The Sunny Side

by A. A. Milne

  But there is a technique to be acquired in this matter as in everything else within the theatre. The great art of the stage-craftsman, as I have already shown, is to seem natural rather than to be natural. Let your actors have tea by all means, but see that it is a properly histrionic tea. This is how it should go:

  Hostess. How do you do? You’ll have some tea, won’t you? [Rings bell].

  Guest. Thank you.

  Enter Butler.

  Hostess. Tea, please, Matthews.

  Butler (impassively). Yes, m’lady. (This is all he says during the play, so he must try and get a little character into it, in order that “The Era” may remark, “Mr. Thompson was excellent as Matthews.” However, his part is not over yet, for he returns immediately, followed by three footmen—just as it happened when you last called on the Duchess—and sets out the tea.)

  Hostess (holding up the property lump of sugar in the tongs). Sugar?

  Guest (luckily). No, thanks.

  Hostess replaces lump and inclines empty teapot over tray for a moment; then hands him a cup painted brown inside—thus deceiving the gentleman with the telescope in the upper circle.

  Guest (touching his lips with the cup and then returning it to its saucer). Well, I must be going.

  Re-enter Butler and three Footmen, who remove the tea-things.

  Hostess (to Guest). Good-bye; so glad you could come. [Exit Guest.]

  His visit has been short, but it has been very thrilling while it lasted.

  Tea is the most usual meal on the stage, for the reason that it is the least expensive, the property lump of sugar being dusted and used again on the next night. For a stage dinner a certain amount of genuine sponge-cake has to be made up to look like fish, chicken or cutlet. In novels the hero has often “pushed his meals away untasted,” but no stage hero would do anything so unnatural as this. The etiquette is to have two bites before the butler and the three footmen whisk away the plate. Two bites are made, and the bread is crumbled, with an air of great eagerness; indeed, one feels that in real life the guest would clutch hold of the footman and say, “Half a mo’, old chap, I haven’t nearly finished”; but the actor is better schooled than this. Besides, the thing is coming back again as chicken directly.

  But it is the cigarette which chiefly has brought the modern drama to its present state of perfection. Without the stage cigarette many an epigram would pass unnoticed, many an actor’s hands would be much more noticeable; and the man who works the fireproof safety curtain would lose even the small amount of excitement which at present attaches to his job.

  Now although it is possible, in the case of a few men at the top of the profession, to leave the conduct of the cigarette entirely to the actor, you will find it much more satisfactory to insert in the stage directions the particular movements (with match and so forth) that you wish carried out. Let us assume that Lord Arthur asks Lord John what a cynic is—the question of what a cynic is having arisen quite naturally in the course of the plot. Let us assume further that you wish Lord John to reply, “A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.” It has been said before, but you may feel that it is quite time it was said again; besides, for all the audience knows, Lord John may simply be quoting. Now this answer, even if it comes quite fresh to the stalls, will lose much of its effect if it is said without the assistance of a cigarette. Try it for yourself.

  Lord John. A cynic is a man who, etc…

  Rotten. Now try again.

  Lord John. A cynic is a man who, etc…[Lights cigarette.]

  No, even that is not good. Once more:—-

  Lord John (lighting cigarette). A cynic is a man who, etc.

  Better, but leaves too much to the actor.

  Well, I see I must tell you.

  Lord John (taking out gold cigarette case from his left-hand upper waistcoat pocket). A cynic, my dear Arthur (he opens case deliberately, puts cigarette in mouth, and extracts gold match-box from right-hand trouser) is a man who (strikes match) knows the price of (lights cigarette)—everything, and (standing with match in one hand and cigarette in the other) the value of—-pff (blows out match) of—nothing.

  It makes a different thing of it altogether. Of course on the actual night the match may refuse to strike, and Lord John may have to go on saying “a man who—a man who—a man who” until the ignition occurs, but even so it will still seem delightfully natural to the audience (as if he were making up the epigram as he went along); while as for blowing the match out, he can hardly fail to do that in one.

