CHAPTER XVIII

American comic films an imitation of the English harlequinade. Charlie Chaplin’s “method.” The modern pantomime not produced for children. The clown’s “business” spoilt by the orchestra. A defence of the harlequinade. Grimaldi and summer pantomimes. What a pantomime should be. A suggestion. The best clowns with circus experience. The art of pantomime running in families. The Leopolds, the Vokes family, the Lupinos. The difference between a circus and a pantomime clown. Watty Hillyard, Wallet and Tom Matthews. Mr. W. S. Gilbert as harlequin. W. J. Payne, the “King of Pantomime.” How Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell worked together. The clown of the harlequinade works by himself. Sausages and the red-hot poker. The origin of the clown. Eighteenth century pantomimes. Grimaldi. Other famous clowns. How old circus jokes were made. A plea for the revival of the harlequinade.

It seems to me that much of the comic stuff which comes from America on the films is simply an exaggerated form of the old knock-about harlequinade “business” of the English pantomime. The disappearances and transformations which followed a tap of the harlequinade’s magic wand have been taken bodily and worked out in an outrageously burlesque form. But in the film the effect of magic is absent; the ingenuity of the property master in the pantomime had really a suggestion of the black art about it. The lather or whitewash with which the clown plays such pranks reappears on the film with a monotonous repetition which has become terribly wearisome. Even the agile leaps of the harlequin have been appropriated. I make bold to say that nearly every artifice in the so-called “comedy” films is based on the “business” of the old harlequinade.

Even Charlie Chaplin’s shows are akin to the clown’s knock-abouts and tumbles. They are of course not in the same street with the stereotyped idiotic “comedy” films which have neither rhyme nor reason. Charlie Chaplin is a great artist. His facial fertility is inimitable and so are his body contortions. Method and the art of surprise are always at his command, and his sense of the ludicrous is wonderfully keen. But at the bottom of his productions is the clown’s business, and this is a sure laughter getter.

Charlie Chaplin, as all the world knows, made a hit in Fred Karno’s “The Mumming Birds,” and he was as successful with this on his first visit to America as in England. But his second visit with the “Wow Wows,” of which company I was a member, as already mentioned, did not altogether please the American public, which has an unpleasant habit of making up its mind beforehand what it is going to like. My experience is that our American cousins, in spite of their “go ahead” reputation, are slow to accept novelties, especially if they’re not of native production, and the audiences having identified Charlie Chaplin with a certain eccentric and mirth provoking personage were disappointed at not finding the same gentleman. Anyhow, Charlie Chaplin has now found fame and fortune in the States. This cannot be said of other music-hall “stars” who have crossed the Atlantic. Mr. H. G. Hibbert, in his “Fifty Years of a Londoner’s Life,” reminds us that Jenny Hill, the popular “Vital Spark,” was a comparative failure. Albert Chevalier was hardly a success, certainly not a great one. Dan Leno did not go down at all; Chirgwin took the first boat home. The gentleman who did not like my appearance in my clown’s dress and wanted to express his feelings by putting a bullet through me is, I am afraid, typical of many Americans. Was not a Western audience once beseeched not to shoot the pianist, as he was doing his best?

Whether I am right or wrong as to the indebtedness of comedy films to the harlequinade perhaps doesn’t matter very much; the point is that the cinema crowds laugh at the grotesque situations pictured, and this I needn’t say is the object of the clown’s antics and the practical jokes he plays. The essence of the whole thing is an illustration of the principle laid down by a philosophical student of human nature, that there was something in the misfortunes of our dearest friends not altogether unpleasing to us. I contend that the way people are tickled by film fun makes it all the more puzzling why harlequinades are for the moment things of the past, since the knock-about material in the harlequinade is the same in both. I take it that of late years pantomimes have been produced to attract the grown-ups rather than the children. When a harlequinade is introduced it forms but a small portion of the entertainments and comes in when the audience is getting tired, and when many, after the queer English fashion, are hurrying away. Why certain playgoers are so afraid of the fall of the curtain has always been a mystery to me.

