AT a season of the year when children invade both the stage and the
auditorium of many theatres in unwonted numbers it would be at least
topical to speculate as to the philosophy of pantomime and the artistic
merits and defects of child actors and actresses. But while juvenile
mimicry of adult conceptions of drama is entertaining enough, it is more
to our purpose to consider the dramatic spirit as it is actually present
in children themselves. Pantomimes certainly do not reflect this spirit,
and, in spite of the sentimental, but hardly more childish influence of
fairy-plays, are still aimed exclusively at adult audiences who grant
themselves no other opportunity of appreciating the humours of the
music-halls. Probably the ideal children’s play would have the colour of
pantomime, the atmosphere of “Peter Pan,” the poetry of the “Blue Bird,”
and, most important of all, a downright melodramatic plot. It is this
last that is invariably lacking in entertainments nominally provided for
children; it is the first consideration in the entertainments they
provide for themselves.
If grown-up people were in the habit, which unfortunately they are not,
of meeting together in moments of relaxation and acting little
extemporary plays, these plays would surely give a first-hand indication
of the dramatic situations that interested them. Yet this is what
children are always doing, and in terms of play every little boy is a
dashing and manly actor and every little girl a beautiful and
accomplished actress. From the first glad hour when little brother cries
to little sister, “You be Red Riding Hood, and I’ll be the wolf and eat
you!” the dramatic aspect of life is never absent from the mind of
imaginative youth.
In one respect, at all events, these play-dramas of children should meet
with the approval of modern dramatic critics. No one can accuse them of
losing sight of the motive of their drama in elaboration of scenery or
stage effects. A chair will serve for a beleaguered castle, a pirate
ship, or Cinderella’s coach in turn, and the costumes imitate this
Elizabethan simplicity. Nevertheless, it cannot be said that their stage
is entirely free from the tyranny of those pernicious conventions that
place obstacles in the way of art. The law of primogeniture, always
rigidly enforced in nurseries, as Mr. Kenneth Grahame has observed, makes
the eldest brother as much of a nuisance as the actor-manager. According
to his nature, and the character of the play, he always insists on being
either hero or villain, and in the absence of limelight contrives to give
himself an exaggerated share both of the action and of the dialogue.
Sisters are placid creatures and do not very much mind whether they have
anything to do or not as long as they can all be princesses; but it is
hard on a younger brother to be compelled to walk the plank, although he
has the heart of a pirate chief. And the fact that whatever part he may
play the eldest brother must triumph at the end of the last act tends to
stereotype the lines along which the drama develops.
As for the plays themselves, it must be owned that they cover an
extraordinary extent of ground, and display a variety that no other
repertory theatre can hope to equal. The present writer has seen five
children in one afternoon give spirited performances of Aladdin, David
and Goliath, an unnamed drama of pirates, and the famous comedy of
teacher and naughty pupils. This last is the standard performance of
Elementary School girls all over London, and to the discerning critic
displays just those faults of sophistication and over-elaboration to
which long runs at our theatres have made us accustomed. The teacher is
always too monotonously ill-tempered, the pupils are ill-behaved beyond
all discretion; Ibsen, one feels, would have expressed this eternal
warfare between youth and authority in subtler terms. Sometimes,
however, London children achieve a really startling realism in their
games; and the looker-on may derive a considerable knowledge of the
mothers from watching the children perform in some such drama of life as
the ever-popular “Shopping on Saturday Night.” It may be noted here that
children’s rhapsodies over dolls and kittens, or, indeed, over anything,
are always clever pieces of character-acting. Naturally, children do not
rhapsodise, but they soon learn the secret of the art from observation of
their elders.
But though in large towns the poorer children may not have escaped the
spirit of the age, so that their art hardly raises them from the grey
levels of their lives, children in general are eager to find the artistic
symbol for their dreams, and allow realism but an accidental share in the
expression of their romantic ideals. They do not seek the materials for
their dramas in the little comedies and tragedies of nursery or
schoolroom life; they prefer to forget that ordinary everyday happenings
have ever wooed them to tributary laughters or tears, and fulfil their
destiny as pirates or highwaymen, fairies or forlorn princesses.
Probably the nearest approach to children’s drama that we have on the
modern stage is the so-called cloak-and-sword drama. Children’s plays
are full of action; speeches are short and emphatic, and attempts at
character-acting are desultory and provocative of laughter in the other
members of the company. The fights are always carried out with spirit
and enthusiasm. To have seen Captain Shark, that incarnadined pirate,
wiping his sword on his pinafore is to have realised that beauty of
violence for which Mr. Chesterton pleads so eloquently in the “Napoleon
of Notting Hill.”
Bearing in mind the nature of the dramas that children play to please
themselves, it should be possible to lay down certain rules as to the
composition of plays for their entertainment. Working by light of
Stevenson’s lantern, Mr. Barrie has done good work in “Peter Pan,” but he
has made tremendous mistakes. The scene on the pirate ship is perfect, a
model of what such a scene should be, with plenty of fighting and no
burdensome excess of talk. But in a play that is essentially a boys’
play Wendy is a mistake. There was no Wendy on Stevenson’s island of
treasure, and her continual intrusion into the story would not be
tolerated in any nursery. In real life she would either have had to
discard her sex and become a member of the band, or else have adopted the
honorary rôle of princess and stayed tactfully in the background. The
Pirate Chief is very good—so good, in fact, that it looks very like an
eldest brother’s part, in which case he would have beaten Peter and made
him walk the plank. The end, though pleasing to adult minds, is
impossible from a childish point of view. The boys would never have left
their fun of their own free will. The gong ought to have sounded for
tea, or perhaps Mr. Darling could have returned from the City with some
mysterious parcels for the children to open. That is how things really
happen. To our mind, as we have said above, the greatest fault a play
for children can have is the lack of a straightforward plot that allows
of plenty of stirring and adventurous action. Children love stories,
whether they be make-up stories of their own or real stories told them by
some one else. The hero of the play should be the biggest boy acting it;
the female characters should have no greater share of the action than the
most rudimentary sense of politeness would allow them, but they may sit
in the background, mute but beautiful princesses, as much as they like,
and they are permitted to comment on the courage of the hero when
occasion offers. Successful scenes should be repeated three or four
times till their possibilities had been exhausted. Every now and then,
if realism is desired, nurse or governess should look through the door
and say, “Children, don’t be rough,” to which the whole company must
reply, “We’re only playing!” Once at least in the course of the play one
of the smaller members of the company should be smitten into tears, to be
comforted by the princesses. The actors should quarrel freely among
themselves and throw up their parts every half-hour, but, on the whole,
they should all enjoy themselves enormously.
Such an entertainment, we admit, would be intolerable to the sentimental
adult; but the criticisms of the children in the audience would be worth
hearing.