_On with rioters._
I was of a sanguine disposition at that time, but I didn’t exactly see
how I was going to make much of a sensation with _that_. It seemed
to me that my talents were being thrown away. An ordinary actor would
have done for a part like that. However, if they chose to waste me, it
was more their misfortune than mine. I would say nothing, but do
the best I could with the thing, and throw as much feeling into the
character as it would hold. In truth, I ought to have been very
proud of the part, for I found out later on that it had been written
especially for me by my manager. Our low comedy, who knew the whole
piece by heart, told me this. Then he added, musingly: “A very
good idea, too, of the boss’s. I always said the first act wanted
strengthening.”
At last, everybody having been supplied with his or her part, and the
leader of the band having arrived, the rehearsal really commenced.
The play was one of the regular old-fashioned melodramas, and the
orchestra had all its work cut out to keep up with it. Nearly all the
performers had a bar of music to bring them on each time, and another
to take them off; a bar when they sat down, and a bar when they got up
again; while it took a small overture to get them across the stage.
As for the leading lady, every mortal thing she did or said, from
remarking that the snow was cold, in the first act, to fancying she
saw her mother and then dying, in the last, was preceded by a regular
concert. I firmly believe that if, while on the stage, she had shown
signs of wanting to sneeze, the band would at once have struck up
quick music. I began to think, after a while, that it must be an
opera, and to be afraid that I should have to sing my part.
The first scene was between the old landlord of an old inn, some
village gossips, and the villain of the piece. The stage manager (who
played the villain--naturally) stood in the center of the stage, from
which the rest of the company had retired, and, from there, with the
manuscript in his hand, he directed the proceedings.
“Now then, gentlemen,” cried he, “first scene, please. Hallett,
landlord, Bilikins, and Junks” (I was Junks), “up stage, right. I
shall be here” (walking across and stamping his foot on the spot
intended), “sitting at table. All discovered at rise of curtain.”
“You” (turning and speaking to me, about whom he had evidently been
instructed), “you, Mr. L., will be sitting at the end, smoking a pipe.
Take up your cues sharply, and mind you, speak up or nobody will
hear you: this is a big house. What are you going to give us for an
overture, Mr. P.?” (I call the leader of the band Mr. P.). “Can you
give us something old English, just before we ring up? Thanks, do--has
a good effect. Now then, please, we will begin. Very piano all through
this scene, Mr. P., until near the end. I’ll tell you where, when we
come to it.”
Then, reading from our parts, we commenced. The speeches, with the
exception of the very short ones, were not given at full length. The
last two or three words, forming the cues, were clearly spoken, but
the rest was, as a rule, mumbled through, skipped altogether, or else
represented by a droning “er, er, er,” interspersed with occasional
disjointed phrases. A scene of any length, between only two or three
of the characters,--and there were many such,--was cut out entirely,
and gone through apart by the people concerned. Thus, while the main
rehearsal was proceeding in the center of the stage, a minor one was
generally going on at the same time in some quiet corner--two men
fighting a duel with walking sticks; a father denouncing his son, and
turning him out of doors; or, some dashing young gallant, in a big
check ulster, making love to some sweet young damsel, whose little
boy, aged seven, was sitting on her lap.
I waited eagerly for my cue, not knowing when it was coming, and, in
my anxiety, made two or three false starts. I was put out of any doubt
about it, when the time really did come, by a friendly nod from
the gentleman who represented the landlord, and thereupon I made my
observation as to the dreadful state of the weather in a loud, clear,
and distinct voice, as it seemed to me.
As, however, nobody appeared to have heard me, and as they were
evidently waiting for me, I repeated the information in a louder,
clearer, and more distinct voice, if possible; after which the stage
manager spoke and said:
“Now then, Mr. L., come along, let’s have it.” I explained to him that
he had already had it, and he then replied, “Oh, that will never do
at all. You must speak up more than that. Why, even _we_ couldn’t hear
you on the stage. Bawl it out. Remember this is a large place; you’re
not playing in a back drawing-room now.”
I thought it was impossible for me to speak louder than I had, without
doing myself some serious injury, and I began to pity the gallery
boys. Any one never having attempted to speak in a large public
building would hardly imagine how weak and insignificant the ordinary
conversational tones are, even at their loudest. To make your voice
“carry,” you have to _throw_ it out, instead of letting it crawl out
when you open your mouth. The art is easily acquired, and, by it, you
are able to make your very whispers heard.
