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 Shakespearean representation; its laws an 
 
 3 1924 013 165 364 
 
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 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 31 65364 
 
SHAKESPEAREAN REPRESENTATION 
 
SHAKESPEAREAN 
 
 REPRESENTATION 
 
 ITS LAWS AND LIMITS 
 
 BY 
 
 PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A., F.S.A. 
 
 ' Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts ; . . . 
 And make imaginary puissance ; 
 
 Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them ; . . . 
 For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings.' 
 
 ' Henry V.' : Prologue 
 
 LONDON 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.G. 
 
 1908 
 
©7^ 
 
 WORKS ON THE STAGE 
 
 By the Same Writer 
 
 THE LIFE OF GARRICK 
 
 LIVES OF THE KEMBLES 
 
 LIVES OF THE SHERIDANS 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF COMEDY 
 
 ART OF THE STAGE: Lecture at the Royal 
 Institdtion 
 
 ROMANCE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE 
 
 NEW HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH STAGE 
 
 LIFE OF SIR H. IRVING. (3rd Edition) 
 
 THEATRICAL ANECDOTES 
 
 WATTS PHILLIPS : A Life 
 
 ADVENTURES OF A. DUMAS 
 
 VANDERDECKEN. (With W. G. Wills) 
 
 THE WORLD BEHIND THE SCENES 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE following speculations on what is a deeply interesting 
 subject have engrossed many years' thought and careful 
 study. It will be noted that they help to form a consistent 
 theory. That I have some claim to speak on the subject will 
 be seen from the long list of works upon the stage and stage- 
 life which I have written during the past forty years or so. I 
 have also ' served ' as a dramatic critic, and have written for 
 the stage. 
 
 At the same time I will admit that many things will be 
 found here which seem overcharged and stated to6 strongly. 
 There are general statements of abuses which might be 
 accounted as particular. But the would-be reformer is always 
 inclined to this failing, and the practised reader is accustomed 
 to ' discount ' all such sweeping utterances. This refers par- 
 ticularly to what I have said of acting, and of the system 
 followed on our ' boards.' We have actors and actresses who 
 act according to the most intelligent instincts and principles ; 
 but this cannot be extended to the bulk of the profession, who 
 have a special standard of their own. 
 
 Mr. Sidney Lee, in a recent thoughtful work, has also dealt 
 with this matter of modern Shakespearean representation, 
 though not after the minute fashion that I have done. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION .... . . I 
 
 I. THE REAL HAMLET ....... 4 
 
 II. SHAKESPEAREAN GHOSTS, APPARITIONS, WITCHES, ETC. . 34 
 
 III. MUSIC— DANCING ....... 57 
 
 IV. MODERN REVIVALISTS— IRVING . . . . -63 
 V. OTHER MODERN REVIVALS .... .82 
 
 VI. SHAKESPEAREAN BUSINESS': ITS NEGLECT AND THE REMEDY QI 
 VII. 'WHAT IS THE SCENE?' . . . . . . I23 
 
 VIII. ACTING, SOLILOQUIES, ASIDES, BY-PLAV, RECITATION, ETC. . I30 
 
SHAKESPEAREAN REPRESENTATIONS 
 
 Q INTRODUCTORY 
 
 IT is gratifying in these modern days to note the revived 
 interest in Shakespearean performances, which for some 
 thirty years and more have been set forth with unbounded 
 luxury and magnificence, A series of pageants and panoramas 
 have passed before our eyes: huge structures solidly built, 
 cathedrals, streets, glorious gardens, processions, armies, have 
 dazzled or bewildered our yokel senses. The muses of Waring 
 and Gillow or Maple have been evoked, and dozens of dress- 
 makers have combined to lend their service. The result is a 
 beautiful and interesting show, which recreates and entertains 
 even the more thoughtful. 
 
 When a manager or actor-manager takes one of these 
 pieces in hand for revival, he is bound to search carefully 
 through the play for fresh and startling openings for decora- 
 tion and marginal effects. He must, in vulgar phrase, ' go one 
 better.' Then, he almost invariably rearranges, transposes, and 
 combines scenes, introduces passages hitherto left out, and 
 leaves out what has been hitherto retained. Something novel 
 and surprising must be evolved. Money; lighting, painting, 
 dresses, music, dancing — nothing is spared. The framework 
 of the piece groans and totters under the superincumbent 
 weight. In any case, the delicate allusions, the involved 
 thought, the graces and passions and feelings, must be sub- 
 merged. It is a law that the senses and the intelligence have 
 contending interests. Excessive splendour and decoration, 
 absorbing and dazzling the eye, distract at the same time and 
 
Shakespearean Representations 
 
 enfeeble the intelligence, just as we might imagine an im- 
 passioned speaker impeded and fettered in his utterance were 
 he overwhelmed by the weight of rich and gaudy clothes. It 
 is curious that words and sentences coming from the centre of 
 a glare of light and colour seem to lose all strength of sound 
 and emphasis. The thoughts and sentiments are poor in 
 contrast to the gorgeous surroundings, and take the second 
 place. 
 
 It is curious also that even this excess of decoration and 
 stage mechanism, granting the necessity of its use as a conces- 
 sion to public taste, is even scarcely regulated by thoughtful 
 principles and arrangements. The usual contrivances are 
 crudely carried out according to old stage conventions. There 
 is no attempt to study the particular situation from a Shake- 
 spearean point of view, so as to see what was intended, and 
 carry it out in the most perfect way. There is a vast deal 
 of undeveloped effects passed over and wholly lost from want 
 of careful study. It seems to me that all the mechanical 
 attempts at illusion are clumsily though magnificently carried 
 out.* 
 
 It has been again and again pointed out by Mr. Sidney Lee 
 and others that there is no attempt to equalize the characters, 
 and thus present a perfect all-round performance, as is found 
 in the German theatres. This, again, is the result of the 
 exaggerated decoration, which compels, owing to considerations 
 of time and space, the inferior players to become mere pawns 
 in the show, passing hurriedly through the light, their words 
 being abridged or scamped. 
 
 This sacrifice has led to the deification of the star performer, 
 who in certain titular plays requires, if he would do himself full 
 justice, to have the stage more or less clear; save, of course, 
 
 * In that interesting and highly popular melodrama, 'A Message from 
 Mars,' in which Mr. Hawtrey was so successful, was shown the crudest and 
 most primitive treatment of the supernatural, and which was accepted as 
 quite sufficient. The visitant descended from Mars, being let down rapidly 
 by a stout rope ! Later on, when the hero was shown a ' vision ' of a happy 
 home, the simple method was adopted of drawing aside a canvas screen, 
 when a sort of alcove was revealed, within which were huddled together a 
 number of persons seated at a dinner-table, feasting or talking. Here 
 was practical matter-of-fact treatment, the rest being left to the imagina- 
 tion. 
 
Introduction 
 
 during this exhibition of the raree-shows. This entails whole- 
 sale abridgment, profuse cutting down and cutting out, so as 
 to centralize the interest. No doubt, under the circumstances, 
 this is welcome enough and often interesting. Better to have 
 some Shakespeare, however disguised, than no Shakespeare at 
 all. But it is far, very far from the ideal Shakespeare. 
 
 I — 2 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE REAL HAMLET 
 
 I AM disposed to begin this inquiry by showing, as a typical 
 instance, what has been done in this way with Hamlet, which 
 has been deliberately, though gradually, fashioned into a one- 
 character piece. No one could imagine that it is a really large 
 and crowded canvas, with a number of palpitating and interest- 
 ing figures, a drama of general interest, and not a sort of 
 biography of a single person. Yet no one ever thinks of the 
 Danish Prince but as one solitary overpowering figure, round 
 whom circle s6me dimly-illumined satellites ; these, too, altered 
 and curtailed so as to afford comic or serious relief. 
 
 One is astonished to find what vast and spreading interests 
 it offers, and how these maimed characters really help to 
 set off the great central figure and increase its attraction. 
 These figures are the King, the Queen, old Polonius, Ophelia, 
 the Ghost — all varied, full-bodied characters, not mere under- 
 strappers of Hamlet, but carrying on a drama among themselves. 
 The stage-managers have made the King a sort of unmeaning 
 cardboard figure, a patient foil for his nephew, instead of being 
 an intriguing, crafty fellow, timorous yet bold, fighting hard 
 for his own hand ; the Queen, a commonplace, weak-kneed 
 creature, instead of an active ally of her husband ; and, above 
 all, Polonius, instead of being held forth as a sort of harmless 
 clown and the butt of everybody, a clever old schemer, per- 
 petually at work to forward the King's plots and advance his 
 own family. 
 
 Who has not wondered at the ease with which Hamlet baffled 
 the designs of these poor, feeble creatures — it seemed like child's 
 play, and they like puppets — without thinking that all their 
 plots and machinations have been altered or suppressed to give 
 prominence to Hamlet's ? For it is obvious that the more serious 
 
 4 
 
The Real Hamlet 
 
 the dangers there were about him and the more active his 
 enemies, the more our sympathies would be increased. With 
 the true original drama we felt that there was before us a 
 deadly Court struggle, in which murder, intrigue, plottings were 
 all busily concerned. 
 
 If it be said that the extension or restoration of the original 
 text commends itself, and is of manifest advantage, the question 
 arises, Can it be done ? ' Could we expect the audience to sit it 
 all out ? I am afraid this would be impossible. It has been 
 tried by some and found to fail. It should be remembered, 
 however, that these were mere sudden experiments, attempted 
 without due and elaborate preparation, and not under fair con- 
 ditions. But, still, it can be done by adhering to this rule 
 and maxim : 'Abridgment, but not suppression' — that is, passages 
 are to be shortened, not cut out ; dialogues are to be pruned ; 
 repetition of the sense or meaning left out ; lines and sentences 
 that seem superfluous or have been repeated, omitted. But on 
 the whole, abridgment, as I have said, should be the word. 
 But to this task should be brought rare gifts arid study, much 
 tact and good sense. 
 
 It may be said that none of us have ever seen the true 
 Hamlet performed, though we have had some crude and rather 
 dreary attempts at setting out the whole play before us. What 
 has been exhibited to us for generations has been a hashed-up 
 selection of the more telling portions of the play. How few 
 know, for instance, that the King had arranged for the assassina- 
 tion of his stepson long before the last attempt in the fencing 
 scene, or that this last was planned in desperation because the 
 first attempt had failed ! Few, again, know of Hamlet's attempts 
 to conceal Polonius's body — a symptom of madness. But, no ; 
 these things are counted excrescences and in the way. We must 
 have the one dramatic figure — ' Ma femme et cinq poup^es.' 
 
 It would not be difficult to furnish a pure and correctly 
 classical performance of one of Shakespeare's plays which 
 should be in perfect harmony with the poetry and characters. 
 Still, it must be admitted that the obstacles in the way of 
 reforming managers are enormous and wellnigh insuperable. 
 The old hidebound traditions and practices of the stage and 
 the debased taste of the audiences oppose. Until it is 
 accepted that the large and generic word ' the stage ' stands 
 
Shakespearean Representations 
 
 only for what it literally means — that is, is merely a raised 
 erection to make prominent those who are interpreting some 
 exciting picture of human character — we cannot look for any 
 respectable performances of Shakespeare. En attendant, how- 
 ever, there may be efforts of a negative sort— the abolition of 
 what should not be, even if what should be cannot be secured. 
 Just as in the restoration of some fair old church much is gained 
 if there is reserve used, and the existing features are simply 
 repaired or strengthened. In the present system there are no 
 laws or limits whatever. It is all ' happy-go-lucky.' The 
 manager — rather, the manager-actor — ' rough-hews ' the bard 
 as he may, does what he likes with the scenes, adds and super- 
 adds whatever he thinks will ' set off ' the play most, and put it 
 in touch with the present day. 
 
 But I can fancy our modern stage-manager saying : ' My 
 dear sir, all this is truly Utopian. It may be a very excellent 
 arrangement, but the thing would be as long as one of the 
 Ring operas, and take, say, six hours. You would clear the 
 house. We must get on. " Come to the 'osses " — come to busi- 
 ness.' This is true and practical enough ; but this treatment 
 should be not ' cutting ' — that is, omitting — but compression. 
 There should be a process of compression that will retain 
 everything, but in an abridged form. An idea, for instance, 
 takes some forty or fifty lines ; it should be skilfully compressed 
 into half a dozen. Every incident should be there, though 
 any amount of words may be sacrificed. This, or something 
 of the kind, is the true principle. We may speculate how the 
 enormous length of scenes, dialogues, speeches, etc., was dealt 
 with in the early days. The great writer must surely have 
 thought and intended that all he set down should be pre- 
 sented, for he would not have designed that so much of it should 
 go to waste. The truth was that audiences were well accus- 
 tomed to length in all things, and were schooled to follow the 
 slow and gradual development of character. There was plenty 
 of leisure then, and interest was excited by good declamation, 
 which brought out the meaning of each line. Now it is rarely 
 that we hear a passage given so as to be intelligible. In the 
 old Covenanter times the congregation could listen with relish 
 to sermons hours long, and without their attention flagging ; 
 so it must have been with the speeches on the stage. Even 
 
The Real Hamlet 
 
 nowadays the French can tolerate the rather long-winded 
 declamation of Racine and Corneille. But it all comes round 
 to this : Any amount of Shakespeare will be acceptable and 
 followed if it be given with skill, intelligence, due emphasis, 
 melodious accents, sympathy, and force. As these elements 
 are not present, we must perforce cut away all such passages 
 as so much ' top hamper.' Further, as folks are waiting im- 
 patiently for the processions, tableaux, etc., the long speeches 
 are so much delay, and must be cut out. 
 
 Again, it is always understood that to present Hamlet pro- 
 perly and according to tradition we must adopt a sort of stilted, 
 pedantic system of elocution and bearing. We must recite, 
 declaim, -growl, or vociferate, and stride about. All such things 
 would disappear if the players could only persuade themselves 
 that they were ordinary men and women concerned in a terrible 
 and momentous tragedy — if they would but put emotion and 
 passion and warmth and nature into all they say and do. 
 Some of Hamlet's soliloquies are of great length, but no one 
 complains, because they are so interesting, and the powerful 
 efforts of the actor make them more interesting still. But it is 
 not the length nor the obscurity that is in fault ; it is the lack 
 of intelligence, training, and understanding in the recitation. 
 Most of our players have little training in elocution, little 
 emphasis or contrast. Milton himself, in such hands, would 
 be ineffective. The system suggests the clerk in ' Pickwick,' 
 who was reading out the aifidavits, running words into each 
 other — ' sohelpyou God. You must get change.' And, 
 indeed, who has ever heard a sentence of Shakespeare delivered 
 so as to bring out the full, entire meaning ? And rarely have 
 we heard it illustrated by natural and appropriate feeling or 
 passion ; and finally, so as to leave a satisfactory impression. 
 Still more rarely have we heard every word of the sentence. 
 On the contrary, the meaning is too often distorted by the 
 ignorance of the reciter, who cannot reach to it, or fails by his 
 helplessness to give it expression. The result is that all is 
 dark and incomprehensible to the spectator. How many a 
 time have we listened to some Lord or Cardinal reeling off a 
 discourse, say a hundred lines long, and which it was literally 
 impossible to follow, or find out what he meant ! I suppose 
 there is no such prodigy of long-wordedness as Moli^re's 
 
8 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Le Misanthrope, with its interminable speeches and dialogues. 
 You can hardly read it, but you can study it. It seems 
 intolerable, but in the hands of the Fran9ais company how 
 illuminated it is ! Everything that is said is heard, understood, 
 and said in the best way possible. So intelligent is the 
 expression given to each sentence that you are perforce 
 attracted and led on to the next. 
 
 There has never, or rarely, been sufficient thought given 
 to the opening scenes of Hamlet, which take place on ' the 
 platform before the Castle,' and, later on, at ' a more remote 
 part of the platform' — the platform being the terrace on 
 which cannon are placed. One can hardly imagine anything 
 more poetical or favourable to ghostly feeling — the gloomy 
 waste of stone wall stretching away, the parapet, the shadowy 
 towers beyond, the blue haze as dawn draws near, the pecuHar 
 faint tinkle of the clock in the town beyond or in the court- 
 yard of the fortress. There might be a cold moonlight, so as 
 to cast the shadows of figures on the terrace. This terrace, 
 too, should be a long stretch or promenade, and a lonely one. 
 And here is usually the mistake — that there is little attention 
 paid to the scale of things, it being attempted to squeeze into 
 the small area all the substantial portions of a castle. This 
 quite dispels illusion. The ghost might be seen coming down 
 for a long distance, first afar off, then drawing near slowly and 
 gradually, and unseen by the officers. But how much of the 
 effect is due, not to such things, but to the ghostly character of 
 the situation, and to the ghostly impression on the actors ! 
 
 Let us take the opening passage — the relief of the guard, 
 so mysterious and awesome in the reading, and upon which 
 so much depends in the preparation. But who that has seen 
 it has ever found it properly interpreted, or in any way but 
 the most literal, matter-of-fact, and prosaic fashion ? The 
 players, generally fifth- or sixth-rate persons, seem to take for 
 their models the common sentries they have seen relieving 
 guard, and bark out their calls and replies in their blunt style. 
 'Stand!' ' Unfold yourself !' ' Long live the King !' Fran- 
 cisco and Bernardo are all one to them, so is the question and 
 answer, the doubt and assurance. It is merely one soldier 
 taking the place of the other. And yet how much more could 
 
The Real Hamlet 
 
 be made of the situation ! ^what graduated mystery and sense 
 of some expected horror could be conveyed in every word, so 
 as to lead up to the one image that was in the minds of all ! 
 
 The whole of the scene that follows is foreshadowed. Fran- 
 cisco is pacing ' on his post ' — dreaming, it may be — then, roused 
 by the sound of the steps, Bernardo challenges the other, 
 fancying that he himself is on duty ! The factionary naturally 
 says : ' Nay, answer me ; stand,' etc. Now, what a ddbut is 
 here, and how effectively it could be worked! The guard, 
 weary and expectant, the slow approach, the starts of both, the 
 looking round of Bernardo in alarm. This conveys that both 
 were full of the ghost, dreading its return, quite unmanned and 
 upset, as it were. They had not got over the visitation. 
 What real acting there could be, and how different from the 
 mere give-and-take replies ! Francisco, glad to get away and 
 not in the secret, compliments his friend on his punctuality. 
 He says that he is ' cold and sick at heart,' and Bernardo is 
 just as eager that he should be gone. He had ' come on the 
 stroke of twelve,' and bids him get to bed at once. Bernardo 
 eagerly asks, ' Have you had quiet guard ?' — that is, ' Have 
 you seen anything?' — to which the other carelessly replies, 
 ' Not a mouse stirring.' Then Bernardo, somewhat impatiently, 
 ' Well, good night,' and bids him, if he should meet Horatio and 
 Marcellus, tell them to hurry. For he was still nervous. They 
 presently appear, he saying, ' I think I hear them.' Then 
 another challenge. It must have been exceeding dark, for they 
 cannot / see each other, and ask, ' What ! is Horatio there ?' 
 which shows that faces could not be seen. 
 
 Now, in all this is there not a vast deal that is poetical to be 
 suggested, with due finesse and deliberation ? It is a little play 
 in itself; but who has ever seen it played so as to convey the idea 
 of all these things ? But all that the stage-manager requires is 
 that these subordinates should speak up distinctly, and like 
 officers on guard. The suggestion of * graduated horror ' or 
 ' growing sense of mystery ' he would dismiss with an emphatic, 
 * Absurd ! Never mind that.' — % 
 
 The fashion in which the ghost is made to appear is usually 
 of a literal and practical kind. A man, often of a stout, robust 
 build, is seen to stride across the stage in an affectedly solemn 
 way, and pass out at the wing. Now, one could fancy a great 
 
lo Shakespearean Representations 
 
 deal being made of this — an indistinct apparition, not a shadow, 
 but moving in an uncertain way, now pausing in a sort of 
 hesitancy and gazing sadly on the soldiers. I could imagine 
 his being unnoticed for some moments ; then one of the 
 party, seeing him, would, awe-stricken, touch his comrade, and 
 silently point to the apparition. Then it would glide out as 
 it came. MHamlet's later, ' Angels and ministers of grace defend 
 us !' and the speech that follows have been worked by the 
 tragedians ' for all that it was worth.' Their idea is a sort 
 of agonized and gasping expression of astonishment, which 
 shall be in contrast to the previous tone of easy conversationT} 
 
 Again, there is an idea of attacking the spirit, for Marcellus 
 asks, 'Shall I strike at it with my partisan?' and Horatio 
 encourages him to do so. They are turning hither and thither ; 
 one says, ' 'Tis here '; the other, ' 'Tis here.' And then Marcellus, 
 still looking round wildly, says, ' 'Tis gone.' In all this bewilder- 
 ment there is a vast deal to be developed by careful study and 
 rehearsing, so as to suggest utter bewilderment and confusion. 
 
 There are other things, generally neglected, which might 
 add to the mystery of the Hamlet ghost. When it appears 
 to Horatio and Bernardo for the second time, the former 
 usually addresses it in a careless style, which is rarely im- 
 passioned enough — for the speaker is in a state of agitation. 
 Then the cock is heard to crow. This is naturally con- 
 sidered a rather dangerous piece of 'business,' and always 
 omitted. And yet what a mistake ! for if judiciously treated it 
 might be introduced, and would have extraordinary effect. It 
 is an important element in the situation. The crowing should 
 come from afar, from the remote regions at the back — the very 
 back of the stage — with a faint sound, which would soften 
 away any grotesqueness. The spirit, we are told, was about to 
 speak when the cock crew ; on which there would be a pause 
 of suspense highly ' creepy ' and effective, all starting and remain- 
 ing silent. And here we might ask ourselves : Why did the author 
 introduce this grotesque effect if he did not think it essential ? 
 
 Horatio says, 
 
 ' I have heard the cock that is the trumpet to the morn. 
 Doth with his lofty and shrill sounding throat,' etc. 
 
 And Marcellus then says, ' It faded on the crowing of the cock,' 
 and he then tells how at Christmas ' it singeth all night long.' 
 
The Real Hamlet 1 1 
 
 Who thinks of the picturesqueness of the words 'it faded'? 
 We hear the sudden sound far away. Then the ghost, who had i 
 been advancing, checks itself, and seems to dwindle — gliding off, \ 
 as though it would escape into thin air. Then there is the \ 
 breaking of the clouds — the coming of the dawn. When they i 
 tell their story to Hamlet, they again dwell on this crowing of j 
 the cock, and how lat the sound the apparition shrank away, | 
 all of which lends a religious or spiritual tone to the whole. j 
 
 When Hamlet follows the ghost the scene is usually changed 
 to ' another part of the platform,' and Hamlet asks, ' Where 
 wilt thou lead me ?' But there is no direction for the change, 
 and it would be far more convenient if the same scene were 
 retained, Hamlet being led away to the back. The two could 
 come on together far off at the bottom, and make their way to 
 the front. 
 
 There have been some speculations as to whether an impalp- 
 able ghost — that is, one visible only to the mind's eye — would 
 not be more impressive and effective. The bard himself seems 
 to give us a hint of the practicability of making the Hamlet 
 ghost invisible, for later it speaks from ' the cellarage ' below ; 
 and who will say that the unearthly ' swear,' and the bearing of 
 the listeners at the interruption, is not always the most truly 
 mysterious portion of the incident ? This principle of invisi- 
 bility might be applied when it first appears to Hamlet, for the 
 ghost there says nothing, and both Horatio and Hamlet might 
 fancy they see him gliding across until he disappears. Then 
 Hamlet would follow it to the ' other part of the platform,' 
 where it might remain still unseen, and speak from some recess 
 — say a cavernous archway. There is something here that com- 
 mends itself, and it would certainly be more terror-striking than 
 a robustious figure with a truncheon stalking about, as used to 
 do the worthy Mead in the Lyceum days. How amusingly did 
 ' Boz ' suggest this grotesque truncheon element, where he 
 described Grummer arresting Mr. Pickwick, and beckoning to 
 him with his truncheon in a solemn and ghostly fashion. 
 
 It has long been the fashion to array the ghost in Hamlet in 
 a sort of greyish cloudy dress — supposed to represent some- 
 thing misty. But are we not told that he wore a full suit of 
 armour from top to toe ? This seems far more appropriate, as 
 the late King had led armies to battle. Not that the armour 
 
u 
 
 12 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 should be of a shining, glittering sort, as if of aluminium. It 
 should be of a dark, dull metal, richly wrought. ' He wore his 
 beaver up,' which would show the white, ghastly face encircled, 
 and thrown out by the dark framing of the beaver. This should 
 be thought out carefully. I fancy, too, the gait of the ghost 
 should not be a regimental ' stalk,' but solemn, full of hesitation 
 and uncertainty, as though in a strange land and somewhat 
 bewildered. 
 
 At the opening scene, where the King and his Court are 
 shown, 'Enter,' says the direction; but with us they are 
 usually ' discovered ' — I think with loss of effect. In a Court of 
 our day the King and Queen would come in first, not at the 
 head of a formal procession or to martial music, but conversing 
 as they walked — ' Though yet of Hamlet's, our dear brother's 
 death,' etc. This would have a very natural air. At the same 
 time, we have the first appearance of Hamlet, where the'gloomy 
 Prince is actually ' discovered ' and lost, as it were, in a crowd. 
 
 The King as portrayed by the legitimate actor is always 
 shown as a very respectable personage enunciating his wise 
 saws and reasonable admonitions with excellent elocution. 
 One would expect the delivery to have an air of finished 
 hypocrisy, elaborated, especially in the lines : 
 
 ' Fie ! 'tis a fault to heaven, 
 A fault against the dead— a fault to nature, 
 To reason most absurd, whose common theme 
 Is death of Fathers.' 
 
 The King's lecture to Hamlet on his excessive indulgence in 
 grief is a truly rational and excellent exhortation, convincing 
 even in its way, and so it is always delivered impressively, and 
 so accepted by the audience. It seems to accept it in this 
 
 * When Booth, that somewhat artificial performer, appeared in Hamlet 
 he arranged his first entry in a thorough businesslike fashion, so as to pro- 
 duce a striking effect. The King was prosing on to the courtiers, as usual, 
 when of a sudden there came a pause ; the crowd of courtiers parted and 
 formed a lane, while in came Hamlet, tripping it with much energy, smiling 
 and bowing, till he found himself well at the footlights receiving the applause 
 of his countryfolk, who were present in large numbers to give it. This old 
 fashion in his dress seemed to carry us back thirty or forty years, to the days 
 of stock costumes — puffy trunks and hose, etc. The surprise was almost 
 ludicrous. His 'business' and properties were all equally antiquated. On 
 the whole, it may be said that Irving was the best and most satisfactory of 
 all the Hamlets we have seen. There was a romantic grace about him and 
 something pathetic. 
 
The Real Hamlet 13 
 
 sense, owing to the presentation of the King as a sort of decent 
 personage who has, as it were, ' turned over a new leaf.' But 
 it is clear the utterance is not hypocritical. He means it all. 
 We have only to turn to the magnificent and truly moving 
 burst of repentance later on to see that the man had good 
 instincts, which were overborne. He murdered his brother, 
 no doubt ; but these were days of violence, when the dispos- 
 sessed ruler, as a matter of course, was put to death for fear 
 of troubling his dispossessor. 
 
 After dismissing Voltimand and Cornelius on their embassy 
 business, the King, turning to Laertes, gaily says, 'What's 
 the news with you ?' at which old Polonius, his father, might 
 be immensely gratified. All this preliminary matter being thus 
 dispatched, the King looks round for Hamlet, who remains 
 abstracted and in a sort of reverie. Then, to keep him in 
 good humour, he addresses him as ' my son.' Hamlet does not 
 answer, but recoils from the term, and just murmurs, in a 
 ruminating, sarcastic fashion, ' A little mora than kin and tes 
 than kind,' not caring whether the crowd or the King heard 
 him or not. Then, no doubt, there were smiles and meaning 
 glances and whispers among the courtiers, as who should say 
 ' another hit at his uncle.' This makes the King uncomfort- 
 able, so he thinks it due to his dignity to read him a lecture 
 on his generally odd behaviour. As they go out Hamlet 
 lingers to the last, the King and Queen expecting or inviting 
 him to march with them ; but he shrugs his shoulders, looks 
 after them with anger and impatience, then, pacing up and 
 down, lapses into his soliloquy. 
 
 The Queen was a remarkable woman — not the sort of help- 
 less, passive, creature we are accustomed to. Her caresses, 
 sentiments, are all out of the common — a woman of ardent 
 attachment. Witness her love for her son and her singular 
 love for her husband's brother ; her grief for Ophelia, whom 
 she said she really hoped to see her son's wife. Yet what a 
 foolish ' nullity ' she is made to appear. She must have been 
 young and ardent — say about forty — but she is always given 
 to some %tout matron. In the intricate plotting she makes a 
 figure, and yet in the acting what a ' goody-goody,' insignificant 
 sort of person she is made to appear. She has character. She 
 is infinitely distressed by her son's eccentric behaviour, and 
 
14 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 has the courage to summon him to her room to give him a 
 serious homily on his conduct. 
 
 Another distorted figure, twisted out of all natural shape for 
 the player's purposes, is Polonius. He is known to every one ; 
 he is rather a favourite with the gods, for he is always done in 
 the same way, after venerable traditions, as an old butt or 
 buffoon, a tedious 'dodderer,' with much white wool on his 
 head and carrying a white wand. Here is yet another instance 
 of a character which should be restudied, wholly reconstructed 
 —in short, visualized. How many types of this class are there 
 about to this day — old fellows who have been in diplomacy, 
 envoys at some German Court, obsequious, always smiling, 
 telling little stories and recollections, grovelling before rank, 
 chatterers, yet always refined gentlemen ! Such old retainers of 
 a Court as Polonius are usually found to be rather refined, if 
 punctilious and shrewd, old fellows, with a firm belief in the 
 all but Divine commission of their employers. Polonius, in our 
 day, would surely be a Sir Peter Polonius, K.C.B., late envoy. 
 His discourse to his son is always made to take the shape of a 
 sort of solemn sermon, and is regularly ' preached ' by the 
 actor. But it would be surely a different thing in the mouth of 
 an old Court official giving his son a hint or so as to ' getting 
 on ' in the world. Thus would it run : ' Now, my dear boy, 
 attend to me. I want to give you one last bit of advice : 
 Don't go borrowing or getting into debt, for that's low. Above 
 all, dress well and like a gentleman, for a good tailor is always a 
 letter of recommendation, especially with the women,' etc. One 
 can easily conceive the lighter key in which these useful counsels 
 should be delivered. It is a surprise to find that all through Polo- 
 nius is a very conspicuous, capable, and commanding figure, and a 
 skilled man of the world. We find him managing his daughter, 
 managing Hamlet — or trying to manage him — managing his 
 son, managing the King and Queen, and elaborately arranging 
 plots of various kinds. He is a very ru%6 old man. When he 
 was concerned to find that Hamlet was getting ' off his head,' 
 he prudently ranged himself on the Court side. In his own 
 canny way, his chief resource was eavesdropping, and he got 
 the King and Queen to listen with him to Hamlet's ravings. 
 He had innumerable threads in his hand. 
 
 How little understood is the event of the arrival of the 
 
The Real Hamlet 15 
 
 players ! It was an event prepared and insisted on ; much was 
 to depend on them. Now all strolling players are flamboyant 
 enough ; they make a ' splash ' and a stir. They would strut 
 in, a large party. Instead, we have usually two or three scrubby- 
 looking fellows, full of their own importance. Polonius had 
 laid himself out to forward Hamlet's plans as much as he could, 
 to 'throw himself into the private theatricals and encourage 
 them in every way. He recalls-his own early experiences. The 
 whole is rational, serious, and consistent. Hamlet's rudeness 
 to him was no doubt founded on the fact that he saw that the 
 old man had designs on him — a fresh plot, in addition to the 
 others going on about him — and which fretted and irritated 
 him. 
 
 How elaborate his scheme for having his son spied on in 
 Paris ! He had already given him, as we have seen, admirable 
 advice ; but he knew youth too well to think it would be 
 followed, so he sends an emissary after him, and it would seem 
 the crafty old father, as the later Lord Chesterfield might do, 
 wished to have it put about, by means of obscure hints, that his 
 son was no milksop, but a sort of gay fellow. But it must be 
 done without saying anything very distinct or compromising. 
 It is, indeed, an exceedingly clever and elaborate system which 
 he lays down. 
 
 Again. Let us take that absurd ' very like a whale,' as it is 
 invariably given. What is the situation ? The old courtier is 
 anxious to keep the eccentric Hamlet in good humour ; he is 
 amused at being rallied. He has come with a message from 
 the Queen, who wishes to see her son privately. Hamlet, 
 who deigns to have his gibe and mortify him, answers by point- 
 ing to a cloud, which he says seems ' almost in shape like a 
 camel.' He would like his opinion. Polonius answers as 
 almost anyone else would do who was dealing with a flighty 
 person, especially a royalty. We can see him shading his 
 eyes, looking intently, and then hear him with a sort of 
 obsequiousness exclaim : ' By the Mass ! and it's like a camel, 
 indeed.' There the courtier speaks. But the Prince, putting 
 on an antic mood, says maliciously : ' Methinks it's very like a 
 weasel.' And the old fellow, though committed to his former 
 simile, perhaps taken aback, cannot bring himself to reverse 
 his opinion altogether, but after a little study adroitly says : 
 
1 6 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 ' It is backed like a weasel.' The back, at least, has some 
 resemblance. Then Hamlet, scornfully, and determined to 
 ' corner ' him, chooses what is the very extreme, and totally 
 opposed to both camel and weasel, saying, * Or like a whale,' 
 on which the old courtier, after a little smiling study, and with 
 an aii- of sudden conviction, answers, ' Very like a whale,' as 
 who should say, ' Well, really — er — now that I look again, 
 'pon my word, your Highness is perfectly right: it has very 
 much the look of a whale.' Now here is a display of sub- 
 serviency that is amusing. But no ! it must be given as a sort 
 of circus joke. The audience expects it and always roars. 
 
 But if Polonius's advice to his son be wise and excellent, 
 how still more wise and admirable are his counsels to his 
 daughter on her treatment of Hamlet ! How shrewd, how 
 worldly-wise ! And again, how inconsistent with his being 
 a comical old time-server ! How gross the vulgar turn given 
 to his remark, ' springes to catch woodcocks,' always greeted 
 with a loud guffaw ! Yet it is meant seriously, as who should 
 say — for they can mean nothing else — ' Be on your guard, my 
 child. These are the crafty tricks and devices of the practised 
 roue.'' And as he goes on with stroke after stroke of good 
 advice, how inconsistent and puzzling it seems to hear such 
 admirable sense coming from an old droll and pantaloon ! How 
 shrewd, too, did he show himself when his daughter came to 
 tell him of Hamlet's forward and extravagant behaviour ! He 
 began to fear he had made a mistake in advising reserve to him. 
 He now insinuates that it was all her fault. However, the 
 prudent old courtier sees at once that the King should be told, 
 because Hamlet himself would betray it. 
 
 In Ophelia we have always had presented to us the in- 
 variable conventional girl — interesting, sweet, and suffering, 
 exciting universal pity, finally driven to madness and suicide. 
 To this latter portion every actress turns — it is the crucial 
 moment — with a view to play it for all that it is worth — to be 
 distraught, sing snatches of song, etc. It is all sweetness and 
 gentleness ; the painters even show her as a Pre-Raphaelite 
 maid. The main point is that she must be a sort of foil for 
 Hamlet. 
 
 But is this the Ophelia of the play ? On perusing the 
 original text, we see that she has a marked character of her 
 
The Real Hamlet ' ly 
 
 own, and offers a great variety. She is now gay, now serious. 
 She takes a large part in the complications of the story. Is 
 she not something of a flirt, if we may use the word in con- 
 nexion with the bard ? Indeed, she shows a sort of trained art- 
 fulness. That old plotter her father had planned that she 
 should win Hamlet — a ' fine match '; but what if the Court 
 seriously objected ? He was not going to lose his place. But 
 the Queen ardently favoured her, for everything that would 
 hold or attract the suspicious and dangerous Prince, and so 
 keep him quiet, would be favoured. Another part of Polonius's 
 ' little game ' was to affect to discourage the matter. Nothing 
 is more characteristic than his training of the ' fair Ophelia,' 
 to which the sweet girl lends herself in the most dutiful 
 and complacent way. This is hardly consistent with the 
 Pre-Raphaelite idea. It will be noted that at the same 
 time her father had to warn her against her too demon- 
 strative behaviour to the Prince. He saw the danger — 
 she was too indiscreet ; for he was a Prince — ' he may not 
 carve for himself,' and could not ' mean business.' He tells her 
 that it has been remarked that she was closeted with the 
 Prince, and had of her audiences been ' most free and bounteous.' 
 Hamlet's proposals, he warned her, were mere ' unholy suits 
 . . . the better to beguile.' Her brother wished to know from 
 her what was said, on which he proceeds to give the same 
 counsel, but with rather a different policy. He proceeds to 
 cross-examine her. She assures him that Hamlet had offered 
 genuine tenders of his affection, on which the old fellow calls 
 her a * green girl.' She tells him of vows, appeals to Heaven, 
 etc., which he again puts aside. He knows the world, and 
 finally forbids her to have any further talk with him. 
 
 But of even greater significance, surely, is this solemn 
 warning to his sister when he was departing for France, when 
 he told her that she had not the slightest chance of winning 
 Hamlet in an honourable way. Reasons of State required that 
 he should make an important marriage with one of his own 
 rank. At the same time, he seemed seriously to point to the 
 other serious danger — that she would yield herself to his 
 affection, to * his unmastered importunity.' ' Be wary, then ; 
 best safety lies in fear.' That the daughter of a high Court 
 official should need such a caution shows that such frailty was 
 
 2 
 
1 8 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 not uncommon. Her reply, which was flippant enough, seems 
 to show that there was ground for his suspicion, for she virtually 
 said : ' Mind yourself; don't preach to me.' Her father also 
 had the same misgivings, and bids her be scanter of her maiden 
 presence, adding, ' I feared he meant to wreck thee.' In this 
 view Hamlet's speech to Polonius as to his daughter seems 
 highly significant. After a little rumination, he tells him 
 with earnestness : ' If the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog, 
 
 being a god, kissing carrion ' His thoughts turning to 
 
 Ophelia and their relations, he would give the father a hint. 
 Then, abruptly : ' Have you a daughter ? . . . Let her not 
 walk in the sun. Conception is a blessing, hut not as your 
 daughter may conceive ' — that is, outside wedlock. This may 
 seem far-fetched, but how else interpret the allusion ? — unless, 
 indeed, he wanted to scare the old man with imaginary dangers, 
 and so get free of the daughter. 
 
