Part 1

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 156.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE UNSEEN REGIONS OF A THEATRE.

That part of a theatre which is concealed from the view of the audience is always a subject of interest and speculation to the uninitiated, and most playgoers experience a desire to explore the mysterious region. When, therefore, some years ago, an opportunity presented itself to me of gratifying my curiosity in this respect, I did not fail to take advantage of it. Since then, I have been behind the scenes of various theatres, and my experience has convinced me that the public is not aware how small a portion of the house behind the curtain is exposed to the view of the audience, the regions both above and below the stage being more extensive than is usually imagined. Indeed, when, several years ago, the Opera House in Paris was burned, it was with surprise that the public learned from the newspapers that the edifice had no fewer than four separate underground floors.

At the present day, in most first-class theatres in London and New York the subterranean portion of the building consists of at least two or three distinct stories. The fact is, it is now quite impracticable to meet the requirements of a grand spectacular piece without ample space being provided for the scenery underneath the stage. Many, too, of the finest plays are so constructed that several changes of scene are required in every act; and each scene must be a masterpiece of the stage-carpenter’s art, to satisfy the exacting demands of a modern audience. The old system, when an alteration of scene was necessary, was primitive enough. In some instances, there descended from the ‘flies’ a large curtain, on which was painted a landscape, or the interior or exterior of a building, as circumstances might require. In other cases, wooden frames, termed flats, with canvas tightly stretched upon them, were pushed upon the stage from either side, meeting at the centre, and frequently presenting an ugly seam at the place of junction. No little skill was demanded in handling a huge frame many yards in height and width; for if it once lost its perpendicular, it became unmanageable, and fell—then requiring the exertions of several men to restore it to its proper position. The scenes also had a tendency to stick in the grooves in which they ran, and when this occurred, the disapprobation of the audience was incurred. It is said that a mishap of this kind having once taken place at one of the transpontine theatres, a spectator in the gallery called out: ‘We don’t look for grammar at this ’ere ’ouse, but we think yer might see that yer “flats” jine properly.’

All this is now altered. At the London theatres of the better class, when a change of scene is requisite, it is effected in a few seconds and in an admirable manner. An extensive landscape, or a lofty battlemented castle—so strongly constructed that it seems as if it were built of solid masonry—or a spacious apartment completely furnished, is, as if by magic, placed before the audience.

It has often struck us that playgoers scarcely adequately realise the extraordinary mechanical ingenuity displayed in the production of many of the pieces of late years presented to the public. Take, for instance, the fairy spectacle entitled _Le Roi Carotte_. In it there was a scene in which an old magician was dismembered in the presence of the audience. The situation was this: an aged sorcerer, in order to be rejuvenated, requests his friends to cut him into pieces and throw him bit by bit into a red-hot oven; after which process he expects to come out a young man. His wishes are complied with; he is put piecemeal into the furnace without his leaving the stage or ceasing to talk. Seated in an armchair, the old man asks that a large volume shall be brought in and laid on a table in front of him. The book, on being placed in the required position, becomes immediately vivified; living gnomes issue from the pictures on its pages and skip about the stage; after which they re-enter the book, and it is closed and carried away. Then the legs and arms of the magician are cut off and thrown into the furnace; next he is decapitated, and his head is placed on the table, where it continues talking, giving instructions with regard to the trunk. After this the head is cast into the oven, which bursts open with a loud report, and a young and handsome man comes out of it.

The transformation is so ingeniously effected that the manner in which it is executed is incomprehensible to the ordinary spectator. This is the way in which the feat is accomplished: when the volume is placed on the table, the sorcerer, seated in the armchair, quietly withdraws his legs from sight, placing them on a trap beneath the level of the stage; at the same time he slips his arms under his loose gown, _papier-mâché_ limbs being substituted in both instances for the real ones. This is done whilst the attention of the audience is diverted to the book and its animated pictures, which are little boys who come up from underneath the stage, through holes in the table and book, which is furnished with india-rubber springs, which close directly the gnomes have emerged from the volume. After the magician’s legs and arms have been taken off and thrown into the fire, nothing is left but his trunk and his head. The latter is a mask which fits the actor’s face, leaving nothing visible but his lips and eyes. One of the persons on the stage tugs at the magician’s head until he pulls it off—that is to say, he removes the mask. As this is being done, the sorcerer has sunk down a trap, and he rises again through the table. The performer, with his head inserted in the mask, continues to talk, giving instructions with respect to the disposition of the trunk, which remains in the chair. Finally, the artificial head and the trunk, which are also of _papier mâché_, are thrown into the furnace. The magician in the meanwhile has reascended by means of another trap farther back, slipping on a rich dress on the way; and when the oven bursts, the old man steps forth rejuvenated.

