
a mode of manufacturing radium at a cost of twopence a pound. There have
been thousands of columns printed concerning the marriages of
(so-called) actresses to young gentlemen of family.
A digression about these marriages is permissible. Each has led to many
articles on alliances between the aristocracy and the stage, and lists
of the ladies who in our times have honoured (or dishonoured) the
nobility with their hands have been given. Yet there has been little
comment upon the fact that, with two or three exceptions, the so-called
actresses have had no position of importance in the legitimate ranks of
the profession. A woman may perform in a theatre, and even draw a big
salary, without being an actress, and she may have brains, beauty and
popularity, and nevertheless enjoy little chance of marrying anybody
with a "handle to his name," if she confines her work to the non-musical
stage.
A distinction suggests itself--it might be that in music and the love of
it by the nobly born lies the explanation of the phenomenon; it might be
that the blue-blooded youths captured these charmers of the
musico-dramatic department in order to enjoy a selfish monopoly of
lovely voices, but such is not the case. Two or three of the ladies who
have won their way to the "hupper succles" possess talent; one of them
has a beautiful voice and great gifts as an actress, and one was a
brilliant dancer and became an excellent comedienne. The ruck and run of
them, however, have triumphed owing to advertisement in subtle and also
in crude forms.
Really the actresses of legitimate drama, whom one should call the
_actresses_, have a grievance not merely in the fact that the peerage
does not woo them (since in a good many instances the bride has paid
dearly for her elevation), nor merely because women of the oldest
profession open to the sex miscall themselves actresses when in
trouble--the term actress being like the word "charity"--but because
their title includes many persons of notoriety who, if forced to rely
solely upon their talent, could hardly earn a pound a week in true
drama. "True drama," for the common term "musico-dramatic" points to the
fact that the fortunate nymphs belong to the lighter (and sometimes
degraded) forms of musical work and not of the legitimate drama. Some
wag, no doubt, has called their branch the _leg_-itimate drama.
In the mid-Victorian days the advertisements of drama were trifling.
Thirty years ago the photographs of Miss Maud Branscombe, a real beauty,
but not an actress of great quality, created quite a stir, and made her
name well known throughout the land; and the publication of them was,
probably, the beginning of the present deluge. The two illustrated
papers of importance published pictures only of actresses who by means
of their talent had made a genuine sensation; and therefore but few were
presented in the year. Nowadays there are from thirty to forty
photographs a week in the illustrated papers of actresses--using the
term in its widest sense.
Many young ladies, who twenty years ago could not by any decent means
have got their likenesses exhibited to the public except in shop-window
photographs, now simper at us fifty-two times a year, or more, and are
sometimes described as "the celebrated actress," though a few of them
never get beyond the dignity of a single silly line in the book of a
musical hodge-podge. Miss XXX smiles at us from her 40-h.p. "bloater
car" which has cost a larger sum than eight years of her salary, and the
simple-minded think she must be a great star to be able to afford such a
luxury, not knowing that she herself is the luxury which someone else is
unable to afford. The humble old devices are now stale tricks. The
actress in search of notoriety does not lose her jewels: she brings an
action which is reported at great length, and during it half-a-dozen
members of the profession get a splendid chance of blowing their own
trumpets. There was a cruel case a little while ago: one of these
"damaged darlings" of the stage did lose her jewels--which had cost
about as much as that admirable actress Amy Roselle earned in her
honourable career with a tragic ending--but felt bound to keep silent
about the loss, since to have mentioned it would have seemed like
"out-of-date" advertising. "View jew," she called it.
It would be unfair to suggest that the ladies have a monopoly, for many
of the actors also are busy in the art of advertisement--some so busy as
to have little time to study the technique of their art. However, they
get rather less help from the illustrated papers, for reasons not quite
obvious, if it be correct, as some suppose, that the picture journals
are bought for the--not by--the ladies of the family.
The puff system is disadvantageous to the managers, since they have to
pay fancy prices for the services of players, no better than others who
could be engaged at humble rates, because they have acquired a specious
importance by advertisement. The result has been a prodigious increase
of salaries, without any corresponding gain in revenue, for although the
much-"boomed" artist may attract people to a particular theatre, it is
not to be assumed that the quantity of playgoers is increased, or that
more money is spent on the whole by the public because of all this
advertising.
