“Bow, bow,—don’t nod,” says Irving, stepping forward to instruct a subordinate in the scene; “that’s better—go on.”
The solemn voice of Mead opens the scene, and as it proceeds, Irving calls Loveday aside.
“Too much light at the back there, eh?”
“Do you think so?” says Loveday. “Lower the light there,—the blue medium.”
Steps have been placed as a way from the stage to the stalls. Irving (“Charlie” following at his heels) goes into the third row, Loveday watching and waiting.
“Yes, that will do,” says Irving, at the same time turning to me to remark, “do you see what a difference that makes? You have no difficulty now in imagining the distance the subdued light suggests,—chapels, vestries, dim cathedral vistas. Do you notice what a last touch of reality to the scene the hurried entrance of the pages give?—they break up the measured solemnity of the processions with a different step, a lighter manner, the carelessness of youth; they have no censers to carry, no ecclesiastical robes to wear.”
As he is speaking he strides up the steps and upon the stage once more.
“Mr. Ball! Call Mr. Ball, please.”
The musical director appears.
“The basses are too loud; they spoil the closing movement, which is too quick altogether. Come into the stalls and hear it.”