That demons are much given to making bad puns, and have on their visiting lists the most beautiful of the fairies.
That the attendants upon the demons (presumably their victims) spend much of their time in break-downs.
That the chief amusement in Fairyland is to stand upon one toe for a distressingly long time.
That the fairies, when they speak, don't seem to have more H.'s to their tongues, than clothes to their backs.
That the fairies have particularly fair complexions, considering they dance so much in the sunlight.
That the tight and scanty costume of the fairies is most insufficient protection from the showers that must be required to produce the gigantic and highly-coloured fairy flora.
That the chief fairy (to judge from her allusions to current events) must take in the daily papers.
That harlequin is always shaking his bat, but nothing seems to come of it, and that it is hard to say why he comes on or goes off, or, in short, what he's at altogether.
That if clown and pantaloon want to catch columbine, it is hard to see why they don't catch her.
That pantaloon must have been greatly neglected by his children to be exposed without some filial protection to such ill-usage from clown.
That clown leads a reckless and abandoned life, between thefts, butter-slides, hot pokers, nurse-maids, and murdered babies, and on the whole is lucky to escape hanging.
That policemen are made to be chaffed, cuffed, chased, and knocked head-over-heels.
Low Comedian. "Have you seen the notice?"
Tragedian. "No; is it a good one?"
Low Comedian. "It's a fortnight's."
Heroine of domestic drama pursued by the unprincipled villain is about to cast herself headlong from a tremendous precipice!
The eldest Miss Bluestocken (to Mrs. Mugby, of the village laundry). I'm delighted that you were able to come to our schoolroom performance of Scenes from Shakspeare.
Mrs. Mugby. Oh, so was I, mum. That there "'Amblet"—and the grand lady, mum——
Eldest Miss B. (condescendingly). You mean "Hamlet" and his mother—the vicar and myself. You enjoyed it?
Mrs. Mugby. Oh, we did, mum! We ain't 'ad such a rale good laugh for many a long day.
[Exit Miss B., thinking that Shakspeare is perhaps somewhat thrown
away on this yokality.
"Where got'st thou that goose?—look!"
(Macbeth, Act V., Sc. 3.)
Grandpapa. "What? Bob in love with Miss Fontalba, the comic actress at the Parthenon?" Bob (firing up). "Yes, grandpa! And if you've got a word to say against that lady, it had better not be said in my presence, that's all!" Grandpapa. "I say a word against her! Why, bless your heart, my dear boy! I was head over ears in love with her myself—when I was your age!"
New Woman (with the hat). "No! My principle is simply this—if there's a demand for these plays, it must be supplied!" Woman not New (with the bonnet). "Precisely! Just as with the bull-fights in Spain!"
[Scores
["Mr. Chamberlain has expressed himself in sympathy with the scheme of the Rev. Forbes Phillips for running theatres in connection with the churches in country villages."]
There would, our artist imagines, be no difficulty in obtaining willing coryphées among the pew-openers and philanthropic spinsters of the various parishes.
Mr. M'Chrustie (in the washing-room of the Minerva Club). "Look here, waiter, what's the meaning of this? These brushes are as beastly grimy as if they'd been blacking boots——!" Waiter. "Yes, sir: it's them members from the 'Junior Theshpian,' sir—as are 'ere now, sir. They do dye theirselves to that degree——!"
[Mr. M'C. rushes off and writes furiously to the Committee!
"You can't sit there, mum. These here seats are reserved."
"You don't seem to be aware that I'm one of the directors' wives!"
"And if you was his only wife, mum, I couldn't let you sit here."
During the dull season a certain manager has issued such a number of his autographs in order to ensure the proper filling of his house that he has in playfulness conferred on it the nickname of the ordertorium.
Master Jacky (who took part in some school theatricals last term,—suddenly, to eminent tragedian who has come to call). "I say, you know—I act!"
"What, back already, Archie! Was it a dull piece, then?"
"Don't know. Didn't stop to see. Just looked round stalls and boxes, and didn't see a soul I knew!—so I came away."
Fair Matron. "I remember your acting 'Sir Anthony,' years ago, when I was a girl, Sir Charles! You did it splendidly!"
The Great Mathematician. "Ah, would you believe it, that bit of acting brought me more compliments than anything I ever did?"
Fair Matron. "I should think so, indeed!"
"Walking Lady" (late for rehearsal). "Oh, I'm so sorry to be late! I do hope you haven't all been waiting for me?"
