BOTTOMS UP
BOTTOMS UP
AN APPLICATION OF THE SLAPSTICK TO SATIRE
=BY GEORGE JEAN NATHAN=
NEW YORK
PHILIP GOODMAN COMPANY
1917
COPYRIGHT 1917 BY
PHILIP GOODMAN COMPANY
CONTENTS
I. Continued in the Advertising Section 5
II. We We 8
III. The Queen of the Veronal Ring 13
IV. Who’s Who in America 22
V. A Little Child Shall Lead Them 23
VI. The Letters 27
VII. Promenades With Pantaloon 34
VIII. Fanny’s Second Play 50
IX. Glossaries 59
X. Stories of the Operas 63
XI. Three Modern Dramatists 66
XII. Villainy 67
XIII. A French Vest Pocket Dictionary 69
XIV. What You Get for Your Money 72
“CONTINUED IN ADVERTISING SECTION, PAGE 290”
OR
MAGAZINE FICTION À LA MODE
[_Page 290_
Unable to contain himself longer, although he realized the vast
futility of it all, Massington seized her in his arms and buried her
lovely eyes and hair in the storm of a thousand kisses.
“You love me, Lolo--tell me you love me!” he choked.
“No! no!” she cried, struggling from his clasp with an adorable
coquetry. “No, it must not be.”
Massington, for the moment, found himself unable to speak. Then, “Why?”
he asked simply, softly.
“Because,” the girl replied, with a cunning _moué_--“because
[_Page 291_
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[_Page 292_
I don’t yet know my own mind,” she finished.
Massington moved toward her. The amber glow of a small table lamp
lighted up the bronze glory of Lolo’s tumbled tresses. And her eyes
were as twin Chopin nocturnes dreaming out the melody of a far-off,
unattainable love.
He paused before daring to lift his voice against the wonderful silence
that, like midnight on southern Pacific seas, hung over her.
Presently, “When you do decide, what then?” he ventured.
“When I do decide,” she told him, “it will be forever. But ere I give
you my answer, ere we take the step that must mean so much in our
lives, we must both be strong enough to remember that
[_Page 293_
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[_Page 294_
Society demands certain conventions that dare not be intruded upon.”
Lolo toyed with some roses on the table at her side--roses he had sent
her that same afternoon.
“But, darling,” breathed Massington, “what are mere conventions for us
two now?”
Lolo tore at one of the roses with her teeth. “Oh!” she exclaimed,
flinging out her arm wildly toward the ugly green wall-paper of her
room that symbolized everything she so hated--“Oh, I know--I know! I do
not want to think of them, but I--but we--must, Jason sweetheart, we
must! And life so all-wondrous, beating vainly against their iron bars
and looking beyond them into paradise. We _must_ think of them,”--a
little sob crept from her throat,--“we _must_ think of them!”
“Let us think, rather,” said Massington, “of that other world in which
we might live, to which, Lolo dear, we might go, and, once there, be
away from every one, all alone, we two--just you and I. Let us think
of Spain, shimmering like some great topaz under the tropic sun; of
the Pyrenees that, purpled against the evening heavens, watch over the
peaceful valleys of Santo Dalmerigo; of the drowsy noons and silver
moons of Italy; let us think, loved one, of the rippling Mediterranean
and of
[_Page 295_
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[_Page 296_
France singing like a thousand violins under summer skies.”
Lolo did not answer.
Massington waited. “Well?” he asked.
(_To be continued in the next number._)
WE WE
_Being a pocket manual of conversation (English-French) with recognized
pronunciation, and containing just and only such words and phrases as
the average American needs and uses during the day in Paris._
MORNING
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
Coffee (with milk) and | Du café au lait et des | Dew Coffee oh late et
rolls | petits pains. | days petty pains.
| |
The check | L’addition. | Ladditziyawn.
| |
How much? | Combien? | Come-bean?
| |
Overcharge! | La survente! | La servant!
| |
It’s a shame! | C’est dommage! | Kest dumb-age!
| |
I don’t pay! | Je ne paye pas! | Jay no pay pass!
| |
You think Americans are | Vous croyez que les | Vuz croyz cue lays
easy marks. | Américains sont des | Americans sont days
| belles poires. | bells pores.
| |
Where is the | Ou est le premier | Oo est lay primer
headwaiter? | garçon? | garson?
| |
Extortion! | L’extorsion! | Lee extortion!
| |
Audacity! | L’audace! | Lowdace!
| |
What impudence! | Quel effronterie! | Kwel effrontry!
| |
A crime! | Un crime! | Yune cree-um!
| |
Robbers! | Les voleurs! | Lays velours!
| |
Call a policeman! | Appelez un gendarme! | Apple-ease yune cop!
| |
One franc!! | Un franc!! | Yune frank!!
| |
A shame! | L’infamie! | Linfame!
| |
Insolence! | L’insolence! | Linsolance!
| |
Damned frog-eating | Les sacrés mangeurs de | Lays sackers mangers
Frenchmen! | grenouilles français! | dee grenoolies
| | frankays!
NOON
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
The bill of fare. | La carte (du jour). | La card (dee jury).
| |
Roast beef and | Un rosbif aux pommes | Yune roastbif oh poms
potatoes. | de terre. | dee tear.
| |
A toothpick. | Un cure-dent. | Yune curedent.
| |
The check. | L’addition. | Ladditziyawn.
| |
Great Scott! | Bon Scott! | Bonnie Scot!
| |
You must take Americans | Vous croyez que les | Vuz croyz cue lays
for boobs! | Américains sont des | Americans sont days
| fous! | simps!
| |
A dirty shame! | L’infamie vilaine! | Linfame Verlaine!
| |
Where’s the manager? | Ou est le maître | Oo est lay mater dee
| d’hôtel? | hotel?
| |
Two francs! | Deux francs! | Deuce franks!
| |
What! | Quoi! | Quoit!
| |
Incredible! | C’est incroyable! | Kest incroybul!
| |
It’s awful! | C’est affreux! | Kest affrooz!
| |
You can go chase | Chasse-toi! | Chase toy!
yourself! | |
| |
Why, in Chicago-- | Mais à Chicago-- | May in Shicawgo--
AFTERNOON
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
So this is the Pré | Eh, bien! Le Pré | E bean! Lee Pree
Catelan! | Catelan! | Cattleland!
| |
It’s not up to | Ce n’est pas si | Key nest pass so
Elitch’s Gardens. | bon que les jardins | bon cue lays jardins
| d’Elitch. | dee Elitch.
| |
Waiter, a Bronx. | Garçon, un apéritif | Garson, yune
| Bronx. | aperteef Bronx.
| |
Gee, that’s a | Mon Dieu! Quelle | Mon doo! Kwel
peach of a | jolie poulette au | jolly pulay aw
chicken in the | chapeau vert! | shapyou vert!
green hat! | |
| |
Waiter, my | Garçon, l’addition. | Garson, my
check. | | ladditziyawn.
| |
What! Fifty centimes? | Quoi! Cinquante | Quoit! Sinkant
| centimes? | sentimes?
| |
Do you think us | Croyez-vous que | Croyz vuz cue
Americans are | nous Américains | news Americans
rubes? | sont des fermiers? | sont days fermeers?
| |
Too much! | Trop! | Tropp!
| |
I can’t consent to | Je ne puis y consentir!| Jay nee pewis
it! | | why consenter!
| |
An awful over-charge! | Une survente terrible! | Uni servant terrible!
| |
Damned French | Les Français sont | Lays Frankays
swindlers! | des escrocs damnables! | sont days escrocks
| | damnable!