 It is remarkable, again, how morbidly excited was Hamlet 
 on this subject, for when the pair of courtiers came in shortly 
 afterwards, he utters some very gross allusions, which are 
 replied to in a corresponding spirit. Something of the same 
 coarseness is shown in Ophelia's ravings. This is not a 
 pleasant topic, but it is unavoidable, as it is an element in the 
 transaction. And yet the public always look upon the Prince 
 as one of the most refined and delicate-minded of men. 
 
 As to the young lady's artfulness there can be little ques- 
 tion, for when her adroit father arranged that he and the King 
 in ambuscade should overhear her talk with Hamlet she made 
 no objection. No well-brought-up young woman would have 
 relished this device, or have consented to it. Even the 
 King had frankly told her that they intended to overhear all 
 that was said, and then she sweetly agreed to two little 
 pieces of deception likely to draw on the lover. The shrewd 
 old Polonius thought that her standing about doing nothing 
 would look unnatural, so he put a book into her hands and 
 bade her appear to be saying her prayers. To this bit of 
 acting she agreed. She opened the talk with the returning 
 of some presents that Hamlet had given her. For — 
 
 ' Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.' 
 
 But this artful stroke brought forth nothing, except a most 
 
The Real Hamlet 19 
 
 \ . . 
 uncompromising 'flouting' rejection with some unsavoury 
 
 language. Hamlet also said, ' I have heard of your prattling, 
 
 too.' It was certainly mortifying with the others listening. 
 
 The King, quite convinced, dismissed the notion of attachment 
 
 at once ; it was clear there was nothing in it. 
 
 ' Love i his affections do not that way tend.' 
 
 With this mortifying announcement poor Polonius could not 
 exactly agree. He thought it all came from ' neglected love.' 
 
 Many generations of playgoers have been mystified by 
 Hamlet's barbarous treatment of the girl in the well-known 
 scene. It certainly seems unmeaningly capricious. It has been 
 contended that he meant it as a display of his assumed madness ; 
 but if we accept the theory that some relation existed 
 between them, there is more coherency in the situation. He may 
 have found her complaints and importunities inconvenient and 
 a hindrance to his plans, and thus have brought to an end the 
 adventure by a violent quarrel. He shows his dislike to the 
 whole family — to Polonius the father, Laertes the brother, and 
 the persevering Ophelia, who, he thought, were fastening on 
 him. In the end he actually killed all three, or caused their 
 deaths ! I cannot but fancy that he had read Ophelia's true 
 nature as a scheming young person, who was doing what she 
 could to secure him. 
 
 And why should Hamlet bid her ' get her to a nunnery ' to 
 take the veil ? Perhaps he thought of it as a penitential 
 retreat for her, just as La Vallifere after her fall retired to a 
 convent. His cutting speeches as to female arts of attracting, 
 painting their faces, etc. — were surely not conventional. Could 
 they have been meant as a real reproach ? ' These arts 
 of yours, your insatiable coquetries, have brought about the 
 mischief, so now go into retirement; repent and leave me 
 alone.' But these insults notwithstanding, Ophelia, though 
 crushed and weeping bitterly, was in nothing daunted. She 
 passed it over as a slight aberration. She had too much at 
 stake to be put off by a little burst of ill-humour. She would 
 be independent of both King and father, who thought her 
 business hopeless. So she forgave. 
 
 There was the entertainment of the play coming on. This 
 offered an opportunity, and here we find the suffering girl whom 
 
 2 — 2 
 
20 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Hamlet had dismissed so violently, after leaving him almost 
 in despair, coarsely, and, as it were, for ever, suddenly recu- 
 perated, transformed into an almost coquettish young thing, 
 and meeting her lover's capricious advances in quite a flirting 
 spirit. "When the guests vi^ere all assembled for the play, 
 she made the very boldest approaches to him. So overjoyed 
 was she at his compliment, 'Here's metal more attractive,' 
 that she allowed him to lay his head on her lap and tolerated 
 his free and doubtful double ententes with the simple, tolerant 
 remark, ' You are naught — you are naught ; I'll attend to the 
 play ' — i.e., ' Fie, fie ! naughty, naughty !' As who should say, 
 ' Fie, fie, my lord — how very wrong of you ! I won't speak to 
 you any more !' Then she put all kinds of questions to him in 
 her innocence, 'which means this and that, my lord.' She 
 certainly seems a very ' fetching ' young lady — on this occasion, 
 at least. 
 
 It is else difficult to know why the bard put this string 
 of double ententes into Hamlet's mouth. It is noticeable that 
 Ophelia seems to have received them without rebuke, and with an 
 assumed coyness and pretence of being shocked. Even accept- 
 ing the coarse licence of the old play writing, it is extraordinary 
 that a young woman would so behave. At all events, it destroys 
 the notion of ' sweet innocence,' and shows clearly that Polo- 
 nius's daughter was a well-trained ' hussy,' who was doing her 
 best to capture the young Prince. 
 
 The natural refinement of our modern times has completely 
 destroyed the true motive of Ophelia's madness. The common 
 arrangement sets out that this is all due to the loss of her 
 father ; her snatches of song are made, on the common arrange- 
 ment, to point to this, and so the King expounds it. Now, 
 this is hardly likely to have been the result of the loss of a 
 parent, however acutely felt. There would be passionate grief, 
 hysterics, but not unsettlement of the wits or wild rantings. 
 Shamed, disgraced, deserted, her father killed by her lover, 
 her brother away — what was to become of her ? Her wits 
 left her. A courtier reported that people were making com- 
 ments on her odd ' speeches, botching her words up,' evidently 
 guessing that something was wrong. 
 
 It must be admitted that this supposed relation to Ophelia, 
 which is a wild speculation enough, introduces quite a new and 
 
The Real Hamlet 21 
 
 distorting element into Hamlet's character. We can hardly 
 conceive him as the immaculate and virtuous youth who could 
 thus lead astray a young lady of rank without any scruple, and 
 then cast her off in so unfeeling and heartless a fashion. But 
 it is clear such lapses in those days were not thought very 
 serious matters. They were blunders, mistakes of policy, and 
 her father's and brother's warnings were clearly based upon 
 this view. It seems impossible, they urge, to gain him in an 
 honourable way. She must take care and not act foolishly. 
 The old Polonius's instructions to his emissary, Raymond, to 
 spread about reports of his son's looseness of morals are not 
 edifying, and show that he might have reconciled himself to 
 his daughter's left-handed marriage, as he might deem it. 
 
 The Play Scene is usually accepted as an effective bit of 
 melodrama which interests the audience ; but somehow its 
 influence soon passes away, and we forget it, overpowered by 
 the final tremendous burst which all Hamlets introduce. 
 Yet it was a far more momentous thing than a mere Court 
 exhibition. It must, as Hamlet no doubt intended, have set 
 afoot gruesome whispers and speculations. Why was His 
 Majesty so disturbed and agitated ? What did it all mean ? 
 It was to lead to the killing of Polonius, to the death of 
 Ophelia, to Hamlet's expulsion from the country, to his pro- 
 jected assassination, to the revengeful attack by Laertes, and 
 other horrors. All is forecast in this Play Scene, which 
 should have far more impressive solemnity than is usually 
 imparted to it. 
 
 What if the episode were given in a more excited and 
 important style ? To begin with, there should be plenty of space, 
 and the whole should be set forth with due state — rich dresses 
 and eager movement. Maclise's well-known picture showed a 
 very large raised stage, with a regular proscenium, richly 
 decorated, an idea he may have got from the late Queen's 
 theatricals at Windsor. But a moment's reflection will show 
 that this is too elaborate. It is, however, nearer the mark, for 
 the players were certainly expected, and due preparation would 
 have been made to exhibit them. But the effect in the picture 
 is quite a too modern one. 
 
 The true disposition might be this : A spacious hall, with an 
 archway at the end leading into another great chamber ; and here 
 
22 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 would be the stage, erected for the festival, set off with suitable 
 furniture. Here should the performers declaim in passionate 
 style, promenade about, striving to realize just such a situation 
 as there might be in the audience. There should be pauses 
 at telling and applicable situations. The murder should be 
 worked up slowly and tragically, the murderer entering in a 
 secret, guilty fashion, looking round in fear of detection, 
 retiring and advancing. All should act their best. The aim 
 should be to affect the real modern audience, exactly as the 
 author wished to affect his audience. The whole should be 
 worked up to a pitch of tension, the audience wondering and 
 growing a little suspicious of what was meant, some rising to 
 see better, some whispering and murmuring. All this would 
 at last culminate in the King's rising in agitation and dis- 
 solving the assembly. 
 
 After the poisoning Hamlet grows excited. The usual 
 fashion is that he keeps his eyes fixed on the King, watching 
 him and every movement — dragging himself across the floor, 
 etc. And he is even made to roar across to him, ' He poisons 
 him in the garden. . . . The story is extant and writ in 
 choice Italian. You shall see anon how,' etc. But this is all 
 addressed to Ophelia, with whom he has talked from the 
 beginning. She even has to tell him 'The King rises.' 
 ' What,' he answers, ' frighted with false fire ?' So that he had 
 not seen him rise. All which seems more natural and im- 
 pressive than the favourite violent treatment. 
 
 It is difficult to understand why the dumb-show, which pre- 
 ceded the Court play, did not also affect the King in the same 
 fashion as the spoken drama did. It seems, moreover, quite 
 unnecessary, as it repeats the action of what was to come. 
 
 As to the sensational seizure of the chain, let us see how it is 
 justified. After the Play Scene Hamlet is not in the least 
 excited — remains perfectly calm. All the company had gone 
 out. As soon as the pair are left Hamlet utters his stanza, 
 ' Let the stricken deer,' and asks mildly if his conduct on the 
 scene would not have got him a place in a company of players. 
 There was really nothing for him to be so exuberantly excited 
 about. The King had certainly shown agitation before the 
 company. The little plot had succeeded ; but there was much 
 more to do yet — so Hamlet evidently thought. He was, indeed, 
 
The Real Hamlet 23 
 
 not quite certain as to the result, and consults Horatio. It 
 would be impossible for one who was in such a frantic, passion- 
 ate state, after bounding into the chair, to begin reciting 
 snatches of plays, and then appeal to his friends : ' Did I not 
 act it well ? Did I not ?' More curious still is his declaration : 
 'I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound'; that is — 
 and we should mark this — he was by that time all but convinced 
 of the murder by the King's agitation, even if the test of the 
 play were considered unsatisfactory. For ' Didst perceive ?' he 
 
 asks Horatio. 
 
 Horatio. Very well, my lord. 
 
 Hamlet. Upon the talk of the poisoning ? 
 
 Horatio. I did very well note him. 
 
 So that if Hamlet had thus rioted in the King's chair, 
 exulting in detecting him and probing him, would he begin to 
 reason in this quiet way, or appeal to his friends to back his 
 opinion ? It was only after slow reflection, therefore, that he 
 saw that his shot had told, and that he had to appeal to 
 Horatio for further assurance. The King, after all, only 
 seemed to his Court to be unwell ; even Horatio, Hamlet 
 thought, might not have noted the guilty symptoms. The 
 whole was, therefore, a quiet experiment of his own, but there 
 was nothing to be so boisterously triumphant about, save 
 that the play had affected the King uncomfortably. The 
 proceeding is really of a quiet complexion, and after a few 
 moments the deliberate and reflective march of the play is 
 resumed. 
 
 A great loss of effect is produced by the recurring act drop, 
 which is carried to excess. But how rational that the action 
 should still go forward, culminating, as it were, instead of being 
 abruptly closed. It was to be one long and continuous night's 
 work. After chuckling with Horatio over his success, Hamlet 
 must needs entertain himself with music, and so sends for the 
 Court performers, whose strains he means shall reach the 
 King and disturb him yet more. Then should come in players 
 with those notorious recorders and other instruments, perhaps ; 
 and when they come in he carelessly takes one up. 
 
 The late Wilson Barrett carried out this notion of continuity 
 in every effective fashion, abolishing all these artificial halts. 
 He could not be convinced that after every ' explosion ' or 
 
24 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 crisis all came to an end for a time, that we must rest and 
 recommence presently. He applied the same principle to the 
 Hamlet soliloquies, at the end of which the performer has it 
 all to himself, and is left lost in thought. 
 
 The scene where the King indulges in his fit of penitence, 
 properly treated, is a most pathetic and harrowing one, and, 
 as every one who searches his own heart must admit, a perfect 
 representation of the struggle which the poor helpless sinner 
 endures when he strives to get free. The King is wrought up 
 to despair, grief, and misery of the most acute form. He tries 
 to soften his poor, hardened heart, but without result. It is a 
 hopeless business, for without the gift of grace and some 
 attempt at atonement nothing can be done. A person who 
 felt as he did was not wholly bad, and on the road to pardon 
 and grace. But the audience must have it that he is acting. 
 The truth is, this is Hamlet's scene, and part of his ' business.' 
 He is prowling about, listening. Many have been shocked at 
 his truculent and bloodthirsty denunciations, but it is forgotten 
 that these are not purposes, but mere ruminations — thoughts 
 flitting through an agitated brain. ' Shall I do this ? Shall I 
 do that ? Here is a fair opportunity ; or should I wait until 
 he has relapsed into his old villainy ?' — a mere excuse to himself 
 for putting the purpose aside. 
 
 There is always provided a sort of prie-dieu, on which 
 the King kneels in a constrained sort of fashion. The prie- 
 dieu is in a corner, set against the wall. But, as he was so 
 agitated, he should be seen walking about, now stopping to 
 passionately address his appeals to Heaven, with his arms out- 
 stretched, as people in foreign countries often pray. All this 
 would be natural and infinitely dramatic. . People in a fit of 
 remorse cannot rest still a moment. Then fancy Hamlet in 
 hiding, following these frantic movements with a strange 
 curiosity. It all becomes a different thing. 
 
 And how dramatic it is ! The repentant King, surging and 
 struggling with his remorse, all unconscious that he is being 
 secretly watched by his greatest and most unscrupulous enemy, 
 and within an ace of being done to death. To give it effect 
 there should be realism, extreme passion and colour, and a 
 sense of mystery. But we should imagine Hamlet on tiptoe — 
 now peeping in ; now drawing back, in fear of detection ; now 
 
The Real Hamlet 25 
 
 listening eagerly to catch the words, showing bitter scorn and 
 scoff at each moral sentiment ; now laughing harshly. What 
 a contrast would be here ! There is yet another touch of this 
 penitential feeling, when the King suffers an agony on a 
 casual allusion by one of the characters, declaring that it came 
 home to himself and wrung his very heart. The man had 
 certainly a conscience. 
 
 In connexion with the Portrait Scene, another incident in 
 that long night in the Queen's closet, there is perpetual debate 
 whether the two portraits hung upon the walls or were 
 simple miniatures. These are rather vital questions. Granting 
 that two material pictures were intended, this notion of the 
 miniatures is not to be thought of, for such things were then 
 hardly known. In Rowe's edition of Shakespeare (1712) we 
 are shown two large half-length pictures hung on the walij as 
 though in a modern palace, which is, of course, absurd, for 
 this was the Queen's own private closet or boudoir. It is 
 obvious she would not like to have such a reminder of the 
 departed, and her present husband, who, being touchy on 
 the matter and so remorseful, would certainly have objected. 
 It was a matter to be altogether forgotten. Neither would 
 she have cared to have ' number one ' and ' number two ' placed 
 side by side together. What does Hamlet say ? 
 
 ' Look here upon this picture, and on this, 
 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.' 
 
 Were he speaking of real pictures would he not have said, 
 ' Look on that one there and upon that,' as he stood pointing to 
 each ? Then he describes them both, contrasting their features, 
 and is most uncomplimentary to the reigning King. ' Have 
 you eyes?' He was 'a Moor,' and she was blinded. Now, 
 these gross blemishes would not be emphasized in what was 
 a Court picture, where he would be exhibited as a personable 
 man. He was therefore describing him from recollection. So 
 when he speaks of his father as 
 
 ' A combination and a form indeed 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal,' 
 
 all this would be said of a real person, but not of a picture. 
 
 The late Wilson Barrett, in his London revival, conceived 
 the odd idea of having two portraits on the drawing-room 
 
26 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 table, something in shape like cabinet ' photos.' The modernity 
 of this was striking. After all, the notion of visible pictures 
 will, I fear, never be abandoned. It is too good a piece of 
 ' business,' that pointing, etc. But, above all, why would he 
 describe the well-known faces to the wife of both as 'the 
 counterfeit presentment of two brothers '? 
 
 Hamlet's dragging the body away is usually thought a flighty, 
 capricious proceeding, and we soon forget all about poor old 
 Polonius. But the incident is most potent, and influences all 
 that follows, and that the unhappy Prince was now filled with 
 the idea of completely hiding his bloody act by the process of 
 hiding away the body — ' safely stowed,' as he put it. We can 
 imagine nothing more appalling than this moment. 
 
 But there is another important element to add to the horror. 
 The King, when the killing of Polonius was told to him, seems 
 to have been convinced that Hamlet thought he was behind the 
 arras, and struck at him. This was sagacious enough, for 
 Hamlet, as he dealt the blow, had exclaimed, ' Is 't the King ?' 
 The Queen did not, however, then tell her husband of this 
 speech, who says in his terror : 
 
 ' O heavy deed ! 
 It had been so with us, had we been there.' 
 
 But it looks as though she did tell him later, for the King, j 
 when he meets Laertes, asks him if he had not heard that 
 Hamlet, who had slain his father, ' pursued my life ' ; and 
 Laertes answers, ' It will appear.' It is clear that in the Court 
 circle the feeling was that the Prince had aimed at the King's 
 life, and that there was all manner of dark suspicions and 
 whisperings. The King felt himself in serious peril, and ex- 
 posed at any moment to some fresh attempt. He must either 
 destroy or be destroyed himself. This might seem a ready 
 mode of extrication ; but there was the general popularity of 
 the Prince, and the fond attachment of the Queen. What was 
 he to do ? He resolved to send him out of the country, and 
 have him assassinated. 
 
 Thus the third act holds a series of stirring and momentous 
 situations, all linked together. There is the Play Scene, as it 
 is called — the Recorder incident, the interview with the Queen, 
 the King's prayer, the killing of Polonius, the search for the 
 
The Real Hamlet 27 
 
 body, and proposed banishment of Hamlet. All these 
 tremendous things took place during one long fevered night, 
 stretching perhaps to the small hours of the morning, the 
 day breaking before the unhappy personages got to their beds. 
 
 And what a prodigious increase of dramatic effect, as one 
 trouble succeeds the other without interval ! This is no 
 Utopian speculation, but the strict fact. When the play is 
 done, Hamlet discusses the result of his expose with his friend, 
 and is presently sent for to the Queen's closet ; for she sees 
 that the situation is too serious to rest there. When that 
 interview is over she hurries straight to the King, and gives him 
 the first news of her son's rash act. Then comes the hurried 
 search for Polonius's body, the sending for Hamlet, the per- 
 sistent inquiries, and his stubborn refusal to give information. 
 No one thought of looking for it in the chamber upstairs, 
 where it lay for hours. Hamlet is then ordered away to 
 England on the spot, and the King announces that he must 
 set off that very night. What a gain if all these events were 
 thus presented continuously in a solemn chain ! What suspense, 
 what mystery, what a restless feeling of having been up all 
 the night ! I do not know whether it has been calculated what 
 length of time is covered by the action in Hamlet. It might be 
 fixed, I think, at about three months or so. The important 
 events in Denmark, as we have seen, followed each other 
 closely, but there must have been two intervals during which 
 there was a lull and nothing doing. There was the mission of 
 the Ambassadors, who went and returned about the middle of 
 the play; there was also the journey of Laertes to France — a 
 very long one in those days, through rough Northern seas — and 
 his sudden return ; and, finally, there was Hamlet's voyage to 
 England and his return. These occur at different periods of 
 the play, and the interruptions might be nicely calculated. 
 
 As the poor distraught Ophelia both sings her ballads and 
 offers flowers and talks at length, there is call for working all 
 up into animation and into a picture of active insanity. This 
 adds to the horror, for it offers contrast to the soft demureness 
 and sweetness of the sane Ophelia. 
 
 The Mad Scene is a display of trance — as of one moving 
 and talking in a dream. But madness is an agitated and varied 
 thing. It has all sorts of moods, passing from fury to stony 
 
2 8 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 tranquillity. There are ' hurries,' quick utterances, slow ones, 
 and eager gestures. ' Pray you, mark,' should be eager and 
 excited. ' They say the owl was a baker's daughter ' — a grotesque 
 speech, and to be said grotesquely. Never enough is made of 
 the words, ' Lord, we know what we are, but know not what 
 we may be. God be at your table !' 
 
 Two really highly important characters in the conspiracy 
 against Hamlet are the King's instruments, Rosencrantz and 
 Guildenstern. They have a regular history : they lend them- 
 selves, as his creatures, to the King's designs, come and go as 
 he tells them, spy on the Prince, try to beguile him, and finally, 
 being secretly appointed to murder him, lose their own lives in 
 this service. He turns to them at once as suitable instruments. 
 
 They help, in truth, to convey the idea of Hamlet's almost 
 complete isolation, and of the general combination that was 
 formed against him, the King aiming at his life with these 
 instruments; old Polonius striving to entrap him for is 
 daughter ; Laertes incensed because of his treatment of her ; 
 his mother alienated because of his coarse attacks upon her 
 character ; and this pair of courtiers quite ready to put him to 
 death. This notion of a general conspiracy should be em- 
 phasized everywhere. True, he had Ophelia and the faithful 
 Horatio with him, but the former he had himself of set purpose 
 shaken off. 
 
 They should be represented as prominent, showy figures — 
 they should act their villainy. But how thin and unmeaning 
 always appears Hamlet's pressure on them to confess that they 
 had been sent to ' draw ' him ! They simply stand looking on, 
 smiling and behaving with due obsequiousness to the leading 
 actor. The King should have originally instructed them for 
 their mission with great mystery and importance, and they 
 should have come to Hamlet with a crafty air, as though they 
 nally meant to get at his secrets. These men were capable 
 villains ; they stuck at nothing, and undertook to assassinate 
 Hamlet as though it were some trifling commission. What 
 playgoer, by the way, has ever known that arch stroke of the 
 King's — the appointing of Hamlet as his Ambassador to 
 England, the more readily to get him away ? This assassina- 
 tion of an important personage on a foreign shore shows how 
 little was thought of killing in those times. 
 
The Real Hamlet 29 
 
 It will be noted what a difference all these incidents must 
 make in our view of the character and feelings of Hamlet. In 
 the last scene he not only hnew that his father had been 
 murdered by the King, but that he himself had narrowly 
 escaped being murdered at his instigation. And yet he could 
 bring himself to comply with the King's wishes as to the fencing, 
 and meet him with apparent friendliness. But it is plain that 
 he was secretly hostile to him ; indeed, he only addresses him 
 once during the scene. It looks as if he suspected him, for he 
 had a foreboding — all was ' ill about his heart.' 
 
 What is always missed in the usual version is the effect of a 
 night of horror, the sudden murder of Polonius, the question 
 Was the murderer insane ? or What was to be done with him ? 
 
 Everything was confusion. Yet Hamlet's going away — 
 banishment, rather — is glossed over in the common version as 
 a sort of careless incident, one of small importance. After a 
 short absence he ' turns up ' again at the graveside, and we 
 think no more of it. No one asks Why ? But it was a much 
 more momentous thing. His presence to the King had become 
 a menace and a danger. He had found a clue to the great 
 secret ; he had killed Polonius ; he was going about abusing 
 the King, on whom he might next make a personal attack. 
 Indeed, the King told Laertes that Hamlet was favouring 
 Fortinbras, a foreign general, and might use him to destroy his 
 rule : on all accounts Hamlet must be got out of the country, 
 and when out of the country, assassinated. 
 
 This abrupt return of Hamlet, which in modern versions is 
 simply announced by his appearance at the graveyard, is in the 
 original prepared for in a dramatic way. We have the sailor 
 coming from the vessel to deliver a dispatch from Hamlet to 
 his friend Horatio. A strange, mysterious letter it was, with 
 ' much to tell that would make thee dumb.' He had boarded 
 a pirate ship, he writes, but the vessel suddenly drew off and 
 left him a prisoner. They had treated him well, and he had 
 promised to write to the King on their behalf. 
 
 The confusion, therefore, and consternation of the King 
 when Hamlet, whose destruction seemed a certainty, reap- 
 peared of a sudden in Denmark were overwhelming. The 
 danger was so imminent that he felt he must destroy him at 
 once, or be destroyed himself. 
 
30 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Hamlet, when seeing Ophelia's funeral approaching, was 
 able to make out at a distance that the rites were * maimed.' 
 This must mean that there was no religious procession, no 
 cross, holy water, or possibly religious dress. There was but 
 one priest, and likely enough no acolyte and choristers. The 
 priest possibly omitted the Libera, De profundis, and solemn 
 prayers. The ordinary stage-manager's exhibition is quite the 
 reverse of all this. He must have his ' super ' clergymen, striving 
 to look pious, etc. The bell, however, should toll at intervals. 
 It is remarkable that the Queen at the graveside announces 
 that the marriage with Hamlet had been all but settled. But 
 why was Ophelia thus branded ? She had not committed 
 suicide. A branch of a tree gave way, she fell into the water, 
 and was drowned. 
 
 Was Hamlet's extravagant burst at Ophelia's grave, we may 
 ask, genuine or assumed ? Did he pretend to feel this frantic 
 grief, so that all thought that he had gone mad ? When he 
 first learned from Laertes' exclamation, ' A ministering angel 
 shall my sister be,' he merely says, quietly, ' What, the fair 
 Ophelia !' 
 
 How absurd, then, the common train of priests in sur- 
 plices, acolytes, incense, the fact being that the rites were 
 ' maimed,' a bare prayer only being allowed — a single priest 
 and his book ! There were just the King and Queen, with 
 attendants. How infinitely more solemn would this barren- 
 ness be ! But these are mere suggestions, and I am convinced, 
 by dint of deep and careful thought and due visualization, 
 something satisfactory could be evolved. 
 
 Sometimes we have a clanging bell tolling solemnly ; the 
 belfry seeming to come from just over the actors' heads. 
 Such sounds should be heard very faintly, as from the far-off 
 churches. Sometimes the organ rolls forth its tones, coming 
 from the corner, which is equally absurd. No, an air of desola- 
 tion and abandonment is required — something that will suggest 
 that this is the burial of a poor suicide. The priest should with 
 open book appear to say a prayer or two down into the grave. 
 
 Ophelia's open grave in Hamlet has always a disturbing, 
 unreal effect ; it is treated in such a matter-of-fact style — an 
 elongated trapdoor cut in the boards, which it is, in fact. 
 There is the heap of real clay, the skulls, etc. But what can 
 
The Real Hamlet 31 
 
 be suggested ? how exclude this prosaic realism ? Then we 
 have the spectacle of Hamlet ' leaping into the grave,' a feat 
 which could hardly be performed without certainty of breaking 
 a limb. Even grave-diggers do not leap into their graves : 
 they lower themselves or climb down. And yet to see the 
 Prince thus cautiously lowering himself would hardly do. 
 The whole scene, grave — etc. — is generally placed far too for- 
 ward. There should be a large gloomy churchyard, stretching 
 far back, so that the funeral train should be seen approaching 
 from a distance. The coffin, too, has always the modern 
 undertaker look, which is too modern. The conventional 
 shape might be avoided, for in foreign countries quaint 
 patterns are in use. How invariably, too, does ' the procession,' 
 though there is none, come in at a Dead March pace, the 
 • supers ' tramping it slowly and solemnly. The coffin should 
 be hurriedly and rapidly borne in, for it was a painful and un- 
 pleasant business, and had best be got over quickly. 
 
 Hamlet and his companion always come on in a too * stagey ' 
 fashion, he, as it were, intimating, ' Now you shall have my 
 important scene with the grave-diggers.' We could fancy 
 Hamlet looking round in dreamy fashion, recognizing familiar 
 objects. He had been drawn by some mystic influence to 
 the churchyard, instead of going straight to the palace. The 
 talk with the grave-diggers is usually given in a half-jocular 
 fashion : it is full of points for the actor. But it is clear that 
 he was bowed down with misery and the awful sense of coming 
 events which were casting their shadows. They have just 
 returned from abroad, and are straying about in a dreamy 
 fashion, uncertain what reception they may meet with at the 
 palace, where they must presently encounter the enemy. They 
 come on the churchyard, and find a grave being dug — an evil 
 omen. This feeling should produce an uncertainty of bearing 
 and a sadness. Then, when the man is seen approaching, there 
 should be some alarm and flutter, with concealment. 
 
 In the talk between Hamlet and Horatio immediately after 
 the interment is revealed yet another of the base plots of the 
 King to destroy his stepson. He had sent directions to England 
 that, on landing, his head should be struck oif. That shrewd 
 Prince, suspecting the treachery, got up in the night, stole the 
 commission, rewrote it, with a direction that the bearers of the 
 
32 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 document should be instantly put to death. These were, of 
 course, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the King's instruments. 
 Hence there was a regular, elaborate, and most fiendish plot 
 for the destruction of the Prince. Hamlet relates that the 
 vessel met a pirate, and that he was captured and released 
 later. The two commissaries ' held their course for England ; 
 of them I have much to tell.' They were going to their doom. 
 He contrived to get a letter sent to the King, couched in 
 mysterious language, announcing his arrival for the morrow, 
 when he would recount the reasons for his return. Here was 
 a blow. The King, expecting news of his assassination, amazed 
 and confounded, calls out at once, ' Are all the rest come back, 
 or is it some abuse, or no such thing ?' It flashes on him that 
 Hamlet has discovered his plot, or has perhaps murdered these 
 men ; so, grown desperate, he sees that something must be 
 done, and at once, to get rid of his hated enemy. Then he 
 develops his scheme of a fencing match. 
 
 What a gathering of horrors in all this ! The two men 
 plotting — the one to destroy, the other to baffle ; the man he 
 had sent away to be murdered on his arrival now posting back, 
 inflamed with fury and eager for revenge. For now Hamlet 
 held two of his secrets — one, the murder of the late King, 
 which he would disclose, as it was already disclosed in the 
 play; the other, his own plot for Hamlet's murder. So he 
 must be put to death, and at once, as soon as he arrived. 
 This match, by the way, was a clever thought, and, I fancy, 
 was suggested by Hamlet's killing of Polonius, also apparently 
 an accident. 
 
 Now, after all these complicated horrors, what a different 
 complexion the trivial scene of the fencing bout assumes ! But 
 these matters have to be 'cut out.' We find the King, in 
 rather childish fashion, suggesting the contest as an agreeable 
 diversion — as, it might be, a game of lawn-tennis. Every 
 spectator always feels there is something trivial and highly 
 improbable in this ; but when we know that it is the last 
 resource of the royal gambler, led up to by stages, to be 
 followed by a more desperate attempt if that failed, how 
 different it all seems ! 
 
 Omitted always, as far as I Jcnow, is the King's artful method 
 of getting Laertes to fall in with the plot ; for as Laertes was a 
 
The Real Hamlet 33 
 
 gallant young fellow and would not relish assassination, he 
 tells him of a great fencer, the gentleman of Normandy, Lamond 
 by name, who so extolled Laertes' skill in fencing, saying that he 
 could meet anyone. Hamlet, he added, when he heard of 
 these praises, became quite envenomed with jealousy, and 
 was longing to meet him. With this he proceeds to work 
 on Laertes, asking, Did he love his father ? And thus it comes 
 about that the wondering spectator looks on troubled and 
 anxiously as he sees the noble and generous Prince involved 
 in this last deliberately-planned scheme for his destruction, 
 contrived by the royal villain, who felt that there was not 
 an instant to be lost if he would save his own wretched life. 
 
 How different all this from the exhibition of the frivolous Osric 
 and his mission, which, when placed alone and unsupported, 
 imparts quite a farcical tone ! The whole appears as a sort of 
 impromptu business contrived by a weak man, instead of being, 
 as it is, the last touch in a craftily-planned scheme. What is 
 further brought out by this deliberate arrangement of the 
 matter is the generous and trusting nature of the Prince, who 
 is so gained over by Laertes' handsome act of forgiveness, that 
 he lends himself gladly to the mal d propos exhibition of the 
 fencing. 
 
 Under such treatment as we have been considering, it will 
 be seen how infinitely the great play would gain in effect and 
 impressiveness. Retaining all, but abridging all, ' should be the 
 rule and guide.' 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 SHAKESPEAREAN GHOSTS, APPARITIONS, WITCHES, ETC. 
 
 I. Macbeth. 
 
 AS I said, if we are bound to adopt the elaborate machinery 
 and other ' effects ' to produce illusion, the principles of 
 such mechanism should be sought out carefully, so as to find 
 what will harmonize with the Shakespearean intentions. In this 
 view, the abundant supernatural visitations in the plays make 
 quite a department, and require the most thoughtful scenic 
 treatment. 
 
 It is a long distance now from the days when the ghost 
 invariably ascended through a square hole in the floor and 
 departed in the same way, this being received as proof of his 
 ghostship ; but other methods in use are no less coarse and 
 cumbrous, yet are received complacently. There is an elemental 
 simplicity present. The theatre is suddenly darkened — not 
 because such darkening always precedes ghostly appearances, 
 but because without it it would be impossible that the glaring 
 lime or electric light would have effect. A fierce ring or 
 belt of light is then projected round a whitened figure. As it 
 moves the ring of light moves with it. After its business is 
 done, the light is suddenly withdrawn, and the other lights of 
 the theatre are raised. This is presumed to convey the idea of 
 a supernatural visitation. It is, of course, quite an arbitrary 
 assumption that supernatural personages always arrive in a 
 blaze of light, which is bound to move about as they move. 
 The trouble is we have no knowledge of the favourite ways of 
 these supernatural visitors, and have to select this illuminated 
 method as the most convenient. 
 
 The important ghostly plays are Hamlet, The Tempest, 
 Macbeth, Julius Ccesar, Richard III. It might be said with 
 truth that never has there been a serious attempt to set these 
 
 34 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 35 
 
 spectral appearances before us in a fitting way. Nigh 400 
 years of performances have gone by, yet little has changed in 
 the old inchoate methods. 
 
 Shakespeare's treatment of ghostly visitants is based on the 
 simple principle that, having come from the other world, they 
 have merely reassumed their mortal aspect, and appear and 
 behave like other mortal beings. This dispenses with the 
 accompaniments of magic-lantern effects, rings of light, 
 'limes,' trap-doors, and the rest. These are mere arbitrary 
 adjuncts evolved by the stage managers. A moment's reflec- 
 tion would show that neither light nor darkness has anything 
 to do with their proceedings. They are characters in the 
 drama ; they talk and move about, and are dressed like other 
 people. The trap-door has all but disappeared, but time was 
 when the ghost in Hamlet rose through a square hole cut in the 
 boards of a room, and was therefore presumed to have arrived 
 straight from some regions far down in the bowels of the earth. 
 As well might a person arriving in a lift at the top story be 
 taken for a supernatural visitant. 
 
 The witches of Macbeth offer a difficult and perplexing sub- 
 ject for treatment. The vulgar theory is that they must be 
 presented as revolting, unnatural monsters, half old women, 
 half old men, with croaking, ' charnel-house ' voices. They 
 convey nothing probable and nothing horrible at all by these 
 croaking voices, only something tedious and unpleasant, which 
 we are glad to be done with. The point is how the sense of 
 awe and terror is to be induced. I believe only by touching 
 the notes of interest and romance. They should be awful 
 beings, not repulsive ones. Antics and grotesque jumps and 
 gestures and hoarse or squeaky voices are pantomimic and 
 ludicrous. And why should they always have forked branches 
 of trees in their hands ? 
 
 No one has ever thought of trying comparatively youthful 
 witches, with rational tones of voice and reasonable emphasis. 
 Some of much commanding presence are to be seen in the old , 
 paintings of Macbeth. I could fancy at the opening three tall, / 
 gloomy, but stately figures standing revealed on a high place,[ 
 and beckoning mysteriously to the thane. There should be 
 the idea of power, which cannot be associated with decrepit, 
 unintelligible, old hags. Equally unpleasant and uninteresting 
 
 3—2 
 
36 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 I is the coarse and hoarse nasal chant with which they usually 
 Ideclaim. fOf such witch presentations Elia writes* These, he 
 tells us, ' Snilcespeare has introduced to give a wildness and super- 
 natural elevation to his scenes, as if to remove them still farther 
 from that assimilation to common life in which their excellence 
 is vulgarly supposed to consist. When we veadi, the incantations 
 of these terrible beings, is the effect other upon us than the 
 most serious and appalling that can be imagined ? Do we not 
 feel spellbound, as Macbeth was ? But attempt to bring these 
 beings on to a stage, and you turn them instantly into so many 
 old women, that men and children are to laugh at. This 
 exposure of supernatural agents upon a stage is truly bringing 
 in a candle to expose their own delusiveness.' The conclusion 
 he draws is the abrupt and somewhat forced one that the plays 
 should not be acted, but read ; but, without going so far, we can 
 deduce the principle that they should be introduced without 
 any of the vulgar and grotesque attempts to make them hideous 
 and revolting."\They should act all they say and do with fullest 
 intensity ; for' they are actors, and, further — it is always for- 
 gotten — of a highly dramatic sort, who should assert them- 
 selves and control the action. But they are usually shown as 
 inferior supernumeraries. 
 
 It may be said that the mistake in dealing with the spectral 
 parts of the play has always been the making a specially 
 elaborate and laboured effort for each exhibition. It should 
 be an insinuation, a suggestion of mystery, and belong to the 
 larger whole of general effect. Thus the first scene, which is 
 only eleven lines long, shows the witches deciding to go forth 
 and meet Macbeth. Then comes Duncan's Palace, and 
 after that the heath and the witches again. Now, these two 
 witch scenes are usually made into one for convenience' sake ; 
 and yet, as we read the play, the two scenes add to the effect. 
 The first ought to be simply a glimpse en passant, a vision — 
 presented in a moment and gone in a moment. Such hurried 
 glimpses add to the sense of mystery. This would be feasible 
 with ' cloth ' scenes ; but our moderns must have a regular 
 constructed scene, one that shall be complete, and then be 
 changed with whirlings, flappings, etc. To my idea, all these 
 short snatches of scenes should be like something in a magic- 
 lantern — a parenthesis, an aside — just lightly touched. Our 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. ^y 
 
 revivalist will have none of them, as being too troublesome — 
 he abolishes or condemns them with others. 
 
