Civilization is a failure. That we all knew, even before the war, and
indeed ever since the world first began to suffer from the intolerable
nuisance of disobedient parents. But the latest and most fatal sign of
decadence is the advent of a paradoxical Lord Chancellor. I read in a
_Times_ leader:—“When the Lord Chancellor ponderously observes in the
House of Lords that the primary business of theatres ‘is not to sell
chocolates but to present the drama,’ he is making a statement which is
too absurd to analyse.” _The Times_, I rejoice to see, is living up to
its high traditions of intrepid and incisive utterance. I should not
myself complain if the Lord Chancellor was merely ponderous. As the
dying Heine observed, when someone wondered if Providence would pardon
him, _c’est son métier_. What is so flagrant is the Lord Chancellor’s
ignorance of the commanding position acquired by chocolate in relation to
the modern drama.
Let me not be misunderstood. I am not a _chocolatier_. I have no vested
interest in either Menier or Marquis. But I am a frequenter of the
playhouse, and live, therefore, in the odour of chocolate. I know that
without chocolates our womenkind could not endure our modern drama;
and without womenkind the drama would cease to exist. The question is,
therefore, of the deepest theatrical importance. I feel sure the British
Drama League must have had a meeting about it. The advocates of a
national theatre have probably considered it in committee. The two bodies
(if they are not one and the same) should arrange an early deputation to
the Food Controller.
Meanwhile the Lord Chancellor wantonly paradoxes. Evidently he is no
playgoer. That is a trifle, and since the production of _Iolanthe_
perhaps even (in the phrase of a famous criminal lawyer) “a amiable
weakness.” But, evidently also, he is not a chocolate eater, and that
is serious. I suppose, after all, you are not allowed to eat chocolates
on the Woolsack. But there is the Petty Bag. It would hold at least 2
lb. of best mixed. Why not turn it to a grateful and comforting purpose?
The Great Seal, too, might be done in chocolate, and as I understand
the Lord Chancellor must never part with it, day or night, he would
have a perpetual source of nourishment. It is time that the symbols of
office ceased to be useless ornaments. Stay! I believe I have stumbled
incidentally on the secret of Lord Halsbury’s splendid longevity. Ask
Menier or Marquis.
But the present Chancellor has, clearly, missed his opportunities.
Let him visit our theatres and there recognize the futility of his
pretence that their primary business is to present drama. He will see
at once that what he put forward as a main business is in reality a
mere parergon. Drama is presented, but only as an agreeable, not too
obtrusive, accompaniment to the eating of chocolate. The curtain goes
up, and the ladies in the audience, _distraites_, and manifestly feeling
with Mrs. Gamp (or was it Betsy Prig?) a sort of sinking, yawn through
the first scene or two. Then there is a rustle of paper wrappings, little
white cardboard boxes are brought out and passed from hand to hand, there
is a dainty picking and choosing of round and square and triangular, with
a knowing rejection of the hard-toffee-filled ones, and now the fair
faces are all set in a fixed smile of contentment and the fair jaws are
steadily, rhythmically at work. To an unprepared observer it cannot be
a pretty sight. Fair Americans chewing gum are nothing to it. There are
superfine male voluptuaries who do not much care to see women eat, even
at the festive board. But to see scores of women simultaneously eating
chocolates at the theatre is an uncanny thing. They do it in unison,
and they do it with an air of furtive enjoyment, as though it were some
secret vice and all the better for being sinful. The act-drop goes up and
down, actors are heard talking or the orchestra playing, men pass out for
a cigarette and repass, but the fair jaws never cease working. The habit
of needlework, lace-making, and perhaps war knitting has given lovely
woman that form of genius which has been defined as a long patience.
They eat chocolates with the monotonous regularity with which they
hemstitch linen or darn socks. It has been said that women go to church
for the sake of the _hims_, but they go to the theatre for the sake of
chocolates. And the Lord Chancellor, good, easy man, says the primary
business of the theatre is to present drama!
No, its primary business is to provide comfortable and amusing
surroundings for fair chocolate-eaters. The play is there for the same
reason the coon band is at a restaurant, to assist mastication. That is
the real explanation of recent vicissitudes in the dramatic _genres_.
Why has tragedy virtually disappeared from the stage? Because it will go
with neither _fondants_ nor _pralinés_. Why the enormous vogue of revues?
Because they suit every kind of chocolate from 4_s_. to 6_s_. per lb.
Why is Mr. George Robey so universal a favourite? Because he creates the
kind of laughter which never interferes with your munching. The true, if
hitherto secret, history of the drama is a history of theatrical dietary.
Why is the Restoration drama so widely different from the Victorian?
Because the first was an accompaniment to oranges and the second to
pork-pies. We live now in a more refined age, the age of chocolate, and
enjoy the drama that chocolate deserves. There has been what the vulgar
call a “slump” in the theatrical world, and all sorts of far-fetched
explanations have been offered, such as the dearth of good plays and
the dismissal of the “temporary” ladies from Government offices, with
consequent loss of pocket-money for playgoing. The real cause is quite
simple, as real causes always are. Chocolate has “gone up.”
And that is the secret of all the agitation about the 8 o’clock rule. The
purveyors know that, once in the theatre, ladies _must_ eat chocolate,
whatever its price. It is a necessity for them there, not a luxury,
and after 8 p.m., when the imported supplies are running low, almost
any price might be obtained for the staple article of food on the
spot. But why, it may be asked, are the imported supplies, in present
circumstances, insufficient for the whole evening’s consumption? Simply
because the chocolates eaten by women are purchased by men, and men are
_so_ forgetful. Besides they have an absurd prejudice against bulging
pockets. Clearly “Dora” ought gracefully to withdraw the 8 o’clock
prohibition. It would not only be a kindness to those meritorious
public servants, the chocolate vendors, but be also a great lift to the
languishing drama. Ladies who have emptied their chocolate boxes are
apt to become peevish—and then woe to the last act. With still another
smooth round tablet to turn over on the tongue (especially if it is the
delightful sort that has peppermint cream inside) the play might be
followed to the very end with satisfaction, and even enthusiasm. The
Lord Chancellor may ignore these facts, but they are well known to every
serious student of the chocolate drama.