EVENING
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
Hey there! Taxi! | Hé! Arrêtez! | Either whistle or
| Taxi! | wave arms.
| |
Café de la Paix! | Café de la Paix! | Caif della Pays!
| |
How much, driver? | Combien, chauffeur? | Come-bean, showfer?
| |
Thirty centimes! | Trente centimes! | Trenton sentimes!
| |
Cursed crook! | Maudit voleur! | Maude velour!
| |
It’s an absolute | C’est une véritable | Kest uni veritable
imposition! | exploitation! | exploitation!
| |
Change this five-franc | Changez cette | Changey settee
piece. | pièce de cinq | piece dee sink
| francs. | franks.
| |
Well, anyway, I | (Merely thought, | Counterfeit.
got the right | never verbalized) |
change. | |
| |
Waiter, bring me | Garçon, apportez | Garson, apporty
some roast beef | moi un rosbif aux | moey yune roastbif
and potatoes. | pommes de terre. | oh poms dee
| | tear.
| |
A toothpick. | Un cure-dent. | Yune curedent.
| |
My check! | L’addition! | My ladditziyawn!
| |
Two francs! | Deux francs! | Deuce franks!
| |
Hell! | L’Enfer! | Loafer!
| |
You take us | Vous croyez que | Vuz croyz cue
Americans for | nous Américains | news Americans
hayseeds. | sont des graines | sont days grains
| du foin. | dew fun.
| |
Two francs! I’m | Deux francs! | Je Deuce franks!
sore! | m’enrage! | Jay mennyrage!
| |
Here is your money | Voici votre argent | Voce vote argent
and--_good night_! | et--bon | et--_bon sore_!
| soir!! |
NIGHT
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
Maxim’s at last! | Enfin, Maxim’s! | Whoop-ee!
| |
Ah there, kiddo! | Eh, bébé! | E baby!
| |
Sure, I’ll buy you | Certainement, | Certainment,
wine. | j’acheterai du | joshetarie dew
| champagne. | wine.
| |
I love you. | Je vous aime. | Jay vus Amy.
| |
Oh, you’re kidding | Vous me taquinez. | Vuz me tackknees.
| |
More wine? Sure, | Plus de champagne? | Plus dee wine?
dearie! | Certainement | Certainment, my
| ma chérie! | cherry!
TWO A. M.
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
Stung! | Une piqûre! | Uni picker!
BACK HOME: A MONTH LATER
_Vocabulary_ | _Vocabulaire_ | _Pronunciation_
| |
Honestly, Mary, | Vraiment, Marie, | Naturally.
I was true to | je vous fus fidèle. |
you.
FOOTNOTE.
_Inasmuch as the only persons in all Paris who do not try to speak
English are the Americans, it is advisable for the Americans in Paris
to try speaking English and reserve their French for the United
States where the only persons who do not try to speak French are the
Frenchmen._
THE QUEEN OF THE VERONAL RING
_A Guaranteed Box Office Melodrama in One Act, Containing Just and
Only Such Famous Melodramatic Lines as Have for Countless Years Been
Successful in Evoking the Plaudits and Hisses of Melodrama Audiences._
CAST
DICK STRONG: | A hero.
MARY DALLAS: | A country girl.
ABNER DALLAS: | Mary’s aged father.
JEM DALTON: | A villain.
SCENE: Sitting room of Abner Dallas’ home.
PLACE: A small country town in New York State.
TIME: The present day.
_When the curtain rises, the stage is in complete darkness. Mary
enters, goes to centre table and turns up small oil lamp. Immediately
the whole stage is lighted with a dazzling brilliance. Mary catches
sight of Dalton standing in doorway L.U.E. A sinister smile is on his
lips, a riding crop in his hand._
MARY
(_shrinking back_)
My God--_you_! What do _you_ want here?
DALTON
(_advancing with his hat on and switching his boot with riding crop_)
Ha, my pretty one, we shall see--we shall see.
MARY
(_in tears_)
Oh, how can you, how can you? Was it not enough that you stole my
youth, that you made me what I am?
DALTON
So, my proud beauty, your spirit is broken at last! And at last I have
you within my power!
MARY
Oh, God, give me strength! If I were a man, I’d _kill_ you! You are of
the kind who drag women to the gutter.
DALTON
Now, now, my fine young animal! Remember--’twas you, too, who sinned!
MARY
(_sobbing wildly_)
Folly, yes--but not sin, no, no--not sin, not sin! It is the weakness
of women and the perfidy of men that makes women sin.
DALTON
(_sneering_)
Sin it was--_sin_, I repeat it. You--you’re no better now than the
women of the streets!
MARY
No, no! Don’t say that, don’t say that! Have pity!
(_throwing herself before him_)
See! It is a helpless woman who kneels at your feet--
DALTON
(_throwing her from him_)
Bah!
MARY
(_pleading_)
Who asks you to give back what is more precious to her than jewels and
riches, than life itself--her honor!
DALTON
Enough of that! Now, you, listen to me! Do as I say and I can make a
lady of you--you shall be dressed like a queen and move in society,
loved, honored and famous. This I offer you if--if you will become my
wife.
MARY
Your wife! Not if all the gold of the world were in your hands, and
you gave it to me. Your wife--never--never--not even to become a lady!
Before I’d be your wife I’d live in rags and be proud of my poverty!
There is the door--_go_!
DALTON
Not so fast, my girl!
MARY
I’ll do what thousands of other heartbroken and despairing women have
done--seek for peace in the silence of the grave!
DALTON
(_sneeringly_)
Well, what _will_ you do?
MARY
Stand back! Let me pass. If you lay your hand on me, I’ll--
DALTON
Ha!
(_He advances upon her and makes to seize her in his arms. She
struggles, screams. Enter Dick, revolver drawn_)
DICK
What’s the meaning of this? _Speak!_
DALTON
(_to Mary, airily_)
Who is this young--this young _cub_?
(_aside_)
Damnation!
DICK
(_advancing_)
I’ll show you soon enough, you fighter of _women_!
DALTON
(_in a superior tone, loftily ignoring the insult_)
Hm, you Americans are a peculiar lot. But I suppose your manners will
improve as your country grows older.
DICK
Oh, I see! So you’re an Englishman, aren’t you? Englishmen never
believe how fast we grow in this country. They won’t believe that
George Washington ever made them get out of it, either, but he did!
DALTON
Ah, my dear fellow, _our_ country has grown up of its own accord, but
_you_ have to get immigrants to help _you_ build up _your_ country--and
what are they?
DICK
That’s so: they don’t amount to anything until they come over here and
inhale the free and fresh air of liberty. Then they become _American
citizens_ and they amount to a great deal. We build up the West and
feed the world!
DALTON
Feed the world! Oh, no! Certainly you don’t feed England!
DICK
Oh yes we do! We’ve fed England. We gave you a warm breakfast in 1776,
a boiling dinner in 1812--and we’ve got a red-hot supper for you any
time you want it!
DALTON
(_insolently_)
’Pon my word, you amuse me.
DICK
(_sarcastically_)
You don’t say so!
DALTON
And if it wasn’t for this
(_he smiles sneeringly_)
lady--
DICK
(_stepping quickly to Dalton, raising his hand as if to strike him_)
By God, if you were not so old, I’d----
MARY
(_wildly_)
Dick! Dick!
DICK
(_to Dalton, face to face, pointing to door_)
Now, then, you worthless skunk--you get straight the hell out of here!
(_Dalton looks first at Dick, then at Mary. Then, with a cynical
laugh, shrugs his shoulders and exits_)
MARY
(_throwing herself in Dick’s arms and burying her head on his breast_)
Dick----
DICK
(_stroking her hair fondly_)
Have courage, sweetheart; do not cry. Everything will turn out for the
best in the end.
MARY
You have the courage for both of us. Every blow that has fallen, every
door that has been shut between me and an honest livelihood, every time
that clean hands have been drawn away from mine and respectable faces
turned aside as I came near them, I’ve come to you for comfort and love
and hope--and have found them.
DICK
My brave little woman! My brave little woman! How you’ve suffered in
silence! But brighter days are before us.
