EXACTLY nine days before Christmas, 1902, the first rehearsal for the pantomime of Mother Goose took place at Drury Lane. It seemed almost incredible that afternoon that such a thing as a “first night,” with a crowded house packed full of critics, could witness a proper performance nine days later, one of which, being a Sunday, did not count.
The pantomime is one of England’s institutions. It originally came from Italy, but as known to-day is essentially4 a British production, and little understood anywhere else in the world. For the last three years, however, the Drury Lane pantomime has been moved bodily to New York with considerable success.
What would Christmas in London be without its Drury Lane? What would the holidays be without the clown and harlequin? Young and old enjoy the[Pg 201] exquisite5 absurdity6 of the nursery rhyme dished up as a Christmas pantomime.
The interior of that vast theatre, Drury Lane, was shrouded7 in dust-sheets and darkness, the front doors were locked, excepting at the booking office, where tickets were being sold for two and three months ahead, and a long queue of people were waiting to engage seats for family parties when the pantomime should be ready.
At the stage door all was bustle8; children of all ages and sizes were pushing in and out; carpenters, shifters, supers, ballet girls, chorus, all were there, too busy to speak to any one as they rushed in from their cup of tea at the A.B.C., or stronger drink procured9 at the “pub” opposite. It was a cold, dreary10 day outside; but it was colder and drearier11 within. Those long flights of stone steps, those endless stone passages, struck chill and cheerless as a cellar, for verily the back of a theatre resembles a cellar or prison more than anything I know.
Drury Lane contains a little world. It is reckoned that about one thousand people are paid “back and front” every Friday night. One thousand persons! That is the staff of the pantomime controlled by Mr. Arthur Collins. Fancy that vast organisation12, those hundreds of people, endless scenery, and over two thousand dresses superintended by one man, and that a young one.
For many weeks scraps13 of Mother Goose had been rehearsed in drill-halls, schoolrooms, and elsewhere, but never till the day of which I write had the stage[Pg 202] been ready for rehearsal. They had worked hard, all those people; for thirteen-and-a-half hours on some days they had already been “at it.” Think what thirteen-and-a-half-hours mean. True, no one is wanted continuously, still all must be on the spot. Often there is nowhere to sit down, therefore during those weary hours the performers have to stand—only between-whiles singing or dancing their parts as the case may be.
“I’m that dead tired,” exclaimed a girl, “I feel just fit to drop,” and she probably expressed the feelings of many of her companions.
The rehearsal of The Rose of the Riviera, was going on in the saloon, which a hundred years ago was the fashionable resort of all the fops of the town. Accordingly to the saloon I proceeded where Miss Madge Lessing, neatly14 dressed in black and looking tired, was singing her solos, and dancing her steps with the chorus.
“It is very hard work,” she said. “I have been through this song until I am almost voiceless; and yet I only hum it really, for if we sang out at rehearsal, we should soon be dead.”
The saloon was the ordinary foyer, but on that occasion, instead of being crowded with idlers smoking and drinking during the entr’actes, it was filled with hard-worked ballet girls and small boys who were later to be transformed into dandies. They wore their own clothes. The women’s long skirts were held up with safety-pins, to keep them out of the way when dancing, their shirts and blouses were of every hue;[Pg 203] on their heads they wore men’s hats that did not fit them, as they lacked the wigs15 they would wear later, and each carried her own umbrella, many of which, when opened, seemed the worse for wear. At the end of the bar was a cottage piano, where the composer played his song for two-and-a-half hours, while it was rehearsed again and again—a small man with a shocking cold conducting the chorus. He is, I am told, quite a celebrity16 as a stage “producer,” and was engaged in that capacity by Mr. George Edwards at the New Gaiety Theatre. How I admired that small man. His energy and enthusiasm were catching17, and before he finished he had made those girls do just what he wanted. But oh! how hard he worked, in spite of frequent resort to his pocket-handkerchief and constant fits of sneezing.