 The witches' cauldron, with its spectral images, never im- 
 presses supernaturally, as it ought. Neither audience nor actors 
 feel the least awe or conviction. It seems a magic-lantern busi- 
 ness. First comes the usually abrupt darkening, which gives 
 palpable notice, then the lime-light. (Who minds this nowa- 
 days? It is so familiar ; actress or actor often having two ' limes ' 
 apiece following them about the stage.) There should be indis- 
 tinctness and mystery, so that the audience should be, as it were, 
 trying to make out what is going forward through the gloom. 
 Shakespeare's object was to scare Macbeth by supernatural 
 visions ; he never contemplated doing this by glare and flaming 
 apparatus. There should be something glowing, much as we 
 see images in the coals and embers. The stage should be 
 wrapped in gloom, not in that coal-black darkness, which is a 
 different thing. 
 
 And the cauldron — how commonplace ! A housewife's pot 
 boiling on the fire. It is a bit of the ' property man's ' busi- 
 ness. We hear the stage manager ordering his cauldron, 
 instructing the ' lime-light man ' how the red fire is to be 
 turned on and blaze up. No one ever sees even an attempt 
 at doing this with due mystery. The child's head is pushed 
 up and goes down again in a jerky and matter-of-fact way ; 
 and yet, with thought, study, and common sense, quite a 
 different result could be obtained. Take, for instance, the 
 going round the cauldron by the witches, who usually join 
 hands and dance grotesquely. This ought to be a slow pro- 
 gress, each detached, each acting something exhibiting horror 
 or demoniacal fury. It is always forgotten that they are persons 
 of power and dignity, not pantomime shapes. 
 
 This has always been the weak place of every revival ; and 
 how much more could be made of it all ! We are shown ' a 
 dark cave, in the middle a' great cauldron burning ' — that is, 
 on a fire. The whole stage should be the cave, not, as is 
 usually shown, an opening of rocks — an arched hole cut in the 
 scene. There should not be the common or cottage ' pot ' 
 which hangs over the fire, but a huge, imposing vessel of 
 glittering copper, with a wide flange. Then, flames in a cave 
 naturally produce a deal of smoke, which should be shown and 
 
38 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 reflect the light. The witches ' march round ' the cauldron 
 and throw in the ingredients. This march should be grotesque, 
 spasmodic, interrupted at times, and not a processional one. 
 When Hecate arrives with three more witches the party 
 becomes reinforced, and all sing their ' Black spirits and white.' 
 Here there should be no harmonized modern music, but a sort 
 of savage strain in unison, so that the words may be heard, 
 which we rarely hear. Of a sudden they hear Macbeth out- 
 side, and there is an abrupt interruption, with fresh and fantastic 
 grouping. They listen, confer, grow agitated, and go to meet 
 him. He demands to be shown the spirits ; and then, we are 
 told, ' an armed head rises ' — i.e., one arrayed in a helmet. 
 This helmet should be emphasized and on a large scale, and 
 the figure below white. Clouds of white smoke or mist should 
 rise. So with the apparition of ' the bloody child,' which is 
 crowned, with a tree in his hand, the witches all this time 
 waving their arms and making passes, etc. The cauldron then 
 ' descends ' — i.e., vanishes — and the ground is left clear. A 
 good effect would be produced if it descended through the flames, 
 which still burned on until they became extinct. 
 
 The very suggestion of the magic procession of Kings impresses. 
 It ought to be an ever-brilliant and imposing thing, the scene 
 changing to a glow of lights, with glitter and effulgence. There 
 should be music, too, as directed (' hoboys '). Yet it is always 
 presented in the most literal, commonplace fashion. The fellows 
 tramp past. They should each act it. The figures should enter 
 among the trees, each after an interval — not in a procession, as 
 is so commonly shown, but after pauses, with a slow and saddened 
 gait. They should be misty, shadowy things. The witches 
 then, seeing Macbeth depressed by their show, indistinct at 
 first, cry, ' Cheer we up his spirits ! charm the air to give a 
 sound,' etc., on which there should be more pleasing music, 
 with some fantastic dancing, at the close of which they all 
 slowly vanish. Cave and all might disappear, and Macbeth 
 be left on an open heath, as if wakened from a dream. 
 
 In truth, to act a ghost suitably would require thought and 
 study. Why should we not conceive them as poor faltering 
 creatures — uncertain, hesitating, released for a time, restored 
 to strange scenes, and therefore gliding about, stopping short, 
 looking round in alarm and flutter ? But our too literal sense 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 39 
 
 must put all into black and white. They profess to be ghosts, 
 and should behave as such. In the magnificent opera of Fidelio 
 there is one scene of great pathetic interest which furnishes a 
 hint — where the prisoners, by a special act of grace, are released 
 from their cells and allowed to walk in the prison yard. In the 
 common performances, even at Covent Garden, they came in 
 en masse, in a great crowd, and immediately struck up the 
 effective ' Prisoners' Chorus,' expressing their delight at the 
 sunlight and the chance of liberty. But in the beautiful 
 classical revivals at Paris and Dresden it was quite another 
 thing. The prisoners come dropping in one by one, or in small 
 groups — now from this side, now from that, amazed and dazed, 
 wondering and delighted. Many moments passed before they 
 realized where they were. In short, it was a display of genuine 
 acting, and some time elapsed before they broke out into their 
 impressive wail. This could all apply to the procession of 
 shadowy Kings, which, as I have said, could be ' worked up ' 
 into a striking and awe-inspiring spectacle. Every ghost should 
 be made emphatic ; the whole should not be huddled over ; nor 
 should the lights be turned down, and raised again abruptly 
 when all are happily got rid of. 
 
 This Banquet Scene in Macbeth has been arranged in many 
 ways. It is a most powerful and effective, even melodramatic, 
 one. Time was when a homely table and a cloth covered with 
 plates were laid. Irving showed a vast barbaric hall, with quite 
 a number of rude tables stretching away, all placed askew. It 
 had a fine royal effect. Macbeth has, of course, his talk with 
 the murderer at the side while the guests are waiting to begin. 
 
 But how clumsily this is always arranged — actually in presence 
 of the guests ! To some at least the murderers must have been 
 known as doubtful characters. Macbeth should assume a 
 suspicious, secretive air, and see the bravoes, in some retired 
 corner, or at a door, or going behind a curtain, giving them 
 their instructions in whispers, looking round in guilty fashion. 
 But this is never thought of. The guests see the whole pro- 
 ceeding — nay, hear! For the appearance of Banquo at the 
 feast the revivalists have expended all their ingenuity, but with 
 little success. The problem is a most difficult one, for the 
 spirit is invisible to the company and visible to Macbeth only. 
 The old way was the simplest, and, according to the bard's 
 
40 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 direction, Duncan walked in slowly and took his seat at the 
 table. Charles Kean, as I well remember it, used an odd device. 
 One of the stout Norman pillars suddenly became illuminated 
 and transparent, and within it the figure was seen to rise ! This 
 was simply an absurdity and unnatural in every way. The basis 
 of correct treatment would be for the imagination to exert its 
 powers and try to conceive how such a scene would be in 
 real life, where the host was subject to a hallucination of the 
 kind.* 
 
 The magic-lantern treatment does not strike with awe or 
 terror. The obvious natural way was the old one, where 
 Banquo walked slowly in, like some mortal, and took a seat 
 unseen. To give effect to this entry, all should be engaged 
 laughing and talking — a hum of voices — while the ghostly 
 figure glides on. Gradually and unconsciously he becomes 
 isolated. He sits leaning his head on his hand in a pensive 
 way. There should be no darkening or ' lime.' The recognition 
 by Macbeth is always too sudden. It should be gradual and 
 uncertain : at first a start — ' it cannot be ' — a stooping forward 
 with strained alarm and terror in the face, and all without 
 speech ; then a frantic pointing, still without a word, approach- 
 ing and addressing empty space with such earnestness that 
 every eye would be turned to the spot, under the impression 
 that something was there. If this were done in a vivid and 
 realistic way, the effect would be far more powerful than any 
 transparency or 'gauzes' would produce. Anyone that has 
 seen a person under the influence of hallucination — say, from 
 delirium tremens — will recognize how convincing on others is 
 the effect of the seer's visions, and how uncomfortable it makes 
 them. 
 
 II. Julius C^sar. 
 
 The ghostly visitation of Brutus in Jiilius Ccesar, after the 
 quarrel with Cassius, is truly awe-inspiring, provided it be 
 handled suitably. How is it usually done ? In matter-of-fact 
 style : stage darkened as Brutus begins to read ; enter ghosts 
 at once ; a start from the seer, and he goes out again. All is over 
 
 * Mr. Bourchier in his revival had a throne set up in the centre, with a 
 special table for himself and the Queen, which had an odd effect ; other 
 small tables were disposed about, as at a modern table-d'h6te. 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 41 
 
 in a few moments. But to be made impressive how differently 
 it should be treated ! Let us see. There is a gradual prepara- 
 tion. The light begins to fail, and the night draws on. ' The 
 deep night is crept upon our talk.' There should be a gathering 
 stillness and solemnity, lights twinkling, a faint hum in the 
 distance, the whole moving slowly. The great folds of the 
 tent are spread across the stage. Brutus is sad and solemn ; 
 he parts from his friend with many a ' good night.' The 
 faithful Lucio is attending him with his instrument and speak- 
 ing drowsily. Brutus, still restless and perturbed, seems to 
 shun going to sleep. He walks about nervously ; he then 
 thinks he will have some of his retainers sent for, who will 
 be with him in the tent, and watch while he sleeps. This 
 trepidation and uneasiness is due preparation for the apparition. 
 He makes them all lie down, though they would prefer to stand. 
 Then he bethinks him of a book which he kept in the pocket 
 of his robe. He would like music, and asks the boy to play 
 and sing him something, which he does. Now, this tune 
 should be only the mere beginnings of an air, and given in 
 the very faintest voice, for the singer's eyes are heavy with 
 sleep, and he at last drops off. His master gently takes his 
 instrument from him, looks at him indulgently, and begins to 
 pace up and down. Then he will read once more and sits 
 down, drawing the light to him. ' Let me see. Is not the leaf 
 turned down where I left off reading ?' Then he should read 
 for some moments. All is graduated. The scene is one of 
 perfect stillness, the two retainers slumbering, the boy in the 
 chair deep in sleep. Brutus reads on. Restless again, he 
 draws the candle to him, looks at it closely. Then he 
 murmurs : ' How ill this taper burns !' He shudders, looks 
 round slowly, raises the candle and peers into the darkness 
 behind ; reads again. Caesar's ghost glides in slowly and stands 
 behind him. Brutus raises his head, turns it slowly and sees 
 
 the ghost, when he shrinks away and slowly stands up. . 
 
 Now, one might ask. Is there not here a very rich and full 
 detail and slow development of mystery ? Yet how often have 
 we not seen the whole dispatched in a couple of minutes, as it 
 were, the lights darkened of a sudden to suit ' How ill this 
 taper burns !' and the ghost arriving abruptly. It should all 
 — every portion of it — be acted. 
 
42 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 There is a similar passage in Richard,- III., the arrangement 
 of which is perplexing, but which becomes simple enough when, 
 we consider the early conditions of the stage. It is the scene 
 in the fifth act, when Richard had ghostly visitants. He and 
 Richmond appear alternately, each for a few moments ; when 
 one goes off, the other comes on, and both actually have their 
 tents on the stage, and both go to sleep at the same time. 
 When Richmond commends himself to God and 'lets the 
 windows of his eyelids fall,' on the instant the various ghosts 
 appear to Richard, who must then have been a few yards away 
 from Richmond. But this, under the old or the new conditions, 
 would have been impossible and ludicrous. The difficulty may 
 be owing to our having abandoned the old logical and obvious 
 system of lighting the stage. Nowadays we light the stage 
 with the view of illuminating everything for the benefit of the 
 audience, regardless of the scene. Everything, therefore, is 
 bathed in light, and in the same description of light. Rooms, 
 streets, forests, seas, are all lost in this one yellow blaze, which 
 is a fixed and constant quality. In the old earlier Garrick days 
 the stage was lit, not by footlights, but by four chandeliers, 
 which were suspended over the actors' heads, to illuminate their 
 figures and faces. True, they gave the same light in the case 
 of a street or forest ; but, still, it was obvious that the object was 
 not to set off the scenery, but the persons. In a room it seemed 
 natural enough, and in the old prints we can see that it is night- 
 time in a room, where introduced lamps served the same purpose 
 as do lamps in real life. Now, here is a scenic principle with a 
 very telling result. 
 
 The modern way, I believe, is to have two successive scenes, 
 one for each King. 
 
 The long series of apparitions before alluded to are difficult 
 to present in an impressive way. There are eleven in all, and 
 each has its speech. Anything in the way of magic-lantern 
 business mediums, etc., could not produce any supernatural 
 effect ; but the chief cause of failure is usually the starved, 
 meagre attempts at representing a tent or a general who is 
 on a campaign. It is shown as a skimpy triangular opening 
 with a peaked top, being, in fact, cut out in profile. It is, 
 practically, a cloth with another cloth behind it. Now, 
 in practice a general's tent was a large, spacious enclosure, 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 43 
 
 with several apartments. The whole stage might represent 
 the interior. After all, it would be so difficult to follow the 
 Shakespearean stage direction of having the two tents in view 
 at the same time. Richmond's might be shown afar off by the 
 aid of stage perspective. In those days of close quarters, of 
 spears and swords, each would be perfectly protected from 
 each other, by sentries, etc. No doubt the original arrange- 
 ment was that Richard was shown on one side on his 
 couch, as in the well-known picture of Garrick, while Rich- 
 mond's presence was somehow indicated at the other side. 
 The ghosts turn from one to the other, addressing each alter- 
 nately. This, as we read, has a singularly dramatic effect, 
 the spectral figures passing by with their solemn utterances 
 addressed to each of the sleeping chiefs. But the modern 
 manager shrinks from this complex procedure, cuts the scene 
 about and allots the whole business to Richard alone. 
 
 Of course, in the old days the stage was simply a plat- 
 form from which the actors could address the audience. The 
 place changed automatically of itself. So soon as the seme — 
 that is, the action of the actors — changed fresh actors came on, 
 and they brought their place with them. Thus, in the present 
 case, when Richard appeared he was in his own camp among 
 his tents, and when Richmond came it was his camp. The 
 audience understood this arrangement perfectly. 
 
 The visit of these victims to their murderer requires in the 
 treatment a good deal of thought and care. Irving did not 
 attempt any phantasmagoric effects. He let the living figures 
 say their say and pass on. This seems to be the dignified 
 method. How would we imagine a ghost of this kind to present 
 itself ? It makes all infinitely more impressive and creepy. We 
 note the solitude, the silence ; the King dozing, leaning on his 
 hand ,* the candle casting shadows into the corners of the tent ; 
 then the restless movements of the tenant, his walking about, 
 then turning to doze again. Presently there is an indistinct 
 something white at the back, which hovers between light and i 
 darkness, then other white things begin to appean How much 
 more natural this — or something of the kind, at least — than the 
 abruptly plunging the stage and theatre into black darkness, i 
 with the ' limes ' beginning to work unsteadily, and so giving / 
 notice to everybody that the ghosts are coming and will arrive 
 presently ! 
 
44 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 III. The Tempest. 
 
 The Tempest has never been in much favour with managers or 
 playgoers, and yet what a noble, stately, truly supernatural 
 piece it is ! "What an interesting and commanding character is 
 Prospero ! But our actors have always drawn away from him, 
 protesting that he 'preaches' and is monotonous. There is 
 also a lack of ' business.' The truth is the part requires many 
 histrionic gifts, some great force and even pathos. To Irving 
 it would have 'been well suited, though he did not fancy 
 the character. He would have given a beautiful and refined 
 spectacular display, and his own rendering of the character 
 would have been noble and impressive. 
 
 Mr. Tree certainly infused the poetical tone and spirit of the 
 whole, and might himself have attempted the magician with 
 some success, instead of the more melodramatic Caliban. In 
 this place I shall deal chiefly with the supernatural elements of 
 this fascinating piece, and the principles which should regulate 
 them. 
 
 The popular fancy has ever been attracted by the spritely Ariel. 
 Who has ever seen a thoroughly satisfactory Ariel or Puck ? 
 They have been always artificial instead of spontaneous things, 
 affecting a nimbleness and elasticity they did not possess, and 
 performing cumbrous gymnastics to show their sprightliness — 
 overgrown tomboys, in fact. They were obliged to overdo the 
 satirical smartness of the parts. That quaint and singularly 
 original performer Louie Freear was once cast for Puck. It 
 was well ' discharged ' on the whole, but the effect produced 
 was that of a mischievous imp who indulged in pantomimic 
 antics. From the long speeches and narratives allotted to 
 him, which are so often serious and thoughtful, it is clear 
 that Puck was a capable spirit, carrying out the plans of his 
 master ; and it must be remembered that he winds up the play 
 and utters the final words by way of moral. 
 
 Ariel, no doubt, with all its fanciful caprices as a spirit, 
 is an embarrassing creature to deal with. The difficulties are 
 enormous. If an attempt be made to represent literally the 
 supernatural feats, we get into the mechanics of pantomime ; 
 if this be not done, there is the obvious contrast between the 
 supernatural claims and the utter lack of performance. 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 45 
 
 Take, for instance, the attempt to realize the flying on a 
 bat's back — a mere fa^on de parley, after all, uttered in a song, 
 and not necessarily to be ' done in action.' Mr. Tree placed 
 his lively spirit in a sort of bush half-way up a tree, out of 
 which Ariel peeps, and at the words ' On a bat's back,' etc., 
 flutters and rustles the pendent leaves and tendrils, as though 
 actually riding the bat.* This was done by the heroine in a 
 pleasing and fanciful way, but the looking forth from the bush 
 has something grotesque and artificial. It seems as if the pro- 
 perty garlands, leaves, etc., were placed there on purpose. On 
 the whole, however, the performance had something engaging 
 and natural and was Shakespearean to a certain extent. 
 
 It is ^sGr usual to exhibit Ariel as a nimble, sprightly 
 creature, who is expected to bound about here and there, as 
 though restraining herself from actual flying into the empyrean. 
 Miss Tree's late performance of the part was really an interest- 
 ing and rather poetical one, in spite of her tall stature. But I 
 fancy this restless agility is not actually necessary for the part 
 — that is, the idea of lightness and movement may be conveyed 
 by other means. There is a graceful gliding motion which 
 could suggest as much. 
 
 Unfortunately, the supernatural elements in this great play 
 have always been dealt with on ' stage-managing ' principles — 
 that is, in prosy fashion. 
 
 The manager was determined to make a really original, 
 sensational character of Caliban — a new and striking ' monster,' 
 that people should wonder at and shrink from in terror, much 
 as they did from Jekyll and Hyde. He made an animal sort 
 of creature of him, with an added tusk, who grovelled and 
 crawled. But these things would hardly carry out what was 
 intended. The monstrosity must be acted, the horror inspired 
 by what is said and the manner of saying it ; no exhibition of 
 tusks and long hair will do this. 
 
 Mr. Tree rather lacked the conviction of brutal force and pas- 
 sion. The truth is, the character is eminently tragic and savage. 
 How nobly grovelling, with yet a sort of canine attachment, is 
 the kissing of the traveller's boots, which here was made a bit of 
 
 * I once saw an intrepid Ariel, who actually mounted a ' practicable ' bat 
 of huge size, rode him astride, and was slowly hoisted aloft to the sky-borders ! 
 This was illustrating ' On a bat's back I fly' with a vengeance ! 
 
46 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 |_comic or funny ' business.' His complaints as to the way he 
 had been despoiled — his island taken from him — should be full 
 of a passionate, fiendish anger. The result was that the char- 
 acter, which should really dominate, became unimportant, 
 for it reacts all through on Prospero. 
 
 Prospero, it seems to me, should be a personage of command- 
 ing power, with a full consciousness of that power. By his 
 magic strength he can do all things. He should be above all 
 the ordinary passions of humanity, and disdainful of them. 
 All his utterances and declamations should be those of the 
 prophet and preacher. Hence, when he shows his gratification 
 at the progress of the attachment between his daughter and 
 Ferdinand, it should be of a reserved kind, not the sort of 
 chuckling satisfaction that an ordinary father would display at 
 the prospect of a ' good match ' coming off. So simple and 
 homely an act as taking off his robe was intended as a stately 
 and significant act, pregnant with meaning, not as here, where ' 
 he seemed to say, ' Help me off with my greatcoat.' These are . 
 trifles, but they have purpose which should be brought out. 
 
 How prosaic and matter-of-fact is the bearing of the travel- 
 lers when they encounter the supernatural exhibitions, hear the 
 strange music in the air, being, as it were, distracted and 
 bewildered by such things ! None of the party convey any- 
 thing of this. There is no attempt at dreamy mystery. They 
 seem a lot of good-humoured tourists in an awkward place. 
 Ariel's malicious ' You lie !' is treated as a sort of comical joke. 
 
 How little is this thought of ! and yet how much, if not the 
 whole, depends upon it ! I always think that complaint of the 
 air being full of strange sounds conveys exquisitely the whole 
 keynote of the piece. This should have been almost incessant 
 throughout. The travellers wandering about helplessly dazed, 
 bewildered, fancying spirits everywhere, yet not seeing them. 
 Sullivan's lovely and tender motive, which recurs again, sug- 
 gests all this in the happiest manner. This strain should 
 have been ever in the air, and would have conveyed much. 
 Our actors cannot be expected to know or realize these delicate 
 nuances. They want their ' business.' But, still, a manager of 
 poetical instincts could shadow forth all this poetical atmosphere 
 for them, and could turn it into * business.' The effect of the 
 whole should be that of mystery. 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 47 
 
 The system of working up a hint of the author, ' a graceful 
 dance ' into a formal halUt faction, destroys the whole balance. 
 It is always forgotten, both as regards the bard's works as in 
 Moliere's, that the dance is part of the dramatic action. The 
 King or Duke has to be entertained, and they dance before 
 him. It is in a 'chamber of the palace,' so half a dozen 
 figures suffice. Here there is a masque : a few reapers dance 
 with the water-nymphs. 
 
 We can understand this in Prospero's island. The naiads 
 come from the sea ; they are an apparition — dance for a few 
 minutes with the reapers, and vanish speedily. The Cupid 
 business is too elaborated and elementary. 
 
 In nothing has the failure of modern illustration been so 
 conspicuous as in this play of the Tempest, because no one has 
 thought of carrying out the author's intention, which was that 
 the mystery should be found in the words and thoughts, not in 
 blue fire ' mediums ' and the rest of the modern apparatus. 
 The stage directions are minute and curious, showing that 
 much reliance was placed upon the magic effect : 
 
 {^Solemn and strange inusick, and Prospero on the fop, invisible. 
 Enter several strange shapes, bringing in a banquet, and dance 
 about it with gentle actions of salutation; and, inviting the King, 
 etc., to eat, they depart!) 
 
 ' Solemn and strange musick ' — that is, of the ^olian harp 
 pattern, not tunes. A good composer might well understand 
 what is wanted. It should be a short strain, but repeated over 
 and over again in many a scene. ' Prospero on the top, in- 
 visible ' — that is, to all upon the stage. Then are seen several 
 strange shapes. This involves some study of the play — that is, 
 of the sort of shapes that ought to figure in such a play. 
 Something of the type is supplied by Ariel. They should not 
 certainly be awful or repellent, but harmonize with the weird 
 music. 
 
 The methods applied for producing the banquet for the 
 famished travellers, to be carried off by the harpies, are always 
 ■difficult to manage, and have usually an extraordinary sug- 
 gestion of prose. At a signal there is darkening, and a sort of 
 box — that is, a table rises out of a trap with attendant clatter. 
 All this trap-work one would have supposed was exploded 
 long since. Well-spread, enchanted tables do not of necessity 
 
4 8 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 come up out of the earth or through the ground. Here is a 
 magic process, and to be done by apparent magic. The table 
 should appear — that is, be discovered — as the group opens, and to 
 their amazement. On some such line it should be contrived. 
 It should disappear in the same way. But the whole effect of 
 mystery should be shown, not by mechanical means, such as 
 the unnatural sudden darkness, which always heralds the 
 secret, but by the bearing of the spectators. 
 
 Sebastian calls the harpies ' a living drollery,' and adds, ' who, 
 though they are of monstrous shape, yet note their manners 
 are of more gentle kind,' etc. ; ' such shapes, such gestures, 
 and such sounds expressing, although they want the use of 
 tongue . . . they vanished strangely.' Now, here are a number 
 of indications as to the appearance of these mysterious beings. 
 Of what sort should be ' the banquet ' they carry in ? It 
 should be spread on a table, as mentioned in the text, but it 
 should be one of antique pattern, very low, dark-coloured, 
 without a cloth, the supports stout and leaning outwards at an 
 angle, with gold and silver vessels and flowers. A table covered 
 with a cloth, as was lately shown, is altogether too prosaic, and 
 has nothing in common with enchantment. 
 
 They dance about it with 'gentle actions of salutation, inviting 
 the King to eat,' etc. This should be exactly what is expressed 
 and no more — winning invitation, irresistible enchantment — 
 certainly not the favourite pantomimic methods. This was a 
 regular trap on the part of the * shapes,' or, rather, of Prospero ; 
 and the guests, in answer to the alluring invitation, would 
 naturally cluster round the table with much complacency. We 
 can see them grouping themselves, in fond anticipation of the 
 rich banquet. It was the night, and so all was dark. ' Brother, 
 my lord the Duke,' says Alonzo, ' stand to, and do as we.' 
 But of a sudden come ' thunder and lightning.' ' Enter Ariel 
 like a harpy ' — that is, like an unclean bird of prey — ' claps 
 his wings upon the table,' and with a quaint device the 
 banquet vanishes.' The popular conception is that Ariel is 
 a girl, perhaps owing to its being always played by a woman, 
 and it might be considered whether the effect would not be 
 increased by the part being taken by a well-favoured youth. 
 There would be more force and sense of power. The act of 
 spreading the vast wings over the banquet would furnish a 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 49 
 
 cover for the quaint device for carrying away the banquet. 
 The table was left bare. Then comes a fine dramatic moment, 
 when Ariel makes his threatening speech to the ' three men 
 of sin,' who listen trembling, quaking, and cowering. She 
 seems completely transformed into a minister of vengeance, 
 and at the close ' vanishes in thunder ; then, to soft music, 
 enter the shapes again, and dance with mops and mowes, and 
 carry out the table.' This dance would be of a grotesque 
 and impish kind — terror-striking. The carrying out the table 
 should not be the common process, lifting and struggling to 
 carry it along. It should fall into fragments, each shape 
 carrying off a portion, and continuing their dance. Mr. Tree 
 opened a trap-door and let it down. And yet on the stage of 
 to-day there is no thought of all these creepy details; the 
 whole is slurred over and ' got through ' with much speed. 
 The magic business is of the usual commonplace type — ' 'twill 
 serve,' as they think. And yet it is not too much to say that 
 this powerful scene contains the very essence of the mysterious 
 element, and was meant by the bard to convey the fullest idea 
 of Prospero's power and magic. All this assumes that we are 
 dealing with these supernatural effects on modern stage prin- 
 ciples ; but the supernatural impression should in the main be 
 produced by acting. 
 
 In the beautiful, truly romantic play how completely have 
 all the opportunities, the feeling of incantation, fairyland, and 
 magic power been overlooked ! See that beautiful scene at 
 the close, where Prospero reveals himself, and is about to 
 break his staff. He says : 
 
 ' When I have required 
 Some heavenly music (which even now I do) 
 To work mine end upon their senses, that 
 This airy charm is for.' 
 
 Then solemn music is heard ; there enters Ariel before, then 
 Alfonso, with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo, ' Sebastian 
 and Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco. 
 They all enter the circle which Prospero has made, and there 
 stand charmed.' Now, this is always done in a plain, literal 
 manner, Prospero waving his wand, they walking within the 
 ring, taking up their positions and watching events. It is 
 evident what beautiful mystery might be cast over it all by the 
 
 4 
 
50 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 simplest acting even : Prospero majestic and awe-inspiring ; 
 they all bewildered, crouching, reluctant, overwhelmed with 
 terror, the ' splemn music ' going on all the time. Then 
 Prospero takes up the strain : 
 
 ' The charm dissolves apace, 
 And as the morning steals upon the night, 
 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses 
 Begin to chase the ignorant fumes,' etc. 
 
 All this should be shown in action. 
 
 After declaiming the beautiful lines, he then turns to Ariel : 
 
 ' Quickly, spirit ; 
 Thou shalt ere long be free.' 
 
 Here an unhappy composer saw his opportunity was not to be 
 denied, and ' set,' and set very well, the well-known ' Where the 
 Bee sucks,' and which Ariel is to sing as she helps her master to 
 put on his rapier, hat, etc. She fetches them, and sings as 
 she brings them, enchanted at her approaching freedom. The 
 song is, in fact, her grateful answer. It is only a few lines 
 long, merely warbled en passant, as it were, and has a most 
 natural, charming effect. Miss Tree, however, got up into the 
 branches of the trees, so as to convey, ' Under the blossom 
 that hangs on the bough.' And, indeed, Prospero's remark 
 seems to support this view, as he turns and says, ' Why, that's 
 my dainty Ariel.' Then, the song. The leader of the orchestra 
 waves his stick, the noisy symphony strikes up, follows the 
 long-drawn-out song — the high notes, the runs. Worst of all, 
 the whole action is suspended and everybody enthralled, and 
 even those who were enchanted are kept waiting. This dreadful 
 orchestra business should be excluded altogether, and the song 
 delivered unaccompanied. And how absurd it all is ! for Ariel 
 is panting to be gone : 
 
 ' I drink the air before me, and return 
 Or e'er your pulse twice beat.' 
 
 But no ! she must wait and wail until she goes through the 
 whole of this * show-off' song, with the encore. 
 
 Prospero reveals himself, when Miranda and Ferdinand 
 are discovered playing at chess. A screen is usually drawn 
 aside slowly, and an illuminated rock interior is shown, 
 with the pair seated. This apparition should be contrived 
 magically and phantasmagorically. Indeed, all through the 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 51 
 
 piece I would have these mediums worked par exception. There 
 should be constant cloudings, darkenings, and lightenings, 
 misty visions, appearances and disappearances, all carried out 
 rapidly and promptly, for dawdling over such things impairs 
 the effect. 
 
 The first scene of Act IV., which is devoted to the apparitions, 
 would need all the tact and poetry of the revivalist. Prospero 
 was to bestow upon the eyes of the young couple some 
 varieties of his art, and so we have Iris and Ceres and Juno, 
 and the reapers' dance, which should be a most majestic 
 vision. ' They join with the nymphs in a graceful dance,' 
 which should have nothing of the ballet and no set move- 
 ments — crossing and skipping, and the rest. It should be a 
 generic dance, and without musical accompaniment, save per- 
 haps something from behind the scenes. Then, before the 
 dance finishes, Prospero starts suddenly and speaks, after 
 which, to a ' strange hollow and confused noise, they heavily 
 vanish.' Prospero was in a passion, for he had forgotten 
 Caliban and his plottings. Then come his melodious chant- 
 ing and haunting lines, ' Our revels now are ended,' etc. 
 The enchanter was much wrought and excited. When Trin- 
 culo, Caliban, and the others come, and are about to carry off the 
 plunder left for them, ' a noise of hunters is heard ' ; divers 
 spirits in the shape of hounds come in, hunting them about, 
 Ariel and Prospero setting them on. It would not, of course, 
 do to have real dogs here, or even barking behind the scenes ; 
 but, still, after due visualization, some proper effect might be 
 contrived. The hunters' cries behind the scenes, with bar- 
 barous sounds of hallooing cries and yells, yelps of animals — 
 all are to be carefully prepared and arranged — the men with 
 dogs' heads, hunters with stags' heads, etc., the whole done 
 in alternate mists, darkness, and blaze of light. They go off, 
 pursued, and agonizing roars and shrieks come from behind 
 the scenes. 
 
 How usually prosaic do we find the representation of the 
 enchanted scene where the invisible Ariel is bewildering 
 Stephano and Trinculo with her interruptions ! So matter- 
 of-fact is the treatment that it may be accepted as a bit of 
 common life, while the audience might have assumed that 
 Ariel was visible. The interruption, ' Thou liest ! thou liest ! 
 
 4—2 
 
52 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Thou canst not !' ought to be given with much mystery, 
 Ariel, creeping about on tiptoe, then approaching the ear of 
 one of the party and saying slowly, ' Thou lie-est !' then 
 dancing away. Trinculo gets the credit of the interruption 
 from Stephano, so Ariel should speak, as it were, from his 
 mouth. The scene is a most amusing one, and should be acted 
 with all sincerity. 
 
 IV. Fairies — The Chorus. 
 
 How are we to deal with fairies ? This form of the super- 
 natural has really suffered, if it has not been destroyed, by the 
 conventions of the modern theatre. The notion of fairies in 
 the Midsummer Nighfs Dream has furnished an excuse for a 
 sort of grand pantomimic exhibition — crowds of little girls 
 flitting about among the trees, each, it may be, carrying an 
 electric lamp. They wind in and out, in serpentine fashion, 
 uttering little chirps or screams. Sometimes a dance is 
 arranged. It is, in fact, a sort of ballet show. 
 
 Now, our bard's idea of the supernaturals was that fairies 
 should form an element of his play, and each should have a 
 distinct individuality ; they were to be characters. When he 
 exhibits a ghost, he does not present a crowd ; when he shows 
 us witches, he makes each speak ; when he introduces servants, 
 he does not need a whole retinue, but gives each servant an 
 individuality, much as Moli^re did later. 
 
 Oberon and Titania are important personages, people of 
 great power, who control the course of the play, particularly in 
 the case of the four lovers — Bottom, etc. They make long 
 speeches, have their quarrels, and, in fact, dominate the whole 
 piece. It is impossible to have respect for their power when we 
 see them heading bands of little children, capering about, carry- 
 ing lights, etc., and also, for no reason, so much smaller than 
 themselves. There is no rule that a fairy should necessarily be 
 a child. At the same time, it may be conceded that there is 
 something pretty and poetical in such exhibitions. No, the 
 notion of a fairy must be conveyed by the acting — by a sort of 
 quaint uncanniness or queerness and oddity, with a certain 
 airiness of bearing. 
 
 And this brings us to the difficult question of the class of 
 performer that would be suitable to present them. Children or 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 53 
 
 Lilliputian figures is an arbitrary assumption. Childhood has 
 no necessary connexion with fairyland. Oberon and Titania 
 are important acting parts, and no ' green girls ' could do justice 
 to them. Oberon should be played by a trained, intelligent 
 youth, and Titania by a young woman. Then, for their retinue : 
 no children again, for if the King and Queen be of mature age 
 and stature, there is no reason why their followers should be of 
 tender years — nay, it seems rather absurd. But again the real 
 solution lies in the acting. It should be the acting of a fairy^ 
 according to our imagination and our lights. There should be 
 a sort of airiness and irresponsibility, as though earthly matters 
 were beneath them. This, of course, cannot be taught, but 
 comes of instinct. With, say, a dozen graceful girls, with 
 wings, if you like, each acting her part — constantly in move- 
 ment, uncertain, peeping, hiding, disappearing — a telling effect 
 would be produced. 
 
 Yet with all this we might be inclined to make an exception 
 here, and be tolerant in this special case ; for the spectacle of 
 these flitting children is exceedingly pretty and poetical, and to 
 Mendelssohn's lovely illustration much must be allowed. We 
 must not be too rigidly reforming. 
 
 There is yet another quasi-supernatural element which Shake- 
 speare has used but sparingly, and which he imported from the 
 Greek drama. It is a melancholy reflection that we do not fully 
 use the wonderful dramatic resources that the bard has placed 
 at our disposal, casting about instead for all sorts of earthly 
 devices — witness his chorus. 
 
 Our great author surely would not have introduced this 
 Chorus unless with some serious purpose, or without the idea 
 that, dramatically, it would be of help to him. And what was 
 his idea of the Chorus, and, it may be added, of the one or two 
 prologues which he furnished ? It was to be the solemn, serious 
 enforcement of the ideal — an appeal to the dramatic imagina- 
 tion, as who should say. Rely here not upon the vulgar imitative 
 tricks of the stage, which will fail us. We cannot be in England 
 and then of a sudden shift to France by merely changing a 
 scene, but the imagination will do this for us. He felt that 
 the exhibition of battles, armies, etc., which he was about to 
 introduce profusely, would be feebly and inadequately repre- 
 sented, so that this was the only resource. We may wonder. 
 
54 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 however, why the bard applied the system of Chorus to this one 
 play of Henry V. only, especially as the scenes in Henry VI. have 
 the same diversity, passing in France as well as in England. 
 This, I confess, I am not Shakespearean enough to resolve. 
 
 In Henry V. the Chorus, which is also the prologue, is a most 
 essential portion of the piece, and is constantly appearing and 
 reappearing. A very fine and dignified conception it is, and it 
 really helps forward the action — that is, if fittingly presented. 
 But it is not enough that an imposing lady, carrying a spear 
 and shield, should come forward and declaim, as it were, during 
 an entr'acte. She is intended to be part of the piece. At 
 Mr. Lewis Waller's revival of Henry V., Miss Evelyn Millard 
 discharged the part with admirable dignity and effect. She was 
 shown seated in an arm-chair only a few inches from the foot- 
 lights, which played fiercely on her, while a cloth, touching her 
 shoulder, floated and drifted from the movements of scene- 
 shifters behind. This was not exactly a classical method. No ; 
 she should appear in one of the existing scenes, which should 
 be gradually deserted and left solitary for the purpose. It 
 might be the sun setting or the drawing on of the night, with 
 the growing stillness. Then she would appear a stately con- 
 trolling spirit, and vanish as she came. 
 
