CHAPTER IV.
LEADS TO A MEETING.
"Don't be nervous," said the O'Kelly, "and don't try to do too much.
You have a very fair voice, but it's not powerful. Keep cool and open
your mouth."
It was eleven o'clock in the morning. We were standing at the
entrance of the narrow court leading to the stage door. For a
fortnight past the O'Kelly had been coaching me. It had been nervous
work for both of us, but especially for the O'Kelly. Mrs. O'Kelly, a
thin, acid-looking lady, of whom I once or twice had caught a glimpse
while promenading Belsize Square awaiting the O'Kelly's signal, was a
serious-minded lady, with a conscientious objection to all music not
of a sacred character. With the hope of winning the O'Kelly from one
at least of his sinful tendencies, the piano had been got rid of, and
its place in the drawing-room filled by an American organ of
exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this we had had to make shift,
and though the O'Kelly--a veritable musical genius--had succeeded in
evolving from it an accompaniment to "Sally in Our Alley" less
misleading and confusing than might otherwise have been the case, the
result had not been to lighten our labours. My rendering of the
famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired a dolefulness not intended
by the composer. Sung as I sang it, the theme became, to employ a
definition since grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad.
Involuntarily one wondered whether the marriage would turn out as
satisfactorily as the young man appeared to anticipate. Was there
not, when one came to think of it, a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained
within the temperament of the complainful hero that would ill assort
with those instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could not
avoid discerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow
character of Sally.
"Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful," would demand the O'Kelly, as the
solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning instrument beneath his
hands.
Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning from a district
visitors' committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I was
hidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing,
where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling
to the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly.
"William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn."
"Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example of
what I mean."
"William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies.
If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have.
Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o'clock in
the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your
explanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word
'Sally' as I opened the door."
"Salvation, me dear," corrected the O'Kelly.
"Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault."
"A little hoarseness, me dear," explained the O'Kelly.
"Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be better if we do
not pursue the subject further."
With this the O'Kelly appeared to agree.
"A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye're feeling well and
strong," so the O'Kelly would explain her; "but if ye happen to be
ill, one of the kindest, most devoted of women. When I was down with
typhoid three years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I
shall never forget it. And so she would be again to-morrow, if there
was anything serious the matter with me."
I murmured the well-known quotation.
"Mrs. O'Kelly to a T," concurred the O'Kelly. "I sometimes wonder if
Lady Scott may not have been the same sort of woman."
"The unfortunate part of it is," continued the O'Kelly, "that I'm such
a healthy beggar; it don't give her a chance. If I were only a
chronic invalid, now, there's nothing that woman would not do to make
me happy. As it is--" The O'Kelly struck a chord. We resumed our
studies.
But to return to our conversation at the stage door.
"Meet me at the Cheshire Cheese at one o'clock," said the O'Kelly,
shaking hands. "If ye don't get on here, we'll try something else;
but I've spoken to Hodgson, and I think ye will. Good luck to ye!"
He went his way and I mine. In a glass box just behind the door a
curved-nose, round-eyed little man, looking like an angry bird in a
cage, demanded of me my business. I showed him my letter of
appointment.
"Up the passage, across the stage, along the corridor, first floor,
second door on the right," he instructed me in one breath, and shut
the window with a snap.
I proceeded up the passage. It somewhat surprised me to discover that
I was not in the least excited at the thought of this, my first
introduction to "behind the scenes."
I recall my father's asking a young soldier on his return from the
Crimea what had been his sensations at the commencement of his first
charge.
"Well," replied the young fellow, "I was worrying all the time,
remembering I had rushed out leaving the beer tap running in the
canteen, and I could not forget it."
