The Palmy Days of Nance Oldfield Part 14

"I remember when he was an apprentice," relates Chetwood, "we play'd in several private plays; when we were preparing to act 'Sophonisba, or Hannibal's Overthrow,' after I had wrote out my part of Ma.s.siva I carried him the book of the play to study the part of King Masinissa.

I found him finis.h.i.+ng a velvet cus.h.i.+on, and gave him the book: but alas! before he could secrete it, his master (a hot, voluble Frenchman), came in upon us, and the book was thrust under the velvet of the cus.h.i.+on. His master, as usual, rated him for not working, with a 'Morbleu! why a you not vark, Tom?' and stood over him so long that I saw, with some mortification, the book irrecoverably st.i.tch'd up in the cus.h.i.+on never to be retriev'd till the cus.h.i.+on is worn to pieces.

Poor Tom cast many a desponding look upon me when he was finis.h.i.+ng the fate of the play, while every st.i.tch went to both our hearts.

"His master observing our looks, turn'd to me, and with words that broke their necks over each other for haste, abused both of us. The most intelligible of his great number of words were Jack Pudenges, and the like expressions of contempt. But our play was gone for ever.

"Another time," continues the biographer, "we were so bold to attempt Shakespeare's 'Hamlet,' where our 'prentice Tom had the part of the Ghost, father to young Hamlet. His armour was composed of pasteboard, neatly painted. The Frenchman had intelligence of what we were about, and to our great surprise and mortification, made one of our audience.

The Ghost in its first appearance is dumb to Horatio. While these scenes past, the Frenchman only muttered between his teeth, and we were in hopes his pa.s.sion would subside; but when our Ghost began his first speech to Hamlet, 'Mark me,' he replied, 'Begar, me vil marke you presently!' and, without saying any more, beat our poor Ghost off the stage through the street, while every stroke on the pasteboard armour grieved the auditors (because they did not pay for their seats), insomuch that three or four ran after the Ghost, and brought him back in triumph, with the avenging Frenchman at his heels, who would not be appeas'd till our Ghost promised him never to commit the offence of acting again. A promise made, like many others, never to be kept."

Elrington ultimately became a favourite player with Dublin audiences, and then contested with Booth in the latter's own ground of London. He never equalled the cla.s.sic Barton, yet made a success in tragedy, and was once asked (1728-9) to join the forces of Drury Lane for a term of years. He told the managers that he could not think of permanently leaving Ireland, where he was so well rewarded for his services, and added, "There is not a gentleman's house there to which I am not a welcome visitor," which shows that an actor can be a sn.o.b, like the worst of us.

When Elrington died, two years after the taking off of Oldfield, his epitaph was written in these flattering lines:--

"Thou best of actors here interr'd, No more thy charming voice is heard, This grave thy corse contains: Thy better part, which us'd to move Our admiration, and our Love, Has fled its sad remains.

"Tho' there's no monumental bra.s.s, Thy sacred relicks to encase, Thou wondrous man of art!

A lover of the muse divine, O! Elrington, shall be thy shrine, And carve thee in his heart."

One of Elrington's friends and artistic a.s.sociates happened to be John Evans, a player possessed of talent, fatness, and indolence. As adventures seem to be in order in this chapter, let us recall two which occurred to this gentleman at a time when he was in high favour with the Irish. The first episode, making a warlike prologue to the second, had for its scene a tavern in the good city of Cork, where Evans had been invited to sup by some officers stationed in the neighbourhood. Jack responded gladly to the hospitable suggestion; the gathering proved a great success, the wine was circulated generously, and many toasts were offered. When the actor was called upon for a sentiment, he proposed the health of his gracious sovereign, Anne, whereat all in the company were pleased with the exception of one disloyal redcoat. Whether the latter had within him the contrariness which cometh with too liberal dalliance with the flowing bowl, or whether he chanced to be a Jacobite, further deponent sayeth not, but it is at least certain that the officer was not pleased at the honour paid to the Queen whose uniform he was willing to wear. So Mr.

