“You astonish me!” said Greenlaw. “Do you suppose Nutty knows?”
There was a coolness between Miss Virginia Poole, who, as the Lady Clarissant, was the only member of the female chorus to have a named role, and Gwen Larking, the Stage Manager; Miss Poole thought she should have a dressing-room apart from the Chorus, but she had been put—”thrown” was the word she used—with them in a large basement room. She appeared in all three acts and had two costumes, and yet Marta Ullmann, who appeared in only one scene as Elaine, had a dressing-room of her own on the stage level. If this was an intentional slight, what lay behind it? If it was an oversight, should it not be put right as fast as possible?
There was a row, lasting for a day, between Powell and Waldo Harris, because a trapdoor that Powell had ordered had not been cut in the stage. But if it were cut, said Waldo, it would go down into the orchestra pit, rather than the undercroft of the stage proper. Why had he not been told earlier? demanded Powell. He wanted Merlin to appear as if by magic at that particular spot, downstage right, and Mr. Twentyman had been rehearsing for four weeks with that in mind. All right, said Waldo, he would have it cut, and it would mean reducing the size of the orchestra by five members. Here Dr. Dahl-Soot intervened, and the question was somehow resolved without bloodshed, and without the trapdoor.
“Perhaps I could come down from the flies on a wire,” suggested Mr. Twentyman. “I’ve done it before, you know.”
Oliver Twentyman had made himself popular with everybody in the theatre, without particularly exerting himself to do so. But his great age, and his charm, and above all his assumption that everyone wanted to please him, made slaves of the gofers (to whom he brought charming Belgian chocolates in pretty little packages), and convinced Gwen Larking that she was his champion and must shield him from all harm, and caused Waldo Harris to put a special reclining-chair in his dressing-room, as well as a little heater, in case there might be early autumn chill. In return Mr. Twentyman gave advice about how to pronounce English when singing, with Hans Hoizknecht as an eager pupil, and even Clara Intrepidi as an overhearer, rather than a committed listener. She was still dubious about a language with so many vowels.
Thus matters moved toward the final rehearsals, and a controlled, highly professional excitement rose.
The stage was still pretty much in the grip of the technicians, but time was found to accustom the actors to singing in the theatre. Not always at full strength, Darcourt found; sometimes they “marked”, which meant that they sang quietly, skipped their high notes or sang them an octave below pitch, and were altogether so intimate that they seemed determined to keep the music a secret. Watkin Bourke performed prodigies on an ancient upright piano that stood on the forestage; he was still playing from a full orchestral score, and showed great firmness in keeping Al Crane from snatching this for his own information. Gunilla, who had taken a powerful scunner to Al, was determined that he should not see the music at close range if she could avoid it, and Al whined to Powell that this was a hardship, but Powell was not to be moved. Al had as yet not succeeded in getting the copies he wanted, and was not happy when he was told that he might get something for himself once the opera was in performance.
There was great activity, too, on the part of the public relations people, who wanted tasty bits of gossip to send out to the press, which had not shown much interest in Arthur. The report from the box-office was discouraging; even the first night had not been sold out, and would have to be papered with passes. A few of the more learned critics, who had asked for scores to study, had not been pleased when told that none were available, as Dean Wintersen had forbade any public examination of the music until Schnak’s examiners had gone over it thoroughly. As the opening drew near, the report was that less than thirty-three per cent of the tickets for all performances had been sold. If Dr. Dahl-Soot was not concerned about this, the management of the Festival was disgruntled.
Darcourt, the eager amateur, wished heartily for a public success, and fretted that it appeared unlikely. He was sitting in the balcony of the theatre, during one of the mysterious marking rehearsals, when he became aware of a presence behind him, and of a smell that he thought he recognized. It was not really a bad smell, but it was a heavy, furry smell, rather like the bears’ cage in a zoo. A soft, velvety bass voice rumbled in his ear.
“Priest Simon—a word, if you please.”
Turning, he found Yerko leaning forward over his shoulder.
“Priest Simon, I have been taking note. Watching with great care. Everything seems to be going well, but a vital element of opera success is still missing. You know what I mean?”
Darcourt had no idea what this large, overwhelming Gypsy could possibly mean.
“The Claque, Priest Simon. Where is your Claque? Nobody says a word about it. I have inquired. The P.Or. people do not seem to know when I speak of a Claque. But you do, surely?”
Darcourt had heard of a claque, but knew nothing about it.
“Without the Claque—nothing. How can you expect anything else? Nobody knows this opera. An opera audience must contain people who know the work intimately. Nobody will dare to applaud if they don’t know where, and when, and why. They might make an embarrassing mistake—look foolish. Now listen very carefully. I know the whole business of the Claque from top to bottom. Did I not work for years at the Vienna Opera under the great Bonci—related, but not so you could talk about it, to the noble tenor of that name? I was Bond’s right-hand man.”
“You mean hired applause? Oh Yerko, I don’t think that would do at all.”
“Certainly it would not do if you talk of hired applause. That is not a Claque; that is a noisy, untrained rabble. No, look: a Claque is a small body of experts; applause, certainly, but not unorganized row; you must have your bisseurs who call out loud for encores; your rieurs who laugh at the right places—but just appreciative chuckles to encourage the others, not from the belly; your pleureurs who sob when sobs are needed; and, of course, the kind of clapping that encourages the uninformed to join, which is not vulgar hand-smacking that makes the clapper look like a drunk. Good clapping must sound intelligent, and that calls for skill; you must know what part of the palm to smack. And all of this must be carefully organized—yes, orchestrated—by the capo di claque. That’s me. We won’t talk money; this is a gift from my sister and me to our dear Arthur. We give him a success! But get me twelve seats—four balcony, two on each side of the ground floor well toward the front, and four in the last two rows, centre—and we can’t fail. Of course two seats for me and my sister—because we shall appear in evening dress and sit in the middle of the house—and the thing’s done.”
“But Yerko—it’s very kind, but isn’t it a sort of lie?”
“Is P.Or. a lie? Would I lie to you, my friend?”
“No, no, certainly not; but it’s lying to somebody, I feel sure.”
“Priest Simon, listen; remember the old Gypsy saying—Lies keep the teeth white.”
“I must say it’s very tempting.”
“You fix it up.”
“I’ll talk to Powell.”
“But not a word to Arthur. This is a present. A surprise.”
Darcourt did talk to Powell, and Powell was delighted.
“Just in the real early-nineteenth-century style!” he said. “He’s right, you know. Unless the audience is led, most of it won’t know when to clap or what to like. A claque is just what we need.”
So Darcourt gave Yerko the approving word. This is following the path of the Fool, he thought, and, all things considered, it’s good sport.
4
What nobody could possibly have considered good Sport was Schnak’s examination. It affected everybody in the company, from the stage crew, who thought it a pompous nuisance, to Albert Greenlaw, who said it gave him the heebie-jeebies, and to Hans Hoizknecht and Clara Intrepidi, who were told by Dr. Gunilla that they must give their best in the performance involved, and that no “marking” or saving the voice was permitted.