The papers lately made quite a time about a Greek play that the college boys produced in New England, but a Greek play was produced at Palmo’s Opera House, in this city, less than forty years ago, and didn’t make such a tremendous stir, after all.
The Greek play at Palmo’s Opera House was produced in better style than the Greek play in New England, because the former was managed by a regular actors, and old Allen was the stage manager. They had Mendelssohn’s music as well as old Sophocles words, and they got up everythin’ to correspond.
Everythin’ was majestic and regular Greek, exceptin’ the chorus, and that was Dutch–lager beer Dutch, and the Dutch stuck right out. Now, Dutch is as good as Greek, but it ain’t Greek, and old Allen, although he did his best couldn’t get these Dutchman to look like Greeks.
So he put as long and Greek-like beards on ‘em as he could and wigs to match–wigs and beards made to order out of gray and white goat’s hair, and plenty of it.
Well, the men looked very majestic in their long, flowin’ wigs and beards; rather fat, it is true, and fat-bellied, but still exceedin’ly venerable.
But five or six of these “venerable” fellows happened to be near-sighted, and the night of the first performance, as they were a little shaky in their parts, they put on spectacles to read their parts to better advantage.
Accordin’ to ancient Greek custom their backs were to be turned toward the audience, so their reading their parts was all right enough, but their big modern spectacles or goggles contrasted so funnily with their antique garments and big flowin’ goat-like beards that, when they all first wipe their spectacles all together and then open their mouths like so many goats about to cry ba-a, ba-a all together, the sight was so odd that Creon forgot all about his horrible tragedy and Greek dignity, and burst out a laughin’. This set some of the audience a laughin’, and then one of the Dutch-Greek, goat-bearded chorus fellows with big goggles on, turned towards the audience to see who was laughin’, and then the audience, catchin’ a sight of him, laughed louder than ever, and for a while the Greek play came very near turnin’ out an Irish farce. But Creon recovered himself, straightened up to work, the chorus fellows took their goggles off, and the play went on.
They played it for several nights, but it didn’t take very well. It was all Greek to the audiences, sure enough, so one day Allen said: “If we don’t bury old Sophocles, why he’ll bury us,” and then they took the Greek play off and it’s been off ever since.
George Vandenhoff, the younger, was in this Greek play, and he had as much as he could do to preserve his gravity, but George never forgot that he was the son of his father, and even the spectacles couldn’t get a real, solid, live laugh out of him.
Vandenhoff at that time was quite a popular actor, and he was especially great in makin’ love on the stage. He was an A No. 1 Claude Melnotte, which was a favorite part of his. One night he was playin’ it with Mrs. Farren as Pauline, when, in one of his love scenes, a man in the pit cried out: “Kiss her, Vandenhoff; by G–, kiss her and be done with it.” At first the boys felt inclined to laugh, but Mrs, Farren took it as a great insult to herself and showed she was offended, and Vandenhoff stop playin’ and advanced toward the audience.
All of a sudden the man who had made this exclamation was seized by the nape of the neck and then by the feet and was fairly lifted over the heads of the boys and men in the pit, passed through the air as it were, and then bounced on to the sidewalk, bounced pretty hard, too. He never got out of a theater so quickly on his legs as he did this time on his sides and back. Then Mrs. Farren smiled and seemed as if she felt herself avenged, and Mr. Vandenhoff commenced makin’ love more highfalutin’ than ever, while the fellow outside on the sidewalk was tryin’ to recover his scattered senses. Vandenhoff was at different times in his career unfortunately associated with three actresses, each of them pretty well known in New York and throughout the United States.
One of these three was Madame Vestris, who came to this country with Charles Matthews, and did not do very well. Just before the pair came to New York, Rice, the manager of the old Park Theatre, who engaged ‘em, told ‘em New York wouldn’t stand ‘em unless they were married; so they got married, as Matthews said, “to please Rice,” but they didn’t please New York after all, so they went back to England in a huff.
Vestris used to say, and she told the truth to a certain extent, that she married Matthews to avoid the sheriff. Vestris was quite showy and deucedly extravagant, and was always head over ears in debt.
Several times she was arrested by the sheriff, on behalf of some of her tradesmen, in the evenin’, just before the performance. This was a dodge that always worked very well, madame would either pledge her jewels, etc., to pay the debt, or would send to some of her rich admirers for the money; at any rate, somehow or other she would manage it that her creditor would get his money, the sheriff’s officer would get his fees, and the performance at the theatre would go on all right. But still she soon got tired of some tradesman who didn’t know of the marriage, had her arrested as usual, lo and behold, what did Vestris do but defy the sheriff, and pointing to Matthews, coolly said, “I am a married woman and my husband is responsible for my debts. Arrest him if you please.” Which wasn’t what the creditor wanted, nor Matthews either.
