Æsthetic Critic (at the club, after the theatre). "Can you imagine anything more utterly solemn than the dénoûment in Romeo and Juliet? Two lovers, both dying in the same vault! What fate more weirdly tragic could——"
Cynical Old Bachelor (who has evidently never read the play). "Um—'s no knowing. The author might 'a' married 'em!"
Distinguished Amateur (about to make his first appearance in public at a concert for the people). "Oh, I do feel so nervous!" Sympathetic Friend. "Oh, there's no occasion to be nervous, my dear fellow. They applaud anything!"
Mamma (to Maud, who has been with her brother to the play, and is full of it). "But was there no love in the piece, then?" Maud. "Love? Oh dear no, mamma. The principal characters were husband and wife, you know!"
Jones (who understands French so well, although he does not speak it), reading over list of pieces to be played at the Gaiety:—"'Le Gendre de M. Poirier.' Why, what gender should the man be, I should like to know!"
The Bishop. "I hope your grandchildren liked the circus, Lady Godiva. That was a wonderful performance of Mlle. Petitpas on the bare-backed steed, wasn't it?"
Lady Godiva. "Yes—a—but I dislike those bare-backed performances. They're so risky, you know!"
"Ha! Mistare Robinson! 'Ow do you do? 'Av you seen ze last new piece at ze 'Olleborne? Supairrb! Splendeed!! Good!!!"
"A—no—I don't patronise the English drama. I like finish, delicacy, refinement; and I'm happy to say I've secured tickets for all the French plays!"
"Tiens! Mais vous savez le Français, alors?"
"A—I beg your pardon?"
"Je vous demande si vous savez le Français, parbleu! Cruche, Melon, Baudet, Dinde, Jobard, Crétin, Momie, Colin-Maillard que vous êtes?"
"A—quite so! No doubt! A—by the bye, have you seen Jones lately?"
Scene—Refreshment Saloon at a London Theatre. A three-play bill forms the evening's entertainment. First Act over. Enter Brown, Jones, and Robinson.
Brown. Well, really a very pleasant little piece. Quite amusing. Yes; I think I will have a cup of coffee or a glass of lemonade. Too soon after dinner for anything stronger.
Jones. Yes, and really, after laughing so much, one gets a thirst for what they call light refreshments. I will have some ginger-beer.
Robinson. Well, I think I will stick to iced-water. You know the Americans are very fond of that. They always take it at meal-times, and really after that capital équivoque one feels quite satisfied. (They are served by the bar attendant.) That was really very funny, where he hides behind the door when she is not looking.
[Laughs at the recollection.
Brown. And when the uncle sits down upon the band-box and crushes the canary-cage!
[Chuckles.
Jones. Most clever. But there goes the bell, and the curtain will be up directly. Rather clever, I am told. The Rose of Rouen—it is founded on the life of Joan of Arc. I am rather fond of these historical studies.
Brown. So am I. They are very interesting.
Robinson. Do you think so? Well, so far as I am concerned, I prefer melodrama. Judging from the title, The Gory Hand should be uncommonly good.
[Exeunt into Theatre. After a pause they return to the Refreshment Room.
Brown. Well, it is very clever; but I confess it beats me. (To bar attendant.) We will all take soda-water. No, thanks, quite neat, and for these gentlemen too.
Jones. Well, I call it a most excellent psychological study. However, wants a clear head to understand it. (Sips his soda-water.) I don't see how she can take the flag from the Bishop, and yet want to marry the Englishman.
Robinson. Ah, but that was before the vision. If you think it over carefully, you will see it was natural enough. Of course, you must allow for the spirit of the period, and other surrounding circumstances.
Brown. Are you going to stay for The Gory Hand?
Jones. Not I. I am tired of play-acting, and think we have had enough of it.
Robinson. Well, I think I shall look in. I am rather fond of strong scenes, and it should be good, to judge from the programme.
Jones. Well, we will "sit out." It's rather gruesome. Quite different from the other plays.
Robinson. Well, I don't mind horrors—in fact, like them. There goes the bell. So I am off. Wait until I come back.
Brown. That depends how long you are away. Ta, ta!
[Exit Robinson.
Jones. Now, how a fellow can enjoy a piece like that, I cannot understand. It is full of murders, from the rise to the fall of the curtain.
Brown. Yes—but Robinson likes that sort of thing. You will see by-and-by how the plot will affect him. It is rather jumpy, especially at the end, when the severed head tells the story of the murder to the assistant executioner. I would not see it again on any account.