What, however, is especially annoying to the clown and to the other members of the harlequinade is the indifference, not to say contempt, of the orchestra for the whole thing. It’s pretty clear that the fiddlers, the flautists, the cornet and trombone players and the rest, look upon the harlequinade as something which keeps them out of their beds. Often I’ve been disconcerted by the whispered entreaties from the gentlemen below “to get on with it,” “hurry up,” “we want to get away,” and the like. What chance has anyone to introduce an impromptu bit of business--and an impromptu sometimes makes a great hit--when he’s having his pitch queered in this fashion? I declare that not a few times I’ve had a good wheeze quite spoiled by a vicious bang on the big drum at the wrong moment.

People’s sense of humour is much the same now as it ever was--not so coarse, perhaps--but this is the only difference. Flexmore, a famous clown of the ’forties and ’fifties, indulged in a broadness which wouldn’t now be tolerated, otherwise he carried on the tradition of Grimaldi, and this tradition has in a way been preserved to the present day.

We are told by some superior folk that the harlequinade of the old school was based on brutality. So also was Punch and Judy. It is also said to be vulgar. Can it be more vulgar than some of the revues with which the public have been favoured during recent years? I contend that the clown’s “business” is honest humour with a distinct note of human nature in it which appeals to one’s instincts for mirth. The pit and gallery have always recognised this openly, but I am afraid that managers nowadays think more of the boxes, the stalls and the dress circle; and the pit and gallery have literally to take a back seat. At one time the reverse was the case.

It is a very remarkable fact that in the palmy days of the pantomime Christmas was not the only time when clown and pantaloon played their pranks. Pantomime really seemed to go on all the year round. Grimaldi many a time sang his famous songs, “Tippity-witchet” and “Hot codlins” in the blazing days of July! In this particular month in 1823 at the Coburg Theatre (now the “Old Vic”) no less than three pantomimes were produced. “Salmagundi,” or the “Clown’s dish of sorts,” a mixture of the harlequinade of previous years, was played on July 1st and ran for six nights; on the 8th came “Harlequin and the Three Wishes,” or “Puck and the Black Pudding,” and on the 15th “Disputes in China,” or “Harlequin and the Kong Merchants,” and in each Grimaldi was the clown. True, Grimaldi was a genius, and it was to see him that the theatre was packed nightly, but it was pantomime all the same and more--it was almost entirely what we have come to call the harlequinade.

I needn’t try to trace the causes of the decline of the harlequinade and why the “story” with its gorgeous scenery and the introduction of music-hall “stars” have gradually pushed it into a sort of afterthought. The taste of the public may have changed (though I do not think it has) or the desire for novelty on the part of managers may have had something to do with it. Whatever may be the reason, it is pretty clear that at present the harlequinade is little better than a thing of shreds and patches.

It may be argued that I, as a professional clown, am prejudiced in this respect, but I still maintain that the harlequinade does not receive that attention from the managers to which, by reason of its historical associations and power of attraction, it is entitled, and I am quite certain that thousands of parents throughout the United Kingdom will support me in that opinion.

There are many people who seldom, or never, go to a theatre except at pantomime time. To them it is a paternal duty to give the children an opportunity of enjoying the rollicking pranks of clown, pantaloon, and policeman, and to gaze in rapture at the graceful evolutions of harlequin and columbine. To such parents the curtailment of the harlequinade is a distinct disappointment and a source of regret, if not of offence. I will undertake to say if a poll of the realm were taken on the question of retaining or abolishing the harlequinade, the result would be an overwhelming majority in favour of the clown and his acolytes. Not only do the children enjoy the fun, but the parents are made to feel young again, and the spectacle of their youngsters screaming with laughter and clapping their hands, does them good in body and spirit, and takes them out of themselves.

Many a time I have had to go on the stage when in indifferent health, and the burst of hearty greeting from the kiddies has driven away all symptoms of indisposition, and has been far more beneficial than a dose of the most expert doctor’s medicine.

Pantomimes were originally intended almost solely for the entertaining of the younger generation, and the first part was always described as the “opening.” It was, and still is, the harlequinade that follows which the youngsters looked forward to with delighted longing; their merry laughter and shrill cries of excited joy, as the fun proceeded, in surprise after surprise, were a pleasure to the older members of the audience, who felt that they were duly rewarded for having brought the children to revel in the frolics of “Joey,” their bosom favourite and cherished idol.

