The Palmy Days of Nance Oldfield Part 11

"'Tis said that Egypt for nine years was dry; Nor Nile did floods, nor heaven did rain supply.

A foreigner at length informed the King That slaughtered guests would kindly moisture bring.

The King replied, 'On thee the lot shall fall; Be thou, my guest, the sacrifice for all.'"

Certainly a most ungenial host.

There were times when Oldfield could even arouse enthusiasm amid the dullest and most unappealing surroundings. This she did, for instance, in the stupid "Sophonisba" of James Thomson, who could write delightful poetry about nature without being able to carry any of that nature into the art of play-making. It was in this artificial tragedy that the famous line occurred: "Oh Sophonisba! Sophonisba, o!" which was afterwards parodied by "Oh! Jemmy Thomson! Jemmy Thomson, oh!"

and it was in the same ill-fated compilation that Cibber had the distinction of being hissed off the stage. The latter, unlike Oldfield, had a sneaking fondness for tragedy, and when "Sophonisba"

was first read in the green room he appropriated to his own use the dignified character of Scipio. His egotism and foolishness had their full reward. For two nights successively, as Davies tells us, "Cibber was as much exploded as any bad actor could be. Williams, by desire of Wilks, made himself master of the part; but he, marching slowly, in great military distinction, from the upper part of the stage, and wearing the same dress as Cibber, was mistaken for him, and met with repeated hisses, joined to the music of cat-calls [notice, ye theatre-goers of 1898, that the cat-call is not the invention of the modern gallery G.o.d]; but, as soon as the audience were undeceived, they converted their groans and hisses to loud and long continued applause." Three years later, in 1733, Cibber retired from the stage.

With Mrs. Oldfield the picture was far different. She could not make of Thomson's tragedy a success, yet she played Sophonisba (one of the last parts in which she was ever seen) with a grandeur of effect that well earned the undying grat.i.tude of the author.[A] In after years her old admirers were wont to thrill with pleasure as they recalled the pa.s.sionate intensity she gave to that much-quoted line,

"Not one base word of Carthage, for thy soul,"

as she stood glaring at the astonished Ma.s.sinissa.

[Footnote A: Mrs. Oldfield, in the character of Sophonisba, has excelled what, even in the fondness of an author, I could either wish or imagine. The grace, dignity, and happy variety of her action have been universally applauded, and are truly admirable.--Thomson.]

Among those who saw Sophonisba was Chetwood, whose "General History of the Stage" gives us many a charming glimpse of dead and gone actors.

Dead and gone? Nay, rather let it be said that they still live in the ever fresh and graphic pages of contemporary critics, and thus refute the gentle pessimism of Mr. Henley when he asks so gracefully:

"Where are the pa.s.sions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow?

Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know?

Oth.e.l.lo's wrath and Juliet's woe?

Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?

And Millamant and Romeo?

Into the night go one and all."

"I was too young," says Chetwood, "to view her first dawn on the stage, but yet had the infinite satisfaction of her meridian l.u.s.tre, a glow of charms not to be beheld but with a trembling eye! which held her influence till set in night."

Of Nance's tendency to escape tragic plays the same writer tells us: "When 'Mithridates' was revived, it was with much difficulty she was prevail'd upon to take the part; but she perform'd it to the utmost length of perfection, and, after that, she seem'd much better reconcil'd to tragedy. What a majestical dignity in Cleopatra! and, indeed, in every part that required it: Such a finish'd figure on the stage, was never yet seen. In 'Calista, the Fair Penitent,' she was inimitable, in the third act, with Horatio, when she tears the letter with

"'To atoms, thus!

Thus let me tear the vile detested falsehood, The wicked lying evidence of shame!'

"Her excellent clear voice of pa.s.sion, with manner and action suiting, us'd to make me shrink with awe, and seem'd to put her monitor Horatio into a mousehole. I almost gave him up for a troublesome puppy; and though Mr. Booth play'd the part of Lothario, I could hardly lug him up to the importance of triumphing over such a finish'd piece of perfection, that seemed to be too much dignified to lose her virtue."

