"Needn't see it at all," said my
managerial friend; "put him in front, nothing to do but march in
and march out, and dodge curtain."
He was engaged. I admit I was at times haunted by grave doubts as
to whether I should not have informed the manager of his physical
condition, and the possibility that he might some evening
perpetrate a real tragedy on the mimic stage, but on the first
performance of "The Destruction of Sennacherib," which I
conscientiously attended, I was somewhat relieved. I had often
been amused with the placid way in which the chorus in the opera
invariably received the most astounding information, and witnessed
the most appalling tragedies by poison or the block, without
anything more than a vocal protest or command, always delivered to
the audience and never to the actors, but I think my poor friend's
utter impassiveness to the wild carnage and the terrible
exhibitions of incendiarism that were going on around him
transcended even that. Dressed in a costume that seemed to be the
very soul of anachronism, he stood a little outside the proscenium,
holding a spear, the other hand pressed apparently upon the secret
within his breast, calmly surveying, with his waxen face, the gay
auditorium.
Pages:
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203