“This way, ladies, please”—he repeated over and over, and then proceeded to show them how to step forward on “Would—you like a—flower?” and to take off their hats at the last word of the sentence. Again and again they went through their task; but each time they seemed out of line, or out of time, not quick enough or too quick, and back they had to go and begin the whole verse once more. Even then he was not satisfied.
“Again, ladies, please,” he called, and again they all did the passage. This sort of thing had been going on since 11 o’clock, the hour of the “call,” and it was then 4 p.m.—but the rehearsal was likely to last well into the night and begin again next morning at 11 a.m. This was to continue all day, and pretty well all night[Pg 204] for nine days, when, instead of a holiday, the pantomime was really to commence with its two daily performances, and its twelve hours per diem attendance at the theatre for nearly four months. Yet there are people who think the stage is all fun and frolic! Little they know about the matter.
Actors are not paid for rehearsals18, as we have seen before, and many weeks of weary attendance for the pantomime have to be given gratis19, just as they are for legitimate20 drama. Those beautiful golden fairies, all glitter and gorgeousness, envied by spectators in front, only receive ￡1 a week on an average for twelve hours’ occupation daily, and that merely for a few weeks, after which time many of them earn nothing more till the next pantomime season. It is practically impossible to give an exact idea of salaries: they vary so much. “Ballet girls,” when proficient22, earn more than any ordinary “chorus” or “super,” with the exception of “show girls.” Those in the rank of “principals,” or “small-part ladies,” of course earn more.
Ballet girls begin their profession at eight years of age, and even in their prime can only earn on an average ￡2 a week.
In the ballet-room an iron bar runs all round the sides of the wall, about four feet from the floor, as in a swimming bath. It is for practice. The girls hold on to the bar, and learn to kick and raise their legs by the hour; with its aid suppleness23 of movement, flexibility24 of hip25 and knee are acquired. Girls spend years of their life learning how to earn that[Pg 205] forty shillings a week, and how to keep it when they have earned it; for the ballet girl has to be continually practising, or her limbs would quickly stiffen26 and her professional career come to an end.
No girl gets her real training at the Lane. All that is done in one of the dancing schools kept by Madame Katti Lanner, Madame Cavalazzi, John D’Auban, or John Tiller. When they are considered sufficiently27 proficient they get engagements, and are taught certain movements invented by their teachers to suit the particular production of the theatre itself.
The ballet is very grand in the estimation of the pantomime, for supers, male and female, earn considerably28 less salary than the ballet for about seventy-two hours’ attendance at the theatre. Out of their weekly money they have to provide travelling expenses to and from the theatre, which sometimes come heavy, as many of them live a long distance off; they have to pay rent also, and feed as well as clothe themselves, settle for washing, doctor, amusements—everything, in fact. Why, a domestic servant is a millionaire when compared with a chorus or ballet girl, and she is never harassed29 with constant anxiety as to how she can pay her board, rent, and washing bills. Yet how little the domestic servant realises the comforts—aye luxury—of her position.
The dressing-rooms are small and cheerless. Round the sides run double tables, the top one being used for make-up boxes, the lower for garments. In the middle of the floor is a wooden stand with a double row of pegs30 upon it, utilised for hanging up dresses.[Pg 206] Eight girls share a “dresser” (maid) between them. The atmosphere of the room may be imagined, with flaring31 gas jets, nine women, and barely room to turn round amid the dresses. The air becomes stifling32 at times, and there is literally33 no room to sit down even if the costumes would permit of such luxury, which generally they will not. In this tiny room performers have to wait for their “call,” when they rush downstairs, through icy cold passages, to the stage, whence they must return again in time to don the next costume required.
Prior to the production, as we have seen, there are a number of rehearsals, followed for many weeks by two performances a day, consequently the children who are employed cannot go on with their education, and to avoid missing their examinations a school-board mistress has been appointed, who teaches them their lessons during the intervals34. These children must be bright scholars, for they are the recipients35 at the end of the season of several special prizes for diligence, punctuality, and good conduct.
