After the cast has been selected comes another reading of the play—another ordeal for the author. Then begin the rehearsals which last for many weeks and the invention of stage business, a technical term which means pantomime, facial expression, gesticulation, everything pertaining to the performance save the speaking of lines. This is a very powerful, if not the factor in the success of a play. During the long hours of rehearsal one must be on the alert for everything, constantly changing here and there, putting new lines in, cutting others out, changing business (stage managers as a rule are most vacillating and unless particularly gifted prone to forget to-day what they invented yesterday).
At the finish we go home and study! It is generally midnight before the actor gets this opportunity! He studies his lines, say, until four. Then he retires and sleeps until about nine, if he can! He must be in the theatre for the ten o'clock call to rehearse what he has studied at home. I do not believe in studying one's part during waits at a rehearsal. Your lines lose their value unless you understand the meaning that prompts the speaking. Hang around the wings during your waits, you young Thespian. Watch the older ones and you will absorb more knowledge of your profession in one week than in a season of studying during rehearsal.
After the company is perfect in lines, business, etc., the announcement is made for the first night's performance. I have not mentioned the mechanical portion of the enterprise and I wish that I could skip it, but I must not. I am against all realism and mechanism in art, but as some of our worthy English cousins have inaugurated these so-called attributes I accept them.
This, gentle reader, is part of what a first night means. Think of what we all go through. Think of the many anxious hearts that are waiting at home for your verdict—the mother, brother, sister, sweetheart, wife, friend. Think of this, you men-about-town, who, when an act is over, confuse it with your bad dinner. Think of it, gentle (?) critic, and if you can't speak well of us at least be courteous. Think of it, you, who have no comprehension beyond the roof gardens of New York! What devastators of art! Think of it, you, who consider the theatre a place for mere diversion! Think of it, you, who never divorce the actor from his character! Be kind and patient. So much depends upon you. Remember we are doing our best. Don't shatter our little houses or our hopes! To do so is so easy!
But we were speaking of San Francisco!
From the opening performance of "Mizzoura" the manager of the theatre, Mr. Bauvier, was delighted. He told my representative that it was a great success and said, "Why, by Thursday Goodwin won't be able to get them in!"
He was quite right—I wasn't! Thursday night a tranquil mob avoided the Baldwin Theatre. Rows of red plush chairs yawned eloquently. Perhaps yours truly was the cause of this. Something was the cause. Maybe the transition from broadcloth to homespun shocked the San Francisco public! It could not have been the play.
Ruskin classified paintings into three orders and ranks least of all those which represent the passions and events of ordinary life. Perhaps the enlightened public of San Francisco agrees with Ruskin. I don't. I want the mirror held up to Nature even though it is bespattered with a little wholesome mud.
Jim Radburn is a little man with red hair. He is dramatic, not theatrical. But San Francisco asked, "How can a man be a hero and have red hair?"