The reader must now see what skill and ingenuity the feat demands—what careful attention to every detail, what precautions against the slightest error, what rapidity in working of the traps, and what accuracy of movement on the part of the actor who plays the old magician. But, indeed, the skill and dexterity demanded of those to whom are intrusted the mechanical arrangements of some pieces, are far greater than are supposed by the public, who content themselves with admiring the results, without reflecting upon the care and labour they have involved.

In an opera called _Les Amours du Diable_, produced in Paris some years ago, there was a curious scene which puzzled all who saw it. A slight palanquin—constructed in such a manner that it was obvious that there was no possibility of its having a double bottom—was brought upon the stage supported on the shoulders of slaves. The actress, who occupied it, withdrew the curtains and gave some orders to her attendants. Then the curtains were closed for an instant, and again re-opened. But the occupant of the palanquin had disappeared. What had become of her? The feat had been executed close to the front of the stage, and under a brilliant light; and the spectators could plainly see that it was certain that the lady had not gone down a trap. The mystery remained for some time unsolved. The explanation of the puzzle was simply this: the pillars of the palanquin appeared to be very slight, but instead of being wood, they were hollow metal tubes. Through these tubes, ropes ran on pulleys at the top of the palanquin, descending in the inside, and fastened to the frame, on which was placed the silk cushion on which the actress reclined. To the other end of the ropes was attached a heavy weight which exactly balanced that of the lady. One of the slaves was impersonated by an expert machinist. So soon as the curtains were drawn, he pulled a cord which released the counterpoise, and the frame, together with its burden, rose to the dome of the palanquin. There the actress lay quite comfortably, a wire-gauze overhead enabling her to breathe freely. Pains had been taken in the constructing of the palanquin to make it appear frail, whilst in reality it was very strongly built, that the roof might bear the strain upon it of the weight it had to support. The bearers were men selected for their muscular strength, and they were drilled in the practice of taking up the palanquin—after the disappearance of its occupant—and carrying it off the stage at a sharp trot, as if it were empty.

Of recent years, great improvements have been made upon the old plan of representing the motion of the waves in a sea-scene. When, some years ago, a comedy called _Surf, or Summer Scenes at Long Branch_, was brought out at the Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia, there was a scene in which the heavings of the ocean and the breaking of the waves upon the shore were imitated with excellent effect. Miss Logan, the authoress of the play, has described the ingenious mechanical appliances that were made use of on the occasion; she says: ‘There was a large cylinder, reaching across the stage from wing to wing on either side, and garnished with curling stiffened canvas, running around the cylinder after the fashion of the threads of a screw. This was put in revolution by means of a crank at the end, which was turned by a man behind the wing. The curling canvas was painted to represent the foamy surf. Behind the first cylinder were two others of similar character which revolved in like manner. When the three were in motion together, with a peculiar arrangement of light and shade upon them, the effect was strikingly like the rolling in of the waves upon the beach. There were various other appliances employed to heighten the illusion, such as a large box of pebbles tilted to and fro behind the scenes in a manner to closely imitate the sound of the waves; a gauzy painted cloth worked up and down an inclined plane, and represented the thin wave that rushes up the sands and retires again; rows of broom-corn, painted green, simulated the seaweed. The characters of the play, who are supposed to go in bathing at Long Branch dressed in the usual costumes, sprang through openings made of india-rubber—painted like the rest—which closed behind them as water might, could, or should do; and a little later, the actors, having passed under the stage by means of traps, reappeared at the back of the scene between the revolving cylinders, and jumped up and down, as if disporting themselves in the surf.’ The scene was very effective, and conduced largely to the success of the play.

Conflagrations on the stage are now so realistic as occasionally to alarm the spectators, who can scarcely believe that some portion of the scenery has not taken fire. But the precautions taken against danger are so thorough that there is no likelihood of an accident happening on these occasions. In a piece entitled _La Madonna des Roses_, which the writer once saw in Paris, there was the best representation on the stage of a conflagration he has ever witnessed. A fire was supposed to break out suddenly in an apartment in a ducal palace. Smoke and flame in a few moments poured forth in volumes from the windows and doors, and extending quickly to the walls, they fell in. They were constructed of two layers of wood, held together by thin cords, passing through holes. At the proper time, certain portions of the scenery were removed, leaving the others apparently burning fiercely—an effect produced by small gas jets arranged in rows around the edges of the frames. Behind the heavy set-piece at the back of the stage was a transparent curtain, on which flames were painted; and when the wall tumbled down, this scene being lit up, glowed with a lurid light in a very natural manner. At the same time, burning naphtha projected sheets of flame four or five yards in height, and large funnels overhead poured out torrents of black smoke mixed with sparks. It was indeed difficult for an audience to realise that the fire was not real, and that the whole of the scenery was not a heaving mass of flame.

