“I am in your orchestra, sir, and have been for eleven years.”
“Ah, yes, so you are; I thought I knew your face; but I am accustomed to look at it from above, you see!”
In many London theatres the orchestra is hidden under the stage, a decided advantage with most plays.
Parisian theatres are strange places. They are very fashionable, and yet they are most uncomfortable. The seats are invariably too small and too high. The result is there is nowhere to lay a cloak or coat, and short people find their little legs dangling high above the ground. All this causes inconvenience which ends in annoyance, and the hangers-on at the theatres are a veritable nuisance. Ugly old women in blue aprons, without caps, pounce upon one on entering and pester for wraps. It is difficult to know which is the worse evil, to cling to one’s belongings in the small space allotted each member of the audience, or to let one of those women take them away. In the latter case before the last act she returns with a great deal of fuss, hands over the articles, and demands her sous. If the piece be only in three acts, one pays for being free of a garment for two of them and is annoyed by its presence during the third. Again, when one enters a box these irritating ouvreuses demand tips pour le service de la loge, s’il vous plaît, and will often insist on forcing footstools under one’s feet so as to claim the pourboires afterwards. The pourboires of the vestiaire are also a thorn in the flesh, and the system which exacts payment from these women turns them from obliging servants into harpies. How Parisians put up with these disagreeable creatures is surprising, but they do.
The stage is conservative in many ways; for instance, that tiresome plan of charging for programmes still exists in England in some theatres, and even good theatres too. Programmes cost nothing: the expense of printing is paid by the advertisements. Free distribution, therefore, does not mean that the management are out of pocket. Why, then, do they not present them gratis? As things are it is most aggravating. Suppose two ladies arrive; as they are shown to their seats, holding their skirts, opera-bags and fans in their hands, they are asked for sixpence. While they endeavour to extract their money they are dropping their belongings and inconveniencing their neighbours: in the case of a man requiring change the same annoyance is felt by all around, especially if the play has begun.
Programmes and their necessary “murmurings” are annoying, and so is the meagreness of the space between the rows of stalls. There are people who openly declare they never go to a theatre because they have not got room for their knees. This is certainly much worse in Parisian theatres, where the seats are high and narrow as well; but still, when people pay for a seat they like room to pass to and fro without inconveniencing a dozen persons en route.
Matinée hats and late arrivals are sins on the part of the audience so cruel that no self-respecting person would inflict either upon a neighbour. But some women are so inconsiderate that we shall soon be reduced to an American notice like the following, “Ladies who cannot, or are unwilling to, remove their hats while occupying seats in this theatre, are requested to leave at once; their money will be returned at the box office.” A gentlewoman never wears a picture hat at the play; if she arrives in one she takes it off. In the same way a gentleman makes a point of being in time. People who offend in these respects belong to a class which apparently knows no better, a class which complacently talks, or makes love, through a theatrical entertainment!
Another strange Parisian custom is the advertisement drop-scene. At the end of the act, a curtain descends literally covered with pictures and puffs of pills, automobiles, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragedy the effect is comical, but this is an age of advertisement.
But to return to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah appeared upon the scene I did not recognise her. Why? Because she looked so young and so small. This woman, who was nearly sixty, appeared quite juvenile. This famous tragédienne, who had always left an impression of a tall, thin, willowy being in her wonderful scenes in La Tosca, or Dame aux Caméllias, deprived of her train appeared quite tiny. She had the neatest legs, encased in black silk stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height, while her flaxen wig which hung upon her shoulders, made her look a youth, in the sixteenth century clothes she elected to wear. At first I felt woefully disappointed; she did not act at all, and when she saw her father’s ghost, instead of becoming excited, as we are accustomed to Hamlet’s doing in this country, she insinuated a lack of interest, an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” sort of style, which seemed almost annoying; but as she proceeded, I was filled with admiration—her players’ scene was a great coup.
On the left of the stage a smaller one was arranged for the players’ scene, and before it half a dozen torches were stuck in as footlights. On the right there was a high raised daïs with steps leading up on either side—a sort of platform erection. The King and Queen sat upon two seats at the top, the courtiers grouped themselves upon the stairs. Immediately below the Royal pair sat Ophelia, and at her feet, upon a white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, with her elbow upon Ophelia’s knee and her hand upon some yellow cushions. As the play went on she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was too high above her, the wall of the platform hid him from view. Very quietly she rose from her seat, crawled round to the back, where she gradually and slowly pulled herself up towards the daïs, getting upon a stool in her eagerness to see her victim’s face. The King, in his excitement, rose from his seat at the fatal moment, and putting his hand upon the balustrade, peered downwards upon the play-actors.