The Making Of A Novelist: An Experiment In AutobiographyMurray, David Christie
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The Making Of A Novelist: An Experiment In Autobiography
Murray, David Christie
Murray, David Christie, 1847-1907; Novelists, English -- 19th century -- Biography
We played all through the principal towns, and then we took to
bush-whacking, setting up one or two night stands in places rarely
visited by a theatrical company; and I believe that the business done in
these small places was almost always highly satisfactory from a monetary
point of view. Some of the villages we visited--for they were nothing
more--yielded fuller houses and realised better profits than we found
always in the capitals. I remember that we played once in a schoolroom
built of corrugated iron and without a vestige of scenery. We put on
'Chums;' and the settler's parlour, the forest scene, and the outer view
of the Otago homestead were each and all represented with the help of
a green baize cloth, which hung at the rear and on either side of the
stage, three upturned petroleum tins, three chairs, a tub, and a little
oblong deal table with red legs. We had a stage space of about four
yards by three. I played Square Jack Furlong; and in the last act my
revolver hung fire and exploded a second or two too late, when it was
unfortunately and accidentally levelled at the back of the leading man's
head. The waxen pellet which packed the powder hit him smartly on the
philoprogenitive bump, and he swore audibly.
A revolver is always a nuisance on the stage and a terror to the actor
who has to use it. You may buy the best weapon in the trade, you may
have your cartridges made with the utmost care; but there will always
be a chance of its missing fire. You may have a double in the wings, of
course, but even that provides no surety. I have known my own revolver
and the double refuse duty at the same instant, and have faced the
moaned inquiry of the leading man, who ought to have been stretched out
in apparent death throes, 'What the devil's going to happen now?' To
make matters better, when I had thrown away the useless weapon with an
improvised execration and was about to hurl myself upon the virtuous
victim, the pistol in the wings obeyed the pressure of the prompter's
finger, and the leading man dropped to a shot from nowhere, to the great
mystification of the audience.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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