_HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?_
A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into Cimmerian
Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy of an Engagement—Proof
Copy; Private—Arrival of the Principals—Chorus on the
Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay.
“How does a man get on the stage?” is a question so continually asked
that the mode of procedure, at any rate for comic opera, may prove of
interest.
After application the would-be actor-singer, if lucky, receives a card,
saying there will be a “voice trial” for some forthcoming musical
comedy at the theatre on such a date at two o’clock. Managements that
have a number of touring companies arrange voice trials regularly once
a week, but others organise them only when necessary.
Let us take a case of Special Trial for some new production. There are
usually so many persons anxious to procure employment, that three days
are devoted to these trials from two till seven o’clock.
Upon receiving a card the would-be artist proceeds to his destination
in a state of wild excitement and overpowering nervousness at a quarter
to two, having in the greenness of inexperience arranged to meet a
friend at three o’clock, expecting by then to be able to tell him he
has been engaged.
On arriving at the corner of the street the youth is surprised to see
a seething mass of struggling humanity striving to get near the stage
door; something like a gallery entrance on a first night. At this
spectacle his nervousness increases, for he has a vague fear that some
of these voices and dramatic powers may be better than his own. During
the wait outside, people recognise and hail friends whom they have
played with in other companies on tour, or met on the concert platform,
or perhaps known in a London theatre. Every one tries to look jaunty
and gay, none would care to acknowledge the cruel anxiety they are
enduring, or own how much depends on an engagement.
After half an hour, or probably an hour’s wait, the keen young man
reaches the stage door, and finally gets into the passage. In his
eagerness he fancies he sees space in that passage to slip past
a number of people who are waiting round the door-keeper’s room,
and congratulates himself on his smartness in circumventing them.
Somehow he contrives to get through, and finally runs gaily down a
flight of stairs, to find himself—not on the stage, as he had hoped,
but underneath it. A piano and voice are heard overhead. Quickly
retracing his steps he mounts higher and higher in his anxiety to
be an early performer, tries passage after passage, to find nothing
but dressing-rooms, until he arrives breathless at the top of the
building opposite two large apartments relegated later to the chorus.
Utterly bewildered by the intricacies of the theatre, and a sound of
music which he cannot locate, the poor novice is almost in despair of
reaching the stage at all. One more effort, and a man who looks like a
carpenter remarks:
“These ’ere is the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” and he points down
below over some strange scaffolding.
The singer looks. Lo, there are fifty or sixty people on the stage.
“And those people?”
“All trying for a job, sir; but, bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty
will get anything.”
This sounds cheerless to the stage beginner, whose only recommendation
is a good, well-trained voice.
With directions from the carpenter he wends his way down again, not
with the same elastic step with which he bounded up the stairs. “Bless
yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything” was not a pleasant
piece of news.
Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage
at last. He is about to enter gaily when he is stopped by a theatre
official who demands his “form.”
“Form? What form? I have none.”
“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and
fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in
stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires:
“Where _is_ the stage door?”
“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.”
Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others
filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the
book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters _name_,
_voice_, _previous experience_, _height_, and _age_. There is also a
column headed “_Remarks_,” which the would-be actor feels inclined
to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage
manager fills in this column himself.”
At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and
some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the
footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:
“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:
“Where is your form?”
He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round
sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the
accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen
a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself.
But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most
inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:
“Now then, please, if you’re ready.”
The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by:
“Sing a scale, please.”
He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes,
when he is again interrupted by the question:
“How low can you go?”
He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A.
“Is that as deep as you can get?”
“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?”
A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.”
All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian
darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass
dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while
a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting
restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage.
“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you say you were a tenor?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice
trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.
“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost
gasps.
“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in
conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod.
“Have we your address?” asks one of them.
“Yes, sir, I left it at the stage door.”
“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your
services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice
from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries
off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where
is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer.
Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars
with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.”
This is balm to his soul; after all, he was not hurried off so quickly,
and he passes out into the light of day with the “Where is your form?”
“Where is your music?” “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get
anything,” still ringing in his ears. And so to tea with what appetite
he may bring at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as arranged.