An old friend of mine in the theatrical profession once seriously suggested that the harlequinade, instead of being the “tag” of a pantomime, should be put on the first scene or early in the “opening.” Further, my friend urged that his proposed plan could be easily carried out without much offence to the traditional proprieties by a reversal of the old system of converting, in the transformation scene, the wicked Baron into clown, the fairy Prince into harlequin, and so on with the other characters. The clown could be converted by the fairy Queen into the wicked Baron, the harlequin into “principal boy,” the columbine into “principal girl,” and similar transformations effected with the other characters.

Having many years’ experience of pantomimes, I have learned what fantastic tricks authorised stage managers can play with original schemes, and I see no insurmountable difficulty in the adoption of my friend’s suggestion. After all, a so-called pantomime with no harlequinade, or with the mere apology for one, is no pantomime at all, but simply a glorified revue.

But with a revival of the harlequinade comes a difficult question. Where are the clowns to come from? Clowns, like poets, are born, not made; the taste must be in one, and it is not against you if you haven’t been blest with beauty. Grimaldi would have been nothing without his mirth provoking face. The same may be said of comedians, but there is a difference. The comedian personates many characters, the poor clown has but one. The comedian has all the advantage of an eccentric dress, of an eccentric make-up; the clown can only have one costume, and red and white paint obliterates all his facial play. Moreover, whatever natural talent he may possess for fooling, it is of not much good unless he has had the training and has started young.

Nearly all successful pantomimists have commenced learning their art almost as soon as they were out of the cradle. It is singular that the particular gift of mumming often runs in families. Grimaldi’s father and grandfather were dancers, and Joe was not two years old when he made his first appearance on the stage. The Leopolds with their uncle Edward Giovanelli, of Highbury Barn fame, the Vokes family and the Lupinos, are examples. Pantomime training is very difficult nowadays. When the old time travelling circus and mumming both were in their glory it was easy enough, and if I had my time to go over again I would begin in a travelling circus; as, apart from the varied experience, you have the open-air life, and the happy-go-lucky way of looking at things.

There is a great difference between the circus and the pantomime clown, and I think I can say I am master of what both have to do, as I have spent thirty years of my life in each capacity. A circus clown has to knock about, tumble, crack wheezes, and do without properties. The work is a hundred times harder than in a pantomime. You must, in addition, be apprenticed to the circus fun, whereas to be a pantomime clown an apprenticeship isn’t necessary. One of the first pantomime clowns I ever saw was Watty Hillyard, who commenced as a circus clown with John and George Sanger. A capital circus clown also was Wallet, who revived the old title, in abeyance since the time of James I, of the “Queen’s Jester.” He was a fine acrobat and moreover wrote a book giving an account of his early life as a circus clown. Dan Leno, after his performance before royalty, aspired to be called the “King’s Jester,” and in his last sad days, in his moments of “exaltation” he fancied he had the power of conferring titles upon all and sundry. Paul Herring, who began his career in the circus, was, I think, the best pantaloon of his day.

Among the celebrated clowns of old Victorian times was Tom Matthews, who founded his style on Grimaldi’s. He was nothing of an acrobat, but according to H. J. Byron he “relied on a jolly round face, a mouth like Piccadilly Circus, a rich semi-hoarse roaring voice and undoubted powers of pantomime ... though Tom Barry exceeded everybody as a circus clown.” Writing in 1879 Mr. Byron said: “Pantaloons and harlequins are probably pretty much the same as they have been for years, though the former are too apt to talk and the latter think more of dancing than of the supposed attributes of the owner of the magic bat. When Mr. W. S. Gilbert played harlequin I saw for the first time for years a consistent impersonation of the character. Albeit further practice and increased confidence might have improved certain small details, the representation as a piece of sustained pantomime action with a meaning in it was, I admit, to me refreshing.”

I am afraid that if the clown is not appreciated as he used to be, still less is the harlequin. A month or so before the words quoted above were written, W. J. Payne (the founder of another pantomimic family--Harry Payne, the well-known clown, was his son), who was termed the “King of Pantomime,” died. W. J. Payne was trained under Grimaldi and Bologna, the harlequin of Grimaldi’s day; and appeared first as clown and afterwards as harlequin. In his prime the essence of pantomime was dumb show, and of this art he was a perfect master. “In each of his gestures,” wrote Mr. Clement Scott in the _Theatre Magazine_, “there was an intelligible meaning. His imperturbably serious air in the most comic situations was one of his strongest points. The mask he wore did not entirely cover his face, and the play of his features could be distinctly seen.... Both old and young could understand and enjoy such humour as his.”