  The cigarette, of course, will be smoked at other moments than epigrammatic ones, but on these other occasions you will not need to deal so fully with it in the stage directions. “Duke (lighting cigarette). I trust, Perkins, that…” is enough. You do not want to say, “Duke (dropping ash on trousers). It seems to me, my love…” or, “Duke (removing stray piece of tobacco from tongue). What Ireland needs is…”; still less “Duke (throwing away end of cigarette). Show him in.” For this must remain one of the mysteries of the stage—What happens to the stage cigarette when it has been puffed four times? The stage tea, of which a second cup is always refused; the stage cutlet, which is removed with the connivance of the guest after two mouthfuls; the stage cigarette, which nobody ever seems to want to smoke to the end—thinking of these as they make their appearances in the houses of the titled, one would say that the hospitality of the peerage was not a thing to make any great rush for…

  But that would be to forget the butler and the three footmen. Even a Duke cannot have everything. And what his chef may lack in skill his butler more than makes up for in impassivity.

  A Poetry Recital

  It has always been the privilege of Art to be patronized by Wealth and Rank. Indeed, if we literary and artistic strugglers were not asked out to afternoon tea sometimes by our millionaire acquaintances, it is doubtful if we should be able to continue the struggle. Recently a new (and less expensive) method of entertaining Genius has become fashionable in the best circles, and the aspiring poet is now invited to the house of the Great, not for the purpose of partaking of bodily refreshment himself, but in order that he may afford spiritual refreshment to others. In short, he is given an opportunity of reciting his own works in front of the Fair, the Rich and the Highly Born, and making what he can out of it in the way of advertisement.

  Let us imagine that we have been lucky enough to secure an invitation to one of Lady Poldoodle’s Poetry At-Homes, at her charming little house in Berkeley Square.

  The guests are all waiting, their eyes fixed in eager anticipation on the black-covered throne at the farther end of the room, whereon each poet will sit to declaim his masterpiece, when suddenly Lord Poldoodle is observed to be making his way cautiously towards a side-door. Fortunately he is stopped in time, and dragged back to his seat next to the throne, from which he rises a moment later to open the proceeding.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “we are met here this afternoon in order to listen to some of our younger poets who will recite from their own works. So far, I have always managed to avoid—so far, I have been unavoidably prevented from attending on these occasions, but I understand that the procedure is as follows. Each poet will recite a short sample of his poetry, after which, no doubt, you will go home and order from your bookseller a complete set of his works.”

  Lady Poldoodle goes quickly over to him and whispers vigorously.

  “I find I am wrong,” says our host. “Full sets of the author’s works can be obtained on the way out. There is, however, no compulsion in the matter, and, if you take my advice—well, well, let us get on. Our first poet”—here he puts on his glasses, and reads from a paper on the table in front of him—“is Mr. Sydney Worple, of whom you—er—have—er—doubtless all heard. At any rate you will hear him now.”

  Mr. Sydney Worple, tall and thin, wearing the sort of tie which makes you think you must have seen him before, steps forward amidst applause. He falls back into the
throne as if deep in thought, and passes a hand across his hair.

  Mr. Worple (very suddenly) “Dawn at Surbiton.”

  “Where?” says a frightened voice at the back.

  “H’sh!” says Lady Poldoodle in a whisper. “Surbiton.”

  “Surbiton” is passed round the back seats. Not that it is going to matter in the least.

  Mr. Worple repeats the title, and then recites in an intense voice these lines:

  Out of the nethermost bonds of night,

  Out of the gloom where the bats’ wings brush me,

  Free from the crepitous doubts which crush me,

  Forth I fare to the cool sunlight;

  Forth to a world where the wind sweeps clean,

  Where the smooth-limbed ash to the blue stands bare,

  And the gossamer spreads her opalled ware—

  And Jones is catching the 8.15.

  After several more verses like this he bows and retires. Lady Poldoodle, still mechanically clapping, says to her neighbour:

  “How beautiful! Dawn at Surbiton! Such a beautiful idea, I think.”

