gentlemen, I have dealt with our little Playhouse in its historical aspect. I have dealt with it in its political aspect, in its financial aspect, in its artistic aspect, in its social aspect, in its County Council aspect, in its biological and psychological aspects. You have listened to me with patience and sympathy. You have followed my arguments with intelligence, and accepted my conclusions with indulgence. I have explained to you why I have given our new theatre its pleasant old name; why I selected
Toddles as the opening piece. I have told you of our future plans, of the engagements we have made, the pieces we intend to produce, the policy we are resolved to pursue.
With graver emphasis. There remains only one word more.
With pathos. If that word has a personal note in it you will forgive me.
With deeper pathos. If the note is a deeper and tenderer one than I usually venture to sound on the stage, I hope you will not think it out of what I believe is called my line.
With emotion. Ladies and gentlemen, it is now more than twenty years since I and my dear wife—
Violins tremolando; flute solo, “Auld Lang Syne.” What’s that noise? Stop! What do you mean by this?
|
The band is silent. |
| The Manager’s Wife |
They are only supporting you, Cyril. Nothing could be more appropriate. |
| The Manager |
Supporting me! They have emptied my soul of all its welling pathos. I never heard anything so ridiculous. Just as I was going to pile it on about you, too. |
| The Manager’s Wife |
Go on, dear. The audience was just getting interested. |
| The Manager |
So was I. And then the band starts on me. Is this Drury Lane or is it the Playhouse? Now I haven’t the heart to go on. |
| The Manager’s Wife |
Oh, please do. You were getting on so nicely. |
| The Manager |
Of course I was. I had just got everybody into a thoroughly serious frame of mind, and then the silly band sets everybody laughing—just like the latest fashion in tragedy. All my trouble gone for nothing! There’s nothing left of my speech now; it might as well be the Education Bill. |
| The Manager’s Wife |
But you must finish it, dear. |
| The Manager |
I won’t. Finish it yourself. |
|
Exit in high dudgeon. |
| The Manager’s Wife |
Rising and coming center. Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps I had better finish it. You see, what my husband and I have been trying to do is a very difficult thing. We have some friends here—some old and valued friends—some young ones, too, we hope, but we also have for the first time in this house of ours the great public. We dare not call ourselves the friends of the public. We are only its servants and like all servants we are very much afraid of seeming disrespectful if we allow ourselves to be too familiar, and we are most at our ease when we are doing our work. We rather dread occasions like these, when we are allowed, and even expected, to step out of our place, and speak in our own persons of our own affairs—even for a moment, perhaps, very discreetly, of our own feelings. Well, what can we do? We recite a little verse; we make a little speech; we are shy; in the end we put ourselves out of countenance, put you out of countenance, and strain your attitude of kindness and welcome until it becomes an attitude of wishing that it was all over. Well, we resolved not to do that tonight if we could help it. After all, you know how glad we are to see you, for you have the advantage of us: you can do without us; we cannot do without you. I will not say that
The drama’s laws the drama’s patrons give,
And we who live to please must please to live,
because that is not true; and it never has been true. The drama’s laws have a higher source than your caprice or ours; and in in this Playhouse of ours we will not please you except on terms honourable to ourselves and to you. But on those terms we hope that you may spend many pleasant hours here, and we as many hardworking ones as at our old home in the Haymarket. And now may I run away and tell Cyril that his speech has been a great success after all, and that you are quite ready for Toddles? Assent and applause. Thank you. Exit.
|
The Fascinating Foundling
A Disgrace to the Author
The Fascinating Foundling
Morning. Office of the Lord Chancellor. Door on the right leading to his private room, near the fireplace. Door on the left leading to the public staircase.
|
Mercer, an elderly clerk, seated at work. Enter, to him, through the public door, Horace Brabazon, a smart and beautiful young man of nineteen, dressed in the extremity of fashion, with a walking stick. |
| Brabazon |
I want to see the Lord Chancellor. |
| Mercer |
Have you an appointment? |
| Brabazon |
No. |
| Mercer |
Then you can’t see the Lord Chancellor. |
| Brabazon |
I tell you I must see him. |
| Mercer |
I tell you you cant. Look here: do you think the Lord Chancellor’s a palmist or a hair doctor that people can rush in out of the street and see him whenever they want to? |
| Brabazon |
That speech was meant to insult and humiliate me. I make it a rule to fight people who attempt to insult and humiliate me. Throwing away his stick. Put up your hands. He puts up his own. |
| Mercer |
Here: you let me alone. You leave this office, d’ye hear; or I’ll have the police in on you. |
| Brabazon |
You are face to face with your destiny; and your destiny is to fight me. Be quick: I’m going to begin. Don’t look pale: I scorn to take you |
