Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (349 page)

Nothing could induce Jim to show anything else that morning, although the manager reminded him of a cottage scene having been expressly painted for the last lessee. Jim didn’t know where it was. Besides, one of the ropes was broken, and it couldn’t be got at then; after which little brush with the enemy, he walked away and took up a row with the gas man at the very point where he had dropped it twenty minutes before.

Scenery and props were not being used at this, Hie first rehearsal, the chief object of which was merely to arrange music, entrances and exits, and general business; but of course it was desirable to know as soon as possible what scenery was available, and whether it required any altering or repairing.

In the second scene the leading lady made her first appearance, an event which called forth all the energies of the orchestra. It would not do for her to burst upon the audience all at once. Great and sudden joy is dangerous. They must be gradually prepared for it. Care was exercised that the crisis should be well led up to, and that she should appear exactly at the right moment. When all was satisfactorily settled, the cue was announced to her by the stage manager. He said it was “Pom-pom — pom-pom — pom-pom — pom — POM — POM.”

“That’s your cue, my dear.”

On the stage, everybody calls the actresses “My dear.” You soon pick it up, especially in the case of the young and pretty ones.

“Where do I come on from?” asked the leading lady.

“I can’t say, my dear, until I’ve seen the drop. There’ll most likely be a door in it, and then you can come on from the back.”

Entrances from the back, it may be remarked, are the favorite ones. Indeed, some artistes will never come on from anywhere else. Of course, you make a much better impression on an audience, as regards first appearance, by facing them on your entrance and walking straight down toward them, than by coming on sideways and then turning round. Entrances from the back, however, are sometimes carried to excess, and a whole scene is rendered unnatural and absurd, merely to gratify personal vanity.

I will finish what I have to say about this rehearsal by giving a verbatim report of a small part of it; viz., the fourth scene of the first act. The actual scene is this:

Stage Manager,
standing
center
with his back to the footlights. Close behind him, perched in a high chair
,
the
Leader of the Band
solus, representing the orchestra with a fiddle. Two or three groups of artists, chatting at the wings.
The Heavy Man,
pacing up and down at the back, conning his part in an undertone, and occasionally stopping to suit the action to the word.
LOW Comedy
and
Walking Gent.,
going through scene
by themselves in
L. 3. E. SINGING CHAMBERMAID,
flirting with
JUVENILES (
only one of them),
R. 2. E. Property Man,
behind
,
making a veal and ham pie out of an old piece of canvas and a handful of shavings.
COUPLE OF CARPENTERS,
in white jackets
,
hovering about with hammers in their hands and mischief in their eyes, evidently on the look-out for an excuse to make a noise.
Call Boy
all over the place, and always in the way — except when wanted.

OUR First Old Man
(standing
R. c.,
and reading his part by the aid of a large pair of specs).
“‘Er-er — wind howls — er-er-er — night as this, fifteen years ago — er — sweet child — er-r-r — stolen away — er-r-r — baby prattle — er-ears — er-r — shall I never hear her voice again?”

He looks up
,
and finding that nobody makes any sign of caring a hang whether he does or not
,
he repeats the question louder.

Stage Manager (
severely
,
as if this was a question that really must be answered).
“‘Shall I never hear her voice again?’ Oh! that’s a music cue, Mr. P. Have you got it down? Miss—”

(stage name of the manager s wife)
“sings a song there, without.”

Mr. P. “No, I’ll put it down now. What is it—’hear her voice again?’” (
Writes on some loose slips of paper, lying before him on the stage.)

“Have you the music?”

Stage Man. “Oh, anything dismal does. No matter what it is, so long as it gives ’em the hump. What will you have, my dear?”

Manager’s Wife
(who has just finished asocial bottle of Bass with another lady).
“Oh, the old thing, you know. ‘Home, sweet home.’”

Juveniles
(in a whisper to
Low Com.). “Is
she
going to
sing?
”

LOW COM. “Yes, always does it.”

Juveniles. “Oh, my — !”

Man. Wife
and
the fiddle
do first verse of “Home, sweet home.”