Ten weary days pass—he receives no letter, hears nothing. He has almost
given up all hope of that small but certain income, when a type-written
missive arrives:
“Kindly attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre on Tuesday next at twelve
o’clock.”
The words swim before his eyes. Can it be true? Can he be among the
successful ones after all? He is so excited he is scarcely able to
eat or sleep, waiting for Tuesday to come. It does come at last, and
he sets out for the theatre, thinking he will not betray further
ignorance, and arrives fashionably late at a quarter to one. This time
he sees no signs of life at the stage door.
“Of course, now that I belong to the theatre, I must go in through the
front of the house, not at the side entrance,” he says to himself.
Round, therefore, he goes to the front, where some one sitting in the
box office asks:
“What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, thanks; I am going to rehearsal.”
“You’re late. The chorus have started nearly an hour.”
Good chance here to make an impression.
“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This is not quite true at the moment, but
may be in a year or two.
“Principal? Then you’re too early, sir! Principals won’t be called for
another three weeks.”
The tenor slinks out and goes round to the stage door again, where
“You’re very late, sir,” is the door-keeper’s greeting. “I should
advise you to hurry up, they started some time ago. You’ll find them up
in the saloon. On to the stage, straight through to the front of the
house, and up to the back of the circle.”
He goes down on the stage, where he finds the same old piano going,
and some one sitting in the stalls, watching a girl in a blouse and
flaming red petticoat, who is dancing, whilst three or four other girls
in various coloured petticoats, none wearing skirts, are waiting their
turn. In the distance he hears sounds of singing, which make the most
unpleasant discord with the dance tune on the stage. The accompanist
points to an iron door at the side, passing through which the youth
finds himself outside another door leading to the stalls, and, guided
by his ear, finally reaches the saloon. He enters unobserved to find it
filled with some forty girls and men, standing or sitting about, and
singing from printed copies of something. Sitting down he looks over
his neighbour’s shoulder, and notices that each copy has printed on it
“PROOF COPY. PRIVATE.” After half an hour the stage manager, who has
been standing near the piano, says:
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will do: back in an hour,
please. Is Mr. A—— here? And Mr. A—— replies “Yes,” and is told to
wait, and asked why he did not answer to his name before.
“I was a little late, I fear.”
“Don’t be late again, or I shall have to fine you.”
Off he goes to luncheon, and returns with the rest, who after a further
three hours’ work are dismissed for the day.
This goes on for six hours a day, during a fortnight, when the chorus
is joined by eight more ladies and gentlemen styled “Small-part
people,” who, however, consider themselves very great people all the
same.
Next the young man is told that in two days every one must be able to
sing without music, as rehearsals will commence on the stage. In due
course comes the first rehearsal on the stage, and after a couple of
days _Position_, _Gestures_, and _Business_ are all taken up in turn.
The saloon is then used by the principals, who have now turned up, and
in the intervals of rest the chorus can hear sounds of music floating
toward them.
In another week the principals join the company on the stage, and
are told their places, while all principals read from their parts at
first, such being the etiquette even if they know their lines. Books
are soon discarded, however, and rehearsals grow rapidly longer,
while everything shows signs of active progress towards production.
Scenery and properties begin to be on view, and every one is sent to be
measured for costumes, wigs, and boots. Then comes the first orchestral
rehearsal, and finally, a week before the production, night rehearsals
start in addition to day, so that people positively live in the theatre
from 11.30 in the morning till 11.30 at night or later. Apart from
all the general rehearsals there are extra rehearsals before or after
these, for the dances.
There are generally two or three semi-dress rehearsals, followed by the
full-dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon at two o’clock, or sometimes
seven in the evening, when all the reserved seats are filled with
friends of the management or company, various professionals connected
in any way with the stage, and a number of artists and journalists,
making sketches for the papers. At the end of each act the curtain is
rung up and flash-light photographs taken of the effective situation
and the _finale_, and so at last the curtain rises on the first night.
Nine weeks’ rehearsal were given for a comic opera lately, and no one
was paid for his or her services during all that time. It only ran for
six weeks, when the salaries ceased.
In comic opera there are such constant changes, of dialogue, songs, and
alterations, that the company have a general rehearsal at least once a
fortnight on the average, right through the run of a piece, and there
is always an entire understudying company ready to go on at any moment.