 I spoke of the appeal to the imagination. In the fine pro- 
 logues she calls for the muse of fire, ' the brightest heaven of 
 invention,' that would set Harry before them in all his splendour. 
 ' But pardon, gentles all,' for their daring to bring forth ' on 
 this unworthy scaffold . . .' so great an object. 
 
 ' Can this cockpit hold 
 The vasty fields of France ?' 
 
 What was astonishing in hearing this appeal of the Chorus, 
 delivered as it was with genuine earnestness, was its convincing 
 character. All who listened felt that here was nothing but the 
 simple truth — that we must appeal to our fancy and imagination 
 if we would be really entertained, and that no amount of sham 
 constructions, etc., would have effect in beguiling us. The 
 naive information that now the English King was about to 
 cross the seas and invade France, that we must put ourselves 
 on board also and cross with them, was really most persuasive, 
 and we became prepared, in short, to find ourselves in France, 
 in quite new scenery. 
 
Shakespearean Ghosts, Apparitions, Witches, etc. 55 
 
 We are too apt to set aside in the modern revivals various 
 arrangements and dispositions of our author's text, without con- 
 sidering whether they would not increase the effect of his 
 drama. Thus, the Chorus is usually abolished as an antiquated, 
 incomprehensible thing, hopeless to deal with. 
 
 To me, and perhaps to all present, this seemed a perfect 
 revelation ; it was a practical contribution to the march of 
 the drama. The author seems to speak to us through the 
 mouth of his Chorus as convincingly as through the mouths of 
 his actors. He carries us forward, puts the intermediate events 
 before us in a vivid way, and interests us as though it were a 
 regular scene. It is a spoken panorama. Yet this valuable 
 necessary thing has nearly always been overlooked or omitted. 
 When used intelligently, I have noticed that the audience was 
 attracted and absorbed, and followed the declamation with 
 infinite interest. 
 
 And now let us see what actual help, in the shape of illusion, 
 
 we gain from this element. At the opening of Act II. Chorus 
 
 again appears to tell us that the youth of England are all on 
 
 fire, the French expecting invasion. There were traitors in 
 
 England who conspired with the French : 
 
 ' Linger your patience on ; and we'll digest 
 The abuse of distance ; . . . 
 The King is set from London ; . . . 
 There is the playhouse now, there must you sit : 
 And thence to France shall we convey you safe, 
 And bring you back.' 
 
 What vivid words ! And who could resist them ? All 
 listeners would see the things they were invited to see ; their 
 thoughts would travel between the two countries, just as they 
 were bidden. Above all, mark the contemptuous dismissal of 
 common stage devices. 
 
 In the prologue to Act III. we are asked to suppose that we 
 
 have seen the King embark at Hampton. We are to play with 
 
 our fancies and call up the image of the fleet. 
 
 ' Follow, follow : 
 Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy, ... 
 IVork, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege.' 
 
 The Chorus to Act IV. gives us a charming night picture, 
 
 which shows us what a camp on the stage ought to be. 
 
 ' Now entertain conjecture . . . 
 The hum of either army stilly sounds.' 
 
56 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 And it then describes ' the fixed sentinels,' the sounds of the 
 armourer, ' Fire answers fire,' etc. 
 
 This shows, by the way, how close were the hostile camps. 
 We can only repeat that these noble and poetical speeches are 
 as dramatic as anything in the play, and carry on the business 
 just as effectively. But, then, they should be worked up, 
 delivered with fire and imperative emphasis, so that the 
 imagination thus eloquently called upon should be kindled and 
 become responsive.* 
 
 * At Act V. the Chorus tells us : 
 
 ' Now we bear the King 
 Toward Calais : grant him there; there seen, 
 Heave him away upon your winged thoughts 
 Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach 
 Pales in the flood with men, with wives, and boys, . . . 
 You may imagine him upon Blackheath ; . . . 
 
 But now behold, 
 In the quick forge and working-house of thought. 
 How London doth pour out her citizens !' 
 
 Are we, the Chorus asks again : 
 
 ' On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth 
 So great an object : Can this cockpit hold 
 The vasty fields of France ? or may we cram 
 Within this wooden O the very casques . . . 
 O, pardon ! since a crooked figure may 
 Attest in little place a million J . . . 
 Suppose within the girdle of these walls 
 Are now confined two mighty monarchies, . . . 
 Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; . . . 
 Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them, 
 Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth ; 
 For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our Kings, 
 Carry them here and there ; jumping o'er times ? etc' 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 MUSIC — DANCING 
 
 THE question of Shakespeare's music is a large and inter- 
 esting one. It seems to be admitted that Mendelssohn, 
 in his Midsummer Night's Dream, is the only writer who found 
 the right tone, measure, and quantity. You but hear a few bars 
 of his enchanting strains to feel that it is true Shakespeare. 
 Even the last three or four — the high treble ' thirds ' — bring 
 the whole drama before you. But who can touch that lyre ? 
 Accompanying his spoken text with music has been tried, and 
 will not do. Mr. Bouchier in his Macbeth revival has, how- 
 ever, supplied a good deal of this element. The composer, a 
 good musician, furnished a troubled, stormy overture, presaging 
 the contending passions of the play. The notion of an over- | 
 ture is too conventional, and even vulgar — it is a sort of flourish I 
 of trumpets anticipation ; whereas the play should begin in its I 
 own calm way, without any such noisy heralding. We cannot J 
 conceive of an overture to Hamlet. Mendelssohn's is so 
 exquisite, that it has become an exception, and the play is in 
 the nature of a fairy masque. 
 
 In this Macbeth revival there was something almost comic 
 in the Scotch turn given to some of the music, so much so that 
 we expected to see the pipers entering skirling. As it was, 
 there seemed to be Scottish airs worked in, and almost suggest- 
 ing reminiscences of Rob Roy. 
 
 There is nothing so destructive of illusion and dramatic 
 effect as the stage music as it is commonly rendered. It is 
 supposed to colour or intensify the situation. We know that 
 the moment has come by the conductor getting into his seat, 
 and beginning to beat time for the moving strains, his waving 
 arms being conspicuous in the middle of the stage. Here is at 
 once a link with the prosy outer world ; it brings us down to 
 
 57 
 
 J 
 
58 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 (earth again. It would be different were the executants wholly 
 concealed, the music floating upwards from some unseen region. 
 How absurd in the Midsummer Night's Dream, when the 
 fairies are fluttering about in their dances, crossing and recross- 
 ing in the shadows, to see the fiddlers hard at work over their 
 shaded lamps, and the conductor in evening dress, as prosaic 
 as possible, whose moment has now come, gesticulating away at 
 Mendelssohn's music. Usually the play is interrupted, and the 
 song is virtually performed for the audience. The singer stands 
 forward and pretends to play his lute, while the orchestra 
 accompanies. 
 
 But let us turn to, say, a scene in Act III. of Henry VIII., 
 and get some light. The Queen and some of her women are 
 working together, and she says : 
 
 ' Take thy lute, wench : my soul grows sad with troubles : 
 Sing, and disperse 'em if thou canst,' etc. 
 
 The other then begins ' Orpheus with his lute,' which is quite 
 apropos, for she sings that 
 
 ' In sweet music is such art, 
 Killing care and grief of heart 
 Fall asleep, or hearing, die.' 
 
 Is there not here a dramatic action and guide for treatment ? 
 The ' wench ' should unobtrusively, and unconscious of the 
 audience, softly warble her comforting notes ; the others should 
 turn their faces to the singer, as if enjoying the strain and 
 comforted by it, and whispering to each other. Of course it 
 would be more conventional and effective to stand up and come 
 forward, ignoring the Queen and the other ' wenches,' and take 
 the time from the stick-waving leader. The lilt, having been 
 set by Sir Arthur Sullivan or by some one of his measure, is 
 sure to wind up with an obstreperous orchestral burst, during 
 which, unless encored, the ' wench ' returns to her seat. 
 
 When Irving came to this passage, he got the clever composer 
 — German — to set the words ' Orpheus and his lute ' to an 
 elaborately harmonized composition for three voices — though 
 the Queen plainly gives her directions to one maiden only — and 
 so we had elaborate warblings and contrapuntal work. We 
 might call up such a scene in the domestic life of our late 
 admirable Queen, sitting among her maids-of-honour or ladies- 
 
Music — Dancing 59 
 
 in-waiting, working or turning over a book. Then she might 
 ask one to go to the piano and sing her a Scotch song. This 
 suggestion fairly conveys his idea of the situation. 
 
 The spirit in which this combination of music and Shake- 
 speare was carried out will be gathered from a scene in the 
 Irving revival of the Much Ado About Nothing, when in a garden 
 scene Balthasar is bidden to entertain the other nobles 
 with a song. Something surely was to be made of this, 
 so our enterprising manager bethought him of Mr. Jack 
 Robertson, a robustious and popular tenor, to whom I have no 
 doubt he gave a record salary, not for acting, but for simply 
 coming on and singing his one song. He was, as it were, 
 specially engaged. When the moment came, the singer, who 
 had been promenading it about the garden, was called upon. 
 The nobles sit down while the singer stands well forward in the 
 middle. Meanwhile the conductor is busy with the rattling 
 symphony, waving his stick, and the singer, forgetting the 
 professional listeners, seated behind, now comes to the very 
 front and sings his best for the audience — 'Sigh no more. 
 Ladies' — all which is forced and unnatural. He should be 
 sitting with the rest and sing to them alone. There should 
 be no orchestra or man with the stick. As Mr. Robertson 
 usually obtained a rapturous encore, there was much coming 
 forward and bowing, etc., and all began again. The nobles, of 
 course, had never asked him to sing it twice over. Much coy 
 reluctance, until the tumult rose, while the seated performers 
 remained more or less impassive. Then the man with the 
 stick taps his desk; off we go again with the ratthng symphony, 
 and so da capo. 
 
 Let us suppose a grand seigneur, a Duke who has taken his 
 friends into the garden after lunch or dinner. They have been 
 talking of music, and the host recalls, say, the Mikado and a 
 particular song. ' How good it was !' he says. ' But you know 
 it. Jack. Do give it us now.' Here can we imagine the party 
 seating themselves in a regular half-circle on the garden-chairs 
 to listen, while Jack himself must stand and shout the lilt in 
 his fine tenor, ending with a gay flourish, while the others 
 would crowd to listen for two verses at the least with a certain 
 encore. But was this comedy or Shakespeare, or the play 
 itself? Would he stand up and advance into the middle, and 
 
6o Shakespearean Representations 
 
 all but turning his back on his friends, voice it for all that he 
 was worth to some friends far away ? How astonished would 
 the friends be at such treatment ! 
 
 There is a notable song in the Midsummer Night's Dream — 
 ' I know a Bank ' — which is a truly awful example of this pur- 
 view. This lilt has been extraordinarily popular, and has set 
 many an old head nodding. It is firmly established, is believed 
 in as something almost Shakespearean itself. We know the 
 formula and cue for orchestra — symphony, etc. Two present- 
 able fairies come forward smiling, and go through the whole 
 in thirds, warbling away melodiously with trills and flourish- 
 ings, so as to enrapture all the hearers. It finishes triumphantly 
 and to applause, and is, of course, encored. No one knows 
 what, it is all about, or why such warbling should be introduced. 
 Yet in the text it is quite intelligible. Oberon wishes to enchant 
 Demetrius, and sends to Puck for a certain magic flower. Puck 
 returns with it, on which Oberon — 
 
 ' I pray thee, give it me. 
 I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,' 
 
 and where Titania sleeps. With the juice of the flower he will 
 anoint her eyes, and he further directs Puck to take the juice 
 and anoint Demetrius' eyes. All this detail is lost or over- 
 looked by the introduction of the modern harmonized song. 
 
 Thus Oberon's speech has been turned into a song, which 
 ^as never intended by the author ; and therefore the invariable 
 rule should be that only what Shakespeare intended to be a 
 song should be set to music, and that music should always take 
 the shape of a spontaneous utterance, without interruption of 
 symphony or elaborate accompaniment." 
 
 Again, in the same play, how the moderns have distorted the 
 
 beautiful fairy machinery ! Thus Puck asks a fairy, ' Whither 
 
 wander you ?' She answers him in a bit of careless poetry — 
 
 ' Over hill, over dale, 
 Through bush, through briar,' 
 
 giving him also information about the King. The composer, how- 
 ever, must seize on this as a splendid opportunity, for a showy 
 solo, one very difficult and eifective. Puck has to stand aside, 
 look on and listen, while she — a female vocalist, introduced 
 for a purpose, say Miss Parkina — is at the footlights for at 
 least ten minutes, with roulades, fortes, etc., to say nothing of 
 
Music — Dancing 6i 
 
 ensuring a certain encore. The vulgarity of this is inconceivable, 
 and is wholly undramatic. 
 
 The Shakespearean songs always come in naturally enough 
 if they are permitted to do so. Thus the familiar ' Blow, thou 
 Winter Wind ' in ^ s You Like It, is truly appropriate to the 
 situation. The famished Adam has been brought in, and food 
 set before him by the Duke, who then turns and says, ' Give us 
 some music, and, good cousin, sing !' This might seem inappro- 
 priate, for he wished to hear old Adam's story. But had he not 
 
 said — 
 
 ' Fall to : I will not trouble you 
 As yet to question you about your fortunes ' ? 
 
 meaning, ' You will be busy eating, so en attendant we will have 
 this song.' Of course, all this effect is lost if the conductor 
 gives the signal, and the orchestra strikes up, and the ' specially 
 engaged ' singer comes forward. No, some one sitting behind 
 under a tree, without rising, will warble forth the song, the 
 Duke and his courtiers watching with interest the performance 
 of the hungry old man.* 
 
 In many of the Shakespearean dramas we have a dance intro- 
 duced, and here comes.the opportunity for the spectacular stage 
 manager, who can only deal with it after his favourite methods ; 
 in fact, he knows no others. The leader, who has been sitting 
 low down among his fellows, suddenly jumps into his high seat, 
 taps his desk, raises his arm. The King and his lords seat 
 themselves, and from the wings, right and left, run on or skip 
 on a large number of girls, who group themselves down near 
 the footlights and start off with their muscular antics. Thej 
 ' keep their faces to the audience all the time, and really dance 
 for it, and not for the seated royalties ; and the movement goes 
 on for several minutes. But how should it really be ? First, 
 such dancing as is furnished in a palace for the entertainment 
 of the royal owner would ordinarily be supplied by a few per- 
 formers — say, three or four, or half a dozen at most. They 
 would perform their measures at the side, in obtrusive, graceful 
 
 * At one time, being full of a more than usual enthusiasm for the bard, 
 I found myself dreaming of his characters, and could hear the chant of his 
 melodious lyre. A beautiful Lady Paramount — like her in Twelfth Night — 
 was dismissing me, and I heard her say distinctly : 
 
 ' I pray you go hence : but pray keep wide open 
 The back-door of opportunity.' 
 
I 
 
 62 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 way, old-fashioned, and without jumps or boundings. The eye 
 should rest on them as on a piece of tapestry or a scene by 
 Watteau. The dance should be blended with a play, and not 
 be an introduced episode. 
 
 ■"' In short, it might be said that in every instance where our 
 author has directed music to be introduced as an aid to the 
 dramatic interest, it has been seized on as an opening for 
 
 i actually destroying the beauty of the situation. The action is 
 violently interrupted, the fiddlers become obstreperous, and the 
 
 \ singer with a good voice, ' specially engaged ' intrudes himself. 
 
 ' But Shakespearean is, or should be, an inspiration to the 
 musician. Mendelssohn alone has been thus inspired. It is 
 not too much to say that his Midsummer Nighfs Dream music, 
 when played in a concert-room, brings up all the images of 
 the beautiful fairy play. We are conscious of the presence of 
 the elves, and the exquisite pathetic passage at the close of the 
 overture ever suggests the general dreaminess. Sullivan in 
 parts of his Tempest — notably the ' Yellow Sands ' motive — 
 has something of the same tenderness and fitness. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 MODERN REVIVALISTS — IRVING 
 
 ONE of the most welcome and almost miraculous elements 
 in the Shakespearean plays is this : With a new per- 
 former in a leading character, we seem to have a new play 
 before us. So rich is each, so much is buried, that curiosity, 
 surprise and speculation are evoked afresh, and supply quite a 
 new interest. It is exactly as in ordinary life, where a well- 
 marked character among our friends, however familiar, may 
 always supply novelty. It is the same with the first-rate 
 comedies, such as the School for Scandal and She Stoops to 
 Conquer, of which we never tire; and so the public stock 
 of harmless pleasure has been increased to an extraordinary 
 degree. Most intelligent people will have noticed that they 
 return home after witnessing a Shakespearean drama in quite a 
 different mood, exhilarated, but, above all, with a deep impres- 
 sion left, as though they had witnessed some real series of 
 events and met real personages. They find themselves — for a 
 few days, at least — recalling the images, characters, incidents ; 
 whereas the ordinary stodgy drama of commerce manufac- 
 tured in our day leaves no impression and supplies no agree- 
 able memories. It is a mere show, machine-made •; the other 
 an intellectual exercise. We may, indeed, pause to question 
 whether the general treatment and handling of these great sub- 
 jects can be accepted as satisfactory, and to ask ourselves 
 whether the mighty power of the bard has not really triumphed 
 over all attempts at disfigurement. 
 
 Irving, then, struck the true note, so long dumb, kindled the 
 dormant enthusiasm of the crowd, and really set the fashion for 
 correct and elegant revivals. Our obligations to him are 
 enormous. He was certainly the most accomplished of all the 
 revivalists that can be remembered now, saving perhaps Phelps, 
 
 63 
 
64 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 but better far than Charles Kean. He had the truest instinct. 
 But I have dwelt at length and in detail on this in my account 
 of his life. It must be, however, admitted that he lacked 
 reserve in his treatment, and made some experiments which 
 were scarcely orthodox. [ For instance, one of the sensations 
 in the great production of Much Ado A bout Nothing, and which 
 became the talk of the town, was the really beautiful and most 
 elaborate scene of the church or cathedral, with the attendant 
 ecclesiastical shows. It was an amazing enterprise, delusive to 
 a degree, elaborated with exceeding taste and delicacy. Even 
 the picture of it by Mr. Forbes Robertson revives most faith- 
 fully all its romantic charm. The credit and inspiration are 
 entirely due to Irvinjg, and, it must be added, to his own inven- 
 tion and imagination : for it is nothing more. The author had 
 nothing to do with it. j 
 
 The bard's direction is simply ' a church,' which may mean 
 either the porch or the outside, or a side-chapel. Suppose such 
 an interruption had occurred in our time at, say, the Oratory ; 
 it would be most unlikely, and most ungentlemanly, too, for the 
 bridegroom to have held back until the procession had emerged 
 from the vestry, the candles been lit, the pair and their friends 
 waiting at the altar. All that the poet would convey is that, 
 one of the, clergy, meeting the wedding-party, put a question, 
 which the bridegroom answered by declining to go on with the 
 business. How much more dramatic — and serious, too — how 
 much grander the situation, when put in this simple way ! 
 
 Supposing such a scene of high ritual at the altar of a 
 cathedral : who could conceive of a young lord stepping forward, 
 and roughly bidding the celebrant to ' look sharp,' and cut out 
 all superfluous talk and ritual ? Such interruption is incon- 
 ceivable. The beadle or verger would conduct him to the door. 
 Yet it is not so unnatural if the ceremony was, as Shakespeare 
 intends, a private, informal matter in one of the side-chapels of 
 the fane, with so obscure an agent to perform the ceremony as 
 a simple friar — no Bishop, Canon, Dean, or any one of position. 
 These could not be addressed so bluntly, but a friar might be. 
 
 Every one familiar with foreign cathedrals knows what 
 retired places such side-chapels are. They usually open out of 
 some rambling and circuitous aisle. They seem debatable 
 ground, half sacred, half profane. People talk and laugh, pass 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 65 
 
 to and fro, for it is often used as a short cut from one street to 
 another. Here the guests gather. 
 
 ( Again, the pleasant scene in which Benedick's friends pur- 
 posely reveal Beatrice's liking is generally quite distorted from 
 its purpose. In the Lyceum version it was worked up into a 
 rare practical joke. The trio piled up its exaggerated accounts 
 of Beatrice's passion in the most farcical way. They could 
 hardly speak for laughter. There were constant shrugs and 
 glances towards the arbour, whence Benedick would occasion- 
 ally peep or emerge, showing a sort of comical discomfort and 
 awkwardness. The fun became fast and furious, and the 
 audience roared — all excellent business, no doubt, and too 
 precious to be altered./ Yet in the text it is another matter. 
 The friends, including Beatrice's uncle, were really interested 
 in the pair ; they saw that some special effort must be made if 
 they were ever to be brought together. In a previous scene 
 Don Pedro tells them that he has a plan which will compass 
 this. He heartily praises Benedick: ' He is of a noble strain, 
 of approved valour and confirmed honesty. ... I would fain 
 have it a match.' There is no idea of laughing at him and 
 making him their butt. When they know that he is listening 
 they tell each other in the most business-like way how attached 
 she is to him, adding and heightening the various details. It is, 
 in short, a good-natured scheme. But the idea at the Lyceum 
 seemed to be to convict him of being inconsistent with himself 
 and his bachelor propensities. 
 
 As is well known, Shakespeare gave no directions as to his 
 scenes. He gave them no names, but only numbers. The 
 scene for him was the incident. So, in the Church Scene of this 
 play he meant a place where people would come to — a church, 
 a chapel, a hall in a palace — anywhere. The point for him 
 was a marriage that was interrupted. 
 
 This was poignantly, intensely dramatic, and did not gain 
 anything from priests, censers, dresses, and the like. Such 
 rather impaired the effect. When the guests were dispersed, 
 who of them would recall the ecclesiastical show, or anything 
 but the image of the unhappy girl who had been insulted before 
 all her friends ? And here it may be noted how this mania for 
 displaying rich and gorgeous costumes, instead of aiding, 
 actually frustrates the eflfects intended. The rule seems to be 
 
 5 
 
66 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 that every one shall wear his gala clothes at all seasons and 
 in every place. A courtier in his private apartment still dis- 
 plays his rich silken robes ; the young Italian nobles are ever 
 dazzling in silks and satins and laces and gold embroideries, 
 walking the streets even in a sort of ballroom attire. Exciting 
 events must take place in vast palatial halls, where a great 
 crowd of guests and courtiers is ever at hand to look on. 
 
 Benedick is a truly delightful character, conceived in the 
 best vein of airy comedy. But how often is it misappre- 
 hended ! There should be a tone of artificial good-humour 
 and self-complacency, as though he felt quite superior in his 
 insensibility to the charms of the sex. "When he is at last 
 caught by the irresistible Beatrice, he should show a sort of 
 bewilderment, and even alarm. Such a thing should seem 
 actually incredible to him. f Miss Terry's performance was 
 really faultless — it was so buoyant, so full of spirit, and so rich 
 in natural touches. \ Irving was a little stiff, and throughout 
 preserved a self-consciousness, as though he were striving to 
 look more absurd and act up to the ludicrousness of the 
 situation. This was a little shown in the Garden Scene, where 
 his friends were in hiding, watching for him. To the audience 
 all that followed seemed a bit of rich practical joking — a scene 
 of buffoonery, laughter at the expense of a sort of butt. The 
 truth was, they were nobles, well-bred gentlemen, engaged 
 in a serious, friendly little plot to get him married to a charm- 
 ing lady. For what was the situation ? 
 Says Don Pedro : 
 
 ' I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules' labours, which is to bring 
 Signor Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection. I would 
 fain have it a match : and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but 
 minister such assistance as I will give you direction.' 
 
 No practical joke here, but a serious good-natured plan. And 
 consider the character and position of the parties. Don Pedro 
 was the Prince of Arragon, Leonato the Governor of Messina, 
 Claudio a young lord of Florence — all persons of state and 
 degree, not pleasant buffoons. Governors and Princes do not 
 give themselves away in this fashion. Would not Benedick, 
 too, be scared off by this rough and boisterous raillery ? 
 
 But here is a puzzle. Benedick had sent his boy to fetch a 
 book. He wished to have ' a quiet read.' He marks that the 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 67 
 
 party are coming his way, and would escape. Why ? He was 
 not a shy person, but gay and fond of company ; yet he will hide 
 behind a tree and listen. Was the place, a sort of cul-de-sac, with 
 only one issue, at which he must encounter them ? It would 
 seem so. It was likely enough that after his long talk with 
 himself, in which it dawned on him that he was deeply in love 
 with a piquant lady, he felt instinctively that he would have 
 to encounter some rallying on the subject, and could not carry 
 it off well ; this might account for his hiding in the trees. 
 Then, again, how did the trio know that they would find their 
 Benedick in the garden ? They had probably met the boy and 
 learned it from him ; and, knowing that there was but one 
 entrance to the garden, they felt secure that they had him 
 caged. 
 
 Turning now to Th& Merchant of Venice : Irving contributed a 
 certain original treatment, notably in the case of his Shylock 
 and Macbeth. But interesting as such readings were, there 
 can be little doubt but that the old traditional conception is 
 the true one. The Jew, from the earliest times, used to be 
 represented as a low, furious savage, eager for revenge and 
 blood, greedy for money. Associated with this were a certain 
 grotesqueness — great length of nose, etc. — meant to excite 
 laughter, much as the ways of the stage Jew do at present. Irving, 
 however, conceived the idea of turning him into a gentlemanly, 
 well-bred personage, with a sensitive heart and refinement of 
 bearing. It is obvious that no such character of this kind 
 would indulge in fanatical hatreds — ' pound of flesh ' penalty ; 
 but it is perfectly consistent with the pattern of the low, hook- 
 nosed, money-lending Jew. Could we fancy this gentlemanly 
 Jew, arrayed in his violet gabardine, with persuasive and refined 
 speech, flourishing a bare knife in an open court, and calling 
 on the defendant to be handed over to him to have the forfeit 
 cut from his heart coram publico ? It seems a sudden fit of 
 insanity. But if we take it that he is a low pariah — one of the 
 outcasts of Venice — anyone might revile, mock, laugh at, kick, 
 and spit on him even, with perfect impunity. Antonio had 
 actually spat upon the gabardine. It seems more appropriate. 
 Anything might be expected from such an animal, and it must 
 have been received as a good joke, a capital piece of buifoonery. 
 But so deft and popular was Irving in those days that he could 
 
 5—2 
 
68 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 successfully impose anything he pleased upon his audience; 
 though the judicious might smile or grieve, they did not pro- 
 test And the revival was really a performance of surpassing 
 interest and attraction, the decoration and scenic illustrations 
 being kept within legitimate bounds. It might be considered 
 the best of the long series that he furnished us with. 
 
 In the Merchant of Venice there was a touch introduced on 
 this principle, which was vastly admired, considered to have 
 brought out the inner meaning of the bard. When Shylock 
 had gone from his house and crossed the bridge, the curtain 
 descended, and after a moment rose again, showing the Jew 
 slowly making his way back, to find his daughter fled. Now, 
 according to the course of the play, no one could know that 
 the daughter had eloped, so that the Jew's return conveyed no 
 meaning. Then there was the short interval, which could not 
 be lengthened by merely dropping a curtain and lifting it at 
 once. The act drop suggests the elapsing of time by remaining 
 
 r This is but a typical instance of a favourite way of dealing 
 J with the bard — namely, by developing some trivial or casual 
 I allusion made en passant, but on which the ambitious manager 
 I will build a huge modern structure, his plea being that it was, 
 I ^as it were, contained or wrapt up in the passages. 
 
 I once remember a production of Romeo and Juliet where the 
 quarrel in the street between the rival factions was gradually 
 worked up. This was Lewis Wingfield's idea. All the bells 
 of the city rang out; the mob poured in from by-streets; 
 the guard interposed — it, in fact, became like the great mid- 
 night riot in the Meistersingers. This was all proper according 
 to the modern canons of development ; but how false was the 
 principle ! It was really no more than a scuffle between 
 retainers of the hostile lords who casually met, and it was 
 intended to lightly indicate the relations of the rival houses 
 towards each other ; but it developed into a riot and insurrec- 
 tion even. The proportions of the things were absurdly 
 exaggerated, and thus dwarfed the rest of the play. 
 
 In the Lyceum revival of Macbeth, Scene VI. of Act I. 
 was illustrated in a truly effective and dramatic manner. It is 
 only a short snatch of a scene, about forty lines long — a mere 
 cloth scene — but the manager had a really lovely picture 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 69 
 
 of the castle gate, to which King Duncan approached. It was 
 bathed in the clear air and sunshine, and had an air of welcom- 
 ing repose which exactly fitted the poetical — 
 
 ' This castle hath a pleasant seat ; the air 
 Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself 
 Unto our gentle senses.' 
 
 Then follows the description of the martlet nestling in the 
 battlements. There was exquisite art in this, for it conveyed 
 the notes of welcome and innocent hospitality, of rest and 
 recovery after the journey, and with a grateful sleep — all in 
 contrast to the hideous night of trouble that was to follow, 
 f One of Irving's new readings in Macbeth almost took one's 
 breath away. It seemed incredible that so brilliant and 
 sensible a man should have even thought of such a thing. At 
 the end of the first act, Macbeth says to his lady : ' If we 
 fail ?' To which Miss Terry was made to reply : ' We fail I' 
 — that is, 'Well, we fail, that's all.' It is obvious that the 
 speech is contemptuous. ' What ! we fail ! Not likely. 'A 
 
 But how likely that this uncontrolled and irresponsible chief 
 — not merely the head of the whole enterprise, but of the acting 
 also, spending his days in directing his myrmidons, his nights 
 in receiving the exclusive applause of his admirers — how likely, 
 I say, that this should lead to elation, to ' swelling of the head,' 
 to intolerance of criticism or advice, to general selfishness and 
 greed, such as Bottom showed ! 1 
 
 We have now grown familiar with that special development 
 of theatrical administration, the actor - manager. This has 
 become the most important element in all modern Shake- 
 spearean revivals, and influences all the details. Opinions seem 
 divided as to whether this actor-manager is an abuse or the 
 reverse, but the actor-manager has at least helped to spread 
 the knowledge and appreciation of the bard. If Charles Kean 
 was perhaps the first important actor-manager, there can be no 
 doubt that Sir Henry Irving was the first, most romantic, 
 influential of the modern era. Garrick, though manager, was 
 really no more than an actor in his own company. He played 
 in his turn and when he was required. Macready merely took 
 a theatre for a short term — no doubt to exhibit his own talent 
 to the best effect, and the audience, it might honestly be said. 
 
70 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 attended the theatre to see the popular favourite, and him alone, 
 Phelps's was a regular company of good players. 
 
 The modern system, however, is much more personal. The 
 change is really extraordinary. All feel that it is impossible 
 now for a highly popular actor of the first rank to take an 
 engagement at a theatre. It is not spacious enough, as it were, 
 to hold him. He could not be supported properly. The days 
 of the good all-round company — like those of the old Hay- 
 market, when there were half a dozen admirable comedians 
 and farce actors of equal merit — has gone by. What is required 
 now is one central figure with a crowd of figures of a respect- 
 able but sufficient mediocrity grouped round him. 
 
 The oft-quoted melodious lines, 
 
 ' As in a theatre the eyes of men, 
 When the well-graced actor leaves the stage, 
 Are coldly bent on him that enters next,' 
 
 seem to have foreshadowed the reign of the actor-manager. 
 A leading actor who enjoys much personal popularity cannot, 
 as I have said, find an opening for his talents in an ordinary 
 playhouse, so he is naturally compelled to fix himself in a 
 theatre of his own, running all risks, finding the money, and 
 assuming all responsibility. As his popularity is his chief 
 assistant, it is but natural that he should use this to the utmost 
 by enhancing the central attraction. No one can find fault, 
 for it is the natural evolution of the situation ; nothing else is 
 practical or feasible. 
 
 The actor-manager system necessarily entails one-part plays, 
 and one-part plays naturally entail the use of cheap and 
 inferior players. It would not do to bring forward first-class 
 meritorious actors, for this would be sharing the applause with 
 another, and so diminishing the central attraction. Besides, 
 the first-class actor would presently be an actor-manager him- 
 self. This is not owing to vanity or greed of applause, but 
 simply to the necessity of the system. For to pay the 
 manager must be the sole attraction, and Shakespeare's pieces 
 offer the finest opportunity for such personal display. 
 
 But we can see signs of a coming change. The actor- 
 manager principle seems to be weakening out, and the control 
 passing to syndicates and enterprising American magnates. 
 ■ Already several highly popular manager-actors, such as Mr. 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 71 
 
 Seymour Hicks and Mr. Cyril Maude, are now under the 
 control of societies. There are not more than two or three 
 of the old pattern left, such as Mr. George Alexander, Mr. 
 Lewis Waller, Mr. Bourchier, and Mr. Beerbohm Tree. The 
 more famous actor-managers, besides, generally duplicated their 
 interest by the aid of some popular female performer, often a 
 clever wife. 
 
 Before considering Mr. Tree's methods of treating Shake- 
 speare, it must be conceded that no such example of sumptuous 
 and costly setting forth, sustained through many years, without 
 regard to labour or expense, has ever been known in the 
 annals of the stage. The experiment has been a perfectly 
 dazzling one ; nor can it have been followed without interest. 
 It is Shakespeare under conditions earthy, no doubt, and 
 levelling, but, still, treated with the utmost'skiirand intelligence 
 that such treatment will admit of. The manager's steady and 
 unwearied perseverance, his never-flagging ambition, seeking 
 Alps above Alps, deserves the most unstinted praise. It is his 
 Shakespearean principles that cannot be proved or approved. 
 
 On the stage not histrionic talent merely, vulgarly supposed 
 to be the one merit, but the valuable commercial gifts of 
 energy, ambition, versatility, knowledge of public taste, variety, 
 are absolutely essential, and have their effect on the public, 
 as they have in other directions. These are the gifts of genuine 
 management. One of the saddest things in Irving's decay was 
 his apparent failure to ' hit ' the public taste. Here Mr. Tree 
 is conspicuous, and his indomitable energy and ' up-to-dateness ' 
 have contributed immensely to the public stock of harmless 
 pleasure. A really magnificent theatre, almost an opera-house, 
 with superb and lavish appointments for every piece, have 
 made all his performances singularly attractive. In this 
 respect the work of Irving has been eclipsed, and seems now 
 somewhat old-fashioned. 
 
 What has Mr. Tree done for Shakespeare ? A vast deal, his ' 
 admirers will say, pointing to the long series of productions by 
 the bard — Hamlet, Julius CcBsar, The Merry Wives, A Midsummer 
 Night's Dream, Twelfth Night, Richard 11. , Winter's Tale, The 
 Tempest, and Antony and Cleopatra. Every form of art has 
 been lavishly expended on these pieces. Alas ! that so 
 important a matter should have been overlooked as the intelli- 
 
72 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 gent, reverential dealing with the play itself, and a genuine 
 histrionic presentment. It was a pleasing Shakespearean 
 panorama, rather than a dramatic performance. The manager, 
 'as was only fair and proper considering his exertions, became 
 the leading figure in all. Yet what single man could have 
 gifts sufficient for all these great and violently contrasted 
 characters ? Those who supported him were respectable, but 
 far inferior. It was not so at the Lyceum, where the Irving 
 instinct and romantic spirit was somehow contrived to be 
 infused into the crowd round him. Yet we should all be 
 grateful to him for it. He has made these great productions 
 familiar to a vast mass of the ignorant and careless, and given 
 them a relish. 
 
 Mr. Tree is a man of extraordinary brilliancy and cleverness. 
 His energy is superhuman, his designs lofty and ambitious, 
 and carried out almost magnificently. For his ends he built 
 himself a noble, beautifully-designed playhouse, laid out on 
 amphitheatral principles, and more suited than any other house 
 in town for Shakespearean plays. His repertoire of pieces has 
 been amazing for his time. There is no doubt he is as much 
 followed as Irving ever was, and by the younger generation is 
 thoroughly believed in ; for no one entertains his audience 
 better or gives better value. The eye is recreated by scenes of 
 beauty and elaborateness, the ear by the Wagnerian strains of 
 Roze and other accomplished artists. His Shakespeare per- 
 formances, such as Richard, II. and Julius Ccesar, must always 
 gratify even those whose taste is not satisfied. He has secured 
 and trained a sound body of actors, whose efforts give genuine 
 pleasure. One cannot but wonder at and applaud the vast 
 energy, the abundance of details, bewildering almost, which 
 attend the production of a vast piece such as Richard II. But 
 there are many things — instances of bizarre treatment, strange 
 misconceptions, misunderstandings of the spirit, fantastic per- - 
 versions, comedy turned to farce — which make the judicious 
 grieve. These I propose to consider. 
 
 Mr. Tree is unrivalled in the romantic characters of ordinary 
 life. There he is convincing and persuasive, and has all the 
 best French traditions. In his Shakespearean characters he 
 shows elocutionary defects, the most curious of which is a 
 miscalculation as to the fitting tones in which a sentence 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 73 
 
 should be delivered so as to bring out the meaning. These 
 become really a series of surprises, the inflexions are so 
 curiously misplaced. His natural voice, too, lacks weight and 
 breadth. It is thin and weak, inharmonious ; and often some 
 reply of only two or three words, but full of a pregnant meaning, 
 leaves no impression. But it is in the handling and illustrative 
 treatment of these great plays that he must be criticized. The 
 modern devices of seizing on some allusion in the text and 
 developing from thence some grand show — as Irving did in the 
 case of the Church Scene in Much A do A bout Nothing — have been 
 carried to an extreme. His Malvolio at this moment is perhaps 
 more admired than any of his characters, and is really thought 
 to be a surprisingly humorous and diverting performance. 
 In its business, superadded dress, make-up, and comic turns and 
 gestures, nothing is wanting to fend off a dull moment. Yet 
 there is nothing in it of Shakespeare's steward. It is one 
 protracted piece of humour and frolic. Let, us consider for a 
 moment what Malvolio is : a serious, almost pathetic character ; 
 a grave, dignified, Quixote-like gentleman, in love with his 
 mistress, chivalrous and utterly unconscious of his own folly. 
 He is a capable person, or he would not have been at the head 
 of a large establishment. In this fashion he has generally 
 been played. Though he was the butt of his companions, this 
 would not make him voluntarily contribute absurdities — tumble, 
 as it were, to add to their amusement. There is no self- 
 consciousness present. 
 