MARY
(_pensively_)
Brighter days. I try to see them through the clouds that stand like a
dark wall between us.
DICK
You must not heed such black thoughts, my angel.
MARY
(_sadly_)
I’ll do my best to fight them off--for your sake, _our_ sake.
DICK
There’s a brave dear! And now, good-bye, dearest, until to-morrow.
Remember, when the clouds are thickest, the sun still shines behind
them.
(_exits_)
MARY
(_alone_)
Oh, my Dick, my all, may God protect you!
(_A pause. Then enter Abner, carrying a gun_)
MARY
(_in alarm_)
Father! What are you doing? Where are you going?
ABNER
I’ve heerd all! I’m a-goin’ t’ find the varmint who wronged ye, and
when I find him, I’m a-goin’ t’ _kill_ him, _kill_ him--that’s all!
MARY
Stop, dad! You know not what you do!
ABNER
(_with a sneer_)
_You!_ A fine daughter! A fine one to speak t’ her old father who
watched over her sence her poor mother died, who slaved for her with
these two hands, who----
MARY
(_interrupting_)
Oh, father, that is cruel! Nothing that others could do would hurt
me like those words from you. I have suffered, father; I would rather
starve than----
ABNER
(_brusquely_)
A fine time now fer repentance!
MARY
(_in tears_)
Mercy! Mercy! Have mercy!
ABNER
Mercy, eh? Well, I kalkerlate such as you’ll get no mercy from me!
MARY
(_wildly_)
I was young and innocent; I knew nothing of the world.
ABNER
Go! And never darken these doors again!
(_he throws open the door; the storm howls_)
Go! Fer you will live under my roof no longer! Thus I blot out my
daughter from my life forever, like a crushed wild flower.
MARY
Oh, father, father! You don’t, you won’t, you _can’t_ be so cruel!
(_exits_)
ABNER
(_slams door; stands a moment at knob; then goes slowly to table and
picks up Mary’s photograph. He looks at it; his eyes fill with tears_)
I’ll set by that winder, and set and set, but she, my little one, ’ll
never come back, never come back. Oh, my little girl, my little girl!
I’ll put this here lamp in the winder to guide my darlin’ back home t’
me.
(_he totters toward the window_)
CURTAIN
WHO’S WHO IN AMERICA
=LIPINSKI, Abraham=, editor; _b._ Mogilef, Russia, August 16, 1869;
_s._ Isidor and Rachel (Hipski); _m._ Sarah Gondorfsky, of Syschevka,
Russia, 1889, Leah Ranalowski, of New York, 1897, Minna Rosensweig, of
New York, 1906. Editor, the Socialist Quarterly, the Russian-Jewish
Gazette. _Author_: “Freedom for the Poles,” “The Case for the Russian
Peasants,” “The Dangers of Democracy” and sixteen children. _Address_:
New York, New York.
=O’CALLAHAN, Patrick Michael=, public official; _b._ Dublin, Ireland,
December 6, 1873; _s._ Seumas and Bridget (O’Shea); _m._ Mary
Shaughnessy, of Glennamaddy, Ireland, February 12, 1890; came to New
York, 1891, and was on police force 1891-2, leader 12th Assembly
District, New York, 1893; 13th Assembly District 1894; 14th Assembly
District 1895; commissioner of docks and ferries, New York, and
treasurer of the board, 1896; Tammany Hall leader 1895.... _Address_:
New York, New York.
=DREZETTI, Pietro=, charity organizer; _b._ Milan, Italy, October
10, 1873; _s._ Garibaldi and Maria (Arezzo); _m._ Rocca Frignano, of
Giovinnazo, Italy, 1897; came to New York 1892 and began as bootblack;
leader 6th District Republican Rally Club 1899-1904; organized Italian
Charities League, 1906; president and treasurer Italian Charities
League, 1906--, Italo-American Chowder Club, 1907--, Italian Immigrant
Relief Society, 1908--, Italian Workmen of the World, 1908--.
_Address_: New York, New York.
=CHILLINGS, Algernon Ronald=, playwright; _b._ Manchester, England,
December 9, 1871; _s._ Hubert and Gladys (Windcourt); was actor in
London, 1889-1903; came to America 1904; has written four American
plays, “Lord Dethridge’s Claim,” “The Savoy at Ten,” “The Queen’s
Consort,” and “Lady Cicely’s Adventure.” Has lectured on the American
drama at Yale and Harvard Universities. Vice-president Society of
American Dramatists. _Address_: New York, New York.
=OBERHALZ, Gustav=, ex-congressman; _b._ Düsseldorf, Germany, May
20, 1868; _s._ Ludwig and Hannah (Draushauser); _m._ Kunigunde
Kartoffelbaum, of Teklenburg, Germany, 1884, Theresa Waxel, of
Neuholdensleben, Germany, 1889; came to America in steerage 1886;
joined the Deutsche Gesellschaftsverein 1886 and became its president
in 1896; merged this organization in 1897 with the Vaderland
Bund; presented his native city with a library in 1898. _Author_:
“Deutschland und Der Kaiser.” _Address_: Brooklyn, New York.
“A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM”
By
---- ----
The snow swirled against the window in great gusts. Agatha Brewster sat
looking into the flaming grate.
“What’s the matter, mamma dear?” asked Betty, her little daughter. “You
look so sad--_and this is Christmas eve_.”
Agatha did not answer. She could not trust her voice. There was a mist
before her eyes. She sat there thinking, thinking, thinking. It was
just a year ago tonight that Dave, her husband, had parted from her in
anger. Since then no word, no letter--nothing but endless conferences
with that hideous lawyer, the unbearable condolences of well-meaning
friends, the dull heart-ache, the thought of little Betty....
Betty crept noiselessly down the stairs.
“Papa! Oh, papa! My papa!” she cried. “You’ve come home again. Won’t
Santa Claus be glad!”
Brewster, his eyes suddenly blinded with tears, grabbed the sweet child
to his breast and hugged her, oh, so close! And then, bending down, he
kissed the brave little woman at his side.
_The End._
* * * * *
_If you want to read the parts of this story that have been left out
to save ink, you will find the whole thing in any issue of any 15 cent
magazine. I say any issue, but if you want to make doubly sure, get any
Christmas issue._
THE LETTERS
AN ALPHABETICAL PROBLEM PLAY AFTER THE MANNER OF PINERO, HENRY
ARTHUR JONES, AND OTHER DRAMATISTS OF A BYGONE DAY.
FOREWORD: _A season or so ago, Mr. Cyril Maude and Miss Laurette
Taylor attracted considerable attention in a one-word play--a play in
one act, each line of whose dialogue consisted of a single word. In
order to meet the insistent public demand for constantly increased
novelty, I submit herewith what is probably the dernier cri in
dramatic literature--a play in one letter._
CHARACTERS
ZACHERY EBBSMITH: The usual problem play husband.
FELICIA EBBSMITH: The usual problem play wife.
ROBERT CHARTERIS: The usual problem play lover.
JENKINS: The usual problem play butler.
SCENE: The drawing-room of Ebbsmith’s house. Any old set will do,
provided only there is a portière-hung entrance at R. 2, in which the
husband may make his unexpected appearance.
TIME: An evening in May.
PLACE: New York.
_When the curtain rises, Mrs. Ebbsmith (a brunette with an uncanny
likeness to Mrs. Patrick Campbell), is discovered in Charteris’ arms._
MRS. E.
(_in passionate ecstasy_)
O!
CHARTERIS
(_ditto_)
O!
(_Zachery Ebbsmith duly appears in doorway at R. 2. The lovers cannot
see him as their backs are turned_)
MRS. E.
(_still in passionate ecstasy_)
O!
CHARTERIS
(_ditto_)
O!
(_Mrs. Ebbsmith frees herself reluctantly from Charteris’ embrace. She
turns and catches sight of Ebbsmith_)
MRS. E.
