Comments on a New York Hippodrome Rehearsal

Three days before the November 28, 1906 opening of the New York Hippodrome's  Neptune's Daughter, the New York Times published a review written by a critic who had attended rehearsal. He opened with a paragraph guaranteed to entice readers to line up for tickets:

What new sort of patented locker has Davy Jones invented for the mermaids at the Hippodrome? 

This is the first query that inevitably suggests itself after watching a rehearsal of Neptune's Daughter on the largest stage in the world.  The mermaids in question are apparently under the water for half an hour before they come to the surface. They entice the romantic sailor, whose affections have been unrequited, to follow them down into the depths and boldly dive again from the shore back into the real wetness.  The water is real beyond a doubt because Sirene and her dames all wear bathing suits to rehearse in and come to the surface wringing wet. Obviously there are mysterious and diabolical machines at the bottom of the Hippodrome tank.

Because the sailor's mysterious underwater descent with the mermaids does not open the show, the critic starts again, filling in the background and providing a few laughs as he pokes fun at the rehearsal and improbable plot.

But first let us rehearse the storm.  Let us make sure that the thunder is in good voice and that the bellows have contracted no pulmonary weakness.  The tempest is supposed to come eighteen years before the mermaid scene, and so it is only fair to give it the precedence of a paragraph. 

We are in Brittany. . . . A vessel is already rocking back and forth in the background upright.  Stage hands are pushing on rows of immense waves to supplement the painted waves on the backdrop. All the while the orchestra is booming along under the direction of Manuel Klein, looking more like a scene-shifter than a musician in his shirtsleeves, and the thunder maker is waiting for his cue somewhere in the wings. . . .

Peasants in wooden shoes come out of the huts and wander in an idyllic dancing mood all over the locality.  Some hundred chorus girls and ballet peasant maidens come out of the huts are disporting themselves in their underskirts--for surely an underskirt is the most serviceable garment to dance in and the only one which involves no extra expense.  It is time for the storm. It is time for Neptune's Daughter to be rescued from the depths.

Bring on the storm! The thunder begins to roar and the ill-fated ship is seen stirring with dramatic perspicacity directly for the breakers  The bonfire on the beach has proved of no avail.  The thunder rumbles some more, the orchestra complains more vigorously, the singers strive to make themselves heard above the uproar, and the waves do their level best to be appalling. 

Stop that storm! The stage manager does not like the way it is conducting itself.  It will have to take a long breath and start all over again.  The ship stops rolling in its fatal course, the chorus girls cease singing and squat contentedly down on the stage, the men who have been working the waves stand up like Tritons in the midst of the silent billows, mopping their foreheads, the orchestra is stilled, and the voice of the stage director alone is heard in the land of Brittany.

And so the poor old storm is put through its paces  The ship is wrecked, the lifeboat manned, and the ship goes to the bottom, the little girl is rescued and brought safely back to land.  The chorus dances some more in its wooden shoes and sings some more to welcome the collected heroes  The child of misfortune is christened "Neptune's Daughter," and scene the first is concluded.

Bring on the ocean!

The scene has been reversed so that the huts are in the background.  The floor of the whole front of the stage sinks down to where the stage manager best knows, and in its place lies the briny deep in a more peaceful and alluring mood.  It is just the sort of pool that mermaids like to play tag in, just the kind of a place for the Sirene to sit on the bank and comb her hair a la Lorelei. 

The heroine has become a charming young peasant--of course, a distinctly superior brand of peasant.  She refuses to marry her foster-brother for the good and sufficient reason that her foster-parents expect her to do so.

Bring on your Sirene--or rather bring her from the bottom of the tank. Up she comes right out of the deep, swims to the shore, gracefully leans on the brim of the tank and casts enticing glances at the sailor.  Other watery ladies also rise to the surface clad in bathing suits and wearing rubber caps to protect their tresses.  Some of them swim to the edge of the tank.  Others apparently are quite at home sitting on nothing but water.

The press agent hastens to explain that the girls are going to look more like real mermaidens at the performances; that they are going to wear wigs that will withstand the dampness and costumes that will be more suggestive of the submerged tenth.  However, they are not going to wear fishes tails because a chorus girl, not being by nature fishy, would probably find such a contrivance an impediment to aquatic feats.

'Come down and see Neptune's palace at the bottom of my tank,' says the Sirene to the sailor, 'and forget it.' If those are not the exact words, they at least convey the import of the speech

'I don't think [so],' replies the sailor. 'It might not be good for my health to stay too long under water.'

But the mermaids induce three foolish sailors to plunge after them into the ocean.  When they have disappeared, the sailor suggests that he might be converted if they should come alive to the surface again.  Sirene gives the word, and up they come.  They tell how much they liked it at the bottom, and the hero himself convinced at last, plunges in.

Now the heroine repents herself.  Wandering along the edge of the tank, she converses with Neptune, who invites her to come to the bottom and be married there to her lover.  She goes, too--and they are all gone.

'Where are they?' demands the press agent with a smile, as if he had himself invented it all.

The last scene is supposed to show the wedding in Neptune's palace with a ballet of 250 women, representing the different fishes, seaweeds, and inhabitants of the sea.  After the wedding ceremony, the hero and heroine are supposed to rise once again to the land of Brittany, where the warmest possible welcome surely awaits them.
                                                                                      --New York Times, Nov. 26, 1906


Coming in next blog post: an explanation of how Hippodrome performers survive under water