Evening Star Newspaper, December 8, 1929, Page 98

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, DECEMBER 8 1929, Prima Donnas in Street Clothes, Bald Tenors in Business Suits and Directors in Gol g Go Through Arias Sweaters and Choruses Be- fore an Empty Diamond Horse- shoe, When Morn- ing Rehearsals Start. WORDS BY GILBERT SW AN. Sketches by George Clark. T IS late in the morning. Just outside in Broadway the lunch crowd is beginning to scurry about in search of handy eating places. Within the venerable walls of the Metropolitan Opera House the old-fashioned glitter is lost in blackness After a time it seems to become a yawning giant, with the famous “diamond horseshoe” as the lower jaw. Only the stage is lighted. There is a work- aday barrenness about it. A few props have taken the place of the usually elaborate stage sets. The props do not match. Upon one small section of the stage is a mountain cave and a square which will one day become the well in “The Sunken Bell.” Left stage is a Western cabin, only partially built. It is a fragment from “The Girl of the Golden West.” The whole scene is as completely stripped of illusion as a chorus girl without her make-up. It is rehearsal time at the “Met”"—that shrine of musical tradition in America. The scatter- ing of sets is made necessary by the fact that several operas are to be rehearsed before the limousines draw up: before the lights give sparkling glamour to the curve of gilt boxes; be- fore the hypnotics of costume, make-up and costume are casting their spell over a vast crowd which swells from the first row to the topmost gallery. But at rehearsal time all the suggestion of . crowds and romance are gone. The background of the “Met” is blotted out by great patches of shadows. 'HE orchestra pit seems, somehow, like a semi-circle of misty lights in a fog. Only the director stands out, thanks to a particularly large “flood” lamp, which makes it possible for the musicians to watch his baton in the half light of the surroundings. Perched upon his box, the director—strippea of his magic wand and his rapt expression— might be a business man on his way to a golf course. He is wearing an ornately figured golf sweater. A large handkerchief is in his left hand and from time to time he stops to wipe the perspiration from his face. Half the or- chestra has discarded coats and sits playing in shirt sleeves and suspenders. This atmosphere of hard work jumps the or- chestra pit and floods over on the stage. The hard-working tenor wears a double- breasted business suit. He is partly bald; his hair fringes the barren spot in the shape®f the golden horseshoe of the theater. For half an hour he has been going patiently through the same scene, buttoning and unbuttoning the coat, which fits tightly over a bulging waist- line. There is a general robustness about all the performers, who cross and recross the barren backstage. A tall, slender man, who turns out to be the stage director, walks silently along a gangplank which falls out into the audience. Now and then he hurriedly rushes onstage to make suggestions. In his wake run a couple of “prop” boys carrying drapes. Like picadors at a bull fight they wave their drapes about, ready to drop them when the tenor falls to his knees before a robust lady in a street suit. Backstage Jeritza walks past, with her kit- ten and two dolls. She generally arrives at rehearsals leading a tiny kitten. Each year it’s a new one. Don't ask why. Backstage, too, stands Martinelli, with a shock of hair such as is to be found nowhere elsz on land or sea. Mme. Rethberg, who happens to be the blonde lady in the street dress, finds little in- spiration at rehearsals. She needs the billow- On the Metropolitan stage during a morning rehearsal. ng mass of faces to bring out her best. Leav- ing the stage, she stops to confide that rehear- sals to her are not a test of a question of memory of lines entrances and of stage positions. to sing her best, but the barren her somewhat. Meanwhile, a young woman walks in and ol of the “Golden West” cabin, studying her en- trances. Meanwhile, too, another portly gent practices drawing a dirk from his belt. while, also, a bored stage hand stands leaning against a wing, juggling a monkey wrench and & screwdriver. Now and then he yawns or makes a playful pass at some famous operatic star with one of his implements. NO ONE seems to give the slightest attention to what any one else may be doing. Half a dozen personalities, whose faces one does not recognize in street clothes, stop casually to talk in whispers at an unused corner of the stage. Gladys Swarthout, the new soprano, who will get her big opportunity this season, hesitates at the very edge of the footlights to open a letter, seemingly fearful that the tearing of the paper will make some disturbing noise. Suddenly the great Tullio Serafin, disguised by the sport sweater, stops his orchestra for a moment to call attention to some faulty inter- pretation of aria. Suddenly, also, Lawrence Tibbett arrives, pre- pared to go on. Tibbett is dressed in the best traditions of Hollywood, plus Jimmy Walker. His well tailored coat is tight-fitting and swanky. The fact is that he is but recently re- turned from talkie-land. He might easily pass for a fashion model if met upon Fifth avenue. Scotti, whose name has resounded across the Natbnmdwumew.mutopeeplt what is going on and then retires to his dress~ ing room to read a paper. Upon Scotti’s dress- ing table, by the way, there is a large framed photograph of a charming lady. It is his mother. Wherever Scotti goes, this picture follows him. And there is the plump Tedesco, who was popping in and out of the well at the begin- ning of the rehearsal. . He has an amusing A canopied dug-out conceals the all- important prompter from the illusion- loving audience. Music amid a tangle of ropes and scenery. “Manon.” As a matter of fact, most of these artists know their “books” by heart. But it is the rule of the Metropolitan that rehearsals must go on Jjust the same. No opera is presented, however many times it may have been sung by the great stars, without another try-out. BACKSTAGI, all of a sudden, several things begin to happen. The bored stage car- penter puts down his tools and props up a stepladder. The orchestra stops and several of the musicians leave their pits. The conductor leaves his stand and starts backstage. The time has come to pick up the “offstage™ music. Few are the operas but require some “music offstage.” And few are the audiences that know how this is produced. The disillusioning truth is that a director happens to be perched upon a stepladder. His position is precarious, but necessary. For he must peer through a peephole to see what the leader is doing In the orchestra beyond the stage. It would be fatal if the offstage music were started at the wrong moment. And so, with one eye fastened to the peep- hole, and his baton ready for action, the con- ductor nimbly shifts his eye from the score be= fore him to the “look-see” opening. Meanwhile, his well trained ear tells him that his moment s near. Banked on a series of steps are his few musicians. Just beyond and behind a doorway leads to & land of intricate levers and switches. This is the domain of the stage electrician. A quar- tet of men sit tensely upon high stools, each commanding & small army of intricate-looking levers. With these the stage is dimmed, dark= ened or lighted; with these a flood bursts sud- denly upon a certain corner of the stage or fades away into a gloomy nocturne. They are guided by a series of master sige nals. Beyond the range of voices and opera scores, the work becomes largely mechanical. Hands are tuned to each switch, according to the signal received. Over all reigns the versatile Gatti-Casazza, who in rehearsal time knows all and sees all without leaving the cluttered, snug office in another section of the building. As major-domo of the Metropolitan he ar- rives only at the proper and psychological mo- ments. Otherwise he seems busy with a dozen matters, while keeping in touch with the stage by means of a muted loudspeaker. Peering from an obscure backstage spot toward the vast black mass where the audience will sit, it becomes difficult to repress a chuckle, For two canopied openings appear, like ships® funnels. And in each of these funnels is a face. From any point in the audience they are obe scured, but from the stage itself they are all- important and ever present. For here perch the prompters, and the best stars that ever sang a note have moments when a prompter comes in handy, particularly at the beginning of a season. . The manner in which the faces of the prompters are framed makes them appear ale most ludicrous. Cut off as they are, it is as though some strange pantomime were taking place, with two heads bobbing about at stage level. One of the faces is that of an elderly Continued on Seventh Page