I was cautioned to look to this, and then we went on. The close of
the scene was a bustling one, and the stage manager explained it thus:
“You” (the landlord) “put the lantern close to my face, when you say
‘’Tis he!’ I spring up, throwing down the table” (a stamp here, to
emphasize this). “I knock you down. You two try to seize me; I break
from you, and throw you down, and cross center” (doing so). “I gain
door, open it, and stand there, pointing revolver. You all cower
down.” We were squatting on our toes, as an acknowledgment of having
been all bowled over like a set of nine-pins--or rather four-pins in
our case--and we now further bobbed our heads, to show that we did
cower.
“Picture,” says the stage manager approvingly, as drop falls. “Hurried
music all through that, Mr. P. Mind you all keep well up the
stage” (“up” the stage means toward the back, and “down” the stage,
consequently, implies near the footlights), “so as to let the drop
come down. What front drops have you got? Have you got an interior? We
want a cottage interior.” This latter was spoken to a stage carpenter,
who was dragging some flats about. Do not be shocked, gentle-reader;
a stage flat is a piece of scenery. No other kind of flat is ever seen
on the stage.
“I dunno,” answered the man. “Where’s Jim? Jim!”
It appeared that Jim had just stepped outside for a minute. He came
back at that point, however, wiping his mouth, and greatly indignant
at hearing the sound of his own name.
“All right, all right,” was his wrathful comment, as he came up the
yard; “don’t sing it; he ain’t dead. What the devil’s the matter? Is
the ‘ouse a-fire? _You_ never go out, do yer!”
Jim was the head carpenter, and was a sulky and disagreeable man,
even for a stage carpenter. When he wasn’t “just stepped outside for
a minute,” he was quarreling inside, so that instead of anybody’s
objecting to his frequent temporary retirements, his absence was
rather welcomed. He, in common with all stage carpenters, held actors
and actresses in the greatest contempt, as people who were always in
the way, and without whom the play would get on much better. The chief
charm about him, however, was his dense stupidity. This trait was
always brought into particular prominence whenever the question of
arranging scenery was under discussion.
Fresh scenery is a very great rarity at the minor theaters. When
anything very special is produced, and an unusually long run is
expected, say, of a month or six weeks, one or two scenes may,
perhaps, be specially painted, but, as a rule, reliance is placed upon
the scenery, the gradual growth of years, already in stock, which,
with a little alteration, and a good deal of make-shift, generally
does duty for the “entirely new and elaborate scenery” so minutely
described in the posters. Of course, under these circumstances, slight
inconsistencies must be put up with. Nobody objects to a library drop
representing “‘tween decks of the _Sarah Jane_,” or to a back parlor
being called a banqueting hall This is to be expected. Our stage
manager was not a narrow minded man on the subject of accessories. He
would have said nothing about such things as these. He himself had, on
the occasion of one of his benefits, played _Hamlet_ with nothing but
one “interior” and “a garden,” and he had been a member of a fit-up
company that traveled with a complete Shakesperian _répertoire_ and
four set scenes; so that he was not likely to be too exacting. But
even _he_ used to be staggered at Jim’s ideas of mounting. Jim’s
notion of a “distant view of Hampstead Heath by moonlight,” was either
a tropical island, or the back of an old transformation scene; and
for any place in London--no matter what, whether Whitechapel or
St. James’s Park--he invariably suggested a highly realistic
representation of Waterloo Bridge in a snow-storm.
In the present instance, on being asked for the cottage interior,
he let down a log cabin, with a couple of bowie knifes and revolvers
artistically arranged over the fire-place; anticipating any doubt upon
the subject of suitableness by an assurance that there you were, and
you couldn’t do better than that. The objection, that a log cabin
with bowie knives and revolvers over the fire-place, though it
was doubtless a common enough object in the Australian bush or the
backwoods of America, was never, by any chance, found in England, and
that the cottage to be represented was supposed to be within a few
miles of London, he considered as too frivolous to need comment, and
passed it over in silent contempt. Further argument had the effect
of raising up Jim’s stock authority, a certain former lessee, who
had been dead these fifteen years; and about whom nobody else but
Jim seemed to have the faintest recollection. It appeared that this
gentleman had always used the log cabin scene for English cottages,
and Jim guessed that _he_ (the defunct lessee) knew what he was about,
even if he (Jim) was a fool. The latter of Jim’s suppositions had
never been disputed, and it was a little too late then to discuss the
former. All I can say is, that if Jim’s Mr. Harris--as this mysterious
manager was generally dubbed--really did mount his productions in the
manner affirmed, their effect must have been novel in the extreme.
Nothing could induce Jim to show anything else that morning, although
the manager reminded him of a cottage scene having been expressly
painted for the last lessee. Jim didn’t know where it was. Besides,
one of the ropes was broken, and it couldn’t be got at then; after
which little brush with the enemy, he walked away and took up a row
with the gas man at the very point where he had dropped it twenty
minutes before.
