1880.
‘THE CORSICAN BROTHERS’ AND ‘THE CUP.’
With his usual tact the manager had determined on a change of
entertainment which should offer a marked contrast to the classical
success just obtained, and was now meditating a revival of the once
popular romantic drama, ‘The Corsican Brothers,’ with all its spectral
effects—certainly one of the best of many admirably-constructed and
effective French pieces. To such a group belong the absorbing ‘Two
Orphans,’ ‘Thirty Years of a Gambler’s Life,’ ‘Victorine,’ and others.
‘The Lady of Lyons’ is the only one of our _répertoire_ that can be
put beside these ingenious efforts. Some thirty years ago, when it was
produced at the Princess’s, the horny-voiced Charles Kean performing
the Brothers, it took hold of the public with a sort of fascination—the
strange music of Stöpel, and the mysterious, gliding progress of the
murdered brother across the stage, enthralling everyone. There was a
story at the time that the acts, sent over from Paris in separate parcels
for translation, had become transposed, the second act being placed
first, and this order was retained in the representation with some
benefit to the play. This may be a legend; but the fact is that either
act could come first without making any serious difference.
Magnificent and attractive as was the mounting of this piece at the time,
it was really excelled in sumptuousness on its later revival in 1891.
The experience of ten years had made the manager feel a certainty in the
results of his own efforts; his touch had become sure; the beautiful and
striking effects were developed naturally, without that undue emphasis
which often disturbs the onward course of a piece. All his agents had
grown skilled in the resources of the scene; and he himself, enjoying
this security, and confident as would be a rider on the back of a
well-trained horse, could give his undoubted fancy and imagination full
range. Hence that fine, unobtrusive harmony which now reigns in all his
pictures. Even now the wonderful opera house, the forest glades, the
_salon_ in Paris, all rise before us. Nor was there less art shown in the
subdued tone of mystery which it was contrived to throw over the scenes.
The scenes themselves, even those of reckless gaiety, seemed to strike
this “awesome” note. Much as the familiar “ghost tune” was welcomed, more
mysterious, as it always seemed to me, was the “creepy variation” on the
original theme, devised by Mr. H. Clarke, and which stole in mournfully
at some impending crisis all through the piece. There was some criticism
on the D’Orsay costumes of the piece; the short-waisted waist-coats, the
broad-brimmed opera hats, and the rich cravats—_Joinvilles_, as they
used to be called. These lent a piquancy, and yet were not too remote
from the present time. Terriss, it must be said, was lacking in elegance
and “distinction.” There always lingers in the memory the image of the
smooth grace and courtesies of Alfred Wigan, who really made a dramatic
character of the part—sympathetic and exciting interest. It is in these
things that we miss the style, the bearing which is itself acting,
without utterance of a word, and which now seems to be a lost art. One
result of this treatment, as Mr. Clement Scott truly pointed out, was the
shifting of sympathies. “Château-Renaud was, no doubt, a villain, but he
was one of the first class, and with magnetic power in him. He had won
for himself a high place. He was cold as steel, and reserved. For him to
deal with Louis was child’s play. And yet all this was reversed: it was
Louis that dominated the situation; no one felt the least apprehension
for his fate.” This is a judicious criticism.
Familiarity has now somewhat dulled the effect of the gliding entrance of
the ghostly Louis, which at first seemed almost supernatural. The art was
in making the figure rise as it advanced, and an ingenious contrivance
was devised by one of the stage foremen. It was a curious feeling to find
oneself in the cavernous regions below the stage, and see the manager
rush down and hurriedly place himself on the trap to be worked slowly
upwards.[24]
The use of intense light has favoured the introduction of new effects in
the shape of transparent scenery; that is, of a scene that looks like
any ordinary one, but is painted on a thick gauzy material. Thus, in
the first act, the back of the scene in the Corsican Palace is of this
material, through which the tableau of the Paris duel is shown, a fierce
light being cast upon it. In the original representation the whole wall
descended and revealed the scene. The upper half ascending, the other
offers something of a magic-lantern or phantasmagorian air. The same
material is used in the dream in ‘The Bells,’ when the spectral trial is
seen going on, made mysterious and misty by the interposition of this
gauze.