It may be said that children are not so imaginative as they used to be; that the modern cramming system of education by competition has killed the natural instinct for boisterous, unrestrained fun. Left to themselves I don’t think this would be the effect. I’ve no doubt that there are some priggish youngsters who may look down with pitying contempt on clown and pantaloon as too kiddish for them, but I’m quite sure the natural healthy child loves both.

The harlequinade is one of the traditional institutions of the stage which has a firm hold on the affections of the people--an affection which has been transferred from generation to generation, and it always will have a great attraction for the young. Kept clean and wholesome it will live as long as there is a theatre in the country. From royalty downwards through all ranks of society, everyone has a warm corner in his or her heart for clown, pantaloon, harlequin and columbine.

Of course a good deal of the clown’s fooling is traditional, and this to an extent makes him independent of the stage manager, but there is nothing to prevent him inventing fresh business, as indeed I have often done. He has only the pantaloon to consider, and this simplifies matters. Now in the opening the “stars” have to fit themselves into the story and adapt their humour and characteristics by which they gained their name on the music-hall stage to the various situations, and also have an eye to the other actors. Dan Leno in an interview with an _Era_ representative is made to say--

“In my first London pantomime at the Surrey the low comedians used to spend half the day working out “business” together. We thoroughly enjoyed the fun. But at Drury Lane it is all so different. We hardly knew where to find each other. I declare on the first night we were like so many pieces on a chess board just moved here and there by the stage manager. In time this feeling diminishes, but Herbert Campbell and I never get a real chance of working up fun together.” Whether this puzzled feeling referred to the Augustus Harris régime or to that of Mr. Arthur Collins I am unable to say. Anyhow, a passage in Mr. Jimmy Glover’s reminiscences (“Jimmy Glover, his book”) is pertinent to the matter. “Nearly everything,” writes Mr. Glover, “in which he (Dan) succeeded at the ‘Lane’ he was ‘written for....’ Leno’s successes with Harris were as nothing compared with his triumphs with Collins. Harris let him come on and simply be ‘Dan Leno.’ Collins thought out the Leno style and gave him the Leno material for the Leno triumph. Every funny situation or scene was built for him, first by the producer and then written round by the librettist. He had the least initiative sense of humour of anyone I ever met; once provided with the material he had the best contributory and constructive power.”

It is the reverse of this where the harlequinade is concerned. The clown and pantaloon have nothing to do with the comedians in the opening--in fact they never meet. I write and produce all my scenes and comic business myself, and I am my own stage manager. I, of course, make Mr. Collins acquainted with all I have to do, and he does not interfere, so that if my efforts are a success or a failure the entire responsibility rests with me. But there are two important properties which I _must_ have. One is the sausages and the other the red-hot poker. The children insist upon having these and would not consider the clown worth much if he left them out.

I have often wondered why a clown had such a fancy for sausages. Of course, when purloined they were easy to slip into his capacious pocket, but this isn’t altogether a satisfying explanation. They may or may not have been first thought of by Grimaldi, but pantomime history is silent on this important matter. Discussing the matter with a literary friend accustomed to research he was equally blank, but he undertook to try to solve the puzzle. At the same time he remarked that there was not the same difficulty with the red-hot poker, as it had been made use of as a practical joke from time immemorial, certainly as far back as Chaucer, the broad jape in “The Miller’s Tale” to wit.

However, he set to work and found that the industrious Mr. W. J. Thoms had dug up all that can be said about clowns. The harlequin, as most people know, had its origin in Italy, and was practically introduced here by Rich (who called himself Lun) at the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre. But the Italian harlequin was not quite the same as the English one. Indeed, he seems to have undertaken the knock-about business which now belongs to the clown. Addison says: “Harlequin’s part is made up of blunders and absurdities; he is to mistake one name for another, to forget his errands, to stumble over queens, and to run his head against every post that comes in his way. This is all attended with something so comical in the voice and gestures that a man who is sensible of the folly of the part can hardly forbear to be pleased with it.”

