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Home -> Jerome K. Jerome -> Paul Kelver -> Chapter 4

Paul Kelver - Chapter 4

1. Contents

2. Prologue

3. Book I. Chapter 1

4. Chapter 2

5. Chapter 3

6. Chapter 4

7. Chapter 5

8. Chapter 6

9. Chapter 7

10. Chapter 8

11. Chapter 9

12. Book II. Chapter 1

13. Chapter 2

14. Chapter 3

15. Chapter 4

16. Chapter 5

17. Chapter 6

18. Chapter 7

19. Chapter 8

20. Chapter 9

21. Chapter 10







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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