by Unknown
But it is not only the paucity of rhymes that sours the lyricist’s life. He is restricted in his use of material, as well. If every audience to which a musical comedy is destined to play were a metropolitan audience, all might be well; but there is the “road” to consider. And even a metropolitan audience likes its lyrics as much as possible in the language of everyday. That is one of the thousand reasons why new Gilberts do not arise. Gilbert had the advantage of being a genius, but he had the additional advantage of writing for a public which permitted him to use his full vocabulary, and even to drop into foreign languages, even Latin and a little Greek when he felt like it. (I allude to that song in “The Grand Duke.”)
And yet the modern lyricist, to look on the bright side, has advantages that Gilbert never had. Gilbert never realised the possibilities of Hawaii, with its admirably named beaches, shores, and musical instruments. Hawaii—capable as it is of being rhymed with “higher”—has done much to sweeten the lot—and increase the annual income of an industrious and highly respectable but down-trodden class of the community.
THE PAST THEATRICAL SEASON
And the Six Best Performances by Unstarred Actors
What lessons do we draw from the past theatrical season?
In the first place, the success of The Wanderer proves that the day of the small and intimate production is over and that what the public wants is the large spectacle. In the second place, the success of Oh, Boy!—(I hate to refer to it, as I am one of the trio who perpetrated it; but, honestly, we’re simply turning them away in droves, and Rockefeller has to touch Morgan for a bit if he wants to buy a ticket from the speculators)—proves that the day of the large spectacle is over and that what the public wants is the small and intimate production.
Then, the capacity business done by The Thirteenth Chair shows clearly that what the proletariat demands nowadays, is the plotty piece and that the sun of the bright dialogue comedy has set; while the capacity business done by A Successful Calamity shows clearly that the number of the plotty piece is up.
You will all feel better and more able to enjoy yourselves now that a trained critical mind has put you right on this subtle point.
No review of a theatrical season would be complete without a tabulated list—or even an untabulated one—of the six best performances by unstarred actors during the past season.
The present past season—that is to say, the past season which at present is the last season—has been peculiarly rich in hot efforts by all sorts of performers. My own choice would be: 1. Anna Wheaton, in Oh, Boy! 2. Marie Carroll, in the piece at the Princess Theatre. 3. Edna May Oliver, in Comstock and Elliott’s new musical comedy. 4. Tom Powers, in the show on the south side of 39th Street. 5. Hal Forde, in the successor to Very Good, Eddie. 6. Stephen Maley, in Oh, Boy!
You would hardly credit the agony it gives me to allude, even in passing, to the above musical mélange, but one must be honest to one’s public. In case there may be any who dissent from my opinion, I append a supplementary list of those entitled to honorable mention: 1. The third sheep from the O. P. side in The Wanderer. 2. The trick lamp in Magic. 3. The pink pajamas in You’re in Love. 4. The knife in The Thirteenth Chair. 5. The Confused Noise Without in The Great Divide. 6. Jack Merritt’s hair in Oh, Boy!
There were few discoveries among the dramatists. Of the older playwrights, Barrie produced a new one and an ancient one, but the Shakespeare boom, so strong last year, petered out. There seems no doubt that the man, in spite of a flashy start, had not the stuff. I understand that some of his things are doing fairly well on the road. Clare Kummer, whose “Dearie” I have so frequently sung in my bath, to the annoyance of all, suddenly turned right round, dropped song-writing, and ripped a couple of hot ones right over the plate. Mr. Somerset Maugham succeeded in shocking Broadway so that the sidewalks were filled with blushing ticket-speculators.
Most of the critics have done good work during this season. As for myself, I have guided the public mind in this magazine soundly and with few errors. If it were not for the fact that nearly all the plays I praised died before my review appeared, while the ones I said would not run a week are still packing them in, I could look back to a flawless season.