First Old Man. “‘Ah, that voice — er-er — echo of old memories — er-er-er — houseless wanderer — dry herself’” (
crossing and opening an imaginary door).
“Poor child — er-er-er — I’m an old man — er — my wife’s out — return and — er — the homeless orphan.’”

Man. Wife. “Will there be any lime-light on here?”

First Old Woman (
sotto voce).
“Oh, let her have some lime-light. She wants to let her back hair down.”

Stage Man. “Certainly, my dear. There’ll be a fire-place in this corner, and red lime-light from it.”

Man. Wife. “Oh, all right; I only wanted to know. Now, what was it—’ homeless orphan.’ Oh, that’s my long speech, you know: ‘Is this a dream that I have dreamt before — played here when a child.’”

FIRST O. M. “‘Sweet child — your face recalls strange memories of er-er-er — been just your age.’”

STAGE Man. (
interrupting
). “Slow music throughout.”

First O. M. (
continuing
). “‘Never from that night — er — golden — I can’t believe she’s dead.’”

Scrape from the fiddle, followed by bar, to bring ‘ on
First Old Woman.

FIRST O. W.
(without moving from her seat
,
and coming straight to the cue with a suddenness which startles everybody).
“‘Fold you to my breast.’”

MAN. Wife. “‘Mother!’ — Got the rheumatism again?”

First O. W. “Got it
again!
It’s never gone yet, drat it—’ My child!’”

Powerful scrape from the fiddle.

FIRST O. M. “Where am I?”

Stage Man. “Left, down stage.”

MAN. WIFE. ‘“We embrace, left center. Knock heard.”

Stage Man.
(crossing center).
“That’s me. (That was the way he treated Lindley Murray. We were inexpressibly grieved and shocked — all of us — but what were we to do?) Keep it up: it’s a picture. You and Mrs. — there, embracing, and the old boy down in the corner, when I open the door. — Rain and wind for this scene, mind.”

Hovering Carpenter
(at top of his voice).
“Jim! wind and rain for last scene of first act.”
Husky but indignant voice from the flies
,
expressing an earnest desire that every one should go to the devil.

STAGE Man.
(who always rehearsed his speeches at full length, and in a tone of voice as if he were reciting the multiplication table).
“‘I am pursued. My life is at stake. Hide me from these bloodhounds who are on my track. Hark! they are here. Thank Heaven, they are past. I am safe. Ha, who is this we have here? ‘Sdeath, I am in luck to-night. Sir Henry will thank me, when I bring his strayed lamb back to him. Come with me, my little runaway.’ Business. ‘Nay, resist not, or ‘twill be the worse for all.’ I catch hold of you. We struggle. ‘ Come, I say, with me. Come, I say.’”

First O. W. “‘Die together.’”

Scrape from the fiddle.

Stage Man. (
loudly
,
after waiting a minute). “‘
Die together.’”

First O. M. “I beg pardon. I didn’t hear.”
(Fumbles with his part, and loses his place
.)

MAN. WIFE. “He really ought to use an ear-trumpet.”

First O. M. “‘Er-r-r — Heaven will give me strength — er — can strike a blow.’”
(Shakes his stick at
Stage Manager.)

Tremendous hammering suddenly begun at back
,
eliciting forcible expressions of disapproval from all the members of the company
, w
ith the exception of the
FIRST Old Man,
who doesn’t hear it, and goes on calmly with the rehearsal all by himself.

Stage Man.
(in a rage).
“ Stop that noise! Stop that noise, I say!”

Noise continues.

JIM
(eager for the fray).
“How can we do our work without noise, I should like to know?” Stage Man.
(crossly).
“Can’t you do it at some other time?”

JIM
(angrily).
“No, we can’t do it at some other time! Do you think we’re here all night?”

STAGE Man.
(mildly).
“But, my dear fellow, how can we go on with the rehearsal?”

