OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# How a play is produced/Further Rehearsals

Layout 2
​Further Rehearsals
AND yet, at these first rehearsals, in a room where a rickety chair may represent a divan, a throne, a rock or a balcony, most of the real work of the theatre is done. But the dramatist who is simply dying to see his play, here finds it in a mangled and chaotic state calculated to bring tears to his eyes: it is rehearsed simply anyhow, from the end or the middle; an insignificant scene may be repeated twenty times while another far more important one gets left unrehearsed: half of the players are worn out with other rehearsals, while the other half are also worn out with these rehearsals. And yet, there are moments when the dramatist feels that “it”? is becoming a reality.
In a few days a new person appears upon the scene: the prompter. The players cease ​just to read their lines, and begin to act them properly; and things proceed like a house on fire. The dramatist declares that the first night might easily take place that very evening. But the players curb his enthusiasm: “Just you wait until you’ve seen us on the ​stage.” After the play has been treated in all the dreadful ways described the great day arrives when rehearsals start on the real stage. The curtain remains down, and the prompter sits at a little table, with the dramatist, who is hoping devoutly that things will proceed famously, hovering around him. Well, as a matter of fact, things do not proceed at all. For during its short journey from the rehearsal room to the stage the play appears to have become unstuck, as it were. And all is lost.
After two or three rehearsals, however, things proceed quite smoothly and brilliantly again. And the producer finally gives the order: “Up with the curtain, please, and the prompter into his box.” At this moment the most experienced player turns pale. For, no sooner does the prompter crawl into his uncomfortable little box than things go wrong again, for some mysterious reason, probably acoustic. Seated in a stall the crushed dramatist watches his beautiful text blowing about like a rotten piece of rag in a strong ​wind. And to make things ten times worse the producer ceases to worry about what the players are saying, and confines himself to worrying about where and how they are standing and walking. God knows why he worries so much, thinks the dramatist: In the text it simply says, “Exit Danesh.” Surely that is enough? The producer has no doubt gone raving mad, for he is roaring to Clara that she must step back a pace; even the players are now worked up and start to quarrel with the prompter, accusing him of mumbling instead of speaking properly. Finally George Danesh announces that he has influenza and is going to bed. In the background the stage-manager and the property-man are barking at each other in a fit of atavistic fury. Finally the producer roars himself hoarse, and the disjointed text stumbles about the stage in a death-like weakness. Seated in his stall the dramatist shrinks like a creature of misfortune. Things are going sadly and cannot be helped—and to-morrow is the dress-rehearsal.
# How a play is produced/After the First Night

Layout 2
​After the First Night
AFTER the first night the author remains in complete ignorance as to whether his play has been a huge failure or a huge success. True, he has been called before the curtain, but perhaps the audience only applauded for a joke, or because it was sorry for him, or for some other unknown reason. Full of fear and mistrust, the author examines the words and looks of his friends.
“You are happy, aren’t you?”
“I think that the first act ought to be cut a bit.”
“But it was played quite well, considering.”
“I congratulate you.”
“Perhaps the third act could be cut?”
“Of course! They ought to have played it quite differently.”
​“Clara was quite impossible.”
“I liked the end best.”
“Don’t you think that the second act drags just a wee bit?”
“You ought to be satisfied.”
“I think that it was wonderful.”
So the author staggers about in a haze of uncertainty. Was the play a success or not? And on the next day he buys all the news​papers: surely he will learn from the critics how it really went off. Well, from the critics he learns the following:—
(1) That his play has a plot; but every critic gives a different one;
(2) That it (a) had a splendid reception; (b) a lukewarm reception; (c) was hissed by part of the audience; (d) deserved the hearty reception it received;
(3) That the producer: (a) had absolutely nothing to do at all; (b) did what he could; (c) was not half attentive enough; (d) paid great attention to the production;
(4) That (a) the tempo of the play was brisk; (b) the play dragged; (c) every one played with enthusiasm; (d) the players did not know their parts; (e) the players contributed to the success of the play;
(5) That Clara (a) was wonderful; (b) was obviously unwell; (c) did not interpret the part correctly; (d) filled the rôle with intense life; (e) had fair hair; (f) had black hair (while he even reads that Miss Jarolim was splendid in the rôle of Clara which ​happened to have been played by Mrs. Nova!);
(6) That the decorations: (a) struck just the right note; (b) did not suit the character of the play at all;
(7) That the ensemble: (a) was as good as it always was; but (b) it was very inadequate.
​Consequently the poor author never really discovers whether his play is successful or not. For even if it has a long run, that means nothing. In theatrical circles, when a play is only given a few times they say it is no good, and a failure; if it should run a long time, however, they say that this is a sure sign that the play is rubbish.
# How a play is produced/A Guide Behind the Scenes