In the description of the various mechanical contrivances resorted to in order to produce the scenic effects, the writer has been in some measure indebted to the theatrical reminiscences of Miss Olive Logan, an American actress.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XX.—CONCLUSION.

Turning into Holborn, he ran on blindly, never noticing another figure following in his footsteps. It was getting very late now, and as he hurried into the Strand, St Clement’s Danes struck midnight. Through the crowd there blindly, on to the water-side, the snaky figure close behind never off his track; on to the Embankment, and towards Waterloo Bridge. Then he stopped for one brief moment to regain his spent breath and think.

The following footsteps halted too; and then some instinct told him he was followed. Turning round again, full under the lamplight, he encountered Paulo Salvarini, determination in his face, murder in his eyes. In an agony of sudden fear, Le Gautier ran down the steps on to the Temple Pier, standing there close by the rushing water. A second later, with a clutch like iron, Salvarini was upon him.

‘Ah!’ he hissed, as they struggled to and fro, ‘you thought to escape me, you murderer of innocent women, the slayer of my wife! Now I have you. Back you go into the river, with a knife in your black heart!’

The doomed man never answered; breath was too precious for that. And so they struggled for a minute on the slimy pier, Salvarini’s grip never relaxing, till, suddenly reaching down, he drew a knife. One dazzling flash, a muttered scream, and Le Gautier’s lifeblood gushed out. Footsteps came down the stairs, a shrill shout from a woman’s voice. Salvarini started. In one moment, Le Gautier had him in a dying clasp, and with a dull splash, they fell backwards into the rushing flood. Down, down, they went, the tenacious grip never relaxing, the water singing and hissing in their ears, filling their throats as they sucked it down, turning them dizzy, till they floated down the stream—dead!

Some boatmen out late, attracted by the scream, rowed to the spot; and far down below Blackfriars, they picked up the dead bodies, both locked together in the last clasp of death. They rowed back to the pier, and carried the two corpses to a place for the night, never heeding the woman who was following them.

Next morning, they saw a strange sight. Lying across the murdered man, her head upon his breast, a woman rested. They lifted her; but she was quite dead and cold, a smile upon her face now, wiping out all trace of care and suffering—a smile of happiness and deep content. Valerie had crept there unnoticed to her husband’s side, and died of a broken heart.

* * * * *

For a few days people wondered and speculated over the strange tragedy, and then it was forgotten. A new singer, a noted poisoning case, something turned up, and distracted the frivolous public mind from the ‘mysterious occurrence,’ to use the jargon of the press.

Maxwell lost no time in getting to Grosvenor Square the following morning, where his greeting may be better imagined than described. He told Enid the whole story of his mission, omitting nothing that he thought might be of interest to her; and in his turn heard the story of Le Gautier’s perfidy, and the narrow escape both had had from his schemes.

‘I do not propose to stay any longer in London,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘After what we have all gone through, a little rest and quietness is absolutely necessary.—Enid, would you care to go down to Haversham?’

‘Indeed, I should. Let us go at once. I am absolutely pining for a little fresh air again. The place must be looking lovely now.’

‘All right, my dear,’ the baronet replied gaily; sooth to say, not sorry to get back to a part of the world where Sir Geoffrey Charteris was some one.

‘Then we will go to-morrow, and Maxwell shall join us.’

‘But Isodore? I have not seen her yet.’

‘Oh, she can come down there some time, directly we are settled.’

Later on in the same day, Maxwell heard the strange tale of Le Gautier’s death. He did not tell the news to Enid then, preferring to wait till a time when her nerves were more steady, and she had recovered from the shock of the past few days. So they went down to Haversham, and for three happy months remained there, ‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot;’ and at the end of that time, when the first warm flush of autumn touched the sloping woods, there was a quiet wedding at the little church under the hill.

Gradually, as time passed on, Sir Geoffrey recovered his usual flow of spirits, and was never known to have another ‘manifestation.’ He burned all his books touching on the supernatural, and gradually came to view his conduct in a humorous light. In the course of time, he settled down as a model country gentleman, learned on the subject of short-horns and top-dressing, and displaying a rooted aversion to spiritualism. It is whispered in the household—only it must not be mentioned—that he is getting stout, a state of things which, all things considered, is not to be regarded with incredulity.

