_SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY_
Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon
Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start
on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English
and American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical
Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket.
A novelist describes the surroundings of his story. He paints in words,
houses, gardens, dresses, anything and everything to heighten the
picture and show up his characters in a suitable frame.
The dramatist cannot do this verbally; but he does it in fact. He
definitely decides the style of scene necessary for each act, and
draws out elaborate plans to achieve that end. It is the author
who interviews the scene-painter, talks matters over with the
costume-artist, the dressmaker, and the upholsterer. It is the author
who generally chooses the cretonnes and the wall-papers—that is to
say, the more important authors invariably do. Mr. Pinero, Mr. W. S.
Gilbert, and Captain Robert Marshall design their own scenes to the
minutest detail, but then all three of them are capable artists and
draughtsmen themselves.
Scene-painting seems easy until one knows something about its
difficulties. To speak of a small personal experience—when we got up
those theatricals in Harley Street, mentioned in a previous chapter,
my father told me I must paint the scenery, to which I gaily agreed.
Having an oil painting on exhibition at the Women Artists’, I felt I
could paint scenery without any difficulty.
First of all I bought yards and yards of thick canvas, a sort of
sacking. It refused to be joined together by machine, and broke endless
needles when the seams were sewn by hand. It appeared to me at the time
as if oakum-picking could not blister fingers more severely. After all
my trouble, when finished and stretched along a wall in the store-room
in the basement, with the sky part doubled over the ceiling (as the
little room was not high enough to manage it otherwise), the surface
was so rough that paint refused to lie upon it.
I had purchased endless packets of blue and chrome, vermilion and
sienna, umber and sap-green; but somehow the result was awful, and the
only promising thing was the design in black chalk made from a sketch
taken on Hampstead Heath. Sticks of charcoal broke and refused to draw;
but common black chalk at last succeeded. I struggled bravely, but the
paint resolutely refused to adhere to the canvas, and stuck instead to
every part of my person.
[Illustration:
_Photo by Hall, New York._
MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH.]
At last some wiseacre suggested whitewashing the canvas, and, after
sundry boilings of smelly size, the coachman and I made pails of
whitewash and proceeded to get a groundwork. Alas! the brushes
when full of the mixture proved too heavy for me to lift, and the
unfortunate coachman had to do most of that monotonous field of white.
So far so good. Now came “the part,” as the gallant jehu was pleased to
call it.
It took a long time to get into the way of painting it at all. The
window had to be shut, the solitary gas-jet lighted, endless lamps
unearthed to give more illumination while I struggled with smelling
pots.
Oh, the mess! The floor was bespattered, and the paint being mixed with
size, those spots remain as indelible as Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood.
Then the paint-smeared sky—my sky—left marks on the ceiling—my
father’s ceiling—and my own dress was spoilt. Then up rose Mother in
indignation, and promptly produced an old white garment—which shall
be nameless, although it was decorated with little frills—and this I
donned as a sort of overall. With arms aching from heavy brushes, and
feet tired from standing on a ladder, with a nose well daubed with
yellow paint, on, on I worked.
In the midst of my labours “Mr. Grossmith” was suddenly announced,
and there below me stood Weedon Grossmith convulsed with laughter. At
that time he was an artist and had pictures “on the line” at the Royal
Academy. His studio was a few doors from us in Harley Street.
“Don’t laugh, you horrid man,” I exclaimed; “just come and help.”
He took a little gentle persuading, but finally gave in, and being
provided with another white garment he began to assist, and he and I
finally finished that wondrous scene-painting together.
After a long vista of years Mrs. Beerbohm Tree—who, it will
be remembered, also acted with us in Harley Street—and Weedon
Grossmith—who helped me paint the scenery for our little
performance—were playing the two leading parts together at Drury Lane
in Cecil Raleigh’s _Flood Tide_.
The two little daughters of the Trees, aged six and eight respectively,
were taken by their father one afternoon to see their mother play at
the Lane. They sat with him in a box, and enjoyed the performance
immensely.
“Well, do you like it better than _Richard II._?” asked Tree.
There was a pause. Each small maiden looked at the other, ere replying:
“It isn’t quite the same, but we like it just as much.”
When they reached home they were asked by a friend which of the two
plays they really liked best.
“Oh, mother’s,” for naturally the melodrama had appealed to their
juvenile minds, “but we did not like to tell father so, because we
thought it might hurt his feelings.”
The part that delighted them most at Drury Lane was the descent of the
rain, that wonderful rain which had caused so much excitement, and
which was composed of four tons of rice and spangles thrown from above,
and verily gave the effect of a shower of water.