An attempt was recently made to limit the age of children employed on the stage to fourteen, but the outcry raised was so great that it could not be done. For children under eleven a special licence is required.
Miss Ellen Terry said, on the subject of children on the stage: “I am an actress, but first I am a woman, and I love children,” and then proceeded to advocate the employment of juveniles36 upon the stage. She spoke37 from experience, for she acted as a child herself. “I can put my finger at once on the actors[Pg 207] and actresses who were not on the stage as children,” she continued. “With all their hard work they can never acquire afterwards that perfect unconsciousness which they learn then so easily. There is no school like the stage for giving equal chances to boys and girls alike.”
There seems little doubt about it, the ordinary stage child is the offspring of the very poor, his playground the gutter39, his surroundings untidy and unclean, his food and clothing scanty40, and such being the case he is better off in every way in a well-organised theatre, where he learns obedience41, cleanliness, and punctuality. The sprites and fairies love their plays, and the greatest punishment they can have—indeed, the only one inflicted42 at Drury Lane—is to be kept off the stage a whole day for naughtiness.
They appear to be much better off in the theatre than they would be at home, although morning school and two performances a day necessitate43 rather long hours for the small folk. They have a nice classroom, and are given buns and milk after school; but their dressing accommodation is limited. Many of the supers and children have to change as best they can under the stage, for there is not sufficient accommodation for every one in the rooms.
The once famous “Green-room” of Drury Lane has been done away with. It is now a property-room, where geese’s heads line the shelves, or golden seats and monster champagne44 bottles litter the floor.
There have been many changes at Drury Lane. It[Pg 208] was rebuilt after the fire in 1809, and reopened in 1812, but vast alterations45 have been carried out since then. Woburn Place is now part of the stage. Steps formerly46 led from Russell Street to Vinegar Yard, but they have been swept away and the stage enlarged until it is the biggest in the world. Most ordinary theatres have an opening on the auditorium47 of about twenty-five feet; Drury Lane measures fifty-two feet from fly to fly, and is even deeper in proportion. The entire stage is a series of lifts, which may be utilised to move the floor up or down. Four tiers, or “flats,” can be arranged, and the floor moved laterally48 so as to form a hill or mound49. All this is best seen from the mezzanine stage, namely, that under the real one, where the intricacies of lifts and ropes and rooms for electricians become most bewildering. Here, too, are the trap-doors. For many years they went out of fashion, as did also the ugly masks, but a Fury made his entrance by a trap on Boxing Day, 1902, and this may revive the custom again. The actor steps on a small wooden table in the mezzanine stage, and at a given sign the spring moves and he is shot to the floor above. How I loved and pondered as a child over these wonderful entrances of fairies and devils. And after all there was nothing supernatural about them, only a wooden table and a spring. How much of the glamour50 vanishes when we look below the surface, which remark applies not only to the stage, but to so many things in life.
Every good story seems to have been born a chestnut51. Some one always looks as if he had heard[Pg 209] it before. At the risk of arousing that sarcastic52 smile I will relate the following anecdote53, however.
A certain somewhat stout54 Mephistopheles had to disappear through a trap-door amid red fire, but the trap was small and he was big and stuck halfway55. The position was embarrassing, when a voice from the gallery called out:
“Cheer up, guv’nor. Hell’s full.”
Electricity plays a great part in the production of a pantomime, not only as regards the lighting56 of the scenes, but also as a motive57 power for the lifts which are used for the stage. Many new inventions born during the course of a year are utilised when the Christmas festival is put on.