Nearly two years later, and sitting about the lawn before the grand old house, were all our friends—Salvarini, mournful as usual, little altered since we saw him last; Maxwell, jolly and hearty, looking with an air of ill-disguised pride at Enid, who was sitting in a basket-chair, with a little wisp of humanity in her arms, a new Personage—to use the royal phrase—but by no means an unimportant one. Lucrece was there, happy and gay; and Isodore, glorious Isodore, unutterably lovely as she walked to and fro, followed by Salvarini’s dog-like eyes. The baronet made up the party, and alas! truth must out, looking—but we will be charitable, and say portly.

‘How long are you going to stay with us, Isodore?’ Enid asked. She would always be Isodore to them.

‘Really, I cannot say, Enid. How long will you have me?’

‘As long as you like to stay,’ Maxwell put in heartily.—‘By the way, I suppose I am still a member of the League?’

‘No, not now. Conditionally upon your promising never to reveal what you have seen and heard, you are free; Sir Geoffrey likewise.—Luigi here has resigned his membership.’

‘I am so glad!’ Enid cried. ‘I must come and kiss you.—Fred, come and hold baby for a moment.’

‘No, indeed’—with affected horror. ‘I should drop him down, and break him, or carry him upside down, or some awful tragedy.’

‘You are not fit to be the father of a beautiful boy; and everybody says he is the very image of you.’

‘I was considered a good-looking man once,’ said Maxwell with resignation. ‘No matter. But if that small animal there is a bit like me, may I’——

They all laughed at this, being light-hearted and in the mood to laugh at anything. Presently, they divided into little groups, Isodore and Luigi together. All her cold self-possession was gone now; she looked a very woman, as she stood there nervously plucking the leaves from the rose in her hand.

‘Isodore—Genevieve’——

At this word she trembled, knowing scarcely what. ‘Yes, Luigi.’

‘Five years ago, I stood by your side in the hour of your trouble, and you said some words to me. Do you remember what they were?’

‘Yes, Luigi.’ The words came like a fluttering sigh.

‘I claim that promise now. We are both free, heaven be praised! free as air, and no ties to bind us. Come!’ He held out his arms, and she came shyly, shrinkingly, towards them.

‘If you want me,’ she said.

With one bound he was by her side, and drew her head down upon his breast. ‘And you are happy now, Genevieve?’

‘Yes, I am happy. How can I be otherwise, with a good man’s honest love?—Carlo, my brother, would you could see me now!’

‘It is what he always wished.—Let us go and tell the others.’

So, taking her simply by the hand, they wandered out from the deepness of the wood, side by side, from darkness and despair, from the years of treachery and deceit, out into the light of a world filled with bright sunshine and peaceful, everlasting love.

DIAMOND-SMUGGLING.

In accordance with rules of concealment laid down by Edgar Allan Poe, some ‘clever things’ have of late years been done in the smuggling of precious stones into the United States of America, the philosophy which pervades Poe’s story of the _Purloined Letter_ having evidently been studied to some purpose by the professional diamond-smugglers, who are known to form a comparatively numerous body.

Poe’s tale, the scene of which is laid in Paris, the characters introduced being of course French, contains what may be called a novel theory of ‘hide-and-seek,’ which, stated briefly, is, that the greater the importance of the article which has been stolen, the simpler should be its mode of concealment. On the assumption that an important state document, or criminatory letter involving serious consequences to some one, and the possession of which would enable another person to make use of its contents for his own benefit, has been purloined, the more conspicuous the place chosen to conceal it the better, till it can be made use of. Should the recovery of the stolen document be a matter of importance, which may be assumed, it will, of course, be carefully sought for, and those searching for it will no doubt pry with care into every secret hiding-place, with the hope of finding it; whilst—to put the case in a homely way—it is ‘all the time staring them in the face,’ those in search of it overlooking it because of their idea that, in consequence of its great importance, the utmost care will have been exercised in its concealment.

Much incidental and curiously instructive information is contained in Poe’s _Purloined Letter_ as to the modes of criminal search adopted in France, where magnifying-glasses of great power, and microscopes, play a part; where beds are dismantled and chairs are disjointed to see that what is wanted has not been concealed in some part of them; where libraries of books are turned over leaf by leaf, and picture-frames are tapped to see that they contain no foreign material. As Poe points out, that is all in the way of routine, and is traditionary among French criminal investigators in the matter of every-day crime. It requires a mastermind, however, to fathom the doings of a really well-educated thief who purloins an important document in order to hold it in terrorem over a political enemy or social foe.