# How a play is produced/The Dress Rehearsal-I

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PART II
On the Stage
​The Dress Rehearsal—I
IN theory the dress rehearsal is a rehearsal at which everything is supposed to go off as if it were “The Night” itself: with scenery, lights, costumes, grease-paint, noises off, and supers. In practice, however, it is a rehearsal at which none of these things is present in its completeness; at which there is usually only half of the scenery on the stage, while the other half is only just drying, or just being fixed, or otherwise “on the way”: at which trousers are ready but not coats; at which it is discovered that there is not a decent wig in the place; at which it is discovered that the most important “props” are missing; at which the supers cannot put in an appearance because one is a witness in a police-court case, another is in an office, in hospital, or somewhere; at which the flautist ​who has been engaged cannot come till three o’clock, because he is an official in the Ecclesiastical Office. The dress rehearsal, or as it is called in Czech the “general rehearsal,” is in short a general review of everything that is still missing at the last moment.
The dramatist sits down in a stall and waits for something to happen. First of all nothing does happen. The stage is empty; then the players assemble slowly, yawn, and disappear into their dressing-rooms with such remarks ​as: “I haven’t had a look at the words yet, old man!” and so on. Then the scenery arrives and the technical staff straggles on to the stage. The dramatist feels moved to run and help them; he is looking forward so much to seeing the stage made ready for the play. Sturdy fellows in blue blouses and overalls lug in the side wall of a room: splendid! Then they casually bring in another wall: magnificent! Now for the third wall . . . but the third wall is still in the painting-room. “Just hang up something or other for the time being,” cries the producer. Finally the missing wall is substituted by a forest scene.
At this point the whole proceedings come to a full stop. And all on account of a lath. It begins by two stage hands boring a hole in one of the wings. “What are you doing there?” cries the foreman of the technical staff. “We’ve got to fix a bracket here,” the men answer. The foreman therefore runs to intervene, squats down, and begins working away at the wing in question.
​“What in Heaven’s name are you doing?” cries the producer after a quarter of an hour.
“There’s a bracket to be fixed here,” the foreman answers.
The producer pronounces a horrible curse, and runs to interfere, squats down and begins to examine the wing in question.
“Mr. Producer! Why aren’t you begin​ning?” cries the dramatist after another quarter of an hour.
“There’s a bracket to be fixed here,” the producer answers, deep in thought.
The dramatist sits down again crushed; he plainly sees that they are all more interested in a bit of a damned bracket than in his precious play; and he wonders what kind of a damned bracket it really is.
“Mr. Author! Why aren’t we beginning?” inquires a female voice out of the darkness of the auditorium.
“There’s a bracket to be fixed somewhere,” replies the dramatist in a somewhat technical manner, since he is using the word “bracket.” At the same time he tries to make out who is speaking to him but only succeeds in locating an odour of tar and toilet soap.
“It’s me, Katie,” comes the answer out of the darkness. “How do you like my costume?”
Ah! Yes! Clothes! The dramatist is glad that anyone should value his opinion at ​all, and declares enthusiastically that that is exactly how he had pictured them—simple and unobtrusive——”
“But, I’d like you to know, my dear sir, that this is a Paris model!” retorts Katie somewhat insulted.
Finally, by some miracle the mysterious business of that damned bracket is disposed of.
“To your places!” cries the producer at last.
“Mr. Producer! I'can’t wear this wig.”
“Mr. Producer! Ought I to carry a stick?”
“Mr. Producer! Only one super has turned up.”
“Mr. Producer! Some one’s gone and broke that there aquarium.”
“Mr. Producer! I’m not going to act in rags like these.”
“Mr. Producer! Two of the powerful reflectors have burnt out.”
“Mr. Producer! I shan’t be able to act properly to-day.”
​“Mr. Producer! You’re wanted in the office.”
“Mr. Producer! You’re wanted downstairs.”
“Mr. Producer! You’re wanted in Room 2.”
“Begin, begin!” roars the producer. “Curtain down! Prompter! Mr. Stage-Manager!”
“Ready!” cries the stage-manager.
The huge curtain is lowered. Darkness fills the auditorium. And the dramatist’s heart beats quicker with eager expectancy: at last, at last, he will see his play!
The stage-manager rings once.
Now the written word is to be made flesh.
The bell sounds a second time, but the curtain does not rise. But the furious uproar of two raised voices is muffled by the curtain.
“Quarrelling again,” growls the producer, rushing on to the stage to intervene. The curtain now muffles the uproar of three raised voices. Finally, the bell rings for the third time, and the curtain rises jerkily. An un​known man, wearing a moustache, comes on to the stage and says: “Clara! Something unexpected has happened to me.” And an unknown lady approaches him with the words: “Whatever is that?”
“Wait a minute,” yells the producer, “Just switch off the lower light there. Add a bit of yellow. And why isn’t the sun shining through the window?”
“It is shining,” a voice calls from somewhere beneath the stage.
“Do you call that a sun? You must make it stronger! And do buck up about it!”
“Then we must use those two-thousand power lamps,” declares the subterranean voice.
“Well, for God’s sake, use them then.”
“But we can’t,” and on to the stage crawls a man in a white overall. “I told you, Mr. Perducer, they’d burnt out.”
The producer’s voice fairly quivers with fury: “Then, for Heaven’s sake, use some others.”
And he flies on to the stage where a row ​is just breaking out: a row of a violence so far unknown: one of those rows which are the most important feature of every serious dress rehearsal.
Meanwhile the dramatist sits in his comfortable stall as though he were sitting on uncomfortable thorns. Good Lord! he thinks to himself, “I’ll never write a play again!”
If only he would keep his word!