 But take the treatment of the ring incident. He carries a 
 long stick or pole of office, which, when the ring is tendered 
 to him, he extends, point forward, inviting the ring to be placed 
 there, so that it may run down to the handle ! There was no 
 thought that for a small ring to fit on a stick of this sort it 
 must be gigantic in its diameter ; but at such a piece of 
 business of course there was loud laughter. Neither was 
 there any thought of the improbability of the love-sick steward 
 treating the august ring with such disrespect ! He would 
 naturally receive it with a tender reverence. But what was this 
 to the habitual entry of the steward, who came on always and 
 went off always attended by, I think, four followers, nicely 
 graduated in size — tall, less tall, so down to actual short. 
 These walked after him in step, making grotesque antics to a 
 
74 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 truly comic march, he also stepping out in time and in a facetious 
 way ! It was true pantomime. This also, and naturally, pro- 
 duced roars of laughter. But the only wonder was how such a 
 notion could have been conceived. 
 
 Bottom, the weaver, was another odd perversion. It was 
 distended till it spread over the whole play. The result was a 
 lack of proportion and disturbance, the rest being dwarfed in 
 consequence. Here is a great danger in Shakespearean per- 
 formance, where what is merely a passing incident is fashioned 
 into a structural and important portion. There was a signal 
 instance of this in the case of Miss Mary Anderson's revival of 
 Romeo and, Juliet, where the nurse was taken by the admirable 
 Mrs. Stirling. So excellent was her delivery, so important and 
 weighty her creation, that she really overshadowed the whole 
 play. The others seemed flat and poor by comparison. It is 
 obvious that to have a nurse of this immense talent and capacity 
 would seem unnatural and unfitting. When the clowns in A 
 Midsummer Night's Dream were assembled to rehearse, Mr. Tree 
 had a prodigious ' entry,' going round to each of his fellows 
 and allowing them to take his hand in an idolizing way. The 
 actor's voice is too thin and piping for such a character. 
 Bottom should be a coarse, bull-necked fellow, with a rich and 
 strong voice, able to ' roar you.' There was the same weakness 
 in his Falstaff. But the drolleries of Bottom and his fellows are 
 always unduly exaggerated, particularly in the scene of the 
 performance where there are familiarities and buffooneries 
 which are inconsistent with the respect due to a Court. Then 
 the awe and nervousness of such a company of tradesmen are 
 quite forgotten, and they seem all at their ease. How much 
 more natural the effect would be were there a certain earnest- 
 ness and gravity present, as though each were striving to do his 
 best ! There is another danger, too, in this exaggeration — that 
 of destroying the proportion and giving this comic element too 
 great a prominence. 
 
 And yet, though all this makes the judicious grieve, it cannot 
 be denied that Mr. Tree is an admirable and most judicious 
 actor in his own line — ^yea, even an admirable Shakespearean 
 actor. Nothing finer on the modern stage has been witnessed 
 than his performance of Mark Antony in Julius Ccssar, where his 
 speech to the crowd was intensely dramatic — simply masterly. 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 75 
 
 He swayed it, played on it as if on an instrument, inflaming, 
 soothing down. ' O si sic omnes !' 
 
 Leading actors usually make choice of a particular Shake- 
 spearean character because such happens to suit them. Mr. 
 Tree, however, greatly daring, seems ready to essay any in 
 succession or all. We may admire this intrepid spirit, and he 
 may be right, from his point of view ; for as he always treats 
 his play as a gorgeous spectacular show, this does not so much 
 matter, and all shortcomings are covered up. He really gives 
 us a series of excellent recitations, but he scarcely can be con- 
 sidered to act his great characters — that is, fill them out — or 
 offer those moods and hesitations and sudden changes, and all 
 that fascinating gamut which makes up true acting. Richard, II. 
 is stored full of speeches — very long most of them — and our 
 manager recites them with infinite pains and good elocution. 
 As each speech comes round, he composes himself for the effort, "" 
 and delivers it fluently and correctly too, but without much 
 heart, passion, or feeling. But, indeed, most of our actors 
 recite in this way, conveying that they have the words by heart._ 
 
 For Caliban there is but the one traditional way. As he is 
 set down in the text as a half monster, repulsive and hideous in 
 aspect, so he must be represented as physically repulsive and 
 hideous. Mr. Tree went to great pains to produce this impres- 
 sion. Now, as I have shown, a quiet, unprejudiced study of the 
 part will show that there is nothing specially horrible or 
 monstrous about Caliban's aspect. There is no need of his 
 being disfigured in this fashion by the property man. The 
 true mode of interpretation would be to show him as mentally 
 repulsive and ugly. Prospero does so effectively before Caliban 
 appears on the scene. He must act repulsiveness — i.e., show 
 suspicion, hatred, meanness, etc. — so that we may exclaim, 
 * What an abominable creature this is !' The result will be far 
 more powerful than anything through the agency of fangs, false 
 nose, etc. So with his grovelling, when he creeps from his cave 
 like an animal and crawls to Prospero. What is forgotten is 
 the suffering side of the creature — his piteous complaints of 
 tyrannous treatment. If this were more brought out, a sort of 
 sympathy would be excited. He suggests the treatment of 
 some animal by a brutal master. All the low, savage element 
 has been exaggerated by the performers. 
 
76 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Would the magician, we may* ask, need to exert his 
 tremendous power in the case of so low and degraded a thing — 
 a sort of brute breast ? No ; Caliban must have been a 
 rebellious and fallen spirit. He therefore, as I have said, offers 
 a rather tragic spectacle, and should excite sympathy. 
 
 For one revival at least Shakespeareans are deeply indebted 
 to Mr. Tree — viz., for the almost fascinating Richard, II. One 
 is inclined to regret that Irving had never taken up this play. 
 It was certainly suited to him, and he would have made it 
 pathetically interesting. On the other hand, he would have 
 been as slow as Mr. Tree, if not slower. Alas ! when will 
 our actors learn that people in agitated situations hurry their 
 utterances more quickly and excitedly, and pour out their 
 words ? There is something truly fascinating in the tone and 
 subtle exhibition of divers mental states in this great character 
 — now dreamy, now piteous, alternated with scenes of violence. 
 One is astonished that it has never taken firm hold of the public, 
 and it is to be feared that it rather goes over their head, and 
 is too refined for its appreciation. Mr. Tree may be forgiven 
 much for his admirable presentation of this interesting and 
 attractive piece. Nothing, indeed, could be better or more 
 exciting as an entertainment. Here we may certainly condone 
 the various decorative adornments, processions, and the like, 
 which seem almost legitimate, as, for instance, Bolingbroke's 
 triumphant entry, first introduced, I believe, by Charles Kean. 
 Shakespeare, indeed, by the mouth of his Chorus in Henry V., 
 tacitly bids us invite our imagination to work and supply the 
 scene ; but, though not set down, we may fairly assume that it 
 is implied. 
 
 In the scene of the entry to London there was, of course, 
 almost a squadron of horses engaged, who took some time to 
 pass in the vivid procession through the scenic street. A most 
 effective business it was. But the most notable moment 
 was the appearance of the wretched King, agitated, sitting 
 uneasily upon his beast, and clearly conveying that he was 
 led captive. Mr. Tree's bearing was truly dramatic and 
 significant. 
 
 This is the play of long speeches and dialogues — speeches and 
 dialogues of an intricate sort, almost metaphysical in parts, and 
 so requiring delicate inflexions, due emphasis, and clear intona- 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving yj 
 
 tion to bring out the meaning. Here the manager presents 
 the aspect of a hapless King, after a poetical fashion. 
 
 As we know, Richard is a changeable, hesitating character, 
 fitful, uncertain, yet all the time positive and apparently deter- 
 mined or self-willed. It is clear that all this uncertainty of 
 character should be distinctly marked in the early portions, 
 which prepare us for the later ones. How uncertain, for 
 instance, is his behaviour to the two angry Lords Bolingbroke 
 and Mowbray ! He cannot make up his mind what to do with 
 them, and so drifts into the tournament arrangement. It is 
 worth considering on a moment what a penalty has to be paid 
 for too much realism. Nothing could be better or so good as 
 Mr. Tree's exhibition of the lists — the crowd and all the cere- 
 monial. It was admirably delusive and perfect. But, as we 
 know from the play, it did not go beyond the prefatory cere- 
 monials. When the King threw down his baton and stopped 
 the conflict, the feeling in the audience was clearly aware that 
 all this pomp of lists, crowds, shoutings, etc., was thrown-away 
 effort, and scarcely intelligible. The King sat aloft in his ' pen ' 
 through all the heraldic programme. When an official says, 
 ' Stay ! the King has thrown down his warder,' he then in a 
 rather unmeaning fashion proceeds to sentence the two lords to 
 banishment. In all this there was shown something indistinct. 
 The changes were not brought out as they should be. Let 
 us see. 
 
 It may be conceded that this passage more completely than 
 any other in Shakespeare warrants the scenic development of 
 the lists, tournament, etc. ; but it may be doubted if the 
 arrangement of the stage here is exactly what was intended. 
 This exhibition of galleries or boxes, the setting the King and 
 his Court afar off and aloft, excludes acting. I always think ~^ 
 that there never should be a stage on a stage, and that words / 
 and acting on the second stage become ineffective. 
 
 How, then, should it be done ? The situation is this : The 
 irresolute monarch has been drawn in to consent to the con- 
 flict, yet he is displeased and fretted that his proposals for 
 accommodation have not been accepted by the masterful 
 Bolingbroke, whom he mistrusts. Then he suddenly makes up 
 his mind to stop the business and get rid of both. The lists 
 should be placed without, and the King go to the wing in a 
 
78 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 marked ostentatious fashion to cast down his warder. By this 
 arrangement we have the whole business acUA, and not 
 exhibited. 
 
 That the throwing down the warder, too, is described and 
 not seen is proved by attention being called to it. We could 
 imagine the King making excited gestures, waving his arms, 
 with attendant confusion, surprise, etc., in the spectator. But 
 we are astonished to find, on looking at the text, that the 
 whole was arranged in a much more business-like fashion. 
 The severe sentence was the result of a sort of improvised 
 council, the King saying : 
 
 ' Withdraw with us, while we return these dukes what we decree.' 
 
 After a few moments he comes forward and says : 
 
 ' Draw near and list what with our council we have done.' 
 
 Mr. Tree, of course, with his pens and 'pent-houses, where the 
 King was ' on view,' had to leave out all this. 
 
 The death of the King is represented as a sort of violent 
 scuffle or riot, and we can hardly see how the King so suddenly 
 attacks one of the attendants. Then enters Exton, with others, 
 and a second ' shindy ' sets in, during which no words are 
 heard and little is seen — it is so dark. Yet the whole, when 
 understood from the text, is quite distinct, deliberate, and 
 most interesting. The forlorn King has been talking with the 
 faithful groom about his horse Barbary and about his wrongs, 
 when a keeper enters and bids the groom get away ; on which 
 the King shows a fretful agitation, and even fury, walking 
 about angrily until the keeper bids him sit down to his meal. 
 On which the King shows mad suspicion, and hastily insists 
 on his tasting it, which the other refuses, as it has been for- 
 bidden by Exton. The poor King, half maddened, gets in a 
 fury and beats him. Exton and his men enter the next 
 moment. The King at once divines that they have come to 
 kill him — as, indeed, they have — and, snatching a weapon, attacks 
 one of the men, killing him ; then attacks another attendant 
 and kills him, on which Exton 'strikes him down.' During 
 this struggle there are words and speeches which ought to be 
 clearly heard. When the King is lying dead a sort of vision 
 or phantasmagoria follows : the walls of the prison disappear, 
 
Modem Revivalists — Irving 79 
 
 and the Coronation Scene in Westminster Abbey is shown, with 
 processions, music, etc. The idea seems to be that the King 
 has some dim vision of this kind, but it is quite too panto- 
 mimic, though certainly effective. 
 
 By this arrangement it is conveyed that BoHngbroke had 
 contrived and ordered the King's murder. Exton persuades 
 his comrade that Bolingbroke had asked for some one to rid 
 him of this enemy, but he was speaking of another. In place 
 of this coronation show there is a scene where Exton brings 
 in Richard in his coffin. 
 
 Mr. Tree's last effort has been the splendid Antony and 
 Cleopatra — that gigantic play. Alas ! for that incurable love of 
 the panorama, which is to this play, of all others, repugnant ; 
 for the piece is made to open with an elaborately-painted view 
 of the famous Sphinx in all its solemnity. Nothing is done in 
 presence of this Sphinx — no performers appear — but the audi- 
 ence is invited to gaze on it for a few moments, when it 
 passes away. At the close, after the tragic work is done, the 
 Sphinx reappears, and the audience is again allowed to moralize 
 in its presence. The point and meaning of this intrusion is 
 officially explained.* 
 
 Few producers have been able to resist the introduction of 
 the noted Cleopatra's galley, so gorgeously described by 
 Enobarbus, with its burnished gold ; and one dreads, it must 
 be confessed, these galleys — propelled over the floor on rollers, 
 
 * Expounding his intentions to members of the Press, Mr. Tree continued 
 to dwell earnestly on this intruded device of the Egyptian Sphinx. ' The 
 major part of the drama is laid in Egypt, that wonderful civilization which 
 has been for some centuries buried beneath the sands of time. There 
 remains through the centuries the calm figure of the Sphinx, still gazing across 
 the desert of to-day, as it did in the days of Egyptian greatness; so I propose 
 at the rise of the curtain that this symbol shall be the opening note of the 
 play. At the close of our falling night we see looming once more through 
 the darkness the calm, indifferent figure of the Sphinx in the desert. The 
 play ends as it begins, with this symbol of eternity.' 
 
 One may speculate vainly as to how this is connected with the play, or 
 how the placid indifference of the Sphinx can have aught to do with the 
 tempestuous movements of the drama and its personages, which are not in 
 the least regulated by fate or destiny. Is it disrespectful to say that this 
 approaches clap-trap? It is as unmeaning as it is un-Shakespearean. 
 
 There is no reason why this principle should not be applied to other plays 
 of Shakespeare. In Macbeth, for instance, some old Scottish monument 
 might be exhibited at the opening and at the end, as 'symbol of eternity look- 
 ing on with calm indifference through the ages '; and so with Hamlet there 
 might be an old Danish relic portrayed. It is a purely fanciful and even 
 unmeaning notion. 
 
r 
 
 l: 
 
 80 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 the linen waters coming up to the footlights, which they are 
 prevented overflowing by a long board, which is yet no bank 
 or shore, but a clumsy method of terminating the enclosed 
 area. 
 
 Shakespearean ' revivals,' as they are called, have always 
 been in high favour, from the days of Garrick to those of 
 Mr. Beerbohm Tree — ' revival ' being presumed to stand for 
 costly and elaborate adornments in the way of dressing and 
 decoration. Each ' reviver' strives to excel his predecessor in 
 the sumptuousness of his * show,' and the piece selected is 
 usually as much burdened, and even overwhelmed, with trap- 
 pings as was the Tarpeian maid. The outlay is almost reckless. 
 The superficial crowd, no doubt, thinks that this system is a 
 proper and legitimate way of illustrating the text. To tell 
 them that the greater and more lavish the decoration, the less 
 must be the intelligence, with an attendant certainty that the 
 meaning of the words and significance of the action and 
 characters will be obscured, might seem to them fantastic and 
 paradoxical ; and yet it is the truth, for a Shakespeare play 
 unadorned is adorned the most. In such displays the propor- 
 tion is destroyed. "What is meant to be airily touched is 
 overwhelmed, as in Mr. Tree's gorgeous presentation of the 
 Twelfth Night where we are shown the beautiful gardens of 
 the lady, so elaborately laid out as to bring us down to 
 the world without. 
 
 Elia's well-known essay on • Shakespeare's Tragedies ' holds 
 within it the correct principles that should guide the Shake- 
 spearean reviver. True, we find the rather fantastic and 
 extravagant theory that the plays should not be acted at all, as 
 this process, he contended, brings down both performers and 
 audience to earthy depths, and destroys the work of the 
 ' imaginative faculty.' But the theory might be amended into 
 this : that the reader has a greater enjoyment and appreciation 
 than the spectator, which is certainly true. He also maintains 
 that we always confound the player with the character. You 
 see Kemble or Irving before you, rather than Macbeth or Shylock. 
 ' So to see Lear acted,' he says — ' to see an old man tottering 
 about the stage with a walking-stick, turned out of doors by 
 his daughters on a rainy night — has nothing in it but what is 
 painful and disgusting. The contemptible machinery with 
 
Modern Revivalists — Irving 8i 
 
 which they mimic the storm into which he goes out is not 
 more inadequate to represent the horrors of the real elements.' 
 It is easy to apply and extend this to the principles we have 
 been considering, which prove how impossible it is, on the 
 stage, to supply an illusory reproduction of the things of real 
 life. The nearer the representation approaches to the mere 
 conditions of the reading, the better it will be ; while scenery 
 and appointments should be supplied, subject to modern rules, 
 by the characters and the interpretations. It is hopeless, of 
 course, in these days to attempt to turn back the tide. The 
 stage system of painting, lights, dresses, upholstery, etc., is too 
 firmly established to be reformed or abandoned. Granting, 
 however, that we must continue to accept them, we may con- 
 tend that even these accepted methods are, in their way, most 
 rude and unintelligent, and that if managers sought an in- 
 spiration, and permeated themselves with the true Shake- 
 spearean spirit, they could present their show in a far more 
 plausible and rational fashion. But no ! they cling to the old 
 truc%, covering them over with modern tinsel. Nor do they 
 seek for the Shakespearean illusion, the lifting of the spectator 
 into the realms of fancy and into the spiritual land. All is 
 gorgeous, but mechanical and earthy. All stagecraft and 
 tradional devices, tricks, etc., should be subordinate. "Any 
 attempts at stage sensation, realistic treatment, should be 
 taboo.* 
 
 * Mr. Sidney Lee witnessed a performance of Antony at the Hofburg 
 Theatre in Vienna which occupied five hours, and no one seemed fatigued or to 
 lose interest. I fear we in this country have quite lost the studious intellectual 
 taste which could help us to sit up through plays of Racine, or Lessing, or 
 Schiller, or Goethe, as all cultivated nations are trained to do. This is a 
 serious matter, and should make us pause to think. We know that no 
 manager dare present here a five-hour play. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 OTHER MODERN REVIVALS 
 
 BESIDES Mr. Tree's great panoramic efforts, there have 
 been a good many representations at the smaller theatres 
 of a less pretentious kind, and which by the conditions have 
 given greater prominence to the acting. Some of these have 
 been of considerable merit and interest. 
 
 Among these conscientious directors the foremost is assuredly 
 Mr. F. Benson, the earliest pioneer of the system, who for years 
 has held on steadily in his course, never flagging, and leading 
 his repertoire company into every part of the kingdom. How 
 excellent his methods — beginning with a perfectly practised com- 
 pany, well trained, and advanced hierarchically through all 
 the degrees, supported by a modest but sufficient decoration 
 and dressing, an intelligent arrangement of each play! His 
 pieces are set forth with a correct and judicious reserve in the 
 setting ; everything is suitable and handsome, but nothing in 
 excess. But the chief praise must be for the sound, excellent, 
 and solid acting. Every one is trained, all play together, and 
 say their speeches with an admirable elocution that recalls the 
 ' good old school.' 
 
 At the close we feel that we have been witnessing a most 
 thoughtful and suggestive performance — one that can be called 
 satisfactory. The manager himself usually takes the leading 
 character, and, it must be confessed, has some peculiarities 
 which one could wish away ; but these are overpowered by 
 his entire sincerity and ardour. This Benson treatment has 
 become a system. We find his scholars in all the companies — 
 notably Mr. O. Asche and Miss Brayton — where they are 
 revealed by their admirable and special training. But, as I 
 said, we owe a debt of gratitude to him for this increase of 
 the public stock of harmless pleasure. 
 
 82 
 
Other Modern Revivals 83 
 
 Yet another of these conscientious and thoughtful workers, 
 still, without any pretension or showmanship, is Mr. Otho Stuart, 
 of the Adelphi. We are indebted to him also for at least a 
 couple of intelligently managed revivals, which have been 
 heartily enjoyed and can be favourably compared with the 
 most sumptuous attempts. Nothing could exceed the good 
 spirits, the simplicity, the animation, the ' go,' as it is called, 
 of The Taming of the Shrew. It was * natural, easy, affecting,' 
 as was said of Garrick, and also unaffected. One can see it 
 many times with pleasure and interest. The performers were 
 unambitious ; they had not been schooled down to inanity, or 
 oppressed by the overpowering presence of an actor-manager ; 
 nor were they afraid to be spontaneous, lest they should inter- 
 fere with the effect of costly and elaborate scenery. There was 
 due reserve in scenery, reserve in dresses, and consequently 
 perfect freedom for the characters and the play. 
 
 One of the happiest features of the whole was the way in 
 which the tone of the Italian life was brought before us. All 
 the portion that dealt with the suitors, who were bidding, as it 
 were, for Bianca, seemed most natural and had a great interest, 
 contrasting also with the humours of the shrew and her 
 'tamer.' These gracefully decked youths passing to and fro, 
 the crafty old father — all fell into their places, moved grace- 
 fully, and made pictures like one of Paolo Veronese's. Some- 
 thing in the elocution, of course, was wanting, the recitation of 
 the lines imperfect, and much, therefore, as is usual, inaudible. 
 All was spoken as though it were common talk of our day. 
 This, however, could be helped, cannot now be remedied. The 
 conception of the pleasant scenes with Bianca, with the tutor 
 and music-master, etc., was rather common farce — a good joke 
 or bit of humbug. It should have been put on a higher level, 
 and treated with comedy grace and elegance ; the young men 
 lovers, etc., should have walked with an elegant and stately 
 grace, like young nobles as they were. But, alas ! our young 
 performers can hardly do this, nor can they be expected to do 
 it. There should be music, too, in their voices. 
 
 It is unfortunate that the comic portion of The Taming of 
 the Shrew should always have been considered the essential 
 part of the play, all the rest being abbreviated, cut out, and 
 generally maltreated. It is, in truth, only intended as ' relief ' 
 
 6—3 
 
84 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 to a pleasing and interesting comedy. Even if it stood by 
 itself, the plot is developed at good length and lightened up in 
 the most delightful way by the Shrew Scenes. It might well 
 stand alone. 
 
 In The Taming of the Shrew it invariably happens that there 
 is a sad exaggeration in these * rough-and-tumble ' scenes. 
 They are gone through in pantomime fashion. Petruchio 
 throws about the sham meat, dresses, etc., exactly as in a 
 pantomime. The cooks bring in their ' property ' leg of 
 mutton, which he flings away, and they rush off, tumbling over 
 each other with an unconvincing pretence of terror. So with 
 the dresses, band-boxes, etc., brought by a milliner — all 
 pantomime. But, it will be asked, how should it be done ? 
 In a natural and realistic way. The cooks, whose work was 
 so rudely treated, would be more surprised than terrified ; they 
 should show astonishment, pick up their joints ruefully and 
 with some indignation. Petruchio should be more deliberate, 
 as if gradually working himself into a fury. As Johnson, 
 criticizing Garrick, said, he should let * the gentleman break 
 through the footman.' So should Petruchio let his good- 
 humour break through his pretended rage. For here was an 
 Italian carrying out a plan for the subjugation of his lady — 
 a serious but important business. He would say to himself, 
 ' I must awe this woman — thoroughly frighten her out of her 
 life.' But instead we have only a comical personage throwing 
 about legs of mutton and tearing up dresses ! And all done in 
 a moment. No wife would be frightened by such a proceeding. 
 No ; the actors should take thought, strive to visualize the 
 situation, and always put this question to themselves : ' Of 
 what sort would this situation be in real life ? and how should 
 I behave in such a situation ?' 
 
 Then, again, in such a play we may always note the 
 literalism that regulates it. Everything is interpreted in a 
 matter-of-fact English way, without a thought for the Italian 
 atmosphere. The joinings are too rough. All should be 
 blended and softened ; scene should succeed scene in a dreamy 
 way. The actors should try and try, and feel the soft Italian 
 persuasiveness joined with impetuousness. And then the stately 
 gentlemanliness, the air of gracious courtesy, with melodious 
 tones — where are we to find that ? But no ; comic business 
 
Other Modem Revivals 85 
 
 has to be got out of passages like the music-lesson ; where the 
 supposed professor was sat two clowns at horse-play, and two 
 Italian gentlemen trying to outwit one another. The shapers 
 and adapters of the bard have often played fantastic tricks with 
 the play. When Sly is found asleep, and carried off by the Duke's 
 orders, we next find him in bed in a sumptuous chamber, 
 waking up as from a dream. There is no warrant for this in 
 the text, for we are told, ' Enter Sly, with attendants.' No 
 doubt the discovery in a bed adds somewhat to the ' comic 
 business,' but, still, it is not set down. A more serious omission 
 is the introduction of the players to the Duke, who are 
 instructed by him as to the acting of the piece that follows — a 
 significant illustration of the social status of these people, who 
 could be made by the nobles to take part in rude practical 
 joking. This is necessary as explaining how the play came to 
 be performed. It brings us also to the great difficulty which 
 has puzzled managers, viz., how it can be contrived that Sly 
 should witness the play, it being performed in his presence. 
 Sometimes he was placed in a chair at the wing, but the true 
 solution is to assume that he was, as it were, present invisibly. 
 But here is a suggestion that might be worth considering : 
 What if, at the close of the induction, a scene were exhibited 
 representing the interior of a large chamber, with a stage fitted 
 up at one end ? Then a pompous and grotesque procession, 
 introducing Sly, who was shown to the principal seat, the 
 music striking up, while as the curtain rose the scene would 
 close in. The notion of Sly and Petruchio being performed by 
 the same actor destroys the relation between the two portions 
 of the play ; it is most intolerable, and not to be endured. 
 
 A beautifully ' staged ' revival of this play was that of the late 
 Augustin Daly, in which Miss Rehan and Mr. Drew were the 
 leading performers. Interesting and attractive as it was, it 
 seemed to me that the Adelphi version was better. Drew was 
 not much of a woman-tamer ; his voice was not strong, he was 
 too genteel. Miss Rehan was admirable, but still hardly coarse 
 enough. One could not ask a more satisfactory performance 
 than that of Oscar Asche ; he has the voice, the roughness, the 
 build by nature — a very carter of a man. Miss Brayton was 
 also excellently suited to the part, and they made an admirable 
 pair. As she performed the two characters of mother and 
 
86 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 daughter — Hermione and Perdita: the one tender, plaintive, 
 and loving ; the other bright and animated — the contrast was 
 wonderful. Nothing excited more interest than the abandon 
 of the rustic dance, through which the young girl literally 
 bounded with an enchanting exuberance. And then the 
 Statue Scene. How tender was the revelation and the slow 
 descent of the steps, all watching, absorbed and dazed, as it 
 moved. Perhaps, on the whole, this was the most poetical of 
 all the revivals. 
 
 The propriety of ' doubling,' as it is called, of the parts of 
 Hermione and the youthful Perdita may be questioned, as it 
 destroys the significance of each character. It was impossible 
 to see the girlish Perdita frisking it and dancing without 
 recalling that she was also the wise and mature Hermione, 
 and there was something almost comic in the thought that the 
 faithful, endearing wife was to dwindle away into quite a new 
 shape. To true Shakespeareans there is something disagree- 
 able in the notion. But, then, the opportunity for business: the 
 clever actress can here have compensation for the comparative 
 effacement of Hermione by turning herself into her own 
 daughter! But see at what sacrifice! In the last beautiful 
 Statue Scene one of the tenderest portions is the affectionate 
 bearing of Perdita. Leontes' delight is one thing, the daughter's 
 another ; but this latter portion, as a matter of course, has to 
 be ruthlessly cut out, with infinite loss.* 
 
 * With this performance we turn to Mr. Tree's elaborate treatment of the 
 same play, in which he appears to have attempted to bring the scent of the 
 haycocks over the footlights. 
 
 The rustic scenes are more in the Watteau vein than in that of the riotous, 
 gymnastic, and noisy gathering of English country-folk, who in modem 
 versions invade the stage. Farm labourers, however, joyous and even though 
 in anticipation of a feast, do not come in tumbling, jumping in the air, and 
 roaring vociferously. Perdita is bidden to welcome them : 
 
 ' See, your guests approach. 
 Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, 
 And let's be red with mirth.' 
 
 Much grace and measured speeching at this welcoming follows, which 
 would be totally out of keeping with a tumultuous and disorderly gang of 
 yokels. The author is careful to mention the elements of which the visitors 
 consisted — shepherd, clown, Mopsa, Dorcas and two others, with servants. 
 There was a superior distinguishable class, therefore, with a few 'farm 
 hands.' These surely would be quiet and respectful. Then follows a dance 
 by shepherds and shepherdesses, not intended as a sort of confused romp, but 
 a regular measure, headed by Florizel and Perdita, whose presence would 
 
Other Modern Revivals 87 
 
 Mr. Oscar Asche is a fine solid actor, with a full, weighty, and 
 well-cadenced voice, and judicious methods. He is satisfactory 
 in all that he attempts. He is also Shakespearean. Entering on 
 management, he has already given two of the bard's plays — As You 
 Like It and Othello. In this last the spirit of the author and of 
 the piece was a good deal present. In the former, however, it 
 was missed. The fatal literalness seemed to be always present, 
 there was lacking the light fanciful touch, the half-purpose, the 
 indistinct region between jest and serious, which is so attractive. 
 Mr. Asche has the art of giving the full meaning to a mere word 
 or two by a judicious inflexion and a certain intensity. 
 
 The ordinary colloquial style of conversation was never so 
 completely applied as in the late revival of Js You Like It by 
 Mr. Oscar Asche. The idea, no doubt, was that, as there was 
 a pleasant tone of irresponsibility, of almost picnicking in a 
 forest, it should be all as modern as possible. Accordingly, 
 every one chattered on, hurrying the words, and illustrating all 
 with modern gestures and facial expression. The result was 
 curious — all the play became quite let down to the very ' bass 
 string.' But he was only following the mode. 
 
 Rosalind, it need not be Said, is the most exquisite of 
 characters : all grace and elegance, with a surprising lightness 
 of touch — now serious, now gay ; now only half in earnest, shy 
 and yet bold — a mixture of the most complex feelings, fitful and 
 yet heroic. But this half earnestness is the chief note. In 
 appearance she should be a graceful, elegant creature : her face 
 full of a bright intelligence, her dress inconspicuous, her head 
 unencumbered with wrappings, and her speech ? Nothing said 
 with deliberate intention, nothing frivolous, the delicate poetry 
 being voiced with a tender delicacy and melody. There, as 
 Elia said, ' earth touches heaven.' 
 
 Miss Brayton was a very pleasing but practical young 
 
 certainly enforce a sort of restraint and decorum. Presently the twelve 
 herdsmen, carters, etc., come in — 'men of hair' — and they give a regular 
 formal exhibition of dancing. 
 
 But what had this real water to do with us, or we with it ? or, above all, 
 
 where did Shakespeare Oh, well, ' it was all in the picture, you know.' 
 
 It leant a glamour of poetry ; but it seemed to me a disturbing element ; its 
 trickly babble distracted. We wondered what became of the water, why it 
 didn't Overflow, etc. Why not a haycock ? But who cares for such things ? 
 I really believe a fair, open stage, without any of these steps, sham mosques, 
 sham rocks, would look far more real. 
 
88 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 person, heavily and richly attired, a sort of stately personage, 
 with a fantastic head-dress. Her talk was modern. Again I 
 say there is no fault to find here, for she was but following the 
 system. 
 
 A certain deliberateness and clearness of utterance, with 
 also a melodious tone or chant, is surely necessary for the 
 delivery of exquisite poetry. There should be also a faith and 
 earnestness — say persuasiveness — in the meaning. This mean- 
 ing should also be well thought out. Melody, grace, intention 
 — these things should all be present. But where are they to 
 be found without schooling ? The truth is that, as the scene 
 and its decoration is a stage above the prosaic audience, so the 
 language and its tones should also be on a higher plane. 
 
 The character of the melancholy Jaques is obviously intel- 
 ligible. There is something pleasing in the notion of this 
 grave, reflective man, who has seen the world, making his wise 
 comments in this sylvan solitude. He is superior to his situa- 
 tion and knows more than his companions. Mr. Asche made 
 him a rather careless personage, in a sort of rude gaberdine, 
 munching apples. The player makes him strike in, after a 
 most familiar easy-going fashion, with the notorious speech, 
 ' All the world's a stage ' ; as who should say, ' My dear boys, the 
 world is all a piece of acting — everybody goes on acting. Why, 
 the child acts,' etc. 
 
 The notion is a rather plausible one, but I think it will not 
 hold ; for it must be borne in mind that it is a regular homily 
 and preachment, elaborately and deliberately set forth, the rest 
 listening with immense interest. It takes a long time to 
 develop the theme, which hardly suits mere colloquialism. I 
 believe the true method of delivery would be this : It should 
 be a sort of rumination, in low tones, growing as it went on, 
 each age suggesting the next. Hence there would be pauses 
 as he reflected and new ideas came to him ; then he would 
 increase in intensity. There would be a cast of poetry rise 
 from the seat of solemnity and pathos which held his auditors. 
 
 The truth is, the theatrical idea was the Duke's own, who 
 had made a remark that there were woeful pageants going on 
 in the world outside the scene in which they were now playing. 
 On which text, the wise man said quickly : ' Why, all the 
 world's a stage.' And the word suggested a stage terminology 
 
Other Modern Revivals 89 
 
 — exits, entrances, many parts. Seeing them attentive, he will 
 go on, after a slight pause. But he must be dramatic, and 
 even eloquent, to answer expectations, and so proceed to give 
 pictures of the seven ages. 
 
 The historical plays are thought to be dull and dreary, yet 
 I firmly believe that if, full as they are of battles, wars, and 
 confusion, they were taken in hand by capable, thoughtful, and 
 reverent persons, they could be galvanized into perfect interest- 
 ing life. The meaning of each scene should be sought out and 
 evolved. We find a Legate or an Archbishop and some lords 
 discussing matters, and the recipe is to have some inferior 
 players to recite the long speeches : ' get through ' them any- 
 how — quite a drawing business. Every scene in life can be 
 realized, or visualized, if we only properly project ourselves 
 into it.* 
 
 Another most satisfactory and unobtrusive of these modern 
 revivals was Mr. Lewis Waller's production of Henry V. It 
 had a slight tinge of modernity, but on that account became 
 interesting. The battle scenes, sieges, etc., were not unduly 
 developed and garnished, but on that account seemed natural 
 and effective. It was conveyed to us very clearly that those 
 eccentric beings. Pistol and the others, were not introduced 
 for comic effect, but were enlisted soldiers, who were enliven- 
 ing their duties with their oddities and disputes. There never 
 was a better or more intelligible Pistol than Mr. Mollison. 
 Then there was the Chorus, made, as I have shown, a perfectly 
 natural portion of his action and helping it on. 
 
 Another very pleasing revival was that oi Measure for Measure, 
 a piece one is accustomed to find put aside on the plea that 
 it is impracticable, and unacceptable to audiences. I think all 
 thoughtful people must have been interested by it ; and I 
 really believe, had Angelo, Isabella, and Claudio been per- 
 formed according to Shakespeare's canons, it would have been 
 powerfully attractive. Not but that Mr, Oscar Asche and his 
 wife discharged excellently, but the reading was on simple con- 
 ventional lines. Angelo, the deputy, became the regular 
 
 * I have in this book referred already to an illustration drawn from 
 Meissonier's picture. There seems to me always a lesson in the art of 
 visualizing things. I never pass the etching shop windows without being 
 riveted by that magical '1812,' Napoleon riding at the head of his Generals. 
 The artist thought it all, firmly fancied he was present. 
 
90 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 stage villain — the tyrant, the man of broken faith, who loved 
 to beguile and shed blood. In this view he becomes an un- 
 meaning personage, and his breaking his promise to Isabella 
 after she had, as he supposed, yielded to his wishes seems 
 wholly superfluous. But it is not simple as this : for Angelo 
 is a strange mixed character of different moods — now winning 
 and persuasive, now fierce and impetuous and savage, now 
 crafty, like lago. So with Isabella, who is a grand heroine, 
 and playing loftily for a great stake — her brother's life. I 
 could fancy great actors letting themselves be drifted to and 
 fro by the gusto and humours of their passions. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 SHAKESPEAREAN ' BUSINESS ' : ITS NEGLECT AND THE 
 REMEDY 
 
 AS it is certain that the modern devices of stagecraft, with 
 the time properties, limes, etc., will be always with 
 us, and must be accepted, we may well wonder why scientific 
 rules, thought, and study are not applied to their regulation. 
 For there really is a science in all delusion. How complete, 
 how deft, how neat is the common necromancer ! Yet on the 
 stage operations are clumsily carried out by ' rule of thumb.' 
 Thus, a bank is required : a sort of box is brought in, covered 
 over with a painted cloth, and you have a bank. Even in 
 carrying out Shakespeare's ' business ' the same crudity is shown, 
 yet there can be no doubt these innumerable passages, if dealt 
 with thoughtfully and according to the rules of illusion, would 
 enormously aid the plays. I propose to deal with this interest- 
 ing topic, and to show by a selection of familiar illustrations 
 how these minor bits of effect ought to be dealt with. 
 
 It is wonderful how simple the process of treatment would 
 become if the revivers and organizers set themselves thought- 
 fully to consider how the situations would appear in ordinary 
 life, and how real people would behave under such conditions. 
 Iqstead, however, little is thought of but the exhibiting of 
 panoramas of dress and painting and machinery, with the 
 result that nothing is sfidwn that is natural or probable, or, 
 indeed, anything that is familiar in the round of daily life. 
 This appears from an illustration in painting. Every one 
 knows the extraordinary charm and attraction that is found in 
 Meissonier's work. His subjects seem but homely and trivial — 
 a reader, chess-players, a tavern quarrel, a village sign-painter, 
 and, above all, military and Napoleonic sketches, and yet each 
 has a living, dramatic power of reality that quite captivates ; we 
 
 91 
 
92 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 seem to be looking at something living and in action, as though 
 one were at a window gazing at what is going on in the street. 
 Hence the constant uninterrupted stream of etched reproduc- 
 tions, which are almost as much sought for as the original, 
 and fetch £30 or £40 a piece. Who can forget the figures 
 of Napoleon — the ' 1812,' now riding at the head of his 
 Generals, now solitary on his white horse, now witnessing a 
 charge of cavalry ? There is no ' splash ' or composition of 
 figures, but, so perfect is the propriety, we feel a conviction that 
 so the great man must have looked in such a situation. Now, 
 what is the reason of this magical effect ? It is really owing to 
 an imagination of the most vivid power. The artist saw the 
 situations before his eyes, or he had seen something like them 
 in real life. There was no grouping of paid models and dress- 
 ing up, though these things came later, when the whole was 
 fixed in his mind. Take the ' Examination of a Peasant,' who 
 has been stopped by a company of soldiers, and is being intetro- 
 gated by the officer as to the route, etc. Nothing can be more 
 like life. The artist called up the scene before him. He 
 imagined how the soldiers would look and behave — their quiet 
 curiosity ; the gravity of the officer ; the vulgar, stolid peasant 
 telling his tale. So with the two mounted officers in another 
 picture, one of whom is pointing out something at a distance. 
 We never forget those two figures, and wonder what it was 
 exactly they were interested about. All which is the result of 
 imagination and knowledge of life, and of how things occur in 
 life — imagination joined with observation — and the artist's 
 imagination excites our imaginations. Then his costumes, 
 mostly a couple of centuries old, not fancy dresses fitted on 
 paid models, but looking as though always worn, and quite 
 familiar to the wearer. 
 