The property-room presents a busy scene before a pantomime, and really it is wonderful what can be produced within its walls. Almost everything is made in papier maché. Elaborate golden chairs and couches, chariots and candelabras, although framed in wood, are first moulded in clay, then covered with papier maché. Two large fires burned in the room, which when I entered was crowded with workmen, and the heat was overpowering. Amid all that miscellaneous property, every one seemed interested in what he was doing, whether making wire frames for poke38 bonnets58, or larger wire frames for geese, or the groundwork of champagne bottles to contain little boys. Each man had a charcoal59 drawing on brown paper to guide him, and very cleverly many of the drawings were executed. Some of the men were quite sculptors60, so admirably did they model masks and figures in papier maché.[Pg 210] The more elaborate pieces are prepared outside the theatre, but a great deal of the work for the production is done within old Drury Lane.
What becomes of these extra property-men after the “festive season”? Practically the same staff appear each Christmas only to disappear from “The Lane” for almost another year. Of course there is a large permanent staff of property-men employed, but it is only at Christmas-time that so large an army is required for the gigantic pantomime changes with the transformation61 scenes.
That nearly everything is made on the premises is in itself a marvel62. Of course the grander dresses are obtained from outside; some come from Paris, while others are provided by tradesmen in London. The expense is very great; indeed, it may be roughly reckoned it costs about ￡20,000 to produce a Drury Lane Pantomime; but then, on the other hand, that sum is generally taken at the doors or by the libraries in advance-booking before the curtain rises on the first night.
An important person at Drury Lane is the wardrobe-woman. She has entire control of thousands of dresses, and keeps a staff continually employed mending and altering, for after each performance something requires attention. She has a little room of her own, mostly table, so far as I could see, on which were piled dresses, poke bonnets, and artists’ designs, while round the walls hung more dresses brought in for her inspection63. In other odd rooms and corners women sat busily sewing, some trimming headgear, other spangling[Pg 211] ribbon. Some were joining seams by machinery64, others quilling lace; nothing seemed finished, and yet everything had to be ready in nine days, and that vast pile of chaos65 reduced to order. It seemed impossible; but the impossible was accomplished66.
“Why this hurry?” some one may ask.
“Because the autumn drama was late in finishing, the entire theatre had to be cleared, and although everything was fairly ready outside, nothing could be brought into Drury Lane till a fortnight before Boxing Day. Hence the confusion and hurry.”
Large wooden cases of armour67, swords and spears, from abroad, were waiting to be unpacked68, fitted to each girl, and numbered so that the wearer might know her own.
Among the properties were some articles that looked like round red life-belts, or window sand-bags sewn into rings. These were the belts from which fairies would be suspended. They had leather straps69 and iron hooks attached, with the aid of which these lovely beings—as seen from the front—disport themselves. What a disillusion70! Children think they are real fairies flying through air, and after all they are only ordinary women hanging to red sand-bags, made up like life-belts, and suspended by wire rope. Even those wonderful wings are only worn for a moment. They are slipped into a hole in the bodice of every fairy’s back just as she goes upon the stage, and taken out again for safety when the good lady leaves the wings in the double sense. The wands and other larger properties are treated in the same way.
[Pg 212]
Now for the stage and the rehearsal. We could hear voices singing, accompanied by a piano with many whizzing notes.
The place was dimly lighted. Scene-shifters were busy rehearsing their “sets” at the sides, the electrician was experimenting with illuminations from above; but the actors, heeding71 none of these matters, went on with their own parts. The orchestra was empty and not boarded over; so that the cottage piano had to stand at one side of the stage, and near it I was given a seat. A T-piece of gas had been fixed72 above the footlights, so as to enable the prompter to follow his book, and—gently be it spoken—allow some of the actors to read their parts. The star was not there—I looked about for the mirth-provoking Dan Leno, but failed to see him. Naturally he was the one person I particularly wanted to watch rehearse, for I anticipated much amusement from this wonderful comedian73, with his inspiring gift of humour. Where was he?
A sad, unhappy-looking little man, with his MS. in a brown paper cover, was to be seen wandering about the back of the stage. He appeared miserable74. One wondered at such a person being there at all, he looked so out of place. He did not seem to know a word of his “book,” or, in fact, to belong in any way to the pantomime.
