The Palmy Days of Nance Oldfield Part 10

CHAPTER VI

IN TRAGIC PATHS

The average comedian will whisper, if you are fortunate enough to get him in confidential mood, that he was really designed by nature to tread the stately walks of tragedy; that had not cruel fate intervened he would now be enthralling the town with his Hamlet, Macbeth, or Oth.e.l.lo, and that even yet he has not lost all hope of adorning the kingdom of Melpomene. But he is not to be believed, in at least ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, and while we listen politely to his story of blasted ambition our hearts are exceeding thankful that the chance he looked for never came.

Nance Oldfield brilliantly reversed this order of things. Although she shone in comedy with the brighter light, she could play serious roles with majesty and power, and feel, or pretend to feel, a trifle bored in so doing. "I hate to have a page dragging my train about," she used to cry, with a pout of the pretty mouth; "why don't they give Porter those parts? She can put on a better tragedy face than I can." Yet whatever might be the undoubted capabilities of Porter for a.s.suming the tragic mask, audience and manager sometimes insisted that Nance should banish all the sunlight and becloud her features with the sorrows of a high-strung heroine.

One of these heroines was Andromache, the t.i.tle personage of "The Distressed Mother," an adaptation by Ambrose Philips of Racine's "Andromaque." This play seems heavy enough if we bother to read it now, but it had a thousand charms for theatre-goers in the days when Mr. Philips frequented b.u.t.ton's coffee-house and there hung up a cane which he threatened to use upon the body of the great Mr. Pope.[A]

Addison, whom tradition credits with writing the entertaining epilogue, took all manner of interest in the tragedy, and the _Spectator_ treated it to an advance notice which we degenerates might term an unblus.h.i.+ng "boom."

[Footnote A: Pope had ventured to sneer at Philips' "Pastorals."]

"The players, who know I am very much their friend," says the _Spectator_[A] "take all opportunities to express a grat.i.tude to me for being so. They could not have a better occasion of obliging me, than one which they lately took hold of. They desired my friend Will Honeycomb to bring me the reading of a new tragedy; it is called 'The Distressed Mother.' I must confess, though some days are pa.s.sed since I enjoyed that entertainment, the pa.s.sions of the several characters dwell strongly upon my imagination; and I congratulate the age, that they are at last to see truth and human life represented in the incidents which concern heroes and heroines. The style of the play is such as becomes those of the first education, and the sentiments worthy those of the highest figure. It was a most exquisite pleasure to me, to observe real tears drop from the eyes of those who had long made it their profession to dissemble affliction; and the player, who read, frequently threw down the book, until he had given vent to the humanity which rose in him at some irresistible touches of the imagined sorrow."

[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 290, February 1, 1711-12. This essay has been credited to Steele.]

This picture of woe would hardly suit the theories of those hard-hearted players who believe that the true artist is never "carried away," or affected by the pathos of his part. Surely, the scene is ridiculous rather than imposing, and one is tempted to suggest, albeit with bated breath, that the _Spectator_ was indulging in a bit of good-natured exaggeration. Exaggeration did we say? The modern newspaper writer, who is always glad, when off duty, to call things by their plain names, would brand the notice of the "Distressed Mother" as a bare-faced puff. And who could quarrel with his scepticism? Actors are not in the habit of weeping over the reading of a play; they have little time for such briny luxury.

Yet in this very number of the _Spectator_ we have George Powell, who was cast for Orestes in Mr. Philips' tragedy, writing that the grief which he is required to portray will seem almost real enough to choke his utterance. Here is what the hypocrite says:

"Mr. SPECTATOR,--I am appointed to act a part in the new tragedy called 'The Distressed Mother.' It is the celebrated grief of Orestes which I am to personate; but I shall not act it as I ought, for I shall feel it too intimately to be able to utter it. I was last night repeating a paragraph to myself, which I took to be an expression of rage, and in the middle of the sentence there was a stroke of self-pity which quite unmanned me. Be pleased, Sir, to print this letter, that when I am oppressed in this manner at such an interval, a certain part of the audience may not think I am out; and I hope with this allowance, to do it with satisfaction.--I am, Sir, your most humble servant, GEORGE POWELL."