(_cowering before her husband’s steady gaze_)
U!
EBBSMITH
(_quietly_)
I.
CHARTERIS
(under his breath)
G!
MRS. E.
(_sinking to her knees before Ebbsmith, seizing his hands in
supplication, and looking at him appealingly_)
“Z”!
EBBSMITH
(_angrily withdrawing his hand_)
U----
MRS. E.
(_in tears, interrupting_)
R?
EBBSMITH
(_violently; between his teeth_)
A----
MRS. E.
(_in tears, again cutting in_)
A?
EBBSMITH
(_with a laugh_)
J!
CHARTERIS
(_in great surprise_)
J?
EBBSMITH
(_repeating, nodding his head_)
J!!
CHARTERIS
(_in wonder_)
Y?
MRS. E.
(_ditto_)
Y?
EBBSMITH
(_with a grim smile, displaying a bundle of letters_)
C!
(_Mrs. E. and Charteris look at each other in alarm, realising now
what Ebbsmith’s ironic twitting means_)
MRS. E.
O!
CHARTERIS
H----!
EBBSMITH
(_waving the letters tauntingly under his wife’s eyes_)
C!
(_Mrs. E. endeavours to speak. She tries to summon courage to ask
Ebbsmith how and where he got the carelessly-guarded, incriminating
letters, but her lips are muffled through fear. Ebbsmith waits
patiently, sneeringly. Then, seeing his wife’s hopeless struggle to
phrase the question----_)
EBBSMITH
(_quietly taking a five dollar bill from his wallet, and holding it
aloft, with a significant smile_)
A----.
CHARTERIS
(_puzzled_)
A?
EBBSMITH
(_nodding toward entrance at R. 2_)
V.
MRS. E.
(_beginning to comprehend_)
O!
(_she rushes to bell. She presses it in order to summon the bribed
Jenkins and lodge her accusations against him for his deceit. There
is a pause. Enter Jenkins. Mrs. Ebbsmith makes to speak. Ebbsmith
interrupts her._)
EBBSMITH
(_to Jenkins, quietly_)
T.
(_Jenkins nods and exits. There is another pause. Charteris attempts
to conceal his nervousness by puffing nonchalantly at a cigarette.
Jenkins enters with the tea. Ebbsmith motions his wife and Charteris
to take their seats at the small table. Puzzled, they obey. Jenkins
pours and exits._)
EBBSMITH
(_taking from his pocket two railroad tickets, one of which he hands
Charteris_)
U.
CHARTERIS
(_perplexed_)
I?
EBBSMITH
(_nodding firmly_)
U!
(_Ebbsmith now hands the other ticket to his wife_)
EBBSMITH
(_as he gives it into her puzzled hands; in same tone as before_)
U!
MRS. E.
(_in a tone of nervous bewilderment_)
I?
EBBSMITH
(_nodding firmly_)
U!
(_Mrs. E. and Charteris look at each other. Their expressions suggest
anything but a feeling of personal comfort. They look at each other’s
tickets_)
MRS. E.
(_reading name of road on top of ticket_)
“B----.”
(_her eyes, still dimmed by tears, prevent her from seeing the rest.
She starts to mumble the “and” which follows the_ “_B_”)
“n----.”
(_but gets no further, and breaks down crying_)
CHARTERIS
(_finishing the name of the road_)
“O.”
(_Charteris and Ebbsmith look at each other fixedly across the
tea-table_)
CHARTERIS
(_deliberately_)
U----.
(_Ebbsmith lifts his eyebrows_)
CHARTERIS
(_hotly_)
B----.
(_Ebbsmith lifts his eyebrows_)
CHARTERIS
(_choking back the “damned,” and, flinging down his hand in disgust at
the whole business_)
’L!
EBBSMITH
(_rising, going to door and holding aside the portières,
significantly_)
P!
MRS. E.
(_sobbing out her reawakened old love for Zachery_)
“Z”!
EBBSMITH
(_insisting; in even tone_)
D!
MRS. E.
(_sobbing wildly_)
“Z”!!
EBBSMITH
(_with absolute finality_)
Q!!
(_Charteris throws a wrap around Mrs. Ebbsmith’s shoulders and starts
to lead her from the room. At the doorway, with a cry of anguish,
Mrs. Ebbsmith breaks from Charteris’ arm and throws herself into the
arms of her husband. A smile spreads over the latter’s features as he
realises the complete effectiveness of the cure he has practised upon
his wife, of the stratagem by which he has won her away from Charteris
forever, of the trickery by which he has shown Charteris up to her for
the insincere philanderer he is, of the device of pretending to concur
in her and Charteris’ plan to elope. He clasps her close to him and
presses a kiss on her brow. Charteris takes up his hat, gloves, and
stick from the piano, and tip-toes from the room as there falls the_
CURTAIN
PROMENADES WITH PANTALOON
I
Broadway playwright--one who possesses the ability to compress the
most interesting episodes in several characters’ lifetimes into two
uninteresting hours.
II
The art of emotional acting, on Broadway, consists in expressing (1)
_doubt_ or _puzzlement_, by scratching the head; (2) _surprise_, by
taking a sudden step backwards; (3) _grief_, by turning the back
to audience and bowing head; (4) _determination_ (if standing), by
thrusting handkerchief back into breast pocket, brushing hair back
from fore-head with a quick sweep of hand and buttoning lower button
of sack coat; (5) _determination_ (if seated), by looking fixedly at
audience for a moment and then suddenly standing up; (6) _despair_, by
rumpling hair, sinking upon sofa, reaching over to table, pouring out
stiff drink of whiskey and swallowing it at one gulp; (7) _impatience_,
by walking quickly up stage, then down, taking cigarette from case,
lighting it and throwing it immediately into grate, walking back
up stage again and then down; (8) _relief_, by taking deep breath,
exhaling quickly and mopping off face with handkerchief; and (9)
_fear_, by having smeared face with talcum powder!
III
The leading elements in the Broadway humour, in the order of their
popularity: (1) speculation as to how the Venus de Milo lost her arms,
and (2) what she was doing with them when she lost them.
IV
Broadway actors may in the main be divided into two groups; those who
pronounce it burgular and those whom one cannot hear anyway back of the
second row.
V
_The Syllogism of the Broadway Drama_
1. Someone loves someone.
2. Someone interposes.
3. Someone is outwitted, someone marries someone, and someone gets two
dollars.
VI
Such critics as contend that literature is one thing and drama
another, are apparently of the notion that literature is something
that consists mainly of long words and allusions to Châteaubriand, and
drama something that consists mainly of monosyllables and allusions to
William J. Burns.
VII
The test supreme of all acting is the coincidental presence upon the
stage of a less competent actress who is twice as good-looking.
VIII
A Thumb-nail Critique--The plays which, in the last two decades, have
in the United States made the most money: “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “Way
Down East,” “The Old Homestead,” “Ben Hur,” and “Peg o’ My Heart.” The
plays which, in the last two decades, have, in the United States, made
the least money: “The Thunderbolt,” “Strife,” “The Three Daughters of
M. Dupont,” “The Incubus,” and “General John Regan.”
IX
The unities of the Belasco drama: Time, place and (legal) action.
X
Constructive critic: One who builds up the newspaper’s theatrical
advertising revenue.
XI
The producers of our two-dollar music shows are rapidly gobbling up all
the vaudeville actors. This will immeasurably help vaudeville.
XII
The circuses will soon go into winter quarters. They cannot compete
with the Drama Leagues.
XIII
The world may be divided thus: actors and dramatic critics. The only
difference between them is that the former do their acting on a
platform.
XIV
Shakespeare’s plays fall into two distinct groups: Those written by
Shakespeare and those acted by Beerbohm Tree.
