When the seeker after histrionic honors has at last crossed the threshold of the stage, he or she will find it entirely different from the glitter and glory with which the imagination had clothed things theatrical. The first revelation made to new-comers in the profession is the rehearsal. This generally begins about ten A. M. and ends about two P. M. In the old days of stock companies, performers had more laborious work to perform than men who carry railroad iron out of, or into, steamboats. Often there were new plays every night, which meant new parts to be memorized, and rehearsals every day. Leaving the theatre at eleven P. M., about the usual hour of closing a performance at that time, the actor took his part with him, and instead of going to his bed, was obliged to sit up and study his lines—no matter how many lengths there were. Torn and worn out with his night's work on the stage, and the mental toil that followed, it was often already morning when the actor sought his couch. He was then obliged to be up in a few hours and at the theatre at ten. If he absented himself there was a fine that would materially reduce his already low salary. Where was the room for enjoyment for the actor or actress in those days? There was little opportunity given to anybody at all employed upon the stage to be of dissolute habits or to indulge in any of the excesses that pulpit-pounders and their intolerant and intolerable followers generally charged against the profession. These super-moral individuals could not make a distinction between the stage of the days of Mrs. Bracegirdle and Mistress Woffington, of Mrs. Jordan and Mrs. Robinson, when filth and licentiousness prevailed because the public found no fault with it, and the same things were prevalent in ranks of the very best society. Now that we have travelling combinations, and that one part will last a man or woman who pays attention to business for a year or more, the profession is not so heavily taxed; still there is plenty of work, and there is little, if any, time to devote to any of the pleasures or excesses that prurient piety points out as the portion of players. But this is moralizing. Let us get back to the rehearsal. Less than ten years ago a rehearsal might be found going on in any theatre in the country between the hours of ten A. M. and two P. M. Now it is a rare thing to find a rehearsal except on Monday, and in the few cities where Sunday-night performances are given this day may be set apart, when the opening or first performance is on the same night. As travelling goes now, a company reaches a town either the night before, or the morning of the day for their initial entertainment. No matter what the time of arrival—unless it be, as often happens, that the company gets off the train and to the theatre fifteen minutes before the curtain is to go up—every member of the company will be expected at the theatre in the morning for rehearsal, not so much to go through their parts as to familiarize themselves with the entrances and exits and the general arrangement of the house. The stage manager is there and the orchestra is in its place. If it is comic opera there is a rehearsal of the music, and if it is one of the musico-farcical or burlesque pieces that were epidemic during the past two seasons, the play will be rehearsed that the musicians may come in with their flare up at the proper time.
A rehearsal is calculated to take all the starch out of the ambition of a neophyte, and to drench his hopes in a sorrowful manner. The stage bereft of its flood of light, of its gorgeous color and wealth of splendor, is the darkest, dreariest, and most commonplace region in the world. The buzz of saw and the clatter of hammer are heard in all directions, while men in aprons, overalls, and greasy caps are making the saw-and-hammer noises, and others even less romantic are dragging about scenery or boxes; gas men are at work on the foot-lights, and there is noise and confusion enough to set a whole villagefull of sybarites crazy. Down in front a group of ladies and gentlemen are moving about and talking. These are the players—the people we saw the night before in rich attire, with glowing jewels and surrounded with all the magnificence, wealth could bestow or royalty command. Now, the king's crown is a black slouch hat and the royal robes are a dark sack coat and vest, light trousers, and white shirt with picadilly collar. The queen has a last-year bonnet on her head and a water-proof cloak envelopes her form. The other actors are also in every-day dress, some showing that their owners patronize first-class tailors and others that they have been handed down from the shelves of cheap ready-made clothing houses. The stage manager is pushing everybody around, and the actors and actresses are talking at one another in lines. Some have books of the play, for they are rehearsing, and all rattle over their lines as if running a race with a locomotive that is drawing Vanderbilt's special car over the road at its topmost speed. It is impossible to understand what they are saying, and the on-looker would be willing to wager a $10 gold piece against a silver dime with a hole in it that the performers do not hear or understand each other. But a California journalist has written a very truthful and funny account of a rehearsal he attended in San Francisco. Olive Logan has it in her book, but it is so good I will make use of it again. Here it is:—
AGNES BOOTH.
You may get as perfect an idea of a play by seeing it rehearsed as you would of Shakespeare from hearing it read in Hindustani. The first act consists in an exhibition of great irritability and impatience by the stage manager at the non-appearance of certain members of the troupe. At what theatre? Oh, never mind what theatre. We will take liberties and mix them thus:—
Stage Manager (calling to some one at the front entrance): "Send those people in."
The people are finally hunted up one by one and go rushing down the passage and on to the stage like human whirlwinds.
Leading Lady (reading): "My chains a-a-a-a-a rivet me um-um-um (carpenters burst out in a tremendous fit of hammering) this man."
Star: "But I implore—buz-buz-buz—never—um-um" (great sawing of boards somewhere).
Rehearsal reading, mind you, consists in the occasional distinct utterance of a word, sandwiched in between large quantities of a strange, monotonous sound, something between a drawl and a buz, the last two or three words of the part being brought out with an emphatic jerk.