Malcontent leaves the room, and then sends up word to poor, inoffensive Jack, that he will be delighted to see that worthy below stairs; whereupon Jack quietly steals away and finds his would-be antagonist lurking behind a half-opened door. The soldier makes a lunge with his sword at the player, who succeeds in disarming the coward, and there the matter apparently stops.

But the end was not yet. When Evans went to Dublin, he found that his late challenger was circulating a lie, which made it appear that the comedian had in somewise affronted the whole British Army. No sooner did Jack put his face upon the stage than a great clamour arose, and it was decreed by the bullies among the audience (of whom there are ever a few in every house), that no play should be presented until the culprit had publicly begged pardon for a sin which he never committed.

The play was "The Rival Queens," the part a.s.signed to Evans that of Alexander, but 'twas some time before this Alexander could be induced to crave the forgiveness of the excitable Dublinites. Finally he yielded to expediency, and, coming forward to the centre of the stage, expressed his contrition. At this, a puppy in the pit cried out "Kneel, you rascal!" and Evans, now thoroughly exasperated, tartly answered: "No, you rascal! I'll kneel to none but G.o.d, and my Queen."

Then the performance began.[A]

[Footnote A: "As there were many worthy gentlemen of the army who knew the whole affair, the new rais'd clamour ceas'd, and the play went through without any molestation, and, by degrees, things return'd to their proper channel By this we may see, it is some danger for an actor to be in the right."--CHETWOOD.]

How Chetwood bubbles over with a stream of ever-flowing anecdote. Much that he gives us in his "General History of the Stage" is only gossip, yet what is there more fascinating than t.i.ttle-tattle about players?

The gossip of the drawing-room is merely inane, or else scandalous; but s.h.i.+ft the scene to the theatre, and a story no longer bores; it is consecrated by the sacrament of interest. Is any apology necessary, therefore, if the quotation marks be again brought into requisition.

This time the anecdote is of Thomas Griffith, an excellent comedian, and a harmless poet.

"After his commencing actor, he contracted a friends.h.i.+p with Mr.

Wilks; which chain remained unbroke till the death of that excellent comedian. Tho' Mr. Griffith was very young, Mr. Wilks took him with him to London (from Dublin), and had him entered for that season at a small salary. The 'Indian Emperor' being ordered on a sudden to be played, the part of Pizarro, a Spaniard, was wanting, which Mr.

Griffith procured, with some difficulty. Mr. Betterton being a little indisposed, would not venture out to rehearsal, for fear of increasing his indisposition, to the disappointment of the audience, who had not seen our young stripling rehea.r.s.e. But, when he came ready, at the entrance, his ears were pierced with a voice not familiar to him. He cast his eyes upon the stage, where he beheld the diminutive Pizarro, with a truncheon as long as himself (his own words.)

"He steps up to Downs, the prompter, and cry'd, 'Zounds, Downs, what sucking scaramouch have you sent on there?' 'Sir,' replied Downs, 'He's good enough for a Spaniard; the part is small.' Betterton return'd, 'If he had made his eyebrows his whiskers, and each whisker a line, the part would have been two lines too much for such a monkey in buskins.'

"Poor Griffith stood on the stage, near the door, and heard every syllable of the short dialogue, and by his fears knew who was meant by it; but, happy for him, he had no more to speak that scene. When the first act was over (by the advice of Downs) he went to make his excuse with--'Indeed, Sir, I had not taken the part, but there was only I alone out of the play.' 'I! I!' reply'd Betterton, with a smile, 'Thou art but the t.i.ttle of an I.' Griffith seeing him in no ill humour told him, 'Indians ought to be the best figures on the stage, as nature had made them.' 'Very like,' reply'd Betterton, 'but it would be a double death to an Indian cobbler to be conquer'd by such a weazle of a Spaniard as thou art. And, after this night, let me never see a truncheon in thy hand again, unless to stir the fire.' ... He took his advice, laid aside the buskin, and stuck to the sock, in which he made a figure equal to most of his contemporaries.

"Our genius flutters with the plumes of youth, But observation wings to steddy truth."