As you can see, I have had a very pleasant theatrical season. The weather was uniformly fine on the nights when I went to the theatre. I was particularly fortunate in having neighbors at most of the plays who were not afflicted with coughs or a desire to explain the plot to their wives. I have shaken hands with A. L. Erlanger and been nodded to on the street by Lee Shubert. I have broadened my mind by travel on the road with a theatrical company, with the result that, if you want to get me out of New York, you will have to use dynamite.
Take it for all in all, a most satisfactory season, full of pregnant possibilities—and all that sort of thing.
POEMS
DAMON AND PYTHIAS A Romance
Since Earth was first created, Since Time began to fly, No friends were e’er so mated, So firm as JONES and I. Since primal Man was fashioned To people ice and stones, No pair, I ween, had ever been Such chums as I and JONES.
In fair and foulest weather, Beginning when but boys, We faced our woes together, We shared each other’s joys. Together, sad or merry, We acted hand in glove, Until—’twas careless, very— I chanced to fall in love.
The lady’s points to touch on, Her name was JULIA WHITE, Her lineage high, her scutcheon Untarnished; manners, bright; Complexion, soft and creamy; Her hair, of golden hue; Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy, In colour, greyish blue.
For her I sighed, I panted; I saw her in my dreams; I vowed, protested, ranted; I sent her chocolate creams. Until methought one morning I seemed to hear a voice, A still, small voice of warning. “Does JONES approve your choice?”
To JONES of my affection I spoke that very night. If he had no objection, I said I’d wed Miss WHITE. I asked him for his blessing, But, turning rather blue, He said: “It’s most distressing, But I adore her, too.”
“Then, JONES,” I answered, sobbing, “My wooing’s at an end, I couldn’t think of robbing My best, my only friend. The notion makes me furious— I’d much prefer to die.” “Perhaps you’ll think it curious,” Said JONES, “but so should I.”
Nor he nor I would falter In our resolve one jot. I bade him seek the altar, He vowed that he would not. “She’s yours, old fellow. Make her As happy as you can.” “Not so,” said I, “you take her— You are the lucky man.”
At length—the situation Had lasted now a year— I had an inspiration, Which seemed to make things clear. “Supposing,” I suggested, “We ask Miss WHITE to choose? I should be interested To hear her private views.
“Perhaps she has a preference— I own it sounds absurd— But I submit, with deference, That she might well be heard. In clear, commercial diction The case in point we’ll state, Disclose the cause of friction, And leave the rest to Fate.”
We did, and on the morrow The postman brought us news. Miss WHITE expressed her sorrow At having to refuse. Of all her many reasons This seemed to me the pith: Six months before (or rather more) She’d married Mr. SMITH.
THE HAUNTED TRAM
Ghosts of The Towers, The Grange, The Court, Ghosts of the Castle Keep. Ghosts of the finicking, “high-life” sort Are growing a trifle cheap. But here is a spook of another stamp, No thin, theatrical sham, But a spectre who fears not dirt nor damp: He rides on a London tram.
By the curious glance of a mortal eye He is not seen. He’s heard. His steps go a-creeping, creeping by, He speaks but a single word. You may hear his feet: you may hear them plain, For—it’s odd in a ghost—they crunch. You may hear the whirr of his rattling chain, And the ting of his ringing punch.
The gathering shadows of night fall fast; The lamps in the street are lit; To the roof have the eerie footsteps passed, Where the outside passengers sit. To the passenger’s side has the spectre paced; For a moment he halts, they say, Then a ring from the punch at the unseen waist, And the footsteps pa
ss away.
That is the tale of the haunted car; And if on that car you ride You won’t, believe me, have journeyed far Ere the spectre seeks your side. Ay, all unseen by your seat he’ll stand, And (unless it’s a wig) your hair Will rise at the touch of his icy hand, And the sound of his whispered “Fare!”
At the end of the trip, when you’re getting down (And you’ll probably simply fly!) Just give the conductor half-a-crown, Ask who is the ghost and why. And the man will explain with bated breath (And point you a moral) thus: “‘E’s a pore young bloke wot wos crushed to death By people as fought As they didn’t ought For seats on a crowded bus.”