Stage Manager (icily). "My dear Miss Chalmers, incompetence is the gift of heaven; but attention to business may be cultivated!"
Amateur. "It was very kind of you to come to our performance the other night; but what did you think of my Hamlet? Pretty good?" Professional (feigning ecstasy). "Oh, my dear fellow, 'pon my word you know,—really I assure you, good's not the word!"
First Critic. "Well, have you seen the great tragedian in Romeo and Juliet?"
Second ditto. "I have; and I confess he didn't come up to my ixpictations. To tell ye the truth, I niver thought he would!"
Angry Voice (from a back seat). "Ears off in front there, please!"]
The Marquis (in the play). "Aven't I give' yer the edgication of a gen'leman?"
Lord Adolphus (spendthrift heir). "You 'ave!!"
Peep-Showman. "On the right you observe the 'xpress train a-comin' along, an' the signal lights, the green and the red. The green lights means 'caution,' and the red lights si'nifies 'danger'"——
Small Boy (with his eye to the aperture). "But what's the yaller light, sir?"
Peep-Showman (slow and impressive). "There ain't no yaller light—but the green and the red. The green lights means 'caution,' and the red lights si'nif——"
Small Boy (persistently). "But wha's the other light, sir?"
Peep-Showman (losing patience). "Tell yer there ain't no"—— (takes a look—in consternation)—"Blowed if the darned old show ain't a-fire!!"
["Fashions in drama change as frequently as fashions in hats. It has been reserved for our own day to evolve the comedy of nothing-in-particular. Nowadays nothing happens in a play."—The Outlook.]
He. Dear——!
She (wearily). Oh please don't.
[Does nothing.
He. Why, what's the matter?
She. Nothing.
[He does nothing.
She. Well, you may as well go on. It will be something, anyhow. (Yawns.) Nothing ever seems to happen in this play. I don't know why. It isn't my fault. Oh, go on.
He. All right. Don't suppose it amuses me, though. Darling, I love you—will you marry me?
She (very wearily). Oh, I suppose so.
He. Thanks very much. (Kisses her.) There!
[Returns proudly to his seat, and does nothing.
She (with sudden excitement). Supposing I had said "No," would you have shot yourself?—would you have gone to the front?—would your life have been a blank hereafter? Would anything interesting have happened?
He (with a great determination in his eyes). Had you spurned my love——
She (excitedly). Yes, yes?
He (with emotion).—I should have—I should have—done nothing.
[Does it.
She. Oh!
He. Yes. As for shooting or drowning myself if any little thing of that sort had happened it would have been off the stage. I hope I know my place.
[She does nothing.
He (politely). I don't know if you're keen about stopping here? If not, we might——
She. We must wait till somebody else comes on.
He. True. (Reflects deeply.) Er—do you mote much?
[She sleeps. The audience follows suit. Curtain eventually.
Excited Prompter (to the Ghost of Hamlet's father, who is working himself up to the most funereal aspect he can assume). "Now then, Walker, LOOK ALIVE!"
"Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers."—Act II. Sc. 2.
"Ow, I am sow orferly shy, boys!
I am, and I kennot tell wy, boys!
Some dy, wen I'm owlder,
Per'aps I'll git bowlder,
But naow I am orfer-ly shy!"
No. 1 (gazing through opera glasses). A good house. Do you know anyone?
No. 2. Not a soul. Stay—aren't those the Fitzsnooks?
No. 3 (also using a magnifier). You mean the woman in the red feather at the end of the third row of the stalls?
No. 4. You have spotted them. They have got Bobby Tenterfore with them. You know, the Johnnie in the F. O.
No. 1. I thought Mr. Tenterfore was at Vienna.
No. 4. No; he was going, but they sent another chap. Brought him back from somewhere in the tropics.
No. 3. Then what is Mr. Tenterfore doing in town?
No. 4. Oh! come home on leave. Lots of that sort of thing at the F. O.
No. 1 (having grown weary of looking at the audience). By the way, à propos de bottes, I have some money to invest. Can you suggest anything?
No. 3. They say that Diddlers Deferred will turn up trumps.
No. 1. What do you mean by that? I only want to pop in and out between the accounts.
No. 3. Then the Diddlers ought to suit you. They rose six last week, and ought to touch ten before settling day.
No. 1. Then I am on. Thanks very much for the information. Ah! the curtain has fallen. So much for the first act! (Enter visitor.) Ah! how are you? Where are you?
