“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 standing1 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 promenading2 Belsize Square awaiting the O'Kelly's signal, was a serious-minded lady, with a conscientious3 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 lugubrious4 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 rendering5 of the famous ballad6 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 applied7 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 melancholy8, a pessimism9 ingrained within the temperament10 of the complainful hero that would ill assort with those instincts toward frivolity11 the careful observer could not avoid discerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow character of Sally.
“Lighter12, lighter. Not so soulful,” would demand the O'Kelly, as the solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning13 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 conservatory14 adjutting from the first floor landing, where, crouching15 behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling to the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly.
“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 hymns18 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 enunciation19, William, is not usually so much at fault.”
“A little hoarseness20, me dear,” explained the O'Kelly.
“Your voice did not sound hoarse21. 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 devoted22 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.”
“Mrs. O'Kelly to a T,” concurred24 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 chronic25 invalid26, 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 theatrical27 as realisation of my worst forebodings. In that one moment all glamour28 connected with the stage fell from me, nor has it since ever returned to me. From the tawdry decorations of the auditorium29 to the childish make-belief littered around on the stage, I saw the Theatre a painted thing of shreds31 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 dressing32 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 maze33 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 theatricality34. The men were chiefly remarkable35 for having no hair on their faces, but a good deal upon their heads; the ladies, one and all, were blessed with remarkably36 pink and white complexions37 and exceptionally bright eyes. The conversation, carried on in subdued38 but penetrating39 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,” Christian40 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 gathering41. 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 applicant42 for a place in the chorus of the forthcoming comic opera, ought to be waiting.
He had large, fishy43 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 rehearsals45 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 velvet46 coat, “if there occurred somewhere in the proceedings47 a drinking chorus for male voices.”
“Possibly, if we are good,” added a thin lady with golden hair, “the heroine will confide48 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 called. 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 Strand49 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 anecdote50 as distinctly lacking in tact51.”
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, devouring52, ogre-fashion, each time some dainty human morsel53, 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 drooping54 moustache, put his head into the room and repeated impatiently his invitation to the apparently55 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 deserted56 refreshment57 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 peculiarity58 was that he never by any chance looked at the person to whom he was talking, but always at something or somebody else.
“Moncrieff?” enquired59 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.
“Utterly61 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, devoid62 of the least suggestion of amusement. The restless-eyed gentleman, it appeared, was the leading low comedian63 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 trumpet64. The burly gentleman—the translator of the French libretto65, 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 retired66, 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 bustle67. The principals, who had just finished their own rehearsal44, 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 proximity68; so long as I knew them they always were together, possessed69, apparently, of a sympathetic antipathy70 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 underneath71 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!” Darting72 into the group of ladies, he returned with quite the biggest specimen73, a lady of magnificent proportions, whom, with the air of the virtuous74 uncle of melodrama75, he bestowed76 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 attenuated77 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 indefatigable78 stage manager ran in and out among us while we sang, driving this couple back a foot or so, this other forward, herding79 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 tune80.”
“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 gracefully81 with hands clasped upon heart, head inclined at an angle of forty-five, his whole countenance82 eloquent83 with tender adoration84.
“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 maiden85 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, implicitly86. 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 conscientiously87. 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.
“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 warrior89 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 patriotic90 emotion, and secondly91 under stress of cheap cognac, the difference being somewhat subtle: patriotism92 displaying itself by slaps upon the chest, and cheap cognac by slaps upon the forehead. A little later we were conspirators94; our stage manager, with the help of a tablecloth95, showed us how to conspire96. Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental97 baritone; our stage manager, ruffling98 his hair, expounded99 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, necessitating100, 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 slaughtered101 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 fumed102; our stage manager was in despair. Mr. Hodgson and the author of the English version, on the contrary, appeared kindly103 disposed towards the gentleman. In addition to the widowed mother, Mr. Hodgson had invented for him five younger brothers and sisters utterly destitute104 but for his earnings105. To deprive so exemplary a son and brother of the means of earning a livelihood106 for dear ones dependent upon him was not in Mr. Hodgson's heart. Our chief comedian dissociated himself from all uncharitable feelings—would subscribe107 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 harassing109. Our chief comedian had his views, and they were decided108; 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 sarcastic110, 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 geographically111 the centre of the stage, dramatically they were not. Without a shred30 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 meekly112. “I was only looking.” It was perfectly113 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 artistic114 joy. I was a part of what they had come to see, to praise or to condemn115, 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, agitated116. The hands of the stage carpenters putting the finishing touches to the scenery were trembling, their voices passionate117 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 flaring118 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 wig119 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 intoxicating120. Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity of his visits to the theatre recurred121 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 entirely122 assembled on the stage. The sound of the rapidly-filling house reached us, softened123 through the thick baize curtain, a dull, continuous droning, as of water pouring into some huge cistern124. Suddenly there fell upon our ears a startling crash; the overture125 had commenced. The stage manager—more suggestive of a sheep-dog than ever, but lacking the calm dignity, the self-possession born of conscious capability126 distinctive127 of his prototype; a fussy128, argumentative sheep-dog—rushed into the midst of us and worried us into our positions, where the more experienced continued to converse129 in whispers, the rest of us waiting nervously130, 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 rattle131 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 scamper132 for the dressing-rooms, the long corridors being filled with the rustling133 of skirts and the scurrying134 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 exquisite135 delicacy136 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 entreaty137:
“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 onward138 the house was chiefly concerned with the fortunes of the fishy-eyed young gentleman. At his next entrance, disguised as a conspirator93, 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 bass139 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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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8
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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10
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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11
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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12
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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13
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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14
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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15
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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16
prevaricate
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| v.支吾其词；说谎；n.推诿的人；撒谎的人 | |
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17
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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19
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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20
hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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21
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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22
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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23
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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24
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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25
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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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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27
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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28
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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29
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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30
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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31
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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32
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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33
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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34
theatricality
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| n.戏剧风格，不自然 | |
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35
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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36
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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37
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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38
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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39
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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40
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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41
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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42
applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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43
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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44
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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45
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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46
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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47
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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48
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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49
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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50
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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51
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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52
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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53
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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54
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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57
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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58
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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59
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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60
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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61
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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62
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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63
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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64
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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65
libretto
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| n.歌剧剧本，歌曲歌词 | |
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66
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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67
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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68
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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69
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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70
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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71
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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72
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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73
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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74
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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75
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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76
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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78
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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79
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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80
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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81
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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82
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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83
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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84
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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85
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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86
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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87
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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88
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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89
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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90
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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91
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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92
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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93
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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94
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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95
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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96
conspire
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| v.密谋，（事件等）巧合，共同导致 | |
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97
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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98
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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99
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
necessitating
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的现在分词 ) | |
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101
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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103
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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104
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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105
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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106
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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107
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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108
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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109
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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110
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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111
geographically
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| adv.地理学上，在地理上，地理方面 | |
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112
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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113
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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114
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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115
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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116
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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117
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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118
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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119
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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120
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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121
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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122
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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123
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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124
cistern
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| n.贮水池 | |
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125
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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126
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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127
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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128
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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129
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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130
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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131
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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132
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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133
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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134
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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135
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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136
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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137
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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138
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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139
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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