STORIES
WHEN PAPA SWORE IN HINDUSTANI
“Sylvia!”
“Yes, papa.”
“That infernal dog of yours–-“
“Oh, papa!”
“Yes, that infernal dog of yours has been at my carnations again!”
Colonel Reynolds, V.C., glared sternly across the table at Miss Sylvia Reynolds, and Miss Sylvia Reynolds looked in a deprecatory manner back at Colonel Reynolds, V.C.; while the dog in question—a foppish pug—happening to meet the colonel’s eye in transit, crawled unostentatiously under the sideboard, and began to wrestle with a bad conscience.
“Oh, naughty Tommy!” said Miss Reynolds mildly, in the direction of the sideboard.
“Yes, my dear,” assented the colonel; “and if you could convey to him the information that if he does it once more—yes, just once more!—I shall shoot him on the spot you would be doing him a kindness.” And the colonel bit a large crescent out of his toast, with all the energy and conviction of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind. “At six o’clock this morning,” continued he, in a voice of gentle melancholy, “I happened to look out of my bedroom window, and saw him. He had then destroyed two of my best plants, and was commencing on a third, with every appearance of self-satisfaction. I threw two large brushes and a boot at him.”
“Oh, papa! They didn’t hit him?”
“No, my dear, they did not. The brushes missed him by several yards, and the boot smashed a fourth carnation. However, I was so fortunate as to attract his attention, and he left off.”
“I can’t think what makes him do it. I suppose it’s bones. He’s got bones buried all over the garden.”
“Well, if he does it again, you’ll find that there will be a few more bones buried in the garden!” said the colonel grimly; and he subsided into his paper.
Sylvia loved the dog partly for its own sake, but principally for that of the giver, one Reginald Dallas, whom it had struck at an early period of their acquaintance that he and Miss Sylvia Reynolds were made for one another. On communicating this discovery to Sylvia herself he had found that her views upon the subject were identical with his own; and all would have gone well had it not been for a melancholy accident.
One day while out shooting with the colonel, with whom he was doing his best to ingratiate himself, with a view to obtaining his consent to the match, he had allowed his sporting instincts to carry him away to such a degree that, in sporting parlance, he wiped his eye badly. Now, the colonel prided himself with justice on his powers as a shot; but on this particular day he had a touch of liver, which resulted in his shooting over the birds, and under the birds, and on each side of the birds, but very rarely at the birds. Dallas being in especially good form, it was found, when the bag came to be counted, that, while he had shot seventy brace, the colonel had only managed to secure five and a half!
His bad marksmanship destroyed the last remnant of his temper. He swore for half an hour in Hindustani, and for another half-hour in English. After that he felt better. And when, at the end of dinner, Sylvia came to him with the absurd request that she might marry Mr. Reginald Dallas he did not have a fit, but merely signified in fairly moderate terms his entire and absolute refusal to think of such a thing.
This had happened a month before, and the pug, which had changed hands in the earlier days of the friendship, still remained, at the imminent risk of its life, to soothe Sylvia and madden her father.
It was generally felt that the way to find favour in the eyes of Sylvia—which were a charming blue, and well worth finding favour in—was to show an intelligent and affectionate interest in her dog. This was so up to a certain point; but no farther, for the mournful recollection of Mr. Dallas prevented her from meeting their advances in quite the spirit they could have wished.
However, they persevered, and scarcely a week went by in which Thomas was not rescued from an artfully arranged horrible fate by somebody.
But all their energy was in reality wasted, for Sylvia remembered her faithful Reggie, who corresponded vigorously every day, and refused to be put off with worthless imitations. The lovesick swains, however, could not be expected to know of this, and the rescuing of Tommy proceeded briskly, now one, now another, playing the rôle of hero.
The very day after the conversation above recorded had taken place a terrible tragedy occurred.
The colonel, returning from a poor day’s shooting, observed through the mist that was beginning to rise a small form busily engaged in excavating in the precious carnation-bed. Slipping in a cartridge, he fired; and the skill which had deserted him during the day came back to him. There was a yelp; then silence. And Sylvia, rushing out from the house, found the luckless Thomas breathing his last on a heap of uprooted carnations.
