"Very good, very good indeed," commented Mr. Hodgson at the conclusion. "We will go over it once more, and this time in tune."
"And we will make love," added the stage manager; "not like marionettes, but like ladies and gentlemen all alive." Seizing the lady nearest to him, he explained to us by object lesson how the real peasant invariably behaves when under influence of the grand passion, standing gracefully with hands clasped upon heart, head inclined at an angle of forty-five, his whole countenance eloquent with tender adoration.
"If he expects" remarked the massive gentleman _sotto voce_ to an experienced-looking young lady, "a performance of Romeo thrown in, I, for one, shall want an extra ten shillings a week."
Casting the lady aside and seizing upon a gentleman, our stage manager then proceeded to show the ladies how a village maiden should receive affectionate advances: one shoulder a trifle higher than the other, body from the waist upward gently waggling, roguish expression in left eye.
"Ah, he's a bit new to it," replied the experienced young lady.
"He'll get over all that."
Again we started. Whether others attempted to follow the stage manager's directions I cannot say, my whole attention being centred upon the fishy-eyed young man, who did, implicitly. Soon it became apparent that the whole of us were watching the fishy-eyed young man to the utter neglect of our own business. Mr. Hodgson even looked up from his letters; the orchestra was playing out of time; the author of the English version and the leading lady exchanged glances. Three people only appeared not to be enjoying themselves: the chief comedian, the stage manager and the fishy-eyed young gentleman himself, who pursued his labours methodically and conscientiously.
There was a whispered confabulation between the leading low comedian, Mr. Hodgson and the stage manager. As a result, the music ceased and the fishy-eyed young gentleman was requested to explain what he was doing.
"Only ****** love," replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman.
"You were playing the fool, sir," retorted the leading low comedian, severely.
"That is a very unkind remark," replied the fishy-eyed young gentleman, evidently hurt, "to make to a gentleman who is doing his best."
Mr. Hodgson behind his letters was laughing. "Poor fellow," he murmured; "I suppose he can't help it. Go on."
"We are not producing a pantomime, you know," urged our comedian.
"I want to give him a chance, poor devil," explained Mr. Hodgson in a lower voice. "Only support of a widowed mother."
Our comedian appeared inclined to argue; but at this point Mr. Hodgson's correspondence became absorbing.
For the chorus the second act was a busy one. We opened as soldiers and vivandieres, every warrior in this way possessing his own private travelling bar. Our stage manager again explained to us by example how a soldier behaves, first under stress of patriotic emotion, and secondly under stress of cheap cognac, the difference being somewhat subtle: patriotism displaying itself by slaps upon the chest, and cheap cognac by slaps upon the forehead. A little later we were conspirators; our stage manager, with the help of a tablecloth, showed us how to conspire. Next we were a mob, led by the sentimental baritone; our stage manager, ruffling his hair, expounded to us how a mob led by a sentimental baritone would naturally behave itself. The act wound up with a fight. Our stage manager, minus his coat, demonstrated to us how to fight and die, the dying being a painful and dusty performance, necessitating, as it did, much rolling about on the stage. The fishy-eyed young gentleman throughout the whole of it was again the centre of attraction. Whether he were solemnly slapping his chest and singing about glory, or solemnly patting his head and singing about grapes, was immaterial: he was the soldier for us.
What the plot was about did not matter, so long as he was in it. Who led the mob one did not care; one's desire was to see him lead. How others fought and died was matter of no moment; to see him slaughtered was sufficient. Whether his unconsciousness was assumed or natural I cannot say; in either case it was admirable. An earnest young man, over-anxious, if anything, to do his duty by his employers, was the extent of the charge that could be brought against him. Our chief comedian frowned and fumed; our stage manager was in despair. Mr. Hodgson and the author of the English version, on the contrary, appeared kindly disposed towards the gentleman. In addition to the widowed mother, Mr. Hodgson had invented for him five younger brothers and sisters utterly destitute but for his earnings. To deprive so exemplary a son and brother of the means of earning a livelihood for dear ones dependent upon him was not in Mr. Hodgson's heart. Our chief comedian dissociated himself from all uncharitable feelings--would subscribe towards the subsistence of the young man out of his own pocket, his only concern being the success of the opera.
The author of the English version was convinced the young man would not accept a charity; had known him for years--was a most sensitive creature.
The rehearsal proceeded. In the last act it became necessary for me to kiss the thin lady.
"I am very sorry," said the thin lady, "but duty is duty. It has to be done."
Again I followed directions. The thin lady was good enough to congratulate me on my performance.
The last three or four rehearsals we performed in company with the principals. Divided counsels rendered them decidedly harassing. Our chief comedian had his views, and they were decided; the leading lady had hers, and was generous with them. The author of the English version possessed his also, but of these nobody took much notice.