So far as the stage I found my way in safety. Pausing for a moment
and glancing round, my impression was not so much disillusionment
concerning all things theatrical as realisation of my worst
forebodings. In that one moment all glamour connected with the stage
fell from me, nor has it since ever returned to me. From the tawdry
decorations of the auditorium to the childish make-belief littered
around on the stage, I saw the Theatre a painted thing of shreds and
patches--the grown child's doll's-house. The Drama may improve us,
elevate us, interest and teach us. I am sure it does; long may it
flourish! But so likewise does the dressing and undressing of dolls,
the opening of the front of the house, and the tenderly putting of
them away to bed in rooms they completely fill, train our little dears
to the duties and the joys of motherhood. Toys! what wise child
despises them? Art, fiction, the musical glasses: are they not
preparing us for the time, however distant, when we shall at last be
grown up?
In a maze of ways beyond the stage I lost myself, but eventually,
guided by voices, came to a large room furnished barely with many
chairs and worn settees, and here I found some twenty to thirty ladies
and gentlemen already seated. They were of varying ages, sizes and
appearance, but all of them alike in having about them that
impossible-to-define but impossible-to-mistake suggestion of
theatricality. The men were chiefly remarkable for having no hair on
their faces, but a good deal upon their heads; the ladies, one and
all, were blessed with remarkably pink and white complexions and
exceptionally bright eyes. The conversation, carried on in subdued
but penetrating voices, was chiefly of "him" and "her." Everybody
appeared to be on an affectionate footing with everybody else, the
terms of address being "My dear," "My love," "Old girl," "Old
chappie," Christian names--when name of any sort was needful--alone
being employed. I hesitated for a minute with the door in my hand,
fearing I had stumbled upon a family gathering. As, however, nobody
seemed disconcerted at my entry, I ventured to take a vacant seat next
to an extremely small and boyish-looking gentleman and to ask him if
this was the room in which I, an applicant for a place in the chorus
of the forthcoming comic opera, ought to be waiting.
He had large, fishy eyes, with which he looked me up and down. For
such a length of time he remained thus regarding me in silence that a
massive gentleman sitting near, who had overheard, took it upon
himself to reply in the affirmative, adding that from what he knew of
Butterworth we would all of us be waiting here a damned sight longer
than any gentleman should keep other ladies and gentlemen waiting for
no reason at all.
"I think it exceedingly bad form," observed the fishy-eyed gentleman,
in deep contralto tones, "for any gentleman to take it upon himself to
reply to a remark addressed to quite another gentleman."
"I beg your pardon," retorted the large gentleman. "I thought you
were asleep."
"I think it very ill manners," remarked the small gentlemen in the
same slow and impressive tones, "for any gentleman to tell another
gentleman, who happens to be wide awake, that he thought he was
asleep."
"Sir," returned the massive gentleman, assuming with the help of a
large umbrella a quite Johnsonian attitude, "I decline to alter my
manners to suit your taste."
"If you are satisfied with them," replied the small gentleman, "I
cannot help it. But I think you are making a mistake."
"Does anybody know what the opera is about?" asked a bright little
woman at the other end of the room.
"Does anybody ever know what a comic opera is about?" asked another
lady, whose appearance suggested experience.
"I once asked the author," observed a weary-looking gentleman,
speaking from a corner. "His reply was: 'Well, if you had asked me
at the beginning of the rehearsals I might have been able to tell you,
but damned if I could now![']"
"It wouldn't surprise me," observed a good-looking gentleman in a
velvet coat, "if there occurred somewhere in the proceedings a
drinking chorus for male voices."
"Possibly, if we are good," added a thin lady with golden hair, "the
heroine will confide to us her love troubles, which will interest us
and excite us."
The door at the further end of the room opened and a name was
cal[l]ed. An elderly lady rose and went out.
"Poor old Gertie!" remarked sympathetically the thin lady with the
golden hair. "I'm told that she really had a voice once."
"When poor young Bond first came to London," said the massive
gentleman who was sitting on my left, "I remember his telling me he
applied to Lord Barrymore's 'tiger,' Alexander Lee, I mean, of course,
who was then running the Strand Theatre, for a place in the chorus.
Lee heard him sing two lines, and then jumped up. 'Thanks, that'll
do; good morning,' says Lee. Bond knew he had got a good voice, so he
asked Lee what was wrong. 'What's wrong?' shouts Lee. 'Do you think
I hire a chorus to show up my principals?'"
