The Interlude at the Playhouse
Opening night. Brilliant first-night audience assembled. Conclusion of overture. In each programme a slip has been distributed stating that before the play begins the Manager will address a few words to the audience.
The float is turned up. Lights down in auditorium.
Expectancy. Silence.
The act drop is swung back. Evidently somebody is coming forward to make a speech.
Enter before the curtain the Manager’s Wife, with one of the programme slips in her hand.
The Manager’s Wife
Ladies and gentlemen. She hesitates, overcome with nervousness: then plunges ahead. About this speech—you know—this little slip in your programme—it says Cyril—I mean Mr. Maude—I am so frightfully nervous—I—she begins tearing up the slip carefully into very small pieces—I have to get this finished before he comes up from his dressing room, because he doesn’t know what I’m doing. If he did—! Well, what I want to say is—of course I am saying it very badly because I never could speak in public; but the fact is, neither can Cyril. Excuse my calling him Cyril; I know I should speak of him as Mr. Maude, but—but—perhaps I had better explain that we are married; and the force of habit is so strong—er—yes, isn’t it? You see, it’s like this. At least, what I wanted to say is—is—is—er—. A little applause would encourage me perhaps, if you don’t mind. Thank you. Of course, it’s so ridiculous to be nervous like this, among friends, isn’t it? But I have had such a dreadful week at home over this speech of Cyril’s. He gets so angry with me when I tell him that he can’t make speeches, and that nobody wants him to make one! I only wanted to encourage him; but he is so irritable when he has to build a theatre! Of course, you wouldn’t think so, seeing him act, but you don’t know what he is at home. Well, dear ladies and gentlemen, will you be very nice and kind to him when he is speaking, and if he is nervous, don’t notice it? And please don’t make any noise; the least sound upsets him and puts his speech out of his head. It is really a very good speech; he has not let me see the manuscript, and he thinks I know nothing about it, but I have heard him make it four times in his sleep. He does it very well when he is asleep—quite like an orator; but unfortunately he is awake now and in a fearful state of nerves. I felt I must come out and ask you to be kind to him—after all, we are old friends, aren’t we? Applause. Oh, thank you, thank you; that is your promise to me to be kind to him. Now I will run away. Please don’t tell him I dared to do this. Going. And, please, please, not the least noise. If a hairpin drops, all is lost. Coming back to centre. Oh, and Mr. Conductor, would you be so good, when he comes to the pathetic part, to give him a little slow music? Something affecting, you know.
Conductor
Certainly, Mrs. Maude, certainly.
The Manager’s Wife
Thank you. You know, it is one of the great sorrows of his life that the managers will not give him an engagement in melodrama. Not that he likes melodrama, but he says that the slow music is such a support on the stage; and he needs all the support he can get tonight, poor fellow! The—
A Carpenter
From the side, putting his head round the edge of the curtain. Tsst! ma’am, tsst!
The Manager’s Wife
Eh? What’s the matter?
The Carpenter
The governor’s dressed and coming up, ma’am.
The Manager’s Wife
Oh! To the audience. Not a word. She hurries off, with her finger on her lips.
The warning for the band sounds. “Auld Lang Syne” is softly played. The curtain rises, and discovers a reading table, with an elaborate triple-decked folding desk on it. A thick manuscript of unbound sheets is on the desk. A tumbler and decanter, with water, and two candles shaded from the audience are on the table. Right of table, a chair, in which the Manager’s Wife is seated. Another chair, empty, left on table. At the desk stands the Manager, ghastly pale. (Applause.) When silence is restored he makes two or three visible efforts to speak.
The Manager’s Wife
Aside. Courage, dear.
The Manager
Smiling with effort. Oh, quite so, quite so. Don’t be frightened, dearest. I am quite self-possessed. It would be very silly for me to—er—there is no occasion for nervousness—I—er—quite accustomed to public life—er—ahem! He opens the manuscript, raises his head, and takes breath. Er—He flattens the manuscript out with his hand, affecting the ease and large gesture of an orator. The desk collapses with an appalling clatter. He collapses, shaking with nervousness, into the chair.
