THE UNSEEN REGIONS OF A THEATRE.
Reading edition
That part of a theatre which is concealed from the view of the audience is always a subject of interest and speculation to the uninitiated, and most playgoers experience a desire to explore the mysterious region. When, therefore, some years ago, an opportunity presented itself to me of gratifying my curiosity in this respect, I did not fail to take advantage of it. Since then, I have been behind the scenes of various theatres, and my experience has convinced me that the public is not aware how small a portion of the house behind the curtain is exposed to the view of the audience, the regions both above and below the stage being more extensive than is usually imagined. Indeed, when, several years ago, the Opera House in Paris was burned, it was with surprise that the public learned from the newspapers that the edifice had no fewer than four separate underground floors.
At the present day, in most first-class theatres in London and New York the subterranean portion of the building consists of at least two or three distinct stories. The fact is, it is now quite impracticable to meet the requirements of a grand spectacular piece without ample space being provided for the scenery underneath the stage. Many, too, of the finest plays are so constructed that several changes of scene are required in every act; and each scene must be a masterpiece of the stage-carpenter’s art, to satisfy the exacting demands of a modern audience. The old system, when an alteration of scene was necessary, was primitive enough. In some instances, there descended from the ‘flies’ a large curtain, on which was painted a landscape, or the interior or exterior of a building, as circumstances might require. In other cases, wooden frames, termed flats, with canvas tightly stretched upon them, were pushed upon the stage from either side, meeting at the centre, and frequently presenting an ugly seam at the place of junction. No little skill was demanded in handling a huge frame many yards in height and width; for if it once lost its perpendicular, it became unmanageable, and fell—then requiring the exertions of several men to restore it to its proper position. The scenes also had a tendency to stick in the grooves in which they ran, and when this occurred, the disapprobation of the audience was incurred. It is said that a mishap of this kind having once taken place at one of the transpontine theatres, a spectator in the gallery called out: ‘We don’t look for grammar at this ’ere ’ouse, but we think yer might see that yer “flats” jine properly.’
All this is now altered. At the London theatres of the better class, when a change of scene is requisite, it is effected in a few seconds and in an admirable manner. An extensive landscape, or a lofty battlemented castle—so strongly constructed that it seems as if it were built of solid masonry—or a spacious apartment completely furnished, is, as if by magic, placed before the audience.
It has often struck us that playgoers scarcely adequately realise the extraordinary mechanical ingenuity displayed in the production of many of the pieces of late years presented to the public. Take, for instance, the fairy spectacle entitled Le Roi Carotte. In it there was a scene in which an old magician was dismembered in the presence of the audience. The situation was this: an aged sorcerer, in order to be rejuvenated, requests his friends to cut him into pieces and throw him bit by bit into a red-hot oven; after which process he expects to come out a young man. His wishes are complied with; he is put piecemeal into the furnace without his leaving the stage or ceasing to talk. Seated in an armchair, the old man asks that a large volume shall be brought in and laid on a table in front of him. The book, on being placed in the required position, becomes immediately vivified; living gnomes issue from the pictures on its pages and skip about the stage; after which they re-enter the book, and it is closed and carried away. Then the legs and arms of the magician are cut off and thrown into the furnace; next he is decapitated, and his head is placed on the table, where it continues talking, giving instructions with regard to the trunk. After this the head is cast into the oven, which bursts open with a loud report, and a young and handsome man comes out of it.
The transformation is so ingeniously effected that the manner in which it is executed is incomprehensible to the ordinary spectator. This is the way in which the feat is accomplished: when the volume is placed on the table, the sorcerer, seated in the armchair, quietly withdraws his legs from sight, placing them on a trap beneath the level of the stage; at the same time he slips his arms under his loose gown, papier-mâché limbs being substituted in both instances for the real ones. This is done whilst the attention of the audience is diverted to the book and its animated pictures, which are little boys who come up from underneath the stage, through holes in the table and book, which is furnished with india-rubber springs, which close directly the gnomes have emerged from the volume. After the magician’s legs and arms have been taken off and thrown into the fire, nothing is left but his trunk and his head. The latter is a mask which fits the actor’s face, leaving nothing visible but his lips and eyes. One of the persons on the stage tugs at the magician’s head until he pulls it off—that is to say, he removes the mask. As this is being done, the sorcerer has sunk down a trap, and he rises again through the table. The performer, with his head inserted in the mask, continues to talk, giving instructions with respect to the disposition of the trunk, which remains in the chair. Finally, the artificial head and the trunk, which are also of papier mâché, are thrown into the furnace. The magician in the meanwhile has reascended by means of another trap farther back, slipping on a rich dress on the way; and when the oven bursts, the old man steps forth rejuvenated.
