a manner that he requires an actor who can sing, dance, be funny, and
carry a love interest. When the time comes to cast the piece, he finds
that the only possible man in sight wants fifteen hundred a week and,
anyway, is signed up for the next five years with the rival syndicate.
He is then faced with the alternative of revising his play to suit
either: a) Jones, who can sing and dance, but is not funny; b) Smith,
who is funny, but cannot sing and dance; c) Brown, who is funny and
can sing and dance, but who cannot carry a love-interest and, through
working in revue, has developed a habit of wandering down to the
footlights and chatting with the audience. Whichever actor is given
the job, it means more rewriting.
Overcome this difficulty, and another arises. Certain scenes are
constructed so that A gets a laugh at the expense of B; but B is a
five-hundred-a-week comedian and A is a two-hundred-a-week juvenile,
and B refuses to "play straight" even for an instant for a social
inferior. The original line is such that it cannot be simply switched
from one to the other. The scene has to be entirely reconstructed and
further laugh lines thought of. Multiply this by a hundred, and you
will begin to understand why, when you see a librettist, he is
generally lying on his back on the sidewalk with a crowd standing
round, saying, "Give him air."
So, do not grudge the librettist his thousand a week or whatever it
is. Remember what he has suffered and consider his emotions on the
morning after the production when he sees lines which he invented at
the cost of permanently straining his brain, attributed by the critics
to the impromptu invention of the leading comedian. Of all the saddest
words of tongue or pen, the saddest--to a musical comedy author--are
these in the morning paper: "The bulk of the humor was sustained by
Walter Wiffle, who gagged his way merrily through the piece."
ON THE WRITING OF LYRICS
The musical comedy lyric is an interesting survival of the days, long
since departed, when poets worked. As everyone knows, the only real
obstacle in the way of turning out poetry by the mile was the fact
that you had to make the darned stuff rhyme.
Many lyricists rhyme as they pronounce, and their pronunciation is
simply horrible. They can make "home" rhyme with "alone," and "saw"
with "more," and go right off and look their innocent children in the
eye without a touch of shame.
But let us not blame the erring lyricist too much. It isn't his fault
that he does these things. It is the fault of the English language.
Whoever invented the English language must have been a prose-writer,
not a versifier; for he has made meagre provision for the poets.
Indeed, the word "you" is almost the only decent chance he has given
them. You can do something with a word like "you." It rhymes with
"sue," "eyes of blue," "woo," and all sorts of succulent things,
easily fitted into the fabric of a lyric. And it has the enormous
advantage that it can be repeated thrice at the end of a refrain when
the composer has given you those three long notes, which is about all
a composer ever thinks of. When a composer hands a lyricist a "dummy"
for a song, ending thus,
Tiddley-tum, tiddley-tum,
Pom-pom-pom, pom-pom-pom,
Tum, tum, tum,
the lyricist just shoves down "You, you, you" for the last line, and
then sets to work to fit the rest of the words to it. I have dwelled
on this, for it is noteworthy as the only bright spot in a lyricist's
life, the only real cinch the poor man has.
But take the word "love."
When the board of directors, or whoever it was, was arranging the
language, you would have thought that, if they had had a spark of pity
in their systems, they would have tacked on to that emotion of
thoughts of which the young man's fancy lightly turns in spring, some
word ending in an open vowel. They must have known that lyricists
would want to use whatever word they selected as a label for the
above-mentioned emotion far more frequently than any other word in the
language. It wasn't much to ask of them to choose a word capable of
numerous rhymes. But no, they went and made it "love," causing vast
misery to millions.
"Love" rhymes with "dove," "glove," "above," and "shove." It is true
that poets who print their stuff instead of having it sung take a mean
advantage by ringing in words like "prove" and "move"; but the
lyricist is not allowed to do that. This is the wretched unfairness of
the lyricist's lot. The language gets him both ways. It won't let him
rhyme "love" with "move," and it won't let him rhyme "maternal" with
"colonel." If he tries the first course, he is told that the rhyme,
though all right for the eye, is wrong for the ear. If he tries the
second course, they say that the rhyme, though more or less
ninety-nine percent pure for the ear, falls short when tested by the
eye. And, when he is driven back on one of the regular, guaranteed
rhymes, he is taunted with triteness of phrase.
No lyricist wants to keep linking "love" with "skies above" and
"turtle dove," but what can he do? You can't do a thing with "shove";
and "glove" is one of those aloof words which are not good mixers.
And--mark the brutality of the thing--there is no word you can
substitute for "love." It is just as if they did it on purpose.