The consequence to the managers, as a rule, is that expenditure is much
greater, but the total amount of receipts remains the same. Yet the
managers as a body are not to be pitied, since not only do they,
unwisely, assist in this artificial glorification of the members of
their companies, but some of them also push the advertisement of their
theatres beyond delicate limits, and by the cunning strenuous efforts of
their "press agents" and others beat the big drum very loudly, sometimes
sounding a false note, as when they publish, in advertisements, garbled
criticisms upon their wares.
There are some in the theatrical world who dislike and disdain the
illegitimate advertisement. Others there are less nicely scrupulous,
perhaps, but not sufficiently "smart" or lucky enough to "boom"
themselves. These suffer. Advertisement is to the theatrical world like
ground bait to anglers. We who, to some extent are behind the scenes,
know too well how many admirable actors and actresses have a hard fight
for a bare living because their places are taken by people of less
knowledge and skill, but more "push" and cunning. Even the general rise
in salaries does not help these reticent players, for a salary at the
rate of twenty pounds a week is not very useful if you are resting ten
months in the year.
It is quite incontestable that we journalists are to be blamed. We help
in the "booming"; we are the big drum, the players provide their own
trumpets. A conspiracy of silence on our part would do much to mend
matters. If for a little while we were to suppress the "personal pars."
and keep out the photographs and only write concerning the theatres
strictly as critics, a great change would take place. Probably the
revenue of the theatres would not diminish sensibly, but the expenses
would. Managers and players would be forced to rely for success upon
merit and nothing else, and as a result the standard of drama and acting
would be raised. This has been so far perceived that even people
belonging to the other side of the footlights have expressed publicly
the opinion that the unsatisfactory state of the theatres is partly due
to their being too much talked and written about.
Rosalind's phrase that a "good wine needs no bush" is but partly true;
merit rarely succeeds by its own virtue when it has to meet unfair
competition in the shape of advertisement.
Music
A little while ago a man, who had not been to the theatre for some
years, was asked his reason. "The last time I went," he replied, "it was
to a tragedy, well written and interesting, if hardly inspired, and
after the first act the band--nobody would call it an
'orchestra'--played a thing called 'The Washington Post,' which I
discovered by the aid of the programme was written by a noise-concocter
called Sousa. I sat it out; I had no choice, for I was in the middle of
a row, and in order to escape I should have had to trample upon a dozen
inoffensive strangers. During the next act the abominable noise kept
coming back into my ears and distracting me, so the drama was ruined for
me."
It was pointed out to him that Mr Sousa is a very popular composer, that
millions of people love his compositions, that it is merely a minority,
contemptible in number, which loathes them. Still he caused thoughts.
For a long time the musical folk have regarded the _entr'acte_ music
simply as one of the unavoidable discomforts of the playhouse; but,
really, managers might be more careful. Apparently it is impossible to
deal satisfactorily with the question. There is a horrible dilemma; if
the music is good you cannot enjoy it, because you can hardly hear it,
for the audience talk too loudly, and there is the bustle of people
coming in and out, and one catches the voices of young ladies inviting
people in the stalls to take tea or coffee or to buy chocolates, and the
occupants of the pit to refresh themselves with "ginger-beer, lemonade,
bottled ale or stout," a phrase to which they give a species of
rhythmical crescendo.
The difficulty is enhanced in some houses by the fact that the orchestra
is hidden in a species of box which is almost noise-proof. On the other
hand, if the music is bad--generally the case--well, it is bad; worse,
still, you can hear it easily. There is a kind of kink in nature which
breeds the law that very small interruptions will mar your pleasure in
good music, but nothing less than a dynamite explosion can drown the
bad; even cotton wool in your ears or the wax employed by the sailors of
Ulysses will not keep it out.
Some time ago Miss Lena Ashwell added to the debt of playgoers towards
her by installing an admirable string quartet, which rendered real music
so well that many people went to her theatre almost as much for the
music as for the drama. Alas! the string quartet soon disappeared.
Inquiries--of course not of persons officially connected with the
theatre--disclosed the fact that there had been many complaints. People
found it difficult to hear themselves talk, and when they talked loud
enough playgoers who were enjoying the music said "Hush!" and in other
ways suggested that they thought it bad form to chatter whilst the
quartet was playing; so Miss Ashwell--very reluctantly--was forced to
change the system.
The Kingsway Theatre formed an exception--not, indeed, the only
exception--to these remarks. The whole question is very difficult.