The marriage of Vestris and Matthews, the union of such a gay old girl to such a jolly old rounder, caused no end of fun in the circles where the two high contractin’ parties were well known.
A very good thing was said about it in the green-room of Vetris’s theatre by the actresses–it was so good that it took three women to say it. The three actresses were Miss Glover, Mrs. Orger and Mrs. Hornby, all of ‘em, of course, a little, just a little, jealous of Vestris.
These three got discussing Vestris’s marriage to Matthews, and Mrs. Hornby commenced throwin’ the ball.
“Why, they do say,” simpered Hornby, pretendin’ to be prim and simple, “that before she married him Vestris made a full confession to him of all her loves–gave him the whole list of her loves. What confidence; what touching confidence!”
They all smiled, and then Mrs. Orger had her say.
“What a trouble it must have been–what needless trouble.”
All three smiled again, and then Glover had the last word and the best.
“What a memory that woman must have–what a wonderful memory!” Then all three laughed long and loud, till Vestris and Matthews came in to see what they were laughin’ about; but they didn’t tell ‘em.
A second celebrated woman that Vandenhoff played with was Charlotte Cushman. He didn’t like Charlotte’s Romeo, but Charlotte did. She thought she looked handsomer as a man than as a woman, which was the truth. And so, woman like, she tried to look like a man as often as possible. She played Romeo whenever she got a chance–and oftener.
By-the-by, it is not generally known, but is it is a fact that Charlotte Cushman got her first good engagement by swearin’, or rather by the way she swore. She was from the start an ugly woman, and so she didn’t attract the managers at first, and went beggin’ for an engagement, and beggin’ in vain.
Among other managers she bothered one called Maddox for a chance, but Maddox saw her, and she didn’t see the chance. Three different times she went for Maddox, and three times in vain. The last or third time, just as she was goin’ away, she got excited, and without meanin’ to act, she did some splendid actin’, because she felt like it; she felt mad and desperate, yet determined as ever. “I know,” she said, “that my face is against me and the world is against me, but—,” here she threw herself on her knees and clenched her big, bony hand and waved it in the air. “But by G—d, I’ll defeat ‘em both and win yet.” And she did win. “If you can act like that on the stage,” said Maddox, “you’re the woman I want.” And he gave her chance, and she made fame for herself and money for Maddox. Maddox said afterward that in all his life he had never heard or seen anybody say the two words “by G-d” so majestically, so reverently, yet so desperately as she did then.
Forrest and Cushman acted in “Macbeth” together several times, and Cushman got more applause than Forrest, which made the great tragedian mad, and he never liked Cushman afterward.
Forrest never could forgive a slight, or anybody that caused it, and he didn’t like Vandenhoff in later years, because Vandenhoff got into professional relations with his divorced wife, Mrs. Catherine Sinclair.
Vandenhoff showed more nerve in his first talk with Mrs. Sinclair then most men could ever show with a woman.
He told Mrs. Sinclair to her face that she was too old to go on the stage, after she had quarreled with Forrest. He didn’t mince matters at all, but told her plump she was too old to begin.
And then Mrs. Sinclair showed that she had an extraordinary amount of sense for a woman; for instead of getting’ angry at Vandenhoff, she confessed that she was growin’ old, and that it was a decided disadvantage, but one she couldn’t help.
So both got to respectin’ one another for tellin’ the truth, and finally they started off on a tour together, which wasn’t very profitable.
According to Vandenhoff’s statement he never looked ridiculous but once in his life. But then he certainly must have looked very funny indeed.
He was playin’ in high tragedy, heavy tragedy, and had to look awfully desperate and dignified–cloaks and daggers and dungeons and dangers and blood and bones and all that sort of thing. He was playing the part of Julian St. Pierre, and had got as far as the great dagger scene in the fourth act. After that he came on in a big disguise cloak, and wore on his head the biggest kind of a black sombrero. This hat was brand new and fitted the head tight, and Vandenhoff looked no end of “darkly majestic” and “too utterly utter.”
Well, when it came his time he rushed down to the footlights, struck an attitude and cried to the false Duke, “Liar! She is as true as you are false.” Then he threw off his cloak and raised his hat.
But, alas! as he raised his hat his head came off with it, or, at least, the top part of his head, his wig. And there he stood, his hair floatin’ in the air around his uplifted hat, while his bald pate, which had been closely shaved that very morning, made him look for all the world like a prize fighter at a masked ball.
It was too ridiculous for anythin’, and he never wore a tight-fittin’ hat again.
[Editor’s notes: One main source for the above column was George Vandenhoff’s Leaves From an Actor’s Notebook, Appleton, 1860.
Antigone opened at Palmo’s on April 7, 1845. Though most reviews were glowing, this entry from the New York Evening Post hints at the reception by the public:]