"Having regard to the company present," commented the fishy-eyed
gentleman, "I consider that anecdote as distinctly lacking in tact."
The feeling of the company appeared to be with the fish-eyed young
man.
For the next half hour the door at the further end of the room
continued to open and close, devouring, ogre-fashion, each time some
dainty human morsel, now chorus gentleman, now chorus lady.
Conversation among our thinning ranks became more fitful, a growing
anxiety making for silence.
At length, "Mr. Horace Moncrieff" called the voice of the unseen
Charon. In common with the rest, I glanced round languidly to see
what sort of man "Mr. Horace Moncrieff" might be. The door was pushed
open further. Charon, now revealed as a pale-faced young man with a
drooping moustache, put his head into the room and repeated
impatiently his invitation to the apparently coy Moncrieff. It
suddenly occurred to me that I was Mr. Horace Moncrieff.
"So glad you've found yourself," said the pale-faced young man, as I
joined him at the door. "Please don't lose yourself again; we're
rather pressed for time."
I crossed with him through a deserted refreshment bar--one of the
saddest of sights--into a room beyond. A melancholy-looking gentleman
was seated at the piano. Beside him stood a tall, handsome man, who
was opening and reading rapidly from a bundle of letters he held in
his hand. A big, burly, bored-looking gentleman was making desperate
efforts to be amused at the staccato conversation of a sharp-faced,
restless-eyed gentleman, whose peculiarity was that he never by any
chance looked at the person to whom he was talking, but always at
something or somebody else.
"Moncrieff?" enquired the tall, handsome man--whom I later discovered
to be Mr. Hodgson, the manager--without raising his eyes from his
letters.
The pale-faced gentleman responded for me.
"Fire away," said Mr. Hodgson.
"What is it?" asked of me wearily the melancholy gentleman at the
piano.
"'Sally in Our Alley,'" I replied.
"What are you?" interrupted Mr. Hodgson. He had never once looked at
me, and did not now.
"A tenor," I replied. "Not a full tenor," I added, remembering the
O'Kelly's instructions.
"Utterly impossible to fill a tenor," remarked the restless-eyed
gentleman, looking at me and speaking to the worried-looking
gentleman. "Ever tried?"
Everybody laughed, with the exception of the melancholy gentleman at
the piano, Mr. Hodgson throwing in his contribution without raising
his eyes from his letters. Throughout the proceedings the
restless-eyed gentleman continued to make humorous observations of
this nature, at which everybody laughed, excepting always the
melancholy pianist--a short, sharp, mechanical laugh, devoid of the
least suggestion of amusement. The restless-eyed gentleman, it
appeared, was the leading low comedian of the theatre.
"Go on," said the melancholy gentleman, and commenced the
accompaniment.
"Tell me when he's going to begin," remarked Mr. Hodgson at the
conclusion of the first verse.
"He has a fair voice," said my accompanist. "He's evidently nervous."
"There is a prejudice throughout theatrical audiences," observed Mr.
Hodgson, "in favour of a voice they can hear. That is all I am trying
to impress upon him."
The second verse, so I imagined, I sang in the voice of a trumpet.
The burly gentleman--the translator of the French libretto, as he
turned out to be; the author of the English version, as he preferred
to be called--acknowledged to having distinctly detected a sound. The
restless-eyed comedian suggested an announcement from the stage
requesting strict silence during my part of the performance.
The sickness of fear was stealing over me. My voice, so it seemed to
me, disappointed at the effect it had produced, had retired, sulky,
into my boots, whence it refused to emerge.
"Your voice is all right--very good," whispered the musical conductor.
"They want to hear the best you can do, that's all."
At this my voice ran up my legs and out of my mouth. "Thirty
shillings a week, half salary for rehearsals. If that's all right,
Mr. Catchpole will give you your agreement. If not, very much
obliged. Good morning," said Mr. Hodgson, still absorbed in his
correspondence.
