(_A SKETCH AT ANY THEATRE ON MOST AFTERNOONS._)
SCENE--_The Front of the House. In the Boxes and Dress-circle
are friends and relations of the_ Author. _In the Stalls are a
couple of Stray Critics who leave early, actors and actresses
"resting" more friends and relations. In the Pit, the front
row is filled by the_ Author's _domestic servants, the
landladies of several of the performers, and a theatrical
charwoman or two, behind them a sprinkling of the general
public, whose time apparently hangs heavily on their hands.
In a Stage-box is the_ Author _herself, with a sycophantic_
Companion. _A murky gloom pervades the Auditorium; a scratch
orchestra is playing a lame and tuneless Schottische for
the second time, to compensate for a little delay of fifteen
minutes between the first and second Tableaux in the Second
Act. The orchestra ceases, and a Checktaker at the Pit door
whistles "Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!" Some restless spirits stamp
feebly._
[Illustration: "Sir, a roughly-dressed stranger ... requests a few
words."]
_The Author._ I wish they would be a _little_ quicker. I've a good
mind to go behind myself and hurry them up. The audience are beginning
to get impatient.
_Her Companion._ But that shows how _interested_ they are, _doesn't_
it, dear?
_Author._ I think it _ought_ to interest them, but I _did_ expect they
would have shown a little more enthusiasm over that situation in the
last _tableau_--they're rather a _cold_ audience!
_Comp._ It's above their heads, dear, that's where it is--plays are
such rubbish nowadays, people don't appreciate a really _great_ drama
just at first. I do hope Mr. IRVING, Mr. HARE and Mr. BEERBOHM TREE
will come in--I'm sure they'll be only too _anxious_ to secure it!
_Author._ I don't know that I should care for it to come out at the
Lyceum, but of course if the terms were very--oh, they're beginning
at last! I hope this light comedy scene will go well. (_Curtain
rises: Comic dialogue--nothing whatever to do with the plot--between a
Footman and a Matinée Maidservant in short sleeves, a lace tucker, and
a diamond necklace; depression of audience. Serious characters enter
and tell one another long and irrelevant stories, all about nothing.
When the auditor remarks,_ "Your story is indeed a sad one--but go
on," _a shudder goes through the house, which becomes a groan ten
minutes later when the listener says:_ "You have told me _your_
history--now hear _mine_!" _He tells it; it proves, if possible,
duller and more irrelevant than the other man's. A love-scene follows,
characterised by all the sparkle and brilliancy of "Temperance
Champagne"; the House witnesses the fall of the Curtain with apathy._)
_Author._ That love-scene was perfectly _ruined_ by the acting! She
_ought_ to have turned her head aside when he said, "Dash the teapot!"
but she never _did_, and he left out _all_ that about dreaming of her
when he was ill with measles in Mashonaland! I wish they wouldn't have
such long waits, though. We timed the piece at rehearsal, and, with
the cuts I made, it only played about four hours; but I'm afraid it
will take longer than that to-day.
_Comp._ I don't care _how_ long it is--it's so _beautifully_ written!
_Author._ Well, I put my whole _soul_ into it, you know; but it's not
till this next Act that I show my full power. [_Curtain rises on a
drawing-room, furnished with dingy wrecks from the property-room--the
home of_ JASPER, the Villain, _who is about to give an evening party.
Enter a hooded crone._ "Sir JASPER, I have a secret of importance,
which can only be revealed to your private ear!" (_Shivers of
apprehension amongst the audience._) _Sir J._ "Certainly, go
into yonder apartment, and await me there." (_Sigh of relief from
spectators_.) _A Footman._ "Sir, the guests wait!" _Sir J._ (_with
lordly ease_). "Bid them enter!" (_They troop in unannounced and
sit down against the wall, entertaining one another in dumb-show._)
_Footman_ (_re-entering_). "Sir, a roughly-dressed stranger, who says
he knew you in Norway, under an _alias_, requests a few words." _Sir
J._ "Confusion!--one of my former accomplices in crime--my guests
must not be present at this interview!" (_To Guests._) "Ladies and
Gentlemen, will you step into the adjoining room for a few minutes,
and examine my collection of war-weapons?" (_Guests retire, with
amiable anticipations of enjoyment. The Stranger enters, and tells
another long story._) "I smile still," he concludes--"but even a
_dead_ man's skull will smile. Allow me then the privileges of death!"
(_At this an irreverent Pittite suddenly guffaws, and the Audience
from that moment perceives that the piece possesses a humorous side.
