It has been placed upon record how Fanny Horton, a once celebrated actress, won her first applause in a somewhat singular manner. During her performance in a particular scene, she was loudly hissed, when, advancing to the footlights, she asked: ‘Which do you dislike—my playing or my person?’ ‘The playing, the playing!’ was the answer from all parts of the house. ‘Well,’ she returned, ‘that consoles me; for my playing may be bettered, but my person I cannot alter!’ The audience were so struck with the ingenuity of this retort, that they immediately applauded as loudly as they had the moment before condemned her; and from that night she improved in her acting, and soon became a favourite with the public.
It will scarcely be denied that applause is not only welcome, but necessary to the actor; and even so great an artiste as Mrs Siddons was susceptible to the force of this truth, though not so much in its regard to professional adulation, as for personal convenience. ‘It encourages,’ she was wont to say; ‘and better still, it gives time for breath!’ On this account, as well as for other obvious reasons, the managers of the Parisian theatres have organised a regular system of hired applause, termed the claque; and this not only saves the audience the trouble of applauding, but it is frequently the means of influencing the success of a new production, while it affords the actors engaged an opportunity of purchasing a too frequently questionable notoriety by a monetary arrangement with the claque, or at anyrate with the head of that department who grandiloquently styles himself ‘the contractor for success.’
But it must not by any means be imagined that the claque is a modern institution. From the time of the ancient drama downwards, the approbation of the spectators has always been eagerly courted by the performers, and hired persons to applaud their acting regularly attended the representations. Both the Greeks and the Romans made use of the device. It has been well attested that Nero, the Roman emperor, who at all times took an active part in the theatrical representations of his day, enforced applause at the point of the sword; and Suetonius tells us that one day when Nero sang the fable of Atis and the Bacchantes, he deputed Burrhus and Seneca to incite the audience to applaud. On one occasion, while the emperor was on the stage, singing to his own accompaniment on the lyre, an earthquake shook the imperial city; yet not one among that enormous assemblage dared so much as attempt to flee from the danger, or leave his seat, fearing the summary wrath of the tyrant, whose will held them so powerfully in bondage. At another time, a poor woman fell asleep during the performance, and on one of Nero’s soldiers descrying her situation, she narrowly escaped with her life.
But the Romans could not give Nero the honour of a call before the curtain, for the simple reason that drop-curtains were not then in use. Indeed, the introduction of stage-curtains belongs to a comparatively late period. In the reign of Elizabeth, we find that the theatres—or playhouses, as they were termed—were of the most primitive kind. For the most part the performances were conducted on a rude platform in the London inn yards; while the few regular stationary playhouses were little better furnished in the way of proper dramatic accessories. The use of scenery is, of course, nowhere to be traced, and the only semblance to a proscenium consisted of a pair of tapestry curtains, which were drawn aside by cords when the performance began. The same arrangement has also been found in all examples of the early Spanish, Portuguese, and other continental theatres.
Among the earliest permanent English playhouses were ‘The Theatre’ and ‘The Fortune,’ neither of which, however, possessed a proper drop-curtain. But ‘The Red Bull,’ another old theatre, had a drop-curtain; and when, in the year 1633, that playhouse was demolished, rebuilt, and enlarged, it was decorated in a manner almost in advance of the time, the management particularly priding itself upon ‘a stage-curtain of pure Naples silk.’ It was not until the year 1656 that the first attempt of Sir William Davenant to establish the lyric drama in England brought with it the use of regular painted scenery on our stage. As an introductory venture, and fully aware that the performance of everything of a dramatic tendency had long been prohibited throughout the country, he announced a miscellaneous kind of entertainment, consisting of ‘music and declamation,’ which was duly held at Rutland House in Charterhouse Yard, on the 23d of May. Thus far encouraged, he immediately followed with the first genuine opera, entitled The Siege of Rhodes, employing a libretto, music, costumes, and five elaborate scenes. Further representations of opera were always signalised by the use of scenery, and the example was naturally soon followed by the drama, so soon as the altered condition of the times had sufficiently permitted its revival. In place of a drop-curtain of tapestry, silk, or other material, a painted scene also came into fashion, on which was generally shown some incident in the opera about to be enacted. The painted crimson curtain used in The Siege of Rhodes had upon it also a representation of the arms and military trophies of the several nations which took part in this memorable siege.
Still, for all that, the green curtain retained its position in all permanent theatres—and even in the puppet-shows, so popular in their day—nor was it until quite recently that the more fashionable houses thought proper to dispense with it altogether.
Touching upon stage-curtains of our own time, it will scarcely be necessary to dilate upon the peculiarly constructed proscenium of the present Haymarket Theatre, London, which is nothing more or less than an elaborate picture in its gilt frame. The curtain of course forms the picture, and no orchestra-pew being visible, the frame or proscenium is continued on the lower side without interruption. The footlights are not discovered until the rising of the curtain, and the ‘calls’ are necessarily responded to on the stage itself, for which purpose the curtain is again drawn up. Perhaps the most interesting curtain of the ordinary character is that now in use at New Sadler’s Wells Theatre, which conveys to the eye a very perfect idea of that famous ‘musick-house’ on the banks of the New River in ‘merrie Islington,’ as it appeared rather more than a hundred years ago.
Mr Henry Irving in his established dramatic home at the Lyceum Theatre has always preferred to take his ‘calls’ on the stage itself; indeed, he never appears in front of the curtain except on the night of the opening or the termination of his season, which is always looked forward to in London as an event. The production of Romeo and Juliet afforded him an agreeable opportunity, however, of making a new departure in his manner of responding to the congratulations of his patrons—the living ‘Prologue’ opening the tragedy by stepping forward from between a pair of truly magnificent curtains of yellow plush, when, having recited his lines, the withdrawal of these curtains unveiled the first scene representing ‘the public place’ at Verona. Mr Irving, further, took occasion at the close of each act of leading Miss Ellen Terry before the footlights in the same manner, thus obviating the necessity of raising the curtain proper before these calls could be replied to.
So much for theatrical curtains in general. We will now go on to narrate several notable incidents connected with ‘Calls before the Curtain.’
When David Garrick made his re-appearance at Drury Lane, after an absence of two years during a provincial tour, the theatre was packed from floor to ceiling, and the audience were quite beside themselves with enthusiasm. The play was announced to be Much Ado About Nothing; but, as the actor expected, he had first to show himself in front of the curtain. He had prepared an address to the audience, which he delivered previous to beginning the play. When he came upon the stage, he was welcomed with three loud plaudits, each finishing with a huzza.