"Home" is another example. It is the lyricist's staff of life. But all
he can do is to roam across the foam, if he wants to use it. He can
put in "Nome," of course, as a pinch-hitter in special crises, but
very seldom; with the result that his poetic soul, straining at its
bonds, goes and uses "alone," "bone," "tone," and "thrown," exciting
hoots of derision.
But it is not only the paucity of rhymes that sours the lyricist's
life. He is restricted in his use of material, as well. If every
audience to which a musical comedy is destined to play were a
metropolitan audience, all might be well; but there is the "road" to
consider. And even a metropolitan audience likes its lyrics as much as
possible in the language of everyday. That is one of the thousand
reasons why new Gilberts do not arise. Gilbert had the advantage of
being a genius, but he had the additional advantage of writing for a
public which permitted him to use his full vocabulary, and even to
drop into foreign languages, even Latin and a little Greek when he
felt like it. (I allude to that song in "The Grand Duke.")
And yet the modern lyricist, to look on the bright side, has
advantages that Gilbert never had. Gilbert never realised the
possibilities of Hawaii, with its admirably named beaches, shores, and
musical instruments. Hawaii--capable as it is of being rhymed with
"higher"--has done much to sweeten the lot--and increase the annual
income of an industrious and highly respectable but down-trodden class
of the community.
THE PAST THEATRICAL SEASON
And the Six Best Performances
by Unstarred Actors
What lessons do we draw from the past theatrical season?
In the first place, the success of _The Wanderer_ proves that the
day of the small and intimate production is over and that what the
public wants is the large spectacle. In the second place, the success
of _Oh, Boy!_--(I hate to refer to it, as I am one of the trio
who perpetrated it; but, honestly, we're simply turning them away in
droves, and Rockefeller has to touch Morgan for a bit if he wants to
buy a ticket from the speculators)--proves that the day of the large
spectacle is over and that what the public wants is the small and
intimate production.
Then, the capacity business done by _The Thirteenth Chair_ shows
clearly that what the proletariat demands nowadays, is the plotty
piece and that the sun of the bright dialogue comedy has set; while
the capacity business done by _A Successful Calamity_ shows
clearly that the number of the plotty piece is up.
You will all feel better and more able to enjoy yourselves now that a
trained critical mind has put you right on this subtle point.
No review of a theatrical season would be complete without a tabulated
list--or even an untabulated one--of the six best performances by
unstarred actors during the past season.
The present past season--that is to say, the past season which at
present is the last season--has been peculiarly rich in hot efforts by
all sorts of performers. My own choice would be: 1. Anna Wheaton, in
_Oh, Boy!_ 2. Marie Carroll, in the piece at the Princess
Theatre. 3. Edna May Oliver, in Comstock and Elliott's new musical
comedy. 4. Tom Powers, in the show on the south side of 39th Street.
5. Hal Forde, in the successor to _Very Good, Eddie_. 6. Stephen
Maley, in _Oh, Boy!_
You would hardly credit the agony it gives me to allude, even in
passing, to the above musical melange, but one must be honest to one's
public. In case there may be any who dissent from my opinion, I append
a supplementary list of those entitled to honorable mention: 1. The
third sheep from the O. P. side in _The Wanderer_. 2. The trick
lamp in _Magic_. 3. The pink pajamas in _You're in Love_. 4.
The knife in _The Thirteenth Chair_. 5. The Confused Noise
Without in _The Great Divide_. 6. Jack Merritt's hair in _Oh,
Boy!_
There were few discoveries among the dramatists. Of the older
playwrights, Barrie produced a new one and an ancient one, but the
Shakespeare boom, so strong last year, petered out. There seems no
doubt that the man, in spite of a flashy start, had not the stuff. I
understand that some of his things are doing fairly well on the road.
Clare Kummer, whose "Dearie" I have so frequently sung in my bath, to
the annoyance of all, suddenly turned right round, dropped
song-writing, and ripped a couple of hot ones right over the plate.
Mr. Somerset Maugham succeeded in shocking Broadway so that the
sidewalks were filled with blushing ticket-speculators.
Most of the critics have done good work during this season. As for
myself, I have guided the public mind in this magazine soundly and
with few errors. If it were not for the fact that nearly all the plays
I praised died before my review appeared, while the ones I said would
not run a week are still packing them in, I could look back to a
flawless season.