Perhaps the reader may think that this chapter, like several others, is (as the theatre-goer said of "Hamlet") too "deuced full of quotation." Yet what can give a better picture of old stage life than these quaint and often eloquent records of the past? Pray be lenient, therefore, thou kindly critic, if the most faded books of the theatrical library are taken down from the dusty shelf, and a few of the neglected pages are printed once again. As these very books seem all the better in their dingy bindings, so do the old ideas, the odd conceits, the stories that charmed dead generations, take on a keener zest when clothed in the formal language of other days.

If we want to get that formal language in all its glory, let us bring from the library a copy of some early eighteenth-century tragedy.

Shall we close our eyes and choose one at random? Well, what have we?

The "Tamerlane" of our friend Nicholas Rowe, in which is set forth the story of the generous Emperor of Tartary, the "very gla.s.s and fashion of all conquerors." The play is prefaced by a fulsome "Epistle Dedicatory," addressed to the sacred person of the "Right Honourable William, Lord Marquis of Harrington," and showing, almost pathetically, how frequently the literary workers of Queen Anne's "golden age" were wont to beg the influence of some powerful patron.

The dedication seems absolutely grovelling when viewed from the present standards, but Mr. Rowe and his friends saw therein nothing more remarkable than respectful homage to one of the world's great men. The republic of letters was then an empty name.[A]

[Footnote A: "Tamerlane" was brought out in 1702, with Betterton in the t.i.tle role.]

The author of "Tamerlane" fears that in thus calling attention to the play he may appear guilty of "impertinence and interruptions," and, he adds, "I am sure it is a reason why I ought to beg your Lordship's pardon, for troubling you with this tragedy; not but that poetry has always been, and will still be the entertainment of all wise men, that have any delicacy in their knowledge." Then, after wasting a little necessary flattery on the n.o.ble marquis, he starts off into an unblushing eulogy of King William III., whose clemency was mirrored, supposedly, by the hero of the tragedy. "Some people [who do me a very great honour in it] have fancy'd, that in the person of Tamerlane, I have alluded to the greatest character of the present age. I don't know whether I ought not to apprehend a great deal of danger from avowing a design like that: It may be a task indeed worthy of the greatest genius, which this or any other time has produc'd; but therefore I ought not to stand the shock of a parallel lest it should be seen, to my disadvantage, how far the _Hero has transcended the poet's thoughts_"--and so on, _ad nauseam_.

To turn the leaves of the play, after wading through the slime of the "Epistle," is to find amusing proof of the high-flown and at times bombastic expression which elicited such admiration from audiences of the old _regime_. (Do not laugh at it, reader; you tolerate an equal amount of absurdity in modern melodrama). The very first lines are charmingly suggestive of the starched and stately past. "Hail to the sun!" says the Prince of Tanais:

"Hail to the sun! from whose returning light The cheerful soldier's arms new l.u.s.tre take To deck the pomp of battle."

Playwrights of Rowe's cult loved to hail the sun. Just why the orb of day had to be saluted with such frequency no one seemed able to determine, but the honour was continually bestowed, to the great edification of the groundlings. When Young wrote "Busiris," he paid so much attention to old Sol that Fielding burlesqued the learned doctor's weakness through the medium of "Tom Thumb," and wrote that "the author of 'Busiris' is extremely anxious to prevent the sun's blushing at any indecent object; and, therefore, on all such occasions, he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to keep out of the way."

After the Prince of Tanais's homage to the sun we hear something fulsome about the virtues of King William, alias Tamerlane:

"No l.u.s.t of rule, the common vice of Kings, No furious zeal, inspir'd by hot-brain'd priests, Ill hid beneath religion's specious name, E'er drew his temp'rate courage to the field: But to redress an injur'd people's wrongs, To save the weak one from the strong oppressor, Is all his end of war. And when he draws The sword to punish, like relenting Heav'n, He seems unwilling to deface his kind."

A few lines later and we find one of the characters drawing a parallel between Tamerlane, otherwise William, and Divinity:

"Ere the mid-hour of night, from tent to tent, Unweary'd, thro' the num'rous host he past, Viewing with careful eyes each several quarters; Whilst from his looks, as from Divinity, The soldiers took presage, and cry'd, Lead on, Great Alha, and our emperor, lead on, To victory, and everlasting fame."

How changeth the spirit of each age! Imagine Bronson Howard or Augustus Thomas writing a play wherein the President of the United States was brought into such irreverent contact with the Deity.[A]

[Footnote A: Yet it cannot be easily forgotten that a certain clergyman, preaching, several years ago, at the funeral of a rich man's son, compared the poor boy to Christ. And this very ecclesiastic probably looks upon the stage as a monument of sacrilegiousness.]