 Now, this is the sort of gift and treatment that should be 
 applied to Shakespeare on the stage. Instead of the prosaic 
 imitation of earthy objects, the imagination should be at work ; 
 the reviver should be a seer and have visions. He should ask 
 himself. How this thing would occur in our day ? how would 
 persons act in such situations ? The manager takes pride in the 
 sheen and glitter of his brand-new dresses — their gold, silver, 
 jewels, and dazzling tints; the costly silks and velvets— all 
 steeped in enriching floods of electric light. All the young men 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 93 
 
 and women, gay courtiers, and the rest make a glittering show, 
 which, however, is like nothing in human life. At no court or 
 festival is such an exhibition ever seen. There is no such 
 amount of illuminated life at courts, nor has there ever been 
 exhibited this display of particoloured elements. There is always 
 contrasted light and shadow. The fancy ball seems to have 
 been always the model, though the fancy ball is itself modelled 
 after the stage pattern. 
 
 I shall now give some illustrations of the coarse, careless 
 fashion in which the sense and purpose of Shakespeare are 
 invariably distorted. We know the established treatment of 
 the ' fat knight ' when he is induced by the ' merry wives ' to 
 hide himself in the basket. This seems the receptacle for the 
 family clothes ' going to the wash,' a thing of usually moderate 
 dimensions, but which by a legitimate exaggeration might be 
 enlarged so as to hold Sir John, though not his superadded 
 bulk. The truth is, Falstaff is not intended to be exhibited as 
 a sort of Daniel Lambert or prodigy of flesh. He was the ' fat 
 knight,' corpulent, unwieldy, and of the average bulk. He was 
 a soldier, and fought in the wars. As regards voice, Mr. Tree 
 had to assume a sort of hoarse, guttural croak, which must have 
 made his audience uneasy, as being distressing to the performer. 
 What do our moderns ? An enormous basket or chest is seen 
 in a corner, about 7 feet long by 4 feet deep, that would hold the 
 washing of half a dozen families. Then this process follows : 
 The knight is put in ; a couple of porters are introduced carrying 
 poles, which they pass through loops contrived at each side of 
 the basket, and so carry him away — a serious burden. This 
 exhibition is artificial, and out of Nature, though it produces 
 laughter. We cannot help speculating how or why this basket 
 became furnished with loops, or whether the porters called 
 every week with their poles for the family washing. No doubt 
 it is stated in the text that they were specially engaged for the 
 job, but still one cannot help thinking that the ladies had the 
 loops attached for the occasion. It is rather humiliating to 
 have to discuss trivialities so seriously, but a real principle is 
 involved. A shorter and shallower basket should be contrived, 
 with a trap beneath it through which the knight might descend. 
 There should be no poles or carrying in sedan-chair fashion. 
 The porters should drag or half lift the basket towards the 
 
94 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 door, and so out. In fact, a comic effect could be produced by 
 all helping, pushing the basket along, the ladies in screams of 
 laughter thinking of the old fellow within and his sensations. 
 
 What is to be the exact hue of Othello's face is always a 
 difficult, but certainly not very important, question to settle. 
 Still, we must make election if his tint is to be ebony black or 
 copper or yellowish. Immaterial as the point is, the protagonist 
 actor must choose and come to a decision. I fancy he will 
 heavily weight himself if he decide on the darker tint, for there 
 will be no room for display of expression of rage, jealousy, etc., 
 and there will be a sustained revolt against the taste of the fair 
 Desdemona, all wondering what else she could expect when she 
 united herself to ' a dirty black.' And yet, after all, the 
 traditional ' coal black ' seems simpler and truer ; it looks as 
 though carved in ebony. Anyone that has seen the noble 
 figures of the East, their snowy robes contrasting with their 
 faces, could not imagine anything repulsive in the spectacle. 
 Such were the dervishes of the Soudan, those terrible champions 
 whom it was impossible not to respect and stand in awe of. I 
 wonder that this imposing and striking guise had not been 
 thought of ; it is so simple and effective, the contrast between 
 white and black being so marked. Instead, the star player 
 thinks of rich robes, embroidered in gold or colours, with an 
 unbecoming turban. 
 
 The Balcony Scene in Romeo and Juliet, so called, was to be 
 regulated by this important scenic principle. On the early stage 
 the spectator supplied the balcony from his imagination — nay, 
 did not want it ; the lover and his mistress carried on their sweet 
 converse just as well. But let us see the objections to the 
 existing system. A balcony — and it must be high, so as to be 
 inaccessible to the lover — would be half-way up towards the 
 sky-borders. The lady would be in the air, and have to scream 
 down her words to him. A balcony to a window, even under 
 such conditions, would be so small as to be dangerous, and 
 Juliet, if she moved, would run the risk of toppling over. On 
 the other hand, if it were near the ground, Romeo could easily 
 lift himself up. Sir H, Irving's way was to have a sort of 
 terrace or loggia, on which Juliet could promenade about. 
 
 It will, perhaps, be a surprise to find that there is no balcony 
 at all ! Juliet ' at a window ' is the direction in the play. It is 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 95 
 
 clear that the whole dramatic illustration is in Juliet's voice, 
 face, and gestures, which are to be as it were framed in the 
 window. A sort of rail, indeed, was in front of the window ; 
 but it was not for standing on, but for leaning on, thus affording 
 graceful and varied attitudes. Now she is projecting herself 
 well forward, now drawing back, now seen, now unseen — a 
 different thing from the heroine who is promenading it so 
 perilously, often likely to topple over, in her narrow area of 
 a practicable balcony. Here her figure is usually shown, quite 
 out of proportion to her surroundings, which are too small and 
 contracted, for a large, roomy balcony requires a large and 
 roomy house-front, which cannot be supplied. The Shake- 
 spearean revivalist having this window, not a balcony, may 
 give himself up to thought and imagination, calling up the 
 reality before him. He may have even seen people at windows 
 conversing with those below. And then he will think of the 
 stillness of the night, the household asleep, the lover prowling 
 in the garden. How would all that be in real life ? There 
 would be a general hush, an air of secrecy and caution, talking 
 in low whispers, rising now and again from forgetfulness into 
 louder accents, starting at imaginary sounds, notes of fright 
 and agitation. Instead of all this we have loud declamation, 
 preaching, chanting, roaring sometimes quite sufficient to rouse 
 not only the house, but the neighbours. But by the former 
 method what a grace and witchery and tender fluttering is 
 introduced ! To read, — such is the impression ; but to see it 
 and hear in modern fashion, all the delicacies seemed brushed 
 away. Before us are robust, noisy, vigorous persons, well able 
 to take care of themselves. 
 
 And here it may be said that, of all the great and popular 
 Shakespearean characters, the most difficult to represent suit- 
 ably are these two. For both the performers there will always 
 be this difficulty, for if the players are of suitable youthfulness, 
 there must be lack of training and experience ; if the latter are 
 present in force, youth and the charm of freshness have fled. 
 It is a regular impasse. The parts are so attractive and profit- 
 able that the experienced players cannot forgo the temptation 
 and have to wait. There are so many beautiful and lengthy 
 speeches to orate with the telling Balcony Scene, and plenty 
 of ' business ' all through the play, that the experienced players 
 
96 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 cannot really forgo it. Accordingly, we have the stalwart man, 
 with a good fruity voice and sturdy limbs, and the youngish 
 lady, who will be full or even stout by and by. Mr. Forbes 
 Robertson, Irving — but thai was only a caprice — Conway, and 
 many more, were all physically unsuitable, while even Miss 
 Mary Anderson, charming as she was, was a little too mature. 
 To hear these girlish and boyish prattlings spouted forth in 
 a strong, sonorous gamut somewhat jars. It is certainly in- 
 consistent. I would have an intelligent youth and an intelligent 
 girl in her teens, and run all the risks.* 
 
 The odd incident in King Lear, where the blind Gloucester 
 is deluded by Edgar into thinking that he has thrown himself 
 down from a lofty cliff, has never been impressively done, owing 
 to the conditions. ' He leaps and falls along ' is the direction. 
 But no actor can do this without clumsiness or the danger 
 of breaking his bones. And then there is the floor — a fall 
 on the boards of a room ! It might seem impossible to impart 
 any real vraisemblance to the thing. But let us see. How 
 would a person bent on suicide be got to behave in such a 
 situation ? By calling on the imagination — for the description 
 of the height is of the most vivid and powerful kind. We seem 
 to be looking down dizzily. Gloucester should show that he 
 was impressed, turning away in horror, retreating and advancing 
 to the imaginary edge. Then, at last, he will nerve himself, 
 turn up his sightless eyes, clasp his hands, cover his face, and 
 stepping on a sort of boulder, jump as it were into space. But 
 in the performance there is never anything of this. All is done 
 literally and practically, while the audience wonders and almost 
 thinks that here the bard intended to amuse himself at their 
 expense. No person arriving at the end of his jump could 
 
 * It is astonishing that among the crowded ranks of the profession there 
 Should not be discovered for Juliet some young creature, stored with a 
 natural grace and sympathy, having a sweet voice and charm of manner, 
 and devoid of affectation. Great and rare gifts these, no doubt, but that 
 they exist there can be no question. The reason they cannot be utilized is 
 owing to the stifling character of the system which forces the candidate into 
 the travelling company, where some trifling character had to be played 
 perhaps for a whole year, and thus every lofty aspiration is crushed. Who 
 will forget the delightful account of Fanny Kemble's first night upon the 
 stage, and in this very character, where her natural grace carried all before 
 it ? More difficult would it be to find a youth similarly endowed, but it 
 would not be impossible. It must be recollected that in almost every instance 
 the untrained actor on his first appearance in town has won his reputation. 
 
Shakespearean 'Business' 97 
 
 believe that he had fallen from an immense height. He must 
 be led to some raised bit of ground, then tumble down. The 
 other steals away, and, after a far-off shout, returns. He should 
 describe to his friend, with an intense feeling of reality, the 
 immense distance he has fallen. This will impress the imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 There is a passage in the Winter's Tale which suggests the 
 great difficulty there is in dealing with some of Shakespeare's 
 stage directions. Antigonus is abandoning the child on the 
 seashore, and, as he lays it down, he hears the sound of the 
 chase, and then ' Exit, pursued by a bear.' What are we to 
 do with this ? The bard hardly meant that an imitation bear 
 should be seen. The words equally convey that Antigonus 
 was flying as if pursued, and here, as I have said so often, if 
 the actor be imaginative he can convey by his own dramatic 
 feeling and action the actual terror and sense of the bear's 
 presence. In this he will be aided by the bard's own varied 
 language : ' This is the chase,' ' A savage clamour,' ' I am gone 
 for ever.' The bear eventually tore him to pieces. So there 
 should be a display of the most abject terror, eagerness to 
 escape, but no growlings of the animal. 
 
 How absurd and unnatural is the sound of breaking open a 
 door on the stage, or, indeed, of crash of any kind behind 
 the scenes ! The traditional way — and it is clung to pertina- 
 ciously — is to spring a gigantic rattle in some fashion, and drop 
 a weight on the floor, or break a lath in twain ! In real life, 
 under the same circumstances, the sound would not be of 
 this kind or nearly so loud. Indeed, as a general rule, if 
 all sounds were more moderated and kept at a far lower 
 pitch, the sense of illusion would be vastly increased. ^ 
 
 The Shakespearean battle, with its ' alarums and excursions,' 
 is familiar to us — nay, is expected as a right. In the revivals 
 they are usually fought in genuine fashion ; but how unreal 
 are they ! The pattern always seems to be a modern conflict. 
 In one of the revivals I recall how the army actually marched 
 by, drawn up in a column four deep, and stepping in time — 
 ' right, left,' etc.* When the battle rages, the combatants strike 
 
 * In one late revival a soldier was seen to salute his superior officer in 
 the prompt fashion adopted in our day ! This was evidently thought to 
 be realistic to a degree. 
 
 7 
 
98 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 with their long swords, so as to produce hollow reverberating 
 sounds on the armour. The super-soldiers bring about a sort 
 of romping scrimmage, like that at a football match — tumble 
 down and get up, or run away. A little reflection will show that it 
 was not in this fashion that conflicts were conducted. We can 
 get an idea from the Highlander battles, described by Scott, in 
 the 'forty-five and other periods, especially from Balfour's stir- 
 ring battle in ' Old Mortality.' There the Scots came on in a 
 long line, with their target, shield, and claymore. It soon 
 became a series of single combats. Where there was armour 
 it was of no use striking it with a sword — the thrust only was 
 efficacious when a joint was sought and found. 
 
 But, in truth, Shakespeare's stage directions, ' alarums and 
 excursions,' show what he intended — a rush forward of a few 
 from the ranks, to be met from the other side, to be driven 
 back and pursued, vanishing out of sight. Change then to 
 another part of the field. 
 
 Perhaps there should be no fighting, or as little as 
 possible, shown on the stage. Stage-fighting is not drama or 
 dramatic action — that is, the mere cut and thrust, stabbing, 
 etc. The result of the struggle — victory or defeat — is sufficient 
 for stage purposes. 
 
 Nothing can be more stirring or animated than the last 
 scenes of combat at the close of Macbeth and Richard, III. 
 Every moment the scene is changing to some different of the 
 battlefield. It is now at Birnam Wood, now at Dunsinane, 
 now at Birnam Wood again. These mutations supply an 
 extraordinary excitement and variety. But under the modern 
 conditions of one continuous built-up scene this animation 
 and shifting becomes impossible. With a series of painted 
 cloths it could be managed. There should be great rapidity 
 of change — a sudden darkening, and then the new scene 
 revealed. The spectator should be, as it were, whirled from 
 one place to the other, without time to think. These short 
 intermittent scenes so frequent in Shakespeare had, and must 
 have had, a meaning and purpose, and were really an aid to 
 the play. We were given a glimpse merely of what was going 
 on. A few words spoken, and we were transported else- 
 where. 
 
 But, then, there should be the most careful and elaborate 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 99 
 
 stage management, and not a moment's pause. The idea was 
 that the battle was going on in all directions. Small parties 
 were perpetually coming in contact, fighting, some being driven 
 back, or scattered. Far off in the background there should be 
 permanently a confused crowd shifting and passing on and 
 off. The usual terrific combat between Macbeth and Mac- 
 duff — always ' fought to a finish,' and ending in the killing of 
 Macbeth coram publico — is entirely apocryphal. No such thing 
 occurs in the play. The meeting of the pair is usually con- 
 trived in a very arbitrary and unlikely fashion, both coming 
 in unattended, as if by appointment. One could fancy both 
 being seen at the head of a small party of combatants, hurry- 
 ing across, and then catching sight of one another. While 
 they fight, the battle should rage in the background; the 
 combatants then suspending their struggle, and drawing near 
 to watch for the issue, just as in the combat between Balfour and 
 his Cromwellian opponent. Then comes an interruption, and 
 the pair draw off, still fighting ; a larger force of Macduff's 
 rushes on the scene, when the combatants are borne away in 
 the confusion. We see no more of Macbeth, whose head is 
 brought in later. How infinitely more natural and dramatic 
 all this is than the conventional treatment ! But, no, the 
 single combat cannot be sacrificed.* 
 
 How desperately used it to be fought ! — Richard, panting 
 and growling, gradually spenj:, after his last Herculean strokes. 
 Even our most conscientious tragedians cannot bring them- 
 selves to resign it. And yet — again to repeat it — it is not set 
 down in the text at all ! Few, I suspect, are aware of this. 
 Richard's death is ' off,' and is merely announced. Now, there 
 was every temptation for the author to supply the spectacle : 
 it would have been exciting, and perhaps appropriate ; but he 
 saw no need for it — a very striking lesson of reserve. 
 
 * Sir Walter Scott possessed the power of visualizing combats in a 
 wonderful measure. In ' Quentin Durward ' he describes a combat between 
 two mailed warriors. ' " Nay, if thou wili have it, take it with a vengeance." 
 So saying, he dealt the Scot such a blow on his head,' etc. ' It descended like 
 a thunderbolt. Durward was dizzy, stunned and beaten down on one knee, 
 but, collecting himself, sprang up and attacked his enemy with the energy of 
 one determined to conquer or die. He then assailed him on all sides with a 
 suddenness of motion and rapidity of attack, now menacing him with the 
 edge, now with the point, of his sword, and ever keeping his eye on the 
 motions of his opponent, so that he was ready to spring forward or aside 
 from under the blows of his tremendous weapon.' 
 
 7 — 2 
 
loo Shakespearean Representations 
 
 The conclusion, therefore, is this— that in all the military 
 plays, as they may be called, the author suggested the idea of a 
 general battle, almost cinematographical, by these rapid changes, 
 each scene lasting but a few moments — now a sort of ' running 
 fight,' sweeping across and vanishing ; now a combat between 
 half a dozen, in short, endless ' alarums and excursions.' Even 
 in modern conflicts, as described by witnesses, we get little 
 more than this — bands of men hurriedly flitting about or lying 
 sheltered, retiring or advancing. And who shall deny that 
 the bard's method was more scientific and dramatic than the 
 modern system of sending on a regiment of supers ? 
 
 Luckily, horses and other animals can never be so sufficiently 
 trained as to act or take an intelligent part in the scene. On 
 the contrary, horses can rarely be brought to tolerate the new 
 conditions under which they find themselves, such as walking 
 on a wooden floor, ascending sloping platforms, and, most 
 trying of all, the glare and flare of the lights, the noise of stage 
 firearms, and the crowds of unfamiliar and gaudily dressed 
 beings that press upon them. What wonder that they become 
 uncertain, scared, and ready to shy ? And let us observe the 
 ridiculous precautions that have to be taken to ensure safety. 
 The noble lady entering in state on her palfrey, with her 
 train of courtiers, must have always three or four retainers 
 carefully holding on to the disturbed animal — two at his bit 
 and bridle, others at his quarters. We can hardly imagine a 
 dame of high degree entering her castle in this fashion. The 
 process seems to nullify the impressive state and solemnity that 
 was intended. And what effect cm a horse dramatically 
 produce except as a mere exhibition of a horse on the stage ? 
 Not so long since an excellent and sterling actor had to mount 
 one of these beasts, who took fright and actually threw him 
 coram populo !* 
 
 * There are other accidents, too, less painful but more grotesque. It is 
 always something degrading to note a row of hired horses outside in the 
 street, waiting by the stage door for their turn, with a sloping platform 
 resting against the wall, by which they are to mount. There is no gain, 
 either theatrical or other, in introducing such animals on the boards. 
 
 In Mr. Tree's production of the Winter's Tale there were some pretty 
 pastoral scenes — rather superfluous, no doubt. To spread a sort of agri- 
 cultural tone over the piece, a shepherd was exhibited leading on a donkey. 
 Shakespeare and a donkey ! surely the first time this combination ever was 
 attempted. True, in the pretty opera Vdronique we had Miss Ruth Vmcent 
 on a donkey ; but this was in France, where ladies are often seen on such 
 
Shakespearean 'Business' lOi 
 
 The constant invasion of the stage by children seems to 
 afford an intense and also a ridiculous satisfaction to audiences, 
 but it is an abuse and corruption of all dramatic art. These 
 poor little things can give no intellectual entertainment, as at 
 their age they can have no talent, no training, and not even 
 the necessary physical gift of utterance. Their voices being 
 weak and immature, and unable to carry the words across the 
 footlights, they are taught a sort of scream or croak, which is 
 painful to listen to. They usually show an unpleasant forward- 
 ness and vanity, for they figure as prodigies. Shakespeare 
 exhibits scarcely any children, save, perhaps, the young Princes 
 in the Tower, Mamillius, etc., and these he treats with the 
 utmost propriety. This treatment should be to show them as 
 children, speaking naturally in their own proper gamut, just 
 as children of their age would speak, without straining the 
 voice and with just elocution. But, it will be asked, how are 
 these naturally weak tones to travel to the audience ? By the 
 aid of training and elocutionary schooling. For this end the 
 Princes are usually played by intelligent girls some fifteen or 
 sixteen years old, for girls of this kind look more like youths 
 than boys themselves. How natural is Brutus's page in the 
 Tent Scene, wlio has simply to display his fidelity to his master. 
 The Princes in the Tower should use low, gentle tones, with a 
 certain artlessness, always found in children. What pranks 
 have been played in the scene where the young Princes talk 
 with their redoubtable uncle, the young Duke of York, the 
 comic one of the pair being schooled to answer pertly and 
 extort laughter by his prattle ! The audience must perforce 
 say to itself, as it smiles, ' Oh what a clever, quaint, and 
 intelligent child is this ! How odd and funny, too !' whereas 
 the impression left should be one of deep pathos. 
 
 Dying on the stage is regulated by conventional rules and 
 
 animals. What was gained by it ? or of what use was it ? or what precedent 
 was there? — for shepherds do not invariably keep donkeys or lead them 
 about and then let them go. P"or this animal was allowed to stray about, 
 when he wandered to the wing, where he begati scratching his ear comfort- 
 ably, to the enjoyment and tittering of a foolish audience. Having served 
 his purpose, whatever that was, he was then led out. A donkey had, in fact, 
 been shown to the audience — that was all ! Surely here was a grave solecism, 
 something unbecoming, too — the reductio ad absurdum of the profane vagaries 
 of revivals. 
 
I02 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 traditions, and is probably as unlike actual dying as anything that 
 can be conceived. In real life it is a far longer business ; the ap- 
 proaches of the ' fell sergeant ' are slow and gradual, take a long 
 time even in the case of poisoning or running through the body, 
 so that the exhibition of the abrupt agonies to which our actors 
 are so partial are matters superfluous. Persons stabbed with 
 a dagger, or beaten to the ground, do not die in a few minutes. 
 Moreover, these people contrive to talk up to their very last 
 breath. Even Shakespeare's dying heroes are thus loquacious 
 until an abrupt halt is always cried : ' Dies,' which is equivalent 
 to ' Exit ' — that is, he or she disappears from the scene. When 
 a man is run through the body after a combat he may be 
 virtually considered killed on the spot. Such agonies displayed 
 elaborately are out of place and repellent. 
 
 In all the representations of Desdemona's death or murder 
 the stage managers have clung to one arrangement — a large 
 and spacious bedroom, stretching back a good way, with an 
 average-sized four-poster at one side, but still a good way off. 
 This was Booth's disposition. Irving, I think, placed it against 
 the central wall, and also rather far away. This, no doubt, 
 gave the Moor opportunity for display — ' gave him the stage,' 
 in short. The unhappy lady seemed like a puppet in her bed. 
 But, turning to Rowe's early edition of the play (1709), when 
 the old traditions were still fresh, we find a more effective dis- 
 position. We should consider that here are two performers 
 in a very prominent and highly dramatic situation, who are 
 both ' on the boards.' They ought to be well forward, in view, 
 and it makes no difference that one is standing and moving, 
 the other prone and motionless. The bed has become a new 
 level — a stage for the heroine. Accordingly, in Rowe's the 
 bed is of an almost monumental description, with catafalque 
 draperies, high posts, and is brought forward to the front. It 
 almost fills the breadth of the stage. How different the effect 
 from that of the poor skimpy cot usually exhibited with such 
 a lack of dignity, and which invariably suggests some modern 
 bed, with pillows, sheets, etc. ! The counterpanes were then 
 richly coloured and heavily embroidered. Thus was Desdemona 
 made prominent and dignified; her action in full view; her 
 voice and speeches, instead of faint, far-off, ' bleatings,' being 
 full and important. She could sit up and plead her cause on 
 equal terms with her assailant. 
 
Shakespearean ^Business' 103 
 
 Mr. Forbes-Robertson, a most intelligent and cultivated 
 performer, when he revived Hamlet, introduced a new and 
 rather bizarre method for Hamlet's death. It seemed to him 
 that the great Prince ought to]jdie comfortably — if not ' in his 
 bed,' at least in his chair. So that a roomy arm-chair was 
 brought forward in the middle of the stage, in which he was 
 placed, and there, having uttered the mystic 'The rest is 
 silence,' he remained peacefully, with a gentle smile on his 
 face, his hands resting on the arms of the chair, and so tran- 
 quilly passed away. The attendants stood grouped round, 
 watching and in perfect stillness. Now this was well inten- 
 tioned and conscientious, but there was a most unheroic air 
 about the business — a kind of homely domesticity. But in 
 those same barbaric times it was ' the thing ' to die where you 
 fell — that is, on the ground. The rough-and-ready warriors 
 would not dream of lifting their comrade to a chair or sofa : 
 he was better where he lay. The other was a mere reiinement, 
 and dramatically was less telling. The picture, however, 
 remains in the memory as something naive and even grotesque. 
 
 There was an old stage device, once in high favour, when the 
 player who was stabbed or shot had to fall flat to the ground, 
 tout bonnement, without bending his limbs. No one, of course, 
 ever fell in this fashion, but in a heap, as it were, dropping 
 down slowly. ' Falls on his sword ' is a stage direction in some 
 of the Shakespearean plays — a thing difficult to convey even 
 the idea of. All these operations, if carefully revised and some 
 principles were thought out, would have a far more dignified air. 
 One principle would certainly survive — that the operation 
 should be quite indistinct, that neither the dying nor the death 
 should be emphasized. But it will now be said. What would 
 you have ? You simulate the agonies of life : then why not the 
 agonies of death ? You show the dissolution of mind : why not 
 that of the body ? The answer is simple : The agency of mind 
 is movement and drama ; that of the body is merely a patho- 
 logical exhibition. It does not tend to movement, but to still- 
 ness, and is stationary ; neither are they the emotions and 
 suiferings of soul or of the mind, but of the body, oppressing 
 and overpowering the mind. 
 
 In those pieces which turn upon likeness of persons, such as 
 the Comedy of Errors, it always seems obvious to the manager. 
 
I04 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 or to the unintelligent crowd, that if it were his happy chance to 
 find a pair of twins who were also actors, the fortune of the 
 piece was secured. He would think, if the likeness were so 
 strong that it became impossible to distinguish between the 
 persons, there would be the ideal performance. This actually 
 came about many years ago, when the brothers Webb 
 played the two Dromios. There was ignorance here of the 
 true principle, and the result was shown in the performance. 
 For no one could distinguish one from the other, and practically 
 it seemed as though the parts were performed by one person. 
 This would destroy the whole entertainment. The true method 
 is to have the parts performed by persons who are somewhat 
 like in height, shape, etc., but distinguishable from each other. 
 The truth is, persons who know twin relations familiarly can 
 distinguish them readily, but to persons not so famihar, such 
 as the audience, persons who are only thus partly alike will 
 appear very like. There should, therefore, be a likeness, but not 
 such likeness as will cause confusion. Irving, when he came 
 to do the double part of Lesurques and Dubosc, saw this 
 danger, and made the likeness slight enough, only to be recog- 
 nized by careful searching glances, and this was further dis- 
 turbed by the contrast of dress. 
 1 The late Augustine Daly on his visits used to bring with 
 him ' practicable ' doors, their cases, panels, locks, etc., all 
 solidly made like real doors, with mouldings, etc. Yet the 
 effect of this solidity was in odd contrast to the flimsy nature 
 of the painted canvas walls beside it, which shook and quivered 
 as they shut. But with the most perfectly simulated door, 
 fitted with its solid case, bolts, locks, etc., there is always a 
 special rattU or clatter, quite different from that furnished by 
 the real door, and this betrays the imitation. The reason is 
 that the real door is fixed in a solid wall, and it gives little or 
 no sound. At the Frangais and the superior theatres I have 
 seen doors that closed with a soft gliding motion, floating back, 
 as it were, automatically, and closing so that the joinings were 
 scarcely appreciable. The effect had a sort of dignity, as 
 though the situation was too lofty to be disturbed by the vulgar 
 and earthy incidents of loud-sounding catches, boltings, etc. 
 How often, too, when the villain gets the heroine at last ' into 
 his power,' have we heard him lock the door ostentatiously, it 
 
Shakespearean ^Business' 105 
 
 being carefully fitted with a key and lock ! We actually hear 
 the bolt being ' shot home.' The whole tone of the dramatic 
 world is so quite above these earthy elements. It used to be 
 enough that the characters came on and went off, ' enter ' and 
 ' exit.' Fifty or sixty years ago there were no doors at all, 
 only the ' flies.' The characters left the stage, no one cared 
 how ; it was enough that they were gone. 
 
 The putting a ship on the stage — ^with its deck, masts, sails, 
 etc. — though it superficially appears to furnish illusion, really 
 destroys it. Mr. Tree produced a wonderful piece of construc- 
 tion of this kind at the opening of The Tempest. It was almost 
 startling, from the stormy skies, the terrific hurricane, the 
 vessel labouring in agitated waves. Nothing better has ever 
 been seen on the stage. We saw the deck now showing its 
 whole length, with the distraught passengers, now tossing, and 
 finally sinking under the waters. What more could we ask 
 in the way of illustration ? Yet it was all on a false prin- 
 ciple, and simply frustrated the author's meaning. It was for- 
 gotten that a regular scene is going forward. The boatswain 
 is keeping the passengers in order, requiring them to go below ; 
 there is the sense of things getting worse and worse. ' We 
 split, we split !' Here we make our first acquaintance with the 
 characters, hear them talk, and see what they are. An im- 
 portant part of the play is, in fact, going on. There is talk, 
 agitation, alarm. But what was the result ? So great was the 
 din of the storm and the general ' row ' that literally not one 
 word was heard — possibly not a word was really attempted to 
 be said. Instead, we were given a very fine and Startling 
 panorama of a shipwreck. 
 
 But there is a further objection. There is and can be only 
 
 one stage : that is the section of ground, or Mother Earth, on 
 
 which the characters stand. Here we have two, for the deck 
 
 is a second one. That the bard intended that his deck should 
 
 be the stage, or vantage-ground for action, is clear. So with 
 
 all those galleys, etc., which figure in Antony and Cleopatra, and 
 
 which are all out of proportion, and offer only a delusive 
 
 accommodation.* 
 
 * Much interest is always excited by the opening scene in the Rheingold, 
 where the maidens are seen swimming and floating about. This is received 
 as perfectly illusive ; but no one could obtain so vertical a view of a river, 
 though we may look down upon it — save, indeed, in an aquarium tank, 
 which ithe arrangement always suggests. 
 
r 
 
 1 06 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 There is now a sort of tapping instrument in use — a French 
 patent, I believe — which is supposed to represent the galloping 
 or trotting of an approaching horse. It can be worked fast or 
 slow, but does not convey any idea of the kind. All sounds or 
 noises behind scenes — shots, knocking, music, bells, organ- 
 playing, horses trotting — are always brought too near. The 
 audience is always convinced that they are caused by the 
 prompter at his side, as certainly as though we saw him handling 
 the knocker. In Faust, when the congregation were coming 
 out of the church the organ swelled and boomed, and made all 
 quiver. No one, however, in real life hears the organ from the 
 outside, save as a faintly buzzing and enclosed sound. Bells, 
 too, which are far away, high up in the church tower or steeple, 
 do not din us and clang as we hear them on the stage. 
 
 Thunders, storms, lightning, rain, with other disturbances of 
 the elements, offer a difficult matter for treatment, so as to 
 seem probable. The rolling cannon-balls over our heads is 
 certainly as alarming as a real storm. Lightning, too, is 
 nearly perfect. But, still, a glance at the draperies above or the 
 boards below, telling us that the storm is going on in an 
 enclosed room, prevents all deception. 
 
 This brings us to the outcast Lear, and to his sufferings from 
 the pitiless elements : 
 
 ' Blow, wind, and crack your cheeks.' 
 
 The bard himself seems to plan this storm with wonderful 
 intensity and significance. Difficult as it is to arrange, I have 
 no doubt it could be made to rage with infinitely more effect 
 than has been hitherto attempted. The thing would seem to 
 be to convey the effect of a terrible storm on those who were 
 caught in it rather than the storm itself. There is art in spreading 
 it over the two scenes — ' The Heath ' and ' On the other part of 
 the Heath ' — which gives an idea of vastness and spreading 
 power, the covering of a large tract of ground. 
 
 At the end of Act II. it all begins : 
 
 ' Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds 
 Do sorely ruffle.' 
 
 And news arrives that the old man had gone from .shelter. 
 Here there should be a growing, lowering darkness, and far in 
 
Shakespearean ^ Business^ 107 
 
 the distance be heard the mutterings of the coming tempest. 
 The performers should look forth with alarm and shivering, 
 and hurry away, as if for shelter. It is clearly to be a most 
 unusual and menacing storm. Between the acts it goes on, 
 still growling and rumbling, but far away, gradually drawing 
 nearer, until as the curtain . rises we see the lonely heath 
 spreading away, without a tree for shelter. 
 
 It would require a painter of genius and poetry to convey a 
 sufficient idea of such a heath. Presently it begins to rage. 
 The thunder should be studied, not always in rolling peals, 
 but often in short, sharp claps, succeeded by sudden darkness 
 and deluges of rain. Enter then a gentleman and Kent, 
 who should come in with bent heads, struggling with the rain 
 and gale, and speaking with difficulty, like people who are 
 caught in real storms, so buffeted that they cannot keep their 
 feet. Indeed, everything should be uttered hurriedly and with 
 interruptions. They go out into the darkness to search for the 
 King, speaking loudly to each other. He that ' first lights on 
 him ' is to holla the other. 
 
 All the descriptions of the storm given by Lear and Kent 
 are wonderful for their vividness. He calls it ' this dreadful 
 puddle o'er our heads.' It is obvious, therefore, that his long 
 speeches must not be delivered as histrionic orations, but as 
 spasmodic utterances, contending with the hideous noises 
 about him. Sometimes at a fresh outburst he will have to 
 stop and cover his face with his hands. But I need not dwell 
 further on all this. When Lear goes out to seek for the 
 hovel he might seem to be driven back by the force of the 
 gale, and then is dragged onwards as by the fool, both with 
 bent heads. 
 
 Are we such slaves to convention as to assume that the 
 tremulo music, fortissimo, with chromatic scales and much 
 double-bass, is actually essential, and so expressive as to convey 
 the notion of a storm on land or at sea ? Also is there always 
 to be this terrific noise — beating of kettledrums, only too well 
 known to be drums? In such a storm there are no noises of 
 that kind, though the wind howls and whistles, and at times 
 there is a sort of roar. If we are imitating these phenomena, 
 we should try with something better than kettledrums. By the 
 way, Mr. Tree has another atmospherical device — an imitation 
 
io8 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 of heavy showers, but which really suggests water trickling 
 from a cistern. 
 
 There is a strange passage in Julius Ccssar which occurs on 
 the eve of his assassination, and where a sort of double 
 scene occurs. He is shown, attended by all the conspirators, 
 proceeding through the street to the Capitol. Cassius presses 
 him to pardon some one, and Csesar answers, ' What, in the 
 street ? Come to the Capitol.' After a few more sentences we 
 find them apparently in the Capitol, where the event follows, 
 and Csesar sinks down at the foot of the statue. Street and 
 Capitol must therefore be in one scene. This would require 
 the Capitol being put far back, and the exciting issue would 
 take place afar off, which would not do. But on the old plat- 
 form principle, without scenes, such events, with succession of 
 figures, would be quite independent of successive scenes. The 
 audience would know by the speeches that the first portion was 
 in the street. Cassar would then take his seat, and they would 
 know that here was the Capitol. This was clearly in Shake- 
 speare's mind. In real life we only thus think of the succession 
 of incidents ; the locus in quo does not dwell in our memory. 
 At the same time it must be admitted that under the modern 
 arrangement the managers are quick to mark out the division 
 of scenes, as it suits their purpose, or, as we have seen, the 
 author has merely followed the order of events. But how are 
 we to deal with these two scenes thus confused into one? 
 Managers cut the knot by fashioning them into two scenes, 
 but in that case the first is too unimportant and, too short to 
 support the weight of a scene. I would place the Capitol at 
 the side P.S. The street should be O.P., and the agitated 
 dialogue take place there. But the boundless resources of the 
 scenic artist might be relied on to produce a satisfactory effect. 
 
 There is yet another perplexing matter for treatment— viz., 
 Shakespearean eating and drinking. This is always done in a 
 thorough comic fashion, as though the performers had very 
 hearty appetites, and fancied that eating and drinking was a 
 humorous, interesting thing, and a part of acting. Now, eating 
 or drinking is but purely mechanical, and utterly uninteresting. 
 There is nothing dramatic about it, save in the case — such as 
 that of Falstaff— where the character is that of a greedy fellow 
 or ' guzzler.' It should therefore be as perfunctory as it can 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 109 
 
 be made. In real life, say at dinner, people eat and drink all 
 but instinctively ; nor do they do it in any ostentatious 
 manner.* 
 
 Shakespeare, indeed, liked the state and solemnity of the 
 banquet. His grand effort in this line was the Macbeth 
 feast. And how dramatic it was ! It was the banquet in 
 its quiddity. No thought of munching or quaffing there. We 
 have seen . representations where every guest had his plate, 
 knife and fork, etc. Nothing was finer than Irving's arrange- 
 ment, where a number of rude, short tables of antique form 
 were spread diagonally over the stage in the great Norman 
 hall. It was in scenes of this description that Irving's true 
 poetical feeling was shown. His great Norman halls were 
 really noble conceptions. I fancy his least successful play, 
 King Lear, was the finest of all in this respect. His heaths, 
 banqueting-hall 'interiors,' etc., were lonely, grand, and suitable. 
 There was, however, a certain monotony, owing to the con- 
 stant repetition of these Norman chambers. 
 