Poor das.h.i.+ng, dissipated, brandy-bibbing George! Perhaps you had as keen an eye to the value of advertising as have certain players who never heard your name.[A]

[Footnote A: The original cast of the "Distressed Mother" included Booth (Pyrrhus), Powell (Orestes), Mills (Pylades), Mrs. Oldfield (Andromache), and Mrs. Porter (Hermione).]

The production of the "Distressed Mother" (March, 1712), was accompanied by an exciting popular demonstration which must for the nonce have made Powell quite forget those lines which gave him such exquisite sorrow. It all came from the jealousy of Mrs. Rogers, she of more virtue on the stage than off, and who always cherished, with the a.s.sistance of kind friends, a very sincere belief that her powers far exceeded those of Oldfield.[A]

[Footnote A: The rivalry between Rogers and Oldfield once reached such a pa.s.s that Wilks sought to end it, and stop the complaints of the former's admirers, by a severe expedient. "Mr. Wilks," says Victor, "soon reduced this clamor to demonstration, by an experiment of Mrs.

Oldfield and Mrs. Rogers playing the same part, that of Lady Lurewell in the 'Trip to the Jubilee;' but though obstinacy seldom meets conviction, yet from this equitable trial the tumults in the house were soon quelled (by public authority) greatly to the honour of Mr.

Wilks. I am, from my own knowledge thoroughly convinced that Mr.

Wilks had no other regard for Mrs. Oldfield but what arose from the excellency of her performances. Mrs. Roger's conduct might be censured by some for the earnestness of her pa.s.sion towards Mr. Wilks, but in the polite world the fair s.e.x has always been privileged from scandal."]

So when Nance was cast for the distraught Andromache there was trouble. Rogers demanded the part, and on being refused set about to make things as unpleasant as possible for her detested rival. Friends of the disappointed actress packed Drury Lane when the "Distressed Mother" was performed, and the appearance of Oldfield was made the signal for a riot. Royal messengers and guards were sent to put an end to the disorder, but the play had to be stopped for that night.

Colley, who had ever an eye to the pounds, s.h.i.+llings and pence, was disgusted at what he chose to call an exhibition of low malevolence.

"We have been forced," he says, "to dismiss an audience of a hundred and fifty pounds, from a disturbance spirited up by obscure people, who never gave any better reason for it, than that it was their fancy to support the idle complaint of one rival actress against another, in their several pretentious to the chief part in a new tragedy. But as this tumult seem'd only to be the Wantonness of _English_ Liberty, I shall not presume to lay any further censure upon it."

Finally the combined charms of Oldfield and the "Distressed Mother"

triumphed, and young beaux who had helped to swell the riot were glad to come back meekly to Drury Lane and extol the attractions of Andromache. In the play itself Nance must have been all that the troublous part suggested, but it was when she tripped on gaily and gave the humorous epilogue that the house found her most delightful.

She, who could reign so imperially in tragedy, had glided back to her better-loved kingdom of comedy, and what cared her captivated hearers if this self-same epilogue made an inharmonious ending to a serious play. It was quite enough that Andromache, with all her sufferings dispelled, should say melodiously:

"I hope you'll own, that with becoming art, I've play'd my game, and topp'd the widow's part.

My spouse, poor man, could not live out the play, But dy'd commodiously on wedding-day,[A]

While I his relict, made at one bold fling, Myself a princess, and young Sty a King.

You, ladies, who protract a lover's pain, And hear your servants sigh whole years in vain; Which of you all would not on marriage venture, Might she so soon upon her jointure enter?"

[Footnote A: This is a coy reference to Pyrrhus, who was murdered while his marriage to Hector's widow was being celebrated with royal pomp. As he fell, it will be remembered, the King placed his crown upon the head of Andromache.]

An epilogue leading off with these lines was hardly an appropriate ending to a tragedy, yet are we fastidious enough in these days to sneer at the anomaly? We have banished prologue and afterpiece as something old-fas.h.i.+oned and inartistic, but never turn one solitary eyelash when Hamlet follows up his death by rus.h.i.+ng before the curtain and grinning his thanks. Desdemonas who come forward, after the smothering scene, to receive flowers, and Romeos and Juliets who rise from the tomb that they may bow and smirk before an audience--while we have such as these among us, let us not cast stones at the early playgoer.

