Plays and Play-Acting

ONE evening, after seeing Booth in “Richard III.,” three of us fell a-talking about the authorship of the play, and wondering how far Shakespeare was responsible for what we had heard. Everybody knows that Colley Cibber improved upon the text of the old folios and quartos: for what was listened to with delight by Ben Jonson could not satisfy Congreve, and William III. needed better verses than those applauded by Queen Elizabeth. None of us knew how great or how many these improvements were. I doubt whether many of the audience that crowded the theatre that evening were wiser than we. The next day I got an acting copy of “ Richard III.,” and, with the help of Mrs. Clarke’s Concordance,¹ arrived at the following astonishing results.

“ Shakspcare’s Historical Tragedy of Richard III., adapted to Representation by Colley Cibber,” (I quote the full title for its matchless impudence,) makes a pamphlet of fifty-nine small pages. Of these, Cibber was good enough to write twenty-six out of his own head. Then, modestly recognizing Shakespeare’s superiority, he took twenty-seven pages from him, (not all from this particular play, to be sure,) remodelled six other pages of the original, and, mixing it all up together, produced a play, and called it Shakespeare.

With Mrs. Clarke’s touchstone it is easy to separate the base metal from the fine gold ; though you have only to ring most of Cibber’s counterfeits to see how flat they are. Would any one take the following for genuine coin, and believe that Shakespeare could make a poor ghost talk thus ?

Or thus: —

No wonder that Gloucester finds it quite hopeless to reply to such ghosts in the words Shakespeare put into his mouth, and so has recourse to Cibber. We are not told what (Cibber’s) ghosts say to Richmond ; but he declares, —

Just after this, it is rather confusing to find him straying off into “Henry V.” Still, “ In peace there ’s nothing so becomes a man,” seems to promise Shakespeare at least, — so compose yourself to listen and enjoy : —

After this outrage, I defy you to help hoping that the comparatively innocent Richard will chop off Richmond’s head, — in spite of history and Shakespeare.

It does not follow that all change or omission is unlawful in placing Shakespeare’s plays on the stage. Though in the pit or parquet we sit (more or less) at our ease, instead of standing as the groundlings did in old days, yet a tragedy five hours and a half long would be rather too much of a good thing for us. There must have been a real love of the drama in those times. Fancy a fine gentleman, able to pay his shilling and sit with the wits upon the rush-strewn stage, listening for such a length of time to “ Hamlet,” with no change of scenes to help the illusion or break the monotony, beyond a curtain or two hung across the stage, a wooden gallery at the back whence the court of Denmark might view “ The Mouse-Trap,” and, perhaps, a wooden tomb pushed on or “ discovered ” in the graveyard-scene by pulling aside one of these curtains or “ traverses.” No pretty women, either, dressed in becoming robes, and invested with the mysterious halo of interest which an actress seems to bring with her from the sidescenes. No women at all. Poor Ophelia presented by a great lubberly boy, and the part of the Queen very likely intrusted to him who was last year the “Jeune premiere,” and whose voice is now somewhat cracked within the ring. To be sure, in those days every gentleman took his pipe with him ; and the fragrant clouds would be some consolation in the eyes, or rather in the noses, of some of us. But still,— almost six hours of tragedy ! It is too much of a good thing for these degenerate days ; and we must allow the prompter to use his pencil on the actors’ copy of “ Hamlet,” though he strike out page upon page of immortal philosophy.

But there are certain parts of this play omitted whose loss makes one grieve. Why do the actors leave out the strange half-crazed exclamations wrung from Hamlet by his father’s voice repeating “Swear” from beneath his feet?

The sensitive organization which makes Hamlet what he is has been too rudely handled: the machine, too delicate for the rough work of every-day life, breaks down under the strain. The horror of the time — beginning with Horatio’s story of the apparition, and growing more fearful with every moment of reflection, until Hamlet longs for the coming of the dread hour — reaches a point beyond which human nature has no power to endure. If be could share his burden with his friend Horatio,— but Marcellus thrusts himself forward, and he checks the half-uttered confidence, and struggles to put aside their curiosity with trifling words. Anything, to be alone and free to think on what he has heard and what he has to do. And then, — as he is swearing them to secrecy before escaping from them, — there, from under their feet and out of the solid earth, comes the voice whose adieu is yet ringing in his ears. In terror they hurry to another spot; but the awful voice follows their steps, and its tones shake the ground under them. What wonder, if, broken down by all this, Hamlet utters words which would be irreverent in their levity, were they not terrible in their wildness ? Have you never marked what pathos there is in a very trivial phrase used by one so crushed down by grief that he acts and speaks like a little child ?