Layout 2
PART III
Behind the Scenes
​A Guide Behind the Scenes
IN the course of the preceding rather chaotic accountof how a play is produced (which, however, is far from approaching the wild confusion of the theatrical reality which inspired it) we have had occasion to speak about a whole series of persons, whose existence, nature, habits, privileges and abilities may not be quite clear to the general public, the critics and the dramatists-to-be. But desiring to make you better acquainted with them, we find ourselves at a loss as to where we should begin. Shall it be downstairs at the stage doorkeeper’s lodge, upstairs in the office, in the cellar with the boiler-man, at the box-office, or in those mysterious wide expanses of the theatrical store-rooms? Well, let us begin, as they say in the theatre, “upstairs”: at the offices. A minor branch ​of this place is the counting-house, where, according to a time-honoured custom, the players are paid on the first and the fourteenth of the month; the officials on the first, and the technical staff every Saturday. But while we are dawdling in this Temple of Mammon you must know that in addition to their regular salaries the players earn ​certain other sums: a fee for a doubled rôle, a fee for a song and dance, an extra fee for taking some one else’s place, a fee for appearing nude and painting the body. But, in spite of all these extra fees, the players do not seem to grow remarkably rich. As a matter of fact the counting-house is rather a sad little place, with its small window usually shut. Here, too, players may receive advances on their salaries.
# How a play is produced/"Upstairs"

Layout 2
​“Upstairs”
THE supreme court of appeal in a repertory theatre is made up of the secret trinity: the Director of the Theatre, the Dramatic Director, and the Administrator. Of this holy trinity it is usually the poor Dramatic Director who must walk the road to Calvary and be crucified from time to time.
The Director of the Theatre is a man who, for his past sins, has been condemned to be eternally annoyed. He is compelled to adjust all quarrels, complaints and questions of ability: storm when necessary; dry tears; haggle over any increase in salaries; and sign much-needed monetary advances. His power is great, but it is purely internal in character.
As far as the Administrator is concerned, ​his functions are, to a certain extent, unlimited and surrounded by secrecy.
These three almighty creatures spend their time in rooms furnished with carpets, easy-chairs and similar luxuries, which, however, are forced to flaunt themselves in fashionable drawing-rooms on the stage when needed.
There, higher authorities are succeeded by lesser authorities, whose titles begin with Co-Directors and Secretaries, and end with Assistants. The latter rattle telephones, and bang feverishly on typewriters, copying out rôles, letters and memoranda. It is just like an ordinary office, except that it is somewhat distracted; every one is in a fearful hurry; and every one is working like the devil. That is part of the whole game.
The rôle of the reader of plays is a very quiet one, and plays itself out in a little room hidden away in a corner somewhere. It is an oasis of peace, inducing a deep, almost refreshing lassitude in the feverish swirl of the theatrical factory. To this little room ​come the modest authors (the less modest ones lay direct siege to the Dramatic Director) bringing neatly copied plays, over the contents of which they “spread” themselves, return frequently, and by all means in their power try to discover when their play will be produced. The reader of plays, a peaceful and contemplative man, tells them that “it will come along in good time.” He is, however, taken seriously only by the dramatists. For the players are offhand with him, regarding him with justice, as something of a bookworm. As though the theatre of to-day had anything to do with literature!
The factotums of the theatre resemble the factotums of Ministries and newspaper offices: they are very literary, however, for at the beginning of the month they take the royalties round to the authors.
I seem to have mixed the artistic and administrative departments of the theatre together. And what, in fact, happens, is that the Director of the Theatre always says that he only works for artistic ends, ​while the reader of plays lays great stress on the economic importance of the box-office.
Now, however, let us descend lower.
# How a play is produced/The Supers