 In The Merchant of Venice the choosing the caskets by the 
 three candidates is usually fused into a single scene, when they 
 come up and try their chances one after the other. There 
 always seems a vulgarity in this, for it suggests a sort of com- 
 petitive examination, the lady of the house looking on, while 
 the suitors draw for her. In practical life the trio would not 
 arrive together. Two at least are highly important person- 
 ages — the Princes of Morocco and Arragon. Each would 
 require a special function and special audience in all state. It 
 should be a highly momentous and mystic ceremonial, to be 
 directed by something more than mere chance. Portia comes 
 in with her train to meet the Prince, who has his retinue. 
 There should be stately greetings, and bowings, and music — a 
 regular triumphal entry. Nor would I have the caskets on a 
 sort of altar, but rather carelessly disposed upon a table behind 
 the curtain. This seems to have been the bard's notion. 
 
 * It is not dramatic. In that amusing drollery Tke Man from Blankkys 
 the guests are shown at a large round dinner-table, and the dinner itself 
 is acted all through, which is thought all-important. There are a parlour- 
 maid and a butler constantly going round and round, filling glasses, 
 changing plates, etc., all which is vulgar, uninteresting and mechanical. 
 Instead of emphasizing I would minimize these things, soften them away, as 
 it were, into indistinctness. No one would mis3 them, for there is no end to 
 this realizing. 
 
I'^o Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Let us conceive of it solemnly and earnestly treated. As 
 a serious portion of the play it would have an impressive air for 
 this reason, for it would show how complete was the preference 
 given to Bassanio, these personages of State being rejected for 
 him. In short, it is always treated in a sort of trivial manner, 
 even as a good-humoured jest, conceived by the gifted lady of 
 the mansion. 
 
 When we turn to the text we find that it is intended to be a 
 really momentous and important transaction. It is spread 
 over three scenes, and each candidate has a scene to himself. 
 And no wonder : for here are solemn proposals of marriage ; 
 here are people who have travelled from a vast distance to make 
 their proposals, on which so much depends. It should be a 
 dignified thing. Instead, all is usually huddled up into a single 
 scene ; it is treated as a sort of practical joke— these dusky- 
 coloured fellows are fair game for the lively Portia. 
 
 There is the regulation fashion of dealing with priests, 
 Bishops, Friars, Cardinals even, on the stage, which always 
 seems to frustrate the end intended — that of impressing us 
 religiously. Highly unclerical-looking figures are shown dressed 
 in their robes, with faces often ludicrously inconsistent with 
 piety or the clerical calling, owing to the attempt to com- 
 pose the features to a sort of holy expression. No doubt they 
 do their best, but they and their stage managers can only gw^ 
 at how the thing should be done, and follow old stale stage 
 traditions. And how comic are these attempts, as when mar- 
 shalled in a procession these clerics stride forward in a slow and 
 solemn stalk, much as Crummies did at Mr. Lillyvick's wedding ! 
 The truth is that Catholic priests and Bishops do not stalk 
 about in this fashion ; they walk like other people, ewn in a 
 procession. No one thinks that he is bound to show by his 
 gait and bearing that he is ecclesiastical. They wear their 
 ceremonial dresses as if well accustomed to them. The result 
 of this artificial bearing is undramatic. The spectator looks on 
 them as puppets. So with their speech, which it is designed 
 should be in pulpit tones. The supers, who are usually 
 entrusted with these parts, convey something mean and 
 undignified. In vain they posture and look sanctified: they 
 seem just what they really are — supers dressed in clerical 
 clothes. Even the lamented Irving, who made prodigious 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 1 1 1 
 
 efforts to be accurate, employing ' Burns and Oates ' to secure 
 him robes, etc., was scarcely successful in his aims.* 
 
 Steps, and flights of steps, are much insisted upon in scenic 
 arrangements. The protagonist thinks it a mighty point that 
 he should make his entry down a flight of steps ; the slow pro- 
 gress, he knows well, draws the assemblage for a longer period 
 than would an ordinary entry. These steps, somehow, always 
 seem to reveal their nature and origin — they are a piece of 
 framed carpenter's work — and we can see, in our mind's eye, 
 the assistants carrying them on and laying them down in their 
 place. We can see, too, most clearly where they join the 
 canvas behind, and how they lie on the floor instead of being 
 built on it. A King coming forth from his palace must descend 
 his steps. Such accidents as these have nothing to do with a 
 dramatic feeling. A King upon the stage entering in any other 
 way has no loss of dignity. 
 
 In the opera of The Huguenots from time immemorial there 
 has always been a gigantic flight of steps that mounts to the 
 top of the scene nearly, but without which, as it is thought, 
 the eifect of the whole would be lost. This is for the special 
 entry of the heroine, who is seen descending it slowly, step by 
 step, to arrive at last in the presence of the court below. It is 
 a painful and well-practised descent, not without danger. 
 Beautiful music is played as she descends. We have grown 
 accustomed to it, and should miss it if it were abolished, but I 
 never could see the meaning of it ; the lady might just as well 
 have come down a ladder. 
 
 We recall the agitated scene in Othello, where there is general 
 
 riot, confusion, and killing. lago had artfully sent out 
 
 Roderigo to raise the alarm, and the bell or tocsin begins to 
 
 clang violently, so that the General himself was roused, as was 
 
 intended, and hurries down. Now, this midnight confusion is 
 
 never made sufficiently alarming. We could imagine all sorts 
 
 of troubled elements, as was natural in these wild Italian cities 
 
 * How, too, is it that in all other crafts the workmen seem clean, sturdy, 
 well-clad fellows, such as a carpenter, with his rule in his pocket, his clean 
 linen apron, etc. ? But the stage carpenter — so called even at the superior 
 theatres — what repulsive, dirty, gin-drinking fellows in appearance they are — 
 ' ill-drest, ill-kept,' and like Johnson's leg of mutton ! One must not be 
 unjust, but I fancy they are always cadging on the players, the richer 
 ones paying lavishly, the poorer having cash extorted from them. It seems 
 written on them that they must go constantly out to refresh. 
 
112 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 — people roused from their slumbers to see what was the matter. 
 The bell generally clangs on in a methodical way like a 
 church bell. But it should be a violently agitated bell, striking 
 fast and furiously like a fire-bell, and rising above a general din 
 of confused murmurings and voices. Hence it is that Othello 
 cannot hear himself speak, and calls out : ' Silence that dreadful 
 bell !' Indeed, all the public scenes in the play should have 
 this hurry and agitation, the words spoken fast, every one 
 excited, so as to contrast with the more deliberate and intense 
 horrors of the interior action. At home here of a still night 
 what is more significant than the fire-bell, with hasty unceasing 
 strokes, calling importunately for aid, and rising above the 
 distant and indistinct hum of voices ? In Mr. Asche's excellent 
 and very satisfactory revival these things were not thought of : 
 the bell only rang now and again, then stopping altogether, or 
 ringing in a very gentle way, so as not to interrupt the speeches. 
 Thus it seemed strange to hear Othello say in a casual, quiet way : 
 ' Silence that dreadful bell !' which was not dreadful at all. In 
 this Drunken Scene, as it is called, all poor Cassio's tipsy utter- 
 ances were punctuated by roars of laughter from the crowd as 
 if in a common cafe. 
 
 On Mr. Asche's revival of ^s You Like It the critics grew 
 wanton in praise of the scenes, which were really beautiful pieces 
 of work by Harker, who rang the changes on every form of 
 forest life. Here we saw thick groves — vast gnarled monarchs 
 of the forest, young and old, in profusion. One could not but 
 admire the artist, but nothing more discordant or disturbing or 
 wMscenic could be imagined. The scenes and the characters and 
 action all diverged. These glaring, flaming trunks of trees, 
 tumbling at length in all angles, completely overpowered the 
 human figures, behind which they rose and sprawled. They 
 seemed monsters, and to be themselves acting in competition. 
 It was impossible to devise a better instance of scenery over- 
 powering the human element and action. The figures all 
 became insignificant by comparison. 
 
 But why should objection be made, as every one was satisfied 
 and enchanted ? What would you have, it will be asked, if not 
 a living forest of this kind, with all its great trees individualized ? 
 I would have the resemblance to a forest. The trees, leaves, and 
 branches, should be indistinct and blended together in a mass ; 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 113 
 
 a sort of misty colourless veil over all, the colour subdued to very 
 low tints ; nothing staring or assertive, but all richly mellow 
 and indistinct ; just as Boz always took care to have violet - 
 coloured screens placed behind him at the readings to ' throw 
 him out.' But here, apart from the clamorous colours, the whole 
 forest was ablaze with fierce light. 
 
 How barbarous and pristine are the invariable methods of 
 changing the scenes ! A shrill whistle is heard ; then follow a 
 clatter and flappings, as of a ship in a storm ; great screens are 
 seen tottering and twisting ; the hands, arms, often figures, of 
 the men doing this being sometimes visible ; other screens are 
 brought forward, and the thing is complete. This is rude to 
 a degree, and destroys all sense of illusion. Sir H. Irving, I 
 believe, was the first to introduce the practice of suddenly and 
 completely darkening the stage, though the noise and flappings 
 still continued. The darkening was a good idea, but it was too 
 sudden and abrupt. A better effect would be to lower the lights 
 very gradually and raise them again with equal deliberation. 
 Complete darkness is unnatural, and prompts one to ask 
 why the stage at the close of a dramatic situation should be 
 reduced to this condition ? Goethe has noticed this defect, and 
 points out that in real life there is never a complete black dark- 
 ness where there is a large space ; you can always see objects. 
 
 Another device which is thought to impart mystery to the 
 arrival of ghostly visitants is the issue of clouds of steam from 
 apertures in the boards ! This goes on from small beginnings 
 until the whole stage is enveloped in vast fumes. It is palpable 
 steam, and can be taken for nothing else ; for it is attended by 
 a loud sustained hissing sound, denoting the escape from the 
 boilers below. The thing is almost ludicrous, and instead of 
 being poetical and illusive, quite prosaic* 
 
 Often we meet large carts laden with screens — so-called 
 scenes and other paraphernalia — we note some strange rickety 
 things piled up : large papier-mach6 vases and goblets, looking- 
 glasses for the Duchess's drawing-room, an affair of tinfoil — pots 
 of artificial flowers — the front of a hut with a door that opens, 
 and are inclined to ask ourselves, How is this trumpery to be 
 
 * I have spoken before of the conductor of the orchestra. He is really 
 the chief obstacle to illusion, for with his band he is assumed to take share 
 in the performance of the stage. And yet he is really a man in the audience, 
 waving his stick and gesticulating in a commonplace way. 
 
 8 
 
114 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 associated with the grand spirit of the drama, or how on earth 
 can it help it ? Imagination and thought are much cheaper 
 things, and far less troublesome. 
 
 In the pantomime at one of the great theatres there 
 was much flourishing about certain giants 14 feet high, held 
 forth by managers and press, all as prodigies of scenic art. 
 We were told how they were fashioned, shown pictures of them 
 during the process, while the public and its children were all 
 lost in wonder. Yet how elementary the thing was ! Some 
 men mounted on tall stilts and carrying the heads on poles ! It 
 was impossible to see them a moment without recognizing these 
 homely agencies. And yet with it all there was a far more 
 illusive method which might have been applied more by an 
 appeal to the imagination — to convey the idea of a giant, 
 and represent the others as feeling the presence of such a 
 being. 
 
 I recall an excellent performance of Gulliver's Travels in which 
 this principle was applied. Gulliver was personated by a tall 
 man, the Lilliputians by very small children. That was all the 
 realism. But Gulliver acted as though he were a giant among 
 pigmies. One little touch was excellent. The small army kept 
 firing at his legs from their tiny rifles, and he, while making 
 them a speech, would rub his legs unconsciously, as though 
 something were irritating them. At last, discovering the cause, 
 he said impatiently, 'Do stop that!' as though some gnat or 
 other insect were irritating the parts. This really was perfect 
 illusion, much more certainly than palpable stilts and masks 
 carried on poles. 
 
 Yet another instance. I have an Empire clock representing 
 Phaethon driving the chariot with two flying horses. The whole 
 is beautifully modelled and full of spirit. The wheel is the dial. 
 On looking at it closely, you see that the horses are about the 
 size of large dogs, coming up to Phaethon's thighs ! Yet so 
 genuine is the artist's purpose, and so craftily contrived, that 
 this would escape observation. His object was to bring the 
 whole action into a contracted space, which was commercially 
 necessary. On the fitting scale it would have been too monu- 
 mental. Here was true illusion. 
 
 Huge structures are noisily wheeled away— you hear the 
 castors ; others come rolling on to take their place ; skeleton 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 115 
 
 columns are pushed up — obviously flat profiles ; ' rakes ' come out 
 of the ground ; sheets of canvas are let down, and wave in the 
 air for many minutes. And this change the fairy queen is 
 supposed to have brought about by her magic power. The 
 curious thing is we believe in it all implicitly. We have been 
 trained from our childhood to accept these makeshifts ; we have 
 been brought up on them ; we have always been saying to our- 
 selves, ' This is real illusion, because it is on the stage.' As I 
 have said before, there is more genuine illusion in the vast green 
 curtain, with its mournful folds, than in all that goes on 
 behind it.* 
 
 That most captivating of fairy tales, Alice in Wonderland, 
 with its sequel — the work of a man of the most delicate fancy — 
 has been placed on the stage, and we could well imagine its 
 being effective, if treated with sympathy and reserve.t 
 
 It was at last adapted, but in a very practical and business- 
 like shape, much as a pantomime might be handled. Still, so 
 full of charm and poetry is the story that the effect depends 
 rather on the interpretation than on the adaptation. 
 
 Mr. Seymour Hicks has brought it forward several times, 
 shaping it like one of his musical comedies, filling it out with 
 ' knock - about business ' and the jovial fun that is familiar 
 at his theatres. The Mad Hatter, one of the quaintest and 
 most grotesque of characters, became a literal mad hatter, 
 indulging in comic antics. Yet it is a real character, such as 
 one would see in a dream — so serious, so much in earnest, and 
 carrying conviction in his curious upside-down remarks. This 
 notion of the whole being a dream, with speeches and acts 
 such as we find in dreams, would, if thoroughly carried out, 
 have the most original and weirdlike effect. The Queen and 
 the rest wonder at Alice's intrusion, pity her ignorance of 
 their fantastic speculations, and are always trying to enlighten 
 her. But no, everything must be taken literally. The dor- 
 
 * As a child one believed firmly in the old pantomime tricks, the box that 
 the clown dragged on with some comic label attached. Presto ! a cord was 
 pulled ; the various flaps opened with noise, and a little policeman came out 
 and walked. Nothing less magical could be conceived, but it served. 
 
 t I recall Mr. Dodgson, the author, consulting me earnestly as to how he 
 was to have it dramatized, and who would be a suitable person for the task. 
 The difficulties in the way were great, but eventually Mr. Sayille Clarke 
 undertook the business with some success. This, I believe, remains the sole 
 version. 
 
 8—2 
 
ii6 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 mouse and the other creatures become pantomime animals, 
 and act as such. 
 
 I believe that a true and faithful version by some properly 
 gifted writer would have great success. The music, too, 
 might well engage the talent of a great composer : it should be 
 of the most delicate, fairylike cast — a second Midsummer NigMs 
 Dream overture. But that is only another dream. That 
 sort of raree-show, the modern pantomime, is always pre- 
 sumed to be based on one of the children's fairy-tales, which 
 are mauled and twisted beyond all recognition. And yet there 
 cannot be a doubt that if one of these always interesting stories 
 were treated with faith and sympathy, and the story followed 
 out strictly and set off with the modern adornments, it would 
 be absorbingly attractive for children and grown-up folk. 
 
 Thus, if Cinderella were actedl from beginning to end without 
 making everybody and everything farcical, it would become a 
 delightful thing, which the children would dream of for weeks 
 afterwards. But no, the Baron must become a comic Baron, 
 giving his dances and songs ; and the two wicked sisters must 
 be performed by the best comic males available. Again it 
 must be said, the reason is that we are so destitute of the 
 feeling of imagination or romance, and can only understand 
 plain hard fact. 
 
 It used not to be so. Fifty years ago, when scenes were not 
 dioramic shows, but pictures, these feelings were very much 
 abroad and cultivated. Who will forget that pleasing, absorb- 
 ing melodrama, Victorine ; or, I'll Sleep upon it? — a quarrel 
 and ' break-off ' between two lovers. Victorine in her dreams 
 is shown the whole future life of the lover — his decay, his sink- 
 ing lower and yet lower, until at last, I think, he is on the 
 verge of the scaffold, when she awakes. The old familiar room 
 is back again, and she hears his cheery calling from outside. 
 
 The Corsican Brothers is another of these romantic pieces, a 
 melodrama of the very first class. 
 f In the great spectacular theatres, it would seem that little is 
 known of these laws of illusion, or of how to impose on the senses. 
 Thus, to produce the effect of numbers, you must have num- 
 bers. At Drury Lane at Christmas one has seen the stage 
 literally crammed with bands of girls, who have scarcely room 
 to turn round in. The effect is almost the contrary of what is 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 117 
 
 sought. But in some of the Paris theatres you will see that ^| 
 the material of, with five-and-twenty or thirty bright, intelli- 
 gent, •well-idLVonred figurantes — a scintillating quicksilver mass, 
 each item creating an interest of its own — the effect of num- 
 bers is produced. Then, too abundant space acts in the same 
 direction, though the vulgar idea is that filling space needs 
 numbers.* Movement, too, suggests number. 
 
 This law of representing numbers by few should be applied 
 in every department. The whole behaviour of crowds has to 
 be revised. When Squoire makes his speech to the rustics, 
 what strange cries all in miraculous unison ! Still, since the 
 Meningen visit there has been a vast improvement. 
 
 In the West End houses, when the curtain rises we are 
 certain to see the drawing-room at " The Towers " crowded up 
 with furniture. There are large ottomans, settees, easy and 
 uneasy chairs, little tables, queer sofas, cabinets, etc. These 
 things are de rigueur. Here they may be, but not in real life. 
 The players can scarcely turn round ; they have to steer their 
 way cautiously round the ottomans and past the sofa until they 
 reach open country by the footlights. But that will not do — 
 they must be among the furniture. And yet how can there be 
 dramatic action, movements, spontaneous bursts, if you have 
 to think of such impediments ? In real life so much furniture 
 requires corresponding room ; no one has to move about in this 
 encumbered fashion, as though he were in a furniture shop. 
 The block arises from- the false principle that the whole, 
 whether a Duke's palatial chamber or a modest citizen's draw- 
 ing-room, must be compressed into the same unchangeable 
 space. Yet in the old simple days of pure drama the furniture 
 was symbolized, as it were ; there were the two chairs — no 
 more — and a table ! But here is a simple element of illusion. 
 
 One of the dramatic graces of the old Lyceum under Irving 
 was the vast green curtain — now old-fashioned and exploded 
 everywhere, but yet a most potent element. Who will forget 
 
 * In the Second Empire days I witnessed a ballet dance on the subject of 
 wine, in which brilliant beings took for characters the different descriptions 
 of wine — Burgundy, claret, champagne, etc. There were not a score of 
 performers, and yet each and all were vital, brilliant, full of movement. 
 It was a fascinating spectacle, and a strange thing to contrast with one of 
 Sir Augustus Harris's monster shows, where a couple of hundred beings were 
 all, huddled together close to the footlights. 
 
1 1 8 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Elia's description of the sense of mystery it created as you 
 entered and saw its vast immensity — hanging solemnly between 
 the two worlds ? It seemed now and again to float and drift 
 like the ocean itself. And then, when the tragedy was done, 
 with what magnetic power the dark folds descended, without 
 noise or clatter, seeming to enwrap, or rather dissolve, the 
 scene for ever ! Instead, we have now the gaudy, flippant drop 
 scene, with its too palpable wooden roller, the very essence or 
 suggestion of prose and business life. These things are not by 
 any means fantastical, but practical and of experience. 
 
 Nay, we have nowadays a perverse destroyer of illusion in 
 the iron ' safety curtain,' squalid and dirty, smeared with some 
 colour, and marked with a vulgar inscription. It is no curtain, 
 but a metal screen, and should be treated honestly as such, 
 with metal mouldings and ornaments. 
 
 Yet there are, however, conditions under which I think the 
 luxury of scenery and decoration is legitimate, and even 
 desirable. The Grand Opera Houses in the capitals — our own 
 shabby one excepted — are splendid things from the sumptuous 
 style in which they are equipped and maintained. We think 
 of gala nights, with the beautiful interior, its painted dome, 
 where gods and goddesses and cupids float in the ethereal blue ; 
 the finely designed balconies and boxes — golden cages filled 
 with lovely beings, diamonds and general glitter. We turn our 
 eyes to the vast stage, crowded with gorgeously dressed figures. 
 We expect magnificence so as to correspond with the audience. 
 Everything should be in keeping. The stage is usually so vast 
 and spacious, and the arrangements so artistic, that the vast 
 monumental arch and the rich hangings seem to be the 
 opening to realms of fairyland. This is owing to the charm 
 of music and song. 
 
 Once more, how astonishing the fashion in which we cling to 
 the old stale tricks ; as in the Greenwood Tree Scene in As You 
 Like It, which it would seem is usually presented as it was pre- 
 sented fifty years since. Some very long and yellow trunks of 
 trees are laid down conveniently to right and left to serve as seats 
 for the nobles. These are mere bits of painted canvas, covering 
 wooden benches. Then the trees, with their spreading branches, 
 stretch across — cut out on the borders. The gnarled trunks 
 are below. Critics will, of course, be loud in praise of ' the 
 
Shakespearean 'Business^ 119 
 
 beautiful woodland scene — so leafy,' etc. But though the 
 ground is of canvas, painted, and real twigs and leaves are 
 strewn about, who for a moment can fancy they were in a 
 forest or anywhere but on a stage. Who that has walked in a 
 forest or a wood but will recall the necessary absence of light, 
 the general gloom, the solemn air of the trees ? Here they 
 have always a frivolous look ; in the usual gaudy blaze of light 
 they seem as if hung with ribbons and lace. We also see 
 easily to the tops of the trees and their higher branches, which 
 we could not do were we in a real grove. 
 
 In Henry V. I can recall a sort of baronial hall, cleverly 
 planned and laid out, rising up to the roof, but made of strips 
 of painted canvas ! The different archings, placed one behind 
 the other, with thin supporting columns, were all cut out of the 
 same material. The scene-designer's art is shown in combining 
 the two methods — the real and the illusive. But is there any 
 illusion ? The canvas pillars every spectator, excepting those 
 at the very back of the gallery, can see are mere strips of 
 painted linen hanging down. It is the same with the groinings 
 in the roof, with painted timbers which flutter backwards 
 and forwards with every draught of air ! Such, in truth, are 
 not illusive at all, and do not pretend to be. They are old- 
 established conventions, agreed on by audience and managers. 
 
 As a further illustration of these scenic incongruities, we ^ 
 have noticed that there are always two lines that will cut each 
 other at right angles — one that of the hard and stiff side- 
 screens, the other that of the soft and pliable borders. No 
 ingenuity — and the thing has been often attempted — will bind 
 the two together. It is hopeless, because the discrepancy is 
 radical and there are two systems opposed. We often find the 
 bottom of the borders lying on the top of the screen, sometimes 
 drawn up in crumpled folds, the material falling down on each 
 side, while the wooden tops of the scene are clearly visible, just 
 as much as in a large folding screen that is drawn to the fire. Yet 
 this rude arrangement is complacently accepted. The critics will 
 praise the ' fine set in the second act,' while every one who raises 
 his eyes can see the unadjustable mixture of linen and wood. 
 
 The contrast between the scenery of fifty years ago and that 
 of the present day is extraordinary. Then a scene by Telbin 
 or Stanfield, as I well remember, was like a landscape of 
 
I20 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Wilson or Constable, and as solidly painted — a tall brown 
 tree at the side, the foreground rich and dark, and full-bodied. 
 Now the same thing would be splashed in — sketched, rather — 
 all yellows and pale greens : a single splash or dab does for a 
 leaf, a single stroke for a branch. But Telbin's scene would 
 not come out under the present conditions of fierce light. 
 
 It is astonishing how this refined and mellow treatment 
 harmonized with the dramas. It was the same with the dresses 
 — they and the figures were blended with the background. There 
 was a general air of repose. The scene-painters then were 
 masters, and several became Royal Academicians — a remarkable 
 thing — such as Stanfield. For who could think now of the 
 excellent Harker or Craven — a poetical artist — being enrolled ? 
 Telbin's work particularly threw an air of reposeful refinement 
 over the whole. 
 
 But words can hardly supply an idea of the degree to which 
 the complete ruin of all dramatic or scenic effect is due to the 
 extravagant overwhelming and blinding lighting of the stage. 
 It has destroyed everything — colouring, distance, shadows, 
 relief, etc. — and in practice actually interferes with what is 
 spoken. Though the spectator's eyes are affected, still his ear 
 and attention are also interfered with, as voices coming from out 
 of glowing furnaces cannot have their full effect. The conditions 
 are unnatural, and trouble us ; nor can we accept the st-ate of 
 things as human. Every one lives, moves, and has his being in 
 this blaze. Trees, walls, interiors all glow with flames. Con- 
 trast with this the very low key of light in use in our childish 
 days, when there was no lime or electric light, only dull burn- 
 ing, unimproved gas. But what must it have been in the 
 Garrick days, or even in Kemble, when the huge Drury Lane 
 interiors that succeeded each other were found sufiiciently lit 
 under such conditions ? One would have thought that three- 
 fourths of the huge stage must have been in darkness. 
 
 Mr. Gordon Craig has lately devised a new system of scenery, 
 which seems a little bizarre. The spectator sees before him 
 household screens and frameworks, on which are hung or 
 draped pieces of coloured material, while shreds and patches 
 of various textiles are fixed up here and there. There is a sort 
 of general suggestion of the drawing-room. We are assured 
 that it is quite a new departure, and that there is deep aesthetic 
 
Shakespearean ' Business ' 121 
 
 meaning in it all. The theory, however, is scarcely intelligible, 
 and too elementary, in its present, stage at least. I can fancy 
 the bewilderment and amusement of the regular carpenters, as 
 they are called upon to change the scenes, and hang up in their 
 places the various draperies and patches of colour. To deal 
 with the matter theoretically, it may be said that the use of such 
 homely stuffs for decoration is quite antagonistic to the regular 
 conditions of the stage, as it is notorious that the strong light 
 that plays upon them is fatal to all illusion, bringing out the 
 very texture of the material, and never harmonizing with the 
 painted portions. Every one will have noted how harsh and 
 ungrateful is the combination of real curtains fixed up over a 
 painted window, yet nothing is more common. The effect is 
 really to betray the nature of the arrangement — that is, a pair 
 of curtains clumsily and insecurely fixed to a surface of painted 
 canvas. There is always the same discrepancy. 
 
 There is one element, however, in Mr. Gordon Craig's 
 system which is excellent and in the true spirit of scenic 
 illusion, and I naturally commend it because it is really the 
 carrying-out of a principle that I have been contending for 
 during a score of years, and which is insisted upon all through 
 the present treatise. This is that it is a false and prosaic 
 representation to bring on the entire of what is sought to be 
 presented — i.e., a whole house, a whole square or street. This, 
 it is shown, alters the scale of the human figure constantly, as 
 the house may at one time be only a few feet higher than 
 the figure, and at another 20 or 30. So with a cathedral 
 interior, which is compressed into a space of 30 or 40 feet 
 square. Now, Mr. Gordon Craig meets the problem by only 
 exhibiting a portion — that is, just so much of the real thing as 
 would be seen in such a position, letting the imagination supply 
 the rest beyond the lines of the proscenium. 
 
 Mr. Craig's efforts are produced by the exclusion of all common 
 details. Broad masses of colour, which really form a background 
 to the figures instead of dwarfing them, a skilful distribution 
 of light and shadow— these are his methods; it is impres- 
 sionalism instead of realism. After seeing many of Mr. Gordon 
 Craig's attempts — and he seems to have had a sort of carte 
 blanche under Miss Terry's management at the Imperial 
 Theatre — it seemed that the system had not much variety, and 
 
122 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 came back to the one effect — coloured lights, or something of 
 the magic lantern. At first there was a little surprise, but as 
 with the lantern, plvs fa change, etc. 
 
 Recently he has issued a rather cryptic exposition of a later 
 discovery of his, which he expects will revolutionize scenery. 
 Some sketches of this new system were shown at a gallery in 
 Baker Street. They were beautifully painted water-colour 
 scenes. But I could make nothing of them. According to 
 the printed explanation, the essence of the system is found in 
 the applying of ' movement ' to the scene and its parts, and it is 
 contended that as the performers and the action all move, so 
 should the scenery. It may be, however, that the term is 
 used in its artistic sense, as movement in an architectural 
 fagade. These things will be all explained by and by, when 
 the author shall have developed his principles. But I doubt 
 if much will come of it. 
 
 Mr. Craig's ideas are certainly artistic, but the serious objec- 
 tion is that they will be found monotonous — it will be the same 
 effect in every scene. Thus one was struck with a cathedral 
 interior in MmH Ado About Nothing, a vast thing, impressive, 
 full of an inspissated gloom. The effect was produced by 
 folds of black drapery hanging vertically. There was no 
 attempt at perspective ; the pillars seemed to rise far, far above, 
 until lost in the regions above the stage. It was as though 
 one were standing right under a transept arch and were looking 
 up. This was most effective at first, until we saw that these 
 were deceptive draperies. In another scene there were more 
 draperies and cushions. In other plays we had the same 
 device, so it comes to this — that loose clothes, hung about more 
 or less gracefully, have taken the place of canvas stretched 
 upon screens. It will not do, I fear, for the improvement is not 
 on the lines of principle. So long as we look through an arch 
 at what is going on, you must retain the old false system, until 
 the principle of a detached platform is recognized, the scene 
 being the zone within which the group of performers move, 
 until the whole is generalized. No reform is practicable. We 
 must at least start from that principle— modify, compound, 
 but adopt it as the base. The old system may be called the 
 aquarian one, for we look at the actors much as we do at the 
 fishes in the tanks. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 ' WHAT IS THE SCENE ?' 
 
 HAVING pointed out so many objections and so many 
 abuses in the existing system of representation, I may 
 naturally be asked if these are absolutely insurmountable, and 
 whether I am prepared to propose something by way of remedy. 
 The answer is that the stage itself, and the modern ideas of the 
 stage itself, the relation of the audience to the spectacle before 
 it, are really founded on a false principle and a genuine corrup- 
 tion. The true principle was at work when the stage was 
 inaugurated. I am not so absurd as to recommend the going 
 back to these primeval conditions, but the tendency should 
 be to recognize them as much as possible. 
 
 In this matter of the relation of scenery to the drama, I think 
 we may come to one conclusion — that in principle at least 
 each is more or I'ess destructive of the other. If the one is 
 overpoweringly assertive, the other perishes. They can hardly 
 coexist. This, of course, is pushing the matter to the extreme- 
 It is the eyes and ears versus the soul and intellect. The 
 combination of garish colours, dazzling blaze, and gaudy 
 dresses, actually disturbs and distracts ; and this abuse is 
 wrought under the pretext of illusion. It is not going too far 
 to say that on the stage is found less illusion than anywhere 
 else ; this may seem paradoxical, but it is really the truth. I 
 would say that any unsophisticated person who saw a scene 
 for the first time in his life would not recognize it for what 
 it purported to be. He would make out a tree, or a small 
 shanty, and a doll's house in the foreground, which he was 
 told was the Squire's manor-house ; but he would shrewdly say, 
 ' These seem to me to be huge linen-screens with some painting 
 on them.' There is the flood of yellow light always present 
 
 123 
 
124 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 by stage day and night. And yet these are the realms of fairy 
 fancy and imagination. Blazing, dazzling light, gaudy colours, 
 music, particoloured costumes, are all antagonistic to the 
 appreciation of refined and exquisitely delicate allusions. 
 They are, as it were, smothered in the confusion. In any 
 case, the attention is distracted and the mind confused. Even 
 comedies of a strictly orthodox type are now brought down 
 to date and fitted with ' modern business.' As an illustration, 
 I never shall forget one scene, and the painful disconcerting 
 effect on the audience. A well-known American actress, highly 
 popular, was ' starring ' it in London, and she was to give Lady 
 Teazle, a fine vehicle for her brilliant gifts. That admirable 
 veteran Farran was specially engaged to support her as the 
 one and only Sir Peter. A fine combination, it was thought, 
 for the lady had a rare gift of comedy. Imagine his consterna- 
 tion when, after the Quarrel Scene, she rushed to the piano, 
 gave a sort of show-off song, then, I think, a dance ! But 
 this was as nothing, for the whole was brought up, or brought 
 down, to date by modern 'japes.' The text was interpolated 
 with strange things. Never shall I forget the pitiable attitude 
 of poor Sir Peter, who, incredibly mortified, had to wait while 
 the lady went through this musical business. 
 
 To seek out the dramatic secret and its riveting fascination 
 we must go back to the first elements. When we were children 
 we all keenly enjoyed panoramas and dioramas, and legitimately 
 so, for they stood on their own merits. These are now 
 virtually extinct, and merely tolerated. But on the stage 
 they flourish, acres of immaturely coloured canvases passing 
 before us, all steeped in a sort of furnace Waze. Some of these 
 things, we are told, have cost huge sums, but after the first 
 glance of curiosity the whole scene of interest passes away in 
 a moment. There is nothing dramatic, nothing of movement, 
 in any painted or lighted things. 
 
 But turn to what is strictly dramatic— that most precious 
 of things because most interesting. We find that^ from even 
 its earliest, most elementary stages, it held all with a most 
 absorbing interest. Two or three persons climbed up on a 
 platform who had the power of reproducing some unusual 
 exciting situation or character, and crowds gathered round to 
 listen. It never failed. No one asked for large canvas screens 
 
' What is the Scene?' 125 
 
 painted over with trees and houses, and which you were 
 enjoined to consider the same as real houses. They called up 
 the scene as they listened, if they cared to do so ; but the 
 incident, the clash of character, was enough. We are always 
 deeply interested in social episodes. They are truly enter- 
 taining, but, unluckily, they will not occur to order; it is 
 only a rare accident that brings them about. In this case 
 the dramatist and actor come to our aid and supplies these 
 things ready made. 
 
 Yet on this arrangement hangs the whole correct philosophy 
 of the drama ; the very basis of true scenery is involved. 
 With the modern system everything is seen as though we 
 were looking into a peep-show. Pictures pass before us, 
 figures pass before us, and all are within the lines of the arch. 
 Under the older system the scene was in the open ; the 
 players were unconfined — they stood forth in the free air. The" 
 scene was somewhere beyond, but the action went on almost 
 among the spectators. In short, the more general scenery 
 is, the more illusive will be the effect ; the more particular and 
 more mimetic scenery is, the less result may be looked for. 
 This was fully recognized in the old theatres from Garrick's 
 day down to Charles Kemble, when there were stock scenes 
 and stock dresses. The system of stock scenery made every- 
 thing very simple. There was an interior — either of palace, 
 dwelling-house, or cottage — a street in England and abroad, 
 a forest, a high road with trees. That was all. It would be 
 possible, for instance, so to generalize the foreign street as to 
 make it pass for either French, Italian, or German. The same 
 principle was applied to the stock dresses, where a King of 
 some centuries back was invariably arrayed in a crimson 
 velvet coat trimmed with broad ermine, a velvet cap also thus 
 trimmed. This was a conventional and accepted dress of every 
 Shakespearean monarch. We could hardly recognize him in 
 any other guise. There were stock Roman dresses. Old English, 
 French and bandits'. As we know, Garrick in his early days 
 went even farther than this, and generalized dresses off the stage 
 altogether, every one appearing in dresses of private life, only 
 of the handsomest pattern and material. Audiences did not 
 require anything else, nor was the illusion impaired. I always 
 look with interest at those modern reproductions of the antique 
 
126 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 stage, such as Palladio fashioned, and which was reproduced 
 at Ammergau, and was structurally general. It was so con- 
 trived that it embodied or combined two conditions of scenery, 
 outdoor and indoor. This, of course, was feasible under the 
 Greek conditions of colonnades and courts, which were half 
 in the open air and half covered. 
 
 But a more important principle still is involved in the answer 
 to the question, * What is the scene ?' 
 
 In all the French dramas we find a scientific arrangement 
 which supplies a hint for an answer. In most of these pieces 
 there are innumerable scenes — often a dozen in an act. And 
 yet the scene is not changed, for a new one is constituted 
 by anyone leaving the stage or coming on the stage. There is 
 significance in this, for it has nothing to do with canvas screens 
 or ' built up structures.' The change is purely metaphysical. 
 
 I would answer the question thus : The scene is not the 
 whole set enclosure, where there is an interior displayed ; not a 
 whole square, where there are a number of buildings ; not the 
 whole elevation of a castle at the back. I should call the scene 
 the zone, or space round the performers engaged in the action — 
 that is to say, the same area that a person or group of persons 
 would occupy in real life. This would amount to no more than 
 a section. Suppose there is a drama in which a murder takes 
 place in Trafalgar Square. To have this square suitably recog- 
 nized the modern painter is compelled to introduce the church, 
 the Gallery, the fountains — the whole, in short. These must be 
 squeezed in somehow or anyhow. Now, in the case of a real 
 scuffle taking place there, there would be only a fragment seen 
 — that close to the parties concerned. Or suppose a man enter- 
 ing into a large chamber, where he is set upon and all but 
 assassinated. He will not see or recall later the whole of the 
 room ; he will only think of what was near him. He cannot say 
 how many windows there were, whether there were two doors or 
 one. In all situations of excitement no one can take heed of 
 such matters. 
 
 In Garrick's time all the acting was in a central zone of this 
 kind, four lamps being hung over it, the rest of the stage being 
 in shadow, or 'haloed off,' as it were. 
 
 Nothing can exceed the falsity of the present system in regard 
 to proportion. A castle with a gateway is shown on the stage 
 
' Whai is the Scene ?' 127 
 
 — a regularly built-up structure, yet the arch of the gateway 
 must be about a foot over the actor's head ; but no one heeds. 
 The castle itself, the ' peaceful vicarage ' so often shown in 
 comedies, cannot by any contrivance be more than, say, 
 30 feet high, yet this every one accepts. With a scene painted 
 on a cloth you can have perspective, which reduces the size of 
 everything without shocking ; but within the zone that I have 
 spoken of portions of these things can be exhibited. 
 
