A THEATRICAL FORECAST
Newspapers periodically publish their review of the past theatrical year. But it is always a sad thing to recall the past, especially the immediate past, which is too recent to be history and only old enough to be stale. Why not, then, let bygones be bygones and turn to the future, about which hope springs eternal, and which gives free scope to the imagination instead of imposing the tedious labour of research? What are our leading dramatists going to give us next year? The question might be treated in a matter-of-fact way by just going and asking them—and perhaps getting very disappointing answers. It seems more sportsmanlike to guess; besides, it leaves room for some piquant surprises when one is by and by confronted with the actual. These, then, are one or two guesses for next season.
It is long, too long, since London had a play from Sir Arthur Pinero. When he writes a play he gives you a play, not a symposium or a sermon or a piece of propagandism, but a dramatic action which interests you in its story, makes you wonder what is going to happen next, and takes care that something does happen, striking at the moment and worththinking about afterwards. His characters are presented in strong relief, there is always a dramatic conflict of wills, his women are never insipid, are sometimes deliciously perverse, and, if not past redemption (in which case they commit suicide), are “saved” by the nearest Anglican bishop or dean. His forthcoming play will ignore the Church and will deal with a household divided on the “spiritualistic” question. The husband, who suffers from mild shell-shock and saw the “angels of Mons,” will have come back from the war a devoted follower of Sir Oliver Lodge and Sir Conan Doyle. The wife (Miss Irene Vanbrugh) will be a pretty sceptic, adoring her husband, but impatient of his credulity and determined to “laugh him out” of it. An opportunity occurs. The young pair have been having a sarcastic scene (a fine opportunity for Miss Irene’s merry ringing laugh) about the husband’s bosom-friend Jack, whom he had left for dead on the field at Mons. The husband eagerly hopes to get into communication with Jack “on the other side.” The wife only remembers, with twinges of conscience, certain love passages she had, before her marriage, with the said Jack, of which she has never told her husband. Now Jack is not dead, but on his way to his bosom-friend, when the wife meets him. She sees at once a chance of opening her husband’s eyes. “We’ll have aséance,” she says to Jack; “you shall pretend to be your own spirit, and then suddenly reveal yourself as flesh and blood—and Tom will befor ever cured of his foolishness.” Jack agrees, but he also is suffering from shell-shock (two in one play! you can imagine how clever the critics will be over this—it will have to be made clear that it was the same shell), forgets himself at theséance, and at sight of his old lady-love cries “Darling!”; then, horrified at his own misbehaviour, disappears, and the same night is either run over by a motor-car or tumbles into a canal. The wife’s reputation is saved by another lady present, who takes the “darling!” to herself. It is not yet settled whether this shall be a comic amorous dame, really self-deceived (say, Miss Lottie Venne), or a shrewd, kindly woman of the world (Miss Compton, for choice), who promptly sees how the land lies and sacrifices herself for her little married friend. In either case, the wife has to keep up the illusion that the voice came from “the other side,” while the husband, though confirmed in his spiritualism, is secretly disgusted to discover that the spirits can be such “bad form.” Thus the final situation is an ironic transmutation of the first. The divided pair are now united, the merry sceptic being frightened into simulating belief, while the believer ruefully finds belief without zest. Much will depend on the acting of this final situation. Miss Irene may safely be trusted to transfer her laugh adroitly to the wrong side of her mouth, but great subtlety will be required from the actor who has to convey the mixed joy and pain of a belief proved at once true and not worth having. It may, perhaps, count among Mr.Henry Ainley’s triumphs. Mr. Gerald du Maurier will play Jack the friend—another triumph, for even in his moment of breakdown he will still keep the sympathy of the audience.
Sir James Barrie has not yet exhausted the variations on his “enchantment” theme. After the enchanted wood ofDear Brutus, where people get a second chance in life, and the enchanted island ofMary Rose, where time stands still with you, he will with his next play sound enchanted bagpipes. These will be heard as a weirdobbligato, whenever any one of the characters falls into insincerity, frompp(amiable taradiddle) toff(thumping lie), and, while they are playing, the character will talk broad Scotch and sketch the postures of or, in extreme cases, wildly dance a Highland Reel. As the characters will be drawn exclusively from the Holland House set (the scene throughout will be one of the famous breakfasts), the extravagance of the compulsory fits of Caledonianism can be seen a mile off. The dismay of the poet Rogers (Mr. George Robey, specially engaged) at finding his bestméchancetés, in his notoriously low voice, unexpectedly uttered in the broadest Scotch will only be equalled by the surprise of Sydney Smith at hearing his choicest witticisms in the same lingo. At one supreme moment the whole party will be joining in a Reel, led recalcitrantly but majestically by Lady H. Fashionable dames (a great opportunity for the costumier, and fabulous sums will be spent on the wardrobe)will suddenly change from lisping “vastly amusing I declare!” and rolled-collaredbeauxfrom murmuring “monstrous fine women, egad!” to “aiblins,” “hoots, mon,” “hech, sirs,” etc. The situation will ultimately be saved by a little Scottish maiden, in a plaid (Miss Hilda Trevelyan), who, being sincerity itself, will never speak anything but the purest English, and a baby in a box nailed against the wall, who will not speak at all. For the enchanted bagpipes a squad of pipe-majors of the Black Watch, splendid fellows in review order, will be kindly lent from the Edinburgh garrison.
Mr. Maugham has been to China, and has brought back a play which will aim at being as unlikeMr. Wuas possible. In fact, no Chinaman will figure in it—Mr. Maugham would never do anything so artistically vulgar as that—nor anything Chinese except a little porcelain curio of the best period. This will be sold by auction in a scene (it will be the talk of London) faithfully reproducing a celebrated establishment in King Street, St. James’s, with Mr. Hawtrey and Miss Gladys Cooper as the rival bidders. It will serve, later, for chiefpièce justificativein a divorce case between the same parties (with a really witty judge—for he will have the wit of Mr. Maugham—who will make a certain actual humorist on the Bench green with envy), and in the end will be broken by an excited counsel (played by the famous crockery-smashing artist from the music-halls).
Mr. Shaw—but no, it is impossible for Mr. Shawhimself, let alone any one else, to guess beforehand what Mr. Shaw will do. Finally, it may be conjectured that the rank and file of our playwrights will write for us precisely the same plays they have written before, under new titles. It would be an agreeable innovation if they would keep the old titles and write new plays for them.