Lord L. I went out to speak to the gardener about—
Lady L. Ah, then I'll go and tell Arthur—[Exit to library, leaving Miss Devereux and Lord Larkspur alone.
And there you are. You will, of course, appreciate that the unfinished sentences not only save time, but also make the manoeuvring very much more natural.
So far I have been writing as if you were already in the thick of your play; but it may well be that the enormous difficulty of getting the first character on has been too much for you. How, you may be wondering, are you to begin your masterpiece?
The answer to this will depend upon the length of the play, for upon the length depends the hour at which the curtain rises. If yours is an 8.15 play you may be sure that the stalls will not fill up till 8.30, and you should therefore let loose the lesser–paid members of the cast on the opening scene, keeping your fifty–pounders in reserve. In an 8.45 play the audience may be plunged into the drama at once. But this is much the more difficult thing to do, and for the beginner I should certainly recommend the 8.15 play, for which the recipe is simple.
As soon as the lights go down, and while the bald, stout gentleman is kicking our top–hat out of his way, treading heavily on our toes and wheezing, "Sorry, sorry," as he struggles to his seat, a buzz begins behind the curtain. What the players are saying is not distinguishable, but a merry girlish laugh rings out now and then, followed by the short sardonic chuckle of an obvious man of the world. Then the curtain rises, and it is apparent that we are assisting at an At Home of considerable splendour. Most of the characters seem to be on the stage, and for once we do not ask how they got there. We presume they have all been invited. Thus you have had no difficulty with your entrances.
As the chatter dies down a chord is struck on the piano.
The Bishop of Sploshington. Charming. Quite one of my favourites. Do play it again. (Relapses into silence for the rest of the evening.)
The Duchess of Southbridge (to Lord Reggie). Oh, Reggie, what did you say?
Lord Reggie (putting up his eyeglass). Said I'd bally well—top–hole—what?—don'cherknow.
Lady Evangeline (to Lady Violet, as they walk across the stage). Oh, I must tell you what that funny Mr. Danby said. (Doesn't. Lady Violet, none the less, trills with happy laughter.)
Prince von Ichdien, the well–known Ambassador (loudly, to an unnamed gentleman). What your country ought to do—(He finishes his remarks in the lip–language, which the unnamed gentleman seems to understand. At any rate he nods several times.)
There is more girlish laughter, more buzz and more deaf–and–dumb language. Then
Lord Tuppeny. Well, what about auction?
Amid murmurs of "You'll play, Field–Marshal?" and "Auction, Archbishop?" the crowd drifts off, leaving the hero and heroine alone in the middle of the stage.
And then you can begin.
But now I must give you a warning. You will never be a dramatist until you have learnt the technique of
MEALS
In spite of all you can do in the way of avoiding soililoquies and getting your characters on and off the stage in a dramatic manner, a time will come when you realize sadly that your play is not a bit like life after all. Then is the time to introduce a meal on the stage. A stage meal is popular, because it proves to the audience that the actors, even when called Charles Hawtrey or Owen Nares, are real people just like you and me. "Look at Mr. Bourchier eating," we say excitedly to each other in the pit, having had a vague idea up till then that an actor lived like a god on praise and greasepaint and his photograph in the papers. "Another cup, won't you?" says Miss Gladys Cooper; "No, thank you," says Mr. Dennis Eadie—dash it, it's exactly what we do at home ourselves. And when, to clinch matters, the dramatist makes Mr. Gerald du Maurier light a real cigarette in the Third Act, then he can flatter himself that he has indeed achieved the ambition of every stage writer, and "brought the actual scent of the hay across the footlights."
But there is a technique to be acquired in this matter as in everything else within the theatre. The great art of the stage–craftsman, as I have already shown, is to seem natural rather than to be natural. Let your actors have tea by all means, but see that it is a properly histrionic tea. This is how it should go:—
Hostess. How do you do? You'll have some tea, won't you? [Rings bell].
Guest. Thank you.
Enter Butler.
Hostess. Tea, please, Matthews.
Butler (impassively). Yes, m'lady. (This is all he says during the play, so he must try and get a little character into it, in order that "The Era" may remark, "Mr. Thompson was excellent as Matthews." However, his part is not over yet, for he returns immediately, followed by three footmen—just as it happened when you last called on the Duchess—and sets out the tea.)
Hostess (holding up the property lump of sugar in the tongs). Sugar?
Guest (luckily). No, thanks.
Hostess replaces lump and inclines empty teapot over tray for a moment; then hands him a cup painted brown inside—thus deceiving the gentleman with the telescope in the upper circle.
Guest (touching his lips with the cup and then returning it to its saucer). Well, I must be going.
Re–enter Butler and three Footmen, who remove the tea–things.
Hostess (to Guest). Good–bye; so glad you could come. [Exit Guest.]
His visit has been short, but it has been very thrilling while it lasted.
Tea is the most usual meal on the stage, for the reason that it is the least expensive, the property lump of sugar being dusted and used again on the next night. For a stage dinner a certain amount of genuine sponge–cake has to be made up to look like fish, chicken or cutlet. In novels the hero has often "pushed his meals away untasted," but no stage hero would do anything so unnatural as this. The etiquette is to have two bites before the butler and the three footmen whisk away the plate. Two bites are made, and the bread is crumbled, with an air of great eagerness; indeed, one feels that in real life the guest would clutch hold of the footman and say, "Half a mo', old chap, I haven't nearly finished"; but the actor is better schooled than this. Besides, the thing is coming back again as chicken directly.
But it is the cigarette which chiefly has brought the modern drama to its present state of perfection. Without the stage cigarette many an epigram would pass unnoticed, many an actor's hands would be much more noticeable; and the man who works the fireproof safety curtain would lose even the small amount of excitement which at present attaches to his job.
Now although it is possible, in the case of a few men at the top of the profession, to leave the conduct of the cigarette entirely to the actor, you will find it much more satisfactory to insert in the stage directions the particular movements (with match and so forth) that you wish carried out. Let us assume that Lord Arthur asks Lord John what a cynic is—the question of what a cynic is having arisen quite naturally in the course of the plot. Let us assume further that you wish Lord John to reply, "A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing." It has been said before, but you may feel that it is quite time it was said again; besides, for all the audience knows, Lord John may simply be quoting. Now this answer, even if it comes quite fresh to the stalls, will lose much of its effect if it is said without the assistance of a cigarette. Try it for yourself.