JIM
(in a rage),
“I don’t know anything about you and your rehearsal! That’s not my business, is it? I do my own work; I don’t do other people’s work! I don’t want to be told how to do my work!
(Pours forth a flood of impassioned eloquence for the next ten minutes
,
during which time the hammering is also continued. Complete collapse of
Stage Manager,
and suspension of rehearsal. Subsequent dryness on the part of
JIM.)

Man. Wife
(when rehearsal is at last resumed).
“Just try back that last bit, will you, for positions?”

The last two or three movements gone over again.
Then:

Stage Man. “We all three struggle toward door. ‘Stand back, old man! I do not wish to harm thee!’ — I push you aside. ‘Back, or it will be murder!’ — This must be well worked up. ‘Who dares to stay me?”
(to
LOW COMEDY). “There’ll be a bar to bring you on. You know the business.”

LOW COM.
(coming forward).
“‘Shure and
I
will.’”

Scrape from fiddle.

STAGE Man. “Well then there’s our struggle.” (Stage Manager
and
Low Comedy
take hold of each other s shoulders
,
and turn round).
“I’ll have the book in the left-hand side.”

Low COM. “‘Ah, begorra, shure he’s clane gone; but, be jabers, I’ve got this’” (
holding up an imaginary pocket-book),
“‘and it’s worth a precious deal more than he is.’”

STAGE MAN. “End of first act. — Tommy, go and fetch me half a pint of stout.”

CHAPTER VI.

Scenery and Supers.

WE had five rehearsals for this play.

“What the dickens do they want with so many?” was the indignant comment of the First Old Woman. “Why, they’ll rehearse it more times than they’ll play it.”

I thought five a ridiculously small number at the time, especially when I remembered my amateur days, and the thirty or so rehearsals, nearly all full-dressed ones, required for a short farce; but there came a time when I looked upon two as betokening extraordinary anxiety about a production. In the provinces, I have known a three-act comedy put on without any rehearsal at all, and with half the people not even knowing the patter. “Business” was arranged in whispered consultations, while the play was proceeding, and when things got into a more than usually glorious muddle, one or other of the characters would come off the stage and have a look at the book. As for the prompter, after vainly struggling to keep them to one act at a time, and to dissuade the hero from making love to the wrong girl, he came to the conclusion that he was only in the way, and so went and had a quiet pipe at the stage-door, and refrained from worrying himself further.

The rehearsals got more ship-shape as we went on. At the fourth every one was supposed to be “letter perfect,” and “parts” were tabooed. On this occasion, the piece was played straight through with nothing omitted, and the orchestra (two fiddles, a bass-viol, cornet, and drum) appeared in full force. For the last rehearsal, props and scenery were called. We had an exciting time with Jim, over the scenery, as might be expected. He had a row with everybody, and enjoyed himself immensely.

I saw our scene painter then for the first time. He was a jolly little fellow, and as full of cheery contrivance as a Mark Tapley. No difficulties seemed to daunt him. If a court of justice were wanted for the following night, and the nearest thing he had to it were a bar parlor, he was not in the least dismayed. He would have the bar parlor down; paint in a bit here; paint out a bit there; touch up a bit somewhere else — there was your court of justice! Half an hour was quite long enough for him to turn a hay-field into a church-yard, or a prison into a bedroom.

There was only one want, in the present case, that he didn’t supply, and that was cottages. All the virtuous people in the play lived in cottages. I never saw such a run on cottages. There were plenty of other residences to which they would have been welcome — halls, palaces, and dungeons the saloon cabin of a P. and O. steamer, drawingroom of No. 200 Belgrave Square (a really magnificent apartment this, with a clock on the mantelpiece). But no, they would all of them live in cottages. It would not pay to alter three or four different scenes, and turn them all into cottages, especially as they might, likely enough, be wanted for something else in a week’s time; so our one cottage interior had to accommodate about four distinct families. To keep up appearances, however, it was called by a different name on each occasion. With a round table and a candle, it was a widow’s cottage. With two candles and a gun, it was a blacksmith’s house. A square table instead of a round one—” Daddy Soloman’s home on the road to London. ‘Home, sweet home.’” Put a spade in the corner, and hang a coat behind the door, and you had the old mill on the Yorkshire moors.