It is wonderful that a great actor should neglect a passage that paints with one touch Hamlet’s half-hysterical state. Given as it might be given, it would curdle the blood in your veins. I asked the best Hamlet it has been my fortune to see, why he left out these lines. “ I have often thought I would speak them ; but I don’t know how.” That was his answer, and a very honest one it was. But such a reason is not worthy of any man who dares to play Hamlet, — much less of one who plays it as -----does.

It is curious to observe how persistently the players, in making up the stagetravesties of Shakespeare’s plays, have followed the uncertain lead of the quartos, where they and the folio differ. It almost seems as if the stage-editors found something more congenial in a text made up from the actors’ recollections, plentifully adorned with what we now call “gag” They appear to forget one capital fact: that Shakespeare was at once actor, author, and manager, — that he wrote for the stage exclusively, producing plays for the immediate use of his own company, — and that his plays may therefore be reasonably supposed to be “ adapted to representation ” in their original state. Does Mr. Crummles know better than Master Shakespeare knew how “ Romeo and Juliet” should be ended with the best effect, — not only to the ear in the closet, but theatrically on the stage ? The story was not a new one \ and the dramatist deliberately followed one of two existing versions rather than the other. In Boisteau’s translation of Bandello’s novel, Juliet wakes from her trance before Romeo’s death ; in Brooke’s poem, which the great master chose to adopt as his authority, all is over, and she wakes to find her lover dead. Garrick must needs know better than Shakespeare, the actor-author; and no stage Romeo has the grace to die until he has, in elegant phrase, “ piled up the agony ” with lines like these : —

And then, to give a chance for the manœuvre beloved by dying actors, — that getting up and falling back into the arms of the actress kneeling by him, with a proper amount of gasping and eyes rolling in delirium, — the stage Romeo adds: —

Is this Garrick or Otway ? (for I believe Garrick borrowed some of his improvements from Otway’s “ Caius Marius.” ) I don’t know, and don’t care. It is not Shakespeare. It may “ show something of the skill of kindred genius,” as the preface to the acting edition says it does. I confess I do not see it. I would have such bombast delivered with the traditional accompaniment of red fire ; and the curtain should descend majestically to the sound of slow music. That would be consistent and appropriate.

It has always been a consoling thought to Englishmen that Shakespeare exists for them alone, — or that a Frenchman’s nature, at least, makes it hopeless for him to try to understand the great dramatist.

They confess that their neighbors know how to construct the plot of a comedy, and prove the honesty of their approval by “ borrowing ” whatever they can make useful. Freach tragedies they despise — (though a century ago the new English tragedies were generally Corneille or Racine in disguise). As to Shakespeare, it has time out of mind been an article of faith with the insolent insulars that he is quite above any Frenchman’s reach. One by one they are driven from their foolisb prejudices, and made to confess that Frenchmen may equal them in some serious things, as well as beat them in all the lighter accomplishments. French iron-clad steamers have been followed by the curious spectacle of a French actor teaching an English audience how Shakespeare should be acted. I would give a good deal to see M. Fechter in Hamlet, Othello, or Iago,— the only parts he has yet attempted; the rather, because the low condition of the stage in England, where Mr. Macready and Mr. Charles Kean are called great actors, makes the English newspaper-criticisms of little value. In default of this, I have been reading M. Fechter’s acting edition of “ Othello,” which a friend kindly sent me from London. It is a curiosity, — not the text, which is incorrect, full of arbitrary changes, and punctuated in a way almost unintelligible to an English eye: colons being scattered about with truly French profusion. The stage-directions are the interest of the book. They are so many and so minute that it seems a wonder why they were printed, if M. Fechter is sincere in declaring that he has no desire to force others to follow in his exact footsteps in this part. But they are generally so judicious, as well as original, that actors born with English tongues in their heads may well be ashamed that a foreigner could find so many new and effective resources on their own ground. For example : when Othello and Iago are first met by the enraged Brabantio, the Moor is standing on the threshold of his house, having just opened the door with a key taken from his girdle. He is going in, when he sees the lights borne by the other party. Observe how Othello’s honest frankness is shown by the action : —

Again, at the end of this scene, see how thoroughly the editor has studied the legitimate dramatic effect of the situations, preserving to each person his due place and characteristic manner: —

The scene wherein Iago first begins to poison the Moor’s mind is admirable in the situations and movements of the actors. A great variety is given to the dialogue by the minute directions set down for the guidance of the players. It would be tedious to give them in detail; but I must point out the truth of one action, near the end. The poison is working; but as yet Othello cannot believe he is so wronged, — he is only “perplexed in the extreme,” — not yet transformed quite out of his noble nature.