The reader must now see what skill and ingenuity the feat demands—what careful attention to every detail, what precautions against the slightest error, what rapidity in working of the traps, and what accuracy of movement on the part of the actor who plays the old magician. But, indeed, the skill and dexterity demanded of those to whom are intrusted the mechanical arrangements of some pieces, are far greater than are supposed by the public, who content themselves with admiring the results, without reflecting upon the care and labour they have involved.
In an opera called Les Amours du Diable, produced in Paris some years ago, there was a curious scene which puzzled all who saw it. A slight palanquin—constructed in such a manner that it was obvious that there was no possibility of its having a double bottom—was brought upon the stage supported on the shoulders of slaves. The actress, who occupied it, withdrew the curtains and gave some orders to her attendants. Then the curtains were closed for an instant, and again re-opened. But the occupant of the palanquin had disappeared. What had become of her? The feat had been executed close to the front of the stage, and under a brilliant light; and the spectators could plainly see that it was certain that the lady had not gone down a trap. The mystery remained for some time unsolved. The explanation of the puzzle was simply this: the pillars of the palanquin appeared to be very slight, but instead of being wood, they were hollow metal tubes. Through these tubes, ropes ran on pulleys at the top of the palanquin, descending in the inside, and fastened to the frame, on which was placed the silk cushion on which the actress reclined. To the other end of the ropes was attached a heavy weight which exactly balanced that of the lady. One of the slaves was impersonated by an expert machinist. So soon as the curtains were drawn, he pulled a cord which released the counterpoise, and the frame, together with its burden, rose to the dome of the palanquin. There the actress lay quite comfortably, a wire-gauze overhead enabling her to breathe freely. Pains had been taken in the constructing of the palanquin to make it appear frail, whilst in reality it was very strongly built, that the roof might bear the strain upon it of the weight it had to support. The bearers were men selected for their muscular strength, and they were drilled in the practice of taking up the palanquin—after the disappearance of its occupant—and carrying it off the stage at a sharp trot, as if it were empty.
Of recent years, great improvements have been made upon the old plan of representing the motion of the waves in a sea-scene. When, some years ago, a comedy called Surf, or Summer Scenes at Long Branch, was brought out at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia, there was a scene in which the heavings of the ocean and the breaking of the waves upon the shore were imitated with excellent effect. Miss Logan, the authoress of the play, has described the ingenious mechanical appliances that were made use of on the occasion; she says: ‘There was a large cylinder, reaching across the stage from wing to wing on either side, and garnished with curling stiffened canvas, running around the cylinder after the fashion of the threads of a screw. This was put in revolution by means of a crank at the end, which was turned by a man behind the wing. The curling canvas was painted to represent the foamy surf. Behind the first cylinder were two others of similar character which revolved in like manner. When the three were in motion together, with a peculiar arrangement of light and shade upon them, the effect was strikingly like the rolling in of the waves upon the beach. There were various other appliances employed to heighten the illusion, such as a large box of pebbles tilted to and fro behind the scenes in a manner to closely imitate the sound of the waves; a gauzy painted cloth worked up and down an inclined plane, and represented the thin wave that rushes up the sands and retires again; rows of broom-corn, painted green, simulated the seaweed. The characters of the play, who are supposed to go in bathing at Long Branch dressed in the usual costumes, sprang through openings made of india-rubber—painted like the rest—which closed behind them as water might, could, or should do; and a little later, the actors, having passed under the stage by means of traps, reappeared at the back of the scene between the revolving cylinders, and jumped up and down, as if disporting themselves in the surf.’ The scene was very effective, and conduced largely to the success of the play.
Conflagrations on the stage are now so realistic as occasionally to alarm the spectators, who can scarcely believe that some portion of the scenery has not taken fire. But the precautions taken against danger are so thorough that there is no likelihood of an accident happening on these occasions. In a piece entitled La Madonna des Roses, which the writer once saw in Paris, there was the best representation on the stage of a conflagration he has ever witnessed. A fire was supposed to break out suddenly in an apartment in a ducal palace. Smoke and flame in a few moments poured forth in volumes from the windows and doors, and extending quickly to the walls, they fell in. They were constructed of two layers of wood, held together by thin cords, passing through holes. At the proper time, certain portions of the scenery were removed, leaving the others apparently burning fiercely—an effect produced by small gas jets arranged in rows around the edges of the frames. Behind the heavy set-piece at the back of the stage was a transparent curtain, on which flames were painted; and when the wall tumbled down, this scene being lit up, glowed with a lurid light in a very natural manner. At the same time, burning naphtha projected sheets of flame four or five yards in height, and large funnels overhead poured out torrents of black smoke mixed with sparks. It was indeed difficult for an audience to realise that the fire was not real, and that the whole of the scenery was not a heaving mass of flame.
In the description of the various mechanical contrivances resorted to in order to produce the scenic effects, the writer has been in some measure indebted to the theatrical reminiscences of Miss Olive Logan, an American actress.