The Play Matures
ONE can usually count upon the storm of misfortunes bursting on the last day before the dress-rehearsal. Members of the company suddenly contract all kinds of illnesses, such as influenza, angina, pleurisy, etc. “Just see what a fever I have,” the principal player wheezes in the dramatist’s ear, like steam escaping from a tap. “I ought to go and lie down, for a week at least,” he gasps, choking with coughs, and gazing at the dramatist with the reproachful, tear-filled eyes of a sacrificial lamb being led to the altar. “I don’t know my lines at all,” says another player. “Mr. Dramatist, do tell them to postpone the first night.” “I’ve no voice at all,” says Clara hoarsely. “There’s such a draught here on the stage. Mr. Dramatist,
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