But to return to Weedon Grossmith. Whether he found art didn’t pay at
the studio in Harley Street, or whether he was asked to paint more
ugly old ladies than pretty young ones, I do not know; but he gave up
the house, and went off to America for a trip. So he said at the time,
but the trip meant that he had accepted an engagement on the stage. He
made an instantaneous hit. When he returned to England, sure of his
position, as he thought, he found instead that he had a very rough time
of it, and it was not until he played with Sir Henry Irving in _Robert
Macaire_ that he made a London success. Later he “struck oil” in Arthur
Law’s play, _The New Boy_ under his own management.
Round the _The New Boy_ circled a romance. Miss May Palfrey, who had
been at school with me, was the daughter of an eminent physician who
formerly lived in Brook Street. She had gone upon the stage after
her father’s death, and was engaged to play the girl’s part. The
“engagement” begun in the theatre ended, as in the case of Forbes
Robertson, in matrimony, and the day after _The New Boy_ went out, the
new girl entered Weedon Grossmith’s home as his wife.
Success has followed success, and they now live in a delightful
house in Bedford Square, surrounded by quaint old furniture, Adams’
mantelpieces, overmantels, and all the artistic things the actor
appreciates. A dear little girl adds brightness to the home life of Mr.
and Mrs. Weedon Grossmith.
Artist, author, actor, manager, are all terms that may be applied
to Weedon Grossmith, but might not scene-painter be added after his
invaluable aid in the Harley Street store-room with paints and size?
So much for the amateur side of the business: now for the real.
The first thing a scenic artist does is to make a complete sketch of
a scene. This, when approved, he has “built up” as a little model, a
miniature theatre, in fact, such as children love to play with. It is
usually about three feet square, exactly like a box, and every part is
designed to scale with a perfection of detail rarely observed outside
an architect’s office.
One of the most historic painting-rooms was that of Sir Henry Irving
at the Lyceum, for there some of the most elaborate stage settings
ever produced were constructed, inspired by the able hand of Mr. Hawes
Craven.
A scene-painter’s workshop is a large affair. It is very high, and
below the floor is another chamber equally lofty, for the “flats,” or
large canvases, have to be screwed up or down for the artist to be able
to get at his work. They cannot be rolled wet, so the entire “flat” has
to ascend or descend at will.
To make the matter clear, a scene on the stage, such as a house or a
bridge, is known as a “carpenter’s scene.” The large canvases at the
back are called “flats,” or “painters’ cloths.” “Wings” are unknown
to most people, but really mean the side-pieces of the scene which
protrude on the stage. The “borders” are the bits of sky or ceiling
which hang suspended from above, and a “valarium” is a whole roof as
used in classical productions.
A scene-painter’s palette is a strange affair; it is like a large
wooden tray fixed to a table, and that table is on wheels; along one
side of the tray are divisions like stalls in a stable, each division
containing the different coloured paints, while in front is a flat
piece on which the powders can be mixed. The thing that strikes
one most is the amount of exercise the scenic artist takes. He is
constantly stepping back to look at what he has done, for he copies on
a large scale the minute sketch he has previously worked out in detail.
Assistants generally begin the work and lay the paint on; but all the
finishing touches are done by the master, who superintends the whole
thing being properly worked out from his model.
The most elaborate scenery in the world is to be found in London, and
Sir Henry Irving, as mentioned before, was the first to study detail
and effect so closely. Even in America, where many things are so
extravagant, the stage settings are quite poor compared with those of
London.
Theatres in England and America differ in many ways. The only thing I
found cheaper in the United States than at home was a theatre stall,
which in New York cost eight shillings instead of ten and sixpence.
They are also ahead of us inasmuch as they book their cheaper seats,
which must be an enormous advantage to those unfortunate people who can
always be seen—especially on first nights—wet or fine, hot or cold,
standing in rows outside a London pit door.
There is no comparison between the gaiety of the scene of a London
theatre and that of New York. Long may our present style last. In
London every man wears evening dress in the boxes, stalls, and
generally in the dress circle, and practically every woman is in
evening costume, at all events without her hat. Those who do not care
to dress, wisely go to the cheaper seats. This is not so across the
Atlantic. It is quite the exception for the male sex to wear dress
clothes; they even accompany ladies to the stalls in tweeds, probably
the same tweeds they have worn all day at their office “down town,” and
it is not the fashion for women to wear evening dress either. What we
should call a garden-party gown is _de rigueur_, although a lace neck
and sleeves are gradually creeping into fashion. Little toques are much
worn, but if the hat be big, it is at once taken off and disposed of in
the owner’s lap. Being an American she is accustomed to nursing her hat
by the hour, and does not seem to mind the extra discomfort, in spite
of fan, opera-glass, and other etceteras.
