Newspapers periodically publish their review of the past theatrical year.
But it is always a sad thing to recall the past, especially the immediate
past, which is too recent to be history and only old enough to be stale.
Why not, then, let bygones be bygones and turn to the future, about which
hope springs eternal, and which gives free scope to the imagination
instead of imposing the tedious labour of research? What are our leading
dramatists going to give us next year? The question might be treated in a
matter-of-fact way by just going and asking them—and perhaps getting very
disappointing answers. It seems more sportsmanlike to guess; besides, it
leaves room for some piquant surprises when one is by and by confronted
with the actual. These, then, are one or two guesses for next season.
It is long, too long, since London had a play from Sir Arthur Pinero.
When he writes a play he gives you a play, not a symposium or a sermon
or a piece of propagandism, but a dramatic action which interests you in
its story, makes you wonder what is going to happen next, and takes care
that something does happen, striking at the moment and worth thinking
about afterwards. His characters are presented in strong relief, there
is always a dramatic conflict of wills, his women are never insipid, are
sometimes deliciously perverse, and, if not past redemption (in which
case they commit suicide), are “saved” by the nearest Anglican bishop
or dean. His forthcoming play will ignore the Church and will deal with
a household divided on the “spiritualistic” question. The husband, who
suffers from mild shell-shock and saw the “angels of Mons,” will have
come back from the war a devoted follower of Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir
Conan Doyle. The wife (Miss Irene Vanbrugh) will be a pretty sceptic,
adoring her husband, but impatient of his credulity and determined to
“laugh him out” of it. An opportunity occurs. The young pair have been
having a sarcastic scene (a fine opportunity for Miss Irene’s merry
ringing laugh) about the husband’s bosom-friend Jack, whom he had left
for dead on the field at Mons. The husband eagerly hopes to get into
communication with Jack “on the other side.” The wife only remembers,
with twinges of conscience, certain love passages she had, before her
marriage, with the said Jack, of which she has never told her husband.
Now Jack is not dead, but on his way to his bosom-friend, when the wife
meets him. She sees at once a chance of opening her husband’s eyes.
“We’ll have a _séance_,” she says to Jack; “you shall pretend to be your
own spirit, and then suddenly reveal yourself as flesh and blood—and
Tom will be for ever cured of his foolishness.” Jack agrees, but he
also is suffering from shell-shock (two in one play! you can imagine
how clever the critics will be over this—it will have to be made clear
that it was the same shell), forgets himself at the _séance_, and at
sight of his old lady-love cries “Darling!”; then, horrified at his own
misbehaviour, disappears, and the same night is either run over by a
motor-car or tumbles into a canal. The wife’s reputation is saved by
another lady present, who takes the “darling!” to herself. It is not yet
settled whether this shall be a comic amorous dame, really self-deceived
(say, Miss Lottie Venne), or a shrewd, kindly woman of the world (Miss
Compton, for choice), who promptly sees how the land lies and sacrifices
herself for her little married friend. In either case, the wife has to
keep up the illusion that the voice came from “the other side,” while
the husband, though confirmed in his spiritualism, is secretly disgusted
to discover that the spirits can be such “bad form.” Thus the final
situation is an ironic transmutation of the first. The divided pair are
now united, the merry sceptic being frightened into simulating belief,
while the believer ruefully finds belief without zest. Much will depend
on the acting of this final situation. Miss Irene may safely be trusted
to transfer her laugh adroitly to the wrong side of her mouth, but great
subtlety will be required from the actor who has to convey the mixed joy
and pain of a belief proved at once true and not worth having. It may,
perhaps, count among Mr. Henry Ainley’s triumphs. Mr. Gerald du Maurier
will play Jack the friend—another triumph, for even in his moment of
breakdown he will still keep the sympathy of the audience.
Sir James Barrie has not yet exhausted the variations on his
“enchantment” theme. After the enchanted wood of _Dear Brutus_, where
people get a second chance in life, and the enchanted island of _Mary
Rose_, where time stands still with you, he will with his next play
sound enchanted bagpipes. These will be heard as a weird _obbligato_,
whenever any one of the characters falls into insincerity, from _pp_
(amiable taradiddle) to _ff_ (thumping lie), and, while they are playing,
the character will talk broad Scotch and sketch the postures of or, in
extreme cases, wildly dance a Highland Reel. As the characters will be
drawn exclusively from the Holland House set (the scene throughout will
be one of the famous breakfasts), the extravagance of the compulsory fits
of Caledonianism can be seen a mile off. The dismay of the poet Rogers
(Mr. George Robey, specially engaged) at finding his best _méchancetés_,
in his notoriously low voice, unexpectedly uttered in the broadest Scotch
will only be equalled by the surprise of Sydney Smith at hearing his
choicest witticisms in the same lingo. At one supreme moment the whole
party will be joining in a Reel, led recalcitrantly but majestically by
Lady H. Fashionable dames (a great opportunity for the costumier, and
fabulous sums will be spent on the wardrobe) will suddenly change from
lisping “vastly amusing I declare!” and rolled-collared _beaux_ from
murmuring “monstrous fine women, egad!” to “aiblins,” “hoots, mon,”
“hech, sirs,” etc. The situation will ultimately be saved by a little
Scottish maiden, in a plaid (Miss Hilda Trevelyan), who, being sincerity
itself, will never speak anything but the purest English, and a baby in a
box nailed against the wall, who will not speak at all. For the enchanted
bagpipes a squad of pipe-majors of the Black Watch, splendid fellows in
review order, will be kindly lent from the Edinburgh garrison.
Mr. Maugham has been to China, and has brought back a play which will
aim at being as unlike _Mr. Wu_ as possible. In fact, no Chinaman will
figure in it—Mr. Maugham would never do anything so artistically vulgar
as that—nor anything Chinese except a little porcelain curio of the best
period. This will be sold by auction in a scene (it will be the talk
of London) faithfully reproducing a celebrated establishment in King
Street, St. James’s, with Mr. Hawtrey and Miss Gladys Cooper as the rival
bidders. It will serve, later, for chief _pièce justificative_ in a
divorce case between the same parties (with a really witty judge—for he
will have the wit of Mr. Maugham—who will make a certain actual humorist
on the Bench green with envy), and in the end will be broken by an
excited counsel (played by the famous crockery-smashing artist from the
music-halls).
Mr. Shaw—but no, it is impossible for Mr. Shaw himself, let alone any
one else, to guess beforehand what Mr. Shaw will do. Finally, it may be
conjectured that the rank and file of our playwrights will write for us
precisely the same plays they have written before, under new titles. It
would be an agreeable innovation if they would keep the old titles and
write new plays for them.