Visitor. Well, I have got a stall, but I have only just come into the house. What are they playing?
No. 2. I am sure I don't know; but if you are curious about it, here's the programme.
Visitor. And what's it all about?
No. 1 (on behalf of self and companions). We haven't the faintest notion.
[Conversation becomes general, and remains so until the end of the evening, regardless of the dialogue on the stage side of the curtain.
Elder Sister. "Do give up, Nellie! They're only acting." Nellie (tearfully). "You leave me alone. I'm enjoying it!"
Doctor. "No, my dear sir, we must keep ourselves quiet for the present. No stimulants—nothing more exciting than gruel. Gruel for breakfast, gruel for luncheon, gruel for dinner, gruel for——" Peter Pundoleful (a noted burlesque writer—though you wouldn't have thought it to look at him—rousing himself suddenly). "Ah! my dear doctor, why is there not a society for the prevention of gruelty to animals?"
Ralph Essendean, aged about fifty, is discovered at a writing-desk. He studies a newspaper, from which he reads aloud, thoughtfully:—"So that a successful play may bring its author anything from five to twenty thousand pounds." He lays down the paper, mutters, "H'm!" and taking up a pencil bites it meditatively. Enter Mrs. Essendean.
Mrs. Essendean (crossing to Ralph, and placing her hand on his shoulder, asks affectionately). Well, dear, and how is the play getting on?
Ralph (irritably). You talk of the play, Matilda, as though it were possible to write a four-act drama in ten minutes. The play is not getting on at all well, for the simple reason that I am only just thinking out the idea.
Mrs. Essendean (seating herself by the table). How nice, dear! And what is the idea?
Ralph (grimly). That is just what I am wondering about. Now if you will kindly retire to the kitchen and make an omelette, or discharge the cook, I shall be obliged.
[Leans over his desk.
Mrs. E. But, dear, I am sure the cook is a most excellent servant, and——
Ralph (turning round and speaking with repressed exasperation). That was simply my attempt at a humorous explanation of my wish to be alone, Matilda.
Mrs. E. (smiling indulgently and rising). Well, dear, of course if it's going to be a funny play, I know you would like to be alone. (Pausing at the open door.) And will you read it to us after dinner? You know the Willoughby-Smythes will be here, and Mr. and Mrs. Vallance from the Bank are coming in afterwards. I am sure they would like to hear it.
Ralph (irritably). The play isn't written yet. (Plaintively.) Do go!
Mrs. E. (sweetly). I'm sure you'd like to be alone. Don't keep dinner waiting.
[Beams on him affectionately and exits. Ralph gives a sigh of relief, rumples his hair, and then writes for a few minutes. Then pauses, leans back, biting his pencil, when the door is flung open, and a very good imitation of a whirlwind bursts into the room. The whirlwind is a robust person of forty, he has a large round red face fringed with sandy whiskers, and is one mass of health and happiness. He wears Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, gaiters and thick boots, and carries a golfing bag. He slaps Ralph heartily on the back, and laughs boisterously. Ralph collapses.
Tom (heartily). How are you? Going strong—what? Asked the wife for you, and she told me you were in here writing a play. Rippin' idea—what?
Ralph (worried, but striving to be pleasant and polite). What do you want, old chap?
Tom (cheerfully). Nothin' particular, only just to see how you were gettin' on—what? Do you good to have half an hour out, just a few holes—golf—what?
Ralph (with great self-restraint). Thanks, old man. Not now. You don't mind my asking you to leave me to myself a bit?
Tom (amiably rising and picking up his bag). All right, old chap, you know best—what? Thought I'd just look in—hey?—what? Well, I'm off. (Goes to door, thinks for a moment, and then turns round.) I say, I know Thingummy's acting manager. If I can put in a word about your play—hey?—what?