With the pale-faced young man I retired to a desk in the corner, where
a few seconds sufficed for the completion of the business. Leaving, I
sought to catch the eye of my melancholy friend, but he appeared too
sunk in dejection to notice anything. The restless-eyed comedian,
looking at the author of the English version and addressing me as
Boanerges, wished me good morning, at which the everybody laughed;
and, informed as to the way out by the pale-faced Mr. Catchpole, I
left.
The first "call" was for the following Monday at two o'clock. I found
the theatre full of life and bustle. The principals, who had just
finished their own rehearsal, were talking together in a group. We
ladies and gentlemen of the chorus filled the centre of the stage. I
noticed the lady I had heard referred to as Gertie; as also the thin
lady with the golden hair. The massive gentleman and the fishy-eyed
young man were again in close proximity; so long as I knew them they
always were together, possessed, apparently, of a sympathetic
antipathy for each other. The fishy-eyed young gentleman was
explaining the age at which he thought decayed chorus singers ought,
in justice to themselves and the public, to retire from the
profession; the massive gentleman, the age and size at which he
thought parcels of boys ought to be learning manners across their
mother's knee.
Mr. Hodgson, still reading letters exactly as I had left him four days
ago, stood close to the footlights. My friend, the musical director,
armed with a violin and supported by about a dozen other musicians,
occupied the orchestra. The adapter and the stage manager--a
Frenchman whom I found it good policy to mistake for a born
Englishman--sat deep in confabulation at a small table underneath a
temporary gas jet. Quarter of an hour or so passed by, and then the
stage manager, becoming suddenly in a hurry, rang a small bell
furiously.
"Clear, please; all clear," shouted a small boy, with important air
suggestive of a fox terrier; and, following the others, I retreated to
the wings.
The comedian and the leading lady--whom I knew well from the front,
but whom I should never have recognised--severed themselves from their
companions and joined Mr. Hodgson by the footlights. As a preliminary
we were sorted out, according to our sizes, into loving couples.
"Ah," said the stage manager, casting an admiring gaze upon the
fishy-eyed young man, whose height might have been a little over five
feet two, "I have the very girl for you--a beauty!" Darting into the
group of ladies, he returned with quite the biggest specimen, a lady
of magnificent proportions, whom, with the air of the virtuous uncle
of melodrama, he bestowed upon the fishy-eyed young man. To the
massive gentleman was given a sharp-faced little lady, who at a
distance appeared quite girlish. Myself I found mated to the thin
lady with the golden hair.
At last complete, we took our places in the then approved semi-circle,
and the attenuated orchestra struck up the opening chorus. My music,
which had been sent me by post, I had gone over with the O'Kelly, and
about that I felt confident; but for the rest, ill at ease.
"I am afraid," said the thin lady, "I must ask you to put your arm
round my waist. It's very shocking, I know, but, you see, our salary
depends upon it. Do you think you could manage it?"
I glanced into her face. A whimsical expression of fun replied to me
and drove away my shyness. I carried out her instructions to the best
of my ability.
The indefatigable stage manager ran in and out among us while we sang,
driving this couple back a foot or so, this other forward, herding
this group closer together, throughout another making space,
suggesting the idea of a sheep-dog at work.
"Very good, very good indeed," commented Mr. Hodgson at the
conclusion. "We will go over it once more, and this time in tune."
"And we will make love," added the stage manager; "not like
marionettes, but like ladies and gentlemen all alive." Seizing the
lady nearest to him, he explained to us by object lesson how the real
peasant invariably behaves when under influence of the grand passion,
standing gracefully with hands clasped upon heart, head inclined at an
angle of forty-five, his whole countenance eloquent with tender
adoration.
"If he expects" remarked the massive gentleman _sotto voce_ to an
experienced-looking young lady, "a performance of Romeo thrown in, I,
for one, shall want an extra ten shillings a week."