This is an idea worthy of a great actor; and of M. Fechter’s acting here an English critic says,—“Delicate in its conception and marvellous in its close adherence to Nature is the expression that accompanies the words. The actor’s face is literally suffused with a burning blush ; and, as he buries his face in his hands, we almost fancy we see the scalding tears force their way through the trembling fingers and adorn the shame-reddened cheeks.” The same writer goes on to praise “ the ingenuity and novelty of the glance at the reflection of his dark face in the mirror, which suggests the words, 'Haply for I am black.’ ” I cannot agree. Othello had been too often reproached with his swarthy skin and likened to the Devil by Desdemona’s father to need any such commonplace reminder of his defects, in his agony of doubt. It is, however, a fair ground for difference of opinion. But when the same artifice is resorted to in the last act to explain the words, “ It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul! ” — and Othello is made to take up a toilet-glass which has fallen from Desdemona’s hand, — it becomes a vile conceit, unworthy of the situation or of an actor like Fechter. A man does not look in the glass, and talk about his complexion, when he is going to kill what he loves best in life; and if the words are broken and unintelligible, they are all the truer to Nature. The whole of the last act, as arranged by Fechter, is bad. There is no propriety in directing Desdemona to leave her bed and walk about, — to say nothing of the scramble that must ensue when Othello “ in mad fury throws her onto the bed ” again. But what shall we say of this ?

What, but that it is utterly vile and melodramatic, contrary to Othello’s expressed resolve, and quite unnecessary ? — for a better effect would be produced, if the actor averted his head and with both hands pressed hard upon the pillow, trembling in every limb at the horrible deed he is forced, in mercy, to bring to a quick end. This idea of stabbing Desdemona at last is not original with Fechter,— who here, and in several other places, has consented to follow our stage-traditions, and has been led astray.

Shakespeare on the stage is a sad falling off from Shakespeare in the closet. (I do not mean on the American stage only : the theatre in England is, if possible, lower than with us.) To a great extent this is unavoidable. Our imaginations are not kept in check by the pitiless limits that make themselves felt in the theatre. An army, when we read of it, seems something far grander than all that can be effected by the best-appointed company of actors. The forest of Ardennes has for us life and motion beyond the reach of the scene-painter’s skill. But these necessary shortcomings are no excuse for making no attempt to imitate Nature. Yet hardly any serious effort is made to reach this purpose of playing. The ordinary arrangement of our stage is as bad as bad can be, for it fails to look like the places where the action is supposed to lie. Two rows of narrow screens stretching down from the ends of a broad screen at the back never can be made to look like a room, still less like a grove. Such an arrangement may be convenient for the carpenters or scene-shifters, and is very likely cheaper than a properly designed interior. But it does not look like what it pretends to be, and has been superseded on every stage but ours and the English by properly constructed scenery. Who ever went into a French theatre for the first time without being charmed by the reality of the scene ? They take the trouble to build a room, when a room is wanted, with side-walls and doors, and often a ceiling. The consequence is, you can fancy yourself present at a scene taken from real life. The theatre goes no farther than the proscenium. Beyond that, you have a parlor, with one wall removed for your better view. It is Asmodeus’s show improved. I went to a Paris theatre with a friend. The play began with half a dozen milliners chattering and sewing round a table. After a few moments, my friend gave a prodigious yawn, and declared he was going home, “ for you might as well sit down and see a parcel of real milliners at work as this play.” Tastes differ; and I did not find this an objection. But what a compliment that was to the whole corps, — actors, actresses, and scene-painter! — and how impossible it would be to make the same complaint of an English play !

