There were but a few faint
cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had summoned the
manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed her wraps for the
street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical director "for not
knowing his business," the comedian for "interfering" in her scenes, the
composer for writing the music too high, and the librettist for supplying
such "beastly rubbish" in the way of dialogue.
"Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten," the conciliatory
manager replied. "You talk to Myers" (the musical director) "yourself about
it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will fix the
other music to suit your voice."
"And you start Elliott to write over the libretto at once," she commanded,
"and see that that song and dance clown" (the comedian) "never comes on the
stage when I'm on, if it can be helped, or I won't go on at all. That's
settled!"
The comedian and I left the stage door together. The actress's cab was
waiting at the opposite side of the dark alley-like street upon which the
stage door opened. This street or court, stretching its gloomy way from a
main street, is a place of tall warehouses, rear walls, and bad paving.
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