Layout 2
​The Supers
WHEN the author introduces into his play the “People,” or the “Folk,” or a “Mob,” he generally imagines a great mass of individuals old and young, stout, broad-shouldered beings with big chests, thick necks, and powerful voices as the “People,” the “Folk,” or a “Mob” are usually supposed to be. But he is visibly disappointed when he sees on the stage a small handful of narrow-chested, more or less lean worms, with thin piping voices, who do not by any manner of means represent the real “proletariat” either in weight or substance. As a matter of fact they are poor students engaged at sixpence per night: and for sixpence one can hardly expect the poor beggars to be strong, broad-shouldered and sunburnt!
​And because the producer is hissing from the wings: “For Heaven’s sake, move yourselves a bit!” they move themselves a bit, shake their bodies about, jostle each other in an endeavour to make one believe that they are really alive. True, there are also permanent supers who move about with a certain pride. Members of the technical staff also act as supers sometimes. Thus, you may see ​during the interval a Roman soldier carrying a bench on his head, or a French garçon screwing a loose bracket tight. The playing children in the crowd are usually the offspring of the theatrical folk.
If the piece is an elaborately mounted play, requiring a very large mob of people, then every one in the theatre is pressed into service: dressers, scene-shifters, property men, upholsterers, stage-managers, electricians and seamstresses; indeed, it is a wonder that the whole theatrical administration itself does not come on to the stage.
For making a noise one gets paid something extra.
# How a play is produced/The Stage-Manager

Layout 2
​The Stage-Manager
THE stage-manager runs to and fro in the wings with the book of words in his hands, pushes the players on to the stage at the right moment, and through the correct entrance, directs the crowds, or even produces noises “off,” and gives the signal for the curtain to rise: further, he rings the bells in all the dressing-rooms, goes along the corridors screaming “Ready to begin, please!”, plays minor rôles, stamps like a horse when a “horse off” is prescribed, is on intimate terms with all the actors, and is abused by all and sundry for everything that happens. Just as there are greater and lesser producers, so are there greater and lesser stage-managers.
The stage-manager must be simultaneously not only in the right and left wings, but also ​behind the scenes and under the trap-door; he must also see that everything is on the stage, must know all about the properties, and must often take the place of the producer. He is the poor creature upon whom everything and every one falls.
As far as the noises “off” are concerned, these are produced by various people: the mechanic unleashes the stage thunder in the flies, the scene-shifter sees to the noise of falling hail; while the rain, bells, sirens and shots are the business of the property man.
The stage-manager, however, imitates the singing of birds, hoots like a motor-horn, rattles the crockery, and makes all the other necessary noises, except those which are produced by the orchestra.
# How a play is produced/The Prompter

Layout 2
​The Prompter
IT is quite a mistaken idea to imagine that the prompter merely anticipates the text mechanically for the actor. This is not the case. The great and inspired prompter lives with the actor. While the actor is letting himself go, he does not interrupt: he knows two minutes beforehand when it will be necessary to “reach” the actor his words. The actor only gets annoyed if the prompter butts into his speech unnecessarily, or if, in a moment of uncertainty, the prompter precedes him with a couple of words: then he is still more irritated. There is a mysterious contact between player and prompter, and to be a born prompter is to be gifted by the gods. For this reason the good prompter is treasured as no one else is.
The prompter also has his personal contact ​with the play. There are plays during which he delights to prompt, and others in which he hates to prompt. He is bored if the piece is a boring one, and amused when it is an amusing one. When dramatic authors bother about the casting of their plays they always forget the prompter: this proves their ignorance of the stage.
# How a play is produced/The Curtain Man