Casting the lady aside and seizing upon a gentleman, our stage manager
then proceeded to show the ladies how a village maiden should receive
affectionate advances: one shoulder a trifle higher than the other,
body from the waist upward gently waggling, roguish expression in left
eye.
"Ah, he's a bit new to it," replied the experienced young lady.
"He'll get over all that."
Again we started. Whether others attempted to follow the stage
manager's directions I cannot say, my whole attention being centred
upon the fishy-eyed young man, who did, implicitly. Soon it became
apparent that the whole of us were watching the fishy-eyed young man
to the utter neglect of our own business. Mr. Hodgson even looked up
from his letters; the orchestra was playing out of time; the author of
the English version and the leading lady exchanged glances. Three
people only appeared not to be enjoying themselves: the chief
comedian, the stage manager and the fishy-eyed young gentleman
himself, who pursued his labours methodically and conscientiously.
There was a whispered confabulation between the leading low comedian,
Mr. Hodgson and the stage manager. As a result, the music ceased and
the fishy-eyed young gentleman was requested to explain what he was
doing.
"Only making love," replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman.
"You were playing the fool, sir," retorted the leading low comedian,
severely.
"That is a very unkind remark," replied the fishy-eyed young
gentleman, evidently hurt, "to make to a gentleman who is doing his
best."
Mr. Hodgson behind his letters was laughing. "Poor fellow," he
murmured; "I suppose he can't help it. Go on."
"We are not producing a pantomime, you know," urged our comedian.
"I want to give him a chance, poor devil," explained Mr. Hodgson in a
lower voice. "Only support of a widowed mother."
Our comedian appeared inclined to argue; but at this point Mr.
Hodgson's correspondence became absorbing.
For the chorus the second act was a busy one. We opened as soldiers
and vivandieres, every warrior in this way possessing his own private
travelling bar. Our stage manager again explained to us by example
how a soldier behaves, first under stress of patriotic emotion, and
secondly under stress of cheap cognac, the difference being somewhat
subtle: patriotism displaying itself by slaps upon the chest, and
cheap cognac by slaps upon the forehead. A little later we were
conspirators; our stage manager, with the help of a tablecloth, showed
us how to conspire. Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental
baritone; our stage manager, ruffling his hair, expounded to us how a
mob led by a sentimental baritone would naturally behave itself. The
act wound up with a fight. Our stage manager, minus his coat,
demonstrated to us how to fight and die, the dying being a painful and
dusty performance, necessitating, as it did, much rolling about on the
stage. The fishy-eyed young gentleman throughout the whole of it was
again the centre of attraction. Whether he were solemnly slapping his
chest and singing about glory, or solemnly patting his head and
singing about grapes, was immaterial: he was the soldier for us.
What the plot was about did not matter, so long as he was in it. Who
led the mob one did not care; one's desire was to see him lead. How
others fought and died was matter of no moment; to see him slaughtered
was sufficient. Whether his unconsciousness was assumed or natural I
cannot say; in either case it was admirable. An earnest young man,
over-anxious, if anything, to do his duty by his employers, was the
extent of the charge that could be brought against him. Our chief
comedian frowned and fumed; our stage manager was in despair. Mr.
Hodgson and the author of the English version, on the contrary,
appeared kindly disposed towards the gentleman. In addition to the
widowed mother, Mr. Hodgson had invented for him five younger brothers
and sisters utterly destitute but for his earnings. To deprive so
exemplary a son and brother of the means of earning a livelihood for
dear ones dependent upon him was not in Mr. Hodgson's heart. Our
chief comedian dissociated himself from all uncharitable
feelings--would subscribe towards the subsistence of the young man out
of his own pocket, his only concern being the success of the opera.
The author of the English version was convinced the young man would
not accept a charity; had known him for years--was a most sensitive
creature.
The rehearsal proceeded. In the last act it became necessary for me
to kiss the thin lady.
"I am very sorry," said the thin lady, "but duty is duty. It has to
be done."
Again I followed directions. The thin lady was good enough to
congratulate me on my performance.
