_The customary three knocks are heard. The drop-curtain wavers and is
rising, when a voice rings out, “Not yet!” and the_ MANAGER, _a
gentleman of important mien in evening dress, springing from his
proscenium box, hurries toward the stage, repeating, “Not yet!”_
_The curtain is again lowered. The_ MANAGER _turns toward the audience,
and resting one hand on the prompter’s box, addresses them:_
The curtain is a wall,--a flying wall. Assured that presently the wall
will fly--why haste? Is it not charming to delay--and just look at it
for a while?
Charming to sit before a great red wall, hanging beneath two gilt masks
and a scroll--The thrilling moment is when the curtain thrills, and
sounds come from the other side.
You are desired to-night to listen to those sounds and entering the
scene before you see it, to wonder and surmise--
_Bending his ear, the_ MANAGER _listens to the sounds now beginning to
come from behind the curtain._
A footstep--is it a road? A flutter of wings--is it a garden?
_The curtain here rippling as if about to rise, the_ MANAGER
_precipitately shouts, “Stop!--Do not raise it yet!” Then again bending
his ear, continues making note of the noises, clear or confused, single
or combined, that from this onward come without stop from behind
the curtain._
A magpie cawing flies away. Great wooden shoes come running over flags.
A courtyard, is it?--If so above a valley--from whence that softened
clamour of birds and barking dogs.
More and more clearly the scene suggests itself--Magically sound
creates an atmosphere!--A sheep bell tinkles intermittently--Since there
is grazing, we may look for grass.
A tree, too--a tree must rustle in the breeze, for a bullfinch warbles
his little native song; and a blackbird whistling the song he has caught
by ear, implies, we may presume, a wicker cage.
The rattling of a wagon run out of a shed--the dripping of a bucket
drawn up overfull--the patter of doves’ feet alighting on a roof--Surely
it is a farmyard--unless it be a mill!
Rustling of straw, click of a wooden latch--A stable or a haymow there
must be. The locust shrills: the weather then is fine.--Church-bells
ring: it is Sunday then.--Chatter of jays: the woods cannot be far!
Hark! Nature with the scattered voices of a fair midsummer day is
composing--in a dream!--the most mysterious of overtures--harmonised by
evening distance and the wind!
And all these sounds--song of a passing girl--laughter of children
jogged by the donkey trotting--faraway gun-reports and hunting-horns
--these sounds describe a holiday.
A window opens, a door closes--The harness shakes its bells. Is it not
plain in sight, the old farmyard?--The dog sleeps, the cat but
feigns to sleep.
Sunday!--Farmer and farmer’s wife are starting for the fair. The old
horse paws the ground--
A ROUGH VOICE
[_Behind the curtain, through the horse’s pawing._] Whoa, Dapple!
ANOTHER VOICE
[_As if calling to a laggard._] Come along! We shan’t get home till
morning!
AN IMPATIENT VOICE
Are you ready?
ANOTHER VOICE
Fasten the shutters!
MAN’S VOICE
All right!
WOMAN’S VOICE
My sunshade!
MAN’S VOICE
[_Through the cracking of the whip._] Gee up!
THE MANAGER
The wagon to the jingling of the harness rattles off, jolting out
ditties. A turn in the road cuts off the unfinished song.--They are
gone, quite gone. The performance can begin.
Some philosophers would say there was not a soul left, but we humbly
believe that there are hearts. Man in leaving does not take with him all
drama. One can laugh and suffer without him. [_He listens again._]
Ardently humming, a velvety bumblebee hovers--then is still; he has
plunged into a flower--Let us begin. Pray note that Aesop’s hump
to-night does duty as prompter’s box!
The members of our company are small, but--[_Calling toward the flies._]
Alexander! [_To the audience._] He is my chief machinist. [_Calling
again._] Let it down!
A VOICE
[_From the flies._] It’s coming, sir!
MANAGER
We have lowered between the audience and the stage an invisible screen
of magnifying glass--
But there the violins are tuning up: Scraping of crystal bows, picking
of strings!--Hush! Let the footlights now leap into brightness, for at a
signal from their little leader the crickets’ orchestra have briskly
fallen to!
Frrrt! The bumblebee emerges from the flower, shaking the yellow dust--A
Hen comes on the scene as in La Fontaine’s fable. A Cuckoo calls, as in
Beethoven’s symphony.
Hush! Let the chandelier draw in its myriad lights--for the curious
call-boy of the woods has, airily, to summon us, repeated thrice his
double call--
And since Nature is one of our performers, and feathered notables are on
our staff--Hush! the curtain must go up: A wood-pecker’s bill has rapped
out the three strokes!