The Manager’s Wife
Running to him solicitously. Never mind, dear, it was only the desk. Come, come now. You’re better now, aren’t you? The audience is waiting.
The Manager
I thought it was the station.
The Manager’s Wife
There’s no station there now, dear; it’s quite safe. Replacing the MS. on the desk. There! That’s right. She sits down and composes herself to listen.
The Manager
Beginning his speech. Dear friends—I wish I could call you ladies and gentlemen—
The Manager’s Wife
Hm! Hm! Hm!
The Manager
What’s the matter?
The Manager’s Wife
Prompting him. Ladies and gentlemen—I wish I could call you dear friends.
The Manager
Well, what did I say?
The Manager’s Wife
You said it the other way about. No matter. Go on. They will understand.
The Manager
Well, what difference does it make? Testily. How am I to make a speech if I am to be interrupted in this way? To the audience. Excuse my poor wife, ladies and gentlemen. She is naturally a little nervous tonight. You will overlook a woman’s weakness. To his wife. Compose yourself, my dear. Ahem! He returns to the MS. The piece of land on which our theatre is built is mentioned in Domesday Book, and you will be glad to hear that I have succeeded in tracing its history almost year by year for the eight hundred years that have elapsed since that book—perhaps the most interesting of all English books—was written. That history I now propose to impart to you. Winifred, I really cannot make a speech if you look at your watch. If you think I am going on too long, say so.
The Manager’s Wife
Not at all, dear. But our friends may not be so fond of history as you are.
The Manager
Why not? I am surprised at you, Winifred. Do you suppose that this is an ordinary frivolous audience of mere playgoers? You are behind the times. Look at our friend Tree, making a fortune out of Roman history! Look at the Court Theatre; they listen to this sort of thing for three hours at a stretch there. Look at the Royal Institution, the Statistical Society, the House of Commons! Are we less scholarly, less cultured, less serious than the audiences there? I say nothing of my own humble powers, but am I less entertaining than an average Cabinet Minister? You show great ignorance of the times we live in, Winifred, and if my speech bores you, that only shows that you are not in the movement. I am determined that this theatre shall be in the movement.
The Manager’s Wife
Well, all I can tell you is that if you don’t get a little more movement into your speech, there won’t be time for Toddles.
The Manager
That does not matter. We can omit Toddles if necessary. I have played Toddles before. If you suppose I am burning to play Toddles again you are very much mistaken. If the true nature of my talent were understood I should be playing Hamlet. Ask the audience whether they would not like to see me play Hamlet. Enthusiastic assent. There! You ask me why I don’t play Hamlet instead of Toddles.
The Manager’s Wife
I never asked you anything of the kind.
The Manager
Please don’t contradict me, Winifred—at least, not in public. I say you ask me why I don’t play Hamlet instead of Toddles. Well, the reason is that anybody can play Hamlet, but it takes me to play Toddles. I leave Hamlet to those who can provide no livelier form of entertainment. Resolutely returning to the MS. I am now going back to the year eleven hundred.
The Stage Manager
Coming on in desperation. No, sir, you can’t go back all that way; you promised me you would be done in ten minutes. I’ve got to set for the first act.
The Manager
Well, is it my fault? My wife won’t let me speak. I have not been able to get in a word edgeways. Coaxing. Come, there’s a dear, good chap. Just let me have another twenty minutes or so. The audience wants to hear my speech. You wouldn’t disappoint them, would you?
The Stage Manager
Going. Well, it’s as you please, sir; not as I please. Only don’t blame me if the audience loses its last train and comes back to sleep in the theatre, that’s all. He goes off with the air of a man who is prepared for the worst.
During the conversation with the Stage Manager, the Manager’s Wife, unobserved by her husband, steals the manuscript; replaces the last two leaves of it on the desk; puts the rest on her chair and sits down on it.
The Manager
That man is hopelessly frivolous; I really must get a more cultured staff. To the audience. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m extremely sorry for these unfortunate interruptions and delays; you can see that they are not my fault. Returning to the desk. Ahem! Er—hallo! I am getting along faster than I thought. I shall not keep you much longer now. Resuming his oration. Ladies and 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.