XV
Dramatic criticism: The theory that one is more interested in the
devices with which a woman makes herself beautiful--cold creams,
mascaro, false hair, eyebrow pencils, lip rouge, face powder, dental
floss, whale-bone, curl papers, et cetera--than in the beautiful woman
herself.
XVI
Something seemingly never remembered by dramatists when writing love
scenes: the more a young woman really loves a man the less talkative,
the more silent, she is in his presence.... Only women over thirty are
chatty before the object of their affection.
XVII
The proficient actor is one who can completely immerse his own
personality in the rôle he is playing. The star actor is one who can
completely immerse the rôle he is playing in his own personality.
XVIII
Although it may have absolutely nothing to do with the case, I yet
believe that, in a romantic stage rôle, no actress can possibly be
convincing or persuasive if she is able in private life to eat tripe,
chicken livers, calves’ brains or a thick steak.
XIX
Maurice Donnay, the talented gentleman of Gallic dramatic letters,
observes, “The French dramatists treat of love because it is the only
subject which every member of the audience understands, and a dramatist
must, of course, appeal to the masses.” Which, in another way, may
account for the great appeal and success in America of crook plays.
XX
When a critic refers to a male actor’s “authority,” the betting odds
are generally thirty to one that what he has done is to mistake for
that quality the aforesaid actor’s _embonpoint_.
XXI
Mr. George P. Goodale, a good citizen and an honest taxpayer, was
lately accorded a great banquet in honor of his fifty years of
continuous service as dramatic critic to the _Detroit Free Press_. At
the banquet, it was said, repeated, and emphasized that, in all his
half-century as a critic of the drama, Mr. Goodale had never made a
single enemy. Where, than in this banquet and its import, a smarter
satire on the American notion of what constitutes dramatic criticism?
XXII
The hero of a Broadway play may not be bald. This would seem, in the
Broadway drama, to be the first rule of heroism and, with heroism,
of intelligence and appeal. So, Julius Caesar, Bismarck, George
Washington, Napoleon and Shakespeare would be low villains.
XXIII
It is a favourite challenge of the average Broadway playwright to the
dramatic critic that if the latter knows so much about plays, why
doesn’t he write one himself. The same question might be asked of the
average Broadway playwright.
XXIV
The financial success of the Broadway play is conditioned on the
proportion of theatergoers who believe that singeing keeps the hair
from falling out and that the American Indians were accustomed to use
the word “heap” before every adjective. The last season was the most
successful Broadway has known in years.
XXV
It took Molière and Sheridan, as it now takes Shaw and Bahr, years to
fashion their comedies. And yet, when all is said and done, what is
funnier, what provokes a louder laughter, than the mere articulation of
the name Gustav?
XXVI
Literature is an art wherein one observes the effects of the thematic
action upon the protagonist’s mind. Drama is an art wherein one
observes the effects of the thematic action upon the protagonist’s
heart. Burlesque is an art wherein one observes the effects of the
thematic action upon the protagonist’s trousers-seat.
XXVII
“Trying it on the dog”--a phrase referring to the trying out of a play
in the provinces before bringing it into the metropolis. In other
words, testing the effect of the play upon an intelligent community to
predetermine, by its lack of success there, its subsequent prosperity
in New York.
XXVIII
The so-called “laughs” in an American musical show must, if they would
“get over,” be devised in such a manner and constructed of such basic
materials that they shall be within the scope of the intelligence of
persons who can neither read nor write. This is why nine-tenths of the
persons in a Broadway audience fall out of their chairs with mirth when
anybody on the stage refers to whiskers as alfalfa or when a character
is named the Duc de Gorgonzola.
XXIX
Royalties.--The percentage of the gross receipts which playwrights get
from producers, after lawsuits.
XXX
The critic who believes that such a thing as a repertory company is
artistically possible believes that a dozen modern actors, assembled
into one group, are sufficiently talented and skilled to interpret
satisfactorily a dozen plays. The critic who does not believe that such
a thing as a repertory company is artistically possible knows that
a dozen modern actors, assembled into one group, are insufficiently
talented and skilled to interpret satisfactorily even one play.
XXXI
It is the custom in many New York theaters to ring a bell in the lobby
so as to warn the persons congregated there that the curtain is about
to go up on the next act and that it is time for them to go back into
the theater. But it still remains for an enterprising impresario to
make a fortune by ringing a bell in the theater so as to warn the
persons congregated there that the curtain is about to go up on the
next act and that it is time for them to go back into the lobby!
XXXII
Farces fall into two classes: Those in which the leading male character
implores “Let me explain!” and the leading female character tartly
replies, “That’s the best thing you do,” and those in which the leading
male character’s evening dress socks have white clocks on them.
XXXIII
Mr. Florenz Ziegfeld succeeds with his shows because he addresses
his chief appeal to the eye. Mr. George M. Cohan succeeds with his
because he addresses his chief appeal to the ear. The impresarios of
the Fourteenth Street burlesque shows succeed with theirs because they
address their chief appeal to the nose.
XXXIV
The one big ambition of nine out of every ten American playwrights is,
in the argot of the theater, to “get over the footlights.” The one big
ambition of nine out of every ten audiences is exactly the same!
XXXV
Most so-called optimistic comedies are based on the theory that a cup
of coffee improves in proportion to the number of lumps of sugar one
puts into it.
XXXVI
Opening Night.--The night before the play is ready to open.
XXXVII
The chief dramatic situation in “The Road to Happiness” consists of a
hero who, with hand on hip pocket, defies the assembled villains to
advance as much as an inch at peril of their lives and who, having
thus held them at bay, proceeds to pull out a handkerchief, flick his
nostril and make his getaway. The chief comic situation in “Arizona,”
produced many years ago, consisted of the same thing, save that a
whiskey flask or plug of tobacco--I forget which--was used in place
of a nose-doily. Thus, little boys and girls, has our serious drama
advanced.
XXXVIII
_Derivations_
_First-Nighter._--From _Fürst_ (German for “prince”) and the English
word _nitre_ (KNO_3: a chemical used in the manufacture of
gunpowder); hence, a prince of gunpowder, or, in simpler terms, someone
who makes a lot of noise.
_Manager._--From the Anglo-Saxon word “manger,” the “a” having been
deleted in order that the word might be shortened, and so used more
aptly for purposes of swearing. _Manager_ thus comes from “manger,”
something which provides fodder for the jackasses in the stalls.
XXXIX
Practically speaking, it is reasonable to believe that the public
doesn’t want gloom in the theater not because it is gloom, not because
of the gloom itself, but for the very good reason that gloom isn’t
generally interesting. Let a playwright make gloom as interesting
as happiness and the public will want it theatrically. But the
gloom of the drama is, more often than not, uninteresting gloom. In
illustration: Take two street-corner orators. Suppose both are talking,
one a block away from the other, on precisely the same topic. It is
a gloom topic. For instance, the question of the large number of
starving unemployed. One of the orators hammers away at his audience
with melancholy statistics and all the other depressing elements of
his subject. The other, equally serious, makes his points, not alone
as does the first orator with blue figures, but with light comparisons
and saucy illustrations. Which is the more interesting? Which gets
the larger crowd? Which convinces? Take a second and correlated
illustration. Two weekly magazines print articles on, let us say, the
work of organized charity in its attempt to relieve the community’s
paupers. In itself, not particularly jocose reading matter. One of the
two magazines, in its treatment of the story, has its general tone
exampled by some such sentence as “Last month the charity organizations
of New York supplied the poor of the city with 30,000 loaves of bread.”
The other magazine, expressing the same thought and facts, has its
sentence phrased thus: “Last month the charity organizations of New
York supplied the poor of the city with 30,000 loaves of bread, an
amount almost 8,000 in excess of all the bread eaten during the same
space of time by Mr. Diamond Jim Brady in the ten leading Broadway
restaurants.” Which magazine has the bigger circulation?