When pantomime was first played in England is difficult to establish, but a dancing master at Shrewsbury, one Follet, has the credit. His entertainment, “The Tavern Bilkers,” produced at Drury Lane in 1702, was entirely done in pantomime. It was only played for five nights. Follet’s next invention, the “Loves of Mars and Venus,” in 1716, also at Drury Lane, was far more successful. The new show caught the taste of the town, and in 1717 some dancers from France and a German named Swartz, with two dogs who could dance a minuet, became the rage, and the legitimate drama, in spite of the acting of Booth, Wilks and Cibber, was neglected.

With Grimaldi the clown came into his own, Leigh Hunt describes him as “round-faced, goggle-eyed, knock-kneed, but agile to a degree of the dislocated, with a great smear for his mouth, and a cap on his head half fool’s, half cook’s.” Grimaldi invented the clown and his tricks as we know both to-day, and it is pretty certain that the introduction of sausages is his. Mr. Thoms says “the clown of the present day is indubitably descended from one common stock--Punch,” and he points out that so recently as 1800 the character of Punch was substituted for that of the clown in the pantomime of Harlequin, “Amulet, or the Magic of Mons.”

We learn further that the clown of the present day seems gradually to have appropriated the peculiarities of harlequin, clown and pierrot. The pierrot is not often seen in modern pantomime, but we have occasionally had skilled acrobats figuring as “sprites.” The first clown who combined the three characters was Follet, whose antics were greatly relished by George the Third. “Farmer George” indeed is said to have repeatedly attended Follet’s performances for the express purpose of seeing him in one of his celebrated tricks, swallowing a carrot!

Delpini, Laurent, Bradbury, Paulo, and Southby were famous clowns, but all were topped by Grimaldi. As for the circus clown, Mr. Thoms remarks that he had “a certain series of standard jokes which remained unchanged for twenty years.” Very singular is the statement that these old jokes were for the most part coined by the Westminster scholars, and brought out at Astley’s, where the clown having been coached up and properly instructed how to introduce them, used to fire them off, the rival makers listening with the greatest anxiety to ascertain which told best. Those which were most successful became of course stock jokes.

And this is all that my friend could find out about clowns. I suspect that the character was gradually worked up by easy stages, and that save in the case of Grimaldi there was no sudden advance. But Grimaldi was a genius and an artist. What greater tribute to him can be imagined than that paid by the great tragedian John Kemble, who watching him from the wings one night exclaimed: “My sister (Mrs. Siddons) never did anything finer in her life than that man is doing now in his way.” Let another Grimaldi show himself and if he be allowed to have his chance the harlequinade will be born again.

I am under the impression that nursery stories and fairy tales, as themes for pantomime treatment, were not used until after Grimaldi had passed away. One thing is certain; they were made immensely popular by that versatile genius E. L. Blanchard, who for many years was identified with “Drury Lane” on Boxing nights. How many pantomimes he wrote it would be hard to say.

In conclusion I would say, that in my judgment the English taste in regard to amusements is too firmly fixed in the English character to be destroyed by passing fashions. It has a way of harking back to original instincts. The amazing success of the revival of “The Beggar’s Opera,” which most theatrical managers ten years ago would have sworn was as dead as a doornail, is a case in point. Some thirty years ago Clement Scott wrote: “Pantomime, though an exotic, has evidently taken deep root in the United Kingdom, and the peculiar humours of the clown--a figure of essentially British origin--will probably serve to extend its lease of life for an indefinite period.” Mr. Scott says that out of every fifty theatres in the country at that time, forty-nine were playing pantomime. Many novelties in the theatrical world have come and gone since then, but few have become permanent features of stage representation. The so-called “legitimate” drama hasn’t been ousted. Shakespeare doesn’t spell bankruptcy, as F. B. Chatterton thought it did because it failed with him; and the pantomime will not become a thing of the past, in spite of superior people. It can wait its time. That in some shape or form it will revive and fulfil its destiny as a thoroughly English humorous entertainment, I believe is certain.

[Illustration: Whimsical Walker enjoying the sea air Gorleston-on-Sea]