As you can see, I have had a very pleasant theatrical season. The
weather was uniformly fine on the nights when I went to the theatre. I
was particularly fortunate in having neighbors at most of the plays
who were not afflicted with coughs or a desire to explain the plot to
their wives. I have shaken hands with A. L. Erlanger and been nodded
to on the street by Lee Shubert. I have broadened my mind by travel on
the road with a theatrical company, with the result that, if you want
to get me out of New York, you will have to use dynamite.
Take it for all in all, a most satisfactory season, full of pregnant
possibilities--and all that sort of thing.
POEMS
DAMON AND PYTHIAS
A Romance
Since Earth was first created,
Since Time began to fly,
No friends were e'er so mated,
So firm as JONES and I.
Since primal Man was fashioned
To people ice and stones,
No pair, I ween, had ever been
Such chums as I and JONES.
In fair and foulest weather,
Beginning when but boys,
We faced our woes together,
We shared each other's joys.
Together, sad or merry,
We acted hand in glove,
Until--'twas careless, very--
I chanced to fall in love.
The lady's points to touch on,
Her name was JULIA WHITE,
Her lineage high, her scutcheon
Untarnished; manners, bright;
Complexion, soft and creamy;
Her hair, of golden hue;
Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy,
In colour, greyish blue.
For her I sighed, I panted;
I saw her in my dreams;
I vowed, protested, ranted;
I sent her chocolate creams.
Until methought one morning
I seemed to hear a voice,
A still, small voice of warning.
"Does JONES approve your choice?"
To JONES of my affection
I spoke that very night.
If he had no objection,
I said I'd wed Miss WHITE.
I asked him for his blessing,
But, turning rather blue,
He said: "It's most distressing,
But _I_ adore her, too."
"Then, JONES," I answered, sobbing,
"My wooing's at an end,
I couldn't think of robbing
My best, my only friend.
The notion makes me furious--
I'd much prefer to die."
"Perhaps you'll think it curious,"
Said JONES, "but so should I."
Nor he nor I would falter
In our resolve one jot.
I bade him seek the altar,
He vowed that he would not.
"She's yours, old fellow. Make her
As happy as you can."
"Not so," said I, "you take her--
You are the lucky man."
At length--the situation
Had lasted now a year--
I had an inspiration,
Which seemed to make things clear.
"Supposing," I suggested,
"We ask Miss WHITE to choose?
I should be interested
To hear her private views.
"Perhaps she has a preference--
I own it sounds absurd--
But I submit, with deference,
That she might well be heard.
In clear, commercial diction
The case in point we'll state,
Disclose the cause of friction,
And leave the rest to Fate."
We did, and on the morrow
The postman brought us news.
Miss WHITE expressed her sorrow
At having to refuse.
Of all her many reasons
This seemed to me the pith:
Six months before (or rather more)
She'd married Mr. SMITH.
THE HAUNTED TRAM
Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court,
Ghosts of the Castle Keep.
Ghosts of the finicking, "high-life" sort
Are growing a trifle cheap.
But here is a spook of another stamp,
No thin, theatrical sham,
But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp:
He rides on a London tram.
By the curious glance of a mortal eye
He is not seen. He's heard.
His steps go a-creeping, creeping by,
He speaks but a single word.
You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain,
For--it's odd in a ghost--they crunch.
You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain,
And the ting of his ringing punch.
The gathering shadows of night fall fast;
The lamps in the street are lit;
To the roof have the eerie footsteps passed,
Where the outside passengers sit.
To the passenger's side has the spectre paced;
For a moment he halts, they say,
Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist,
And the footsteps pass away.
That is the tale of the haunted car;
And if on that car you ride
You won't, believe me, have journeyed far
Ere the spectre seeks your side.
Ay, all unseen by your seat he'll stand,
And (unless it's a wig) your hair
Will rise at the touch of his icy hand,
And the sound of his whispered "Fare!"
At the end of the trip, when you're getting down
(And you'll probably simply fly!)
Just give the conductor half-a-crown,
Ask who is the ghost and why.
And the man will explain with bated breath
(And point you a moral) thus:
"'E's a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death
By people as fought
As they didn't ought
For seats on a crowded bus."
STORIES
WHEN PAPA SWORE IN HINDUSTANI
"Sylvia!"
"Yes, papa."
"That infernal dog of yours----"
"Oh, papa!"
"Yes, that infernal dog of yours has been at my carnations again!"
Colonel Reynolds, V.C., glared sternly across the table at Miss Sylvia
Reynolds, and Miss Sylvia Reynolds looked in a deprecatory manner back
at Colonel Reynolds, V.C.; while the dog in question--a foppish
pug--happening to meet the colonel's eye in transit, crawled
unostentatiously under the sideboard, and began to wrestle with a bad
conscience.
