of, let us say, the carpenter, who can allow the newly-made table to dry as it ought to do, who can then thumb and finger every edge and crack expertly, stroke the surface of it with his hand, knock on it, look the whole thing over, and say: “There’s a good bit of work for you.” Ah! If only there could have been but one more rehearsal.
On the morning before the first night there is a last informal rehearsal. The players gabble through their parts hastily, lifelessly, and in whispered tones so that they may save their voices for “the night”; they reel off the text as though they were crushing sand between their teeth. And every one hurries, gloomy and silent, as though-a corpse were in the theatre. From the depths of the auditorium creeps a sad, stark silence. Nothing more can be done. It is the beginning of the end.
As is well known, the first nights have their own special public. There are people who only go to first nights. It is said that they go to first nights out of a passionate love for
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