FIRST PLAYS FOR BEGINNERS
Thisis the Truth about the production of first plays.
First the author, in the secrecy of his chamber, painfully gives birth to an idea, and clothes it in words—if possible of not more than one syllable. Then he shows it to his best friend, who obligingly points out that the whole conception is faulty, and that the dialogue is beneath contempt. He then reads it to his second-best friend, who wakes from his slumber greatly refreshed. By the end of a short period he has no friends left: but he has learnt a few of the more obvious imperfections of his work. In despair of ever reconciling the conflicting criticisms to which it has been subjected, he posts it defiantly to Grossmith and Malone, Sir Alfred Butt, Mr. Charles Cochran, Mr. Laurillard, Mr. de Courville, and the whole gang of impresarios. It returns from each of them accompanied by a printed slip. He then slinks to the office of a dramatic agent.
The dramatic agent is a florid man with a super-silk hat. He receives the author with the gracious condescension of royalty greeting an inferior. The author, overcome at the honour which is being conferred, gratefully deposits hisprecious MS. in the luxurious plush-padded basket which is held out by an underling. The basket is reverently placed upon the table; mutual expressions of goodwill are exchanged; the author is bowed out.
Then the dramatic agent shakes the MS. out of the basket, as though it were verminous; pitchforks it into the recesses of a safe; locks the safe with a loud clang, and loses the key for two years.
At the end of two years Cyrus K. Bimetaller, the celebrated “Stunt” King, visits the dramatic agent to throw in his teeth the forty-seven separate scripts of forty-seven separate plays—but why go into this? He says that all dealings between them are at an end, and demands his account. The dramatic agent mechanically opens the safe to get out his books—and there lies the neglected MS. As a last bid for fortune he places it eloquently in the hands of Cyrus K. The latter grunts, and sprawls on the sofa to “size it up.” This process occupies five minutes. At the end of that time he remarks laconically, “This is the goods.”
The author is now summoned from Kilimanjaro, where he is growing grape-fruit, in order to give his assistance at rehearsals. He arrives, however, only just in time for the first night, when scores of hands drag him on to a prodigiously vast stage to abase himself before a jeeringaudience. His spasmodic efforts to speak merely confirm the impression that he is a congenital epileptic.
Next day the newspapers, after a flattering reference to his personal appearance, unite in denouncing the play as the work of a man with the intelligence of a crossing-sweeper and the originality of a jackass. These comments are judiciously edited and made up as posters. The effect is stupendous, and the public flocks to the theatre. The author is a made man.
At least, he hopes he is.
Letters pour in upon him from all quarters demanding more plays from his pen. Actresses lie in wait for him at garden parties, and say, archly, “Oh, Mr. Blotto, when are you going to write a play forme?” Actor-managers call him “old boy”; and allow themselves to be seen shaking hands with him. The gifted gods and goddesses who are performing his play make no secret of his acquaintance. The great Cyrus K. Bimetaller strokes a mighty stomach in silence. The dramatic agent grunts, “I told you so,” and gives another polish to the super-silk hat. Melisande, writing her customary column in theEvening Quacker, observes: “Last night, at Mr. Blotto’s delightful play which is charming London, I saw the Duchess of Dripp, Count Sforzando, Mr. and Miss Mossop, and the Hon. ‘Toothy’Badger. The house was crowded, of course. Mr. Blotto himself looked in during the evening, but hurried away on being recognised. He is so retiring.”
In the middle of this chorus of enthusiasm the author bashfully brings forward another play. Everyone scrambles to read it. Each points out a separate defect. All unite in pronouncing it “essentially undramatic.” It finds its way into that limbo of lost manuscripts, the safe of the silk-hatted agent. Setting his teeth, the author completes another play. It passes from hand to hand, becoming dog-eared in the journey, and finally returns to him, in silence and tatters. It seems hardly worthwhile adding it to the mountains of paper on the Agent’s shelves, so somebody tosses it behind a book-case, where it is treated with the scorn it merits by mice and insects. By now the first play has been supplanted by a Bessarabian allegory, and the author’s name has long been forgotten. Still buoyed up with hope, he plans achef d’œuvre—a drama. “Something Shakespearian,” he modestly proclaims. Very few people, however, even bother to read this, all eyes being fixed on a genius from Kurdistan, who is taking away the breath of theatrical London in a play written entirely in Esperanto. The author spends his last few shillings on a ticket to the Argentine, and begins a fresh life as a herdsman.
Years pass. The author is far from unsuccessful in his new venture. In fact, he becomes extremely wealthy. He buys up his employer’shacienda. He buys up several other people’shaciendas. He buys up the greater part of the Argentine Republic. He has serious thoughts of buying up South America and selling it to the United States. But his better nature prevails, and he returns to England and buys a peerage instead. On the day appointed for him to be introduced to the House of Lords, his eye happens to see the poster of a new play—The Dusky Child. The name touches a chord. He recognises it as his own work. He forgets his engagement with the Peers of the Realm, and hurries off once again in pursuit of literary reputation.
His old friend the dramatic agent is comparatively unchanged. He is a little more silk-hatted, a little more rotund, and a little more contemptuous of every one else. He recognises the author at once, ejaculates laconically: “I told you so,” and takes him to meet Erasmus W. Bogg, the new impresario who is producing the play. They hurriedly prepare for the first night. The Lord Chancellor is very annoyed. The author snaps his fingers. At last literary fame is in his grasp. It seems an extraordinarily cold winter, but that doesn’t really matter. He hurries on the rehearsals, snapping his fingers.
How amazingly chilly it has become.
The House of Lords are sending the Lieutenant of the Tower to arrest him. Ha, ha, let them. He snaps his fingers.
Really, this weather, after the climate of the Argentine, is beyond a joke. For goodness sake hurry up with that scenery. What’s that about the Lord Chancellor? Mr. Ramsay MacDonald—what? The who?
Eh?
He wakes up to find his cherished first play still unperformed—still, indeed, uncompleted. Kilimanjaro, a dream. The Argentine, a dream. The peerage—a dream, too. He shudders at that escape.
Brr! Why, dammit, the fire’s out!