“ But,” I have been told by theatrical people, “ such an arrangement is all very well in French vaudevilles, where one scene lasts through an act; but it will not do for English plays, with their constant scene-shifting.” I grant it is less convenient to the stage-manager than the present wretched assembly of screens ; but it is not impracticable in any play. Witness the melodramas which are the delight of the patrons of the minor Paris theatres, — pièces à spectacle en 4 actes et 24 tableaux, that is, twenty-four changes of scene. I remember sitting through one which was so deadly stupid that nothing but the ingenuity of the stage-arrangements made it endurable. Side-scenes dropped down into their places, — “flats” fell through the stage or were drawn up out of sight, — trees and rocks rose out of the earth, — in a word, scenery that looked like reality, and not like canvas, was disposed and cleared away with such marvellous rapidity that I forgot to yawn over the play. Attention to these matters is almost unknown with us: perhaps, in strict justice, I ought to say was unknown until very lately. Within a few years, one or two of our theatres have profited by the example set by stage-managers abroad. At Wallack’s, in New York, rooms have to a great extent taken the place of the old screens; and only the other night at the Boston Museum I saw an arrangement of scenery which really helped the illusion.

Let us hope there may be a speedy reform in the matter of the costume of the players, — at least in plays where the dresses are of our own time. You may count on your fingers the actresses in America who dress on the stage as ladies dress in polite society. And as for the actors, I am afraid one hand has too many fingers for the tally. Because people go to the President’s Ball in frockcoats is no reason why actors who undertake to look like fashionable gentlemen should outrage all conventional rules. I once saw a play in which a gentleman came to make an informal morning-visit to a lady in the country, in that dress which has received the bitterly ironical name of “ full American uniform,” that is to say, black dress-coat and trousers and black satin waistcoat; and the costume was made even more complete by a black satin tie, of many plaits, with a huge dull diamond pin in it, and a long steel watch-chain dangling upon the wretched man’s stomach. He might have played his part to perfection, — which he did not, but murdered it In cold blood, but he might have done so in vain: nothing would or could absolve him from such a crime against the god of fashion or propriety. “ Little things, these,” the critic may say : and so our actors seem to think. But life is made up of little things; and if you would paint life, you must attend to them. Ask any one who has spent (wasted ?) evening after evening at the Paris theatres about them ; and, ten to one, he begins by praising the details, which, in their sum, conveyed the impression of perfection he brought away with him.

Unless you arc a little cracked on the subject of the stage, (as I confess I am,) and have talked with a French actor about it, you have no idea how systematically they train their young actors. I will tell you a few of the odd facts I picked up in long talks with my friend Monsieur D------, of the Théâtre Français.

The Conservatoire, their great school for actors, is, like almost everything else in Paris, more or less under Government control, — the Minister of State being charged with its superintendence. He appoints the professors, who are actors of the Français, and receive a salary of two thousand francs. The first order a pupil receives, on presenting himself for instruction, is this : “ Say rose .” Now your Parisian rather prides himself on a peculiar pronunciation of the letter r. He neither rolls it like an Italian, nor does he make anything like the noise standing for r in our conversational English,— something like uhr-ose,— a sound said to be peculiar to our language. A Parisian rolls his r, by making his uvula vibrate, keeping the tongue quite still: producing a peculiar gurgling sound. This is an abomination in the ears of the Conservatoire. “ Ne grasscyez donc pas, Monsieur,” or “ Mademoiselle,” says the professor, fiercely,—this peculiar way of saying r being called grasseyement. The pupil tries again, using the tip of his tongue this time. “Ah! I thought so. Your r is pasty (empâté). Say tuddah!” (I spell this sound àl'Anglaise.) “ Tuddah,” repeats the wondering candidate. “ Thuddah ?” the professor repeats, with great disgust: “ I did not ask you to say thuddah, but tuddah.” The victim tries again and again, and thinks he succeeds ; but the master does not agree with him. His delicate ear detects a certain thickness of enunciation, — which our th very imperfectly represents,— a want of crispness, as it were. The tip of the tongue does not strike the front teeth with a single tick, as sharp as a needle-point; and until he can do this, the pupil can do nothing. He is dismissed with the advice to say “ tuddah, tuddah, tuddah,” as many hours a day as he can without losing his mind. D-----told me he often met young men walking about the streets in all the agonies of this first step in the art of learning to act, and astonishing the passers-by with this mysterious jargon. A pupil of average quickness, and nicety of ear learns to say tuddah in about a month. Then he is told to say rose once more. The training his tongue has received enables him to use only its very tip. A great point is gained: he can pronounce the r. Any other defects in pronunciation which he has are next attacked and corrected. Then he is drilled in moving, standing, and carriage. And finally, “ a quantity of' practice truly prodigious” is given to the ancien répertoire, — the classic models of French dramatic literature, Corneille, Racine, Molière, Beaumarchais, etc. The first scholar of each year has the right to appear at once at the Théâtre Français, — a right rarely claimed, as most young actors prefer to go through a novitiate elsewhere to braving the most critical audience in the world before they have acquired the confidence that comes only with habit and success. After he has gained a foothold at this classic theatre, an actor still sees prizes held out to stimulate his ambition. If he keeps the promise of his youth, he may hope to be chosen a stockholder (sociétaire), and thus obtain a share both in the direction of affairs and in the profits, besides a retiring pension, depending in amount upon his term of service.

