Even the conscientious and
thoroughly-prepared actor is apt to be disconcerted when he hears the
flutter of leaves being turned over in the theatre, and discovers that
his speeches are being followed, line for line and word for word, by
critics armed with the author's text. On such occasions his memory is
much inclined to play him false, and a sudden nervousness will often
mar his best efforts. But, to the gagging player, a sense that his
sins and failings are in this way liable to strict note and discovery,
is grievously depressing. Some years ago a strolling company visited
Andover, and courageously undertook to represent an admired comedy,
with which they could boast but the very faintest acquaintance.
Scarcely an actor, indeed, knew a syllable of his part. It was agreed
that gag must be the order of the night, and that the performance must
be "got through" anyhow. But the manager, eyeing and counting his
house through the usual peephole in the curtain, perceived a gentleman
in the boxes holding in his hands a printed copy of the play. The
alarm of the company became extreme.
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