CHAPTER XVI HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?

A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into Cimmerian Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the Principals—Chorus on the Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay.

“HOW does a man get on the stage?” is a question so continually asked that the mode of procedure, at any rate for comic opera, may prove of interest.

After application the would-be actor-singer, if lucky, receives a card, saying there will be a “voice trial” for some forthcoming musical comedy at the theatre on such a date at two o’clock. Managements that have a number of touring companies arrange voice trials regularly once a week, but others organise them only when necessary.

Let us take a case of Special Trial for some new production. There are usually so many persons anxious to procure employment, that three days are devoted to these trials from two till seven o’clock.

Upon receiving a card the would-be artist proceeds to his destination in a state of wild excitement and overpowering nervousness at a quarter to two, having[Pg 293] in the greenness of inexperience arranged to meet a friend at three o’clock, expecting by then to be able to tell him he has been engaged.

On arriving at the corner of the street the youth is surprised to see a seething mass of struggling humanity striving to get near the stage door; something like a gallery entrance on a first night. At this spectacle his nervousness increases, for he has a vague fear that some of these voices and dramatic powers may be better than his own. During the wait outside, people recognise and hail friends whom they have played with in other companies on tour, or met on the concert platform, or perhaps known in a London theatre. Every one tries to look jaunty and gay, none would care to acknowledge the cruel anxiety they are enduring, or own how much depends on an engagement.

After half an hour, or probably an hour’s wait, the keen young man reaches the stage door, and finally gets into the passage. In his eagerness he fancies he sees space in that passage to slip past a number of people who are waiting round the door-keeper’s room, and congratulates himself on his smartness in circumventing them. Somehow he contrives to get through, and finally runs gaily down a flight of stairs, to find himself—not on the stage, as he had hoped, but underneath it. A piano and voice are heard overhead. Quickly retracing his steps he mounts higher and higher in his anxiety to be an early performer, tries passage after passage, to find nothing but dressing-rooms, until he arrives breathless at the top of the building opposite[Pg 294] two large apartments relegated later to the chorus. Utterly bewildered by the intricacies of the theatre, and a sound of music which he cannot locate, the poor novice is almost in despair of reaching the stage at all. One more effort, and a man who looks like a carpenter remarks:

“These ’ere is the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” and he points down below over some strange scaffolding.

The singer looks. Lo, there are fifty or sixty people on the stage.

“And those people?”

“All trying for a job, sir; but, bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything.”

This sounds cheerless to the stage beginner, whose only recommendation is a good, well-trained voice.

With directions from the carpenter he wends his way down again, not with the same elastic step with which he bounded up the stairs. “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything” was not a pleasant piece of news.

Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage at last. He is about to enter gaily when he is stopped by a theatre official who demands his “form.”

“Form? What form? I have none.”

“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires:

“Where is the stage door[Pg 295]?”

“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.”

Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters name, voice, previous experience, height, and age. There is also a column headed “Remarks,” which the would-be actor feels inclined to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage manager fills in this column himself.”

At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:

“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:

“Where is your form?”

He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:

“Now then, please, if you’re ready.”

The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by:

“Sing a scale, please[Pg 296].”

He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes, when he is again interrupted by the question:

“How low can you go?”

He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A.

“Is that as deep as you can get?”

“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?”

A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.”

All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage.

“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you say you were a tenor?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.

“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost gasps.

“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod.

“Have we your address?” asks one of them.

[Pg 297]

“Yes, sir, I left it at the stage door.”

“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer.

Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.”

This is balm to his soul; after all, he was not hurried off so quickly, and he passes out into the light of day with the “Where is your form?” “Where is your music?” “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything,” still ringing in his ears. And so to tea with what appetite he may bring at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as arranged.

Ten weary days pass—he receives no letter, hears nothing. He has almost given up all hope of that small but certain income, when a type-written missive arrives:

“Kindly attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre on Tuesday next at twelve o’clock.”