The result of all this is that the auditorium is in no way so smart as
that of a London theatre. The origin of the simplicity of costume in
the States of course lies in the fact that fewer people in proportion
have private carriages, cabs are a prohibitive price, and every one
travels in a five cents (2½_d._) car. The car system is wonderful,
if a little agitating at first to a stranger, as the numbers of the
streets—for they rarely have names in New York—are not always so
distinctly marked as they might be. It is far more comfortable,
however, to get into one’s carriage, a hansom, or even a dear old
ramshackle shilling “growler” at one’s own door, than to have to walk
to the nearest car “stop” and find a succession of electric trams full
when you arrive there, especially if the night happens to be wet. The
journey is cheap enough when one does get inside, but payment of five
cents does not necessarily ensure a seat, so the greater part of one’s
life in New York is spent hanging on to the strap of a street car.
“Look lively,” shouts the conductor, almost before one has time to look
at all, and either life has to be risked, or the traveller gets left
behind altogether.
Not only travelling in cars, but many things in the States cost
twopence halfpenny. It seems a sort of tariff, that five cents, or
nickle, as it is called. One has to pay five cents for a morning or
evening paper, five cents to get one’s boots blacked, and even in the
hotels they only allow a darkie to perform that operation as a sort of
favour.
It is a universal custom in the States to eat candies during a
performance at the theatre, but when do Americans refrain from eating
candies—one dare not say “chewing-gum,” for we are told that no
self-respecting American ever chews gum nowadays!
The theatres I visited in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, New Orleans,
and even in far-away San Antonio, Texas, were all comfortable, well
warmed, well ventilated, and excellently managed, but the audience
were certainly not so smart as our own, not even at the Opera House
at New York, where the performers are the same as in London, and the
whole thing excellently done, and where it is the fashion to wear
evening dress in the boxes. Even there one misses the beauty of our
aristocracy, and the glitter of their tiaras.
Choosing a play is no easy matter. Hundreds of things have to be
considered. Will it please the public? Will it suit the company? If
Miss So-and-So be on a yearly engagement and there is no part for her,
can the theatre afford out of the weekly profits of the house to pay
her a large salary merely as an understudy? What will the piece cost to
mount? What will the dramatist expect to be paid? This latter amount
varies as greatly as the royalties paid to authors on books.
As nearly every manager has a literary adviser behind his back,
so almost every actor-manager has a syndicate in the background.
Theatrical syndicates are strange institutions. They have only come
into vogue since 1880, and are taken up by commercial gentlemen as a
speculation. When gambling ceases to attract on the Stock Exchange, the
theatre is an exciting outlet.
The actor-manager consequently is not the “sole lessee” in the sense
of being the only responsible person. He generally has two or three
backers, men possessed of large incomes who are glad to risk a few
thousand pounds for the pleasure of a stall on a first night, or an
occasional theatrical supper. Sometimes the syndicate does extremely
well: at others ill; but that does not matter—the rich man has had his
fun, the actor his work, the critic his sneer, and so the matter ends.
The actor-manager draws his salary like any other member of the
company; but should the play prove a success his profits vary according
to arrangement.
If, on the other hand, the venture turn out a failure, in the case of
the few legitimate actor-managers—if one may use the term—he loses all
the outgoing expenses. Few men can stand that. Ten thousand pounds have
been lost through a bad first night, for although some condemned plays
have worked their way to success, or, at least, paid their expenses,
that is the exception and by no means the rule.
Many affirm there should be no actor-managers: the responsibility is
too great; but then no man is sure of getting the part he likes unless
he manages to secure it for himself.
Every well-known manager receives two or three hundred plays per annum.
Cyril Maude told me that three hundred and fifteen dramas were left at
the Haymarket Theatre in 1903, and that he and Frederick Harrison had
actually read, or anyway looked through, every one of them. They enter
each in a book, and put comments against them.
“The good writing is Harrison’s,” he remarked, “and the bad scribble
mine”; but that was so like Mr. Maude’s modesty.
After that it can hardly be said there is any lack of ambition in
England to write for the stage. The extraordinary thing is that only
about three per cent. of these comedies, tragedies, burlesques, or
farces are worth even a second thought. Many are written without the
smallest conception of the requirements of the theatre, while some
are indescribably bad, not worth the paper and ink wasted on their
production.
It may readily be understood that every manager cannot himself read all
the MSS. sent him for consideration, neither is the actor-manager able
to see himself neatly fitted by the parts written “especially for him.”
Under these circumstances it has become necessary of late years at some
theatres to employ a literary adviser, as mentioned on the former page.
All publishing-houses have their literary advisers, and woe betide the
man who condemns a book which afterwards achieves a great success, or
accepts one that proves a dismal failure! So likewise the play reader.
Baskets full of dramatic efforts are emptied by degrees, and the few
promising productions they contain are duly handed over to the manager
for his final opinion.
In spite of the enormous number of plays submitted yearly, every
manager complains of the dearth of suitable ones.