In the duel scene one of the swords is broken by an accident; the other
combatant breaks his across his knee, that the duel may proceed “on equal
terms.” It is not, of course, to be supposed that a sword is broken every
night. They are made with a slight rivet and a little solder, the fitting
being done every morning, so that the pieces are easily parted. But few
note how artfully the performers change their weapons; for in the early
stages of the duel the flourishings and passes would have soon caused
the fragments to separate. It is done during the intervals of rest, when
the combatants lean on the seconds and gather strength for the second
“round,” and one gets his new weapon from behind a tree, the other from
behind a prostrate log.
But it is in the next act that the series of elaborate set scenes
succeeding each other entails the most serious difficulties, only to be
overcome in one way—viz., by the employment of an enormous number of
persons. Few modern scenes were more striking than that of the Opera
House lit _à giorno_, with its grand chandelier and smaller clusters
running round. The blaze of light was prodigious; for this some five
thousand feet of gas-tubing had to be laid down, the floor covered with
snake-like coils of indiarubber pipes, and the whole to be contrived
so as to be controlled from a single centre-pipe. There were rows of
boxes with crimson curtains, the spectators filling them—some faces
being painted in, others being represented by living persons. Yet
nothing could be more simple than the elements of this Opera House.
From the audience portion one would fancy that it was an elaborately
built and costly structure. It was nothing but two light screens pierced
with openings, but most artfully arranged and coloured. At its close,
down came the rich tableau curtains, while behind them descended the
cloth with the representation of the lobby scene in the Opera House.
It used to be customary for the manager’s friends to put on a mask and
domino and mingle with the gay throng of roysterers in the Opera House
scene, or to take a place in one of the practicable boxes and survey
the whole—and a curious scene it was. A cosy supper in the Beef-steak
room, and a pleasant _causerie_ through the small hours, concluded a
delightful and rather original form of a night’s entertainment. This
was followed by the double rooms of the supper party, a very striking
scene: two richly-furnished rooms, Aubusson carpets, a pianoforte,
nearly twenty chairs, sofas, tables, clocks, and a supper-table covered
with delicacies, champagne bottles, flowers, etc. This is succeeded
almost instantly by a scene occupying the same space—that of the forest,
requiring the minutest treatment, innumerable properties, real trees,
etc. This is how it is contrived. The instant the tableau curtains are
dropped, the auxiliaries rush on the scene; away to right and left fly
the portions of the Parisian drawing-room: tables, chairs, piano, sofa,
vanish in an instant. Men appear carrying tall saplings fixed in stands;
one lays down the strip of frozen pond, another the prostrate trunk of
a tree—everyone from practice knowing the exact place of the particular
article he is appointed to carry. Others arrive with bags of sand, which
are emptied and strewn on the floor; the circular tree is in position,
the limelights ready. The transformation was effected, in what space
of time will the reader imagine? In thirty-eight _seconds_, by the
stage-manager’s watch. By that time the tableau had been drawn aside, and
Château-Renaud and his friend Maugiron were descending into the gloomy
glade after their carriage had broken down.[25]
As we call up the memories of the Lyceum performances, with what a series
of picturesque visions is our memory furnished—poetical Shakespearian
pageants; romantic melodramatic stories, set forth with elegance and
_vraisemblance_; plays of pathetic or domestic interest; exhilarating
comedies; with highly dramatic poems, written by the late Poet Laureate,
Wills, and others. Indeed, who could have conceived on the opening night
of the Lyceum management, when ‘Hamlet’ was to be brought out, that this
was to be the first of a regular series—viz., nine gorgeous and ambitious
presentations of Shakespearian pieces, each involving almost stupendous
efforts, intellectual and physical, that we were to see in succession
‘The Merchant of Venice,’ ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’
‘Othello,’ ‘Twelfth Night,’ ‘Macbeth,’ ‘Henry VIII.,’ and ‘King Lear’?
What a gift to the public in the shape of the attendant associations,
in the glimpses of Italian and other scenery, the rich costumes, the
archæology!