The conventional treatment of gloomy themes in the drama is like the
ancient tale of the proud old coon who, driving a snail-paced and
ramshackle horse and an even more ramshackle buggy down a Southern
road used largely by automobilists, suddenly perceived a small boy
hitching on behind. “Hey!” exclaimed the old brunette, “Yoh look out
dar! Ef yoh ain’t careful yoh’ll be sucked under!” The mechanic of the
gloomy dramatic theme, like the old dinge, too often takes his theme
too pompously, too seriously. And is generally himself sucked under
as a result. Clyde Fitch took a so-called gloomy theme in his play
“The Climbers”--the play that started bang off with a funeral--but his
play is still going with the public in the stock companies because he
didn’t let the gloom of his story run away with the interest. The final
curtain line in “The Shadow” is: “After all, real happiness is often to
be found in tears.” Tears are often provocative of a greater so-called
“up-lift” feeling than mere grins and laughter. Take a couple or more
of illustrations of the most popular mob plays America has known, say,
“Way Down East,” “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” “The Old Homestead.” These,
fundamentally, are what the mob calls “sad” plays. The yokelry would
ever rather pay for the privilege of crying than laughing. What farce
ever made as much money as “East Lynne”? The tears in “Cinderella” have
made it the world’s most successful theatrical property.
XL
The difference ’twixt tragedy and comedy is the difference of a hair’s
breadth. Tragedy ends with the hero’s death. Comedy, with the hero’s
getting married.
XLI
To be effective, acting must interpret not so much the playwright’s
work as the audience’s silent criticism of that work.
XLII
... It is to be remarked that the New Movement in the theater,
about which we hear so much, what with its scenery, lighting, stage
architecture and what not, seems to concern everything but drama.
XLIII
The moving pictures will never supplant the spoken drama, contend a
thousand and one critics. Well, anyway, not so long as the drama is
being spoken as it is to-day in the majority of our Broadway theaters.
XLIV
Madame Karsavina of the Russian Ballet seeks in her chorographic
pantomimes to interpret drama with the body. The Boston censors
commanded that Madame Karsavina, who in her chorographic pantomimes
seeks to interpret drama with the body, completely conceal her body in
heavy draperies. The Boston censors may be expected next to command
Mimi Aguglia, of the Sicilian Players, who seeks to interpret the body
in terms of drama, to undress.
XLV
Comedy is but tragedy, cunningly disguised and popularized for the
multitude.
XLVI
Men go to the theater to forget; women, to remember.
XLVII
Melodrama is that form of drama in which the characters are
deliberately robbed of a sense of humor by the author. Problem drama,
most often, that form in which the characters are deliberately robbed
of a sense of humour by the audience.
XLVIII
How ashamed of themselves Galsworthy and Shaw, Molnar and Brieux,
Hauptmann and Wedekind must feel when they read a book on dramatic
technique by a member of the Drama League!
XLIX
The error committed by the critic who, night after night, goes to the
theater in an attitude of steadfast seriousness and in such attitude
reviews what he beholds therein lies in his confounding of the
presentation with the institution. His respectful attitude toward the
presentation is, therefore, under current conditions eight times in ten
a direct insult to the institution.
L
THE AMERICAN ADAPTATION
_The Plot of the Play, in the Original_:
Gaston Beaubien tires of his wife, Gabrielle, and enters into a liaison
with his wife’s best friend, Lucienne.
_The Plot of the Play, in the Adaptation_:
Gaston Beaubien tires of his wife’s best friend, Lucienne, and enters
into a liaison with his wife, Gabrielle.
LI
Brieux--Jeanne d’Arc on a mule.
LII
WHY DRAMATIZED NOVELS OFTEN FAIL THE HEROINE
(_In the book_)
“As nineteen-year-old Faith Draycourt stood there, she seemed for all
the world like some breathing, living young goddess come down to earth
in a chariot of cloud chiffon tinted orange-pink by the setting sun.
Her slender body whispered its allure from out the thin folds of silk
that, like some fugitive mist, clung about her. Her hair, a tangle of
spun copper, fell upon her dimpled shoulders and tumbled off them, a
stormy bronze cascade, to the ground. Her eyes, like twin melodies of
Saint-Saens imbedded in Bermuda’s blue woodland pools; her voice, soft
as the haunt of a distant guitar----.”
THE HEROINE
(_From the newspaper critique of the play made from the book_)
“The role of Faith Draycourt was ably interpreted by that accomplished
and experienced actress, ---- ----, who is well remembered by the
older generation of theater-goers for her fine performance of _Juliet_
in 1876 at the old Bowery Theater.”
LIII
An arm-chair beside a reading lamp is the only place for worth-while
drama. If you are one of those who seriously contends that such drama
should be acted in the theater, that the stage is the place for such
work, that it stands a fair chance there, tell me what you think would
happen to Hauptmann’s “Weavers” if, in that wonderful climax to the
fifth act, the child actress playing Mielchen should accidentally drop
her panties, or to “Hannele” if, at a moment of its poignant pathos,
a shirt-sleeved Irish scene-shifter were plainly observable in the
wings.... Think of Sudermann’s “Princess Far-Away” with a bad cold in
her head and an obviously tender corn!
LIV
We hear much of the difference twixt the quality of London and New York
theater audiences. It may be summed up in a single sentence. In London
they do not put a chain on the dime-in-the-slot opera-glasses.
LV
_A Shaw Play._--A moving-picture consisting entirely of explanatory
titles.
LVI
You say it is possible for drama to reflect life? Very well, then
answer me this. In the cabled dispatches from the European fighting
countries, there appeared the other day an account of the astounding
spectacular heroism, in the face of a death-filled fire, of a German
soldier named Ludwig Dinkelblatz. If you can reconcile yourself to
the notion of a man named Ludwig Dinkelblatz as the hero of a play of
whatever sort, you win.
LVII
Mr. Edward Locke, who wrote “The Bubble,” “The Revolt,” and other
reasons for bad theatrical seasons, observed in a recent interview
that he always writes his plays by artificial light because plays are
always produced by artificial light, and that, therefore, he believed
that this was the logical way to go about writing plays. Mr. Locke will
agree with his critics that inasmuch as people always go to bed in the
dark, it is but logical that, when the lights go out in the auditorium
and one of his plays gets under way, they should go to sleep.
LVIII
We hear a great deal of the American drama’s failure to hold the
mirror up to nature. This is nonsense, nothing more nor less. The
trouble is not with the drama, but with the mirror! The American drama
tries to reflect nature in one of the little mirrors women carry in
their vanity-boxes. Some day it may learn--as the French drama has
learned--that when there’s any reflecting of nature to be done, you’ve
got to use a pier glass. We like to believe, we Anglo-Saxons, that all
drama lies in mortals’ faces, and that drama’s purpose is merely to
reflect, as in a shaving mirror, men’s tears and smiles. The French, a
wiser people, know that drama reposes alone in men’s bodies.
FANNY’S SECOND PLAY
NOTE.--_In Bernard Shaw’s “Fanny’s First Play,” there are introduced in
an epilogue four characters representing as many dramatic critics of
London--A. B. Walkley, Gilbert Cannan, etc. These four critics are made
by Shaw to discuss the play in their four typical and familiar critical
ways. When the play was produced in America it was suggested to Shaw
that he come to the United States, study the peculiarities of the local
critics, and alter his epilogue so that the indelible attitudes toward
everything dramatic of the native criticerei might be lampooned for
American audiences. Shaw was too busy. Being possessed of an hour’s
spare time and considerable presumption, the present writer essays the
task in Shaw’s behalf. “Fanny’s Second Play” may be any anonymously
written play._
THE CRITICS
William Summers
Alston Hill
Carlton Dixon
Lawrence Fenemy
THE EPILOGUE
FENEMY
You ask me if I like the play. How do I know! If it’s by a foreigner,
sure I like it; but if it’s by an American (particularly a _young_
American) you can bet I’ll roast it. Why, it’s got to the point where
some of these young American playwrights are getting to be better known
than we are, and I’ll be darned if I’m going to do anything to help the
thing along.
