“It is a strain, isn’t it, Jocelyn? You get used to it after a few first-nights.”
Jarvis nodded, wetting his dry lips with a nervous tongue.
The curtain went down and came up. The first act began. Bambi scarcely breathed. Jarvis could be heard all over the house. The first part of the act hitched along and had to be repeated; the stage manager came out and scolded, while Mr. Frohman called directions from the front. Bambi turned to Jarvis.
“It’s going to be a failure,” she said.
“Oh, don’t say that!” he fairly groaned.
“Don’t be discouraged!” said Mr. Frohman, noting their despairing looks. “Dress rehearsals are usually the limit.”
“But it can’t go like this, and succeed,” Bambi wailed.
“Don’t you worry. It won’t go like this.”
The night wore on, miserably, for the authors. Everything had to be done over—lines were forgotten—everybody was in a nervous stew.
“The awful part of it is that we’ve done all we can do,” moaned Bambi. “If they ruin it, we can’t prevent them.”