The last three or four rehearsals we performed in company with the
principals. Divided counsels rendered them decidedly harassing. Our
chief comedian had his views, and they were decided; the leading lady
had hers, and was generous with them. The author of the English
version possessed his also, but of these nobody took much notice.
Once every twenty minutes the stage manager washed his hands of the
whole affair and left the theatre in despair, and anybody's hat that
happened to be handy, to return a few minutes later full of renewed
hope. The sentimental baritone was sarcastic, the tenor distinctly
rude to everybody. Mr. Hodgson's method was to agree with all and
listen to none. The smaller fry of the company, together with the
more pushing of the chorus, supported each in turn, when the others
were not looking. Up to the dress rehearsal it was anybody's opera.
About one thing, and about one thing, only, had the principals fallen
into perfect agreement, and that was that the fishy-eyed young
gentleman was out of place in a romantic opera. The tenor would be
making impassioned love to the leading lady. Perception would come to
both of them that, though they might be occupying geographically the
centre of the stage, dramatically they were not. Without a shred of
evidence, yet with perfect justice, they would unhesitatingly blame
for this the fishy-eyed young man.
"I wasn't doing anything," he would explain meekly. "I was only
looking." It was perfectly true; that was all he was doing.
"Then don't look," would comment the tenor.
The fishy-eyed young gentleman obediently would turn his face away
from them; and in some mysterious manner the situation would thereupon
become even yet more hopelessly ridiculous.
"My scene, I think, sir!" would thunder our chief comedian, a little
later on.
"I am only doing what I was told to do," answered the fishy-eyed young
gentleman; and nobody could say that he was not.
"Take a circus, and run him as a side-show," counselled our comedian.
"I am afraid he would never be any good as a side-show," replied Mr.
Hodgson, who was reading letters.
On the first night, passing the gallery entrance on my way to the
stage door, the sight of the huge crowd assembled there waiting gave
me my first taste of artistic joy. I was a part of what they had come
to see, to praise or to condemn, to listen to, to watch. Within the
theatre there was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement, amounting
almost to hysteria. The bird-like gentleman in his glass cage was
fluttering, agitated. The hands of the stage carpenters putting the
finishing touches to the scenery were trembling, their voices
passionate with anxiety; the fox-terrier-like call-boy was pale with
sense of responsibility.
I made my way to the dressing-room--a long, low, wooden corridor,
furnished from end to end with a wide shelf that served as common
dressing-table, lighted by a dozen flaring gas-jets, wire-shielded.
Here awaited us gentlemen of the chorus the wigmaker's assistant,
whose duty it was to make us up. From one to another he ran, armed
with his hare's foot, his box of paints and his bundle of crepe hair.
My turn arriving, he seized me by the head, jabbed a wig upon me, and
in less than a couple of minutes I left his hands the orthodox peasant
of the stage, white of forehead and pink of cheek, with curly
moustache and lips of coral. Glancing into the glass, I could not
help feeling pleased with myself; a moustache, without doubt, suited
me.
The chorus ladies, when I met them on the stage, were a revelation to
me. Paint and powder though I knew their appearance to consist of
chiefly, yet in that hot atmosphere of the theatre, under that
artificial glare, it seemed fit and fascinating. The close
approximation to so much bare flesh, its curious, subtle odour was
almost intoxicating. Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity
of his visits to the theatre recurred to me with understanding.
"How do you like my costume?" asked the thin lady with the golden
hair.
"I think you--" We were standing apart behind a piece of projecting
scenery. She laid her hand upon my mouth, laughing.
"How old are you?" she asked me.
"Isn't that a rude question?" I answered. "I don't ask your age.
"Mine," she replied, "entitles me to talk to you as I should to a boy
of my own--I had one once. Get out of this life if you can. It's bad
for a woman; it's worse still for a man. To you especially it will be
harmful."
"Why to me in particular?"
"Because you are an exceedingly foolish little boy," she answered,
with another laugh, "and are rather nice."