HILL
You’re right, Fenemy. Besides, they know how to do these things so much
better abroad than our writers do. Take this play. Pretty good, to be
sure. But I’ll wager it was written by some fellow who used to be a
reporter--probably on my very paper. And _I’m_ not going to be the one
to give him the swelled head. No, sir!
DIXON
If Belasco had only produced this play it would have been a wonder.
Belasco’s a wizard. I know it, because he has repeatedly told me so
himself.
SUMMERS
Ah, gentlemen--gentlemen. Why indulge in this endless colloquy over
this insignificant proscenium tidbit. Let us remember that howsoever
good it may be it was still not written by Shakespeare and that however
ably it may have been interpreted, Booth and Barrett and Charlotte
Cushman, alas, are no longer with us.
HILL
Oh, you’re a back-number, Summers. You’re no critic--you’re a scholar!
Why don’t you put a punch in your stuff and get a good job?
FENEMY
I wonder if it’s possible this play’s meant to be satirical. I’ll read
what you say about it in the morning, Hill, and if you think it’s a
satire, I’ll see it again and sort o’ edit my opinion of it in the
Sunday edition.
DIXON
I must say again that I’m sorry Belasco didn’t produce the play. He’s a
genius. Look what he did for _The Easiest Way_. If it hadn’t been for
his lighting effects the show wouldn’t have stood a chance!
FENEMY
You’re right, Dixon. Anyway, _The Easiest Way_ was just like _Iris_.
Our writers can’t touch the English. Besides, Pinero’s got a title and
Eugene Walter, we must remember, once slept on a bench in Bryant Park.
HILL
I like the title of this piece though, fellows. _Fanny’s Second Play_.
It’ll give me the chance to say in my review of it: “_Fanny’s Second
Play_ won’t go for a minute.” Catch it? Second--minute. Great, isn’t
it? I like plays with titles you can crack jokes about.
SUMMERS
Alack-a-day, things are not in criticism as they used to be. Dignity,
my friends, is what I always aimed for--dignity and dullness. Poor
Daly is dead and poor Wallack sleeps in his grave. Schoolboys, mere
schoolboys and shopkeepers run the drama of to-day.
HILL
Oh, cut it out. Dan Daly wasn’t half as good a comedian as Eddie Foy
is! And Shakespeare--why the only time that any interest in Shakespeare
has been aroused in the last ten years was when Julia Marlowe and
Sothern got married. Give me Sutro.
DIXON
But as I was saying, Belasco’s the man! Shakespeare in his palmiest
moments never imagined a greater effect than that soft lamp-light that
Belasco put over the chess table in the last act of _The Concert_.
FENEMY
Correct again, Dixon! Do you think Belasco would use German silver
knives and forks on a dinner table in a play of his? Nix! The real
stuff for him! _Sterling!_ And you can say what you want, it’s
attention to details like that that makes a play. I suppose _Fanny’s
Second Play_ may be pretty good drama, but I never had any experience
like the hero in the show and by George, I don’t believe it could have
happened! Besides, _my_ sister never acted that way and consequently I
must put the whole thing down as rubbish. The author doesn’t understand
human nature. No, sir, he doesn’t understand human nature!
HILL
The society atmosphere, too, is perfectly ridiculous. Why, I’ve been in
the Astor as many as five times and I never saw any society people act
that way. Our American playwrights are not gentlemen, that’s the rub.
SUMMERS
Ah me, when Sarah Siddons and Clara Morris and Ada Rehan were in their
prime--those were the days! What use longer, I ask you, gentlemen, to
inscribe praise to actresses if one is no more invited to meals by
them? Times have changed. This Mr. Cohan, paugh! This Miss Barrymore,
fie!!
DIXON
Sure thing! Warfield’s the only one left who can act and _Belasco_
taught _him_ all _he_ knows. Belasco--there’s the wizard! Did you
notice the way he got that amber light effect in _Seven Chances_?
Wonderful, I say, wonderful----.
FENEMY
(_interrupting_)
But did you ever smoke one of _George Tyler’s_ cigars?
HILL
About this play we saw tonight. I kind of think I’ll have to let it
down a bit easy because the management’s taken out a double-sized ad.
in the Sunday edition. And besides, say it should turn out next week
to be by an English dramatist instead of an American! Then wouldn’t we
feel foolish!
DIXON
(_vehemently_)
Well, we know who the producer is! Isn’t that enough? If it’s put on by
Belasco, it’s great; if it’s put on by anybody else, it’s a frost--and
there you are. That is, anybody but Klaw and Erlanger. No use throwing
the hooks into them too hard. They pull too much influence with our
bosses.
HILL
(_with a self-amused grin_)
I wonder what the magazine er-um-um critics, as they choose to call
themselves, will think of this play?
DIXON
Humph! Magazine critics? Why they’re all _young_ fellows. Impudent,
too! They think that just because they’re educated they know more about
the game than we do--than _I_ do--and I’ve had my opinions quoted on
as many as two hundred garbage cans in _one_ week!
SUMMERS
Ah, dear me, gentlemen. In _my_ time, a critic was a person with a
taste for drama; to-day a critic is largely a person with a taste for
quotation in the Shubert ads.
FENEMY
(_to the others, tapping his temple significantly with his forefinger_)
The poor chap actually thinks Molière knew more about playwriting than
Jules Eckert Goodman!
HILL and DIXON
(_laughing uproariously_)
Fine! Fine!! Better use that line in your review tomorrow. Of course
it hasn’t anything to do with _Fanny’s Second Play_, but that doesn’t
matter. It’s too good to lose.
HILL
By the way, the Dramatic Mirror wrote me for my picture to-day. They’re
going to print it in the next number. Pretty good, eh?
FENEMY
I should say yes! I wish I could get as much advertising as you get,
Hill.
HILL
(_suddenly_)
By Jove! An idea! What if this play we saw tonight was written by
Belasco, after all?
SUMMERS
Impossible, gentlemen. Had Mr. Belasco written it, we should have had
an inkling of the fact through the recent lawsuit calendars.
FENEMY
Maybe it’s by Augustus Thomas. It’s got a lot of thought in it!
HILL
Yes, it certainly is full of thought!
DIXON
Sure, it’s got a pile of thought in it all right enough!
SUMMERS
(_lifting his eyebrows_)
What thought, gentlemen?
FENEMY
Didn’t you catch that curious new word in the second act? What was it,
Dixon?
HILL
Psychothrapy.
DIXON
No, you mean psychothrupy.
FENEMY
No, no, it is psychothripy.
SUMMERS
Gentlemen, you mean psychotherapy.
ALL
Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s _thought_, anyway--something snappy and
new. And Augustus Thomas is the only American playwright who thinks.
DIXON
Did you notice that reference to the “sweet and noble mother”? _I_
think Roi Cooper Megrue wrote it--and I don’t like Megrue. He’s too fat
looking. I think the play is punk.
HILL
But that third act attempted seduction climax sounds to me like Sheldon.
DIXON
(_quickly_)
Oh, _then_ the play’s all right!
HILL
But we must remember that Sheldon is a _young_ man and that he is a
Harvard graduate. He needs taking down a little.
DIXON
But he’s a good friend of my dear friend Mrs. ----. Anyway, if only
Belasco----.
FENEMY
(_interrupting_)
Well, I’ve got to get down to the office and write my review.
(_looking at watch_)
It’s got to be in at twelve o’clock and it’s ten minutes of twelve now,
and I’ve got to fill a column.
(_exits_)
HILL
Between us, Dixon, I personally enjoyed this play immensely; but
professionally, I think it’s very bad.
DIXON
My idea exactly. Of course, if Belasco----.