Ralph (rises hurriedly. Shakes hands with Tom, and skilfully manœuvres him into the passage, then calls after him). Good-bye, old man, and many thanks. (Closes the door and returns to his desk, grinding his teeth.) Confound him! (Takes up paper and writes a few lines, then reads aloud.) "Puffington puts the letter in his pocket and passes his hand through his hair. He groans 'O, why did I ever write those letters? I know Flossie, and this means fifty pounds at least, and if ever my mother-in-law gets to hear of it! O lor, here she is'" (Puts down the paper and looks up at the ceiling.) Now, speaking to myself as one man to another, I can't help thinking that this sort of thing has been done before. I seem to have heard it somewhere. I'll—I'll—try a fresh start. (Writes hurriedly for a few minutes and then reads.) "Scene.—Fashionable watering place, the beach is crowded; on the pier the band is playing a dreamy waltz. Edwin and Maud are discovered in an open boat. Edwin. You must be tired of rowing, sweetest; come and steer. Maud. Just as you like, darling. (As they change seats the boat capsizes. After clinging for twenty minutes to the upturned keel, they are rescued by a passing steamer.)" That's all right for a "situation," but there seems a lack of dialogue. They can't very well talk while they are clinging to the boat; and what the deuce could they be talking about before? If I let them drown I shall have to introduce fresh characters. Bother! (Meditates with frowning brow.) Playwriting appears to present more difficulties than I thought. (Takes up a newspaper.) "May bring in anything from five to twenty thousand pounds!" Sounds tempting, but I wonder how it's done?
[Takes a cigar from the mantelpiece, lights it, and, seating himself near the fire, smokes thoughtfully. Gradually his head sinks back on to the top of the chair, the cigar drops from his relaxed fingers, and as he sleeps, the shadow of a smile breaks across his face. An hour elapses; he is still sleeping. Enter Mrs. Essendean, who brushes against the writing-table and sweeps the sheets of manuscript to the ground.
Mrs. Essendean (crossing to Ralph and lightly shaking him). My dear, my dear, not dressed yet! Do you know the time—just the half-hour.
(Ralph starts up.) Eh? (Looks at the clock.) Nearly half past, by Jove! I shan't be two seconds.
[Rushes hastily from the room.
Mrs. Essendean (picks up the extinguished cigar, and drops it daintily into the fire. Looks round the room and sees the littering manuscript.) What an untidy old thing it is! (Picks up the sheets, crumples them into a ball and throws them into the waste-paper basket.) There, that looks better.
[Gazes into the mirror, pats her hair, and exit.
Ethel. "It was a most wonderful performance, Aunt Tabitha! First, she was shot out of a cannon's mouth on to a trapeze fifteen yards above the orchestra, and then she swung herself up till she stood on a rope on one leg at least a hundred and twenty feet above our heads!" Aunt Tabitha. "Ah! I always think a woman lowers herself when she does that!"
First Masher. "Let's stop and look at Punch and Judy, old chappie! I've heard it's as good as a play."
Second Masher. "I dessay it is, my brave boy. But we ain't dressed, you know!"
Scene: Mr. Foote Lyter's back Drawing-room. Private Theatricals. Dress Rehearsal.
Mr. Foote Lyter. "I say, Drawle, while the Duke is having his scene with Dora, where am I to stand!" Captain Drawle (amateur stage manager). "Well—er—my dear fellow—er—er—it's your own house, you know—you can stand where you like!"
Exasperated Old Gentleman (to lady in front of him). "Excuse me, madam, but my seat has cost me ten shillings, and I want to see. Your hat——" The Lady. "My hat has cost me ten guineas, sir, and I want it to be seen!"
Tomkins, who has recently made his appearance en amateur as the Melancholy Dane, goes to have his photograph taken "in character." Unfortunately, on reaching the corner of the street, he finds the road is up, and he has to walk to the door! Tableau!!
Clever Juvenile (loq.). "Shakspeare? Pooh! For my part I consider Shakspeare a very much over-rated man."
Astonished Friend. "Why!—Why! What on earth are these?"
Manager. "These? Oh! These are fairies!!"
Fitted with binocular glasses for the benefit of those sitting behind its wearer.
Wag (to unfortunate small gent, who has vainly endeavoured to persuade lady to remove her hat). "Don't you see she's got a bird in her hat, sitting? You wouldn't have the lady addle-headed, would you?"
Suburban Roscius. "Ah, I saw you were at our 'theatricals' the other night. How did you like my assumption of Hamlet?" Candid Friend. "My dear f'llar—great'st piece of assumption I ever saw i' m' life!"
Eminent Provincial Tragedian. "Come hithorr, sweet one! Your mothorr tells me that you shed teorrs during my soliloquy in exile, last night!"
Sweet One. "Yes, sir. Mother kept on pinching me, 'cause I was so sleepy!"
Our Philanthropist (who often takes the shilling gallery—to his neighbour). "Only a middling house."
Unwashed Artisan. "Ay—that sixpence extry, 'rather heavy for the likes o' huz, y'know. But there's one thing—it keeps out the riff-raff!!"