"Oh, naughty Tommy!" said Miss Reynolds mildly, in the direction of
the sideboard.
"Yes, my dear," assented the colonel; "and if you could convey to him
the information that if he does it once more--yes, just once more!--I
shall shoot him on the spot you would be doing him a kindness." And
the colonel bit a large crescent out of his toast, with all the energy
and conviction of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind. "At six
o'clock this morning," continued he, in a voice of gentle melancholy,
"I happened to look out of my bedroom window, and saw him. He had then
destroyed two of my best plants, and was commencing on a third, with
every appearance of self-satisfaction. I threw two large brushes and a
boot at him."
"Oh, papa! They didn't hit him?"
"No, my dear, they did not. The brushes missed him by several yards,
and the boot smashed a fourth carnation. However, I was so fortunate
as to attract his attention, and he left off."
"I can't think what makes him do it. I suppose it's bones. He's got
bones buried all over the garden."
"Well, if he does it again, you'll find that there will be a few more
bones buried in the garden!" said the colonel grimly; and he subsided
into his paper.
Sylvia loved the dog partly for its own sake, but principally for that
of the giver, one Reginald Dallas, whom it had struck at an early
period of their acquaintance that he and Miss Sylvia Reynolds were
made for one another. On communicating this discovery to Sylvia
herself he had found that her views upon the subject were identical
with his own; and all would have gone well had it not been for a
melancholy accident.
One day while out shooting with the colonel, with whom he was doing
his best to ingratiate himself, with a view to obtaining his consent
to the match, he had allowed his sporting instincts to carry him away
to such a degree that, in sporting parlance, he wiped his eye badly.
Now, the colonel prided himself with justice on his powers as a shot;
but on this particular day he had a touch of liver, which resulted in
his shooting over the birds, and under the birds, and on each side of
the birds, but very rarely at the birds. Dallas being in especially
good form, it was found, when the bag came to be counted, that, while
he had shot seventy brace, the colonel had only managed to secure five
and a half!
His bad marksmanship destroyed the last remnant of his temper. He
swore for half an hour in Hindustani, and for another half-hour in
English. After that he felt better. And when, at the end of dinner,
Sylvia came to him with the absurd request that she might marry Mr.
Reginald Dallas he did not have a fit, but merely signified in fairly
moderate terms his entire and absolute refusal to think of such a
thing.
This had happened a month before, and the pug, which had changed hands
in the earlier days of the friendship, still remained, at the imminent
risk of its life, to soothe Sylvia and madden her father.
It was generally felt that the way to find favour in the eyes of
Sylvia--which were a charming blue, and well worth finding favour
in--was to show an intelligent and affectionate interest in her dog.
This was so up to a certain point; but no farther, for the mournful
recollection of Mr. Dallas prevented her from meeting their advances
in quite the spirit they could have wished.
However, they persevered, and scarcely a week went by in which Thomas
was not rescued from an artfully arranged horrible fate by somebody.
But all their energy was in reality wasted, for Sylvia remembered her
faithful Reggie, who corresponded vigorously every day, and refused to
be put off with worthless imitations. The lovesick swains, however,
could not be expected to know of this, and the rescuing of Tommy
proceeded briskly, now one, now another, playing the rĂ´le of hero.
The very day after the conversation above recorded had taken place a
terrible tragedy occurred.
The colonel, returning from a poor day's shooting, observed through
the mist that was beginning to rise a small form busily engaged in
excavating in the precious carnation-bed. Slipping in a cartridge, he
fired; and the skill which had deserted him during the day came back
to him. There was a yelp; then silence. And Sylvia, rushing out from
the house, found the luckless Thomas breathing his last on a heap of
uprooted carnations.
The news was not long in spreading. The cook told the postman, and the
postman thoughtfully handed it on to the servants at the rest of the
houses on his round. By noon it was public property; and in the
afternoon, at various times from two to five, nineteen young men were
struck, quite independently of one another, with a brilliant idea.
The results of this idea were apparent on the following day.
"Is this all?" asked the colonel of the servant, as she brought in a
couple of letters at breakfast-time.
"There's a hamper for Miss Sylvia, sir."
"A hamper, is there? Well, bring it in."
"If you please, sir, there's several of them."
"What? Several? How many are there?"
"Nineteen, sir," said Mary, restraining with some difficulty an
inclination to giggle.
"Eh? What? Nineteen? Nonsense! Where are they?"