But we need not follow the plat.i.tudes of Tamerlane and his companions, nor weep at the sententious wickedness of Bajazet, that ungrateful sovereign typifying Louis Quatorze, King of France, Prince of Gentlemen, and Right Royal Hater of His Protestant Majesty William of Orange. Heaven rest their souls! and with that pious prayer we may bid them farewell, as

"Into the night go one and all."

CHAPTER VII

NANCE AT HOME

"Home?" An actress at home? Does it not seem strange to apply the dear old English noun, so redolent of peace, and quiet, and privacy, to the feverish life of a mummer? We go, night after night, to see our favourite players shining 'mid the fierce glare of the footlights, watch them approvingly as they pa.s.s from role to role, and finally begin to believe, like the egotists we are, that they have no existence apart from the one we are pleased to applaud. What fools some of us must be to think there is never a time when the paint and powder, the tinsel and eternal artifice of the stage--yea, even our own condescending admiration--pall on the jaded spirits of the poor player.

"How sparklingly is Miss Smith acting Lady Teazle to-night!" we say, elegantly pressing our hands together in token of august favour. We are entranced, and it follows, therefore, that the actress must be entranced likewise. Mayhap Miss Smith does not share the same ecstacy; perhaps, as she stands behind the screen in Joseph Surface's rooms, Sir Peter's wife is wishing that the comedy were ended and she were comfortably ensconced in her cosy little lodgings round the corner.

She pictures that crackling wood fire, and her old terrier basking in the gentle heat, and the tea-urn hissing near by (or is it a cold bottle of beer in the portable refrigerator?) and in the background sweet good Mr. Smith, who does nothing but spend his lady's salary.

In that temple of domesticity there are no thoughts of rouge, or paint-pots, or of Richard Brinsley Sheridan--it is merely home. Dost thou always hurry back to so attractive a one, thou patronising theatre-goer?

Our Nance had a home to which she was glad enough to hurry back, like the aforesaid Miss Smith, after the play was over at Drury Lane. There was no husband there to await her, but a very devoted knight in the person of Mr. Arthur Maynwaring, who, though he gave not his name nor the ceremony of bell, book, and candle to the union, played the part of spouse to the fair charmer. The town looked with good-natured tolerance on the moral code, or the want thereof, of the frail one, just as other towns, in later days, have looked with equal benevolence upon the peccadillos of some petted favourite. The times were not of the straightlaced order and no one expected from an actress wonders of chast.i.ty or conventionality. Are we ourselves exacting where the Thespian is concerned?

[Ill.u.s.tration: ANNE OLDFIELD

By JONATHAN RICHARDSON]

Fashion'd alike by Nature and by Art To please, engage, and interest ev'ry heart.

In public life, by all who saw, approv'd; In private life, by all who knew her, lov'd.

"Even her amours," says Chetwood in treating of Mistress Oldfield, "seemed to lose that glare which appears round the persons of the failing fair; neither was it ever known that she troubled the repose of any lady's lawful claim; and was far more constant than millions in the conjugal noose." Being thus acquitted of predatory designs upon the peace of English wives, and having the further virtue of constancy, a host of Londoners, men and women, high and low alike, gazed with charitable eyes upon Nance's private life. And she, dear girl, sinned on joyously.

Mr. Maynwaring, who helped Oldfield to break the spirit of one commandment, was a brilliant figure in the reign of Queen Anne, albeit, like other brilliant figures of that period, he has pa.s.sed into the darkness of oblivion. A clever dabbler in literature, an honest politician--a politician with scruples was as rare in those days as he is now--and a man of honour who could drink as much as his friends, the volatile Arthur was, perhaps, best known as the most attractive talker of the famous Kit-Cat Club. The Kit-Cat Club! What a wealth of anecdote doth its name conjure up to the student of the past! 'Twas in this famous organisation that n.o.blemen and wits met on common ground, drank many a toast to the House of Hanover or to some reigning belle of London town, and exercised a patronising censorship over the world of letters. They were "the patriots that saved Briton,"

says Horace Walpole, in referring to their anti-Jacobitism, and yet the most of them are forgotten.