The words swim before his eyes. Can it be true? Can he be among the successful ones after all? He is so excited he is scarcely able to eat or sleep, waiting for Tuesday to come. It does come at last, and he sets out for the theatre, thinking he will not betray further ignorance, and arrives fashionably late[Pg 298] at a quarter to one. This time he sees no signs of life at the stage door.

“Of course, now that I belong to the theatre, I must go in through the front of the house, not at the side entrance,” he says to himself. Round, therefore, he goes to the front, where some one sitting in the box office asks:

“What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, thanks; I am going to rehearsal.”

“You’re late. The chorus have started nearly an hour.”

Good chance here to make an impression.

“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This is not quite true at the moment, but may be in a year or two.

“Principal? Then you’re too early, sir! Principals won’t be called for another three weeks.”

The tenor slinks out and goes round to the stage door again, where “You’re very late, sir,” is the door-keeper’s greeting. “I should advise you to hurry up, they started some time ago. You’ll find them up in the saloon. On to the stage, straight through to the front of the house, and up to the back of the circle.”

He goes down on the stage, where he finds the same old piano going, and some one sitting in the stalls, watching a girl in a blouse and flaming red petticoat, who is dancing, whilst three or four other girls in various coloured petticoats, none wearing skirts, are waiting their turn. In the distance he hears sounds of singing, which make the most unpleasant[Pg 299] discord with the dance tune on the stage. The accompanist points to an iron door at the side, passing through which the youth finds himself outside another door leading to the stalls, and, guided by his ear, finally reaches the saloon. He enters unobserved to find it filled with some forty girls and men, standing or sitting about, and singing from printed copies of something. Sitting down he looks over his neighbour’s shoulder, and notices that each copy has printed on it “Proof copy. Private.” After half an hour the stage manager, who has been standing near the piano, says:

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will do: back in an hour, please. Is Mr. A—— here? And Mr. A—— replies “Yes,” and is told to wait, and asked why he did not answer to his name before.

“I was a little late, I fear.”

“Don’t be late again, or I shall have to fine you.”

Off he goes to luncheon, and returns with the rest, who after a further three hours’ work are dismissed for the day.

This goes on for six hours a day, during a fortnight, when the chorus is joined by eight more ladies and gentlemen styled “Small-part people,” who, however, consider themselves very great people all the same.

Next the young man is told that in two days every one must be able to sing without music, as rehearsals will commence on the stage. In due course comes the first rehearsal on the stage, and after a[Pg 300] couple of days Position, Gestures, and Business are all taken up in turn.

The saloon is then used by the principals, who have now turned up, and in the intervals of rest the chorus can hear sounds of music floating toward them.

In another week the principals join the company on the stage, and are told their places, while all principals read from their parts at first, such being the etiquette even if they know their lines. Books are soon discarded, however, and rehearsals grow rapidly longer, while everything shows signs of active progress towards production. Scenery and properties begin to be on view, and every one is sent to be measured for costumes, wigs, and boots. Then comes the first orchestral rehearsal, and finally, a week before the production, night rehearsals start in addition to day, so that people positively live in the theatre from 11.30 in the morning till 11.30 at night or later. Apart from all the general rehearsals there are extra rehearsals before or after these, for the dances.

There are generally two or three semi-dress rehearsals, followed by the full-dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon at two o’clock, or sometimes seven in the evening, when all the reserved seats are filled with friends of the management or company, various professionals connected in any way with the stage, and a number of artists and journalists, making sketches for the papers. At the end of each act the curtain is rung up and flash-light photographs taken of the effective situation and the finale, and so at last the curtain rises on the first night. Nine weeks’ rehearsal were given for a comic[Pg 301] opera lately, and no one was paid for his or her services during all that time. It only ran for six weeks, when the salaries ceased.

In comic opera there are such constant changes, of dialogue, songs, and alterations, that the company have a general rehearsal at least once a fortnight on the average, right through the run of a piece, and there is always an entire understudying company ready to go on at any moment.