FullReads

Enter from the left Miss Devereux. She stops in surprise at seeing Lord Arthur and holds out her hand.

Miss D. Why, Lord Arthur! Whatever–

Lord A. How d’you do? I’ve just run down to tell Lord Larkspur to–

Miss D. He’s in the library. At least he–

Lord A. (taking out his watch.) Ah, then perhaps I’d better–

[Exit by door on left.]

Miss D. (to Lady L.). Have you seen “The Times” about here? There is a set of verses in the Financial Supplement which Lord Larkspur wanted to–(She wanders vaguely round the room. Enter Lord Larkspur by door at back.) Why, here you are! I’ve just sent Lord Arthur into the library to–

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.”