She slipped away and joined the others. The chorus was now entirely
assembled on the stage. The sound of the rapidly-filling house
reached us, softened through the thick baize curtain, a dull,
continuous droning, as of water pouring into some huge cistern.
Suddenly there fell upon our ears a startling crash; the overture had
commenced. The stage manager--more suggestive of a sheep-dog than
ever, but lacking the calm dignity, the self-possession born of
conscious capability distinctive of his prototype; a fussy,
argumentative sheep-dog--rushed into the midst of us and worried us
into our positions, where the more experienced continued to converse
in whispers, the rest of us waiting nervously, trying to remember our
words. The chorus master, taking his stand with his back to the
proscenium, held his white-gloved hand in readiness. The curtain
rushed up, the house, a nightmare of white faces, appearing to run
towards us. The chorus-master's white-gloved hand flung upward. A
roar of voices struck upon my ear, but whether my own were of them I
could not say; if I were singing at all it was unconsciously,
mechanically. Later, I found myself standing in the wings beside the
thin lady; the stage was in the occupation of the principals. On my
next entrance my senses were more with me; I was able to look about
me. Here and there a strongly-marked face among the audience stood
out, but the majority were as indistinguishable as so many blades of
grass. Looked at from the stage, the house seemed no more real than
from the front do the painted faces upon a black cloth.
The curtain fell amid the usual applause, sounding to us behind it
like the rattle of tiny stones against a window-pane. Three times it
rose and fell, like the opening and shutting of a door; and then
followed a scamper for the dressing-rooms, the long corridors being
filled with the rustling of skirts and the scurrying of feet.
It was in the second act that the fishy-eyed young gentleman came into
his own. The chorus had lingered till it was quite apparent that the
tenor and the leading lady were in love with each other; then, with
the exquisite delicacy so characteristic of a chorus, foreseeing that
its further presence might be embarrassing, it turned to go, half to
the east, the other half to the west. The fishy-eyed young man,
starting from the centre, was the last to leave the stage. In another
moment he would have disappeared from view. There came a voice from
the gallery, clear, distinct, pathetic with entreaty:
"Don't go. Get behind a tree."
The request was instantly seconded by a roar of applause from every
part of the house, followed by laughter. From that point onward the
house was chiefly concerned with the fortunes of the fishy-eyed young
gentleman. At his next entrance, disguised as a conspirator, he was
welcomed with enthusiasm, his passing away regretted loudly. At the
fall of the curtain, the tenor, furious, rushed up to him, and,
shaking a fist in his face, demanded what he meant by it.
"I wasn't doing anything," explained the fishy-eyed young man.
"You went off sideways!" roared the tenor.
"Well, you told me not to look at you," explained meekly the
fishy-eyed young gentleman. "I must go off somehow. I regard you as
a very difficult man to please."
At the final fall of the curtain the house appeared divided as
regarded the merits of the opera; but for "Goggles" there was a
unanimous and enthusiastic call, and the while we were dressing a
message came for "Goggles" that Mr. Hodgson wished to see him in his
private room.
"He can make a funny face, no doubt about it," commented one
gentleman, as "Goggles" left the room.
"I defy him to make a funnier one than God Almighty's made for him,"
responded the massive gentleman.
"There's a deal in luck," observed, with a sigh, another, a tall,
handsome young gentleman possessed of a rich bass voice.
Leaving the stage door, I encountered a group of gentlemen waiting
upon the pavement outside. Not interested in them myself, I was
hurrying past, when one laid a hand upon my shoulder. I turned. He
was a big, broad-shouldered fellow, with a dark Vandyke beard and
soft, dreamy eyes.
"Dan!" I cried.
"I thought it was you, young 'un, in the first act," he answered. "In
the second, when you came on without a moustache, I knew it. Are you
in a hurry?"
"Not at all," I answered. "Are you?"
"No," he replied; "we don't go to press till Thursday, so I can write
my notice to-morrow. Come and have supper with me at the Albion and
we will talk. You look tired, young 'un."
"No," I assured him, "only excited--partly at meeting you."
He laughed, and drew my arm through his.
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