Layout 2
​The Curtain Man
THE curtain man sits in a glass box I near the stage. At a sign from the prompter he lowers the curtain. The curtain falls quickly or descends tragically and slowly, according to the way the play ends. If the theatre is on fire the curtain man must remain at his post until the iron safety curtain has been let down. He is aware of this heroic duty: his face wears the concentrated expression of one who holds an exposed advanced post. Next to him is a pint of beer.
The firemen stand just behind the door where they are most in the way. They are black and serious: they do not laugh: they do not weep. But if a candle is burning on the stage, or if an actor lights a cigarette, ​they follow this fiery action with tense interest. They are always ready to rush on to the stage with drawn hatchets.
# How a play is produced/The Property Man

Layout 2
​The Property Man
THE property man lives in the property room, which is a place difficult to describe, for everything you can possibly think of is kept inside it: swords, a stuffed canary, bowls, drums, goblets, dishes, bags, pipes, antique vases, folios, baskets, trunks, inkpots, samovars, diadems, rings, cards, dice, trumpets, Red Indian quivers, boxes, pistols, civil and military utensils of all the ages, instruments of all countries, everything that ever was and now is.
It is the property man’s duty to procure whatever the dramatist needs: a motor-car, a horse, an aquarium, a white elephant, a dead cat, a live peacock, a decimal weight, Aladdin’s ring, dirty washing, a musical box, a waterfall, an infernal machine, a singing spinning-wheel: in a word, every possible ​thing with the exception of the following: (1) all that is fixed to walls and hangs up is a matter for the upholsterer; (2) all that gives light is in the hands of the electrician; (3) all ​that, which apart from jewels and weapons, is the wardrobe man’s affair.
The property man is also supposed to see to all that is eaten, drunk or smoked on the stage during the performance. Further, he must look after and hand out all the despatches, letters, and Papal Bulls that have to appear on the stage: to provide live animals: to ring bells and fire shots: take on to the stage the properties required and carry them off again: and many other things.
From the property man’s point of view the realistic plays are the difficult ones. You would never believe how difficult it is to get hold of a rusty hoop or a pair of snuffers, and these are just the very things that the realistic school of dramatists loves to prescribe. It would be far better if they asked for a Papal tiara, or a Neptune’s trident: for the property man has this kind of junk in plenty. But where in the Lord’s name are you to get hold of a rusty hoop? Where are you to procure a piece of oakum? Where can you find a broken loom? These are terrible demands.
# How a play is produced/The Electrician

Layout 2
​The Electrician
THE chief electrician has his centre of action beneath the boards of the stage, or in the portal, and plays on a kind of organ composed of lights; every one of these switch-boards, levers, or buttons releases some mysterious source of illumination, white, yellow, orange, red, blue, moon-yellow. Here you have the footlights and the overhead lights, the upper “Two,” “Three,” and “Four” funnels in the wings, or on slides, further sources of light in the portal, lamps in the gallery, portable thousand-candle-power lamps, corner lights, bulb-reflectors, free contact funnels, tubes, searchlights, batteries, pocket-lamps, projection apparatus, the cloud film, transparents, and Heaven knows what else.
It does not seem so very remarkable to the ​spectator when the hero is standing well in the “limelight”; but reflectors are blazing down on him from the flies and the wings, and a searchlight from below. Meanwhile, ​these lamps are getting gradually hotter and hotter, indeed, until they are almost red-hot, and the poor electricians have to hold them in their bare hands in an atmosphere that resembles that of a furnace. Perhaps it is impossible for the light to reach a certain corner, or shadows are thrown in the wrong place, or the lighting is as dull as in a school-room, or the producer would really like to conjure up something wonderful with the lighting: but the electrician has no more cable to spare; alas! Perhaps the ten-thousand candle-power lamps are burning without producing the desired beautiful effect and the electrician would like to illuminate the scene with his own eyes and fingers to satisfy the difficult demands of the producer. He mixes all the colours, drags cables about the stage, turns all the switches on and off, drives his men hither and thither, until all of a sudden the producer cries “Stop! Now it’s quite all right. Make a note of it quick.” And with trembling fingers the electrician scribbles cryptic notes on his piece ​of paper. Yes: but it is all to no purpose. This miraculous lighting effect is never realized again. For in the theatre, do what you may, something always goes wrong. But I must remark that we are only at the beginning of the technique of lighting. As for the producer, the dramatic director and the scenic designer they have already been dealt with; but there still remains the Stage Inspector.
# How a play is produced/The Technical Staff