"We've put them in the coachhouse for the present, sir. And if you
please, sir, cook says she thinks there's something alive in them."
"Something alive?"
"Yes, sir. And John says he thinks it's dogs, sir!"
The colonel uttered a sound that was almost a bark, and, followed by
Sylvia, rushed to the coachhouse. There, sure enough, as far as the
eye could reach, were the hampers; and, as they looked, a sound
proceeded from one of them that was unmistakably the plaintive note of
a dog that has been shut up, and is getting tired of it.
Instantly the other eighteen hampers joined in, until the whole
coachhouse rang with the noise.
The colonel subsided against a wall, and began to express himself
softly in Hindustani.
"Poor dears!" said Sylvia. "How stuffy they must be feeling!"
She ran to the house, and returned with a basin of water.
"Poor dears!" she said again. "You'll soon have something to drink."
She knelt down by the nearest hamper, and cut the cord that fastened
it. A pug jumped out like a jack-in-the-box, and rushed to the water.
Sylvia continued her work of mercy, and by the time the colonel had
recovered sufficiently to be able to express his views in English,
eighteen more pugs had joined their companion.
"Get out, you brute!" shouted the colonel, as a dog insinuated itself
between his legs. "Sylvia, put them back again this minute! You had no
business to let them out. Put them back!"
"But I can't, papa. I can't catch them."
She looked helplessly from him to the seething mass of dogs, and back
again.
"Where's my gun?" began the colonel.
"Papa, don't! You couldn't be so cruel! They aren't doing any harm,
poor things!"
"If I knew who sent them----"
"Perhaps there's something to show. Yes; here's a visiting-card in
this hamper."
"Whose is it?" bellowed the colonel through the din.
"J. D'Arcy Henderson, The Firs," read Sylvia, at the top of her voice.
"Young blackguard!" bawled the colonel.
"I expect there's one in each of the hampers. Yes; here's another. W.
K. Ross, The Elms."
The colonel came across, and began to examine the hampers with his own
hand. Each hamper contained a visiting-card, and each card bore the
name of a neighbour. The colonel returned to the breakfast-room, and
laid the nineteen cards out in a row on the table.
"H'm!" he said, at last. "Mr. Reginald Dallas does not seem to be
represented."
Sylvia said nothing.
"No; he seems not to be represented. I did not give him credit for so
much sense." Then he dropped the subject, and breakfast proceeded in
silence.
A young gentleman met the colonel on his walk that morning.
"Morning, colonel!" said he.
"Good-morning!" said the colonel grimly.
"Er--colonel, I--er--suppose Miss Reynolds got that dog all right?"
"To which dog do you refer?"
"It was a pug, you know. It ought to have arrived by this time."
"Yes. I am inclined to think it has. Had it any special
characteristics?"
"No, I don't think so. Just an ordinary pug."
"Well, young man, if you will go to my coachhouse, you will find
nineteen ordinary pugs; and if you would kindly select your beast, and
shoot it, I should be much obliged."
"Nineteen?" said the other, in astonishment. "Why, are you setting up
as a dog-fancier in your old age, colonel?"
This was too much for the colonel. He exploded.
"Old age! Confound your impudence! Dog-fancier! No, sir! I have not
become a dog-fancier in what you are pleased to call my old age! But
while there is no law to prevent a lot of dashed young puppies like
yourself, sir--like yourself--sending your confounded pug-dogs to my
daughter, who ought to have known better than to have let them out of
their dashed hampers, I have no defence.
"Dog-fancier! Gad! Unless those dogs are removed by this time
to-morrow, sir, they will go straight to the Battersea Home, where I
devoutly trust they will poison them. Here are the cards of the other
gentlemen who were kind enough to think that I might wish to set up
for a dog-fancier in my old age. Perhaps you will kindly return them
to their owners, and tell them what I have just said." And he strode
off, leaving the young man in a species of trance.
"Sylvia!" said the colonel, on arriving home.
"Yes, papa."
"Do you still want to marry that Dallas fellow? Now, for Heaven's
sake, don't start crying! Goodness knows I've been worried enough this
morning without that. Please answer a plain question in a fairly sane
manner. Do you, or do you not?"
"Of course I do, papa."
"Then you may. He's the furthest from being a fool of any of the young
puppies who live about here, and he knows one end of a gun from the
other. I'll write to him now."
"Dear Dallas" (wrote the colonel),--"I find, on consideration,
that you are the only sensible person in the neighbourhood. I hope
you will come to lunch to-day. And if you still want to marry
my daughter, you may."