  “Wasn’t it sublime?” answers the neighbour. “The wonderful contrast between the great pageant of nature and poor Mr. Jones, catching—always catching—the 8.15.”

  But Lord Poldoodle is rising again. “Our next poet,” he says, “is Miss Miranda Herrick, whose work is so distinguished for its—er—its—er—distinction.”

  Miss Herrick, dressed in pale green and wearing pincenez, flutters in girlishly. She gives a nervous little giggle, pushes out her foot, withdraws it and begins:

  When I take my bath in the morning—

  The audience wakes up with a start. “When you take your what!” says Lord Poldoodle.

  Miss Herrick begins again, starting this time with the title.

  LIFE

  When I take my bath in the morning,

  When I strip for the cool delight,

  And the housemaid brings

  Me towels and things,

  Do I reck of the coming night?

  A materially-minded man whispers to his neighbour that he always wonders what’s for breakfast. “H’sh!” she says, for there is another verse to come.

  When my hair comes down in the evening,

  And my tired clothes swoon to the ground,

  Do I bother my head,

  As I leap in bed,

  Of the truth which the dawn brings round?

  In the uncomfortable pause which follows, a voice is heard saying, “Does she?” and Lady Poldoodle asks kindly, “Is that all, dear?”

  “What more could there be?” says Miss Herrick with a sigh. “What more is there to say? It is Life.”

  “Life! How true!” says the hostess. “But won’t you give us something else? That one ended so very suddenly.”

  After much inward (and outward) wrestling Miss Herrick announces:

  A THOUGHT

  The music falls across the vale

  From nightingale to nightingale;

  The owl within the ivied tree

  Makes love to me, makes love to me;

  But all the tadpoles in the pond

  Are dumb—however fond.

  “I begin to think that there is something in a tadpole after all,” murmurs Lord Poldoodle to himself, as the author wriggles her way out.

  “After all,” says one guest to another, “why shouldn’t a tadpole make love as much as anybody else?”

  “I think,” says her neighbour, “that the idea is of youth trying vainly to express itself—or am I thinking of caterpillars? Lord Poldoodle, what is a tadpole exactly?”

  “A tadpole,” he answers decisively, “is an extremely immature wriggling creature, which is, quite rightly, dumb.”

  Now steps forward Mr. Horatio Bullfinch, full of simple enthusiasm, one of the London school. He gives us his famous poem, “Berkeley Square.”

  The men who come from the north country

  Are tall and very fair,

  The men who come from the south country

  Have hardly any hair,

  But the only men in the world for me

  Are the men of Berkeley Square.

  The sun may shine at Colchester,

  The rain may rain at Penge;

  From low-hung skies the dawn may rise

  Broodingly on Stonehenge.

  Knee-deep in clover the lambs at Dover

  Nibble awhile and stare;

  But there’s only one place in the world for me,

  Berkeley—Berkeley Square.

  And so on, down to that magnificent last verse:

  The skylark triumphs from the blue,

  Above the barley fields at Loo,

  The blackbird whistles loud and clear

  Upon the hills at Windermere;

  But oh, I simply LOVE the way

  Our organ-grinder plays all day!

  Lord Poldoodle rises to introduce Mr. Montagu Mott.

  “Mr. Mott,” he says, “is, I am told, our leading exponent of what is called vers libre, which means—well, you will see what it means directly.”

  Mr. Mott, a very ugly little man, who tries to give you the impression that he is being ugly on purpose, and could easily be beautiful if he were not above all that sort of thing, announces the title of his masterpiece. It is called “Why Is the Fat Woman’s Face So Red?” Well, what else could you call it?

  Why is the fat woman’s face so red?

  Is it because her stays are too tight?

  Or because she wants to sneeze and has lost her pocket handkerchief?

  Or only because her second son

  (The engineer)

  Is dying of cancer.

  I cannot be certain.