Addison has left, in the _Spectator_, a delightful story of dear old Sir Roger de Coverley's experience with the "Distressed Mother." Sir Roger, it appears, confessed that he had not seen a play for twenty years, and was very anxious to know "who this distressed mother was; and upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me that her husband was a brave man, and that when he was a schoolboy he had read his life at the end of the dictionary."[A] So the old gentleman, accompanied by the _Spectator_, Captain Sentry, and a retinue of servants, set out in state for Drury Lane, and on arriving there went into the pit.

[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 335.]

"As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up, and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself, at the sight of a mult.i.tude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake of the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me, that he did not believe the king of France himself had a better strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism, and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after for Hermione; and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of Pyrrhus.

"When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her lovers importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary vehemence, 'You can't imagine, sir, what it is to have to do with a widow.' Upon Pyrrhus's threatening afterwards to leave her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, 'Ay, do if you can.' This part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered me in my ear, 'These widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But pray,' says he, 'you that are a critic, is the play according to your dramatic rules, as you call them? Should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of.'

"The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old gentleman an answer. 'Well,' says the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, 'I suppose we are now to see Hector's ghost,' He then renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom at his first entering he took for Astyanax; but quickly set himself right in that particular, though, at the same time he owned he should have been very glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him. Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, 'On my word, a notable young baggage!'"

We can imagine Sir Roger going, a year later, to see Mrs. Oldfield carry all before her as Jane Sh.o.r.e in Nicholas Rowe's play of that name. The author had once been an ardent admirer of the glacierlike but lovely Bracegirdle, at whose haughty shrine he long wors.h.i.+pped in the hopes that the ice of her reserve might some day melt; and the wits of the coffee-house were wont to say, not without a grain of truth, that when the poet wrote dramas to fit Bracegirdle as the heroine, the lovers therein always pleaded his own pa.s.sion[A]. Now that the charmer had left the stage, Rowe was forced to entrust the t.i.tle character of Jane Sh.o.r.e to Nance, who vowed, no doubt, she was thoroughly bored at having to walk once again through a vale of tears.

But she made another triumph (the author himself coached her in the part), and helped to give the production all manner of success.

[Footnote A: As Cibber says, Mrs. Bracegirdle "inspired the best authors to write for her, and two of them [Rowe and Congreve] when they gave her a lover in a play, seem'd palpably to plead their own pa.s.sions, and make their private court to her in fict.i.tious characters."]

It is a curious fact that the writing of the tragedy was indirectly due to political disappointment. Rowe had set himself a.s.siduously to the study of Spanish with the idea of securing from Lord Halifax a diplomatic position, and his reward for this energy was so intangible that he soon gave up hopes of foreign travel and turned his attention to the tribulations of Jane. In other words, the n.o.ble Halifax merely expressed his satisfaction that Mr. Rowe could now read "Don Quixote"

in the original.

Thus Nance played on, sometimes in comedy, and again in tragedy, when, despite her customary objections, the pages had to drag her train about. It was a train that swept all before it.

The speaking of trains and pages suggests the fact that in old times the heroes and heroines of tragedy always wore, either in peculiarity of dress or pomp of surroundings, the badge of greatness. Nowadays a few bars of romantic music, to usher these characters on the stage, will suffice. But things were different then; our ancestors insisted that the aforesaid _dramatis personnae_ should be labelled, frilled and furbelowed.

Addison has an interesting essay on the subject.[A]

[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 42.]

"But among all our tragic artifices," he says, "I am the most offended at those which are made use of to inspire us with magnificent ideas of the persons that speak. The ordinary method of making an hero, is to clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head which rises so very high, that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his head than to the sole of his foot. One would believe that we thought a great man and a tall man the same thing. This very much embarra.s.ses the actor, who is forced to hold his neck extremely stiff and steady all the while he speaks; and notwithstanding any anxieties which he pretends for his mistress, his country, or his friends, one may see by his action, that his greatest care and concern is to keep the plume of feathers from falling off his head. For my own part, when I see a man uttering his complaints under such a mountain of feathers, I am apt to look upon him rather as an unfortunate lunatic, than a distressed hero.

