THE CRY OF ALRESCA

As I left the box in the wake of Sir Cyril and Mr. Nolan, Sullivan jumped up to follow us, and the last words I heard were from Emmeline.

“Sullivan, stay here.  You shall not go near that woman,” she exclaimed in feverish and appealing tones:  excitement had once more overtaken her.  And Sullivan stayed.

“Berger here?” Sir Cyril asked hurriedly of Nolan.

“Yes, sir.”

“Send some one for him.  I’ll get him to take Alresca’s part.  He’ll have to sing it in French, but that won’t matter.  We’ll make a new start at the duet.”

“But Rosa?” said Nolan.

“Rosa!  She’s not hurt, is she?”

“No, sir.  But she’s upset.”

“What the devil is she upset about?”

“The accident.  She’s practically useless.  We shall never persuade her to sing again to-night.”

“Oh, damn!” Sir Cyril exclaimed.  And then quite quietly:  “Well, run and tell ’em, then.  Shove yourself in front of the curtain, my lad, and make a speech.  Say it’s nothing serious, but just sufficient to stop the performance.  Apologize, grovel, flatter ’em, appeal to their generosity—­you know.”

“Yes, Sir Cyril.”

And Nolan disappeared on his mission of appeasing the audience.

We had traversed the flagged corridor.  Sir Cyril opened a narrow door at the end.

“Follow me,” he called out.  “This passage is quite dark, but quite straight.”

It was not a passage; it was a tunnel.  I followed the sound of his footsteps, my hands outstretched to feel a wall on either side.  It seemed a long way, but suddenly we stepped into twilight.  There was a flight of steps which we descended, and at the foot of the steps a mutilated commissionaire, ornamented with medals, on guard.

“Where is Monsieur Alresca?” Sir Cyril demanded.

“Behind the back-cloth, where he fell, sir,” answered the commissionaire, saluting.

I hurried after Sir Cyril, and found myself amid a most extraordinary scene of noise and confusion on the immense stage.  The entire personnel of the house seemed to be present:  a crowd apparently consisting of thousands of people, and which really did comprise some hundreds.  Never before had I had such a clear conception of the elaborate human machinery necessary to the production of even a comparatively simple lyric work like “Lohengrin.”  Richly clad pages and maids of honor, all white and gold and rouge, mingled with shirt-sleeved carpenters and scene-shifters in a hysterical rabble; chorus-masters, footmen in livery, loungers in evening dress, girls in picture hats, members of the orchestra with instruments under their arms, and even children, added variety to the throng.  And, round about, gigantic “flats” of wood and painted canvas rose to the flies, where their summits were lost in a maze of ropes and pulleys.  Beams of light, making visible great clouds of dust, shot forth from hidden sources.  Voices came down from the roof, and from far below ascended the steady pulsation of a dynamo.  I was bewildered.