Scenery and props were not being used at this, the first rehearsal,
the chief object of which was merely to arrange music, entrances and
exits, and general business; but of course it was desirable to know as
soon as possible what scenery was available, and whether it required
any altering or repairing.
In the second scene the leading lady made her first appearance, an
event which called forth all the energies of the orchestra. It would
not do for her to burst upon the audience all at once. Great and
sudden joy is dangerous. They must be gradually prepared for it. Care
was exercised that the crisis should be well led up to, and that she
should appear exactly at the right moment. When all was satisfactorily
settled, the cue was announced to her by the stage manager. He said it
was “Pom-pom--pom-pom--pom-pom--pom--Pom--POM.”
“That’s your cue, my dear.”
On the stage, everybody calls the actresses “My dear.” You soon pick
it up, especially in the case of the young and pretty ones.
“Where do I come on from?” asked the leading lady.
“I can’t say, my dear, until I’ve seen the drop. There’ll most likely
be a door in it, and then you can come on from the back.”
Entrances from the back, it may be remarked, are the favorite ones.
Indeed, some artistes will never come on from anywhere else. Of
course, you make a much better impression on an audience, as regards
first appearance, by facing them on your entrance and walking straight
down toward them, than by coming on sideways and then turning round.
Entrances from the back, however, are sometimes carried to excess,
and a whole scene is rendered unnatural and absurd, merely to gratify
personal vanity.
I will finish what I have to say about this rehearsal by giving a
verbatim report of a small part of it; viz., the fourth scene of the
first act. The actual scene is this:
STAGE MANAGER, _standing _CENTER _with his back to the footlights.
Close behind him, perched in a high chair, the_ LEADER OF THE BAND
_solus, representing the orchestra with a fiddle. Two or three groups of
artists, chatting at the wings. THE HEAVY MAN facing up and down at the
back, conning his part in an undertone, and occasionally stopping
to suit the action to the word. LOW COMEDY AND WALKING GENT., going
through scene by themselves in L. 3. E. SINGING CHAMBERMAID, flirting
with JUVENILES (only one of them), R. 2. E. PROPERTY MAN, behind,
making a veal and ham pie out of an old piece of canvas and a handful
of shavings. COUPLE OF CARPENTERS, in white jackets, hovering about
with hammers in their hands and mischief in their eyes, evidently
on the look-out for an excuse to make a noise. CALL BOY all over the
place, and always in the way--except when wanted._
OUR FIRST OLD MAN (_standing R. C., and reading part by the aid of a large
pair of specs_). “‘Er-er--wind howls--er-er-er--night as this,
fifteen years ago--er--sweet child--er-r-r--stolen away--er-r-r--baby
prattle--er-ears--er-r--shall I never hear her voice again?”
_He looks up, and finding that nobody makes any sign of caring a hang
whether he does or not, he repeats the question louder._
STAGE MANAGER (_severely, as if this was a question that really must
be answered_). “’ Shall I never hear her voice again?’ Oh! that’s a
music cue, Mr. P. Have you got it down? Miss --------”
(_stage name of the manager’s wife_) “sings a song there, without.”
MR. P. “No, I’ll put it down now. What is it--’ hear her voice
again?’” (_Writes on some loose slips of paper, lying before him on
the stage._)
“Have you the music?”
STAGE MAN. “Oh, anything dismal does. No matter what, so long as it
gives ‘em the hump. What will you have, my dear?” MANAGER’S WIFE (_who
has just finished a social bottle of Bass with another lady_). “Oh,
the old thing, you know. ‘Home, sweet home.’” JUVENILES (_in a whisper
to_ LOW COM.). “Is _she_ going to _sing?_”
LOW COM. “Yes, always does it.”
JUVENILES. “Oh, my----!”
MAN. WIFE _and_ THE FIDDLE _do first verse of “Home, sweet home.”_
FIRST OLD MAN. “‘Ah, that voice--er-er--echo of old
memories--er-er-er--houseless wanderer-dry herself’” (_crossing
and opening an imaginary door_). “Poor child--er-er-er--I’m an old
man--er--my wife’s out--return and--er--the homeless orphan.’”
MAN. WIFE. “Will there be any lime-light on here?”
FIRST OLD WOMAN (_sotto voce_). “Oh, let her have some lime-light. She
wants to let her back hair down.”
STAGE MAN. “Certainly, my dear. There’ll be a fire-place in this
corner, and red lime-light from it.”
MAN. WIFE. “Oh, all right; I only wanted to know. Now, what was
it--‘homeless orphan.’ Oh, that’s my long speech, you know: ‘Is this a
dream that I have dreamt before--played here when a child.’”