The late Laureate, not contented with the popularity which his poems have
won, always “hankered” after the entrancing publicity and excitement of
the theatre. He made many an attempt in this direction, and his list
of performed dramas is a fairly long one; few, however, have enjoyed
any signal success, save perhaps the last, recently produced in the
United States. To one indeed—witness the unlucky ‘Promise of May’—the
regular “first-nighter,” as he is called, was indebted for an amusing
and enjoyable evening’s entertainment. It must be conceded, however,
that there is a dramatic tone or flavour about his pieces which is
attractive, in spite of all deficiencies, and anyone who could not see
a touching grace and elegance in such a piece as ‘The Falcon,’ weak as
it is in treatment, must have little taste or feeling. So with ‘Queen
Mary,’ which had a certain grim power, and, above all, local colour. His
own striking success in the character of King Philip was an agreeable
recollection for Irving; and he now lent himself with much enthusiasm to
a project for bringing forward a new drama by the poet. The preparations
for this elegant play were of the most lavish and unstinted kind.
Nothing, literally, was spared in the outlay of either study, thought,
money, or art. The manager usually follows an eclectic system, choosing
his _aides_ and assistants as they appear suited to each play. Thus an
architect of literary tastes, Mr. Knowles, was called in to design a
regular Temple-interior, which was the principal scene, and which was to
be treated, _secundum artem_, in professional style. And so it rose with
all its pillars and pediments “behind the scenes.”
“No ponderous axes rung;
Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.”
The name of the new piece was ‘The Cup,’ a fine “barbarian” story,
strangely interesting and even fascinating. It was, of course, diffuse
and expanded to inordinate length. And there were many pleasant stories
afloat of the poet contending “for the dear life” for his “ewe lambs,”
and every line of his poetry; the manager, in his pleasant, placid
way—but firm withal—quietly insisting on the most abundant compression.
The night of performance was that of January 3, 1881, when the beautiful
play-poem was at last set before the audience in all its attraction.
It still lingers in the memory with an inexpressible charm, breathing
poetry and romance. We shall ever look back fondly to ‘The Cup,’ with its
exquisite setting, and lament heartily that others did not so cordially
or enthusiastically appreciate it. There was something so fascinating
about the play, something so refining, and also so “fantastical,” that
though lacking the strong thews and muscles of a regular drama, it
satisfied eye and ear. As it floated before us, in airy, evanescent
fashion, it seemed to recall the lines that wind up the most charming of
Shakespeare’s plays, when the revels now had ended, and all had “melted
into air, into thin air.” The noble Temple, with its rich mouldings,
was destined too soon, alas! to pass away into the same dark grave
of so many noble creations. On the two chief characters, both full of
tragic power, the eye rested with an almost entrancing interest. Never
did Irving _act_ better—that is, never did he convey by his look and
tones the evidence of the barbaric conception within him. There was a
fine, pagan, reckless savagery, yet controlled by dignity. Miss Terry’s
Camma returns to the memory like the fragment of a dream. The delightful
creation was brought before us more by her sympathetic bearing and motion
than by speech; what music was there in those tones, pitched in low,
melodious key, interpreting the music of Tennyson! Her face and outline
of figure, refined and poetical as they were, became more refined still
in association with the lovely scenery and its surroundings. She seemed
to belong to the mythological past. There was a strange calm towards the
close, and all through no undue theatrical emphasis or faulty tone of
recitation to disturb that dreamy sense.
It was not a little disheartening to think that this “entire, perfect
chrysolite” was received with a rather cold admiration, or at least not
with the enthusiasm it richly merited. The apathetic crowd scarcely
appreciated the too delicate fare set before it, we scarcely know why. I
suppose that it had not sufficient _robustness_, as it is called. After
some weeks the manager found it needful to supplement the attraction of
the play by the revived ‘Corsican Brothers.’ It may be conceived what a
strain[26] was here on the resources, not merely of the actors, but even
of all who were concerned with the scenery and properties. Two important
pieces had to be treated and manipulated within an incredibly short space
of time.