The news was not long in spreading. The cook told the postman, and the postman thoughtfully handed it on to the servants at the rest of the houses on his round. By noon it was public property; and in the afternoon, at various times from two to five, nineteen young men were struck, quite independently of one another, with a brilliant idea.
The results of this idea were apparent on the following day.
“Is this all?” asked the colonel of the servant, as she brought in a couple of letters at breakfast-time.
“There’s a hamper for Miss Sylvia, sir.”
“A hamper, is there? Well, bring it in.”
“If you please, sir, there’s several of them.”
“What? Several? How many are there?”
“Nineteen, sir,” said Mary, restraining with some difficulty an inclination to giggle.
“Eh? What? Nineteen? Nonsense! Where are they?”
“We’ve put them in the coachhouse for the present, sir. And if you please, sir, cook says she thinks there’s something alive in them.”
“Something alive?”
“Yes, sir. And John says he thinks it’s dogs, sir!”
The colonel uttered a sound that was almost a bark, and, followed by Sylvia, rushed to the coachhouse. There, sure enough, as far as the eye could reach, were the hampers; and, as they looked, a sound proceeded from one of them that was unmistakably the plaintive note of a dog that has been shut up, and is getting tired of it.
Instantly the other eighteen hampers joined in, until the whole coachhouse rang with the noise.
The colonel subsided against a wall, and began to express himself softly in Hindustani.
“Poor dears!” said Sylvia. “How stuffy they must be feeling!”
She ran to the house, and returned with a basin of water.
“Poor dears!” she said again. “You’ll soon have something to drink.”
She knelt down by the nearest hamper, and cut the cord that fastened it. A pug jumped out like a jack-in-the-box, and rushed to the water. Sylvia continued her work of mercy, and by the time the colonel had recovered sufficiently to be able to express his views in English, eighteen more pugs had joined their companion.
“Get out, you brute!” shouted the colonel, as a dog insinuated itself between his legs. “Sylvia, put them back again this minute! You had no business to let them out. Put them back!”
“But I can’t, papa. I can’t catch them.”
She looked helplessly from him to the seething mass of dogs, and back again.
“Where’s my gun?” began the colonel.
&nbs
p; “Papa, don’t! You couldn’t be so cruel! They aren’t doing any harm, poor things!”
“If I knew who sent them–-“
“Perhaps there’s something to show. Yes; here’s a visiting-card in this hamper.”
“Whose is it?” bellowed the colonel through the din.
“J. D’Arcy Henderson, The Firs,” read Sylvia, at the top of her voice.
“Young blackguard!” bawled the colonel.
“I expect there’s one in each of the hampers. Yes; here’s another. W. K. Ross, The Elms.”
The colonel came across, and began to examine the hampers with his own hand. Each hamper contained a visiting-card, and each card bore the name of a neighbour. The colonel returned to the breakfast-room, and laid the nineteen cards out in a row on the table.
“H’m!” he said, at last. “Mr. Reginald Dallas does not seem to be represented.”
Sylvia said nothing.
“No; he seems not to be represented. I did not give him credit for so much sense.” Then he dropped the subject, and breakfast proceeded in silence.
A young gentleman met the colonel on his walk that morning.
“Morning, colonel!” said he.
“Good-morning!” said the colonel grimly.
“Er—colonel, I—er—suppose Miss Reynolds got that dog all right?”
“To which dog do you refer?”
“It was a pug, you know. It ought to have arrived by this time.”
“Yes. I am inclined to think it has. Had it any special characteristics?”
“No, I don’t think so. Just an ordinary pug.”
“Well, young man, if you will go to my coachhouse, you will find nineteen ordinary pugs; and if you would kindly select your beast, and shoot it, I should be much obliged.”
“Nineteen?” said the other, in astonishment. “Why, are you setting up as a dog-fancier in your old age, colonel?”