Layout 2
​The Technical Staff
THE technical staff, as will have been seen, are very busy in the interval. During the action, if it is a first night, they are crowded into the wings, where they look on, make jokes, and calculate when it will be over. On other nights they play cards or lie about on benches in their rooms. Half a minute before the end of the act a bell rings for them, and they tramp on to the stage, where a lyric dialogue is reaching its whispered end. At it, lads!
# How a play is produced/The Furniture Men

Layout 2
​The Furniture Men
THESE hang out mainly in the furniture-room and the stores, where are gathered together thrones rather the worse for wear, rustic settees, Louis XV and Louis XVI furniture with torn coverings, antique couches, Gothic altars, cupboards, what-nots, hearths and coffins, and in a word everything that people ever sat on, eat at, and lie down upon. Only that an antique couch is not called an antique couch, but “that sofa that figured in Quo Vadis”; a Louis XVI suite is known briefly as “those settees that played in The Statesman’s Trial,” or some other play. Every piece of furniture the theatre possesses has such a name; just as in the wardrobe there hangs “the coat that Mr. Bittner wore in The Bullies,” or may be ​found “those top-boots that played in Otheller.”
# How a play is produced/The Wardrobe Men and Women

Layout 2
​The Wardrobe Men and Women
THEY live either in the tailors’ shops and the unending wardrobes, or in the actors’ dressing-rooms.
From such a wardrobe you might clothe the entire garrison of Prague, of course in a somewhat heterogeneous fashion. There hang thirty Roman senators, a dozen monks, four cardinals, one pope, fifty Roman legionaries complete with helmets and swords, twenty men from Chodsko, seven bailiffs, two or three headsmen, a few Onegins, knights of velvet and silk, and Spanish knights with pumpkin breeches, further whole bushels of shepherds’ and musketeers’ broad-brimmed hats, scores of tall pointed caps and shakos, lambskin caps and Boyars’ fur caps, heaps of pointed shoes, riding-boots, turn-down boots, sandals, tall ​boots and Spanish boots, swords, sabres, cutlasses, rapiers, and daggers, belts and straps, harness, ruffs, epaulettes and scarves, armour and shields, tights, hides, furs and brocades, leathern breeches, shirts and dominos, Atillas and Bohemian jackets; an ​immeasurable and worthless collection, in which there is everything, but never what is required. In days gone by, the articles in this collection used to be sewn of good, valuable materials; now they are fabricated from paper, lining-material, or sacking, daubed and sprinkled with colours, and there you are. My word, how they look at close quarters!
The wardrobe men, too, bear their own special relation to the play. “That’s nothing of a piece,” they will say, “there are no changes of clothes in it!”
# How a play is produced/Miscellaneous People

Layout 2
​Miscellaneous People
FURTHER we find the mechanic and the boiler-man, the cleaners, and then, as a rule, an elderly man, known as Mr. Novotny or something of the sort. No one knows why he is there or what is his business, and he usually goes to fetch beer. And then some people in the basement, whom no one has ever seen. And even now I am sure to have forgotten some one or other. For the theatre is a highly complex affair, and as yet it has never been analysed.