Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English and American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket.
A NOVELIST describes the surroundings of his story. He paints in words, houses, gardens, dresses, anything and everything to heighten the picture and show up his characters in a suitable frame.
The dramatist cannot do this verbally; but he does it in fact. He definitely decides the style of scene necessary for each act, and draws out elaborate plans to achieve that end. It is the author who interviews the scene-painter, talks matters over with the costume-artist, the dressmaker, and the upholsterer. It is the author who generally chooses the cretonnes and the wall-papers—that is to say, the more important authors invariably do. Mr. Pinero, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, and Captain Robert Marshall design their own scenes to the minutest detail, but then all three of them are capable artists and draughtsmen themselves.
Scene-painting seems easy until one knows something[Pg 264] about its difficulties. To speak of a small personal experience—when we got up those theatricals in Harley Street, mentioned in a previous chapter, my father told me I must paint the scenery, to which I gaily agreed. Having an oil painting on exhibition at the Women Artists’, I felt I could paint scenery without any difficulty.
First of all I bought yards and yards of thick canvas, a sort of sacking. It refused to be joined together by machine, and broke endless needles when the seams were sewn by hand. It appeared to me at the time as if oakum-picking could not blister fingers more severely. After all my trouble, when finished and stretched along a wall in the store-room in the basement, with the sky part doubled over the ceiling (as the little room was not high enough to manage it otherwise), the surface was so rough that paint refused to lie upon it.
I had purchased endless packets of blue and chrome, vermilion and sienna, umber and sap-green; but somehow the result was awful, and the only promising thing was the design in black chalk made from a sketch taken on Hampstead Heath. Sticks of charcoal broke and refused to draw; but common black chalk at last succeeded. I struggled bravely, but the paint resolutely refused to adhere to the canvas, and stuck instead to every part of my person.
Photo by Hall, New York.
MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH.
At last some wiseacre suggested whitewashing the canvas, and, after sundry boilings of smelly size, the coachman and I made pails of whitewash and proceeded to get a groundwork. Alas! the brushes when full [Pg 265]of the mixture proved too heavy for me to lift, and the unfortunate coachman had to do most of that monotonous field of white.
So far so good. Now came “the part,” as the gallant jehu was pleased to call it.
It took a long time to get into the way of painting it at all. The window had to be shut, the solitary gas-jet lighted, endless lamps unearthed to give more illumination while I struggled with smelling pots.
Oh, the mess! The floor was bespattered, and the paint being mixed with size, those spots remain as indelible as Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood. Then the paint-smeared sky—my sky—left marks on the ceiling—my father’s ceiling—and my own dress was spoilt. Then up rose Mother in indignation, and promptly produced an old white garment—which shall be nameless, although it was decorated with little frills—and this I donned as a sort of overall. With arms aching from heavy brushes, and feet tired from standing on a ladder, with a nose well daubed with yellow paint, on, on I worked.
In the midst of my labours “Mr. Grossmith” was suddenly announced, and there below me stood Weedon Grossmith convulsed with laughter. At that time he was an artist and had pictures “on the line” at the Royal Academy. His studio was a few doors from us in Harley Street.
“Don’t laugh, you horrid man,” I exclaimed; “just come and help.”
He took a little gentle persuading, but finally gave in, and being provided with another white garment[Pg 266] he began to assist, and he and I finally finished that wondrous scene-painting together.
After a long vista of years Mrs. Beerbohm Tree—who, it will be remembered, also acted with us in Harley Street—and Weedon Grossmith—who helped me paint the scenery for our little performance—were playing the two leading parts together at Drury Lane in Cecil Raleigh’s Flood Tide.
The two little daughters of the Trees, aged six and eight respectively, were taken by their father one afternoon to see their mother play at the Lane. They sat with him in a box, and enjoyed the performance immensely.
“Well, do you like it better than Richard II.?” asked Tree.
There was a pause. Each small maiden looked at the other, ere replying:
“It isn’t quite the same, but we like it just as much.”
When they reached home they were asked by a friend which of the two plays they really liked best.
“Oh, mother’s,” for naturally the melodrama had appealed to their juvenile minds, “but we did not like to tell father so, because we thought it might hurt his feelings.”
The part that delighted them most at Drury Lane was the descent of the rain, that wonderful rain which had caused so much excitement, and which was composed of four tons of rice and spangles thrown from above, and verily gave the effect of a shower of water.
[Pg 267]
But to return to Weedon Grossmith. Whether he found art didn’t pay at the studio in Harley Street, or whether he was asked to paint more ugly old ladies than pretty young ones, I do not know; but he gave up the house, and went off to America for a trip. So he said at the time, but the trip meant that he had accepted an engagement on the stage. He made an instantaneous hit. When he returned to England, sure of his position, as he thought, he found instead that he had a very rough time of it, and it was not until he played with Sir Henry Irving in Robert Macaire that he made a London success. Later he “struck oil” in Arthur Law’s play, The New Boy under his own management.
Round the The New Boy circled a romance. Miss May Palfrey, who had been at school with me, was the daughter of an eminent physician who formerly lived in Brook Street. She had gone upon the stage after her father’s death, and was engaged to play the girl’s part. The “engagement” begun in the theatre ended, as in the case of Forbes Robertson, in matrimony, and the day after The New Boy went out, the new girl entered Weedon Grossmith’s home as his wife.
Success has followed success, and they now live in a delightful house in Bedford Square, surrounded by quaint old furniture, Adams’ mantelpieces, overmantels, and all the artistic things the actor appreciates. A dear little girl adds brightness to the home life of Mr. and Mrs. Weedon Grossmith.
Artist, author, actor, manager, are all terms that may[Pg 268] be applied to Weedon Grossmith, but might not scene-painter be added after his invaluable aid in the Harley Street store-room with paints and size?
So much for the amateur side of the business: now for the real.
The first thing a scenic artist does is to make a complete sketch of a scene. This, when approved, he has “built up” as a little model, a miniature theatre, in fact, such as children love to play with. It is usually about three feet square, exactly like a box, and every part is designed to scale with a perfection of detail rarely observed outside an architect’s office.
One of the most historic painting-rooms was that of Sir Henry Irving at the Lyceum, for there some of the most elaborate stage settings ever produced were constructed, inspired by the able hand of Mr. Hawes Craven.
A scene-painter’s workshop is a large affair. It is very high, and below the floor is another chamber equally lofty, for the “flats,” or large canvases, have to be screwed up or down for the artist to be able to get at his work. They cannot be rolled wet, so the entire “flat” has to ascend or descend at will.
To make the matter clear, a scene on the stage, such as a house or a bridge, is known as a “carpenter’s scene.” The large canvases at the back are called “flats,” or “painters’ cloths.” “Wings” are unknown to most people, but really mean the side-pieces of the scene which protrude on the stage. The “bor............