No one can resist telling another story, this time of fat Charles Hulet, whose abilities were only equalled by his corpulence. Having been apprenticed to a bookseller, he straightway proceeded to take a violent interest in the drama, and would often while away the evenings by spouting Shakespeare and other authors. In lieu of a company to support him young Hulet would designate each chair in the kitchen to represent one of the characters in the play he was reciting. "One night, as he was repeating the part of Alexander, with his wooden representative of Clytus (an old elbow-chair), and coming to the speech where the old General is to be kill'd, this young mock Alexander s.n.a.t.c.h'd a poker instead of a javelin, and threw it with such strength against poor Clytus, that the chair was kill'd upon the spot, and lay mangled on the floor. The death of Clytus made a monstrous noise, which disturbed the master in the parlour, who called out to know the reason; and was answered by the cook below, 'Nothing, sir, but that Alexander has kill'd Clytus.'"

In latter days Hulet took great pride in the sonorous tones of his voice, and loved nothing more dearly than to steal up behind a man and startle the unsuspecting one by giving a very loud "Hem." It was a "Hem," however, which helped to make the actor's winding-sheet, for one fine day he repeated the trick, burst a blood-vessel, and died within twenty-four hours.

Heaven bless all these merry vagabonds! We may not always wish to follow in their footsteps, but we like to keep near them and pry into their careless, happy lives. When the Bohemians enter a pot-house we are too virtuous, presumably, to go in likewise, but we stand without, to get a tempting whiff of hot negus and a s.n.a.t.c.h of some genial jest or tuneful song. Then, if our players stray, perchance, into the gloomy precincts of a p.a.w.n-shop, are we not quite prepared to steal up to the window and discover what tribute is being paid to mine uncle?

And so, speaking of pot-houses, and negus, and p.a.w.n-shops, let us end our extracts from the invaluable Chetwood with this unconventional reminiscence of another player, Mr. John Thurmond. It was a custom at that time for persons of the first rank and distinction to give their birthday suits to the most favoured actors. I think Mr. Thurmond was honoured by General Ingolsby with his. But his finances being at the last tide of ebb, the rich suit was put in buckle (a cant word for forty in the hundred interest). One night, notice was given that the General would be present with the Government at the play, and all the performers on the stage were preparing to dress out in the suits presented. The spouse of Johnny (as he was commonly called) try'd all her arts to persuade Mr. Holdfast, the p.a.w.nbroker (as it fell out, his real name) to let go the cloaths for that evening, to be returned when the play was over. But all arguments were fruitless; nothing but the Ready, or a pledge of full equal value. Such people would have despised a Demosthenes, or a Cicero, with all their rhetorical flourishes, if their oratorian gowns had been in pledge. Well! what must be done? The whole family in confusion and all at their wits-end; disgrace, with her glaring eyes and extended mouth, ready to devour.

Fatal appearance!

"At last Winny, the wife (that is, Winnifrede), put on a compos'd countenance (but, alas! with a troubled heart); stepp'd to a neighbouring tavern, and bespoke a very hot negus, to comfort Johnny in the great part he was to perform that night, begging to have the silver tankard with the lid, because, as she said, 'a covering, and the vehicle silver, would retain heat longer than any other metal,'

The request was comply'd with, the negus carry'd to the playhouse piping hot, popp'd into a vile earthen mug--the tankard _l'argent_ travelled _incog_. under her ap.r.o.n (like the Persian ladies veil'd), popp'd into the p.a.w.nbroker's hands, in exchange for the suit--put on and play'd its part, with the rest of the wardrobe; when its duty was over, carried back to remain in its old depository; the tankard return'd the right road; and, when the tide flowed with its lunar influence, the stranded suit was wafted into safe harbour again, after paying a little for 'dry docking,' which was all the damage received."

And Mr. Chetwood adds:

"Thus woman's wit (tho' some account it evil) With artful wiles can overreach the Devil."

Among such as these, good, bad and indifferent, moral and otherwise, did Mistress Oldfield pa.s.s what hours she consecrated to the theatre.

