My friendly acquaintance with the leading comedian and the stage manager
had served to obtain for me an unusual privilege,--that of witnessing the
first night's performance from the wings. As I looked out across the stage
and the footlights, and saw the sea of faces in the yellowish haze, a
familiar visage held my eye. It was in the front row of the top gallery,
and was projected far over the railing, putting its owner in some risk of
decapitation. An intent look on the pale countenance at once distinguished
it from the terrace of uninteresting, monotonous faces that rose back of
it. The face was that of my man of the restaurant and of the blue-covered
manuscript.
I stood, somewhat in the way of the light man, where my eye could command
most of the stage, and a brief section of the auditorium, from parquet to
roof. The star of the evening, having rattled off, with much sang-froid and
a London intonation, a few lines of thinly humourous dialogue, came toward
the footlights to sing. While the conductor of the orchestra poised his
baton and cast an apprehensive look at her, she began:
"I'm one of the swells
Whose accent tells
That we've done the Contenong.
Pages:
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211