The Stranger goes; the Guests return. Re-enter Footman_). "Sir, an
elderly man, who was acquainted with your family years ago, insists
on seeing you, and will take no denial!" _Villain_ (_with presence
of mind--to Guests._) "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you step into the
neighbouring apartment, and join the dancers?" (_The Guests obey. The_
Elderly Man _enters, and denounces_ JASPER, _who mendaciously declares
that he is his own second cousin_ JOSEPH; _whereupon the visitor
turns down his coat-collar, and takes off a false beard._) "Do you
know me now, JASPER SHOPPUN?" he cries. "_I_ am JOSEPH--your second
cousin!"... "What, ho, Sir Insolence!" the Villain retorts. "And so
you come to deliver me to Justice?"... "Not so," says JOSEPH. "Long
years ago I swore to my dying Aunt to protect your reputation, even
at the expense of my own. I come to warn you that"--&c., &c. (_The
Audience, who are now in excellent spirits, receive every incident
with uncontrollable merriment till the end of the Act. Another long
wait, enlivened by a piccolo solo._)
_Author._ LAVINIA, it's _too_ disgraceful--it's a deliberate
conspiracy to turn the piece into ridicule. I never thought my _own
relations_ would turn against me--and yet I might have known!
_Comp._ It wasn't the _play_ they laughed at, dear--that's lovely--but
it's so ridiculously _acted_, you know!
_Author._ Of course the acting _is_ abominable--but they might make
allowances for _that_. It _is_ so unfair! [_The Play proceeds. The
Heroine's jealousy has been excited by the Villain, for vague purposes
of his own, and the Hero is trying to disarm her suspicions._ _She._
"But why are you constantly going from Paris to London at the beck
and call of that man?" _He_ (_aside_). "If she only knew that I do it
to shield my second cousin, JASPER--but my oath!--I cannot tell her!
(_To her._) The reason is very simple, darling--he is my Private
Secretary!" (_Roars of inextinguishable laughter, drowning the Wife's
expressions of perfect satisfaction and confidence. The Hero wants to
go out; the Wife begs him to stay; she has 'a presentiment of evil--a
dread of something unseen, unknown.' He goes: the Villain enters in
evening dress._) _Villain._ "Your husband is false to you. Meet me
in half an hour at the lonely hut by the cross-roads, and you shall
have proof of his guilt." (_The Wife departs at once, just as she is.
Villain, soliloquising._) "So--my diabolical schemes prosper. I have
got JOSEPH out of the way by stratagem, decoyed his wife--my early
love--to a lonely hut, where my minions wait to seize her. Now to
abduct the child, destroy the certificate of vaccination which alone
stands between me and a Peerage, set fire to the home of my ancestors,
accuse JOSEPH of all my crimes, and take my seat in the House of
Lords as the Earl of Addelegg! Ha-ha--a good night's work! a good--"
_Joseph_ (_from back_). "Not so. I have heard all. I will _not_ have
it. You _shall_ not!" (_&c., &c._) _Villain._ "You would thwart my
schemes?" _Joseph_ (_firmly_). "I would. My wife and child shall
_not_--" (_&c., &c._) _Villain_ (_slowly_). "And the oath you swore
to my Mother, your dying Aunt, would you break that?" _Joseph_
(_overcome_). "My oath! my Aunt! Ah, no, I cannot, I _must_ not break
it. JASPER SHOPPUN, I am powerless--you must do your evil will!" (_He
sinks on a settee: Triumph of Villain, tableau, and Curtain._)
_Author._ I wouldn't have _believed_ that a modern audience would
treat heroic conduct like that as if it was _laughable_. It's enough
to make one give up play-writing altogether!
_Comp._ Oh, I wouldn't do _that_, dear. You mustn't punish Posterity!
[_The Play goes on and on; the Villain removes inconveniently
repentant tools, and saddles the Hero with his nefarious deeds. The
Hero is arrested, but reappears, at liberty, in the next Act (about
the Ninth), and no reference whatever is made to the past. Old serious
characters turn up again, and are welcomed with uproarious delight.
At the end of a conversation, lasting a quarter of an hour, the
Lady's-maid remarks that "her Mistress has been very ill, and must
not talk too much." Cheers from Audience. General joy when the Villain
returns a hopeless maniac. Curtain about six, and loud calls for
Author._)
_Author._ Nothing will _induce_ me to take a call after the shameful
way they've behaved! And it's all the fault of the acting. When we
get home, I'll read the play all through to you again, and you'll see
now it _ought_ to have been done! A hundred and twenty pounds simply
thrown away!
[_Retires, consoled by her_ Companion, _and the consciousness
that true genius is invariably unappreciated._
* * * * *