 That first urgent principle of the stage — i.e., a raised platform 
 — strictly speaking, implies no scenery at all. The players 
 create their own scenery, or appeal to the imagination of the 
 spectators. They are there on a segment of Mother Earth, just 
 raised sufficiently to put them in view of all. It is like two or 
 three clever persons standing up in a drawing-room and reciting 
 a passage from a play. If they are passionate and earnest we 
 shall be so carried away that we shall not care for screens of 
 canvas gaudily painted over and diffused with a blaze of 
 dazzling lights. 
 
 As the perfect actor should present a general class of 
 character, and not slavishly copy a single or special instance, 
 so in the same way the scene should be a sort of generic place, 
 as a church, a public place, a chamber in the castle, etc. And 
 Shakespeare in many of his plays does not even condescend to 
 give the scene a name at all, leaving the business of the scene 
 itself to signify its locale to the reader. 
 
 It will be seen what an obvious inconvenience and incon- 
 sistency arises from the principle that the interior or exterior 
 presented must be — laterally, at least — of the same size. The 
 small cottage and the palatial hall, the vast square and the 
 modest drawing-room in Mayfair, the market-place, with the 
 cathedral and the vicarage garden, the towers, domes, etc., 
 succeed each other, and the scale is constantly being altered. 
 We have seen the whole of Charing Cross, with St. Martin's 
 Church, Trafalgar Square and the lions, and the National 
 Gallery, to say nothing of Morley's Hotel, all squeezed into the 
 space which in the preceding or subsequent scene served to 
 show a garret in the Borough. Yet mark this : The scale of 
 the human figures that moved about in these surroundings 
 remained, of course, the same, though the scale of the objects 
 and buildings was constantly changing. Thus St. Martin's 
 
128 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 Church is about three times the height of the figures, and the 
 walls of the garret-room about twice the height of the figures — 
 all which absurdity arises from this literal imitation of external 
 objects, and striving to bring the streets and houses on to the 
 stage ; whereas by a comparatively sceneless system, where the 
 actors alone are the central objects, there can be none of these 
 discrepancies. Any background should be always a constant 
 quantity and of the same proportions. 
 
 To secure a genuine system of stage illusion we must look 
 for scientific principles, to be worked out and applied, and 
 not to be regulated, as things are now, by rule of thumb. 
 We have started by answering the questions : ' What is the 
 stage ?' ' What is the scene ?' But ' What does the opening of 
 the proscenium really mean ?' ' Where are the audience pre- 
 sumed to be in relation to the actors ?' are equally interesting 
 queries. Answers being found for these questions, some first 
 principles will be secured to work with. 
 
 To begin with the arrangement of the stage itself. There 
 always seems an incongruity, and one that strikes the eyes, 
 affecting even all dramatic propriety, when we see the heavy 
 marble columns that support the arch resting upon the very 
 boards of the stage itself. At His Majesty's Theatre we 
 can even see the arch and its pillars of marble similarly 
 appearing on the fore-stage. I say appearing, because we know 
 full well that they are supported on substantial piers below. 
 But if these marble columns were boldly treated— put forward 
 prominently, reaching well down to the floor of the stalls, 
 where they could assert themselves, while between them the 
 wooden platform projects well forward — the effect or signifi- 
 cance would be striking and dramatic, and quite a new idea 
 would be conveyed to the audience. 
 
 From this arrangement we should see at once that there was 
 a large arched opening broken in the wall of the theatre, and 
 under this opening was a wooden platform, which projected in 
 front of the arch, and on which the action of the play took 
 place. In the older theatres there was always a great stretch 
 of stage in front of the curtain— the undebatable land between 
 audience and actors. This has been abolished, owing to the 
 greed of profit and the necessity of finding yet more room for 
 stalls. 
 
■ What is the Scene ?' 1 29 
 
 We may all the time fairly commiserate the daring managers 
 who have to wear this tremendous and crushing Nessus 
 shirt, so costly and so generally disastrous in result. Wit- 
 ness Macready, Charles Kean, and the piteous fate of Irving. 
 What a contrast their state with the light, unencumbered situa- 
 tion of the comedy manager who is on the legitimate path, 
 like Alexander, who may have, indeed, an expensive company, 
 but is not pressed down by the weight of built-up scenes, 
 rich and rare dresses, shows, and the rest. Neither has he 
 the anxieties of a tired public and changing tastes. He is 
 legitimate, and his legitimacy is generally new, fresh, and 
 entertaining. 
 
 Disheartening as this review has been — for it has revealed an 
 earthiness thoroughly un-Shakespearean — we still find a good 
 deal of progress in public taste. The past few years have been 
 record ones in the matter of revivals. Some eight or ten 
 managers have been concerned — to wit, Beerbohm Tree, 
 Oscar Asche, Otho Stuart, Forbes- Robertson, Lewis Waller, 
 Benson, Martin Harvey, and Flanagan of Manchester. About 
 twenty pieces were revived within two or three years — Othello, 
 Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, As You Like It, Measure for Measure, 
 Much Ado A bout Nothing, Merchant of Venice, A ntony and Cleo- 
 patra, Troilus and Cressida, Cymbeline, Henry V., Winter's Tale, 
 Macbeth, Henry VI., Midsummer Night's Dream, Julius Ccssar, 
 The Tempest, Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Timon of A thens. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ACTING, SOLILOQUIES, ASIDES, BY-PLAY, RECITATION, ETC. 
 
 ONE of the most interesting, and also important, of the 
 questions connected with the revivals is this. How, 
 under such trying circumstances, are the Shakespearean lines 
 to be recited? What is to be the key or gamut? Should 
 it be prosaic, familiar, and like everyday talk? or should 
 there be highly artificial tones of sonorous dignity ? Yet it is 
 not difficult to find some certain guide that may help to decide 
 the question. 
 
 I am afraid that it was our admired and venerated Irving 
 who first introduced the abolition of the old stilted system of 
 Shakespearean declamation. Why not, he thought, harmonize 
 it with the general current of the time ? Men talk to each other 
 in a sort of unlicensed way ; they do not declaim or preach. 
 So when the young nobles of The Merchant of Venice, and Romeo 
 and Juliet, and Much Ado A bout Nothing came on the scene, 
 how natural that they should talk like nobles and ' gentles ' of our 
 day ! The familiar disregard of feet and measure would give, 
 if not intelligibility, an everyday sound to the discourse. 
 
 Accordingly, Antonio and Bassanio chatted on, exactly like 
 young fellows at Boodles' or White's, discarding all metre, 
 pausing in the middle, and running the last portion into the 
 first of the next line. Yet this sort of thing is quite out of 
 keeping, and destroys the effect. It is disagreeable to hear the 
 young noble ' gabbling ' away for his bare life, rattling forth 
 the precious stones of words in a reckless way, using noble 
 words and phrases to rollicking accompaniment. 
 
 The antagonism between the stately phrases and periods, and 
 such everyday sounds is almost comic. The young men speak 
 so fast and so indistinctly, from lack of instruction, that the gold 
 and silver words drop to the ground and are lost. It is really 
 
 130 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 131 
 
 as though the noble lines are uttered to a sort of banjo 
 accompaniment. We might conceive of some up-to-date 
 clergyman — and we have often heard such — thinking to better 
 realize the situations for his hearers by reading the Holy 
 Scriptures in the key of everyday life, with familiar inflec- 
 tions and airy tones. The effect is grotesque, and in a sense 
 shocking. At every instant the solemn words protest against 
 such levity. 
 
 It is so with these great lines of Shakespeare. There must~A 
 be elevation — a certain state and solemnity — and music also. 
 But with the reign of this modern prattle, as it may be 
 called, arises a more serious thing. A few words of the bard — 
 a line or two — are so suggestive, so packed with meaning, that 
 it takes thought and emphasis to bring it out. Further, there 
 are words used in recondite or archaic senses, forms of phrase 
 that belong to the past. These being chattered forth at an 
 express pace are almost incomprehensible — nay, from defective 
 elocution, they are scarcely heard even. The lines should, 
 indeed, be delivered, not recited — that is, the meaning should 
 be first sought for, and brought to the surface by deep thought^^, 
 and reflection. It is forgotten, too, that there is a subsidiary 
 music in the words, which it is a delightful thing to listen to if j 
 properly uttered. This we know from the stock passages — so_^ 
 certain of applause — ^which are licensed, as it were, to be de- 
 livered in correct fashion. At the Theatre Fran9ais how 
 delightful the entertainment of listening to that rather mono- 
 tonous, even dreary, piece Le Misanthrope, from the exquisitely 
 melodious declamation, carried on through long, interminable 
 speeches, yet all lit up and made intelligible by the emphasis 
 and cadences of the player. 
 
 And yet I believe this talkative method is accepted generally, 
 and even admired, as being ' so perfectly natural.' 
 
 Some generations ago, when stalls were rather a novelty, 
 there was found in all the theatres a sort of advanced stage, 
 that projected some 30 feet or more in front of the curtain. This 
 used to be known as ' the apron,' and was really an extra stage 
 in the auditorium. On this the singers and actors declaimed 
 their parts. By and by, as the stalls grew in favour, it occurred 
 to many that here was so much space wasted. A portion was 
 sliced off and rows of stalls substituted. Gradually the whole 
 
 9—2 
 
132 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 projection was abolished, and now a plumb-line dropped from 
 the crown of the arch would almost fall straight to the bottom 
 of the orchestra. 
 
 This may seem a trifling matter of arrangement, but it really 
 involves a vast and radical principle, for this apron really 
 suggested the true original form of the stage — that is, of a 
 raised platform round which the audience was grouped. It 
 showed this platform projected through the arch, and thus de- 
 stroyed the notion of being a picture with a background, or any 
 enclosure into which an audience looked. During the perform- 
 ance the actors could not help coming far forward, actually into 
 the body of the house, with great advantage to their efforts ; 
 and at these moments they were exactly in the condition of the 
 primitive actors, and independent of all scenery. It is extra- 
 ordinary what an air of truth and reality this imparted. 
 
 At the present nothing can be more mean or stunted than 
 the effect of the truncated stage ; there was such an abstract air 
 of flowing space, even when the curtain was down. We felt 
 that here was the actor's land — the earth, as it were, on which 
 he stood and walked. 
 
 It seems but a trite and hackneyed thing — it is so constantly 
 done — to talk of the superiority of the French and other foreign 
 acting ; but what is not thought of is that it is the real acting, 
 while ours is another thing altogether and on different lines. 
 The English actor, given a character, recites his part ; he treats 
 it objectively ; he gives it emphasis, and simulates the different 
 emotions as best he can, but all the time it is objective. He still 
 
 remains Mr. , who is representing the part X. The functions 
 
 are distinct. The public foster the notion by 'going to see 
 
 Mr. ' rather than the character he plays. Mr. always 
 
 remains Mr. ; it is the system. The French actor, with 
 
 his imagination and dramatic feeling, cannot help casting his 
 own skin and becoming lost in the character. He acts it ; he 
 becomes it for the time. Hence the interest, the enjoyment 
 with which we follow him. His words are not recited; they 
 come from him naturally, as if unthought, to the moment. His 
 bearing, gestures, expression of face, is all acting also. With 
 our people we rarely for a single moment, even in the case of 
 I leaders, take them for the characters: they are performers. 
 i This permeates every department. The scenery, dresses, etc., 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 133 
 
 are all so many exhibitions, without any homogeneousness or 
 relation to the acting. In the Shakespearean revival this show- 
 man element is more conspicuous than in anything else. Each 
 scene is an exaggerated farce, or show, claiming praise, and this 
 system of objective recitation, as I have called it, is pushed to 
 the furthest. I venture to say that to repeat a single speech of 
 the bard's with heart, feeling, nature, emphasis, is a result that 
 could only be obtained by a refined and diligent education pur- 
 sued for years ; there should be colour, restraint, reserve, and a 
 dozen other things. Then the long series of lines becomes 
 lighted up, as it were, and intelligible, and of absorbing interest 
 for the spectator. 
 
 Another cause of this failing in English acting is perhaps 
 the national character, which is plain, straightforward, and 
 literal. It likes to have all in black and white. But in social 
 life nothing is in plain black and white : everything is shaded 
 off. Few British actors understand the ' double intention,' for 
 instance ; to say a complimentary thing and at the same moment 
 convey coiltempt or derision. This, however, can be done. Nor 
 do they, while seeming hard or cruel, know how to show that 
 underneath they still love and cherish. These delicacies require 
 a sort of inspiration. What of letting the angry glance or 
 troubled gesture precede the utterance and convey its meaning ? 
 What of the impetuous glance, so significant that it tells what 
 is presently spoken in words ? There are plenty of well- 
 trained, well-cultivated actors, but few that act, in this sense — 
 that really act — that is, act with their glances, body, move- 
 ments, before saying a word. 
 
 The Americans really act, particularly the actresses. They 
 put nature into the characters. We have seen American 
 actresses quite equal to the French. In a recent piece by Mr. 
 Henry A. Jones it was extraordinary to note the contrast 
 between the free, spontaneous nature of the American who did 
 the heroine and the wooden, cramped, and artificial treatment 
 of her companion, who did a managing mother. 
 
 When a marked or eccentric character is allotted to a player, 
 he has but the one way — follow the established tradition. Thus, 
 in a recently performed play there was an odd stolid Baronet 
 — meant to be sententious, intrusive, and meddling, canting 
 also. His family also intruded and canted. Every time 
 
134 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 he uttered a sentence he seemed to prelude it by saying, 
 ' Mark ye, now I am going to cant.' And so, with an 
 affected, stagey voice and solemn gestures, he went on with his 
 preaching. You felt it was unreal. No one that cants gives 
 notice that he is going to cant in this way. Canting folk can 
 be as natural as common folk. They don't use a sing-song 
 voice. Intruding folk disguise their intrusions. But no ; it is 
 thought unless your acting is properly labelled and perpetually 
 announced to the audience, it will not be effective. 
 
 What is wanting in acting — not only in acting merely, but 
 everywhere — is the precious gift of distinction. It is a most 
 difficult thing to define, but we can always feel its presence. 
 Distinction, I might say, is the complete ignoring — or disdain, 
 even — of common methods and agencies. The soul is so com- 
 pletely absorbed that it can give no thought to the accepted 
 modes of expression, so often confounded with the thing to be 
 expressed — as in painting, when the commonplace artist thinks 
 chiefly of his model and its draping, the methods of drawing, 
 colouring; or as in writing, when the writer thinks of his 
 periods of word-painting. On the stage the artist will permeate 
 himself with the character he plays ; he will not heed ' make-up ' 
 or dress or attitudes. The one and only thing before him is 
 character— the mind, in short : that mind which to him literally 
 ' a kingdom is.' This is felt particularly in Shakespearean 
 creations. We see this in daily life, where a man takes no 
 thought of the meaner and more earthy elements. He views all 
 things with his high soul, disdaining to impute motives or to 
 employ shifts or devices. The dress, even of a man of distinc- 
 tion, instinctively reflects his character; it is not rich or 
 handsome, but proper and correct, not attracting the eye 
 
 at all. 
 
 Some of the old players had great distinction. Irvmg par- 
 ticularly was a man of distinction. In most Shakespearean 
 revivals it is generally lacking, and this of studied, set purpose, 
 for the aim is to present the piece in as modern a fashion as 
 possible. Thus Malvolio has been studiously stripped of all dis- 
 tinction. He is to be taken literally and practically and as self- 
 conscious. The real steward was one absorbed in dreams, and 
 so indifferent and superior to all vulgar incidents that he would 
 never have had four retainers walking before him— to a tune. 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 135 
 
 Distinction also means the unconscious revealing of changing 
 feelings and emotions which the man of distinction disdains to 
 conceal. He allows his contending feelings to be seen. Modern 
 acting allows of but one inflexible form of character, not to be 
 changed. A man is haughty or hypocritical ; he must continue 
 so to the end. But in true acting inconsistencies are shown. 
 
 I can quite understand the performer saying to herself in the 
 case of Rosalind or Celia : ' Now I have to do some rustic folk. 
 I have been in the country, and I remember well their ways, 
 which I must reproduce.' There is a sort of tradition for these 
 things — a kind of rough style and manner. Or here are two 
 young girls out for Bank Holiday, most obstreperous creatures 
 — all this is before the mind of our actor or actress. 
 
 It is astonishing and little known or thought of, how the • 
 power of elocution, with attendant gesture or bearing, will \ 
 supply the place of the most elaborate scenery and produce i 
 the most convincing effects. It is possible, by this feeling of j 
 conviction, to persuade others that something is present that ! 
 is really not present; the very tones and bearing persuade the ■ 
 spectator more effectively than the most elaborate mechanical 
 effort. Such is the purpose of acting. Instead, the modern i 
 system is to appeal to the eye instead of the heart and feeling. J 
 In real life, when we see two men together speaking with the 
 utmost courtesy and apparent friendliness, a shrewd observer 
 may say : ' Those two hate each other !' There is something 
 in their bearing, the tone of the voice, the glance of the eye 
 which reveals it. But our modern actor has but the one way 
 to exhibit his hate : by a scowl, a scorn in his voice, a gesture of 
 contempt ; better still by an aside given him by the author, in 
 which he will say boldly that he hates, so that there can be no 
 mistake about it. In fact, without this palpable evidence of 
 his feelings, he can do little. 
 
 The departments of acting, outside speech, are indeed innumer-~| 
 able. Who thinks now of facial acting ? for its power is quite | 
 lost, owing, I really believe, to the floods of light, which over- 
 power all shadows and lines. Let us recall Elia's recollections 
 of Dodd : 
 
 ' In expressive slowness of apprehension this actor surpassed 
 all others. You could see the first dawn of an idea stealing 
 slowly over his conscience, climbing up little by little, which is 
 
13^ Shakespearean Representations 
 
 a painful process, till it is cleared up at last to the fullness of a 
 twilight conception. He seemed to keep back his intellect. A 
 glimmer of understanding would appear in a corner of his eye, 
 and, for lack of fuel, go out again. A part of his forehead would 
 catch a little intelligence, and be a long time in communicating 
 to the remainder.' 
 
 I can fancy the amusement — nay, bewilderment — of some 
 of our journeymen as their eyes fall on this. ' What I do all this 
 with your face ? Oh, go to !' All this seems a lost, incompre- 
 hensible art — beyond histrionic power. In this connexion we 
 think of the false face when we hear an actor praised for his 
 powers of making up,' as it is called ; it leaves an uncomfortable 
 feeling. We know that it is base mechanical operation, and 
 opposed to the principles of acting. One that alters his face in 
 this fashion interposes a regular mask between him and his 
 hearers. Expression becomes impossible. The effect, if a 
 surprise, does not last a minute. No ; your true actor will 
 make up, as far as possible, from within. With an intense 
 power of realization, he will force his features to correspond to 
 what is within him. 
 
 How conventionally, too, is represented some oddity of speech 
 and manner provided by the author. Is it not invariably 
 mere repetition, brought in always after the same fashion ? And 
 yet it is obvious that there are varied methods which can be 
 applied, so as to suggest spontaneousness. The player may 
 catch or check himself; he may say it unconsciously. But, 
 after all, it i% a difficulty, though never great, as it is so unnatural, 
 for no eccentric brings in his catchword in every sentence. 
 
 Listening, after all, is acting, and a very important department. 
 It properly belongs to the utterance of a person who is speaking, 
 who, if he sees attention and understanding and interest in 
 
 1 his listener, is compelled, as it were, to give more point and 
 emphasis to what he is saying. The two faces and voices make 
 one whole. But a sort of smiling indifference is the usual 
 display. The listener really shows that he is only waiting till the 
 
 \ ' other has done. One who is listening to a story or explanation 
 will show a mixture of emotions — now surprise, now dissent, 
 now agitation, now great interest, etc. But these things are 
 overlooked. This traditional indifference or detachment is a 
 sad blemish of the silent partner in a dialogue. He appears to 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 137 
 
 be waiting patiently till his turn comes round to speak. Our 
 more intelligent actors, indeed, affect a sort of stagey interest, 
 smiling or nodding, etc. ; but this is not nearly sufficient. They 
 should be as interested and absorbed as the speaker, reflect his 
 mood and emotions, show an eagerness to interrupt, and check 
 themselves, turn away impatiently, in short, be one with the 
 speaker. In lovers' scenes, too, we have too often the same 
 stilted method of alternate speeches. It may be said, in fact, 
 that the listener is just as important and should act as much 
 and as forcibly as the person who is speaking. 
 
 The boisterous stage laugh is familiar enough, but it is J 
 quite unlike any form of merriment heard in the world outside. J 
 It is forced and unnatural — an emission of artificial ' Ha ! ha's !' 
 in a series, solemnly done and with machine-like regularity. It 
 never produces that contagious responsive return from the 
 listener which genuine merriment always does. And yet it is a 
 great, most important, element in the art of acting. It has its 
 preparatory stage in a growing sense of amusement, the con- 
 sciousness of something ridiculous approaching, the struggle to 
 restrain it from politeness, the restraint at last giving way as 
 the thing became too absurd, with the final enjoyable burst of 
 hilarity. How infectious all this, as we see it on the French 
 stage ! Its incomparable players do not need to utter ' Ha ! ha !' 
 as the visible, necessary sign of enjoyment. You read the feel- 
 ing of amusement in the faces, the eyes, the pursed lips. It is 
 as though they were saying to us : * This poor foolish man 
 is quite too much for us. What a goose he is making of 
 himself!' And this sort of facial acting compels us to believe 
 that the man is a goose, and that without any effort of his 
 own. 
 
 And what a whole gamut there is of laughter ! — the con- 
 temptuous, the forced, the loud and vulgar burst, the sarcastic, 
 the bitter, the titter. When a number of persons are enjoying 
 a hearty laugh together it is extraordinary to see the varieties, 
 the different methods of enjoyment. And here, it may be said, 
 our players wholly forget that every speech or remark is certain 
 to affect the listeners in some fashion or other — that is, if they 
 are interested. There is eagerness to answer, protest, dissent, 
 cordial approbation, contempt, etc. This should be exhibited, 
 to give point to the speech. But, as I have said, they usually 
 
138 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 
 think of their own spoken answer that is to come, and so wait 
 tintil their companion has done. I repeat, three-fourths of 
 genuine acting is found in the expression of the eyes, face, 
 figure ; in the unspoken utterances of gesture and movements 
 of the figure; in the anticipation of the coming speech by a 
 significant movement of the arm, which works faster than the 
 voice, and, owing to emotion, cannot wait. Who thinks of 
 
 ese things— considered, no doubt, as trivialities? Who 
 thinks that in moments of agitation the words are propelled 
 forth rapidly in a torrent, jostling each other, as it were ? Yet 
 Irving, odd to say, always grew slower and yet slower at such 
 tempestuous passages.* 
 
 Personages of high rank, with their entourage, are now, in 
 modern comedies of manners, often placed on the stage. We 
 could mention some West End houses where whole bevies of 
 fine ladies. Countesses and others, moved about the salons. It 
 was extraordinary what an exhibition of polite manners and 
 bearing it was. The type aimed at seemed to be some of the 
 high-class opulent trading folk, who entertained them, and 
 whose superior style they thought it safest to copy. But 
 who could expect these actresses to learn the ways, sayings, 
 and doings of such lofty dames ? How were they to do it ? 
 Well, it may seem ' fantastical,' as Elia has it, but it really 
 can be done, or nearly approached, by thought and that 
 visualization I have before spoken of. There is the native 
 instinct of gentility, founded on a sense of propriety and on what 
 is becoming, which is common to all ranks. There is the taste 
 for superior reading and superior models. An assumption that 
 these Countesses will behave naturally and in a lady-like, be- 
 coming fashion, will beget of itself a suitable conception. But 
 no. There is the vulgar theory that overbearing manners, with 
 ludicrously haughty speeches, are true notes of high rank. 
 
 Hesitation, difficulty of deciding between two courses — it 
 really requires the greatest skill to express such emotions. 
 
 * In that very sparkling comic opera T/ie Merry Widow there is an 
 admirable American player, Coyne, who is determined to resist the advances 
 of the enchantress, but is again and again led on by her seduction to the 
 verge of confession, when of a sudden he recollects the danger and breaks 
 away in a sort of grotesque fury with himself and her, only presently to fall 
 into the trap once more. Nothing more diverting or more in spirit of 
 comedy has been seen of late. 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 139 
 
 Yet it is quite possible to exhibit fearful agonies of hesitation 
 and uncertainty without any particular exertion. How often 
 do we hear in private life, ' I see you have something on your 
 mind.' The person in question has made no show or exhibition, 
 but somehow he betrays his feeling. Our English player, a 
 downright, strenuous fellow, cuts the knot. ' What shall I do ?' 
 he says, in his blunt way : ' shall I marry her, or shall I not ? 
 After a moment he renders it Yea or Nay, and so settles the 
 business. But if acted, how protracted ! what uncertainties, 
 difficulties, agonies ! ' What is to be done ?' Walking, striding 
 up and down, is a safety-valve for agitation. To keep in motion 
 relieves tension. Yet when unacceptable advice is given, it is 
 often received with a stony stare and in silence. I doubt if all 
 these things are to be learnt by diligent observation ; they come 
 rather by instinct, if the performer ' lets himself go ' and ^yields 
 to the influence. 
 
 The charm of acting really depends on the crossing and 
 intermingling of all these currents of emotion and feeling ; study 
 and practice, and also genius, will help to distinguish them. 
 Acting is not, as is thought, a downright statement, but aN 
 complicated pattern of many shades and colours delicately I 
 interwoven. Everything is double and treble. There are I 
 submeanings, as when the fair one says ' No,' but the lover 
 reads it ' Yes.' I really believe that such uncertainties make J 
 up the charm of acting. 
 
 In life we often come across amusing characters, but it is 
 rarely that they exhibit, because opportunities are not furnished. 
 The most fitting display arises, it may be, out of an accident, 
 and such accidents cannot be ordered in advance. The true 
 dramatist, however, by his peculiar craft, can supply these 
 situations. He has studied human nature ; he knows the works 
 as the clock-maker does his clocks. He does not mistake smart 
 dialogue for character, and he knows that it is only action that 
 can exhibit character properly. 
 
 But the common young man who has seen in real life what 
 he takes to be an amusing character will proceed literally to 
 copy the traits instead of recreating and generalizing. He 
 stands in need of earthy illustrations, and cannot do without 
 the same recurring jests, peculiarities of manner, oddities, 
 grimacings, and, above all, make-up. 
 
140 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 The delight furnished by all the arts is founded on abstrac- 
 tion and selection. Thus, on a rare occasion we note a tender 
 melancholy in some evening landscape. A Corot comes by, 
 notes and reproduces it. A sweet face shows some delicate 
 expression, half smiling, half sorrowful, wholly innocent, and 
 Greuze has caught it. The poet puts into words lovely thoughts 
 which no one else could express, though mistily conscious of 
 their existence. Characters, stories, actions, may be described 
 with accurate and literal truth, and yet seem uninteresting and 
 unmeaning, until one who has the key unlocks the secret 
 chambers, and all becomes spiritualized. 
 
 Few have noticed the complete extinction on the stage of the 
 old low comedy characters. Such parts are rarely found in 
 modern plays, and the actors who gave them effect are not in 
 demand. The traditions, therefore, are being lost. No one now 
 can cause prolonged laughter by his mere look, air, and bearing. 
 I recall, at the old Haymarket, when the first note of Buck- 
 stone's cheerful voice, heard behind the scenes, produced a roar. 
 Naturally, therefore, the broadly humorous character of Shake- 
 speare cannot be interpreted with the breadth and weight that 
 are necessary. There is a class of character, such as Pistol, Nym, 
 Autolycus, Bardolph, and many more, who are often in places 
 almost unintelligible to the average unthoughtfiil or uneducated 
 mind. If we were to set an actor to recite, say, some of Pistol's 
 talk to us, he would find it difficult to bring out the bare mean- 
 ing of most of the sentences ; it would seem to him a sort of anti- 
 quated jargon. There is so much that is elliptical and buried 
 in each word or sentence, that it would take a skilled commen- 
 tator long to make it all clear, and then would come the more 
 difficult task of the delivery. There should be a certain breadth, 
 a sort of high reserve, an air of unconsciousness, as though the 
 whole was a natural form of speech, absolutely necessary, and 
 a sort of pawkiness too. Mr. Asche possesses this breadth of 
 tone and power of significance. They are all characters. And 
 let an average English actor try and render the mimitable 
 Bailie Nicol Jarvie : he will find it as difficult as that of Pisto . 
 What, then, is the performer to do ? Nothing, save fall back 
 on the usual stage formulas and work on his own Imes. Pistol 
 is a braggart and coward, so he must stride about and flourish, 
 roar and cringe in a broad, intelligible way. That old fnend 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By -play, etc. 141 
 
 the grave-digger in Hamlet is still invariably overdone in this 
 fashion ; though happily the series of waistcoats has been 
 abolished, it is still seized upon as a precious opening for low, 
 exaggerated treatment. Who thinks that the fellow was a 
 perfect philosopher, engrossed with his craft ? 
 
 That grotesque and entertaining group has rarely been 
 presented with such effect as in Mr. Waller's spirited re- 
 vival of Henry V. To the average actor their lines seem 
 scarcely intelligible ; they seem to belong to a recondite style of 
 humour, to the secret of which he cannot pierce. The only 
 resource is to fill it out with the comic man's methods, and 
 force the jocosities to take a modern shape. Undue stress and 
 emphasis are plentifully employed. Pistol becomes a sort of 
 swaggering blusterer ; but in Mr. Mollison's hands what a quaint, 
 fantastical character it was ! The fellow is striving to carry 
 off his cowardice by a sort of poetical exaggeration, a quixotic 
 air ; he imposes on us to a certain extent, and almost excites 
 a sort of interest by his highfalutin flights. He believes in 
 himself, and his friends seem to believe in him too ; he is so 
 convincing. Bardolph, too — natural without undue emphasis or 
 labouring after fun. His archaic phrases — ' the humour of it,' 
 etc. — are only his method of expression, and we understand 
 him perfectly. 
 
 How rarely do we hear ' a soliloquy,' as it is called, delivered 
 in a natural or convincing way ! It is almost invariably intended 
 for the audience — a sort of address to the public. A soliloquy 
 represents the irrepressible current of thoughts passing through 
 the mind, without order, or sometimes without coherence. All 
 sorts of possible and impossible things suggest themselves and 
 pass away; nothing is clearly formulated, though at times 
 something impresses the dreamer more than the rest. The 
 speaker should therefore seem quite unconscious of the world 
 without, even of the words he is uttering or allowing to escape 
 him. Movements of passion, vehemence, and impatience there 
 should be, for in these we mast naturally indulge, even in our 
 private council chambers. One could almost imagine Hamlet 
 addressing some imaginary companion — his own double, it 
 might be — as he wanders on from topic to topic. The position 
 of the audience is that of an eavesdropper. Such a principle 
 would make the soliloquy quite a different thing from what it is 
 
142 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 now. How stagey and artificial, therefore, is the accepted 
 notion that the speaker is sitting down to have a good long 
 talk with himself, the stage being cleared for the purpose, the 
 truth being that while in company his mind was full of the 
 topics, and when alone these began to escape him, being dis- 
 charged to relieve himself as he moved about restlessly. 
 
 The aside, so largely used in the old dramas, was a method of 
 letting the audience know the real or secret meaning of the 
 speaker, as when some sort of lago was assuring his victim 
 of his fidelity, he turns away, and will allow some expression of 
 hate to escape him. This is untrue to nature, for even the 
 professional villain or hypocrite is not inclined to reveal, even 
 to himself, his turpitude. The aside should be acted, not 
 spoken. How absurd are these announcements : ' Now I will 
 probe him to the quick '; ' How he tortures me ! But be still, 
 my heart ' ! But there are occasions when the aside becomes 
 natural enough, as when impatience at some display of absurdity 
 causes a half-muttered exclamation, such as : ' Was there ever 
 
 such a goose!' 'D d fool!' 'I can't endure this much 
 
 longer !' ' What next, I wonder !' These are true asides, and, 
 properly developed, add to the dramatic force of the situation. 
 
 Hamlet is, of course, the great repertoire of soliloquies. The 
 aspiring actor about to adventure on the Dane at once bethinks 
 how he is to treat these meditations. The accepted method is 
 to make each a detached performance, with a crescendo move- 
 ment, working all up to a finish — all which is artificial, and not 
 consistent with the dramatic business of the play. Instead of 
 being detached, it should be a part of the action. 
 
 Let us take the familiar • Oh that this too, too solid flesh 
 would melt!' We all know how this is handled. So soon as 
 the stage is cleared of the King, the Prince sinks into his chair, 
 and, after due pause, begins, then travels through the long 
 speech. But what is the situation? He is disgusted at his 
 uncle's hypocrisy, his public lecture on indulging in grief ; he 
 is fretted at the constraint on himself, and then breaks out : 
 ' Oh, how long is all this to go on ? Would that I were dead ! 
 Only that self-destruction is wicked,' etc. A man in this state 
 of agitation does not go prosing on at funeral pace ; his words 
 are poured forth quickly and even furiously. All this is natural 
 and dramatic. If this natural view were adopted, we can see 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 143 
 
 after what a different complexion should be Hamlet's solilo- 
 quies, which every player gives for ' all that he is worth.' 
 Let us take another well-known example. He has been listen- 
 ing to the recitations of the players, who had given their tragic 
 scene with much emotion, and as they^leave him it strikes him 
 as strange and humiliating that these hired creatures should 
 exhibit such realistic grief, while he, with his monstrous wrongs, 
 could look on calmly and wait. Was he a coward ? he asked. 
 Then the idea of the play took shape as a first step. That is the 
 pith of the fifty-seven lines. Yet what an elaborate business 
 our actors make of it ! — always so slow and momentous and 
 deliberate that we almost overlook the connexion of thoughts. 
 Yet we could fancy Hamlet, after they had gone, dreaming over 
 the ' mobled Queen ' and the tears, and then breaking out : 
 ' Oh, what a wretched creature I am ! Oh, what a peasant 
 slave am I !' Yet in this ruminant key should the whole be 
 delivered, with numerous pauses for meditation, getting up, 
 sitting down, and new suggestions. This would happen in real 
 life, and we could well imagine so highly-strung a being talking 
 to himself or acting aloud. Instead he prepares slowly for the 
 coming soliloquy — a detached effort, a speech, in fact. 
 
 The great actors have ever striven to make something 
 original out of Macbeth's ' Is this a dagger ?' and we are 
 warned that it is at hand. It is nearly always spoken slowly 
 and deliberately, the eyes fixed on vacancy. And yet if one 
 saw a spectral dagger, would there not be a sudden start, with 
 drawing back, rubbing of the eyes, and hurried, agitated words ? 
 Our players never think that the more excited the situation, 
 the faster should be the utterance. Then do the words come 
 forth pell-mell, as it were. Sir Henry Irving adopted the 
 opposite course, and got slower and yet slower as he became 
 agitated. 
 
 The instruction to the players in Hamlet offers a fine oppor- 
 tunity, and is invariably magnified and made the most of. 
 Yet how easily can we understand what should be the proper 
 tone ! A young nobleman is giving his actors a few hints 
 before the play begins : ' Now I do conjure you,' he would 
 say — * no vulgarity ; this is a private house. Give it all lightly 
 and with animation. Don't put in anything of your own — 
 " gags," and such things. It really makes one sick to hear the 
 
1 44 Shakespearean Representations 
 
 stuff actors introduce ; it only shocks the intelligent part of 
 the audience,' etc.— all this spoken earnestly and naturally. 
 Instead, we are given a lecture on elocution. 
 
 So with Richard III.'s famous utterances, ' Now is the 
 winter,' etc., where 'glorious summer' made triumphant is illus- 
 trated by a chuckle ; while 'In the deep bosom of the ocean 
 buried ' is gloomy and menacing, especially when it is so often 
 given with a pause (' the ocean — huried '), the reciter pointing 
 downwards, as though the ocean were there. It is, in fact, an 
 elaborate recitation, to be made the most of. And yet it should 
 be nothing of the kind. It is a rumination in which the wicked 
 Duke turns over his situation, plans, tries this and that, and 
 allows his thoughts to wander from topic to topic. In this 
 view we cannot fancy him striding down to the front and 
 announcing to the audience that the ' winter of his discontent ' 
 has been made ' glorious summer.' He would enter irresolutely, 
 absorbed in deep thought, pacing to and fro, without speaking. 
 The difficulties of his position, his plots and plans, are before 
 him. Then he suddenly stops, and it occurs to him that, after 
 all, his prospects are really favourable ; for ' Now is the winter 
 of our discontent made glorious summer.' All the others are 
 engaged in amusements, love-making, etc. And then it occurs 
 to him, after a pause — all save his own ill-fashioned self. He 
 was not made for that sort of thing — he, a poor deformed 
 creature. Still there was compensation. He was determined 
 to prove a villain, and carry out all his schemes, etc. 
 
 Now, here is an intellectual process going on, but not a speech 
 or oration to the audience. He was really drifted along in an 
 uncertain way from one scheme or thought to another. He 
 works out in the hearing of the audience what he will next do. 
 But all the time he is communing with himself. Of course 
 this will not do for the Waldengarvers of the stage, who must 
 have their roarings and scowlings, and inform the audience 
 that they are villains. 
 
 It may be that these criticisms on the prevailing methods of 
 English acting will be considered harsh and even illiberal. 
 But I have been speaking of a long-established system, and not 
 of individual performers, who are as intelligent and skilful as 
 any in the world. The defects noted are due to their situation 
 and surroundings. How can brilliant conceptions, delicate 
 
Acting, Soliloquies, Asides, By-play, etc. 145 
 
 shades of character, refined utterances, struggle against the 
 burden of their gross surroundings, ' built up' structures, crowded 
 furnishing, bewildering light, crowds, dresses, etc. ? They are 
 crushed, overpowered, and have to resort to quite a new service 
 of arts to make even their presence felt. 
 
 In some West End theatres, where the players come forward 
 to treat the unencumbered drama, we find intelligence, vivacity, 
 dramatic feeling, and other attractive gifts to excite our 
 interest ; but this we hardly look for under the cabining and 
 confining influences of the panoramic methods. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Elliot stock, 62, Paternoster Row, London, E.C.