It seemed incredible that this could be one of the performers. He wore a thick top coat with the collar turned up to keep off the draughts75, a thick muffler and a billycock hat; really one felt sorry[Pg 213] for him, he looked so cold and wretched. I pondered for some time why this sad little gentleman should be on the stage at all.
“Dan, Dan, where are you?” some one called.
“Me? Oh, I’m here,” replied the disconsolate-looking person, to my amazement76.
“It’s your cue.”
“Oh, is it? Which cue?” asked the mufflered individual who was about to impersonate mirth.
“Why, so and so——”
“What page is that?”
“Twenty-three.”
Whereupon the great Dan—for it was really Dan himself—proceeded to find number twenty-three, and immediately began reading a lecture to the goose in mock solemn vein77, when some one cried:
“No, no, man, that’s not it, you are reading page thirteen; we’ve done that.”
“Oh, have we? Thank you. Ah yes, here it is.”
“That’s my part,” exclaimed Herbert Campbell. “Your cue is——”
“Oh, is it?” and poor bewildered, unhappy-looking Dan made another and happier attempt.
It had often previously78 occurred to me that Dan Leno gagged his own part to suit himself every night—and really after this rehearsal the supposition seemed founded on fact, for apparently79 he did not know one word of anything nine days before the production of Mother Goose, in which he afterwards made such a brilliant hit.
“Do I say that?” he would inquire, or, “Are you talking to me[Pg 214]?”
After such a funny exhibition it seemed really wonderful to consider how excellent and full of humour he always is on the stage; but what a strain it must be, what mental agony, to feel you are utterly80 unprepared to meet your audience, that you do not know your words, and that only by making a herculean effort can the feat81 be accomplished.
Herbert Campbell differs from Dan Leno not only in appearance but method. He was almost letter-perfect at that rehearsal, he had studied his “book,” and was splendidly funny even while only murmuring his part. He evidently knew exactly what he was going to do, and although he did not trouble to do it, showed by a wave of his hand or a step where he meant business when the time came.
Herbert Campbell’s face, like the milkmaid’s, is his fortune. That wonderful under lip is full of fun. He has only to protrude82 it, and open his eyes, and there is the comedian personified. Comedians83 are born, not made, and the funny part of it is most of them are so truly tragic84 at heart and sad in themselves.
There is a story I often heard my grandfather, James Muspratt, tell of Liston, the comic actor.
Liston was in Dublin early in the nineteenth century, and nightly his performance provoked roars of laughter. One day a man walked into the consulting-room of a then famous doctor.
“I am very ill,” said the patient. “I am suffering from depression.”
“Tut, tut,” returned the physician, “you must[Pg 215] pull yourself together, you must do something to divert your thoughts. You must be cheerful and laugh.”
“Good Heavens! I would give a hundred pounds to enjoy a real, honest laugh again, doctor.”
“Well, you can easily do that for a few shillings, and I’ll tell you how. Go and see Liston to-night, he will make you laugh, I am sure.”
“Not he.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am Liston.”
Collapse85 of the doctor.
This shows the tragedy of the life of a comic actor. How often we see the amusing, delightful86 man or woman in society, and little dream how different they are at home. Most of us have two sides to our natures, and most of us are better actors than we realise ourselves, or than our friends give us credit for.
But to return to Drury Lane. Peering backwards87 across the empty orchestra I saw by the dim light that in the stalls sat, or leaned, women and children. Mr. Collins, who was in the front of the stage, personally attending to every detail, slipped forward.
“Huntsmen and gamekeepers,” he cried. Immediately there was a flutter, and in a few minutes these good women—for women were to play the r?les—were upon the back of the stage.
“Dogs,” he called again. With more noise than the female huntsmen had made, boys got up and began to run about the stage on all fours as “dogs[Pg 216].”
They surrounded Dan Leno.
“I shall hit you if you come near me,” he cried, pretending to do so with his doubled-up gloves.