In the early years, when merely a poor, struggling postulant before the altar of fame, the girl must have been more or less intimate with her dramatic a.s.sociates, but as time went on and Nance blazed into a star of the first magnitude, the old feeling of fellows.h.i.+p may have become weakened. Not that the actress was in any sense sn.o.bbish; rather let it be said that the circ.u.mstances of her celebrity proved quite enough, in the course of human affairs, to separate her from the other players. Indeed, one of her biographers relates that Oldfield always went in state to Drury Lane, accompanied by two footmen, and that she seldom spoke to any one of the actors.[A]

[Footnote A: She always went to the house (_i.e._, the theatre) in the same dress she had worn at dinner in her visits to the houses of great people; for she was much caressed on account of her general merit, and her connection with Mr. Churchill. She used to go to the playhouse in a chair, attended by two footmen; she seldom spoke to any one of the actors, and was allowed a sum of money to buy her own clothes.--"General Biographical Dictionary."]

Nance may have made her entry into the green-room amid royal auspices, but who can for a second believe that "she seldom spoke to any one of the actors"? There was in her composition too much of suns.h.i.+ne to warrant any such belief, and then we know that behind the scenes she was ever affable and friendly. If she did not brook familiarity which comes of contempt, and if she moved about among her companions with dignity, then so much the better.

Of Nance's sweetness of temper and sterling common-sense, Cibber has left us an attractive memory. It seems that when the Drury Lane management determined to revive "The Provoked Wife" of Sir John Vanbrugh (January 1726), Colley suggested that Wilks should take a rest during the run of the piece, and allow Barton Booth to play the lover, Constant. The idea did not meet with Wilks' approval; "down dropt his brow, and fur'd were his features"; and the green-room became the scene of a violent spat between Cibber and himself, with Mrs. Oldfield and other members of the company as excited listeners.

Finally the author of the "Apology" said: "Are you not every day complaining of your being over-labour'd? And now, upon the first offering to ease you, you fly into a pa.s.sion, and pretend to make that a greater grievance than t'other: But, Sir, if your being in or out of the play is a hards.h.i.+p, you shall impose it upon yourself: The part is in your hand, and to us it is a matter of indifference now whether you take it or leave it."

[Ill.u.s.tration: SIR JOHN VANBRUGH By Sir G.o.dFREY KNELLER]

Upon this Mr. Wilks "threw down the part upon the table, crossed his arms, and sate knocking his heel upon the floor, as seeming to threaten most when he said least." Hereupon Booth generously yielded up the much disputed Constant to his rival with the remark that "for his part, he saw no such great matter in acting every day; for he believed it the wholsomest exercise in the world; it kept the spirits in motion, and always gave him a good stomach"--and the elegant Barton, be it remembered, was a great eater.

"Here," says Cibber, "I observed Mrs. Oldfield began to t.i.tter behind her fan. But Wilks being more intent upon what Booth had said, reply'd, every one could best feel for himself, but he did not pretend to the strength of a pack-horse; therefore if Mrs. Oldfield would chuse anybody else to play with her, he should be very glad to be excus'd. This throwing the negative upon Mrs. Oldfield was, indeed, a sure way to save himself; which I could not help taking notice of, by saying it was making but an ill compliment to the company to suppose there was but one man in it fit to play an ordinary part with her.

"Here Mrs. Oldfield got up, and turning me half round to come forward, said with her usual frankness, 'Pooh! you are all a parcel of fools, to make such a rout about nothing!' Rightly judging that the person most out of humour would not be more displeased at her calling us all by the same name. As she knew, too, the best way of ending the debate would be to help the weak, she said, she hop'd Mr. Wilks would not so far mind what had past as to refuse his acting the part with her; for tho' it might not be so good as he had been us'd to, yet she believed those who had bespoke the play would expect to have it done to the best advantage, and it would make but an odd story abroad if it were known there had been any difficulty in that point among ourselves. To conclude, Wilks had the part."

Verily, Oldfield was a gentlewoman.

CHAPTER IX

"GRIEF a LA MODE"

"UNDERTAKER [_To his men_]. Well, come you that are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk by me that I may sort you.

Ha, you! a little more upon the dismal; [_forming their countenances_]

this fellow has a good mortal look--place him near the corpse: that wainscot face must be o' top of the stairs; that fellow's almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some strange misery) at the entrance to the hall. So--but I'll fix you all myself. Let's have no laughing now on any provocation. [_Makes faces_.] Look yonder, that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and shew you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty s.h.i.+llings a week, to be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are.