FIRST O. M. “‘Sweet child--your face recalls strange memories of
er-er-er--been just your age.’”
STAGE MAN. (_interrupting_). “Slow music throughout.”
FIRST O. M. (_continuing_). “‘Never from that night--er--golden--I
can’t believe she’s dead.’”
_Scrape from the fiddle, followed by bar, to bring on_ FIRST OLD
WOMAN.
FIRST O. W. (_without moving from her seat, and coming straight to
the cue with a suddenness which startles everybody)_. “‘Fold you to my
breast.’”
MAN. WIFE. “’ Mother! ‘--Got the rheumatism again?”
FIRST O. W. “Got it _again_! It’s never gone yet, drat it--’ My
child!’”
_Powerful scrape from the fiddle._
FIRST O. M. “Where am I?”
STAGE MAN. “Left, down stage.”
MAN. WIFE. “We embrace, left center. Knock heard.”
STAGE MAN. (_crossing center_). “That’s me. * Keep it up: it’s a
picture. You and Mrs. -------- there, embracing, and the old boy down
in the corner, when I open the door.--Rain and wind for this scene,
mind.”
* That was the way he treated Lindley Murray. We were inexpressibly
grieved and shocked--all of us--but what were we to do?
HOVERING CARPENTER (_at top of his voice_). “Jim! wind and rain for
last scene of first act.”
_Husky but indignant voice from the flics expressing an earliest
desire that every one should go to the devil._
STAGE MAN. (_who always rehearsed his speeches at full length, and in
a tone of voice as if he were reciting the multiplication table_). “‘I
am pursued. My life is at stake. Hide me from these bloodhounds who
are on my track. Hark! they are here. Thank Heaven, they are past. I
am safe. Ha, who is this we have here? ‘Sdeath, I am in luck to-night.
Sir Henry will thank me, when I bring his strayed lamb back to him.
Come with me, my little runaway,’ Nay, resist not, or ‘twill be the
worse for all.’ I catch hold of you. We struggle. ‘Come, I say, with
me. Come, I say!”
FIRST O. W. “* Die together!”
_Scrape from the fiddle._
STAGE MAN. (_loudly, after waiting a minute_). “‘Die together.’”
FIRST O. M. “I beg pardon. I didn’t hear.” (_Fumbles with his part,
and loses his place._)
MAN. WIFE. “He really ought to use an ear-trumpet.”
FIRST O. M. Er-r-r--Heaven will give me strength--er--can
strike a blow!” (_Shakes his stick at_ STAGE MANAGER.)
_Tremendous hammering suddenly begun at back, eliciting forcible
expressions of disapproval from all the members of the company, with
the exception of the FIRST OLD MAN, who doesn’t hear it, and goes on
calmly with the rehearsal all by himself._
STAGE MAN. (_in a rage_). “Stop that noise! Stop that noise, I say!”
_Noise continues._
JIM (_eager for the fray_). “How can we do our work without noise, I
should like to know?”
STAGE MAN. (_crossly_). “Can’t you do it at some other time?”
JIM (_angrily_). “No, we can’t do it at some other time! Do you think
we’re here all night?”
STAGE MAN. (_mildly_). “But, my dear fellow, how can we go on with the
rehearsal?”
JIM (_in a rage_), “_I_ don’t know anything about you and your
rehearsal! That’s not my business, is it? I do my own work; I don’t
do other people’s work! I don’t want to be told how to do my work!”
(_Pours forth a flood of impassioned eloquence for the next ten
minutes, during which time the hammering is also continued. Complete
collapse of STAGE MANAGER, and suspension of rehearsal. Subsequent
dryness on the part of JIM._)
MAN. WIFE (_when rehearsal is at last resumed_). “Just try back that
last bit, will you, for positions?”
_The last two or three movements gone over again._ Then:
STAGE MAN. “We all three struggle toward door. Stand back, old man!
I do not wish to harm thee!--I push you aside. ‘Back, or it will be
murder!’--This must be well worked up. ‘Who dares to stay me?’
(_to LOW COMEDY_). “There’ll be a bar to bring you on. You know the
business.”
LOW COM. (_coming forward_). “’ Shure and I will.’”
_Scrape from fiddle._
STAGE MAN. “Well then there’s our struggle.” (_STAGE MANAGER
and LOW COMEDY take hold of each other’s shoulders, and turn
round_). “I’ll have the book in the left-hand side.”
LOW COM. “‘Ah, begorra, shure he’s clane gone; but, be jabers, I’ve
got this ‘“ (_holding up an imaginary pocket-book_), “‘and it’s worth
a precious deal more than he is.’”
STAGE MAN. “End of first act.--Tommy, go and fetch me half a pint of
stout.”