The lads laughed.
“Growl88,” said Mr. Collins—so they turned their laugh into a growl, followed round the stage by Dan, and the performance went on.
It was all very funny—funny, not because of any humour, for that was entirely89 lacking, but because of the simplicity90 and hopelessness of every one. Talk about a rehearsal at private theatricals—why, it is no more disturbing than an early stage rehearsal; but the seasoned actor knows how to pull himself out of the tangle92, whereas the amateur does not.
About a fortnight after the pantomime began I chanced one afternoon to be at Drury Lane again, and while stopping for a moment in the wings, the great Dan Leno came and stood beside me, waiting for his cue. He was dressed as Mother Goose, and leant against the endless ropes that seemed to frame every stage entrance; some one spoke to him, but he barely answered, he appeared preoccupied93. All at once his turn came. On he went, hugging a goose beneath which walked a small boy. Roars of applause greeted his entrance, he said his lines, and a few moments later came out amid laughter and clapping. “This will have cheered him up,” thought I—but no. There I left him waiting for his next cue, but I had not gone far before renewed roars of applause from the house told me Dan Leno was again on the stage. What a power to be able to amuse thousands of people[Pg 217] every week, to be able to bring mirth and joy into many a heart, to take people out of themselves and make the saddest merry—and Dan can do all this.
The object of my second visit was to have a little chat with Miss Madge Lessing, the “principal girl,” who exclaimed as I entered her dressing-room:
“I spend eleven hours in the theatre every day during the run of the pantomime.”
After that who can say a pantomime part is a sinecure94? Eleven hours every day dressing, singing, dancing, acting95, or—more wearisome of all—waiting. No one unaccustomed to the stage can realise the strain of such work, for it is only those who live at such high pressure, who always have to be on the alert for the “call-boy,” who know what it is to be kept at constant tension for so many consecutive96 hours.
Matinée days are bad enough in ordinary theatres, but the pantomime is a long series of matinée days extending over three months or more. Of course it is not compulsory97 to stay in the theatre between the performances; but it is more tiring, for the leading-lady, to dress and go out for a meal than to stay in and have it brought to the dressing-room.
Miss Lessing was particularly fortunate in her room; the best I have ever seen in any theatre. Formerly it was Sir Augustus Harris’s office. It was large and lofty, and so near the stage—on a level with which it actually stood—that one could hear what was going on in front. This was convenient in many ways, although it had its drawbacks. Many of our leading[Pg 218] theatrical91 lights have to traverse long flights of stairs between every act; while Miss Lessing was so close to the stage she need not leave her room until it was actually time to step upon the boards.
It was a matinée when the pantomime was in full swing that I bearded the lion in her den21, and a pretty, dainty little lion I found her. It was a perilous98 journey to reach her room, but I bravely followed the “dresser” from the stage door. We passed a lilliputian pony99 about the size of a St. Bernard dog, we bobbed under the heads and tails of horses so closely packed together there was barely room for us to get between. The huntsmen were already mounted, for they were just going on, and I marvelled100 at the good behaviour of those steeds; they must have known they could not move without doing harm to some one, and so considerately remained still. We squeezed past fairies, our faces tickled101 by their wings, our dresses caught by their spangles, so closely packed was humanity “behind.” There were about two hundred scene-shifters incessantly102 at work moving “cloths,” and “flies,” and “drops,” and properties of all kinds. Miss Lessing was just coming off the stage, dressed becomingly in white muslin, with a blue Red Riding Hood103 cape104 and poppy-trimmed straw hat.
“Come along,” she said, “this is my room, and it is fairly quiet here.” The first things that strike a stranger are Miss Lessing’s wonderful grey Irish eyes and her American accent.
“Both are correct,” she laughed. “I’m Irish by extraction, although born in London, and I’ve lived[Pg 219] in America since I was fourteen; so you see there is ground for both your surmises105.”
Miss Lessing is a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Battersea.