  Yet I sit here and ask myself

  Wonderingly

  Why is the fat woman’s face so red?

  It is generally recognized that, in Mr. Mott, we have a real poet. There are loud cries of “Encore!” Mr. Mott shakes his head.

  “I have written no more,” he says in a deep voice. “I have given you the result of three years’ work. Perhaps—in another three years—” He shrugs his shoulders and walks gloomingly out.

  “Such a sweet idea,” says Lady Poldoodle. “I sit here and ask myself—wonderingly! How true! How very true!”

  “I couldn’t quite follow it, dear,” says her neighbour frankly. “Did he marry her after all?”

  Lord Poldoodle, looking slightly more cheerful, gets once more on to his legs.

  “You will all be very glad to hear—ah—you will all be sorry to hear that we have only one more poet on our list this afternoon. Mr. Cecil Willow, the well-known—er—poet.”

  Mr. Willow, a well-dressed young man, fair and rather stout, and a credit to any drawing-room, announces the subject of his poem—Liberty.

  “Liberty, what crimes have been committed in thy name!” murmurs Lord Poldoodle to himself.

  LIBERTY

  There were two thrushes in a tree,

  The one was tamed, the other free.

  Because his wings were clipped so small

  The tame one did not fly at all,

  But sang to Heaven all the day—

  The other (shortly after) flew away.

  There were two women in a town,

  The one was blonde, the other brown.

  The brown one pleased a Viscount’s son

  (Not Richard, but the other one)

  He gave her a delightful flat—

  The blonde one loved a man called Alfred

  Spratt.

  There were two Kings on thrones of gold,

  The one was young, the other old.

  The young one’s laws were wisely made

  Till someone took a hand-grenade

  And threw it, shouting, “Down with Kings!”—

  The old one laid foundation stones and things.

  “How delightful,” says everybody. “How very delightful. Thank you, Lady Poldoodle, for such a delightful afternoon.”

  The Pe
rils of Reviewing

  A most unfortunate thing has happened to a friend of mine called—to a friend of—to a—. Well, I suppose the truth will have to come out. It happened to me. Only don’t tell anybody.

  I reviewed a book the other day. It is not often I do this, because before one can review a book one has to, or is supposed to, read it, which wastes a good deal of time. Even that isn’t an end of the trouble. The article which follows is not really one’s own, for the wretched fellow who wrote the book is always trying to push his way in with his views on matrimony, or the Sussex downs, or whatever his ridiculous subject is. He expects one to say, “Mr. Blank’s treatment of Hilda’s relations with her husband is masterly,” whereas what one wants to say is, “Putting Mr. Blank’s book on one side, we may consider the larger question, whether—” and so consider it (alone) to the end of the column.

  Well, I reviewed Mr. Blank’s book, “Rotundity.” As I expected, the first draft had to be re-headed “A Corner of old London,” and used elsewhere; Mr. Blank didn’t get into it at all. I kept promising myself a sentence: “Take ‘Rotundity,’ for instance, the new novel by William Blank, which, etc.” but before I was ready for it the article was finished. In my second draft, realizing the dangers of delay, I began at once, “This remarkable novel,” and continued so for a couple of sentences. But on reading it through afterwards I saw at once that the first two sentences were out of place in an article that obviously ought to be called “The Last Swallow”; so I cut them out, sent “The Last Swallow: A Reverie” to another Editor, and began again. The third time I was successful.

  Of course in my review I said all the usual things. I said that Mr. Blank’s attitude to life was “subjective rather than objective”…and a little lower down that it was “objective rather than subjective.” I pointed out that in his treatment of the major theme he was a neo-romanticist, but I suggested that, on the other hand, he had nothing to learn from the Russians—or the Russians had nothing to learn from him; I forget which. And finally I said (and this is the cause of the whole trouble) that Antoine Vaurelle’s world-famous classic—and I looked it up in the encyclopedia—world-renowned classic, “Je Comprends Tout,” had been not without its influence on Mr. Blank. It was a good review, and the editor was pleased about it.