The Cry of Alresca

It was not a passage; it was a tunnel. I followed the sound of his
footsteps, my hands outstretched to feel a wall on either side. It
seemed a long way, but suddenly we stepped into twilight. There was a
flight of steps which we descended, and at the foot of the steps a
mutilated commissionaire, ornamented with medals, on guard.

"Where is Monsieur Alresca?" Sir Cyril demanded.

"Behind the back-cloth, where he fell, sir," answered the
commissionaire, saluting.

I hurried after Sir Cyril, and found myself amid a most extraordinary
scene of noise and confusion on the immense stage. The entire
personnel of the house seemed to be present: a crowd apparently
consisting of thousands of people, and which really did comprise some
hundreds. Never before had I had such a clear conception of the
elaborate human machinery necessary to the production of even a
comparatively simple lyric work like "Lohengrin." Richly clad pages
and maids of honor, all white and gold and rouge, mingled with
shirt-sleeved carpenters and scene-shifters in a hysterical rabble;
chorus-masters, footmen in livery, loungers in evening dress, girls in
picture hats, members of the orchestra with instruments under their
arms, and even children, added variety to the throng. And, round
about, gigantic "flats" of wood and painted canvas rose to the flies,
where their summits were lost in a maze of ropes and pulleys. Beams of
light, making visible great clouds of dust, shot forth from hidden
sources. Voices came down from the roof, and from far below ascended
the steady pulsation of a dynamo. I was bewildered.