A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into Cimmerian Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the Principals—Chorus on the Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay.

“HOW does a man get on the stage?” is a question so continually asked that the mode of procedure, at any rate for comic opera, may prove of interest.

After application the would-be actor-singer, if lucky, receives a card, saying there will be a “voice trial” for some forthcoming musical comedy at the theatre on such a date at two o’clock. Managements that have a number of touring companies arrange voice trials regularly once a week, but others organise them only when necessary.

Let us take a case of Special Trial for some new production. There are usually so many persons anxious to procure employment, that three days are devoted to these trials from two till seven o’clock.

Upon receiving a card the would-be artist proceeds to his destination in a state of wild excitement and overpowering nervousness at a quarter to two, having[Pg 293] in the greenness of inexperience arranged to meet a friend at three o’clock, expecting by then to be able to tell him he has been engaged.

On arriving at the corner of the street the youth is surprised to see a seething mass of struggling humanity striving to get near the stage door; something like a gallery entrance on a first night. At this spectacle his nervousness increases, for he has a vague fear that some of these voices and dramatic powers may be better than his own. During the wait outside, people recognise and hail friends whom they have played with in other companies on tour, or met on the concert platform, or perhaps known in a London theatre. Every one tries to look jaunty and gay, none would care to acknowledge the cruel anxiety they are enduring, or own how much depends on an engagement.

After half an hour, or probably an hour’s wait, the keen young man reaches the stage door, and finally gets into the passage. In his eagerness he fancies he sees space in that passage to slip past a number of people who are waiting round the door-keeper’s room, and congratulates himself on his smartness in circumventing them. Somehow he contrives to get through, and finally runs gaily down a flight of stairs, to find himself—not on the stage, as he had hoped, but underneath it. A piano and voice are heard overhead. Quickly retracing his steps he mounts higher and higher in his anxiety to be an early performer, tries passage after passage, to find nothing but dressing-rooms, until he arrives breathless at the top of the building opposite[Pg 294] two large apartments relegated later to the chorus. Utterly bewildered by the intricacies of the theatre, and a sound of music which he cannot locate, the poor novice is almost in despair of reaching the stage at all. One more effort, and a man who looks like a carpenter remarks:

“These ’ere is the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” and he points down below over some strange scaffolding.

The singer looks. Lo, there are fifty or sixty people on the stage.

“And those people?”

“All trying for a job, sir; but, bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything.”

This sounds cheerless to the stage beginner, whose only recommendation is a good, well-trained voice.

With directions from the carpenter he wends his way down again, not with the same elastic step with which he bounded up the stairs. “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything” was not a pleasant piece of news.

Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage at last. He is about to enter gaily when he is stopped by a theatre official who demands his “form.”

“Form? What form? I have none.”

“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires:

“Where is the stage door[Pg 295]?”

“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.”

Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters name, voice, previous experience, height, and age. There is also a column headed “Remarks,” which the would-be actor feels inclined to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage manager fills in this column himself.”

At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:

“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:

“Where is your form?”

He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:

“Now then, please, if you’re ready.”

The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by:

“Sing a scale, please[Pg 296].”

He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes, when he is again interrupted by the question:

“How low can you go?”

He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A.

“Is that as deep as you can get?”

“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?”

A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.”

All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage.

“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you say you were a tenor?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.

“May I not sing the last verse o............