“I always wanted to go on the stage as long as ever I can remember,” she told me, “and I positively106 ran away from home and went over to America, where I had a fairly hard time of it. By good luck I managed to get an engagement in a chorus, and it chanced that two weeks later one of the better parts fell vacant owing to a girl’s illness, and I got it—and was fortunate enough to keep it, as she was unable to return, and the management were satisfied with me. I had to work very hard, had to take anything and everything offered to me for years. Had to do my work at night and improve my singing and dancing by day; but nothing is accomplished without hard work, is it? And I am glad I went through the grind because it has brought me a certain amount of reward.”
One had only to look at Miss Lessing to know she is not easily daunted107; those merry eyes and dimpled cheeks do not detract from the firmness of the mouth and the expression of determination round the laughing lips. There was something particularly dainty about the “principal girl” at Drury Lane, and a sense of refinement108 and grace one does not always associate with pantomime.
“Why, yes,” she afterwards added, “I played all over the States, and after nine years was engaged by Mr. Arthur Collins to return to London and appear[Pg 220] in the pantomime of The Sleeping Beauty. Of course, I felt quite at home in London, although I must own I nearly died of fright the first time I played before an English audience. It seemed like beginning the whole thing over again. Londoners are more exacting109 than their American cousins; but I must confess, when they like a piece, or an artist, they are most lavish110 in their applause and approbation111.”
It was cold, and Miss Lessing pulled a warm shawl over her shoulders and poked112 the fire. It can be cold even in such a comfortable dressing-room, with the luxury of a fire, for the draughts outside, either on the stage or round it, in such a large theatre are incredible to an ordinary mind. Frequenters of the stalls know the chilly113 blast that blows upon them when the curtain rises, so they may form some slight idea of what it is like behind the scenes on a cold night.
“After the performance I take off my make-up and have my dinner,” laughed Miss Lessing. “I don’t think I should enjoy my food if all this mess were left on; at all events I find it a relief to cold-cream it off. One gets a little tired of dinners on a tray for weeks at a time when one is not an invalid114; but by the time I’ve eaten mine, and had a little rest, it is the hour to begin again, for the evening performance is at hand.”
“At all events, though, you can read and write between whiles,” I remarked.
“That is exactly what one cannot do. I no sooner settle down to a book or letters than some one wants me. It is the constant disturbance115, the everlasting[Pg 221] interruption, that make two performances a day so trying; but I love the life, even if it be hard, and thoroughly116 enjoy my pantomime season.”
“Have you had many strange adventures in your theatrical life, Miss Lessing?”
“None: mine has been a placid117 existence on the whole, for,” she added, laughing, “I have not even lost diamonds or husbands!”
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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essentially
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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drearier
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的比较级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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13
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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17
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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18
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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19
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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21
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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22
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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23
suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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24
flexibility
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| n.柔韧性，弹性，（光的）折射性，灵活性 | |
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25
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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26
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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28
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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29
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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31
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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32
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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33
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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34
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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35
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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36
juveniles
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| n.青少年( juvenile的名词复数 )；扮演少年角色的演员；未成年人 | |
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37
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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38
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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39
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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41
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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42
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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44
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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45
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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46
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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47
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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laterally
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| ad.横向地；侧面地；旁边地 | |
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49
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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50
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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51
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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52
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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53
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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56
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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57
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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58
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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59
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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60
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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61
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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62
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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63
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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64
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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65
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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66
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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67
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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68
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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69
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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70
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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71
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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72
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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73
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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74
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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75
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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76
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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77
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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78
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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79
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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80
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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81
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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82
protrude
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| v.使突出，伸出，突出 | |
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83
comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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84
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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85
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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86
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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87
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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88
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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89
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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90
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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91
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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92
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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93
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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94
sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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95
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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96
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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97
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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98
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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99
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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100
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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102
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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103
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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104
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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105
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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106
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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107
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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109
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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110
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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111
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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112
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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113
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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114
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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115
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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116
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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117
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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