(_Exeunt_)
GLOSSARIES
I
A Vaudeville Glossary
(_Embracing Translations and Explanations of Such Words and Phrases as
Are Used Regularly in Vaudeville, and Necessary to a Comprehension of
Vaudeville by Persons Who Do Not Wear Soft Pleated Shirts with Dinner
Jackets._)
_Knock-out_--The designation of a performance which has succeeded
in completely captivating the advertising solicitor for a weekly
vaudeville paper.
_Wop_--A term of derision directed at an Italian who earns a difficult
livelihood digging ten hours a day at subways by an American actor
who earns an easy livelihood digging twenty minutes a night at Ford
automobiles.
_A scream_--The designation of an allusion to the Prince of Denmark in
Shakespeare’s celebrated tragedy as “omelet.”
_Team_--A term applied to two vaudeville actors who get twice as much
money as they deserve.
_Sure-fire_--A compound word employed to describe any allusion to
President Wilson or the performer’s mother.
_Swell_--An adjective used to describe the appearance of a gentleman
performer who wears a diamond stud in his batwing tie or of a lady
performer who is able to pronounce “caviar” correctly.
_Artiste_--A vaudeville actress who carries her own plush curtain.
_Dresden-China Comedienne_--Any vaudeville actress who is not a
comedienne and who wears a poke bonnet fastened under the chin with
pale blue ribbons.
_Headliner_--A performer of whom audiences in the legitimate theatres
have wearied.
_Society’s Pet_--The designation of any young woman performer who has
danced in a Broadway restaurant that was visited one evening by a
slumming party from Fifth Avenue.
_Mind-reader_--A vaudeville performer who imagines the members of a
vaudeville audience have minds to read.
II
A First-Night Glossary
_Rotten_--An adjective used to describe anything good.
_Author_--A noun used to designate the person who, in response to
the applause, comes out upon the stage after the second act in a
conspicuously new Tuxedo and talks as if he had written a play.
_Laugh_--A noise uttered by the audience whenever the comedian, casting
an eye upon the prima donna’s hinter-décolleté, ejaculates, “I’m glad
to see your back again.”
_Grate_--Something that is used to warm up vaudeville sketches.
_Wholesome_--An adjective used to describe any play which sacrifices
art to morals.
_Dramatic_--An adjective used to describe a scene in which anything,
from a vase to the seventh commandment, is broken.
_Sympathy_--The emotion felt by the audience for the woman character
who lies, betrays, robs, deceives, steals, poisons, cheats, swindles,
commits adultery, plays false, stabs, dupes or murders--in a beautiful
gown.
_Program_--A pamphlet which assures the audience that the theatre
is disinfected of germs with CN Disinfectant and that the play is
disinfected of drama with actors.
III
A Glossary of British Slang
When George Ade’s “College Widow” was produced in London several years
ago, a section of the program was devoted to a glossary of American
slang. The British equivalents for the various specimens of Yankee
vernacular were thus provided, so that the audience might comprehend
the meaning of the words spoken by the characters in the play. By way
of helping American audiences to a better understanding of the British
vulgate, I append a reciprocating glossary:
_Actor_--A war-time patriot who shouts “God Save the King” as he
hurries aboard the first steamer out of Southampton to accept an
engagement in an American musical comedy adapted from the German.
_Beastly_--A condemnatory adjective applied by an actor (see above) to
the treatment accorded an actor (see above) by Americans during his
engagement in an American musical comedy adapted from the German, after
the actor (see above) has returned to England following a declaration
of peace.
_Handkerchief_--A small square of linen with which, when he has (or
hasn’t) a cold, an Englishman blows his wrist.
_Old Top_--A term of endearment applied by an actor (see above) to an
American who seems to be about to buy a drink.
IV
A General Theatrical Glossary
sardou (v.t.) | --1. | To lock the door and chase
| | a reluctant lady around the
| | room.
| |
act (v.i.) | --1. | To spoil an otherwise good
| | play. 2. To endorse a new
| | massage cream. 3. To
| | please William Winter.
| |
Success (n.) | --1. | A bad play. 2. A d--n
| | bad play. 3. A h--l of a
| | d--n bad play.
| |
fairbanks (v.t.) | --1. | To leap headlong out of a
| | window. 2. To lick three
| | men with one hand.
| |
doro (v.i.) | --1. | To compel favorable critical
| | notices by having beautiful
| | eyes.
| |
alwoods (v.t.) | --1. | To foil a villain. 2. To
| | foil two villains. 3. To
| | foil three villains.
STORIES OF THE OPERAS
I PAGLIACCI
(ē pal-yät-chē)
Two-act drama; text and music by Leoncavallo
CHARACTERS
CANIO | Tenor
TONIO | Baritone
BEPPO | Tenor
NEDDA (Canio’s wife) | Soprano
SILVIO (a villager) | Baritone
THE STORY
Act I
At Tonio’s signal, the curtains open disclosing a cross-roads with
a rude portable theatre and Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt with a party
of débutantes. The distant sounds of a cracked trumpet and belabored
drum call the peasants together, and they greet with joy the
familiar characters in whose costumes Canio, Nedda, and Beppo enter
simultaneously with Mrs. O. H. P. Belmont’s party, Mrs. Otto Kahn’s
party, Mrs. Goelet, in mauve _faille d’amour_ silk, and a party of
young people chaperoned by Mrs. Douglas Robinson. Silencing the crowd
(on the stage), Canio announces the play for the evening--and is
heard. Canio descends and boxes the ears of Tonio, who loves Nedda.
Tonio, and two old gentlemen of decided snoring proclivities who have
been sitting in the eighth row, wander off. A villager invites the
players to drink. Twenty-seven gentlemen in the audience accept the
invitation. The villager hints that Tonio lingers to flirt with Nedda,
and the ladies in the boxes also get busy with recent scandal. Canio
takes it as a joke, twenty-one of the twenty-seven gentlemen taking it
with water. Canio says he loves his wife. And, after kissing her, he
departs coincident with the arrival of the occupants of the Gould and
Sloane boxes. The other peasants, and forty-two other gentlemen, leave
the scene.
Nedda, left alone, broods over the fierce look which Canio and Gatti
Casazza gave her. She wonders if Canio suspects her. The sunlight
and the new gown and necklace on Mrs. Payne Whitney thrill her and
she revels in the song and the sport of the birds (“Ballatella”). At
the end of the rhapsody she finds that the hideous Tonio, if not the
audience, has been listening. He makes ardent love, but she laughs him
to scorn. He pursues her, however, and she, picking up Beppo’s whip,
slashes him across the face. He swears revenge and stumbles away. Now
her secret lover, Silvio, steals in with the twenty-seven gentlemen
who have been over to Browne’s. Silvio pleads with her to go away with
him. She promises in an undertone to meet him that night at Del Pezzo’s
Italian Restaurant at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Thirty-fourth
Street. Tonio, having seen them, hurries away. He gets the ear of Canio
and returns coincidently with thirty-four of some forty-odd gentlemen
who have been across the street. Silvio, however, escapes unnoticed and
so do the two old gentlemen who have been sleeping in the eighth row.
Canio threatens to kill Nedda and Leoncavallo’s music. Beppo and one
of the old gentlemen who has forgotten his overcoat rush back. Beppo
disarms Canio. Tonio hints that Nedda’s lover may appear that night
in the play and some bizarre looking ladies in the third row hint a
lot of other things. Left alone, Canio bewails his bitter fate, and
the gentlemen whose wives won’t let them get out do the same. In wild
grief, Canio finally gropes his way off. And such gentlemen as are left
in the audience follow suit.
(To be continued)
THREE MODERN DRAMATISTS
BRIEUX
Act I }
!!!!! }
Act II } !!!!!
!!!!! }
Act III }
!!!!! }
BELASCO
Act I
The Hampton Shops
The Edison Electrical Supplies Co.