Panem et circenses is the demand of modern Paris, as it was of old Rome,— and the people expect the Government to see that neither supply fails. While the Opera receives large sums to pay for gorgeous scenery and dresses, the Français is paid for devoting three nights in the week to the classical school: a real loss to the theatre at times when the fickle public would gladly crowd the house to applaud the success of the hour. The Minister of State interferes as seldom as possible with the management; but when he speaks, his word is law. This was queerly shown in a dispute about Rachel’s congés. At first she played during nine months of the year three times a week ; later her duties were reduced to six months in the year, playing only twice a week, at a salary of forty thousand francs, with five hundred francs for every extra performance. Spoiled by indulgence, she demanded leave of absence just when the Queen of England was coming to Paris. The manager indignantly refused. The next day the Minister of State politely requested that Mlle. Rachel might have a short congé. “ It is not reasonable,” said the poor manager. “ We have cut down her duties and raised her salary; now the Queen is coming, Paris will be full of English, and they are always crazy after Mlle. Rachel. It is really out of the question, Monsieur le Ministre.” The Minister was very sorry, but hoped there would be no real difficulty. The manager was equally sorry, but really he could not think of it. “ Monsieur,” said the Minister, rising and dismissing the manager, “ il le faut.” “ Oh, il le faut? Then it must; —only you might as well have begun with that.” And so Rachel got her leave of absence.

(I must insert here from my note-book a criticism on Rachel, — valuable as coming from a man of talent in her own profession who had worked with her for years, and deserving additional weight, as it was, no doubt, rather the collective judgment of her fellow-actors than the opinion of the speaker alone.)

“Rachel,” said M. D------, “was a great genius,—but a genius that ever needed the hand of a master to guide its efforts. Without this, she could do nothing : and Samson was forever behind her, directing her steps. Mme. Allan, who weighed almost three hundred pounds and had an abominable voice, was infinitely her superior in the power of creating a part. But Rachel had the voice of an angel. In the expression of disdain or terror she was unapproachable. In the softer passions she was feeble. We all looked upon her Lady Tartuffe as a failure.”

Such a school of acting as the Conservatoire and the Français form could of course never be seen in America. The idea of our popular practical Government undertaking to direct the amusements of the people is quite ludicrous. In France, the Government does all it can for the people. With us, the people are left to do everything for themselves, with the least possible amount of Government interference. Our play-writers and play-actors could do a great deal to raise the standard of stage-literature and of acting, if they would but try. Rut they do not try. I went the other evening to see that relic of the Dark Ages, a sterling English comedy. If any one thinks I go too far in saying that there is no attempt on our stage to imitate Nature, and that the writing and acting of English plays are like the landscape-painting of the Chinese,— a wonderfully good copy of the absurdities handed down through generations of artists,—let him go and look at one of these plays. He will see the choleric East-India uncle, with a red face, and a Malacca cane held by the middle, stumping about, and bullying his nephew,— “ a young rascal,”—or his niece, — “ you baggage, you.” When this young person wishes to have a good talk with a friend, they stand up behind the footlights to do it; and the audience is let into secrets essential to the plot by means of long “ asides ” delivered by one, while the other does nothing and pretends not to hear what is spoken within three feet of him. The waiting-maid behaves in a way that would get her turned out of any respectable house, and is chased off the stage by the old gentleman in a manner that no gentleman ever chases his servants. Something is the matter with the men’s legs : they all move by two steps and a hitch. They all speak with an intonation as unlike the English of real life as if they talked Greek. The young people make fools of the old people in a way they would never dream of in life,—and the old people are preternaturally stupid in submitting to be made fools of. After seeing one of these classics, let the spectator sit down and honestly ask himself if this is an attempt to hold the mirror up to Nature, or an effort to reflect the traditional manners and customs of the stage.

If he thinks he has ever seen anything of the sort in real life, we will agree to differ.