Theoretically, at least, it is deplorable that there should be any
interruption from the beginning to the end of a play. Dramas, for full
effect, should be in one act, or if they are too long, and if a
concession must be made to human physical weakness, if an opportunity
must be given to people to stretch themselves or move in their seats,
there should be an interval of absolute silence or occupied by music
finely indicative of the emotional states intended to be created by the
drama.
This no doubt is a theory demanding perfection. Up to a certain point
efforts are made to realize it. Under the generous management of Sir
Herbert Beerbohm Tree, we often have music composed expressly for the
drama by musicians of quality, and sometimes it is well enough written
to deserve and afterwards obtain performance in the concert-room. Yet in
a sense it is a failure, since it is imperfectly heard in the theatre;
the fault lies with the audience, but it is hard to blame the members of
it. There is no crime in not being musical, despite Shakespeare's
prodigious phrase, "The man that hath no music in himself ... is fit for
treasons, stratagems, and spoils," or Congreve's phrase concerning music
and the savage breast. We know that there are many people otherwise
finely equipped and alert in matters of art who have no taste in or for
music; that there are some of irreproachable judgment in literature or
painting who, like the officer in the story, recognize no tune save
"God Save the King," and that only because people stand up when it is
played. Also we are aware that some musicians are utter Philistines so
far as other branches of art are concerned.
It is difficult enough to get people to patronize the theatres, and it
would be madness to keep any away by requiring them to make great
sacrifices on the altar of music.
The fact remains that the selection of music is often very carelessly or
foolishly made. To begin with, there is an appalling lack of variety. At
one period "Pomp and Circumstance" was played in almost every theatre,
sometimes well, often badly, till we got sick of it. Pieces such as
"Après le Bal" and "Simple Aveu" were hurled at us every night. A
statement of the number of times that Nicolai's overture to _The Merry
Wives of Windsor_ has been played in the theatres would stagger people;
Gounod's _Faust_ music and Edward German's charming dances from _Henry
VIII._, and one or two overtures by Suppé and the Stradella music, have
become intolerable.
Without posing as the so-called "superior person," without demanding
unpopular classics or asking for the performance of serious chamber
music or severe symphonies, or expressing a desire for Bach--a holiday
might very well be given to the Bach-Gounod "Ave Maria"--we merely pray
for greater variety and also for more careful consideration of the
congruity between the play and the character of the _entr'acte_ and
introductory music.
It should be the duty of somebody to see that an effort is made to
confine the music to works harmonious with the emotions which the
dramatist intends to excite. We ought not to have the "Teddy Bears'
Picnic" just after hearing the heroine weep over the idea that her
husband is faithless; whilst the feelings caused by the agonies of
Othello are not strengthened by hearing the "Light Cavalry" overture;
and the _Faust_ ballad music falls queerly upon the despair of the hero
when he learns that he is ruined. It may be admitted that in many
instances an effort is made to carry out these entirely unoriginal
views, but even in some of our most carefully conducted playhouses there
are strange lapses.
There is another point. It very often happens that the list of pieces
printed upon the programme, for which in most of the theatres a charge
of sixpence is made, is a mere snare. Sometimes none of the pieces
mentioned is played, whilst to alter the order is quite a common matter.
No doubt this gives some uncharitable amusement to people who overhear
the conversation of ignorant playgoers misled by the programme. There
was an unfortunate foreigner who said to his neighbour, "_Pas un aigle,
leur fameux Elgar_" when he thought he was listening to "Pomp and
Circumstance," whilst the orchestra in fact was playing "Whistling
Rufus."
The ideal system, no doubt, was that of Miss Ashwell, who gave a long
list of pieces in the programme with numbers to them, and then had the
number appropriate to the particular work hoisted before it was played.
This is only the ideal in one sense. In reality, the best course is
suggested by a famous maxim: "_Optima medicina est medicina non uti_."
The Stage Society is wise in following the custom sanctioned by such an
august institution as La Comédie Française. After all, we want to make
the theatres less of a gamble and to reduce needless expenses so as not
to render the battle a triumph for the long purse. If the orchestras of
the theatres were in the habit of giving a real service to music by
producing the shorter pieces of talented composers who are struggling
for recognition; if, as might well be the case, they offered a hearing
to the young musicians of talent of whom we now have plenty, then no
doubt they would deserve encouragement. As the matter stands, they
perform too small a service to music to warrant the tax imposed by them
on drama.