Jones. No—it sent my maiden aunt in hysterics. However, it has the merit of being short. (Applause.) Ah, there it's over! Let's see how Robinson likes it. That tableau at the end, of the starving-coastguardsman expiring under the rack, is perfectly awful! (Enter Robinson, staggering in.) Why, my boy, what's the matter?
Brown. You do look scared! Have something to drink? That will set it all to-rights!
Robinson (with his eyes protruding from his head, from horror). Help, help! help! (After a long shudder.) Brandy! Brandy!! Brandy!!!
[At all the places at the bar there is a general demand for alcohol.
Brown. Yes. Irving was right; soda-water does very well for Shakspeare's histories, but when you come to a piece like The Bells, you require supporting.
[Curtain and moral.
Manager of "Freak" Show. "Have I got a vacancy for a giant? Why, you don't look five feet!"
Candidate. "Yes, that's just it. I'm the smallest giant on record!"
Mrs. Blokey (who has called with a letter of introduction on Mr. Roscius Lamborn, the famous actor and manager). "And I've brought you my son, who's breakin' his mother's 'art, Mr. Lamborn! He insists on givin' up the city and goin' on the stage—and his father an alderman and 'im in his father's business, and all the family thought of so 'ighly in Clapham! It's a great grief to us, I assure you, Mr. Lamborn! Oh! if you could only dissuade 'im! But it's too late for that, I'm afraid, so p'raps you wouldn't mind givin' him a leadin' part in your next piece!"
His Wife (reading a Sunday paper). "A propos of Hamlet, they say here that you and Shakspeare represent the very opposite poles of the dramatic art!"
He. "Ah! that's a nasty one for Shakspeare!"
Actor (excitedly). "For two long years have I——"
A Voice from above. "So you 'ave, guv'nor!"
(A Memory of St. James's Hall)
Uncle (can't see so well as he did, and a little hard of hearing). "Who do you say they are, my dear!—Christian ministers? 'Ncom'ly kind of 'em to give a concert, to be sure! For a charitable purpose, I've no doubt, my dear!!"
Country Maid (having first seen "missus" and the children into a cab). "O, coachman, do you know the principal entrance to Drury Lane Theat——?"
Crabbed Old Cabby (with expression of ineffable contempt). "Do I know! Kim aup——!"
Jones (alluding to the song). "Not bad; but I think the girl might have put a little more spirit into it with advantage."
Lushington. "Jush 't I was thinkin'. Lesh avanother!"
"What on earth made you tell that appalling little cad that he ought to have trod the boards of ancient Greece! You surely didn't really admire his acting?" "Oh no! But, you know, the Greek actors used to wear masks!"
"Jemmy! What's a stall at the hopera?"
"Well, I can't say, not for certain; but I suppose it's where they sells the happles, horanges, ginger-beer, and biskits."
"Please, sir! give us your ticket if you aint agoin' in again."
Young Rustic. "Gran'fa'r, who was Shylock?"
Senior (after a pause). "Lauk a' mussy, bo', yeou goo to Sunday skewl, and don't know that!"
Domesticated Wife. "Oh, George, I wish you'd just——" Talented Husband (author of various successful comic songs for music halls, writer of pantomimes and variety-show libretti). "Oh, for goodness sake, Lucy, don't bother me now! You might see I'm trying to work out some quite new lines for the fairy in the transformation scene of the pantomime!"
Intelligent Briton. "But we have no theatre, no actors worthy of the name, mademoiselle! Why, the English delivery of blank verse is simply torture to an ear accustomed to hear it given its full beauty and significance by a Bernhardt or a Coquelin!"
Mademoiselle. "Indeed? I have never heard Bernhardt or Coquelin recite English blank verse!"
Intelligent Briton. "Of course not. I mean French blank verse—the blank verse of Corneille, Racine, Molière!"
Mademoiselle. "Oh, monsieur, there is no such thing!"
[Briton still tries to look intelligent.
Extract from Ethel's correspondence:—"At the last moment something went wrong with the curtain, and we had to do without one! It was awful! But the Rector explained matters to the front row, and they came to the rescue nobly!"
"Well, how did the new play go off last night?"
"Oh, there was a sleep-walking scene in the third act that was rather effective." "À la Lady Macbeth, eh?"
"Well—not exactly. It was the audience that got up in its sleep and walked out!"
Heavy Tragedian. "Do you let apartments to—ah—the profession?" Unsophisticated Landlady. "Oh, yes, sir. Why, last week we had the performing dogs here!"
She. "How well your wife plays Lady Geraldine, Mr. Jones. I think the way she puts on that awful affected tone is just splendid. How does she manage it?"
Mr. Jones (with embarrassment). "Er—she doesn't. That's her natural voice."