"Don't be nervous," said the O'Kelly, "and don't try to do too much.
You have a very fair voice, but it's not powerful. Keep cool and open your mouth."
It was eleven o'clock in the morning. We were standing at the entrance of the narrow court leading to the stage door. For a fortnight past the O'Kelly had been coaching me. It had been nervous work for both of us, but especially for the O'Kelly. Mrs. O'Kelly, a thin, acid-looking lady, of whom I once or twice had caught a glimpse while promenading Belsize Square awaiting the O'Kelly's signal, was a serious-minded lady, with a conscientious objection to all music not of a sacred character. With the hope of winning the O'Kelly from one at least of his sinful tendencies, the piano had been got rid of, and its place in the drawing-room filled by an American organ of exceptionally lugubrious tone. With this we had had to make shift, and though the O'Kelly--a veritable musical genius--had succeeded in evolving from it an accompaniment to "Sally in Our Alley" less misleading and confusing than might otherwise have been the case, the result had not been to lighten our labours. My rendering of the famous ballad had, in consequence, acquired a dolefulness not intended by the composer. Sung as I sang it, the theme became, to employ a definition since grown hackneyed as applied to Art, a problem ballad.
Involuntarily one wondered whether the marriage would turn out as satisfactorily as the young man appeared to anticipate. Was there not, when one came to think of it, a melancholy, a pessimism ingrained within the temperament of the complainful hero that would ill assort with those instincts toward frivolity the careful observer could not avoid discerning in the charming yet nevertheless somewhat shallow character of Sally.
"Lighter, lighter. Not so soulful," would demand the O'Kelly, as the solemn notes rolled jerkily from the groaning instrument beneath his hands.
Once we were nearly caught, Mrs. O'Kelly returning from a district visitors' committee meeting earlier than was expected. Hastily I was hidden in a small conservatory adjutting from the first floor landing, where, crouching behind flower-pots, I listened in fear and trembling to the severe cross-examination of the O'Kelly.
"William, do not prevaricate. It was not a hymn."
"Me dear, so much depends upon the time. Let me give ye an example of what I mean."
"William, pray in my presence not to play tricks with sacred melodies.
If you have no respect for religion, please remember that I have.
Besides, why should you be playing hymns in any time at ten o'clock in the morning? It is not like you, William, and I do not credit your explanation. And you were singing. I distinctly heard the word 'Sally' as I opened the door."
"Salvation, me dear," corrected the O'Kelly.
"Your enunciation, William, is not usually so much at fault."
"A little hoarseness, me dear," explained the O'Kelly.
"Your voice did not sound hoarse. Perhaps it will be better if we do not pursue the subject further."
With this the O'Kelly appeared to agree.
"A lady a little difficult to get on with when ye're feeling well and strong," so the O'Kelly would explain her; "but if ye happen to be ill, one of the kindest, most devoted of women. When I was down with typhoid three years ago, a tenderer nurse no man could have had. I shall never forget it. And so she would be again to-morrow, if there was anything serious the matter with me."
I murmured the well-known quotation.
"Mrs. O'Kelly to a T," concurred the O'Kelly. "I sometimes wonder if Lady Scott may not have been the same sort of woman."
"The unfortunate part of it is," continued the O'Kelly, "that I'm such a healthy beggar; it don't give her a chance. If I were only a chronic invalid, now, there's nothing that woman would not do to make me happy. As it is--" The O'Kelly struck a chord. We resumed our studies.
But to return to our conversation at the stage door.
"Meet me at the Cheshire Cheese at one o'clock," said the O'Kelly, shaking hands. "If ye don't get on here, we'll try something else; but I've spoken to Hodgson, and I think ye will. Good luck to ye!"
He went his way and I mine. In a glass box just behind the door a curved-nose, round-eyed little man, looking like an angry bird in a cage, demanded of me my business. I showed him my letter of appointment.
"Up the passage, across the stage, along the corridor, first floor, second door on the right," he instructed me in one breath, and shut the window with a snap.
I proceeded up the passage. It somewhat surprised me to discover that I was not in the least excited at the thought of this, my first introduction to "behind the scenes."
I recall my father's asking a young soldier on his return from the Crimea what had been his sensations at the commencement of his first charge.
"Well," replied the young fellow, "I was worrying all the time, remembering I had rushed out leaving the beer tap running in the canteen, and I could not forget it."
So far as the stage I found my way in safety. Pausing for a moment and glancing round, my impression was not so much disillusionment concerning all things theatrical as realisation of my worst forebodings. In that one moment all glamour connected with the stage fell from me, nor has it since ever returned to me. From the tawdry decorations of the auditorium to the childish make-belief littered around on the stage, I saw the Theatre a painted thing of shreds and patches--the grown child's doll's-house. The Drama may improve us, elevate us, interest and teach us. I am sure it does; long may it flourish! But so likewise does the dressing and undressing of dolls, the opening of the front of the house, and the tenderly putting of them away to bed in rooms they completely fill, train our little dears to the duties and the joys of motherhood. Toys! what wise child despises them? Art, fiction, the musical glasses: are they not preparing us for the time, however distant, when we shall at last be grown up?
