of the operas was most excellent, and I have never
seen better lighting effects than on the Brunswick
stage, and this, too, was all done by gas, incandescent
electric light not then being dreamed of even.
I had imagined in my simplicity that effects were
far easier to produce on the modern stage since the
introduction of electric light. Sir Johnston
Forbes-Robertson, than whom there can be no greater
authority, tells me that this is not so. To my
surprise, he declares that electric light is too crude
and white, and that it destroys all illusion.
He informs me that it is impossible to obtain a convincing
moonlight effect with electricity, or to give a sense
of atmosphere. Gas-light was yellow, and colour-effects
were obtained by dropping thin screens of coloured
silk over the gas-battens in the flies. This
diffused the light, which a crude blue or red electric
bulb does not do. Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson
astonished me by telling me that Henry Irving always
refused to have electric light on the stage at the
Lyceum, though he had it in the auditorium. All
those marvellous and complicated effects, which old
playgoers must well recollect in Irving’s Lyceum
productions, were obtained with gas. I remember
the lovely sunset, with its after-glow fading slowly
into night, in the garden scene of the Lyceum version
of Faust, and this was all done with gas. The
factor of safety is another matter. With rows
of flaming gas-battens in the flies, however carefully
screened off, and another row of “gas lengths”
in the wings, and flaring “ground-rows”
in close proximity to highly inflammable painted canvas,
the inevitable destiny of a gas-lit theatre is only
a question of time. The London theatres of the
“sixties” all had a smell of mingled gas
and orange-peel, which I thought delicious.
Mr. Spiegelberg most sensibly suggested that as I
was absolutely ignorant of German, the easiest manner
in which I could accustom my ears to the sound of
the language would be to take an abonnement at the
theatre, and to go there nightly. So for the
modest sum of thirty shillings per month, I found myself
entitled to a stall in the second row, with the right
of seeing thirty performances a month. I went
every night to the theatre, and there was no monotony
about it, for the same performance was never repeated
twice in one month. I have seen, I think, every
opera ever written, and every single one of Shakespeare’s
tragedies. A curious trait in the German character
is petty vindictiveness. A certain Herr Behrens
had signed a contract as principal bass with the Brunswick
management. Getting a far more lucrative offer
from Vienna, the prudent Behrens had paid a fine,
and thrown over the Brunswick theatre. For eighteen
months the unfortunate man was pilloried every night
on the theatre programmes. Every play-bill had
printed on it in large letters, “Kontrakt-bruchig
Herr Behrens,” never allowing the audience to
forget that poor Behrens was a convicted “contract-breaker.”