"As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man, a princess generally receives her grandeur from those additional enc.u.mbrances that fall into her tail; I mean the broad sweeping train that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant employment for a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to advantage. I do not know how others are affected at this sight, but I must confess my eyes are wholly taken up with the page's part; and, as for the queen, I am not so attentive to any thing she speaks, as to the right adjusting of her train, lest it should chance to trip up her heels, or incommode her, as she walks to and fro upon the stage. It is, in my opinion, a very odd spectacle to see a queen venting her pa.s.sion in a disordered motion, and a little boy taking care all the while that they do not ruffle the tail of her gown. The parts that the two persons act on the stage at the same time are very different. The princess is afraid lest she should incur the displeasure of the king her father, or lose the hero, her lover, whilst her attendant is only concerned lest she should entangle her feet in her petticoat."

In a succeeding paragraph the reader finds that a cherished nineteenth-century custom--the representing of a vast army by the employment of half-a-dozen ill-fed, unpainted supers--has at least the sanction of age: "Another mechanical method of making great men, and adding dignity to kings and queens, is to accompany them with halberts and battle-axes. Two or three s.h.i.+fters of scenes, with the two candle-snuffers, make up a complete body of guards upon the English stage; and by the addition of a few porters dressed in red coats, can represent above a dozen legions. I have sometimes seen a couple of armies drawn up together upon the stage, when the poet has been disposed to do honour to his generals. It is impossible for the reader's imagination to multiply twenty men into such prodigious mult.i.tudes, or to fancy that two or three hundred thousand soldiers are fighting in a room of forty or fifty yards in compa.s.s. Incidents of such a nature should be told, not represented."

Addison remarks that "the tailor and painter often contribute to the success of a tragedy more than the poet," a trite saying which holds good now, and he ends his essay with the belief that "a good poet will give the reader a more lively idea of an army or a battle in a description, than if he actually saw them drawn up in squadrons and battalions, or engaged in the confusion of a fight. Our minds should be open to great conceptions, and inflamed with glorious sentiments by what the actor speaks, more than by what he appears. Can all the trappings or equipage of a king or hero give Brutus half the pomp and majesty which he receives from a few lines in Shakespeare?" Which is all very true, yet "the tailor and painter" will continue popular, no doubt, until the crack of doom.

The month of December 1714 saw the reopening of the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, under letters patent originally granted by Charles II. to Christopher Rich, and restored by his broken-English Majesty George I. The renewal created a dangerous rival to Drury Lane, but it is not probable that the king worried over having planted such a thorn in the sides of Messrs. Steele, Booth, Wilks, and Cibber[A].

He remembered, he told Mr. Craggs, "when he had been in England before, in King Charles his time, there had been two theatres in London; and as the patent seemed to be a lawful grant, he saw no reason why two playhouses might not be continued."

[Footnote A: On the death of Queen Anne the old licence or patent of Drury Lane lapsed, and when the new one was issued Steele was named therein as a partner.] Several useful players left Drury Lane to go over into Lincoln's Inn Fields,[A] chief among them being Mrs. Rogers, who felt greatly relieved in transferring her affectations of virtue to a house where she would no longer be overshadowed by the genius of Oldfield. As for Nance, she was faithful to the old theatre, and continued to be the fairest though perhaps the frailest of its pillars, notwithstanding the personal charms of Mrs. Horton. The latter was a strolling player recently admitted to the sacred precincts of Drury. She had been in the habit of "ranting tragedy in barns and country towns, and playing Cupid in a booth, at suburban fairs. The attention of managers was directed towards her; and Booth, after seeing her act in Southwark, engaged her for Drury Lane, where her presence was more agreeable to the public than particularly pleasant to dear Mrs. Oldfield."[B]

[Footnote A: 'Tis true, they none of them had more than a negative merit, in being only able to do us more harm by their leaving us without notice, than they could do us good by remaining with us: For though the best of them could not support a play, the worst of them by their absence could maim it; as the loss of the least pin in a watch may obstruct its motion.--CIBBER.]

[Footnote B: Dr. Doran's "Annals of the Stage."]

So wagged the mimic world with Nance as its most attractive figure.

Sometimes she laughed her way through a play; and again she committed suicide for the edification of the audience, as when she appeared in "Busiris." This was a windy tragedy by Dr. Young (he of the "Night Thoughts"), wherein Wilks, as Memnon, also had to kill himself.

The performance was, naturally enough, far from cheerful, and no particular inspiration could have been obtained from the presence of Busiris himself, that semi-savage Egyptian king to whom Ovid referred: