Claude Frollo, holding the first printed book he had seen in one hand,
and pointing with the other to the gigantic mass of Notre Dame, dark
against the sunset, prophesied “_Ceci tuera cela_.” One might to-day
paraphrase the sentence which Victor Hugo put into his archdeacon’s
mouth, and pointing to the elaborately appointed dinner-tables of our
generation, assert that the Dinner was killing the Drama.
New York undoubtedly possesses at this moment more and better constructed
theatres, in proportion to its population, than any other city on the
globe, and, with the single exception of Paris, more money is probably
spent at the theatre by our people than in any other metropolis. Yet
curiously enough, each decade, each season widens the breach between our
discriminating public and the stage. The theatre, instead of keeping
abreast with the intellectual movement of our country, has for the last
thirty years been slowly but steadily declining, until at this moment
there is hardly a company playing in legitimate comedy, tragedy, or the
classic masterpieces of our language.
In spite of the fact that we are a nation in full literary production,
boasting authors who rank with the greatest of other countries, there is
hardly one poet or prose-writer to-day, of recognized ability, who works
for the stage, nor can we count more than one or two high-class comedies
or lyric dramas of American origin.
It is not my intention here to criticise the contemporary stage, although
the condition of the drama in America is so unique and so different from
its situation in other countries that it might well attract the attention
of inquiring minds; but rather to glance at the social causes which have
produced this curious state of affairs, and the strained relations
existing between our élite (here the word is used in its widest and most
elevated sense) and our stage.
There can be little doubt that the deterioration in the class of plays
produced at our theatres has been brought about by changes in our social
conditions. The pernicious “star” system, the difficulty of keeping
stock companies together, the rarity of histrionic ability among
Americans are explanations which have at different times been offered to
account for these phenomena. Foremost, however, among the causes should
be placed an exceedingly simple and prosaic fact which seems to have
escaped notice. I refer to the displacement of the dinner hour, and the
ceremony now surrounding that meal.
Forty years ago dinner was still a simple affair, taken at hours varying
from three to five o’clock, and uniting few but the members of a family,
holidays and fêtes being the rare occasions when guests were asked.
There was probably not a hotel in this country at that time where a
dinner was served later than three o’clock, and Delmonico’s, newly
installed in Mr. Moses Grinnell’s house, corner of Fourteenth Street and
Fifth Avenue, was the only establishment of its kind in America, and the
one restaurant in New York where ladies could be taken to dine. In those
tranquil days when dinner parties were few and dances a rarity,
theatre-going was the one ripple on the quiet stream of home life.
Wallack’s, at the corner of Thirteenth Street and Broadway, Booth’s in
Twenty-third Street, and Fechter’s in Fourteenth Street were the homes of
good comedy and high-class tragedy.
Along about 1870 the more aristocratically-minded New Yorkers took to
dining at six or six-thirty o’clock; since then each decade has seen the
dinner recede further into the night, until it is a common occurrence now
to sit down to that repast at eight or even nine o’clock. Not only has
the hour changed, but the meal itself has undergone a radical
transformation, in keeping with the general increase of luxurious living,
becoming a serious although hurried function. In consequence, to go to
the theatre and be present at the rising of the curtain means, for the
majority possessing sufficient means to go often to the play and culture
enough to be discriminating, the disarrangement of the entire machinery
of a household as well as the habits of its inmates.
In addition to this, dozens of sumptuous establishments have sprung up
where the pleasure of eating is supplemented by allurements to the eye
and ear. Fine orchestras play nightly, the air is laden with the perfume
of flowers, a scenic perspective of palm garden and marble corridor
flatters the senses. The temptation, to a man wearied by a day of
business or sport, to abandon the idea of going to a theatre, and linger
instead over his cigar amid these attractive surroundings, is almost
irresistible.
If, however, tempted by some success, he hurries his guests away from
their meal, they are in no condition to appreciate a serious performance.
The pressure has been too high all day for the overworked man and his
_énervée_ wife to desire any but the lightest tomfoolery in an
entertainment. People engaged in the lethargic process of digestion are
not good critics of either elevated poetry or delicate interpretation,
and in consequence crave amusement rather than a mental stimulant.
Managers were quick to perceive that their productions were no longer
taken seriously, and that it was a waste of time and money to offer
high-class entertainments to audiences whom any nonsense would attract.
When a play like _The Swell Miss Fitzwell_ will pack a New York house for
months, and then float a company on the high tide of success across the
continent, it would be folly to produce anything better. New York
influences the taste of the country; it is in New York really that the
standard has been lowered.
In answer to these remarks, the question will doubtless be raised, “Are
not the influences which it is asserted are killing the drama in America
at work in England or on the Continent, where people also dine late and
well?”
Yes, and no! People abroad dine as well, undoubtedly; as elaborately?
Certainly not! With the exception of the English (and even among them
dinner-giving has never become so universal as with us), no other people
entertain for the pleasure of hospitality. On the Continent, a
dinner-party is always an “axe-grinding” function. A family who asked
people to dine without having a distinct end in view for such an outlay
would be looked upon by their friends and relatives as little short of
lunatics. Diplomatists are allowed certain sums by their governments for
entertaining, and are formally dined in return by their guests. A great
French lady who is asked to dine out twice a week considers herself
fortunate; a New York woman of equal position hardly dines at home from
December 1 to April 15, unless she is receiving friends at her own table.
Parisian ladies rarely go to restaurants. In London there are not more
than three or four places where ladies can be taken to dine, while in
this city there are hundreds; our people have caught the habit of dining
away from home, a custom singularly in keeping with the American
temperament; for, although it costs more, it is less trouble!
The reason why foreigners do not entertain at dinner is because they have
found other and more satisfactory ways of spending their money. This
leaves people abroad with a number of evenings on their hands, unoccupied
hours that are generally passed at the theatre. Only the other day a
diplomatist said to me, “I am surprised to see how small a place the
theatre occupies in your thoughts and conversation. With us it is the
pivot around which life revolves.”
From one cause or another, not only the wealthy, but the thoughtful and
cultivated among us, go less each year to the theatre. The abstinence of
this class is the most significant, for well-read, refined, fastidious
citizens are the pride of a community, and their influence for good is
far-reaching. Of this élite New York has more than its share, but you
will not meet them at the play, unless Duse or Jefferson, Bernhardt or
Coquelin is performing. The best only tempts such minds. It was by the
encouragement of this class that Booth was enabled to give _Hamlet_ one
hundred consecutive evenings, and Fechter was induced to linger here and
build a theatre.
In comparison with the verdicts of such people, the opinions of
fashionable sets are of little importance. The latter long ago gave up
going to the play in New York, except during two short seasons, one in
the autumn, “before things get going,” and again in the spring, after the
season is over, before they flit abroad or to the country. During these
periods “smart” people generally attend in bands called “theatre
parties,” an infliction unknown outside of this country, an arrangement
above all others calculated to bring the stage into contempt, as such
parties seldom arrive before the middle of the second act, take ten
minutes to get seated, and then chat gayly among themselves for the rest
of the evening.
The theatre, having ceased to form an integral part of our social life,
has come to be the pastime of people with nothing better to do,—the
floating population of our hotels, the shop-girl and her young man
enjoying an evening out. The plays produced by the gentlemen who, I am
told, control the stage in this country for the moment, are adapted to
the requirements of an audience that, having no particular standard from
which to judge the literary merits of a play, the training, accent, or
talent of the actors, are perfectly contented so long as they are amused.
To get a laugh, at any price, has become the ambition of most actors and
the dream of managers.
A young actress in a company that played an American translation of _Mme.
Sans Gêne_ all over this continent asked me recently what I thought of
their performance. I said I thought it “a burlesque of the original!”
“If you thought it a burlesque here in town,” she answered, “it’s well
you didn’t see us on the road. There was no monkey trick we would not
play to raise a laugh.”
If one of my readers doubts the assertion that the better classes have
ceased to attend our theatres, except on rare occasions, let him inquire
about, among the men and women whose opinions he values and respects, how
many of last winter’s plays they considered intellectual treats, or what
piece tempted them to leave their cosy dinner-tables a second time. It
is surprising to find the number who will answer in reply to a question
about the merits of a play _en vogue_, “I have not seen it. In fact I
rarely go to a theatre unless I am in London or on the Continent!”
Little by little we have taken to turning in a vicious and ever-narrowing
circle. The poorer the plays, the less clever people will make the
effort necessary to see them, and the less such élite attend, the poorer
the plays will become.
That this state of affairs is going to last, however, I do not believe.
The darkest hour is ever the last before the dawn. As it would he
difficult for the performances in most of our theatres to fall any lower
in the scale of frivolity or inanity, we may hope for a reaction that
will be deep and far-reaching. At present we are like people dying of
starvation because they do not know how to combine the flour and water
and yeast before them into wholesome bread. The materials for a
brilliant and distinctly national stage undoubtedly exist in this
country. We have men and women who would soon develop into great actors
if they received any encouragement to devote themselves to a higher class
of work, and certainly our great city does not possess fewer appreciative
people than it did twenty years ago.
The great dinner-giving mania will eat itself out; and managers, feeling
once more that they can count on discriminating audiences, will no longer
dare to give garbled versions of French farces or feeble dramas as
compiled from English novels, but, turning to our own poets and writers,
will ask them to contribute towards the formation of an American stage
literature.
When, finally, one of our poets gives us a lyric drama like _Cyrano de
Bergerac_, the attractions of the dinner-table will no longer be strong
enough to keep clever people away from the theatre, and the following
conversation, which sums up the present situation, will become
impossible.
_Banker_ (to Crushed Tragedian).—No, I haven’t seen you act. I have not
been inside a theatre for two years!
_C.T._—It’s five years since I’ve been inside a bank!