The dog thinks so too. The “Irish wail” has been the last straw. He precedes everyone towards the wings with joyous barks which quite belie his air of long-suffering cynicism. It is lunch time.
At the first full-dress rehearsal, the Lyceum stage resembles a bee-hive with its swarms of busy occupants. Huge pieces of scenery move about, propelled by perspiring carpenters in shirt-sleeves; whole skies suddenly float up into “the flies”; the prompter converses amicably with a mail-clad baron; then, more scenery glides majestically down from the roof or springs up suddenly through the stage, which is literally full of “traps” for the unwary. The “tum-tum-tum” of the fiddles in the orchestra sounds weirdly as the composer of the incidental music, Professor Stanford Villiers, leans over from the stalls and chats with Mr. Meredith Ball, or makes a mysterious statement to him that “the staccato should be a little more staccato.” Presently, Professor Villiers remarks to the orchestra, “Instead of playing two short quavers, please play the crotchet in three time.” The orchestra respond vigorously, but are stopped with a further request to “play the first chord in the second bar as a dotted minim instead of a quaver,” and the Professor wanders about all over the house testing the effect of every note.
The prologue goes off as smoothly as if it had been played for a hundred nights. Miss Terry, clad in Rosamond’s magnificent robes, sits in the stalls and watches the effect of the lights upon each group. Sometimes a light is too blue, or too yellow, or too white, and in the first act the rehearsal is stopped several times on this account. When Miss Terry is on the stage, Mr. Irving watches the lights; when Mr. Irving is acting, she studies each flash.
On the whole, there are wonderfully few details which require modification. In the Bower scene, the light is at first too yellow, and has to be altered. Practical experience proves that the bank up which the lovers go is too slippery. A portion of it is cut away, thus avoiding the probability of an awkward accident. Miss Ward trips on the hem of her regal robe, and requests the costumier to “take it up a little.” Mr. Irving, with unfailing memory, notices that some spearmen are without their spears. But there is little to alter; at the second full-dress rehearsal there will be less; and on the evening of the first performance everything and everybody will have settled down into the right place. Mr. Hawes Craven comes on once or twice to look at his handiwork, and see that it has been properly “set.” Then he walks away with a brisk step to his well-earned rest.
Apart from the interest of the Bower scene, it is delightful to watch Miss Terry and Master Byrne, who plays Geoffrey. When he comes “on” a little before he is wanted, Miss Terry throws her arms round him and kisses the pretty little fellow tenderly with, “There, run away for a moment, darling; we’re not quite ready for you.” It is this sweet and all-pervading womanliness of Miss Terry’s which fascinates the onlooker. Suddenly, from some dark recess, her voice floats out with an eminently practical suggestion, a shrewd idea as to effect, some playful query. It comes from every quarter of the theatre, and is marvellously thrilling, with all the subtle fascination of what a poet-musician would call its “tone-colour.” When the curtain draws up for the Bower scene, and she playfully chides her royal lover, it is more exquisite still. The solitary observer sits and listens to it, the sole representative from the outer world. All this gorgeous pageantry is for him alone; all this wealth of emotion, this story of love and murder, this work of the great poet now passed away—all this is poured into the ears of one man, who sits motionless, entranced, until the tale is told, the play done, and he walks out into the quiet night, quivering with the terrible pathos of Becket’s end.
“someone touched me on the arm.”